(Sorry about the length - I'm no editor...)
Starter: Dubai
The trip didn't begin well. A miserable ride, at miserable o'clock, to a miserable airport - followed by a miserable flight, on a miserable airline, to a miserable city. Sandwiched between the various misery I spilt a fresh cup of coffee all over myself, sat in chocolate (I hope it was chocolate) and wasn't entertained by the in flight entertainment thanks to a dodgy headphone socket.
Upon landing in Dubai things didn't get much better, as we were treated to the very best that customs had to offer, courtesy of our bullet-proof vests being stopped on account of their being a weapon...
On the plus side, I learnt that TND's middle name is Zoltan, and was treated to what I later came to know as a vintage piece of TND anger as he failed to speed up the process. It could have been worse. A local had also been stopped for importing kids' walkie-talkies. Another birthday ruined no doubt...
Surely things couldn't continue in this vein? They didn't. A short cab ride after having our Kevlar confiscated, and we were in the Dubai Hilton, buying swimming shorts (I hadn't thought to bring mine to war) in order to take a swim in the rooftop pool. We celebrated with a beer, before heading down to the bar for more beer and some mini burgers. Nine in total, three apiece, and plenty of ammunition to confuse our waitress.
Already I was fluctuating rapidly between genuine excitement and mild terror at what was in store over the next couple of weeks, largely thanks to the power of the unknown. But I went to bed firmly in the excited camp, thanks to the power of the beer.
Main: Afghanistan
Breakfast was an espresso and a pint of water. Hmmm. Slight hangover, must be the time difference... Food was going to be a problem for the next week or so, but I didn't realise that yet. So I ate a modest McDonalds, as TND and Simon the snapper argued over who was going to finish 4th in the premier league. I got the deciding vote and thus abstained.
Kabul sits in a crater of land surrounded by mountains, This, I noted as we descended into the city. It seemed like a good time to do so, and I did it with subtle yet unashamed gusto. The airport was warm and fairly busy. Now in the hands of the Afghans, an official looking party greeted us getting off the plane. Actually they were here to greet someone else, chalk it up as another disappointment. We took the shuttle bus all of thirty metres to the terminal - these guys are sticklers for the rules - and suddenly were met by a barrage of trolley wielding locals, intent on intercepting our baggage. No such luck. We were out of the main hall fairly quickly, oblivious to the necessary paperwork we had also bypassed that would cause me (and only me) problems on the way out.
We waited outside the airport for our taxi for what seemed like an eternity, but was in reality around 45 minutes. I had a nervous few moments as a man loitered a few metres away fingering a loaded revolver. In hindsight it was my ignorance that allowed this reaction, as the airport is suitably heavily guarded but his genuine disinterest appeared at first quite threatening and he was soon on his way.
Upon the arrival of our car we hauled our baggage the three hundred metres or so out to the car park. Our driver, struggling with the weight of TND's bag eventually accepted the help of a local armed with a trolley, the most incapable looking trolley of a particularly bad bunch, it was like being at Asda. A pretty nervy journey as it wasn't obvious where the airport security ended and the mean streets of Kabul began. My guess is it didn't begin, at least until we were in the car. Though not the one sent for us - that, a hatchback, was far too small for us and all our belongings. And our two drivers. Thus we commandeered a people carrier, re-loaded our various bags, and were on our way. It's easy to forget that behind all the war we were dealing with a regular third world country, and thus we worked to their standards and logic.
The drive to the hotel was odd. I was very aware of our helplessness should a would-be-assassin politely decide to blow himself up nearby, though our vehicle was suitably average looking, not like the four wheel drives that are customarily targeted. I sat quietly on the back seat vainly willing my complexion darker.
Kabul itself is a hideous city. Busy, dusty, devoid of immediately obvious charm, and, one suspects, well-hidden charm too. The streets are strewn with concrete and rubble, no doubt thanks to the war. People and cars move in every direction, children play football on any dusty void, while markets selling junk and food that my western snobbishness would decree inedible litter the roadsides.
