That’s me. Charlie 820.
After our first attempt to land at Kabul International Airport, the captain gets on the intercom to announce that conditions are bad for landing as he could not see the necessary indicators on the ground. It is a whiteout snow storm; apparently, it has been dumping snow all day. He tells us that we will circle for 30 minutes to see if conditions improve, and then take one final attempt to land, if we cannot land again, then we will just return to Dubai (no big deal, just turn around and fly back 3 hours). The pilot makes sure to remind us that Safi Airline is the safest airline in Afghanistan. Though, the timing of that statement was less than reassuring. I look out my window, and all I see is white, I know I must be surrounded by mountains, but can’t see a thing. I imagine we must be close to the ground but have no idea. My stomach is a bit nervous, not sure if it is because I am in a plane trying to land in a snow storm amidst towering mountains, or if it is because I am (hopefully) landing in a country at war. Or some mix of both. Needless to say, I am a bit more on edge than usual during this landing. We start the decent again. All of a sudden I see the runway right below us, our wheels touchdown, and the cabin breaks into tentative applause. I breathe a sigh of relief.
The airport is like most airports I’ve been to in developing nations. Sparse. Though with a few more guns. All of the ladies dawn their head scarves as we step off the plane, and we rush to get through passport control. The luggage pickup is an old school conveyer belt surrounded by numerous Afghans asking if I need assistance (for a price of course). But I, being the master packer that I am, have it under control. Someone asks me if I am with [my organization] and tells me my vehicle is waiting, but I do not recognize him so I blow him off. Not about to begin this foray into Afghanistan with a kidnapping. The power shuts down. We all stand around the luggage roundabout in the dark until the generator kicks in. Eventually my luggage comes around and I make my way through customs (just another series of queues) to my escort. He verbally welcomes me (men and women do not shake hands here, let alone hug) and we exit the airport.
It is a quiet evening, dampened by the falling snow. Everything is that glowy blue that comes about on a snowy evening just as the sun finishes setting. Due to airport security protocols, there are numerous abandoned walled-in lots surrounding the airport where no vehicles are allowed. As we make our way across this empty snow field I find myself hoping that I did actual recognize this man, and it wasn’t just the 2 days of travel talking. He starts to talk to me about my project and about the weather in California and I feel a bit better. We pass through what appears to be a crack in a barrier wall, and find ourselves in a parking lot filled with landcruzers with UN painted on the sides and, somewhat more discrete, armored vehicles. Eventually we walk up to one such unremarkable armored vehicle and a Scottish man steps out and says, “You must be Rachel”. He introduces himself and loads my stuff into the back. I hop in to find two other expat men in the back seat already. The security man climbs into the front seat, turns around and says in his thick Scottish accent, “We are on yellow; there have not been any instances in the last two days. First-aid packs are here and here (pointing to packs on the backs of the driver and passenger seats), I have weapons up here with me, and the rest are in a trunk in the back of the vehicle (beneath all my shit). If anything happens, just lie on the floor and follow my directions. We have about 10 minutes till we reach HQ”. He then gets on the radio to inform HQ that pick-up is complete and we are en-route. By this point my head is swirling; So many possibilities and so little instruction. Nothing has happened in the last 2 days - in what kind of world is that satisfactory? I imagine that if anything were to happen, it would be pretty difficult to hear any instructions from my security escort. But, I take a breath and try to steady my heart rate. “Here we go” I think to myself.
By this point it is dark in Kabul, but traffic is still plenty. The driver speeds in and out of traffic, sometimes against the flow, but rarely ever stops. People step out in front of our vehicle to cross the street, and I hold my breath. As we make it through police checkpoints, the security radios it into headquarters. Shortly we pull up to a gate that magically opens and we enter a garage.
