Notes on Food

The Boardwalk
I was surprised to find a mall when I got here. Right in the middle of all of this chaos, there is a large square surrounded on all sides by a wooden boardwalk and lined with shops and restaurants. Sure, the shops and restaurants are all inside carved-up shipping containers, but that doesn’t change the fact that they sell trinkets, rugs and American fast food. There’s a Burger King, a Subway, a Pizza Hut, and two—yes, two—coffee shops: a Tim Horton’s and a Green Beans. So far I’m partial to Green Beans, but I may have to start going to Tim Horton’s to pay back some of the Air Force folks who have been buying the majority of the coffee lately.

My first dinner on post came from Burger King because I had yet to get a meal card which would allow me to eat in the mess halls. My chicken sandwich tasted pretty familiar, maybe a little too much mayonnaise slathered on it, but a reasonable approximation of home. The fries, on the other hand, were spot on.

The other night I decided to see what Pizza Hut could offer, and got a Personal Pan Pepperoni, Cheese Sticks and a Coke for $9. I really wanted to compare it to the Pizza Hut I had in Kuwait, which was a pale shadow of its American counterpart. I have to say, in spite of the fact that it’s apparently impossible to get a true pork product in this country and all the pepperoni is beef-based, the Afghanistan Pizza Hut is not bad. I’ll never order the cheese sticks again, but I’ll sure as hell go back for a cheese pizza.

Niagara DFAC
This is where I have taken the majority of my meals so far. Upon my arrival, I heard it referred to as the North American dining facility, which isn’t the same thing as saying the American dining facility. This is in no way more evident than in the bacon. At breakfast they offer “Canadian Bacon” and “European bacon.” An American dining facility would more likely offer “Just Bacon.”

The first day I had breakfast at Niagara, I got a burrito. I ate about half of it before deciding that I could do better. Since then, I’ve tried everything from powdered eggs to powdered milk, and I’ve at last settled on the very best meal Niagara has to offer for breakfast: the burritos. That said, I see some potential in the short order grill. I’ve already gotten a ham, onion and egg scramble. It seems the ham was my downfall. All of the meat here has the potential to taste a little skunky, even the salted, smoked and cured kind. But I'm going to hit up the grill again in the future.

Dinner is a bit of a mixed bag as well. One of the most satisfying meals I’ve had so far was a hamburger and fries, again off the grill. It was nice just to have a familiar favorite that is hard to mess up.

Friday night on post is steak night. This sounded pretty exciting after sweet and sour vegetable night and undercooked beef sausage night. So it was with great anticipation that I went to Niagara for steak night. We were treated with some thin-sliced sirloin, green beans, buttered potatoes, tomato soup and chocolate pudding—really a fine meal on paper (plates). But, once again I was foiled by the aged-foreign-beef dilemma. Yes, it is by definition steak, and it was much improved by healthy dollop of A1, but I must say it didn’t live up to its promise.

However, I’m assured that miracles are beheld at the American DFAC on Friday nights. And this will be investigated in the future.

Update: I finally visit the American DFAC!!! Details below...

Cambridge DFAC
The British have their own dining facility on KAF, and it is consistently the best thing available. It’s pretty close to where we work, so we walk down there for lunch most days and are greeted with any number of combinations of meat and pie (lamb and vegetable pie, shepard's pie, cottage pie, chicken pot pie, etc., etc), and a host of desserts which are all referred to as “pudding.”

Most of the DFACs have banks of TVs along the walls, and while Niagara plays different sports over Armed Forces Network, Cambridge plays the BBC. I’ve seen this be news, sports, and once I’m pretty sure it was a costume drama replete with powdered wigs and pantaloons. Of course you can never hear anything, but that touch of class reaches all the way from the World Service right down into the salad bar—you can tell.

We still have yet to have dinner or breakfast here, but I’m planning on trying it sometime in the future. I know one thing: when I ate “pork sausage links” at Niagara and felt like puking, but tried a nearly identical dish at Cambridge, it was wonderful. The British aren’t really known the world over for their cuisine, but they seem to have gotten something right here in KAF.

