by Sally Cooper
In Kabul, anyone of great consequence, and anyone who liked to think they were of great consequence, travelled with their own ‘personal security detail’, or PSD. As was the case with all things in the Ghan, there were PSDs and there were PSDs. A European delegation had recently arrived at the Karwan Sara. They were flanked by a handful of burly Brits, all male, all wearing suits and all rather alarmingly well groomed. I had cause to contemplate their hardiness after overhearing them complaining about their rooms, the lack of fruit for breakfast and the poor quality of service in Afghanistan. It may have been that the Europeans had unwittingly hired a handful of male models, mistaking them for bodyguards. The Brits left a week later, packing their suitcases into the bulletproof Land Cruiser and their charges into the ‘softskin’ (i.e. not bulletproof) minivan behind.
But most PSDs were American; squat, muscled mercenaries who strutted around town dressed in a uniform of khaki shirts, khaki trousers, khaki baseball caps and dark, wraparound sunglasses. All were armed with guns and goatees. Their charges were the business-suited inmates of the American embassy. The United States was the biggest donor to the Ghan’s reconstruction and, in size, the American mission in Kabul was surpassed only by its embassy in Baghdad. Because it was believed that Western embassies and the people who worked in them were prize targets in the War on Terror, most expats who worked at Kabul’s embassies lived on site. The sheer size of the American mission meant there wasn’t enough room for everyone in its main buildings so the US embassy, with row after row of prefabricated cabins, looked less like the presence of the world’s only remaining superpower and more like a large urban trailer park – albeit one with high walls, razor wire and a heavily armed guard force. It was a matter of much speculation as to whether the security was keeping people out or keeping the Americans in.
The cabins were a temporary measure while the embassy underwent expansion. The enormous construction site may well have accounted for the majority of Afghan employment figures, if such figures were ever taken. The site straddled a main thoroughfare through which only embassy, military and UN cars could pass. Anyone else was turned back by the legion of armed guards at either end. Amid the fortification and the chaos, a sign hung above the gate, in Dari and in English, optimistically inviting any ‘friends’ with information regarding terrorist activities to wait there between certain hours from Saturday to Thursday, the local working week. I passed by many times but had yet to see anyone waiting..
In a city of endless kebabs and mountains of pilau, one of the city’s favourite lunch spots was Popolano’s, a restaurant whose claim to fame was that it made the best pizza in Kabul. Few establishments could dispute the claim. It was an enormous hall-like room with a black and white tiled floor and a vast mural of yet another Swiss Alpine scene painted across its rear wall. Popolano’s was popular with Afghan and expat alike and, as I sat down with two friends, the lunchtime crowd was buzzing – until two enormous GMC Suburbans came to a screeching halt at the front door. The Americans.
While it wasn’t uncommon to see bulletproof cars driving around Kabul with darkened windows and without numberplates, the Americans were always conspicuous. The first sign was the make of car. Most Afghans drove beaten-up Corollas or Town Ace minivans which were universally referred to as ‘Toonises’. Members of Development Inc., on the other hand, were generally ferried about in Toyota Land Cruisers and the occasional Nissan Patrol. The vehicles that shot out the gates of the US embassy were large, long wheel based, bulletproof American-made Suburbans. Their sheer size suggested they belonged outside equally oversized houses in the oversized streets of oversized towns – which Kabul definitely wasn’t. Once a medieval city on the Silk Road, Kabul’s widest thoroughfares could barely cope with a tank overtaking a donkey cart, but that was little deterrent to the drivers of American embassy cars who passed at breakneck speed – as if someone was about to open fire or blow them up. The vans travelled in pairs ‘for security’ and two of them had just disgorged their passengers, tobacco-chewing PSD included, at Popolano’s front door.
The lunchtime buzz fell silent. The Americans walked in preceded by their security guys whose eyesight seemed capable of seeing the dark interior of the restaurant through the lenses of their wraparound sunglasses. If I were anywhere else, I’d have thought the restaurant was being raided. The PSD searched every nook and cranny, opening doors and stomping into the kitchen in search of Mullah Omar.