Fortunately upon arrival at the hotel I was happy with the levels of security - we had to get through two huge gates, guarded by rifle wielding locals, and an x-ray machine, before even getting into the courtyard, an oasis of calm twenty metres from the entrance. Such fortune was not without its cost - security had indeed been ramped up since a successful attack several months back. When I saw the room bill I understood how they could afford such a swift turnaround.
Our flight out of Kabul was scheduled for the small hours of the morning (all armed forces flights take place at night it would seem) so we booked into a shared room where we could relax for the intervening hours - a twin room, it should be noted, so I received the customary third berth, a camp bed in the corner. The wait was long and fairly boring, watching cricket and trying to sleep.
Our lift arrived at 1am, and suddenly we were embedded. The lateness coupled with my drowsiness gave the encounter a slightly surreal feeling. An American soldier met us in the lobby and took us to the army jeep, which subsequently transferred us back to the airport - this time on the military side.
Driving through the dead of night in Kabul, with nobody around, was a strange contrast to the bustle of earlier on. We took the checkpoint route, through a dozen or so barricades and along deserted concrete lined streets that felt like a huge urban paintballing scene. Once under the wing of the armed forces I felt immediately safer, quite possibly a placebo but there is certainly a comfort that trained fighters bring to the table. Maybe it's the uniforms.
Our aero issues rejoined us at the airport, a fairly suitable place for them to do so. Our flight to Helmand Province had departed some hours earlier so after much deliberation and some TND phone action we instead took the plane to Kandahar, hoping for a connection to Camp Bastion in the morning.
At around 3am we boarded the plane, a huge roaring Hercules, the noise deafening, the lighting green, the earplugs handy and the journey a tired one. An hour or so later we safely touched down and headed to a waiting room with breezeblock décor to be reunited with our luggage and a welcome cup of tea. By now it was gone four and I was shattered. Cue an interrupted 3hr kip that was to be the rule rather than the exception from here on in.
After splashing some water on my face and brushing my teeth at some ungodly hour we took breakfast in the Kan-teen, the fry up only serving to make me feel worse. But there was work to be done, and we were soon in our first briefing, interesting for me but painful for the seasoned pros I was with (understandably so by the time they got on to photographs of their squadron with the queen...) Quite what happened to our speedy departure to Bastion I have no idea.
We were to go on patrol, and soon headed out to meet our vehicles (ours was the big one in the middle which I liked!) It was of course a tight squeeze inside but we were off quickly, with my head poking out the top and not feeling too concerned about it - probably thanks to the firepower on our side.
The patrol started interestingly, as it was all new to me. We slowly meandered through the vast dusty nothing, stopping to check for mines (a laborious and utterly dull process I would not wish to repeat every day) and also to 'socialise' with the local kids, who demanded sweets, pens and a look through my lens. Incidentally the pens are not indicative of their interest in education, more a status symbol - the more pens the better. Either way all this 'action' is nice for the tourist, less so for the journalist.
Unfortunately once the novelty had worn off we still had another five hours to bear, in the blazing heat and cramped surroundings until finally, squashed, shattered and sweaty, we were allowed to return to the base. Cue the obligatory shower, food and brief kip before preparing to finally leave for Helmand and camp Bastion.
Helmand itself is certainly far removed from Kandahar, both geographically and stylistically. Where Kandahar had buildings, Helmand was all about tents. Big, heavy duty, perma-tents, but tents nonetheless. It was also amazingly dusty. There was no way my camera was getting out of here alive, with or without its sweat inducing, focus restricting cover. We arrived in customary darkness, waiting for what seemed like forever for our belongings, finally turning in (in our personal tents-within-industrial-tents) at around 2am.
After an 'ok' night’s sleep we were out for breakfast in the morning, which I ate very little of, before out to spend the day distributing newspapers to the troops. First up were the viking personnel and engineers, the most laddish bunch I had seen so far. Later I made the mistake of calling the Vikings 'Panzas' - I knew full well this was a second World War German tank, but somehow neglected to tell myself this before opening my mouth. TND was not massively impressed, and understandably so.
