Battlefield Tourist

Tonight I'm heading I'm heading to a base called Salerno, near Khowst, in Paktika Province. If there's a place where the propensity of danger is real, it's in this area. Realize, though: The original documentary idea was called "Outpost Khowst". So in essence, in two days, enshallah (God willing), I'll have achieved my goal. Everything after that is icing on the cake.
This morning also marked a milestone: After four days of heavy fighting, in the worst bout of sickness ever, I was finally able to "drop the kids of at the pool", and it was good. So as it turns out, the few days off bed rest I just took worked out well. Just in time to head to the field.
So how this works is simple: You get to Bagram by 1800. Your escort picks you up and takes you to your barracks. He then offers to take you to chow. After that, you're virtually under "house arrest". This is where the pain starts because last time our gear was packed three times and we had eight flights cancelled. It was a long two days.
According to the army, there have been no flights to Salerno until today. I find that hard to believe. All I can do is ask around when I get there. Why tis is important is because I was scheduled to come here the same day they announced Pat Tillman was killed. By coincidence, I was in position to possibly be involved in the memorial service at his FOB (Forward Operating Base), which is where I'm going.
So the conspiracy theorist in me says: A. I was bumped for somebody else or B. They didn't want it covered.
This gets to the root of issues I've had since I got here. If "A" is true, professionally, it's s***. As noted, I've noted many instances of media bias. So my conspiracy is not so far fetched. If "B" is true, that sucks too. I am bothered by Bush's censorship of the press when it comes to showing the flag draped coffins. I agree that the images are not ones that make you popular, but they are the consequence of your actions and it's important to see both sides. Now if neither A or B is right, then it doesn't matter and the point is, "Just Think".

Like I told Heidi: Much of the reason for this blog is to show the rollercoaster one may expect when going through such a drastic change. Yesterday would qualify as a high peak and a deep valley.
After writing my blog, I staggered home and was still sick as could be. I kept taking my medicine and thought about the previous two days. The day before I got a quick, impromptu interview with thee U.S. Ambassador to Afghanistan Dr. Khalilzad. The last time I saw anything remotely near him was on the Turkish-Iraqi border last year. He was special envoy for that conflict too. I got pictures of his motorcade speeding by.
Just before wrote by "blog of despair", I did a press conference with the Army and got to meet the very fine Laura Logan. Nice lady from what I can tell, but needs to cover up some in this culture.
My first day or so, I wore a t-shirt and shorts in public. Abdullah took me aside and pretty much told me I need to respect the local customs. After that I went outside and walked a few blocks and realized no one, not a one person wore shorts, VERY few wore short sleeves, and even less wore baseball hats. That's 90% of my daily fashion.
We have this picture of Laura Logan laying in the grass talking to a soldier. She's in shorts and you can see a majority of President's Karzai's bodyguards just staring away. Pretty funny.
Anyway... after making it to the internet cafe, I got home just in time to start a day long deluge. Fourth in a row and worst to date. Absolutely insane event. It was about that timed Ahmad called and said there was a press conference with Karzai.
I was now going through 15 minutes cycles and decided I was taking the day off. I handed the football off to Kamaal and went to my room.
I then realized that I had worked 36 straight days, including a full week's worth in Istanbul, and perhaps since my health was so poor, I needed a few days off. Relatively off that is. I was able to clean and organize my part of the room I share with Ahmad. I finished a ton of work, clearing my mind. Thanks to some good mixed cd's from Chris Crap, I was able to regain my sanity. Just enough to realize
that this day reminds me of another time that my mother sometimes likes to remind me about.

In 1984 at the ripe old age of 16, I went to Hawaii to pick pineapples for six months. I recall calling home, boo-hooing about wanting to come home. In essence I was homesick. I ended up sticking it out and when I look back at it, am so thankful I did because the experience was so valuable.

My boss, Omer told me when he hired me, "...to look at this in the long term." I thought to myself then, "It's going to take some time to get used to". If the company comes through soon with some of the things we need to be successful, I can see looking at the things differently.

Sgt. Frank Magni from Philadelphia. He was the guy that escorted me to Ghazni. The day I first met him, he spent it chewing a cigar, just like Telli Savalis in "Kelly's Hero's". He wore shades and had that "east coast cool guy look". After that day, I never saw him in the same light again. That image disappeard as his true funny guy nature came out. We had a good week. Anyway, Magni just got in country and knows he's here for the long run. He says, "I look at it like a marathon, not a sprint".

Other than finally getting my house in order, I'm trying to get my health back for my upcoming mission. Yesterday as I organized, I found a spiral notebook that I used in Honduras. I looked through it to make sure I wasn't throwing away important notes. As I went to throw it away, I remembered that one of the coolest things to give a kid in a place like this, is a means to write or draw.
So I found a pencil, and in my pajamas, waled out of our iron gated compound onto the dusty street where two taxi guys were arguing over the fender bender. In the crowd was a boy trying to get a better view. As an adult shooed him away, I tapped his shoulder. When he turned around I handed him the book and pencil, which he hesitantly took, looking at it as if he were confused. As I went to go back into the the compound, Ii looked back and waved. The kid still looked confuse, but nodded in approval. I couldn't help wonder if I had just sparked something in him.

With that said, I have woken this morning feeling better, not great, physically. Mentally, was feeling much better in understanding how lucky I am to be here, and that I need to make the best of it to make it worth the while.

It's barely been a month and already I know that I am not going to continue with this company. Some of it has to do with my wife, but the majority has to do with the lack of support offered here in such brutal conditions. I have no car, no phone, and no internet. I'm expected to pay for all of this and I simply refuse.
I've turned many excellent stories, but they don't sell, making this venture not worth the money. All this is, is another good paying internship and nothing more. At 36, I'm tired of internships. It's time to stabilize my life and begin to plan a family, something that I can't do under the current circumstances.
I have quite writing my news director because he fails to write back. None of the needs I've expressed have been addressed and it's clear to me that I add nothing to this company in the way they were expecting when they hired me.
There's this huge expectation that I get video of fighting here in Afghanistan, but people in the high places fail to realize that this war is not your typical war. It's not like Iraq where you can get that type of video on a daily basis. Here, the army controls who goes where and if you're not one of the pet networks, you don't get to go where you need. Even if you get where you need, there's barely a chance of getting the desired video. Add that to my major health problems and relatively poor pay, and my decision is already made. The only way my mind will change at this point, is if they offer me a substantial raise. Even then, it depends on my offers in the states.
I suppose that being out here in this type of job takes a certain breed. I have always thought that I am from that breed. Maybe I am, but it feels like I'm not. Being away from Heidi is killing me and that is one of those things you cannot think about much in order to be successful.
It's probably best this way. At the worst, I will have some incredible experience that will stay with me forever. Ironically, that's the best I can get out of this as well.
I have to ask myself, "Is it worth it?" and "Am I happy?". So far, the answer is "no".
As for missions: The earliest is Thursday to a base called "Salerno" which is near Pakistan. After that, I slated to join up with the Marines in Kandahr. We'll see how it goes. I need the extra time to heal. I'm still sick.

Today is one of those days that you wish you didn't wake up. I got up early as usual and headed straight to the internet cafe by 7am. The killing of NFL'r Patrick Tillman broke the night before and like most assignment desks, our desk wanted impossible things: Shots of the coffin, interviews, etc... It's amazing what the people in the main office think can be accomplished, whether here or in the states.
Regardless, Ahmed and I worked late trying to fulfill the requests, to know avail.
For whatever reason, the boiling point in the house reached a new level after this. On the way back from the internet cafe, everyone but me started to argue. Not knowing the language, I have no idea what it was about.
Personally, I was trying to convince IHA to sell live hits of me reporting the death of Tillman and was in a hurry to get back. I jumped out of the car and apparently "slammed" the car door. This prompted Erdell to get out of the car and start yelling about me in Turkish. This just escalated inside and Erdel ended up pushing Ahmet around a few times, then me. That has, and never will be a good thing, so he got pushed back. Things almost came to blows, bosses got called and the night sucked. In sign language I told him if he ever touched me again, we'd be brawling. Obviously tis is no way to cooperate as a team. The boss in Turkey handed out warnings and we all kissed and made up. Unfortunately, the tension is still in the air. I still haven't figured it out, but there appears to be a major jealousy factor going on. Perhaps now that things nearly got out of hand, things may start to cool down.
On the way to the cafe, I realized I was getting sick. I got there and there still wasn't much info out there, so I came back to the house and get ready for the press conference that is normally scheduled for Saturday.
Suprisingly, they actually named Tillman in the release and they took some questions on it. Very sad this guy. This guy left a multi-million dollar career, and he is killed in action. Only one word comes to my mind: Patriot.
Turns out, I'm scheduled to go to the very area he was killed today or Sunday. At the press conference, Major Moon said I was heading to Salerno (yesterday it was Khowst). Regardless, the area is dangerous and we'll see how it goes.
In the meantime, I'm a sick as I've been here. Last time it was pain with fluid trouble, this time I feel sick and can't hold any water. I've rested most of the day, but still feel awful as I write.