Given the all-clear, their charges took their seats at a table at the rear. In a room full of shalwar kameezes and jeans, the five Americans sat stiffly in their suits and ties. The security guys sat at the next table, glowering like guard dogs at all who passed by. Despite the polite sign above the entrance, they hadn’t checked their weapons at the door. Instead they placed them on the floor beside their chairs where anyone passing by on the way to the washroom could trip over a badly placed M16. Public displays of foreigner weaponry were regarded poorly by the locals, who were now being told to hand over their own armouries in the interests of Western-led ‘peace’.
The buzz resumed, though more subdued than before. Everyone knew it would only take one hapless Afghan waiter to drop a plate of spaghetti bolognaise for the place to explode in gunfire. Foreigners and Afghans sat nervously and ate in haste while the goatees ordered their lunch.
‘I’ll have a steak. Make it well done. You never know where the meat comes from round here,’ said one in a loud Midwestern accent.
‘Yes, sir. And to drink, sir?’ asked the young waiter politely. Today he’d drawn the short straw, going bravely where no other Popolano waiter dared tread.
‘You got any Jack Daniel’s?’ asked the security guy to the loud laughs of his companions.
‘We have Pepsi and Miranda.’
I’m not sure the waiter would know what a Jack Daniel’s was even if he were in the middle of Tennessee.
The steaks arrived and the PSD tucked in. A visiting group of Japanese, undeterred by the weaponry, knew an excellent photo opportunity when they saw one. Abandoning their pizzas, they quietly tiptoed across to the PSD’s table and started snapping away like wildlife photographers stalking a feasting lion. The security guys, confident the Japanese didn’t pose a threat, lifted up their meat-laden forks and duly smiled for the cameras.
The ‘inshallah’ presidential elections were to be held in September. ‘Inshallah’ (God willing) is the universal response to anything in the Ghan from reviving the engine on your battered 1983 Corolla to the solution for world peace. Depending on the size of the problem, it’s almost always accompanied by a shrug of one if not both shoulders. As we infidels place such little faith in God, I doubt there is an English equivalent that succinctly summarises the same intent.
Two American lawyers had recently arrived at the Karwan Sara. Even at a glance, you could tell they were Washington lawyers by the braces, the voices and the cigars. They instantly became known to all as ‘the Bushes’. They were in town to make sure as much legislation as possible was signed before the election.
‘Well, it’s important to Washington,’ said Rick Bush, taking a puff of his evening Cohiba in the serenity of the Karwan Sara garden. ‘If Karzai gets bumped off – and, let’s face it, that could happen – this whole country’s going to go A over T, if you’ll pardon my French. There are people at home who want laws passed as soon as possible.’
‘Who?’
‘Hell, you know – AID, State … I just got here. Three weeks ago I was in Iraq. I just go where I’m told.’
‘But how many people in Afghanistan know what a Washington-style law is?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know. Karzai may not have much muscle beyond this city but a law is a law – especially in Washington and, to some people, that’s what really counts.’
The motives behind the building of the new Afghanistan were many and varied. Like many expats in Kabul, Rick went where he was told, did what he had to do and collected his pay cheque at the end of the month.
&n
bsp; ‘Hey, do you know where I can buy some really good carpets?’ he asked, moving on to more pressing concerns.
A US embassy security alert meant that the Bushes’ planned foray to Chicken Street the following day had to be cancelled. But necessity has always been the mother of invention, especially for those from inside the Beltway, and, the following day, the mountain came to Mohammed.
Late in the morning, a convoy of Corollas pulled up at the Karwan Sara’s gates. Within minutes, the expansive lawns were transformed into a massive carpet showroom. The haggling began, cash changed hands and the cars departed, significantly lighter than when they had arrived. I noticed the Bushes had passed on the small carpet depicting a slim pale-skinned man hanging on a crucifix. God may shed his grace on America, but America’s god wasn’t having much luck in the Ghan.