Everyone piles out into the building, and I do a three-sixty, not sure where to go. I poke my head around and find my way into the security control room - abuzz with radio communication, the walls covered in maps and trackers. The guy in charge eventually asks me if he can help me, and, after learning I am new, promptly launches into a rant on how they run the security operation and how they track every movement of every member of the team. He explains the callsigns to me, and tells me I am now known as Charlie Eight-Two-Zero. “Charlie 820, Charlie 820” I repeat in my head, but my mind hasn’t quieted from the car ride, and this new influx of information is just making my mind swirl at a faster rate. Eventually the guy who runs the overall security operations of LGCD comes and takes me up to his office. At this point, it is 7pm on a Saturday, so everyone just wants to go home. He offers me water and sits me down in front of a big screen. Though I would prefer a cigarette, the water and the darkness calm me a bit. Then he tells me in his Irish accent, “This presentation is not meant to scare you, just to give you a realistic idea of the situation on the ground”. Great, I think to myself, again, not finding the forewarning reassuring.
We proceed to spend the next hour and a half going over every major hit that has taken place against our project in the last few years. We discuss the fact that because we are closely tied to GoIRA’s (Government of Islamic Republic of Afghanistan) and the US governments counter insurgent program, we are a considerably higher priority target than NGO’s and even other private contractors. I begin to piece together the nature of my program, working with the PRT’s to clear areas (of insurgents) and then work to build infrastructure and livelihoods on behalf of GoIRA, in an attempt to create a relationship between civilians in these remote places and their government. It starts to make sense that we would be a target, but definitely not something that had dawned on me before this debrief. He details houses and projects that have been hit. At some point I interject, “I know this may be a bigger question than you are prepared to answer, but have you sat down and identified the threshold at which the loss of project and security personnel outweighs the benefits of our work?” He gives me a wishy-washy answer with the underlying emotion being that no one thinks we are there yet. He then runs down all of the security protocol and pushes me off to HR to sign papers and get my body armor and cell phone.
Being that it is nearing 9pm, the HR rep just hands over my body armor and tells me to meet her Sunday at 8:30 to go over everything. I am thankful for this reprieve, as all I desire is a warm shower and a bed. She calls for a vehicle to pick us and take us to my new home. We climb in, and the security escort up front immediately asks us for our callsigns. I stumble and dig for the paper in my bag where I had written it down. “Charlie Eight-Two-Zero”. Again we are bumping our way through the walled, pot-holed streets of Kabul with the crackle of radio traffic in the background. We arrive at my new house, and security gets on the radio and requests for them to open the gate. Men in body armor and AK’s come out and open the gates. Inside are shooters in various strategic positions aimed at the gate, and my vehicle. I am not in Kansas anymore…I try to open the door, but it doesn’t budge. I ask for assistance, and the security escort opens it from the outside with no problem. It dawns on me that this is an armored vehicle, and the doors are like that of a vault. Gotta put your back into it.
I climb out and once again drag my shit through the mud and snow, and look up. It is a multi story house with old southern architecture. We step into the marble foyer with sweeping grand stairwells. My escort hands me over to the head of security of the house, and he gives me a tour of the house and runs over what to do in event of earthquake, mortar shells or compound attack. He says, “You will know if we are under attack because you will hear a big boom and then the tak tak tak of gun fire”. Sweet. I ask him if we should fit my body armor and put together my grab bag, but due to the late hour, he too puts it off until tomorrow. Left alone to myself, I shower and try to wrap my head around things. I head down to the kitchen to see what’s to eat. I chat a bit with the few people snacking at 10pm and head back to my room. I am dead beat, and look at my queen bed longingly. My mind is racing, but I am drained and allow myself to climb in. It doesn’t take 10 minutes for me to be up and packing my grab bag. Basically a grab bag is bag you grab in the event of attack that has all of the essentials (warm clothes as it is winter here at 5,000 feet, food, water, first aid, meds, cash, passport, phone). I place it next to the door with my body armor. I get back into bed and fall asleep as I mentally run over the actions of what to do if we are attacked (some people count sheep). At 4pm California time (3:30 am Kabul time) I wake up. With every little noise, I pause to assess its significance. I go over and over everything that I have been told in the last 12 hours, and try to piece together the likelihood of a hit on this house, this night. I feel inadequately prepared for anything and everything. I try to will myself back to sleep, but at 6:00am, I give up and go down to the gym.
A new day awaits. The sunlight is somehow reassuring. I call for a car to take me to the office, climb in and give them my callsign. Charlie Eight-Two-Zero.