Our final mission in Ghazni was cancelled, so we decided to leave a day early. Apparently the previous week, the battalion we were with nabbed the #2 and #3 guys from a cell of local terrorists. This in turn put pressure on the #1, who was a mullah, and he came and turned himself in. From that point on, this guy started to "sing like a bird", according to the Colonel. So the plan was scrapped to raid the intended compounds.
The new plan is simple: The captured Taliban say there are two separate factions working in the Ghazni area. The captured trio have been providing excellent intell about the rival group. So the army is going to squeeze what they can out of them. When the info is enough, the army will go after the rest of the first group. In effect getting both major groups in the area at the same time.
So with the mission scrapped, we grabbed a CH-47 to Bagram. Remarkably, for the first time since I've been here, everything ran on time. Probably because a general was with us plus two of the Taliban prisoners.
When we got to Bagram, Ahmed was waiting to pick us up. We gave the Knight-Ridder photographer (Tom) a ride back into Kabul. Just spent a week with this guy and we was cool as hell. Actually going to miss him. Apparently he is about to get sent to Iraq. Can only wish him luck.
As soon as we got to Kabul, we had breaking news, so there was no chance to even put my gear down. We race off to an area in the center of town where ISAF and government forces have the streets blocked. Turns out there's a bomb being defused. For whatever reason, the iSAF guy in charge (a Norwegian, wouldn't let us take pictures. He claimed the tech working the bomb didn't want his picture on TV for his wife's sake. I say it was a crap excuse).
Ahmed and I decided to approach from across the river to get the shot. So we moved through the slums, parked the car and took off on foot. This place is so dirty, you can hardly believe it. People literally just stop and go to the bathroom wherever they please. Everywhere is mud mixed with feces and urine; the smell is horrible.
We make it opposite the bomb disposal team using trucks as cover. We set up and get the shot. While Ahmed is shooting, I'm scouting for better spots. The looks I got this day were a first. Literally, people standing a foot from me, just staring in disbelief. I wasn't scared, but I could tell they were absolutely confounded by my presence. I just say "salaam ailikuem" and ignore it. All the while staying aware of what is around me and what is approaching me.
Finally the Canadians see us and turn their flood lights on so we can't shoot anymore. Too late. We have the exclusive and we take off to feed it in.
Turns out that four men were arrested earlier, one with the bomb. It had been an ongoing "sting" investigation that later in the night would lead to the arrests of 13 more suspected terrorists staying at a known leader's home. Still bothers me that ISAF hinders our job. It's difficult to show the world the good things ISAF is doing for security when they themselves won't let us do our job.
Now that I'm back, I start cranking out stories I'd been putting together all week. It's during this time that I realize I am not the outsider. In fact, there is a serious rift in the house that has nothing to do with me, sort of.
Apparently Ahmed and Nadir have worked together for two years and the other three are relatively new; getting here a month before me. These are the two factions in the house. Ahmed obviously lines me up on his side, which is my preference. The other group sleeps late, gets little work done and they shop like women. This is all getting to Ahmed and the rift is very noticeable.
I clearly have an "in" with the army, which is also making the others a bit jealous. That is why I'm here in the first place, so no worries from me. I already have another mission lined up for a few days which prompted Kammal to say, "You are a good reporter". It was a compliment, but said with a jealous twang.
Major Moon has given me the option to go to Paktika Province near Pakistan, to the firebase at Khost. This is where the current action is and is probably the most dangerous place for US soldiers in the country. This is the place I've been fighting to get to for a month. Unfortunately, the decision is not easy. I am told I can either go to Khost (where others are and have been for some time), or I can wait a few weeks to embed with the marines that are preparing for an offensive in Kandahar and Urzugan Provinces. Tough decision. After complaining about not getting to Paktika Province, I find myself in the position of actually turning the mission down in hopes I can embed with the marines. Decisions, decisions.

Right now I'm a bit short on time, so I'll drop you a book I wrote on the plane as I landed in Afghanistan for the first time. The reason I just thought of this is because today, the song once again, is stuck in my mind.


As I leave from Istanbul, you really do marvel at how big the city is. I've heard 13 million. I've also heard 16 million. Whichever it is, it's big. Coming in nine days earlier,
I got my first idea of the size of this great city during the day. The metro area went on forever it seemed. Leaving on the redeye out, it looked even bigger.

"...with a beautiful wife, and beautiful house..."

Leaving your family for a long period of time is always difficult, even if you are only married. Regardless, it's tough. In a way though, it's satisfying. It really gives me the feeling in my heart of exactly how much I truly love Heidi.
I would listen to Heidi on the radio long before I ever met her. Driving around the area as a local TV news photographer, when Heidi came on the radio, I'd tell the reporter to quiet and then I'd turn up the radio just to here her speak.
I remember many times thinking, and openly saying, "If that woman is half as good looking as she sounds, I'm going to marry her." I could just tell that this "rock ' roll chic" just had to be as cool as they come. Needless to say, mutual friends help spread the word, she ended up asking me out, and I ended up asking her to marry me six months later. That was almost five years ago.

...and you may find yourself on the other side of the world...

This is one of my favorite songs all of times. "Letting the Days go By" by the Talking heads. Back when this came out in the late 70's, my friend Courtney (a guy) and I would listen to this tape all the time. Can't remember the specific class, but I do remember the specific room. I remember him holding the cassette, "Songs About Food and Buildings".
The mosaic cover still stuck in my mind. And now as I fly east over Turkey heading toward Central Asia, the song pops into my head.

...and I ask myself, how did I get here?

I'm pretty sure it all started when I was young, infatuated with toy soldiers, war movies, and "playing guns" with my brother and best friend, Pat. From there, if I had any educational interest back then, I was interested in history. 90% of that interest was in World War II. I'm not sure why, maybe because of my late grandfather. He fought for three years in the war. Guadalcanal, Bouganville, and at Cebu on the Phillipines. Whatever it was, I knew (and still know) just about every picture or film ever published on the subject. All fronts. I just loved the hell out of World War II. Think I was captivated by the violence and the death. That's something I can't explain.
I remember visiting my middle school many years after graduating. I went to the library and in the middle back, lower shelf, in the same spot, were my favorite books. Wouldn't you know, in every one of them, the same check out card with my name owning at least 50%. Some closer to 80%. Obsessed.
It didn't take long after high school to enlist in the marines. Afterall, President Reagan sure had me thinking the commies were coming up through Central America while he busted balls taking down the wall.
At that time I was just 17, so I had to get my parents to authorize it. I have no doubt in my mind that they did not want to sign that paper. they did anyway and I was off to San Diego. Being from Keego Harbor, Michigan, I had no idea why San Diego and not Parris Island, but no matter, half my platoon was from Detroit. We all went west together.
I joined the Corps "open contract", which meant, or so I thought, Infantry. I was in great shape from years of soccer, motivated, and I wanted to kill commies. Of course you can imagine my dissapointment when that magic day came when Sgt. Francisco (who would later star as the drill instructor in a reality TV show) read off my job title: "Tate! 4034! You're going to Quantico!". Quantico sounded cool, but when he then said, "You're a computer operator." I almost puked. I just went through three months of hell and I'm a FUCKING COMPUTER OPERATOR! In 1985, computers were just up and coming. I didn't miss the beginning of the era, but it was new enough that I really didn't give a shit.
I tried everything to get out of that job. I looked for ways to get to jump school, dive school, I even remember asking if there were marines in Antartica.
The closest I could come was getting to tag along with my best bro, Kim (another guy), who was good enough to be a range instructor. Those are the guys with the pith helmets that teach you to kill at 500m. They were in charge of training the office marines, like me, once a year for two weeks. They were the ones that attacked your bivouac with tear gas in the middle of the night in mock assaults of your positions. Screw that, I wanted to be one of them. So the Sergeant in charge agreed to let me be an "an aggressor" with his team every Thursday night.
Next I started formally requesting to join the Marine Security Guards. These were the guys that guarded the nukes on ships and protected U.S. Embassies. Request after request denied. They said my job was too "critical" and they couldn't justify letting me leave. It wasn't long after the third denial from my company commander that I left my beloved Corps. My dreams of retiring at 37 just took a dramatic swing.

