The potato chipper, p.8
The Potato Chipper, page 8
The interior of the terminal was basic but there was a Costa Coffee and a few other of the Fast Food chains if that’s your sort of thing. I scoped the terminal first to get the lay of the land before heading over to buy a cappuccino. Grande is still akin to a bucket and gave me something to sup on before the inevitable arrived. I reminded myself that I was supposed to be apprehensive before heading in. I was, Don’t misunderstand me but the experience of interpreting who was doing what, why; and scoping people which we all do sub-consciously but probably I do on an even greater level consumed me. Body language experts say that airports are fascinating environments to practise your skills of interpretation and I couldn’t agree more. I always make a point of sitting down when I have nowhere in particular I want to be and remember the heading points O.G.S.P.E. This stands for Open, Grounded, Space (taking), Priding, Earning. The grounded component means keeping the full part of both feet on the ground and not lifting the heels up, or tapping away like a twitching, nervous type.
The time came for Kam Air flight RJ0111 0625 departure to be called. There was no real rush and I lined up and unsurprisingly, given that there were four flights that morning heading to Kabul, probably because it’s such a much sought after place, there were only about fifty to seventy people in the queue.
Once through the door, it was on to the bus for a five minute drive up the apron, as the doors opened, I was once again reminded of the heat and humidity of the Emirates as I slowly walked up the stairs and once at the top, came the moment that I felt deep inside – ‘this IS IT, there’s no going back now,’ as I took one brief glance behind me and headed in to the plane. I did have one pang of envy, looking at the line of sleek, Emirates jets on the other side, doubtless taking tourists, transiting through Dubai on to lovely parts of the world. Then again, envy is a useless emotion, and these people deserved their breaks, given the near slave like conditions that many of them work in; commuting at 06.00 hours in the morning and finishing if they’re lucky at 18.00/6 p.m. in the evening. I however, was ‘hungry’ and motivated for this. My bank balance was in the minus region, and this was my big chance.
The descent into Kabul was quite sharp, almost akin to hurtling down a slide and my only recollection was of looking down at the traffic and wondering what side of the road they would drive on. Pakistan’s strong connection with the country made me think that it would be on the left, although Afghanistan had only had a fleeting exposure to the British Empire (their choice, not that of the British) and it was to my surprise that about five hundred feet up, coming into Kabul International Airport (KAIA south), two cars passed each other driving on the right. How little things can keep one interested!
Kabul Airport is a ramshackle joint; no great surprises there. It’s like coming into something that dates to the nineteen fifties. The process of getting my bags was fairly rapid however, and after passing the inevitable attempt at a bribe; saying “sorry”, and passing through a security check where my bags were x-rayed, I took the long, slightly complex walk over five hundred metres through a number of gates to the meet and greet reception area; passing military ordnance both old and new decrepit blue buses that are actually used to ferry passengers to the departure lounge at the airport. On I went to pass mostly ethnic Tajik gentlemen, wearing Massoud hats, highly streetwise young eight year old boys, offering me phone cards, thirty something guys offering taxi rides (possibly to your next kidnapping) and anything else I could (or could not) want for a few bucks.
Adam, the guy I was to replace was awaiting me outside the meet and greet area, with our driver in a slightly haggard, bashed up looking Toyota Surf. Bags went into the back as we emerged into the traffic on to Route White, the main straight road out of the Airport, dropping down to the Massoud Roundabout. The driver with us that morning had a long, squared off, black, fluffy beard and looked distinctly Pashtun (his brother it was to later transpire had Taliban connections) although he certainly appeared quiet and humble, as Adam gave me an introduction to the country.
No sooner had we left the airport gates Adam piped up with, “This route occasionally has incidents”; which unfortunately, came to fruition once again two months later when an Italian military callsign was hit by a suicide bomber, killing five and injuring scores of others.
Five minutes later, we inched past the Ministry for Women, with its hard masculine appearance. It didn’t appear to be very welcoming to anybody; least of all ladies.
Adam once again chimed in with, “this place was frequently smacked by the Taliban. The Taliban don’t seem to like women very much.”
To digress for a moment, I will only comment that while there is truth in that statement, there have been many misrepresentations of this issue in the west. My experience from my time in Afghanistan was that although there was never an official policy of non-education of girls, individual commanders in regions took matters into their own hands and blocked education to females. It was never an official policy (like the decision to blow up the Buddhas of Bamyan was never an official policy) as I understand it, and having met and liaised with local women in the ministries, I am of the opinion that Afghan’ ladies’ know what they have to do, and are in the process of securing themselves better rights and that they will do this in their own way, without western interference and without being patronised by western feminists.
Eventually, after having passed about a dozen heavily fortified locations on a slow moving journey averaging fifteen mph in the overcrowded Kabul Road network. Noticeable was an assortment of traffic police, Afghan National Police in their staid old uniforms performing traffic control at intersections and roundabouts and sophisticated looking, sun-glass wearing American troops. the forty degree dry heat, smouldered around our vehicle as we inched between two secure gates into an airlock area, while two bearded Afghan men, surrounded our vehicle, more in protection of us, while another skirted around the car, with a mirror attached to a long handle, looking for under vehicle bombs that may have been attached to our car. Once that was complete, we entered into the small, but semi-impressive courtyard of the villa that was to become my home for the next fifteen months.
