A boy and his dog...

I find it more than passing strange that the few Afghan children I have seen look like wizened little old men with ancient eyes and the US soldiers look like babies.I don't feel old. I don't act old and I don't believe I think old. It is just that everyone else seems so very, very young. I swear many of the soldiers I see don't even need to shave regularly! I am 56 years old, which is not really all that ancient given the average lifespan of American females and given that my parental units are both alive, kicking and reasonably sound of  mind and body at 78 and 80. I've become aware of my growing propensity to describe myself as an old woman and often even cast myself in a motherly or grandmotherly role. Now, I figure I probably have at least another 35 or 40 years to explore the planet, barring unforeseen circumstance -getting hit by random incoming, having my helicopter fall out of the sky or contracting a flesh eating bacteria. And, sstatistically, since I don't operate a motor vehicle regularly, since I don't live in a densely populated, crime ridden, urban area, and since I do live and work on a heavily fortified military encampment with soldiers actively defending it, I am probably safer here than I would be most anywhere else. I certainly feel safe here. If I didn't I wouldn't stay. I do worry about the fuzzy faced baby soldiers though. I love them and respect them and would do anything for them, but I can't say I understand them.  For soldiers, Afghanistan is a scary and dangerous place. They work long, hard hours in scorching heat and freezing cold. They run and pump iron in the gym then hooah themselves up mentally to fight their fear of what might be out there waiting for them on the road or in the dark when they go out on patrol. But some days, they play in the sun throwing Frisbee for their dogs.

Deserts and gardens...

One afternoon, we saw this little boy playing alone in the dirt with his helicopter just outside the base. He turned and noticed us up on our wall taking pictures and he waved and smiled. I found it a hopeful sign. Several of the children who live on Camp Nathan Smith are often seen helping their fathers in shops selling cigarettes, pirated DVDs and knick knacks to soldiers and civilians during the day -  two of the boys had their own little shops. I tried to chat them up a bit teasingly each time I saw them and eventually bought beaded bracelets for the grandgirls from them - three dollars worth I think. It is my firm belief that such enterprising spirits should be rewarded whenever possible. I was struck at the time by how very wizened the children look. Afghans are a small people generally and I suppose the texture of their skin might be the result of sun damage or poor nutrition, but I rather think it must be attributable at least partially to the life they lead. They have old eyes. I've seen no Afghan girls or women in my time here.

Deserts and gardens...

At Camp Nathan Smith, the same FOB with the pomegranate grove and the rose garden, there is a line of painted T-walls. I found this one as I was looking again at the pictures I took of the roses.

They never promised me a rose garden...

There is also a small grove of some other kind of tree in the part of the base where the local Afghans operate their shops on Camp Nathan Smith. I often saw Afghan men sitting together, shoes off, enjoying tea and camaraderie or napping away an afternoon stretched out on  a slightly raised platform under those little trees. I never really stopped to look at the grove closely...somehow it felt mildly intrusive, so I made more of a forest perusal in passing than a tree by tree examination. At any rate, the carefully tended gardens on Camp Nathan Smith are quite lovely. Near the Afghan dwellings in the heart of the base, a lush, fragrant and long established rose garden flourishes. The main stocks of the rose bushes are at least 2 inches thick. Color me flabbergasted! The first time I saw it, I had to be literally dragged away. My color and scent starved senses remain thrilled to have found roses blooming in this harsh and inhospitable environment. They insisted I that all future meanderings, whether from office to warehouse, from DFAC to tent, even trips out to the ubiquitous little green house (portolet) be routed via garden or grove.

Seeing neither forest nor trees continued...

At Camp Nathan Smith, which oddly enough, finds itself situated smack dab in the middle of an Afghan town and which uniquely (among the bases I have visited at least) has its own little community of Afghan inhabitants, I ran across a pomegranate grove. Now, I have enjoyed eating the occasional juicy pink pomegranate especially around Christmas time when I was a kid and I know pomegranates are considered symbols of fertility in many cultures because of their abundance of seeds and propensity for popping right on open when they are ripe, but I had never seen a pomegranate in its natural habitat before. Yet, one sunny Afghan morning, as I walked from my tent to the laundry, then on to the dining facility (DFAC), there they were! Pomegranates hanging right on the trees next to the path with their mouths open and seeds a showin'. The fruits almost seemed to smile at me as I pass. Fascinating. I wanted so badly to pick and taste! I am told that the local warlord's second in command and his family are the Afghans living there and their presence is what keeps the base safe from incoming artillary and such...well, most of the time. Anyway, apparently, they are also the ones who tend the gardens and grove. How I wish I could discuss the ins and outs of growing pomegranites with them.

Seeing neither forest nor trees...

Sometimes, when I'm just out wandering in my own head, I see the forest and sometimes I see the trees...well not real trees, because where I am in Afghanistan, trees are few and far between. I am told they are out there and, in fact, I have seen a few trees on Kandahar Airfield (KAF), which is a huge  base of operations for NATO, DynCorp and where I hang my personal hat when not out at a forward operating base training. At any rate, there are about 3 really stressed out looking eucalyptus trees there on KAF, which I likely would never have noticed at all as covered in dust as they were, had it not been for a rather raucous flock of birds which drew my attention as I hustled myself over to the weekend haji market to oggle the local trinketry.