...once in a lifetime...

More than 10 years later, after college and some fun, I ended up getting a lucky break at a local medium sized TV station in Roanoke, Va., and quickly worked up to being a "one man band". That's the poor guy or gal that gets paid next to crap for not only being the photographer, but the reporter, the editor, the producer, the assistant assignment editor, and the one with the least respect among the reporters. The good thing though, I learned everything fast and I accelerated at it.
It was about this time that I really started to learn about a photographer whom I remembered about from years before, during Gulf War I. Her pictures would change the world, and I started realizing how awesome that was. She ventured into the mountains of Northern Iraq to bring the world images of starving Kurds. On the run and massed by the thousands in the frozen mountains. All running, from what they felt, was imminent death at the hands of Sadaam Hussein. The US government provoked a rebellion and failed to support it. Tens of thousands would die in the reprisal. Even more displaced to unbearable living conditions, and XX woke the world up. Her images stirred the world to action that would inevitably lead to humanitarian relief that saved thousands as the US Army and others moved in. Interesting way to show the world you "care". Now, I already read and watched more news than most small towns, so my destiny began to dramatically shift again as I decided to mix my four passions and dreams: History, news, photography, and travel.
It was also about this time, 1996, that I had grown to hate the sensationalized view of local news. I was sick of a machine that fed on creating misery. We would sit in a conference room and decide whose story was "better" than others. In affect deciding whose life we were going to ruin that day or whose misery we were going to exploit. On a local level, there is just not enough valid news to fill anymore than 10 minutes at six o'clock on most days.. That meant hours of what I call "made up news". Call it what you want.
So I left "the business" and tried to fend for myself. I decided to do high quality, consumer grade (oxymoron?) production work while pursuing the dissemination of stories that I felt merited a deeper scrutiny. Stories like HIV in Africa and the Aral Sea Disaster. I wanted to make a difference and in a world this big, that's a tough task. For me though, these stories were worldwide and everything, at least my vision, was getting clearer.
I followed a humanitarian medical brigade to Honduras and met a wonderful woman who saves thousands through her programs, Sister Maria Rosa Leggoll. Her story could inspire. That, "to me" was journalism. In the same vein as XX and the thousands of war journalists that had for years educated me, I was starting to feel a life passion.

"...same as it ever was..."

The following year, war was once again breaking out in Iraq, and this time the situation looked to be the same. Now I was the one who wanted to do what was done ten years before. So I packed my bags and headed to the border of Iraq and Turkey. I figured everyone else would follow the war, I would follow the refugees. History is a learning process and if you can't learn from history, it's a missed opportunity that many times has grave consequences.
The war came, but the refugees didn't. Good news as a humanitarian, bad news for a guy wanting to do a documentary. That's when I knew I was a different type of journalist: I didn't care. I was glad there was "no news". To have just been a witness to history. I got to explore a culture, breathe the air, and take an exciting risk. I couldn't lose. No documentary, but I was educated beyond description. Money well spent and I was still alive. My calling was loud and clear.

"Letting the days go by..."

Afghanistan, March 31st, 2004

Flying into Kabul was definatly different then anything I have ever expierienced. Not in an incredible type of way, but in a way that is more like a major culture shock kind of way.
first, the terrain coming in was incredible. From 30,000 feet it was mile after mile of brown nothing with a smattering of mud and brick structures lodged in between high, snow capped mountains. There also is absolutely no doubt that there's been a war here for more than 20 years. "Kabul International" is barely an airport. Even though the airport is open, the first thing you notice is dozens of men sweeping for mines. That gives you a quick idea of how far the country has to go.
I was met at the airport by Ahmet. He's Afghani and has been here for IHA more than a year straight. He kind of looks Chinesee, but not. Turns out he speaks 7 languages or so and is as connected in town as it gets. Unfortunately, he had to pick me up in a taxi because the company vehicle is broken.
Hitting the streets of Kabul is an adventure of its own. There a definite sense of progress and peace here, but that tranquility and hope is mixed with sure signs that this is a very dangerous place. AK-47's everywhere. Government soldiers beginning at 18 or so all the way up to old men. Add in the coalition, the UN, all the relief people, taxis, donkey carts, bearded men in strange clothing, etc... you get, well... for an American from Michigan, a little culturally shocked. That doesn't mean I was shocked. Just culturally shocked.
Worst of all is the infamous Afghani dust. I've heard about this stuff. I've heard it's hard to believe until you see it. I can now report that within five minutes of being here, that report is true. It is surely the finest dust I have ever seen as a true environmental characteristic. When you walk, dust flies. Your glasses always seem dirty, and the slightest wind causes a haze to float around that's a mixture of dust and pollution.

Right now I'm a bit short on time, so I'll drop you a book I wrote on the plane as I land in Afghanistan for the first time. The reason I just thought of this is because today, the song once again, is stuck in my mind.

As I leave from Istanbul, you really do marvel at how big the city is. I've heard 13 million. I've also heard 16 million. Whichever it is, it's big. Coming in nine days earlier,
I got my first idea of the size of this great city during the day. The metro area went on forever it seemed. Leaving on the redeye out, it looked even bigger.

"...with a beautiful wife, and beautiful house..."

Leaving your family for a long period of time is always difficult, even if you are only married. Regardless, it's tough. In a way though, it's satisfying. It really gives me the feeling in my heart of exactly how much I truly love Heidi.
I would listen to Heidi on the radio long before I ever met her. Driving around the area as a local TV news photographer, when Heidi came on the radio, I'd tell the reporter to quiet and then I'd turn up the radio just to here her speak.
I remember many times thinking, and openly saying, "If that woman is half as good looking as she sounds, I'm going to marry her." I could just tell that this "rock ' roll chic" just had to be as cool as they come. Needless to say, mutual friends help spread the word, she ended up asking me out, and II ended up asking her to marry me six months later. That was almost five years ago.

...and you may find yourself on the other side of the world...

This is one of my favorite songs all of times. "Once in a Lifetime" by the Talking heads (Thanks Heidi. You know I suck at titles and lyrics!). Back when this came out in the late 70's, my friend Courtney (a guy) and I would listen to this tape all the time. Can't remember the specific class, but I do remember the specific room. I remember him holding the cassette, "Songs About Food and Buildings".
The mosaic cover still stuck in my mind. And now as I fly east over Turkey heading toward Central Asia, the song pops into my head.

...and I ask myself, how did I get here?

I'm pretty sure it all started when I was young, infatuated with toy soldiers, war movies, and "playing guns" with my brother and best friend Pat. From there, if II had any educational interest back then, I was interested in history. 90% of that interest was in World War II. I'm not sure why, maybe because of my late grandfather. He fought for three years in the war. Guadalcanal, Bouganville, and at Cebu on the Phillipines. Whatever it was, I knew (and still know) just about every picture or film ever published on the subject. All fronts. I just loved the hell out of World War II. Think I was captivated by the violence and the death. That's something I can't explain.
I remember visiting my middle school many years after graduating. I went to the library and in the middle back, lower shelf, in the same spot, were my favorite books. Wouldn't you know, in every one of them, the same check out card with my name owning at least 50%. Some closer to 80%. Obsessed.
It didn't take long after high school to enlist in he Marines. Afterall, President Reagan sure had me thinking the commies were coming up through Central America while he busted balls taking down the wall.
At that time I was just 17, so I had to get my parents to authorize it. I have no doubt in my mind that they did not want to sign that paper. they did anyway and I was off to San Diego. Being from Keego Harbor, Michigan, I had no idea why San Diego and not Parris Island, but no matter, half my platoon was from Detroit. We all went west together.
I joined the Corps "open contract", which meant, or so I thought, Infantry. I was in great shape from years of soccer, motivated, and I wanted to kill commies. Of course you can imagine my dissapointment when that magic day came when Sgt. Francisco, who would later star as the drill instructor in a reality TV show, read off my job title, "Tate! 4034! You're going to Quantico!". Quantico sounded cool, but when he then said, "You're a computer operator." I almost puked. I just went through three months of hell and I'm a FUCKING COMPUTER OPERATOR! In 1985, computers were up just up and coming. I didn't miss the beginning of the era, but it was new enough that I really didn't give a shit.
I tried everything to get out of that job. I looked for ways to jump school, dive school, II even remember asking if there were Marines in Antartica.
The closest I could come was getting to tag along with my best bro, Kim (another guy), who was good enough to be a range instructor. Those are the guys with the pith helmets that teach you to kill at 500m. They were in charge of training the office Marines, like me, once a year for two weeks. They were the ones that attacked your bivouac with tear gas in the middle of the night in mock assaults of your positions. Screw that, I wanted to be one of them. So the Sergeant in charge agreed to let me be an "an aggressor" with his team every Thursday night.
Next I started formally requesting to join the Marine Security Guards. These were the guys that guarded the nukes on ships and protected U.S. Embassies. Request after request denied. They said my job was to "critical" and they couldn't justify letting me leave. It wasn't long after the third denial from my company commander that I left the beloved Corps. My dreams of retiring at 37 just took a dramatic swing.

