Camp Dubs

It is the strange stuff that makes my days interesting. Today I provided marital counseling to a Hivaldar (sergeant) in the Afghan Army. This was a guy who looked as if he would have no qualms about gutting me with a Khyber knife…but he came into the clinic complaining about a cough. When his fellow jowars (soldiers) left told me he was also having difficulty in the bedroom with his wife. Wow. I suppose I was flattered as well as shocked that he would confide this kind of thing in me – it showed a level of respect that I don’t feel as if I have earned yet. I wanted to say, “Dude, I don’t know. I can’t figure out Western women, let alone burkha-wearing Afghanis!” But, I suppressed that impulse and listened to his issues and offered some humble advice. The next time I saw him he was smiling and grateful, so maybe what I said worked…maybe I should try it myself!

The mission of the Brigade to which I am assigned is to facilitate and mentor civil projects to help the Afghanis become self-sufficient. In practical terms, this means handing out money, supervising building projects and attending meetings with police and community leaders. A couple of weeks ago I ventured out with one of the convoys to visit PD11 (Police district 11). The police station was across town, so there was plenty to see on the way. The chatter inside the humvee on the way includes commentary about the driving skills of the locals, amusement at the number of people and goods that Afghans can fit on a motorcycle, and whether the particular Toyota Corolla in front of us will explode. Every convoy begins with a briefing on the threats that have been reported for the day, and we travel with a list of potential VBEIDs (vehicle borne improvised explosive device, aka car bomb). Most of them are white Toyota Corollas, which are likely chosen because they are ubiquitous. We take some solace in the fact the streets are crowded and the traffic is moving since the insurgents are trying to win over popular support by not blowing them up.

When we arrive at the police compound, the convoy commander goes inside to meet with the local neighborhood leaders and I remain outside to get to know the police. These men are jovial enough, but every one of them bears scars of the violence that has dominated Kabul’s recent history. They show me around the compound and I take note of the motorcycle sidecar that is bricked into a wall, and a live grenade that is embedded between two stones in the wall. Over the wall is a playgound and the remains of a forlorn amusement park that probably hasn’t seen much activity in a long time. Just before leaving I am summoned inside to evaluate one of the elders who has an eye problem. I see him, recommend that he sees an eye doctor in Bagram, and we depart.
On the way back, we drive through the center city and stop at the interpreter’s behest to buy some kabobs for lunch. Periodically, we pass beautiful houses amid the rubble, and many many thriving shops. The nice houses are surrounded by high walls and iron gates and patrolled by security guards with automatic weapons. We reach the interpreter’s favorite kabob stand (near the Kabul Dominoes and the Kabul Kentucky Friend Chicken…really), dismount the humvees and find ourselves in a neighborhood that could be mistaken for parts of New York City. It’s eerie. Perhaps it’s more eerie that parts of New York City now look like Kabul.