NOTE: I have been intentionally vague about names, places and protocal. If you have questions feel free to email.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Friday, February 11, 2011
If the Fire Doesn’t Get You, the Fall Will
Dated 29 July 2010. (four days after The Great Fire)
I woke up early this morning to go over my speech for the opening ceremony. Today we are finally celebrating the completion of a project that we have been carrying out for the last 3 months, building an Artisan Community Center. This is a project that aims to provide a dry space for our artisans and their community to use as a meeting house during the rainy season. It is a moment of pride for our women who, because of their hard work and commitment to our organization, have brought a beautiful, pristine and high quality structure to their very remote village. This project has been funded for years by the US Embassy in Dar es Salaam, however due to the remote nature of our project, they have never visited us. After many emails and a meeting in Dar with our contact, I finally convinced the embassy representative to come visit for the opening ceremony. The team was ecstatic! Big day!
After a surprisingly short delay, the team, in our smartest outfits, piles into our landcruzer and we go speeding off into the bush to make sure things are ready. The mood is familial and celebratory in the car, everyone is singing and swaying as we bounce over bumps. The team is together and we get to show off our amazing project!
I should mention, that the embassy representative decided to bundle his trip out to our village with a few other project visits since it is incredibly unusual for them to get out our direction. Because of this, I plan to meet him on the main road at 2pm so that he can follow our vehicle out to the site. But we wanted to get there early and make sure everything was ready to start on time.
When we peak over the hill that slopes into the valley where our site is, I can hardly recognize the site I have been overseeing for the last few months. There is a canopy made out of local fabrics tied together and there are already hundreds of people swarming around (and it is only 11am!). We pull up and the artisans and other women from the neighboring village surround the car in song and dance. We climb out and dance our way to the ceremony site. Eventually things quite down, and I just start snapping pictures. After it is clear that everything is in order, I decide to walk around and get some more photos around the site ( I have been trying to make a better effort to take more photos).
It is important to know that I am wearing really flat sandals with no support and a very tight skirt that goes to my knee.
So I walk around to the dirt road in front of the site and click away. I hear more singing and decide to go back to the festivities. I try to go around the opposite way I came, which requires me to walk over a small dirt ditch, but half way down I realize that the opposite side is much higher and too steep to climb up in the skirt I am wearing. So I pivot to go back the way I came. SNAP. Something rips in my ankle and I immediately hit the ground (remarkably without dropping my SLR which I am too cool to wear around my neck). I am in blinding amounts pain, grabbing my ankle and focusing on breathing. I faintly hear the two guys on the road laughing at me, the mzungu that fell. But mainly my mind is swirling with the most pain I have ever experienced. Eventually the laughing guys realize I am really in pain and not getting up. One decides to come over and help me to my feet (kind of in the manner one would help a screaming child that just fell, “its okay baby,” (lifts child to feet) “Now go run along and play. “). Obviously, it is not that simple in my case, but in my pain, I do not have the Kiswa skills to tell them that something snapped and I am seriously injured. I was even in doubt as to how seriously injured I was. Afterall, all I had done was turn around. All I knew was that I was in serious pain. Between gasps, I muster up the words “lete rafiki yangu” (bring my friends). Naturally, they go into the ceremony and say “an mzungu has fallen”. All 300 people turn around and head to the road to see the spectacle.
So now, not only am I am more pain than childlabor could possibly be, but I have an audience of 300 rural Tanzanians. Sweet. My boss arrives and takes charge in her perfect kiswa. She asks me with a chuckle, “what, you wanted to get the entertainment started early?” I reply that I just thought that more attention should be on Me. So, I don’t really know how they decided that a stooped 70 year old woman and a short man were the best fit in the crowd of 300 to help me get up and hobble up the hill, but they did. Once up, another grandma starts swatting at my ass. Because, apparently, it is bad enough that an mzungu has fallen, but to have her nice outfit soiled by red dirt is just too much. Heidi (my boss) later tells me how funny I looked as a 6’ tall women hunched with these short people on either side. Eventually they get me in the car, where I finally allow myself to look at my ankle. Already it is purple and blue and swollen to a soft ball size. F***. This was not how the day was planned to go.