...once in a lifetime...

More than 10 years later, after college and some fun, I ended up getting a lucky break at a local medium sized TV station in Roanoke, Va., and quickly worked up to being a "one man band". That's the poor guy or gal that gets paid next to crap for not only being the photographer, but the reporter, the editor, the producer, the assistant assignment editor, and the one with the least respect among the reporters. The good thing though, I learned everything fast and I accelerated at it.
It was about this time that I really started to learn about a photographer whom I remembered about from years before, during Gulf War I. Her would change the world through pictures, and started realizing how awesome that was. She ventured into the mountains of Northern Iraq to bring the world images of starving Kurds. On the run and massed by the thousands in the frozen mountains. All running, from what they felt, was imminent death at the hands of Sadaam Hussein. The US government provoked a rebellion and failed to support it. Tens of thousands would die in the reprisal. Even more displaced to unbearable living conditions, and XX woke the world up. Her images stirred the world to action that would inevitably lead to humanitarian relief that saved thousands as the UUS Army and others moved in. Interesting way to show the world you "care". Now I already read and watched more news than most small towns, so my destiny began to dramatically shift again as I decided to mix my four passions and dreams, history, news, and photography, and travel.
It was also about this time, 1996, that I had grown to hate the sensationalized view of local news. I was sick of a machine that bred on creating misery. We would sit in a conference room and decide whose story was "better" than others. In affect deciding whose life we were going to ruin that day or whose misery we were going to exploit. On a local level, there is just not enough valid news to fill anymore than 10 minutes at six o'clock on most days.. That meant hours of what I cal "made up news". Call it what you want.
So I left "the business" tried to fend for myself. I decided to do high quality, consumer grade (oxymoron?) production work while pursuing the dissemination of stories that I felt merited a deeper scrutiny. Stories like HIV in Africa and the Aral Sea Disaster. I wanted to make a difference and in a world this big, that's a tough task. For me though, these stories were worldwide and everything, at least my vision, was getting clearer.
I followed a humanitarian medical brigade to Honduras and met a wonderful woman who saves thousands through her programs, Sister Maria Rosa Leggoll. Her story could inspire. That, "to me" was journalism. In the same vein as XX and the thousands of war journalists that had for years educated me, I was starting to feel a life passion.

"...same as it ever was..."

The following year, war was once again breaking in Iraq, and this time the situation looked to be the same. Now I was the one who wanted to do what was done ten years before. So I packed my bags and headed to the border of Iraq and Turkey. I figured everyone else would follow the war, I would follow the refugees. History is a learning process and if you can't learn from history, it's a missed opportunity that many times has grave consequences.
The war came, but the refugees didn't. Good news as a humanitarian, bad news for a guy wanting to do a documentary. That's when I knew I was a different type of journalist: I didn't care. I was glad there was "no news". To have just been a witness to history. I got to explore a culture, breathe the air, and take an excilerating risk. I couldn't lose. No documentary, but I was educated beyond description. Money well spent and I was still alive. My calling was loud and clear.

"Letting the days go by..."

Afghanistan, March 31st, 2004

Flying into Kabul was definatly different then anything I have ever expierienced. Not in an incredible type of way, but in a way that is more like a major culture shock kind of way.
first, the terrain coming in was incredible. From 30,000 feet it was mile after mile of brown nothing with a smattering of mud and brick structures lodged in between high, snow capped mountains. There also is absolutely no doubt that there's been a war here for more than 20 years. "Kabul International" is barely an airport. Even though the airport is open, the first thing you notice is dozens of men sweeping for mines. That gives you a quick idea of how far the country has to go.
I was met at the airport by Ahmet. He's Afghani and has been here for IHA more than a year straight. He kind of looks Chinesee, but not. Turns out he speaks 7 languages or so and is as connected in town as it gets. Unfortunately, he had to pick me up in a taxi because the company vehicle is broken.
Hitting the streets of Kabul is an adventure of its own. There a definite sense of progress and peace here, but that tranquility and hope is mixed with sure signs that this is a very dangerous place. AK-47's everywhere. Government soldiers beginning at 18 or so all the way up to old men. Add in the coalition, the UN, all the relief people, taxiss, donkey carts, bearded men in strange clothing, etc... you get, well... for an American from Michigan, a little culturally shocked. That doesn't mean I was shocked. Just culturally shocked.
Worst of all is the infamous Afghani dust. I've heard about this stuff. I've heard it's hard to believe until you see it. I can now report that within five minutes of being here, that report is true. It is surely the finest dust I have ever seen as a true environmental characteristic. When you walk, dust flies. Your glasses always seem dirty, and the slightest wind causes a haze to float around that's a mixture of dust and pollution.


Ok...the challenge is to find out who photographer XX is. Email me at dtate@iha.com.tr when you do.

What a day. Started early, ended late. Actually went out in force today to recover a weapons cache that was found a few weeks ago. About 70 soldiers in all headed 100km south tyo a place where the "governor" of the province of Ghazni was hiding weapons. After some persuasion, he agreed to give them up.
The weapons were being held at an old Soviet airbase that actually looked like nothing but a desert. There were some burned out vehicles and unexploded artillery shells all over the ground. Inside the one building left on the base was bags of wheat or grain, stacked to the roof. Looked benign enough. In the back part of the building, stacked just as high, was ammo of all types: Anti-tank rounds by the hundreds, more than 75,000 mortar shells, 800 rockets, sauger missles, and of course, mines.
It took the soldiers all day to remove the just the important stuff (things that can easily be made into Improvised Explosive Devices - IED). Three truckloads of stuff. We also went through some old vehicles that were stacked to the hilt with AK-47's and Lee Enfield rifles; most in horrible shape. Suprisingly, we found three US M1 Garand rifles (WWII era) and an old STEN machine gun. The Sten was the type issued to the OSS (very first CIA) during WWII. This thing was just awesome.
Anyway, we took the stuff about 3 km away to an old riverbed, packed it with 500 lbs of C4 explosives and set a 15 minute timer. The explosion was awesome: rockets red glare, bombs bursting in air....
On the way back, the major I was with called in all the details. HQ told him they wanted the M-1's recovered. Earlier I told the major the significance of the Sten machine gun, so we grabbed that as well. I suppose they will end up in someone's collection. Better than rotting in an Afghan locker. Personally, I found an old Soviet canteen with it's cloth case still in good condition, so I added it to my growing collection of war trophies.
All in all, it was a great day of video and I had a good time. Turns out the cache was the second biggest to be recovered from that province, so that worked out well. A lot of stuff the enemy no longer has access to.
The past few days I haven't had a lot of time to write and today is no different. It was just a good day all around and I wanted to let you know that.

Afghanistan is a very barren place. Here the weather can go from the 40's to the 80's in the same day. We are in what they call "120 days of wind". Everyday around 3pm, the wind kicks up in a nasty manner, making life miserable. Most of the houses here are made of clay, very primitive. I doubt things have changed much in hundreds, if not thousands of years.
There is very little green here. What is green is the work of farmers using primitive, but effective irrigation means. The people are generally nice, especially the kids, but you can tell some adults do not like the coalition much.
The terrain itself is mountainous desert. Nothing but rocks and dust as fine as baby powder. It gets into everything. Being dirty here is the norm and something to get used to, particularily in the field.
Well... gotta run.. my time is up.

STORY: ISRAELI JOURNALISTS KICKED OFF UNITED STATES FIREBASE
LOCATION: GHAZNI, AFGHANISTAN
FILED BY: DAVID TATE/IHA - KABUL

Two Israeli journalists who claim to be the first Israeli's using Israeli passports to legally enter Afghanistan have been kicked off a U.S. Forward Operating Base (FOB) in the city of Ghazni, in eastern Afghanistan.
The two men, Shaul Schwartz from Corbis and Yoray Liberman of Channel 2 Israel, were told to leave the base less than 36 hours after their arrival.
The journalists were asked to give up pictures and video of an Afghan detainee that they took early Friday morning.
The men protested a Special Forces officer's request to turn over the material and took their complaint to the base commander Lt. Col. David Paschcal of the U.S. 10th Mountain Division. Lt. Colonel Paschcal promptly told them to leave the base for violating coalition regulations that prohibit the use of images of detainees.
Like all journalists working through the coalition in Afghanistan, the two men had to sign a contract that included a stipulation to refrain from gathering such visual images.
The two men said they entered the country legally, using Israeli passports, and had already visited Herat and Kabul, where they were credentialed, before being assigned to the U.S. base in Ghazni.