We also dropped papers off at the hospital (somewhere I'm not keen to return to), ambulance HQ, and NAAFI, where TND found a girl he decreed 'the beauty of Bastion'. He and the snapper Simon would spend the next week or so trying to convince her to do an interview, on the sole grounds that she was attractive. How S*n…
Comically, we weren't actually able to give out any of the papers we were 'giving out' on the grounds that the full batch hadn't yet arrived, so we posed for photos and then took the papers with us to the next venue. All very apologetically of course.
Back at the tent and we met our press office / minder, Alex who would be responsible for us on our 5 day op. He scared me a little (in hindsight this was bravado) and said 'hoofing' lots. Lots and lots and lots. Too much in fact. Way too much.
In the evening I edited two videos and sent them off, which after all the preparation and waiting, I was quite chuffed about really.
Wednesday soon arrived, and with it another opportunity to eat barely any food. From there we hotfooted it over to meet the I.O.D. Mine clearers, who were giving a training course to the new arrivals. Some of this we weren't allowed to video, for security reasons, but I was able to watch a metal detector demonstration, which was certainly the most boring thing I'd seen while out there (actually, I was quite interested, but the video wasn't).
Later I cut that together, but suffered something of a backlash from TND when we realised my editing all these videos together (particularly the patrol one) had created more work for him, and a "waste of time" at that. I apologised but didn't really mean it - I came out to make videos, so videos I shall make!
That evening we met Lt Col Charlie Strickland, who would be leading our operation into a Taliban controlled area. He gave us some background and detail, all pretty scary, but he was very nice which softened the blows a little. After another barely eaten dinner we met more of the marines we would be with – also very nice. Unnerving stuff. Later I went to the NAAFI for some Imodium (!) says all you need to know about the rest of the night, really. I went to bed that evening convinced of my ineptitude for the situation. Always feeling ill, a little sore here and there, can’t eat, can’t stop shitting, and convinced I was going to die. Did I really have the stamina for 24-hour warfare?
I found out soon enough. After cutting together a video from the previous operation, with testimonies from the press officer and Sgt Major (a brilliant chap called Ed), I spent far too long attempting to get it cleared by the Pic, and also send a decent version back to the office. In the end, with 11pm fast approaching, and knowing that I had to get my head down before a 3am start, I gave up, and got into my sleeping bag for a predictably poor night of worry.
To be honest, the next three days went past in something of a blur. We were up at the crack of dawn and the adrenaline kicked in. I thin it’s fair to say it stayed with me until I was back at base, though it certainly fluctuated in its potency. The key facts to emerge are firstly that I survived (the further away I am from the event the more I wonder if I was ever really in THAT much danger – OK, we were shot at, but what are the chances, really..?) Secondly, the operation was a complete success – so much so that we returned two days early, having achieved all objectives.
The word filtered through from intelligence that 150 odd Taliban were killed, quite a horrible thought in many ways, as I was witness to death, though fortunately from afar. The worst injuries sustained by ‘our side’ (!) were a couple of guys who got shot at close quarters – one in the arm, one in the leg/crotch, though both were expected to make a full recovery (though perhaps minus a foreskin in one case – it’s amazing how far some people will go for circumcision!). A Danish soldier managed to bang his head on a tank (when it drove over an IED), and an Afghan Special Forces guy managed to shoot himself in the foot. Literally. Which was possibly as embarrassing as it was painful. The only other injury of note was that TND managed to twist his ankle on a night march, and a few minutes later managed to fall asleep mid-walk. He maintained he fainted, but others claim to have heard snoring. I certainly heard a thud, which was most alarming in the pitch black, where the only noise is dogs barking in neighbouring compounds.