After much consultation amongst the crowd and my team, it becomes clear that the X ray is broken at the local hospital and no one can decide what to do with me. My head starts to clear and I step in. A month earlier, an Australian ER doctor arrived to our village to start her 3 year mission service. I tell my driver to take me to her, as she will know what to do. And he does exactly that. My ankle stabs each time we bounce over a bump, but at least fresh air is blowing at my face through the window, keeping me from passing out. My driver drives us straight up onto her lawn, right up to her door.
“Roooooose,” I yell in the door. At that, Dr. Rose and her 2 daughters come
running out the door. Everyone is shocked. After some assessment, Rose decides it is either a really bad sprain or a break. She splints it lightly, tells me to elevate it and not to put any weight on it, gives me some light pain killers and says she will check in on me.
My driver then drives me home, where he and our guard carry me into my house. He then takes off to find the embassy representatives. Jessica (who you remember from the Day of the Great Fire), immediately sets out to start cleaning my feet. It hurt to the touch, but she was gentle. About an hour later, my guard comes in with a tree that he has widdled down for me to use as a walking crutch. I smile at the gesture (and as it turns out, it really saved me those first few days).
Anyhow, long story shorter, after 3 days, Dr. Rose is called into the hospital for an emergency where she is shown a chest x-ray. She inquires about this, and they tell her that the x-ray machine is in fact working, but only for special people (people who can pay the 10 USD). So she gets me in for an x-ray. It is clearly broken, but what is not clear (due to the poor quality of the machine) is if there are other breaks that compromise the joint. Everyone decides that I will need to go to a better hospital to get clarifying x-rays, and potentially surgery.
Meanwhile, I am uninsured, so my mom is in a frenzy in the US trying to figure out what to do, and how to get it covered. She tries everything (even the US embassy in Dar). She doesn’t sleep for a week.
I pick up the phone and call flying docs, my med-evac insurance. We make arrangements for a pick-up on Monday at 11am. At this point, my team starts running around to make sure I have everything I need to go to Kenya and then on to the US and that they have everything they need for the next few months.
On Monday, Edson drives me out to a dirt airstrip, I say goodbye to everyone, and I board an ambulance/plane. The irony is not lost on me that the last time I left Kenya, I was evaxuated due to political unrest, and here I was flying into Kenya (being medically evacuated from Tanzania) on the eve of their contemptuous constitutional referendum. Luckily,it was peaceful. Even more lucky, an American surgeon was on the flight and stayed with me through it all to make sure I received adequate medical attention in Nairobi. In Nairobi the x-rays showed that it was in fact broken in 3 places and the orthopedist said that surgery was necessary. This meant that the joint was incredibly unstable and I was going home to the US for surgery. I stayed the night in the hospital and then stayed with my new doctor friend while I waited for my flight in 24 hours time. Unfortunately, my doctor got called off to a medical emergency in Sudan, and had to take off suddenly. This meant that I had to give myself a shot (blood thinner so that I did not get a clot and die on the plane) and find my way to the airport.
I call a taxi and we head to the airport. Because I have a duffle, and am on crutches and countless pain meds, I ask him to park and escort me in. When we get to the check-in counter, the woman tells me that she regrets to inform me that my flight has been cancelled for 24 hours and that all other flights are booked. My mind starts swirling, my eyes well up, and I start spewing verbal diarrhea about how I have to get home for surgery and I do not have enough meds to delay yada yada yada. She smiles and says they are happy to put me up in a hotel room for the night and shuttle me to and fro the airport. I clean my tears up, and go into scary Rachel mode inorder to express in no uncertain terms that a delay was not an option, and that she needed to do whatever was necessary to get me on a flight. I even suggested they bump someone else off another airline, most tourists would be happy for the extra 24 hours in Nairobi. I was not a tourist. Eventually, she tells me she will try to get me on standby on Swiss air and instructs me to sit on a metal bench and wait for 2 hours until she will know. My sweet sweet taxi driver tries to insist on staying with me until I find out, but I send him home. He goes out and gets me food so that I can take my meds and continues to call and txt to see if I have made the flight. A church group comes along and prays for me not to be lonely in this time of need…
In the end I made the flight. But of course, my baggage was lost at customs (with the x-rays)and I was squished into an isle seat with a huge cast on my leg. Eventually, I made it back to the US and to medical coverage and after 3 months of a cast and no weight bearing, and 3 months of physical therapy, I am recovering well. It seems all of my previously good travel luck came in to call.