Figured these fools wouldn't last long. I'll be suprised if their credentials don't get yanked altogether. I tried to tell them to chill and to respect the contract they signed. They were asses to me in return. In fact, the smaller of the two says to me, "Oh, so you're a good journalist." He was implying that since I followed the rules, my ethics are messed up.
About that time, I roostered up (definition below) and asked, "What do you mean by that?". His reply: "Oh, nothing, just drop it." Of course I persisted, considering he challenged my professionalism, "No, smart ass, you opened your mouth. What do you mean?" No reply. Good choice.
Spent the day watching a meeting between the military and the local Loya Jurga (local candidates for election). It was interesting. They hammered out the same stuff: "We need better water, this fixed, that fixed". The interesting part came when a woman showed up, wwhich was part of the conversation. Everyone said that women would have no obstruction to vote. This is a huge deal here because many do not want women to vote.
Afterward, I interviewed her. I asked her if she was scared. She said she wasn't. I found this odd because there is major oppression of women here and MANY men do not want women to vote. There are even cases of women getting acid thrown in their faces for not covering their face in public. Anyway, she says she isn't scared, then proceeded to put on her blue burkha (traditional outfir that covers a woman head to toe) and she left.

Rooster (to rooster) - adjective- This is a Dave word that means my chest puffed out, like a rooster, to show whomever that I mean business.

Hey everyone.. just wanted to say, "hi". Things are going fine here. I'm on a firebase in Ghazni right now. Did a long patrol today: Seven hours there and back on a bumpy as hell ride. I can't even sit dow right now my ass hurts so bad. On the way back we got lost in the worst sandstorm I've ever been in. Not a good thing when you're in a minefield. Everything worked out fine, though.
The chopper ride here from Bagram was cool as it gets. We were flying so low the goatss were running and the mountins were above us. Hadn't been on a CH-53 since my Marine days in 1987. Back thenn, they would fly us ouut to the middle of nowhere (in the desert) and make us walk back in. Not the case this time. We landed at the firebase, got and all was well.
Soon after we got to Ghazni, a pair of Israeli "journalists" showed up. Now mind you, Islamic countries do not let Israelis in... somehow, these two clowns got in, with Israeli passports!! They claim they are the first, and I believe that. What I don't believe is their bullcrap story about what they're doing here. They claim to be doing a documentary for Channel 2 (ISRAEL). Whatever. These two clowns look like two freak college kids backpacking through Europe. One guy shows up with a F*** t-shirt on. Neither have bulletproof vests or helmets, and neither had any clue they needed shots and malaria medicine (it's a particularily bad strain here). When I told them they should consider getting protection so they could go on future missions (it's mandatory), they said in a hebrew accent, "Don't you worry about us." I replied with a chuckle, "I'm not worried, you should be worried." So, our "guide" decided it was best he accompany those two fools, which meant I got to go alone on patrol. That was fun. Just hanging with the soldiers with no babysitter!
Last night wasn't such a good thing. Expecting hot weather, I have a ligt sleeping bag. Thing is, Ghazni is at 7,500 feet. It's called a "high desert". I call it a cold desert because last night I froze my ass off. I know I got some sleep somewhere because I dreamed about my old girlfriend, Leigh. In the dream, I crashed her engagement party of something like that. All my friends were there, so I thought it was no big deal. People kept getting angry at me and telling me to leave. Even my brother was there and he's never even met the woman, I don't think. What a strange dream. Even stranger, it would pick up where it left off when I fell asleep again. How nuts. I'm a stranger in a strange land - U2/1981.

Well, as my nature goes, I fired off an email to the PAO (a US Major) and asked some provocative questions about their "embed" system. See, things here are much different then Iraq. Their idea here of an embed, is sticking you in the field for a week like a bunch of tourists, then it's over. According to the DoD, an embed is supposed to be assigned a unit, and that person sticks with that unit for however long it takes. My original plans were to be with a unit for 6-8 weeks. That is the premise I was hired under, and that's the goal I need to attain. Unfortunately, the army has a different idea, and when in Rome....
My problem is, that I know there's at least a SIX man FOX crew, with satellite, at one of the best FOB in the theater. My questioning isn't about being a baby, iit's a matter of fairness. Unfortunately, I am not getting the answers I need, so I've decided to stick with the "honey" approach versus the "vinegar". Regardless, my tactics worked.
The reply to my email was stern, but cordial. At the end, Major Moon said, "On a good note, call me, something came up." So I did. Turns out NBC backed out of a trip to Ghazni, so it was offered, and accepted by me. The problem the PAO is having (and me), is that the MAJOR networks, if they don't get the plum assignment, they back out. I've told the army, I'll take any of them as long as it doesn't screw me for the "plum" assignments. I've been assured it won't, so it's off to Ghazni.
Now Ghazni is a hotbed of Taliban activity. I will not be at all surprised if something interesting happens this week. I'll spend much of my time with the PRT
(Provincial Reconstruction Team). These are the folks in charge of working to rebuild their particular province. Unfortunately, they get shot at and rocketed all the time, so we'll see.
I have to be at Bagram tonight for a chopper ride sometime tomorrow, so this will probably be the last entry for a week or so. Thanks for reading and check back often.
Also, if anyone is interested in contributing to the "Dave & Heidi" fund, feel free to do so at: 510 Highland SW, Roanoke, Va. 24016. This is not tax deductible, but I can guarantee we'll spend the money wisely in Amsterdam for our reuniting vacation!! Also, anyone interested in getting me Apple computer software called, "Garage Band" ($49.95), that would be cool too. Sometimes (most) it gets boring here. Stay fed and be happy as all hell you were born in America.

** Since I wrote this, I've had it out with the Turks. For some reason, they want to laugh at me when I tell them simple things like, "clean the cameras or they will break". I don't like being laughed at, especially right now. So they got an English lesson in the F-word. Glad I'm going to Ghazni.

Ok... today I have "monkey-butt". I really won't elaborate because I'm sure you understand. The "monk" sucks bad, too. Especially in places like Afghanistan.

eeeh-eeeh-eeek!

So I generally wake up every morning at, or about, 6:00am. A full four hours before the nearest Turk. Really no choice. People here are up with the sun and down with the sun. Guess that's the reality of a country at war with serious security issues. Not only does the traffic start, but the rooster in the back thinks, 2:00 am is 6:00 am... so he begins prepping me for 6:00 at 2:00.
Reminds me of when I was a kid. We grew up in a small city within the now overcrowded suburbs of northwest Detroit. We had real weird yard, but for the city, having an acre was rare and cool. Not only did we have an acre of land that ran as an unbuildable strip along the 500+ yard 16th fairway at Pine Lake Country Club, but we had chickens as well.
I remember a few problems arising from these chickens. Actually it was the roosters. I believe we had a few whinny neighbors. Not sure if it was our direct neighbors or the apartment complex beyond that. Regardless, someone didn't like our chickens. Kind of like me not liking the chicken that lives behind us. Never anyone mind this is the most "upscale" it gets in this city.
Things today are still, "just ok". I need to get out into the field. Turns out, the day last week I was told, "no more combat ops for 6 weeks", the Army launches it's newest attack. They have done nothing but lied about things since I got here. I'm not sure what their problem is, but they definitely control the media and they play favorites. No doubt about it. FOX and CNN get what they want, when they want. Never thouhgt I'd have to BEG to go to combat. Seriously, when Geraldo came, the army ferried in all his stuff by helicopter!!! To a FOB (Foward Operating Base). What service. I can't even get a lunch date! Do I hear the U.S. taxpayer saying, "You're welcome, Geraldo!"
Now finally, I need to set it straight... the record, that is. I am not complaining outwardly, nor dissapointed with my situation. What you are reading are my thoughts. Notes that will help me preserve this event while I'm busy thinking about other things. So don't think I didn't expect what is before me. Maybe it's not to the extent that I figured, but I did come prepared. Also, my spelling is poor (internet cafe can get expensive, even here!). I've simply invited you into a part of my mind, so if you choose, you can go on an adventure with me.