Anyway, I suppose I should mention as best I can what the operation was about. We were witness to the briefing before we went out, where a large map was laid out on the floor of a huge warehouse, and various high-ranking officials took it in turns to lay out the strategy. The essence was that we would land early morning, make our way into the Green Zone, and begin moving through the compounds. Much of the operation depended on what sort of resistance we met, though we would be moving at night, in order to pop up all over the ‘town’ (I suppose it was a town, though obviously there was no high street with WH Smith…) surprising the enemy and ‘creating doubt’ in their minds.
The operation was basically aimed at a show of power – we had no objective to maintain or lock down permanently – that would be left to the rising number of troops in the summer operations.
And so it was that we awaited our flight from the helipad, at around 4am. Ours was one of the last to leave, a positive in my book as with any luck the landing site would be suitably cleared, if indeed that was required, by the time we touched down. My main concern was leaving the chopper and not running directly into the tail rotor blade, which would have had a negative effect on my skull.
We landed in a poppy field, quite blown away by the down force of the chopper. It soon departed, and we were left with a leisurely entrance to battle, moving in single file across the dusty plains and over the river into the Green zone. This point was my first real worry, as we were being shot at as we went – one by one – across the bridge. I should point out at this juncture that though ‘being shot at’ conjures up images of certain death, the Taliban were such a distance away that it was hugely inaccurate fire. That said it was still a terrifying prospect.
Once over the bridge we found a secluded area and waited once more. Between the frantic moving about were plenty of lulls, where it was possible to sit, gather your thoughts, and shoot some pretty shots. (Ish). Unfortunately we had chosen a spot in the firing line (again, far from the action) but upon finding out we promptly moved to a safer location.
From this point on the marines went about their searching of compounds, while we followed close (but not too close) by. We came across a stream almost straight away. No messing about, the way to cross is walk through. Cue lots of wet feet. Fortunately in the first compound, which had already been cleared, I was able to stop for a few minutes, wring out my socks, and compose myself once more. I had to compose myself a fair amount during these three days…
We were able to follow a troop as they cleared a few compounds, kicking down doors and exercising exemplary professionalism in doing so – say what you like about the armed forces, but even a pacifist like me was impressed by the manner in which they carried out this dangerous and unnerving routine.
Many of my subsequent memories are merged into each other, to the point that I don’t recall what happened when, but I shall do my best to recount them anyway! Any downtime we spent in ‘safe’ compounds was time for relaxing, sleep (if possible), eating (if possible), and I was very grateful for the breaks when they came – though was still in the ‘not possible’ phase of any of the above.
Later in the day we were moving between compounds, when shots rang out. It hadn’t occurred to me how much of a sitting duck I was, in the wrong coloured clothing (grey / blue not sandy), midway across a poppy field. Again, the marines’ professionalism was displayed in no uncertain terms as they first spotted some men who were engaging with them, then managed to move us behind the relative safety of a wall, before launching a javelin rocket at their target. It worked, and we were left the relatively simple task of crossing a street and into a separate compound, where a slightly more permanent form of safety beckoned.
At the time this was a pretty scary experience, as I had no idea what to expect. Crossing a road where we may or may not have been shot at, this time from much closer range, was terrifying, though the adrenaline just kicks in as you need it, and there’s nothing to do but what you’re instructed, which makes decision making a hell of a lot easier.
Once this episode was over and we were in the compound it was dinnertime. First I went for an alarmingly potent shit, which I did out back where I had no idea if I was safe. I hid the giant turds under rocks and returned to the shelter, where I tried and failed to eat a chicken chilli.
Soon enough we were on the move again, to another compound at which we were to stay the night. About time too – it had been a 20 hour day on very little sustenance. In relative comfort we were able to get our heads down for a few hours, though in the small hours of the morning it was time to move again, and out onto the dreaded night hike. It’s an utterly terrifying experience. Dogs bark as you pass, you make slow progress as those at the front of the group have to constantly check for bombs, and of course you can see absolutely nothing. You really have to put your faith in those that have night vision goggles, and not stray too far from the person in front (or behind). The constant stopping, waiting, putting down backpacks, picking up backpacks and so on was a drain on both my mental and physical state, but a necessary evil, and one that I was very grateful to be over when, a couple of hours later, we were in a new compound for a few more hours.