The first week to ten days in the country involved rapidly acclimatising to a number of factors, not least the IT systems that I was to use to manage the risk, as well as run a small, mini-operations room in the event of major incidents throughout the city, where I was to base myself when I wasn’t running around the city. Learning the dynamics of the insurgency came to me naturally, as essentially, my role involved pattern recognition in all facets of political as well as criminal violence, both being intertwined.
I was amazed to see the number and level of clients that we had on our books. I had been recruited to handle the risk management and information handling requirements for the Ministry of Mines; but when I arrived, I was advised that we had four foreign embassies to whom I would provide support, in addition to a leading accountancy firm and a team of engineers’ working in the beautiful Kunduz area in the north on an irrigation project. The learning curve was steep, and it wasn’t long before prepping briefing packs, and in-depth reports became intermingled with ground tasks of protecting senior officials that were in country to monitor the elections on behalf of the United Nations and the European Union. On one of these tasks, we were caught in heavy traffic and I was in the second vehicle of a three vehicle convoy, semi-overt in armoured Toyota Land Cruisers when a text message landed on my phone, advising the following; ‘Suicide Vehicle Borne Improvised Explosive Device (SVBIED) vehicle registration number ***. stalking for a target on Butcher Street – Be advised!’ – We were on Butcher Street! trapped in heavy traffic, fortunately close to our intended destination. An SVBIED stands for a suicide vehicle borne improvised explosive device; basically a truck/car bomb driven by a person who intends to die to make a statement. When one of these detonates, the whole city not only hears it; they feel it through their backsides as well.
Butcher Street was possibly going to be an apt name. I got on the radio to confirm without explicitly stating the wording of the message to the guy that I was working with called Ian that he had got this. He had. We had a simple system that spread throughout the city; so, any significant threat warning would be disseminated not only to operations officers via email, but also via text message. This message had come from another company.
We both agreed to get into the destination compound and off the road asap. Nothing was said at that time to the clients sitting behind us. The Kalashnikov variant weapon tucked in the footwell by my left leg and the pistol under my left leg were not going to serve any purpose in defending against this threat and the main issue was convincing the guards at the back gate to allow us to get back into the compound. (the sign read ‘This is a reserve gate for emergencies only, use the front gate around the corner’) trying to tell them that this was an emergency was futile and it would be alien to a westerner; but stating a truth to say that the attitude amongst many in the Third World is one of, ‘people die every day in these countries. people use dangerous roads all the time littered with IEDs because they are the quickest way to arrive where they want to be. If some people die using that road, well, then God Willed it that way.’
You will not be surprised to see that I don’t subscribe to this theory. Amazingly, they still wouldn’t let us in, so we emerged back on to Butcher Street to inch our way around to the front gate entrance. My carefree nature pushed me through that one, even if the tension that engorged my body, roughly between my hips and knees enjoyed the rush as we got into comparative safety. Situations such as these require one to reframe them to a positive. One mnemonic that I use to reframe stuff is M.A.D.E. M stands for meaning – Is the meaning mine, Yes, it is! A is for Angle – What is a really positive angle whereby I could look at this – In this instance, that the client was going to learn that they do need people like us (they do wonder sometimes, believe it or nor!). D is for direction – What else can I look at that will benefit me personally/professionally in this moment, increased bonding with the client that can lead to future business for me individually as clients will become far more intimate and close to you in such situations; and finally, E is Effective – what effective action can I take to dominate the situation or assist with dealing with the situation.
In this case, the detonation didn’t occur; either because the bomber couldn’t score a target quickly enough, or was apprehended (yes, suicide bombers are captured by the police and army, kudos to anybody that can do this, as I would personally just drop them or otherwise work out a way of wrapping somebody up at close range, so that their arms/hands were trapped; thus denying them the opportunity to take unfortunates with them) or the threat warning was a false alarm.
However, you don’t have to wait long for something to go bang in a big way in this elevated six and a half thousand-foot city. It was early one October morning when I was awoken by a thud reverberating through my bed. Something major had happened and it wasn’t an earthquake. Not ten seconds later, my phone was ringing and it was a Danish client asking if I knew what had happened. I unfortunately had to tell him that that nothing had passed my way in the few seconds that had elapsed between the explosion and his call, but that when I did find out anything, he would be the second to know. We confirmed through several sources that it was an isolated attack, as opposed to a series of coordinate actions and that none of our clients were caught in it. As I finally got the complete story some hours later, I started to feel that Kabul was becoming more tense, more the focus of insurgent strikes and that due to the political dynamics, it was where the war would be decided.