Ok, so things are sucking a little right now. I seriously have to look at this as a game to keep my humor up. To shed some light: We are located in a a walled compound that is a regular sized home, except here in Afghanistan, where it is probably "upper-class". I live upstairs with Ahmed, who is currently covering the fighting in Mazar-e-Shareef, leaving me to fend for myself.
The communication gap is quite wide and there is some noticeable frustration on both sides. Not overtly, just subtle hints. I decided my best course of language action would be Farsi. Everyone says Turkish is quite difficult. Everyone also concurs Farsi is "easy". Whatever. It's half Arabic, so I figured it would be benificial regardless. So I take a little in at a time.
I've been turning a story a day. Did about 4 or so on "the good things" the Army does. They do plenty of good here and it is a difficult situation, but I definatly got played. I'm hoping that by taking it like I did, it will get me farther along when the Marines deploy. The major told me no embeds until at least May 1st. So I'll be working angle hard.
Back to my initial thought: The yard is half green half brown. We have a year old dog called something foreign (Kip-cha - I think). We also have a puppy that has appeared since I was in Kandahar. It's a small yellow lab looking thing. Very nice. Very puppy. The first thing I did was pulled four dime-sized ticks off his ears. Nice.
So you walk into our front door and can go straight and left up the stairs to a couple of bedrooms, a SAT room and the bathroom. Hang a quick left through the front door and you can go to the kitchen or the "living room". The furniture is comfy, but the TV is ALL foreign to me. So I suffer with the BBC on my shortwave as my only form of English in it's native form. The rooms are rooms and the beds are small. The bathroom - no toilet seat. No water or electricity during the day either. Everything is actually rather primitive. Not "Survivor"-style, but we are definately "roughing it".
Constant honking and dust; just sitting outside is a bad move while typing this.
You would not believe the pollution and smell. Today it's particularly bad. In fact, I just retreated inside it's so bad. Even in here there's dust everywhere. No signs of fleas or mosquitos yet, but the flies are starting to get bad. Heidi would hate it here for sure. In fact, I'd bet most of you would hate it here.
So my roommates/coworkers: To be honest, I haven't got all their names yet. Still working on that. We'll start with Ahmed. We'll, I've already described him: Pak/Afghan looks central Asia. Speaks a number of languages from the area and is very bright. He definatly loves his his job, but has been here a long while straight and needs a vacation. He's still in Mazar, without me, and that isn't a good thing in my opinion. My job is NOT to be in Kabul, and here I'm trapped. He's off proving he can do it alone, which is fine, but I'm stuck and feeling very on the out. He is "the glue" of this bureau, for sure. Strong leader that wants to be a nomad.
Beyond that is Qu'ban (like Ricky Riccardo saying "Cuban"). 21, calls me Mr. David, Sir, and is pretty much the house gopher. Him and I do some Fasri/English stuff. I'm sure we'll do more once I get my bearings.
I'm actually a little irritated at him: Yesterday we're eating lunch with one of the Turkish engineers, Nadir (short, loud, kick-boxer, and speaks zero english). The two of them are talking and laughing and making the general charrades-type of gestures that made it clear (eventually), that they were trim the puppies ears and whack off its tail.
I'd forgotten about it until Qu'bon says, "Come Mr. Dave...". In his hand is a big knife and a bedpan-like bowl thing with something in it. I declined his persistent offering and I retreated to the house as he grabbed the puppy. Kind of sucked for me because there is no where for me to go to get away from this. A few seconds later I hear the dog squeal and the Turk start laughing. A few minutes later, I see the puppy, intact, and seemingly fine. A few minutes after you hear the puppy squealing away and Nadir laughing away... quite the irony. After a few minutes of this, the puppy comes running toward me, blood all over his face and no tail but a stub. Soon there's blood everywhere and I'm not very happy. They know it but they think it's funny. I can only chalk it up to MAJOR cultural differences.
This morning I'm getting ready to head out with another friend, Abdullah (Abu). He's an Afghan and knows English somewhat. He's trying hard. We are set to cover the release of nine Taliban prisoners (or people thought to be), most after two years imprisonment. So we're walking through the stereo-typical middle eastern slum of yesteryear looking for this release. From waiting forever for Abu to get back with information that was good enough for two taxi rides and a lucky turn later, that we found the place. Of course, it's all breaking up. Abu is starting to get tense because I'm in "relax" mode. I have found that in stressful situations, when you relax and concentrate, you will prevail over hurried and freaking out.
So there's these journalists talking to these guys in some language I have no clue in, and Abu is against the wall watching me. After getting some b-roll (as much as I could before they moved to the stage), I prod Abu into taking the mic and getting some interviews. I swear, it seems as though he was content with what I was doing, but I had no clue what anyone was saying. Crazy morning. I pulled together a story because Abu didn't get any info while I was shooting. Granted: We got the grand slum tour and we were late, but we still came back with no information. So with a couple of facts and a translation of the interviews, I was able to put together a story and send it down. There wasn't a lot of TV crew action, so I'm sure we'll get some sales there. I sent in two stories today, so that makes six plus 15 photos
Unfortunately, I can't even get feedback. The internet cafe is 15 minutes through Crapsville (I'm probably gonna catch Cholera or something) and my computer is worth more than one makes here in 15 years. On top of that, I am one the FEW white boys out here that isn't behind the base walls holding a gun. To make matters worse, the Turks have run all the minutes out of the SAT phone, so I have nothing to get my work done with. I have to admit, this is definitly more difficult than covering a Turkish trial last year in Gaziantep.
Tonight, some good news: As the sun set in the haze of Kabul, I took to the field that needed no Turkish, English, or Farsi. Yes, it was soccer, and I finally had some fun.