9
Uniform November 43
Our radio project was in the process of procuring a new car, one that would enable us to go about our business more efficiently than we could while sharing the Land Cruiser with the IRIN news service. Ismail’s ability to navigate the system was enviable but a car was a big-ticket item and, in order to move things along, my presence was required, so we headed out of town, down Jalalabad Road to the UNOCA compound. UNOCA had been the acronym for the UN’s pre-2001 presence in the Ghan, and the compound that bore its name was home to a number of UN agencies.
Like the Americans, the UN also came with its own PSD. The UN security office compiled daily sitreps (situation reports), which listed the shenanigans of the AGEs (Anti Government Elements) and generally told everyone where they were and weren’t allowed to go. As the only international staff member of the smallest UN office in town, I’d so far managed to avoid its vast net. I had gone about my business, organised five satellite phones and five two-way radio sets for the office, my UN passport and two pay cheques without anyone really knowing who I was. Until now.
The previous day, Jalalabad Road had been closed to traffic when a car packed with explosives was found abandoned by the side of the road. In 2003, a few weeks before I left Kenya for Kabul, a suicide bomb had killed four German soldiers en route to the airport at the end of their Afghan tour. Up until then, I’d never thought much about bombs, danger and death. The incident had been an isolated one and Kabul remained quiet for the three months I was there. Visitors to the Internews office had come and gone through a high metal gate staffed by a single unarmed guard. While there had been one or two car bombs in my absence, this was the first of its kind since my return. Perhaps my NGO life had put me in denial that ‘bad things’ could happen to me here. I wasn’t sure what to think: whether the unexploded car bomb was a sign of things to come or I’d been reading too many sitreps and I was starting to become paranoid.
At the entrance to UNOCA, a few kilometres from where the vehicle had been found, white UN four-wheel drives zigzagged through seven concrete barriers. Each car then stopped at a gate where the IDs of both drivers and their passengers were checked before being ushered another hundred metres to a second gate. There, a guard with a mirror on a long pole looked for anything suspicious under the car’s chassis. If this was ‘now’, what else would be added to The List if things got ‘worse’?
Procurement was a busy office staffed by a harried New Zealander. The nameplate on the door identified him as Matthew Thompson. Most people go out and buy desks, radios, filing cabinets and cars, but, like many large organisations, the UN procures them. Judging from the look on Matthew’s face, procurement was an activity that rivalled only root canal in the sheer pleasure it brought. He was surrounded by a gaggle of Afghans, all talking anxiously, some waving forms, others entire folders. He cast a plaintive look in my direction so I smiled, backed away and closed the door behind me.
I stood waiting in the corridor, reading a noticeboard full of sitreps and lists of approved accommodation, when I heard a voice beside me.
‘Ah, you’re Sally Cooper.’
I turned and found a pleasant-faced, dark-haired young man with a German accent eyeing the ID card that the UN insisted I wear while within the confines of a UN compound.
‘Miss Sally’ was on the tip of my tongue until I realised I may have been spending too much time with the locals. Before I could respond he continued, ‘I’m Jorg, Jorg Rainer. I’m with Human Resources. We’ve been looking for you. We wondered if you really existed. Do you have time to talk?’
This didn’t augur well – they’d been looking for me – but Matthew was busy and Jorg seemed nice enough so I followed him into his office and he shut the door behind me.
‘Where have you been?’ he asked.
‘At the IRIN office – in Shashtarak.’
‘So you’re not based at UNOCA?’ He frowned.
‘No, our office is in a guesthouse.’
‘A UN guesthouse?’
‘Yes, the one in Shashtarak.’
‘Oh. How interesting.’ The idea of not being at UNOCA seemed challenging. ‘How come we haven’t met before?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I mean … what kind of orientation did you have?’
