My shop sent me to Kabul to conduct training at the ISAF headquarters in the heart of the city. I didn't know what the training was, frankly I didn't care. I just wanted away from that horrid shop, and that horrid base. I was scheduled to fly out of Bagram at nine am, the day prior to classes starting. I arrived earlier to the hangar, rather than spend any extra time at the office I worked in (did I mention I hated that place?). After waiting about 3 hours, I found out that the small Blackwater flight I was going to catch a ride on was cancelled because they, "put too much fuel in the plane" and it wouldn't be able to take off again from Kabul because of weight and elevation and other mumbojumbo.
So I happily waited for the next flight that was scheduled to leave 5 hours later. I chose to stay at the hangar again, rather than take the chance of returning to that horrible office. This time, the wait was more entertaining in the hangar because the airmen in charge put on what we called a "Haji film", which was a film that was a blatant blackmarket copy of five zombie movies. With the DVD to keep me company, I found myself watching "Dawn of the Dead" (recent version), "21 Days Later", and those crappy movies starring Mila Jovovich. By the time the entire disk was put on repeat and I was watching Dawn of the Dead for the second time, the announcement came (2 hours after the flight was scheduled to leave) that the plane had gone to Kandahar instead. Sorry!
So I waited for the next flight, with the Zombiefest on repeat a third time. This time at least we found out our 11pm flight was cancelled on time, and were told the next muster wasn't until 5am with a flight leaving at 7am. So I walked the half mile back to my room with my heavy gear, slept for 3 hours, and returned, not quite rested but definately eager to get out of Bagram.
This time it all went well, and before I knew it I was on a C-130, surrounded by members of the Polish army, rattling down the runway, praying that the plane had the gumption to make the massive upward sweep over the Hindu Kush peaks that surrounded our base on all sides.
My class (I still didn't know what it was exactly) started at 9am. Theoretically this shouldn't have been a problem since my flight left at 7am and the flight was all of 10 minutes long. However the question begged to answer, "How does one make the five mile journey from the Kabul International Airport to the ISAF HQ?" I was told there would be shuttles. And frankly I was not all that worried about missing my class, just more worried about the prospect of missing it and having to return to Bagram early. Shudder.
So I found myself alone at the crowded Kabul airport, sitting on a wooden picnic table under a measly awning that protected me from the direct glare of the 100 degree sun next to the dusty parking lot. The lot was jam packed with every imaginable international armored vehicle you could imagine - Polish, Italian, German, Macedonian, French, Korean, Canadian, UK, even the Japanese were representing. After making a disheartening phone call to the ISAF HQ shuttle service, I learned the shuttles came every 2 hours and that since I hadn't reserved a spot, I might not get on a shuttle until 7 or 8pm that night.
Balls to that.
I returned to my vigilant spot next to the pick up/drop off zone on my picnic table. I began watching people closely, looking for the telltale "ISAF HQ" badge that one must wear to gain access to the compound. Sitting on top of the table out of the sun but sweating through my uniform already at 9am I found myself staring at the intricate and beautiful tilework that paved the waiting area floor. (*insert lost photo here*)
Stray cats scurried amongst the up armored vehicles and garbage bins in the parking lot - a rough lot they appeared to be.
A kind German female (civilian type) who had been on my flight walked past and I noticed she was wearing an ISAF badge. She offered me a ride as long as there was enough room when her camerades arrived. Alas, there was not.
So I waited.
Around 11am the ISAF shuttle arrived in the form of a convoy of uparmored Land Rovers led by the soldiers of the British Army. My phone call was confirmed, they politely informed me that there was not enough room on the shuttle but that I should wait the two hours until the next shuttle at 2pm and if that was also full, then I would definately be able to get on the 7pm shuttle. I watched with disdain as the various military personnel from all over the world who HAD reserved spots on the shuttle wedged themselves into the armored vehicles, as the British soldiers professionally and expeditiously chucked all the luggage on top of the massive SUVs. In no time at all they were gone, a cloud of dust settling in their wake.
With renewed vigor I returned to eyeballing every single soldier, sailor, Marine and airman of all nationalities who passed me by, weighing up who was going where and what my odds would be of hitching a ride. A sturdy, strong Anzac (are they still called that?), member of the Australian army with Maori features passed me by wearing an ISAF badge. I leapt.
He informed me that they would happily take me to the ISAF HQ in the event that the VIP whom they were picking up at the airport didn't show up. I would have to wait until the flight he was supposed to be on arrived, and if he wasn't on it then I was gold. He passed the message on to the driver of his vehicle and I sat back anxiously waiting. It was past noon, my class was well on its way, and I had no desire to leave Kabul just yet.
After about an hour, the Australian approached me, told me that the VIP didn't show and that he was going to stay at the airport but that I was free to grab my bags and load up in their Land Rover; that his driver and mates would happily drive me to ISAF.
In record timing I donned my protective gear, threw my bags on top of the Rover, introduced myself to the leaders of the "convoy" and loaded up.
Now keep in mind. Convoys are treated VERY seriously in the Marines. Convoy orders, issued before departing on any sort of convoy can take hours sometimes to be given, and the convoy itself is executed in an extraordinarily controlled manner.
You'll understand then why I was a little anxious when I hopped in the back of this uparmored Land Rover and looked at the driver and his A-driver. The driver, wearing the equivalent of cargo pants, a t-shirt, sunglasses, and two dinner plates strapped to his chest and back which were held together with thin elastic straps that looked like they came off of a garter belt, looked barely old enough to grow facial hair. He took off driving and his A-driver beside him turned around in his seat and began to yell at the three of us in the back seat in a nearly illegibly thick Australian accent. He was just as young as the driver only fully dressed in uniform and full protective gear (no helmet or glasses though). He had wild, dark brown hair that stood out everywhere, like my friend Michael Cameron's bedhead. With a cheeky grin, leaning over the back of his seat he began:
"All right? Ma name's Wookie and I'll be your convoy leada! (at this point the driver took three concurrent potholes deadon and nearly knocked the unhelmeted Wookie unconcious as he slammed backwards against the windshield. Nonplussed, he leaned back against the seat to continue talking to us, this time bracing one arm around the seat). If at anytime durin' the drive to the headquatas we come under attack, just sit tight and let me and Wooly heah take care of it, we'll push through and make our way to the headquarters. If the vehicle is disabled, jest sit tight and Wooly and me will jump out and deal with things and then we'll all musta up and beat feet to the neahest rally point. Allright? Allright!"
I donned my protective glasses, checked my rifle, and suppressed the laughter that was bubbling up at this wildly inappropriate time.
The roads of Kabul were awful, the streets packed with everything from military vehicles, donkey pulled carts to modern day European tin can cars, all packed four abreast zigging and zagging wildly over potholled streets and dazzlingly dangerous roundabouts.
I watched carefully out the windows from my back seat, trying for vigilance but constantly awed by the flocks of women in their brightly coloured burkahs, moving like birds through the bustling streets.
The city was amazingly thriving with vendors and stores and buildings all bustling alongside the busy streets. In too short of time the vehicle arrived in the densly guarded ISAF compound, and my time with Wooky and Wooly was over. Wooky helped me with my bags and before I took off told me, "Ay and if you need anything whoile you're heah, you come to the security buildin' and ask for Wookie, allright?"
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