AS WE DROVE OUT FOR THE MEDICAL BRIGADE, I WAS OFFERED A SEAT IN A ROMANIAN APC, BUT DECLINED. I DON'T MIND RIDING IN THE BIG TWO-TON TRUCKS. YOU'RE BACK THERE WITH A BUNCH OF YOUNG TO MIDDLE AGED SOLDIERS. LITERALLY THE FIRST SOLDIERS OF A NEW AFGHANISTAN. WE DON'T SPEAK THE SAME LANGUAGE, BUT ARE ABLE TO GET ALONG.
THE ROADS SUCK SO BAD I LIKE TO RIDE STANDING UP. BESIDES, YOU CAN SEE MORE. IT'S ONE OF THOSE RIDES YOU DREAM OF DOING AS A KID; WHERE YOU'RE HOLDING ON FOR DEAR LIFE WHILE HAVING A BALL. LIKE A MIX OF RIDING A BULL AND A SURFBOARD WHILE BEING ABLE TO HOLD YOURSELF UP.
WE PASS VILLAGE AFTER VILLAGE. EVERYONE OF THEM, IT SEEMED, HAD A POPPY PATCH OF SOME SORT. BIG, SMALL, TWO ACRES. MOST DISCREET, BUT STILL THERE. THE ARMY WASN'T INTERESTED IN LETTING US TAKE PICTURES, AND I DIDN'T TRY. WASN'T A BIG DEAL TO ME.
LIKE SIMILAR MEDICAL BRIGADES I'VE BEEN ON, WE LITERALLY DROVE UP TO A VILLAGE, BROKE OUT A GURNY AS A MAKES SHIFT TABLE AND STARTED DISPENSING BASIC REMEDIES FOR BIGGER PROBLEMS.
AS THAT WAS GETTING GOING, WE SAW A CARAVAN OF "COOTCHIES". I DO NOT KNOW THE SPELLING OF THESE PEOPLE, BUT THEY ARE NOMADIC AND VERY TRADITIONAL. THEY ARE ALL ALONG THE ROADS. HERDING ALONG CAMMELS, CHILDREN, SHEEP, WOMEN... THERE'S EVEN DONKEYS PACKED WITH BABY SHEEP; THEIR EARS FLOPPING UP AND DOWN. WHAT A TERRIBLE WAY TO HAVE TO LIVE IN THE WORLD'S BIGGEST MINEFIELD.
THERE'S THIS FLY BORNE DISEASE (STARTS WITH AN "L" AND I'M NOT EVEN GONNA TRY!) RELATED TO LEPERSY THAT EATS THE SKIN AND TURNS IT GREEN AND SCALY. VERY SEVERE CASE OF IT HERE. POOR GIRL.
THE US ARMY DID ALL SORTS OF CHECKS, INCLUDING EYE EXAMS WITH DELIVERABLE GLASSES WITHIN TWO TO THREE WEEKS (SO THEY SAID). THEY EVEN CHECKED A FEW SICK GOATS OUT.
THE ROMANIANS HAD TWO DOCTORS OF THEIR OWN, MOSTLY CHECKING BABIES. MOSTLY THAT'S ALL THAT GOT CHECKED: CHILDREN CARRYING BABIES HALF THEIR SIZE AND OLD MEN. I SAW ONE OLD WOMAN AND NO MEN FROM AGE 14 - 55. EVEN THEN, ALMOST EVERYONE WAS A CHILD. I DID NOTICE A FEW TEEN GIRLS AND WOMEN IN COLORED BHURKAS HUSTLING INTO ONE HUT THAT HAD AN ANA GUARD IN FRONT OF IT. NO DOUBT THE TRADITIONS OF THIS AREA ARE ALIVE AND WELL. I REALLY DON'T THINK THIS IS GOING TO CHANGE MUCH. THIS IS A COMPLETELY DIFFERENT CULTURE THAN ANY I'VE EVER ENCOUNTERED. THIS IS TRULY "THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD".
THE RIDE BACK IN WE WENT BY THE FORMER AL-QUEDA CAMP THAT WAS MADE FAMOUS IN THE NEWS. IT'S THE ONE YOU SEE WHERE TERRORISTS ARE JUMPING OVER OBSTACLES, ETC... WELL, I GOT TO STAND ON THE RUINS OF THE BIGGEST BUILDING AND LOOK OUT OVER IT. QUITE A SITE.
THE CAMP IS MUCH LARGER THAN YOU WOULD EXPECT. IT WAS COMPLETELY BOMBED TO RUIN. THE BUILDING I WAS ON WAS GUTTED AND HAD A HUGE HOLE RIGHT THROUGH IT. VERY IMPRESSIVE SITE. I GOTT A FEW PICTURES, GRABBED THREE BRICKS, AND TOOK OFF FOR THE TRUCK.
AS WE DROVE IN YOU COULD SEE ALL SORTS OF UNEXPLODED ARTILLERY SHELLS, MINES EVERYWHERE, AND WHAT LOOKED TO BE ANCIENT VILLAGES. THEN AGAIN, THEY ARE MADE MUD AND STARW, SO WHO KNOWS. THEY DO LOOK STURDY ENOUGH AND WOULD PROBABLY STAND UP FOREVER IF KEPT UP BY ITS OWNER. THE GUIDE SAYS 300 YEARS. WHO KNOWS.
AS WE HEAD BACK INTO THE AIRPORT, WE PASS A COLUMN OF MARINES HEADING OUT TOWARD WHERE WE SAW ROMANIANS CONDUCTING LIVE FIRE. THERE'S GOING TO BE SOMETHING SOON. THE MARINES ARE REINFORCEMENTS FOR A REASON. THERE'S THE FIRST ELECTIONS EVER GETTING READY TO KICK OFF, NOW SLATED FOR SEPTEMBER. THERE'S ALSO THE U.S. ELECTIONS IN NOVEMBER. THERE'S PROBABLY GREAT PRESSURE TO GET THINGS DONE.
THIS WOULD BBE MMY LAST PATROL IN KANDAHAR. THAT NIGHT WE HIRE A DRIVER WITH A MINI VAN-THING, LOAD UP MUCH OF THE GEAR AND SEND THEM TO KANDAHAR FOR THE NIGHT. AHMED AND I STAY THE NIGHT ANDD MEET THE GUYS IN THE MORNING.

KABUL TO KANDAHAR HIGHWAY APRIL, 9

WE MEET JUST OUTIDE OF KANDAHAR AT 5 AM AND IT'S STILL VERY DARK. THIS IS NOT GOOD IN MY OPINION. THE DARK IS THE TIME OF THE BAD GUYS AND WE ARE DEAD SMACK IN THE MIDDLE OF THE RELIGIOUS CENTRE OF THE FORMER-TALIBAN MOVEMENT. REGARDLESS, WE HEAD OF TOWARD KABUL AND I WAIT FOR THE SUN.
WHEN IT CAME, IT WILL GO DOWN AS ONE OF THE BEST SUNRISES EVER. JUST HOW THE SUN CAME UP OVER THE DESERT AND THE SHAPE OF THE MOUNTAINS; IT WAS VERY COOL.
THE FIRST PART OF HE HIGHWAY IS SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN DONE BY THE JAPANESSE. THE ROAD IS NEARLY UNTOUCHED AND IS IN TERRIBLE CONDITION. THE PARTS WHERE THE INDIAN AND U.S. GOVERNMENT IS FINISHING, IS ALREADY CRACKED ALL TO HELL AND WILL MOST CERTAINLY BE IN TERRIBLE SHAPE RELATIVELY SOON. THE BEST PART OF THE HIGHWAY WAS THE PART THAT WAS DONE BY THE MANY TURKISH COMPANIES HERE. NOT AN OFFICIAL ANALYSIS, JUST WHAT I SAW AND THOUGHT ON A LONG 700 KM ROAD TRIP THROUGH A WARZONE. FORTUNATELY, THE MOST DANGEROUS PART CAME AROUND GHAZNI, WHERE WE NEARLY HIT A BABY CAMEL, THEN WE STOPPED FOR FOOD. IN PLACES LIKE THIS, IIT'S FUN TO GET CULTURED, BUT YOU CAN ALSO GET OTHER THINGS, LIKE BEING AMBUSHED OR GETTING SICK.
THE PLACCE THEY CHOSE OF COURSE HAD KABOBS. DEFINITE STAPLE HERE. I GET SEPERATED FROM THE OTHERS AND AN AFGHAN LEADS ME UP A NARROW ALLEY TO A ROOM. I HAVE TO ADMIT, I WAS A LITTLE NERVOUS. IRONICALLY, I WAS PUT AT EASE WHEN I TURNED AND SAW A YOUNG TEEN PEEKING OUT A WINDOW. HE MADE A MACHINE GUN MOTION, WHICH HAS HAPPENED IN OTHER PLACES I'VE BEEN. ON THIS KID'S FACE, THOUGH, YOU COULD TELL HE WAS FUNNING.
I COME TO A ROOM AT THE END OF THE ALLEY AND IT IS ALL SET TO EAT. EVERYTHING IS ON THE FLOOR AND COMMUNAL. YOU TAKE YOUR SHOES OFF BECAUSE IT IS ALL CARPETED AND SURROUNDED IN PILLOWS. VERY COMFORTABLE. REGARDLESS, I TOOK SOME POST-MEAL ANTIBIOTICS JUST IN CASE.
THE REST OF THE 7 HOUR TRIP WAS UNEVENTFUL. I WAS ABLE TO SEE MORE OF KABUL COMING IN THIS WAY. THE CIITY HAS VERY SMALL BUILDINGS, DIRTY, IT SMELLS, AND PEOPLE ARE EVERYWHERE. THE TRAFFIC IS INCREDIBLY BAD. BY FAR THE WORST PLACE IN MY MEMORY. THE BEST WAY TO DESCRIBE IT IS LIKE BEING ON A GO-KART TRACK EXCEPT YOU HAVE TWO-WAY TRAFFIC. ACTUALLY, ALL-WAY TRAFFIC. IT IS A BRAWL OUT THERE. I WON'T BE DRIVING HERE. I SWEAR, PEOPLE THINK BY HONKING YOUR HORN, A FORCEFIELD GOES UP AROUND THE VEHICLE. THAT'S HOW TTHEY DRIVE. CRAZY.
SO HERE IT IS EASTER SUNDAY. AHMET TURNED AROUND TWO HOURS AFTER WE GOT IN FROM KANDAHAR, AND WENT 8 HOURS THE OTHER WAY TO MAAZ-AR-E-SHARIEF TO SEE IF HE CAN GET ANY VIDEO OF THE FACTIONAL FIGHTING THERE. FOR REASONS I CAN ONLY GUESS, HE LEFT ME. SO HERE I SIT, LISTENING TO EASTER MASS ON BBC WORLD ON MY SHORTWAVE. THE ONLY ENGLISH THING I CAN FIND RIGHT NOW.
I'VE BEEN SENDING OUT A STORY A DAY FROM MY PATROLS IN KANDAHAR, TRYING TO PICK UP FARSI AND TURKISH. NO ONE HERE SPEAKS VERY GOOD ENGLISH, SO NOT ONLY AM I IN AFGHANISTAN, BUT I CAN BARELY UNDERSTAND MY CO-WORKERS. THIS COULD MAKE A GOOD REALITY SHOW. JUST WISH I HAD SUBTITLES.
SO AT THIS POINT, I'M FEELING A BIT ISOLATED. I FEEL LIKE MY ONLY OUTLET HERE IS THE COALITION, WHICH IS FINE. MAJOR BLOOM SAID HE CAN GUARANTEE ME ACCESS AN ANA BASE IN THE NORTH WHERE THE FIGHTING IS. NOT SURE HOW SAFE THAT WOULD BE. ANA PLUS ADVISORS VS. DRUG KINGS AND MILITIAS. THEY CALL IT "GREEN ON GREEN". THAT'S THE ARMY DESCRIPTION. THE U.S./COALITION IS BLUE, ETC... WE'LL SEE. I GUESS ALL I CAN DO IS PREPARE FOR SPOT NEWS AND TRY TO GET EMBEDDED WITH THE TROOPS. THIS BEING EASTER AND ALL, ALL I CAN DO IS WAIT. THERE SURE IS A LOT OF THAT HERE.