I woke up early this morning to go over my speech for the opening ceremony. Today we are finally celebrating the completion of a project that we have been carrying out for the last 3 months, building an Artisan Community Center. This is a project that aims to provide a dry space for our artisans and their community to use as a meeting house during the rainy season. It is a moment of pride for our women who, because of their hard work and commitment to our organization, have brought a beautiful, pristine and high quality structure to their very remote village. This project has been funded for years by the US Embassy in Dar es Salaam, however due to the remote nature of our project, they have never visited us. After many emails and a meeting in Dar with our contact, I finally convinced the embassy representative to come visit for the opening ceremony. The team was ecstatic! Big day!
After a surprisingly short delay, the team, in our smartest outfits, piles into our landcruzer and we go speeding off into the bush to make sure things are ready. The mood is familial and celebratory in the car, everyone is singing and swaying as we bounce over bumps. The team is together and we get to show off our amazing project!
I should mention, that the embassy representative decided to bundle his trip out to our village with a few other project visits since it is incredibly unusual for them to get out our direction. Because of this, I plan to meet him on the main road at 2pm so that he can follow our vehicle out to the site. But we wanted to get there early and make sure everything was ready to start on time.
When we peak over the hill that slopes into the valley where our site is, I can hardly recognize the site I have been overseeing for the last few months. There is a canopy made out of local fabrics tied together and there are already hundreds of people swarming around (and it is only 11am!). We pull up and the artisans and other women from the neighboring village surround the car in song and dance. We climb out and dance our way to the ceremony site. Eventually things quite down, and I just start snapping pictures. After it is clear that everything is in order, I decide to walk around and get some more photos around the site ( I have been trying to make a better effort to take more photos).
It is important to know that I am wearing really flat sandals with no support and a very tight skirt that goes to my knee.
So I walk around to the dirt road in front of the site and click away. I hear more singing and decide to go back to the festivities. I try to go around the opposite way I came, which requires me to walk over a small dirt ditch, but half way down I realize that the opposite side is much higher and too steep to climb up in the skirt I am wearing. So I pivot to go back the way I came. SNAP. Something rips in my ankle and I immediately hit the ground (remarkably without dropping my SLR which I am too cool to wear around my neck). I am in blinding amounts pain, grabbing my ankle and focusing on breathing. I faintly hear the two guys on the road laughing at me, the mzungu that fell. But mainly my mind is swirling with the most pain I have ever experienced. Eventually the laughing guys realize I am really in pain and not getting up. One decides to come over and help me to my feet (kind of in the manner one would help a screaming child that just fell, “its okay baby,” (lifts child to feet) “Now go run along and play. “). Obviously, it is not that simple in my case, but in my pain, I do not have the Kiswa skills to tell them that something snapped and I am seriously injured. I was even in doubt as to how seriously injured I was. Afterall, all I had done was turn around. All I knew was that I was in serious pain. Between gasps, I muster up the words “lete rafiki yangu” (bring my friends). Naturally, they go into the ceremony and say “an mzungu has fallen”. All 300 people turn around and head to the road to see the spectacle.
So now, not only am I am more pain than childlabor could possibly be, but I have an audience of 300 rural Tanzanians. Sweet. My boss arrives and takes charge in her perfect kiswa. She asks me with a chuckle, “what, you wanted to get the entertainment started early?” I reply that I just thought that more attention should be on Me. So, I don’t really know how they decided that a stooped 70 year old woman and a short man were the best fit in the crowd of 300 to help me get up and hobble up the hill, but they did. Once up, another grandma starts swatting at my ass. Because, apparently, it is bad enough that an mzungu has fallen, but to have her nice outfit soiled by red dirt is just too much. Heidi (my boss) later tells me how funny I looked as a 6’ tall women hunched with these short people on either side. Eventually they get me in the car, where I finally allow myself to look at my ankle. Already it is purple and blue and swollen to a soft ball size. F***. This was not how the day was planned to go.
After much consultation amongst the crowd and my team, it becomes clear that the X ray is broken at the local hospital and no one can decide what to do with me. My head starts to clear and I step in. A month earlier, an Australian ER doctor arrived to our village to start her 3 year mission service. I tell my driver to take me to her, as she will know what to do. And he does exactly that. My ankle stabs each time we bounce over a bump, but at least fresh air is blowing at my face through the window, keeping me from passing out. My driver drives us straight up onto her lawn, right up to her door.