I have kind of a history with eucalyptus trees beginning with a trip to Morocco in the early 90's where, in the middle of the desert, in an area totally devoid of other flora and fauna, I witnessed a eucalyptus tree full of goats who had climbed right up the trunk and branches and were bleating amiably as they munched a leafy lunch. There must have been a dozen of them up in that stunted little tree and something about the obvious camaraderie of the group put me in mind of dinners on the church grounds with my grandparents during my childhood. I would have sworn those goats were smiling and chatting among themselves as they ate their eucalyptus, just as I remember the parishioners doing years ago over their plates of  "tater" salad and "nanner puddin". In Iraq, I used to run my hands over moist new eucalyptus leaves then snurfle them just to inhale a good whiff of their aromatic oil - I found the scent cleared my sinuses and perked the old body right up. I even took to carrying the occasional eucalyptus branch into the portolet with me because they smelled so distractingly clean and fresh - the eucalyptus leaves...NOT the portolets. On a good day, when recently cleaned, portolets in Iraq smelled strongly of spearmint, quite ruining that flavor for me forever.

More signs of Spring...

We have been getting our flowers and showers both in April this year so no telling what May will bring us. It has also been unseasonably cool. In fact, today's not so very indicicative sign of Spring was  mountains off in the distance frosted with new snow. I wish I knew how high those mountains really are, but it is pretty much impossible to do any online research about Afghanistan's topography so I am left to wonder. What I do know though, is that from here in this valley surrounded by Bedoin tents and little mud villages, the snowcapped mountains ringing this base look quite lofty. Those same mountains, when flown over by helicopter, do not appear quite as imposing.

More signs of Spring...

Yesterday, I found 5 different examples of local Spring flora, the last of which looked to me like something from another planet. (The idea that I am living on a different planet is a thought that has crossed my mind more than a few times since arriving here and indeed, many of the places I have visited  this past year bear a striking resemblance to planet Tatooine of Star Wars fame...more about that in a subsequent post...). I am sure that all the "flowers" I found here on FOB Wolverine would be classified as weeds by most everyone, but to me, they are welcome harbingers of Spring, a sight for sore eyes and lovely bits of color in an otherwise drab landscape. The straggly plants I found while wandering around this base of dirt, rock and not much else, are certainly a far cry from the lush flower boxes of my gardening friends back home but somehow that makes them feel like even more of a gift. I didn't plan for them, work to cultivate them or even anticipate that they would appear and yet here they are!

More signs of Spring...

I used to go to Holland the last weekend of April each and every year to commune with Spring in Lisse and thrill my senses with massive displays of narcissi, hyacinths and tulips at the Keukenhoff. It was for me a kind of spiritual necessity after surviving a long gray winter in Germany and always one of the highlights of my year. Bike rental was reasonably cheap and one could ride for hours in and about the tulip fields just soaking up the colors and scents, stopping at will to take a closer look at some particularly lovely specimen.

Signs of Spring...

I have been watching for and reveling in signs of Spring here in Afghanistan for the past few weeks - especially flowers. One really has to keep an open eye to see flowers in this overwhelmingly brown and dusty place. I saw a single red poppy one day on the way to drop off laundry but didn't stop to take a picture, possibly because there was only the one and I have been waiting since I hit country May of last year to get a look at the infamous poppy fields while helicoptering my way from one base to another. They are rumored to be quite lovely and I am anxious to see how that sight will compare with my fondly remembered views of Germany's patchwork springs of bright yellow rape fields stitched up next to purplish blue flax making the whole landscape appear to be some kind of giant colorful crazy quilt. Anyway, I will be flying again in about a week and remain hopeful of catching sight of poppies en masse. Meanwhile, today I caught sight of a little enclave and did in fact stop and photograph them. Of course, I understand that fields of poppies, while undeniably beautiful, are not considered a particularly good thing here in Afghanistan - by the Americans at least. Should I be fortunate enough to see any brightly blooming poppy fields this spring, I am choosing to focus on the beauty and to revel in their rich redness in what must surely be the most beige and colorless place on Earth. I shall by purpose and design leave any and all ruminations on poppy politics and poppy economics to others less thirsty for color than I.

Gnawing the bone continued...



Gnawing the bone...

Funny how a phrase or idea gets stuck in your head and then all on its own the mind begins creating ancillary examples...I had "Chinese style" riblets for lunch immediately after posting my first ever blog about gnawing the bone, and I had to gnaw and gnaw and still didn't get much meat.
Some lines of thought are like that too. I always expect there to be something useful in there somewhere if I work on them long enough, but sadly, sometimes I find it just isn't always so. Some ideas are just not worth gnawing...and others are like a badly cooked steak...the protein is there but they are so dry and tough and unappetizing you just skip them and go straight for dessert. As I think of it now, this kind of explains the whole concept of entertainment...hmmmm.

Gnawing the bones of thoughts past...

I suppose it is entirely possible that as several of my friends suggested, I should have started composing and sharing my thoughts sooner. I just couldn't fathom that my personal ruminations would be in any way interesting to others and I was under the misguided impression that blogging was primarily for others - perhaps to inform or occassionally to entertain them.

That said, I have now come to believe that perhaps my writings will be of interest to me at some point as it becomes increasingly more likely that once I think about a thing for a while, gnaw it over, so to speak, I then allow those subjects and thoughts, however interesting or entertaining they might have been for that moment, to slip away and never to be brought to mind again.

I find that today I am in the mood, and of a mind, to bury some of those tasty thoughts like my dog does  well loved and well seasoned bones so that at a later date I can unearth them, whether inadvertantly or by design, and once again enjoy the flavor of mulling them over.