White knuckle ride
Yesterday evening I was still sitting at Bagram, still waiting for a flight, when I found out that it could still take several days to get me out into the field. After some discussion with the US Public Affairs Officer (PAO), and a lot of soul searching, I decided to get a driver to take me to FOB Gardez, the location of my embed with the Americans. I say soul searching because I have made a promise to my girlfriend, and my family, that I will not take unnecessary or stupid risks when I am away on dangerous assignments. I spent a lot of time considering the potential dangers, and weighing up the value of what I would achieve versus those dangers. It is not very pleasant going through all the possible outcomes of such an undertaking, but I forced myself to think it through. The worst part of this decision is the knowledge that if something happens to me, it is my girlfriend and my family and friends who will suffer because of a decision I made. However, I knew that the security on this road had been stepped up, that keeping these main roads open was a high priority for the Afghan government, and I spoke to some other people who had been in the area recently. The military categorised the road as “pretty safe,” and after gathering all this information I came to the conclusion that I would be very unlucky to run into trouble. This conclusion wasn’t terribly comforting, but I am here to do a job, and I have always known that it is not risk free. The best I can do is minimise the danger.
Gardez is in Paktia, and only about 50 miles from the Pakistan border. It is an area that has seen plenty of Taliban activity this year. I spoke to AFP’s office in Kabul about my idea, and they said they could get one of our drivers to take me, or organise a cab. We decided a cab was safer, as it was less likely to be stopped by any impromptu Taliban check-points, or by bandits. The road to Gardez from Kabul is through a high mountain pass, and Taliban or bandits were a very real possibility. However, we decided to set out early to ensure the trip was completed in daylight, so our driver picked me up not long after first light from Bagram, and we sped into Kabul. After some discussion with him I decided to scrap the taxi idea, even though it was a driver that the office could recommend, and stick with our driver the whole way. This decision was based mostly on the fact that I know and trust him, and he speaks English, and if we ran into trouble I would at least know what was going on, and wouldn’t have to worry about him just selling me out. (The last time I was here he took me to Chicken Street to find a gift for my girlfriend, and the owner of the first jewellery shop we went to spoke to him in Dari, and proposed ripping of the stupid Westerner and sharing the profit. He declined, and told me what was going on. We went to a different shop.) This added to my guilt though, as he has told me all about his wife and five kids, and now I would be responsible if anything happened to him on the journey.
At Kabul I dumped off some kit that I’ve been carrying but not really using. I had a pair of dessert boots that I wore down south in Kandahar, but once the rain started I was only using my Gore-Tex winter boots, so didn’t need the extra weight. I also dumped t-shirts, as it is long sleeves from now on (Gardez is in the mountains, about 8,000 feet high), and I dropped of some books I’d read. My toilet bag went too, and I am now only carrying toothbrush, toothpaste, and shampoo, and to be honest that is a bit hopeful as well. I expect to be relying on baby-wipes for my hygiene requirements from now on.
I picked up an extra sleeping bag at the PX at Bagram last night, which was expensive, but should help me get a decent night’s sleep once I slip it inside my other one. It will probably look ridiculous but I’m way past caring. Comfort is paramount.
Driving out of Kabul was the usual chaos, with trucks and lorries parked all along the sides of the dilapidated roads. Everyone drives fast here, and they drive all over the road, with cars coming into the oncoming traffic’s lane to try and get around slow moving jingle trucks. Add to this the many mule drawn carts, and a few hand carts piled high with firewood pulled by struggling old men, and friends meeting and stopping in the road to embrace, and you start to get an idea of the mess. Stalls line the streets, selling fizzy drinks, freshly baked Afghan bread, assorted vegetables, and skinned whole and quartered carcasses. The Food Standard’s Agency people would have a purple fit. These stalls are tended by men with weathered faces, who probably are not nearly as old as they look. Many of the men on the streets are now wearing heavy woollen shawls, some around their shoulders and some pulled up over their heads, to protect them from the cold. The weather has really turned cold, and apparently there is already snow falling further north, around Mazir-i-Sharif. In the streets of Kabul mud from the recent rain splashes up onto the racing vehicles, while fresh dry sand / dust hangs in the air. There are also billboards all along the streets and at the roundabouts, with pictures of smiling Afghans with white teeth and wearing nice clean clothes using mobile phones, while underneath filthy men clothed in nothing more than rags sell phone cards.
As we exited Kabul I asked if we had enough petrol, as the last thing we needed was to run out of juice somewhere in the badlands. We didn’t, so a refuelling stop was needed. Unfortunately, for fear of robbery, both the driver and I had left our wallets in Kabul. I had dollars concealed on me, but Afghanis would have been better to pay with. Producing dollars means you are guaranteed to get ripped off, and we did.
Once out of the city we hauled ass across the surprisingly good road, the best I have been on in Afghanistan thus far. The driver wanted to dump his passenger and get back to Kabul before darkness fell. I had brought my iPod speakers, and enjoyed the bizarre experience of driving through a dangerous part of one of the most lawless countries in the world listening to my new favourite band, Bell X 1, while donning my cunning disguise. I had picked up a Pakol (traditional Afghan hat, made famous by Northern Alliance leader Ahmed Shah Massoud) and Afghan scarf, and with my burgeoning beard I hoped to minimise the amount of attention I drew. Of course I am as white as any Irishman, so my masquerade would have survived only the most cursory of glances. My driver also donned his own cover, a scarf wrapped to look like a turban, a look favoured by professional drivers in Afghanistan.
My driver was conscripted into the army during the Communist regime, and was stationed in the area we were now passing through. He pointed out the old frontline, positions he manned for months on end facing the Mudjahadeen. Then we passed the place where his unit finally surrendered. He was released because he knew one of the Mudjahadeen, and he set off immediately, spending 3 days and 2 nights walking home to his family in Kabul.
Next we drove through Logar Bazaar, which was another typical Afghan trading spot. People selling clothes and food, while literally sitting alongside the road, and one man selling shoes out of a large wooden crate. Everywhere you looked there were burkhas, of many colours, although I only ever see blue worn.
We passed several checkpoints, with lots of smiles so far from the ANA and ANP, but then we are entered the wild area. My driver joked that if we are stopped by the Taliban he will pretend he doesn’t know who I am, but the joke just made me feel sick. We climb further into the mountains, past 2,200 metres, and the air is now getting very cold. There is a mist on the mountains ahead, and they are all capped with snow. Then higher, and there is snow all around us, not heavy, but enough to cover the rocks and sand, making it look beautiful. We pass small groups of ANA dotted alongside the road, and everytime we do I am relieved. My driver points out places on the road which would be good for an ambush, which isn’t really helpful, but at least he has his mind on the job. He is an excellent driver, and has taken an advanced driving course through AFP, and I have every confidence in him. I have to!
The roads are now typical mountain roads, winding back and forth as we climb. We crest the pass at about 3,000 metres, and the views are spectacular. It really is a stunning part of the world, and it is such a shame that so few people feel safe enough to see it.
We descend at speed, and before I know it we are entering Gardez. I am relieved to arrive safely, and so is my driver. He tells me that he can now drive back safely without the “Westerner” who would attract trouble. I am exhausted from the rollercoaster of emotions, and it isn’t even midday.