“Roooooose,” I yell in the door. At that, Dr. Rose and her 2 daughters come
running out the door. Everyone is shocked. After some assessment, Rose decides it is either a really bad sprain or a break. She splints it lightly, tells me to elevate it and not to put any weight on it, gives me some light pain killers and says she will check in on me.
My driver then drives me home, where he and our guard carry me into my house. He then takes off to find the embassy representatives. Jessica (who you remember from the Day of the Great Fire), immediately sets out to start cleaning my feet. It hurt to the touch, but she was gentle. About an hour later, my guard comes in with a tree that he has widdled down for me to use as a walking crutch. I smile at the gesture (and as it turns out, it really saved me those first few days).
Anyhow, long story shorter, after 3 days, Dr. Rose is called into the hospital for an emergency where she is shown a chest x-ray. She inquires about this, and they tell her that the x-ray machine is in fact working, but only for special people (people who can pay the 10 USD). So she gets me in for an x-ray. It is clearly broken, but what is not clear (due to the poor quality of the machine) is if there are other breaks that compromise the joint. Everyone decides that I will need to go to a better hospital to get clarifying x-rays, and potentially surgery.
Meanwhile, I am uninsured, so my mom is in a frenzy in the US trying to figure out what to do, and how to get it covered. She tries everything (even the US embassy in Dar). She doesn’t sleep for a week.
I pick up the phone and call flying docs, my med-evac insurance. We make arrangements for a pick-up on Monday at 11am. At this point, my team starts running around to make sure I have everything I need to go to Kenya and then on to the US and that they have everything they need for the next few months.
On Monday, Edson drives me out to a dirt airstrip, I say goodbye to everyone, and I board an ambulance/plane. The irony is not lost on me that the last time I left Kenya, I was evaxuated due to political unrest, and here I was flying into Kenya (being medically evacuated from Tanzania) on the eve of their contemptuous constitutional referendum. Luckily,it was peaceful. Even more lucky, an American surgeon was on the flight and stayed with me through it all to make sure I received adequate medical attention in Nairobi. In Nairobi the x-rays showed that it was in fact broken in 3 places and the orthopedist said that surgery was necessary. This meant that the joint was incredibly unstable and I was going home to the US for surgery. I stayed the night in the hospital and then stayed with my new doctor friend while I waited for my flight in 24 hours time. Unfortunately, my doctor got called off to a medical emergency in Sudan, and had to take off suddenly. This meant that I had to give myself a shot (blood thinner so that I did not get a clot and die on the plane) and find my way to the airport.
I call a taxi and we head to the airport. Because I have a duffle, and am on crutches and countless pain meds, I ask him to park and escort me in. When we get to the check-in counter, the woman tells me that she regrets to inform me that my flight has been cancelled for 24 hours and that all other flights are booked. My mind starts swirling, my eyes well up, and I start spewing verbal diarrhea about how I have to get home for surgery and I do not have enough meds to delay yada yada yada. She smiles and says they are happy to put me up in a hotel room for the night and shuttle me to and fro the airport. I clean my tears up, and go into scary Rachel mode inorder to express in no uncertain terms that a delay was not an option, and that she needed to do whatever was necessary to get me on a flight. I even suggested they bump someone else off another airline, most tourists would be happy for the extra 24 hours in Nairobi. I was not a tourist. Eventually, she tells me she will try to get me on standby on Swiss air and instructs me to sit on a metal bench and wait for 2 hours until she will know. My sweet sweet taxi driver tries to insist on staying with me until I find out, but I send him home. He goes out and gets me food so that I can take my meds and continues to call and txt to see if I have made the flight. A church group comes along and prays for me not to be lonely in this time of need…
In the end I made the flight. But of course, my baggage was lost at customs (with the x-rays)and I was squished into an isle seat with a huge cast on my leg. Eventually, I made it back to the US and to medical coverage and after 3 months of a cast and no weight bearing, and 3 months of physical therapy, I am recovering well. It seems all of my previously good travel luck came in to call.
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