So we make it over to the tent to pick up other journalists, and of course, they're doing their own thing and taking their sweet time. I start to process all of this and get a bit agitated. I say something to my handler, escort, babysitter person, and one of these guys come over quizzing me over who I am. Anyone who knows me knows what happened next. It was simple and to the point. Turns out he's a CBS cameraman, not that it matters. For this little encounter, of course I'm given "a talk" and life goes on.
Before that though, we coverred tthe cermonny of the two dead soldiers and the seven wounded. Very interesting as half the pole bearers were ANA and half were US Special Forces.
The next day was a relaxing one if you will. Still plannining on combat ops, just none in the immmediate future. So in the meantime we gout on patrol with the ANA escorting psy ops teams to villages. A week prior, the Romanians did the escort. Now it's the ANA. Showing some progress. By this time I've gone ahead and arranged for the Sat truck and crew to come to Kandahar so we can feed the video quickly. They already made it down the treacherous KKabul-Kandahar highway and would be met at the gate in the morning. It's about this tiime that we're informed we won't be going on any military obs for about three more weeks for a variety of reasons. That same day, we hear that the incredibly hot Laura Logan from 60 Minutes II was on her way here to do something similar. Who says women can't get up in this world. Funny thing is, I hheard the General wasn't overly pleased with her first report. Even more baffling.
The final day we went on a joint US-ANA- Romanian patrol/medical brigade....

Wow... what a week. It was one of those weeks where it was good and bad. Now, much of this is rehash, but this is the first time in a while I've actually had the opportunity to completely get this to speed again.

The first day in country, I watch the ANA and ISAF (Coalition) burn a ton of drugs. Literally... a ton. Drugs here are probably the number one thing that will prevent things from sticking to its course. Drugs will be the root of the next war here.
That night I got a call from Major Moon saying telling me to get ready immediately, I was heading to Kandahar via Bagram Air Base, to observe "ANA/Special Forces combat patrols". So we rush off to Bagram. In my haste and lack of understanding of what was in front of me, I left my laptop and language books. See, I prefer to travel as light as possible. Especially under these conditions.

At Bagram, we spend three nights and two days waiting for a C-130 cargo plane to go to the biggest forward deploying base in the country. Three times, our equipment was loaded and packed on pallets. Three times it was taken off. Eight flights were cancelled or diverted. One time the pilot actually meet the bus AT the plane and told us to turn around. At one point we got on the bus and off the bus FIVE times in 15 minutes (eventually leading to the pilot telling us to turn around). In this same 15 minutes, the plane was broke and five minutes later fixed... only to decide to go to Uzbekistan instead. In all we spent at least 24 hours sitting in chairs with the hope that IF a plane came, you were high enough on the list to catch the flight.
While all this is going on, we can go nowhere but the shower and chow hall, even then, escorted by a MAJOR!! Apparently some journalist messed up and we are now all paying... I guess. At least that's what we thought. By the end of the week, it was clear the Army favors certain American networks over other agencies. Those being FOX and CNN. Even though IHA has had a permanent presence in Kabul since the fall of the Taliban, UNLIKE CNN and FOX.

So we (me, a Reuters stringer, and our babysitters) finally get a flight to Kandahr. The plane is a National Guard C-130, all woman crew, with the supply master being the hottest. We are packed into the plane with ammo, a couple of service members, and a slew of KBR employees (Kellog, Root, and Brown). These guys are all over Afghanistan. Low pay is $70,000 TAX FREE. The guy that cleans the bathroom makes as much as a FULL BIRD COLONEL. 99% of the men and women fighting make LESS THAN THE COOK! Fuzzy numbers? Can you say, "OUR TAXES"???

Kandahar is a different world than what I saw of Kabul. Very dusty. Just like my Marine Corps time at 29 Palms in the Mojave desert. First thing about the place is the smell (you taxi past the sewage pond). The next is a film of dust in your mouth that eventually goes unnoticed after a day or so. They put us in a tent and here, we're allowed to eat, shower, go to the PX.. generally roam around without an escort. Just no pictures and no talking to the service members. No problem.

The base is more relaxed here than Kabul. Security is high, but the lights are on, there's a coffee shop, troops playing volleyball in the night. You get the picture. Food here wasn't too bad, even though I was warned it was poor. In order to email, we needed to go to the PAO office (Public Affairs), and I know these guys were tired of that quick. Seems IHA is lacking in some fundemental resources that pertain to the internet. I'm working on that problem.

So as we wait for our combat ops, we're afforded the opportunity to do some Civil Affairs (CA) stuff. For me as a person, this is a great. As a journalist looking for combat footage, it is bad. I don't mind the trade off. I've always said I'd personally like to do three good to one combat story. Afterall, this war is very low key and the real stories are the rebuilding and elections. Unfortunately, combat footage sells very well.

The first day we head out on a routine patrol that visited three villages. This was just the third day the ANA was pulling security for the Americans, so the story is how the ANA is starting to assume the duties of a real army. It doesn't sound like it, but this is a milestone. The three villages we visit are very small and their main concern ALWAYS water. The coalition has hired contracters for well digging, so the CA teams re-visit 120 different villages in the area to check on their status and needs, make sure the work gets done, and also to garner information about the bad guys. The more villages touched by this program, the better the security around the base in Kandahar. Simple formula.

All three villages wrere growing poppies that we were noty allowed to report or photograph. All three were also given soccer balls, blankets, and a crapload of US/Afghan "information" for the people to distribute. In the first village we all met in a small mud room while the CA major and the village elders talked about their problems. This particular guy also wanted a school. Unfortunately the Coalition doesn't build new schools, just repairs old ones. The other two meetings were the same, just outside.

To understand what you're seeing, MOST homes EVERYWHERE I have been are made of straw and mud. They're mainly surrounded by a high wall. This country looks like it has (generally speaking), as it probably did for the last... who knows how long.

The second day was the day we unloaded the bodies of two KIA. The problem on this day was other journalists. To understand: I'm the type of guy that jumps when they tell you to. I don't want no ripples and I try to play the nice guy. I am quickly learning there needs to be a fine balance here as I watched other journalist get away with stuff left and right. On this day, I had a terrible stomache ache in the morning and was in no mood. Around 5 pm, the Major tells us to get going while me and the Rueters guy are filing a story. Not wanting to cause ripples, I stop in the middle and go. The Reuters guy on the other hand says, "just a minute". I get rushed out the door, Rueters guy files, and I get screwed.

**pick this up tommorow - my version of a cliff hanger- Cya!

Went on my first patrol today. Everything went fine. Mostly with AfghanNational Army guys and Psy Ops. We visited three villages outside in Kandahar. Handed out soccer balls and blankets. They call it a "Hearts and Minds" mission. They cover 120 villages and work six days a weeks. The main concerns are fresh water for these people, that and education. They seem to be grateful for what the Coalition is doing, but still are having fears about security. No one has seen Taliban in the area for a while, which is good. One thing I worry about for the locals is retribution for cooperating with the Coalition.
My SAT truck will be here in the morning so I can start sending out video. That's a relief. Other than being sunburned... everything is working out great.

War came home today. Did a story about 2 ANA soldiers who were killed, seven injured in a mine attack. Pretty somber moment, but it brings the reality of war close. Took pictures of them loading the caskets into the C-130 and the injured getting on as well. They were sent to Kabul to the hospital there. I guess, that's the biggest threat here: Remote mines. We head into the field soon, so the anxiety will take over then. Until then, I'm safe... for now.

In Afghanistan just a day when I'm told I'll be patrolling Kandahar Province with Special Forces and the Afghan National Army. What a break. Almost as cool as burninig a ton of hash the first day here. Not me personally, the Coalition!! After spending three days at Bagram waiting for a flight to Kandahar, we finally got one. Now that we're hear, I'm told we won't be going into the field for a few more days. Right now I'm sick as a dog and it's dusty as hell here. I'd love to write more, but I can't. I'm in too much pain.