Morning came, as inevitably it has a habit of doing, and we were on the move again, but not before I had vomited up my breakfast – the first full meal I had eaten in a week or so. I held down an energy bar instead.
We made our way across more fields, when once again the terrifying click of AK-47 triggers came out of the air. In hindsight this was my worst moment. Ducking down into ditches with heavy backpacks on I felt like a tortoise stuck on its back, slowly, painfully struggling to move in the mud. We managed to get behind a wall, but panic was the order of the day and we could tell from the marines that this was serious. It didn’t help that an army troop, who had neither the training nor the experience of the marines, was with us. A confusing few minutes ended when a plan was hatched, to move back around a further wall and complete another road crossing. It happened very quickly, though the palpable fear was something I hadn’t noticed so acutely, which certainly intensified matters. You’re never more alive than when you’re close to death…
Nevertheless, we were soon across the road, ending up in an old school that had not seen any children for a while. This was to be home for a few hours, and I was grateful for the protection it afforded us, and the chance to compose myself once more. The war was certainly going on nearby, and the guns on the roof of the building were making serious noise. It was an intense environment to be in, and on the occasions that I moved around – into different rooms to get new shots, outside for a wee, etc, I didn’t hang about!
At times it felt like we were under siege in the school, with Taliban all around us, and IEDs being disposed behind, but nevertheless It got to the point that I didn’t want to leave, such was the feeling of safety guaranteed by some may troops with so many guns (not to mention moustaches!) But inevitably a few hours on we were on the move again, across more field in the afternoon Sun and into a further compound where I made a short video about a dog that had had its ears cut off. Quite a surreal experience given the circumstances, but one that I was grateful for!
Another night, another march (the one where TND did his ankle and his reputation some small damage) though before this was a fierce nighttime battle that honestly scared the crap out of me. You can see the tracer bullets in the dark, so you know how close they are. Despite odds heavily stacked in our favour, it got quite hairy as night moved in, especially for those on the roof, in direct line of fire. We were left counting our blessings that nobody got hit – it could have ended very uncomfortably to say the least.
By this point out photographer wanted to go home, and I understood his point of view, though was reluctant to speak out. TND managed to convince him to continue, and with my not being able to make a proper decision on the matter, that was that. To move out at that point would have been tricky anyway, perhaps not even possible. And safety in numbers and all that…
The following morning we were making our way back to the school, passing a crater made by a disposed bomb the previous day. The atmosphere was certainly less intense the second time around, though by no means pleasant. Suddenly though, I was able to eat properly. And boy was I hungry. My first full meal tasted like the best tuna pasta I had ever had. Later I tried to urinate in a bottle, but stage fright took hold and I had to go outside. Nothing much happened for a while, but suddenly a shot came out from one of our sniper rifles behind me. With that, the urine flowed quickly and pleasantly. The good times were back!
The mood was certainly more relaxed today, and we were kept up to date with the plans by the kindly Major, and the Sergeant Major gave us an inspiring pep talk, suggesting that we’d earned the respect of the troops. It had the desired effect, I felt pretty good, and this feeling only got better when news broke that we would depart back to base that night, our objectives met. An almighty firefight wasn’t enough to ruin my mood now.
I made a couple more short videos, one about a bomb factory we had uncovered in one of the schoolrooms, another about a Taliban calendar we had uncovered among the discarded possessions. Suddenly, the rain came down, with great intensity. I felt for the guards left outside in the downpour, but it was a welcome sight in other ways, and the fresh smell it generated was amazing. I felt somewhat purged.
After the downpour I videoed the engineers blow up batteries and the like, not worth taking on the return trip. After a few hours’ kip we were off on our final night march once more. Sadly I did not have the equipment to video any of the night march, certainly my main regret from the trip. And what a march it was too, several kilometres across difficult terrain, losing the man in front, losing the man behind, my back feeling like it would break under the weight of my rucksack, until we were back at the landing site, in our bivvy bags, and getting an hour or so’s shut eye until it was time to leave.
