Too calm to be true

Three weeks already, and routine has already installed itself.

That routine includes regular fire fights and explosions in the city, which occur on a daily basis. They are never aimed at us, though : the Afghan National Police are the ones taking it up the ass lately. In fact we, the coalition forces, have become a sort of third priority in terms of Taliban attacks. Why? I don't have a clue. Maybe they feel they are losing against us, so they start picking on their country's legitimate authorities. Easier, quicker ; in essence, the losing path.

The past few day at Camp Nathan Smith have been very quiet. Good thing is it gives me time to write and work on my column for the Journal de Montréal. Defense and security is already boring, becoming some sort of glorified security guard job. I say glorified because of the fat salary and the automatic weapons. But it's a little too quiet for me. Not just because I could use more action, but also because it leaves one to wonder what those Taliban fucks are up to.

It's like a bad Star Trek scene :

Kirk : "Everything seems quiet"
Soon-to-die-red-shirted-guest-star : -Yeah, a little too quiet.

Usually, this is where the villains erupt from behind the styrofoam rock and blow the red shirted guest star to smithereens with crayon rays.

I've been writing a lot these days. Why isn'it on the blog? Because it's very personal and it may or may not be used as source material for that book I always talk about writing. Another writer's trait : talking more about writing than actually doing it. I think that if all writers wrote everything that came to their minds and actually did something with their lives, we might have global peace, love and understanding, or maybe its exact opposite, who knows.

these are the kind of thoughts that come to mind with too much free time on my hands.

Patching wounds, altruistically

As I was getting my daily movie fix (my only real addiction, the booze-related one slowly taken away by the hot wind), I had the greatest epiphany since I realized I had forgotten my passport in Montreal.

"You haven't blogged in five days!", I told myself while renting a pirated copy of some Afghan flick starring a non-burka-wearing local star. (And Praise the Lord she's not wearing one, as it would be a sin not to expose such a feast to one's eyes).

Today, two women took their burka for a walk from the Panjwayi district to Camp Nathan Smith, of which my platoon was given custody. Under the seemingly heavy blue-coloured burden they were (most likely forcibly) wearing, one could guess their frail constitution, weakened by several kilometers walking under the gradually hotter sun.

"We're here to see someone," they tell me as I get them some shade and water.

-Who?

-Someone. Anyone. Our husbands have been killed by a British convoy, and we seek restitution. Financial restitution.

As unsurprised as I was that some Brits had randomly killed random people for being randomly suspect, I also felt slightly helpless, as I knew about their case, which had been discussed the night before. Their demands are being processed as of now by the powers-that-be, and anyone having grown up in a social-democratic country could only relate to being dragged through a humongous administrative apparel, most likely to few avail.

As I called the proper instances (who would later dismiss them with the same feeling I had), one Abdul Ghani, wounded by yet another British convoy, came by to get his bandages changed, thanks to a deal that was passed between him, a local Kandahar resident, and the PRT's medical station.

This was the exact moment I realized that some were right about one aspect of this Canadian mission : We actually are pactching wounds left by others. Altruistically.

A medic with a heart of gold

Camp Nathan Smith's gate really is Forrest Gump's chocolate box.

No matter what amount of training we received, nothing has prepared us from the day-to-day surprises we will encounter through our 7-month endeavour.

This morning, our first unexpected scenario took place in the form of a 3 year-old Afghan boy with semi-infected 2nd degree burns located somewhere which prevents him to have a comfortable seat. Coming along was his 7 year-old brother who explained us, in broken English, that the boy had burned himself a few days ago by accidentally sitting in hot milk. The lack of medical services preventing him from receiving proper care, the older sibling took it upon himself to bring him to us, Canada's (heavily armed) humanitarian presence in the province.