The attack had involved the astute, cunning use of a bogus UN marked vehicle, dropping in behind a two vehicle UN convoy as it approached a ministry. The bogus vehicle therefore became the third vehicle in the convoy and was waved through by the security guard who clearly thought that this vehicle was number three in a cleared, registered move.
This came hot on the heels of an attack that was too close to home for comfort. A month before, we had endured a major assault on a guest house only four hundred metres from our location, arranged by the UN, in which several people had died after an assault by a team of suicide bombers armed with rifles. The modus operandi here was that a team of attackers, most if not all with suicide vests would attack a compound, building, and ministry, usually with a car/truck bomb driven at the gates to blow a hole in the outer perimeter, not only breaching the first line of defence but also disorientating the guard force. The next attacker would look to shoot targets and get into the building where, if challenged, he would detonate himself in order to dispatch targets and then the rest of the team would then clear the building before detonating themselves when they considered it appropriate.
November through to early January 2010 rumbled on with a slow but steady trickle of incidents. I had got to grips with my tasks and realistically, the next goal was to push on and develop my skillset still further by acquiring further avenues of information. I was too soon do this, admittedly with two sources of motivation, but I will admit, the social scene of Kabul was a tad better than I would have believed, prior to my arrival and did bring some laughs.
I remember arriving one evening at a bar called L’Atmosphere which was an establishment set up by French Non-Governmental Organisation members for socialising and letting their hair down. That particularly Thursday evening, I and two other guys with whom I worked, arrived slightly behind schedule to join in with the festivities. The music was booming away, small cans of beer at the price of six dollars a pop were being liberally consumed, and consequently the shaking under our legs was only registered by the small number of us who weren’t inebriated. This was basically an earthquake measuring 6.2 on the Richter scale with the epicentre approximately a hundred and fifty miles away. It was highly amusing seeing people dancing away totally oblivious as the chairs, tables and light shades wobbled slightly.
There were several other bars and restaurants that we frequented just to escape the tension, including two magnificent Lebanese establishments, and a bar called the Gandamak Lodge which I was reliably informed was part owned by a UK cameraman who had been privy to an interview with Osama Bin Laden during the nineteen eighties.
Entering the Gandamak used to involve several security checks inside an ‘airlocked’ no-man’s land area, with weapons left in secure cabinets in the area.
Thereafter, coupons to buy drinks had to be bought from an armed security guard before entering the bar, as money was never exchanged inside the bar. Due to the heavy, at times, wild west nature of the Gandamak, the barman kept a rifle and pistol tucked away ready to deploy should it be necessary. Not just in case of insurgent attack, but also to deal with patrons who had smuggled weapons in, thinking that there might be gunslingers in the bar, looking to settle scores.
Xe services (formerly known as Blackwater) had some complete thugs that were bad for this sort of thing and it was always unfortunate that this hostile environmental work, staffed mostly by people who wanted to keep people safe, offered a different work experience from the majority and also allowed them to earn some good money – was blighted by some sociopathic lunatics spoiling for a row.
Christmas 2009 came and went, and I was feeling more secure in my position but as always, that slight tension always hung around my legs, keeping me on guard against everything and everybody. The New Year and early 2010 period were to see a rapid acceleration in my learning curve that pushed me to the limit in more ways than one.
One of these was to give an Afghanistan brief to the incoming Australian Ambassador. It was realistically to be anywhere between twenty-five and forty-five minutes, was detailed and was intended to give an insight into the country. I was given nothing more. Great! was my initial thought; a task that could make or break a contract and I had no real idea of what he knew prior to coming here. I didn’t know whether he wanted political stuff; was he already aware of the situation in the region, being a diplomat; or was there an interest in the military aspects of the operations. What subjects should the briefing cover? I wanted to know.
None of the Australian contingent knew, nor could they find out, and none of our lot knew. I decided that I would talk about everything, and then gauge his reaction by his eye movement or other visual cues, like body language, as I pushed through each section; and if anything appeared to be missing the mark of his interest, I would skim through it to the next section and then re-assess. The brief took about an hour with questions and was well received or so the Aussie Ops Manager who organised it told me afterwards; so, I was extremely content (and relieved) with that. One final point that didn’t hinder me although I could have done without it, was that the Number Two for our entire Afghan’ operation came with me to the Australian compound and sat at the back as I gave the talk. You can imagine my thoughts!
7. Meet the Haqqanis
My thirty-fourth birthday passed in mid-January 2010. The weather was bitingly cold and due to the incessant pollution, I’d still been unable to shake-off a cold that I’d caught on my return flight into Kabul in mid-December. The fact that twenty-three percent of the air in the city was composed of human faeces may have been part of the problem, who knows; but what I did know was that a drive around the city of an evening, particularly in winter, revealed a low level fog that German scientific reporting estimated reduced one’s life by one year, for every five years spent within the city. I’d been in country for about five months, so by that reckoning, I’d lost one month of life – Not good. I’d never been heavily into the Green Party’s preachings, but I was starting to learn the value of a quality, healthy environment with pure, clean air and my views were changing slightly in that regard.