‘Orientation?’
‘Yes, did you get this kit?’ he said, reaching into a drawer and producing a clear plastic folder with a bright green spine. He placed it on the desk before me. The kit was made up of information sheets that aimed to prepare its readers for a mission to Afghanistan: what to expect on arrival, what clothes to pack and what immunisations were recommended. It also contained a collection of forms that could best be described as a wad.
‘Er, I wasn’t aware of any of this,’ I said lamely. I’d spent a couple of weeks in the presence of my predecessor. I thought that was my orientation.
‘Hmmm … Okay,’ he said in a tone reminiscent of a benevolent pastor addressing a wayward member of his flock. He licked his index finger and began flicking through papers. ‘This is the form so you can apply for R and R.’
Like many foreigners in the Ghan, and all UN international staff, my contract entitled me to rest and recuperation every eight weeks. The Ghan was deemed a ‘hardship posting’ and one where regular rest breaks away from the hustle and hassle, the dirt and grime, were deemed necessary. I found the notion of taking a break every two months a tad excessive – but not enough to refuse taking the form.
Jorg handed me another sheet of paper. ‘This is the form for applying for leave – not the same as for R and R. And here’s one for sick leave. And this one is for your bank details. And this one … hmmmm.’ He scanned the neat boxes. ‘Oh yes, this is so you can receive mail from home.’
‘And here’s the form so you can be added to our security register.’
I had done my best to avoid this so far. Being on the security register itemised me on a list inside The Bubble and I wasn’t entirely sure that was a place I wanted to be. But according to the sitreps, which had been arriving daily and unsolicited in my email inbox, security incidents were on the rise. Perhaps being on someone’s security register wouldn’t be a bad idea. Jorg dispatched me to an office two doors down the corridor and instructed me to introduce myself to a man called Bing.
I knocked on a white door marked Security Office. Glancing up, I saw someone had drawn a skull and crossbones above the lintel.
‘What?!’ snapped a deep male voice from inside. Rather than knock again, I tentatively opened the door and peered inside.
‘Are you Bing?’ I asked.
The office was no bigger than a broom closet, its size emphasised by the presence of a tall Maori man standing in front of a whiteboard.
‘Yeah,’ he said, glaring at me. I seemed to have interrupted him.
‘My name is Sally Cooper.’
‘Ah! So you’re Sally Cooper,’ he said, putting the lid on his marker and placing his hands on his hips. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I heard a door slam. ‘We’ve been looking for you. Where have you been?’
I didn’t think I’d done anything wrong but I was beginning to feel l
ike a naughty child who had just discovered she was in an awful lot of trouble.
‘You were supposed to report to me when you arrived. What did they tell you?’
‘Um, no-one told me anything.’ It was true enough, but I’d been in the job six weeks. In that time, I’d even managed a trip back to IRIN headquarters in Nairobi. I could see why Bing was peeved.
‘Fill this out,’ he said, passing me yet another form, a variation of the one I had just completed for Jorg. I was getting quite good at this by now. I wrote down my name, my blood group, my insurance policy number, my next of kin and answered the usual plethora of questions one was asked in advance of ‘the worst’ happening. The form also asked me where I lived.
‘Hmmmm …’ said Bing, ‘You live at the Karwan Sara.’
It was a statement rather than a question and my instincts told me not to respond. Bing volunteered no more information, though I’d already noticed the Karwan Sara wasn’t on the Approved List of Kabul Guesthouses posted outside his office, despite its presence on the Approved List of Kabul Restaurants.
‘Have you got a radio?’
‘Yes,’ I said. I scrambled around in my bag and handed him a black Motorola two-way.
‘Why isn’t it switched on?’
I thought it best to regard the question as rhetorical. In truth, I’d flicked the radio on once or twice but nothing ever seemed to happen. I’d been carrying it around in my bag because somewhere in the deep dark recesses of all the information I’d been given in the last six weeks, someone had told me I should.