The boys at the gate reacted quickly, amidst the mild chaos an unexpected scene always brings. Proper calls were made to the proper instances. Then, nothing, since a handover, being a transition between two organizations, curiously never takes advantage of a greater number of people on the ground. The PRT's medics being already busy with a slight diarrhea outbreak, one Master Corporal N. decided that a child's health was worth challenging established rules about military medical priorities. Packing on his humongous medic pack, he went to the front gate, adminstered proper care to the child, whom he sent home with a fresh butt and a candid smile.

Soldier on!

Issued gear and a word about Afghan cops

Yesterday, it really felt like the job was finally starting. We started the handover with the other platoon, and from the smiles hidden behind a bunch of forcefully serious faces, one could tell that, for obvious reasons, they were happy to see us.

We were finally issued our field gear and ammunition. Frankly, having only one full magazine since I first stepped in the Afghan sand was a tad stressful to me. What if...?

We received additional mag pouches, night vision equipment, and other tactical gear for which , if I told you about, the gods of operational security would certainly berate me. I was issued a 9mm pistol, confirming my glorious status of commander.

At last, we are ready to start defending the camp against potential threats, which have been quite scarce for the past few years. The reason? The camp's Afghan security chief, a self-proclaimed colonel by the name of Tor Jan who once made it quite clear to three Taliban fighters who had just attacked the camp that the Kandahar Provincial Reconstruction Team was "under his protection", according to the Pashtun Wali, the tribe's code of honor. I will spare you the gruesome details, but let's just say, for conversation's sake, that the moniker he earned in the aftermath of an exemplary demonstration starring three hapless Muslim fanatics is...Skinner.

I'm looking forward to work with the Afghan National Police. So far, the ones I've met have been very friendly, and most of them speak in a broken yet understandable English. They're highly reliable in that most of them hate the Taliban with a passion. According to a friend of mine who will soon be back to the future, they will die for us. Those were his words, taken from one cop who said he witnessed the Taliban wipe out half his village, although that might have been an exaggerateed account as they have no basic mathematical skills, but you get the point.

The downside? They are dirt poor, and thus inclined to petty theft, which in no way undermines our trust in them. How can you blame one for trying to feed his kids? "Is that a night vision lens in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me? Just give it back, will you?"

The homeward-bound platoon we're taking over from told us to befriend them as soon as possible, and so I listened. I still have to get around knowing their names, which sometimes look - and sound - like a disorganized Scrabble hand, but I feel that seven months should be enough to accomplish this linguistic feat.

Gotta go now...My platoon warrant is screaming for another list.

Rocket Man

I arrived in the Sandbox a few days ago.

The culture shock here is incredible. Not that I've seen a thousand things so far, but the few details my jetlagged eyes have been subjected to suggest that, as a matter of fact, I am several thousand kilometers away from home.

On my way to Kandahar, listening to my playlist, I couldn't help but chuckle at a wonderful piece of irony. As the plane was making its way from the ground to last Sunday's rainy sky, Elton John's "Rocket Man" suddenly kicks in.

"What the hell does it have to do with anything?", I can hear from behind one's computer screen as they spend quality time reading this. Honestly, I asked myself that question too, while I couldn't help it but notice the dim yet existing similarities between a Mars-bound astronaut and a Kandahar-bound soldier.

If Montreal is the Earth, Kandahar certainly is Mars. The sand, the overwhelming heat, the distance, nothing here is like home. The first glimpse at my surroundings makes me think that I landed in the middle of the Old Testament. With barely running water.

So far, speculation tells me that working security on camp will be my main task, with a few prospects at going out on patrols. Kind of a reality check : being on the "Defense and Security" platoon means doing defense and security. Fortunately, my storytelling abilities will remain of service, as I am still able to collect stories from charitable souls who will feed me with tales from the Sandbox.

Updating the blog shouldn't be too hard here, yet the 30-minute limit will make it difficult to write real masterpieces.

We're still in the midst of organizing ourselves, so there is still very few to say other that I definitely landed on Mars, and I think that, while it will pass quite fast, it's gonna be a long, long time.