I was exhausted. But hugely relieved. We got into the Chinook and away to safety. There was a great exhale as we left – it was not only the end for us but also many of the troops, whose last operation it was before they were off home. Back at base it was cigars all round, breakfast time too, and time for a well earned rest. Best sleep for a long time, relax – properly. Then to edit…
In all honesty, I’m amazed I got through it. I didn’t thin I’d have the strength – physical or mental, and I came away impressed both with myself and the forces, who do an amazing job in the circumstances, regardless of whether you think it’s a job they should be doing in the first place.
The edit itself was quite satisfying, though I was constantly reminded of what I did wrong, and disappointed in some areas. Hindsight is a wonderful thing though – there was very little chance I would have made any changes if I did it again. There just isn’t time to be effective! It was with immense satisfaction that I got the first video away, and I heard many positive things from the office. For several days my routine was sleep, edit, eat, upload, sleep, edit, etc etc. The food went down better than ever, the earplugs helped me sleep through the noise of the air con unit. Things were good, better than I had dreamt of for the previous few weeks.
And then it was time to leave. Though a little sad, the overwhelming feeling was one of excitement at getting home. Getting back to Kabul went smoothly enough, though it certainly felt war torn waiting outside the military airport for our civilian ride to the hotel. The unlikely possibility of suicide bombers was an acute worry in the dark, but soon enough we were back in safety and preparing for bed.
I blinked twice and suddenly it was 5.30 am and I was getting up, ready to head back to the airport, alone for the first time since meeting TND at Heathrow. I went through a checkpoint that required me to leave the car in the middle of Kabul, which couldn’t have gone by quickly enough. Miserable feeling, but the real trouble was to come at the airport entrance itself.
After tipping the old fellow who transported my items to the bus 1 dollar and 33 English pence, I sat waiting for about 10 minutes, fending off further requests for cash. The unavoidable coach took us all of 100m to the airport terminal, but outside everyone was being searched. Concerned that I had already bribed a security man $5 to keep hold of my Kevlar, I got to the desk and went through the same rigmarole. They weren’t budging this time. With my check in deadline approaching quickly, a man who spoke English assisted me. “They won’t let you take the armour as it’s bullet proof”. Logical(!) He then said they were “Fucking idiots”. My thoughts exactly.
Confused and irritated I eventually left it all behind (presumably for a nice Taliban chap to use) and headed to catch my soon-to-depart plane, pausing briefly to admit I didn’t have the necessary paperwork to get out of the country (no idea why – I managed to get in!)
My new friend helped me out, and after more fruitless deliberation about the armour I was checking in, hugging the man goodbye (did he want some arse I wonder) and off on the plane out of Afghanistan. Ahhhh.
Desert: In transit
The next moment of note came on the plane, when the food arrived. I’d had some fairly bad experiences with food in the last two weeks, but nothing came close to the contents of my warm tray. I almost didn’t get it at all, and had to politely ask for the food. Soon after I wish I hadn’t bothered. It was quite frankly the most appalling looking thing I had ever seen. I stared at it with contempt for a while, took a photo as evidence, and attempted to eat it.
Two mouthfuls later, and I decided to go to sleep instead.
The biggest and best exhale came upon arrival at Dubai, where I killed a few hours at McDonalds and then Costa Coffee, surfing the net and returning to Rico. Bored, happy and excited to get home, which I duly did late on Saturday night, to be greeted by a beautiful woman and a cab all the way home. It was over.
Aperitif: Home
So would I go back? Tough question… To be honest I’d love to never have the chance, as I think there’s something in me that would like to have another crack at it. Now I know what to expect I’d like to do it all better. But am I pushing my luck? We were incredibly lucky on our operation. It couldn’t always be this way… So who knows?
But meanwhile, I’m completely delighted to be back in Blighty.
Labels: afghanistan, experience, photograph, travel, war, writing