The Mythical American DFAC: Harvest Falcon
Since we got here, we’ve heard stories about the American DFAC. Somewhere south of our tent, there is a place of unimagined treasures: ice cream and lobster tails, steak and potato bar, and all the pizza you can stomach. Surely this couldn’t be true; surely, such a flower could never bloom in the desert.

Friday night we were invited to join Army signal folks for steak night at the American DFAC. When the sun sets on KAF, the dust brings visibility down so low that you have to drive slowly to avoid running off the road or squashing pedestrians, so we made our careful way down south in the boss’s truck. As we pulled into the parking area, the dust parted to reveal the outer reaches of Shangri-La: rows and rows of refrigerated containers, crawling with kitchen staff, raiding the great hoards in order to feed the Army lining up for the feast.

The line stretched out the door for a hundred yards before we got to it, but our hosts assured us that it would go fast once it started moving. And he was right, after the doors opened it took us under 5 minutes to get inside and behold the wonders it held.

Steak and lobster tail. And not the dried up, funky boot leather they served at Niagara on Steak Night, but a tender and scrumptious sirloin smothered in onions and mushrooms. And while I was disappointed in my search for steak sauce, I found a variety of it awaited us at the table. The other DFACs just have salt and pepper waiting for you, but Harvest Falcon had A1, Heinz 57, Ketchup and hot sauce. Who knows where they get the lobster, but it looked pretty appetizing and was raved about by everyone that had it.

Next came the first buffet of sides: your choice of corn on the cob, mixed vegetables, home fries or baked potato, with a healthy dollop of gravy available "if sir requires." I was starting to feel like one plate wouldn't do it.

And holy cow, a whole buffet full of fried goodness including french fries, onion rings, hot dogs and the freedom to take anything you choose.

And what’s this? More meat? Yes. Ravioli, grilled chicken, chicken kabobs, and down there on the end: little personal pizzas.

It was as if I had died and gone to fat guy heaven. As I piled the trimmings higher and higher on my plate, someone reminded me that I will be here for three months and have ample opportunity to overindulge on Steak Night, or any other night for that matter.

I was able to limit myself to steak, baked potato, green beans, and a few onion rings on top, but man oh man, did I want one of those little pizzas… But I’ll be back, and I’ll bring my appetite.

The Heat

When I was gearing up for this trip in the military stores around Ft. Benning, I was severely impressed with the compactness of my sleeping bag. It stuffs down into a bag smaller than a gallon of milk, and provides (as the bag says) comfort down to 45° F, and a low of 36°. Even though the temperatures up in the mountains can get very low here in the winter, it sounded just about right for me here in Kandahar where the lows don’t often brush below freezing. So I anticipated feeling pretty toasty in my tiny purchase.

If only I could fit inside of it.

I can get into it and zip it up almost to my elbows before it becomes obvious that I can’t fit both of my arms in there. And damn if it doesn’t get C-O-L-D in this tent at night! So each night when I go to sleep, I choose one arm to sacrifice for the greater good of the rest of my body, and switch them out when I wake up in the night unable to feel the cold one.

While this system has its flaws, it’s also steadily improving. The American PX (which is out of practically everything, but that’s another story), stocks these garishly patterned Korean blankets that resemble fur in the way they feel and the way they leave little lint balls all over everything you own. I bought one of these for $34.95 in a desperate bid to be warm over 90% of my body, and buddy did it make the difference.

The first night with the blanket I dropped off around 9:00 pm and didn’t stir again until 6:00 am. Of course, I’m faced with a new problem of having to leave my little cocoon of warmth for the reality of 30° air around me, and the cold concrete floors. But I suppose I’ll take that rather than be freezing all night.

The Filet of the Neighborhood

I have been living in overflow housing on Kandahar Airfield for almost a week now. For the most part, time spent in the tent is time spent sleeping. If I come back here and there are more than 30 minutes to spare, those minutes are spent napping. My bunk is about as comfortable as I can make it. I have a small sleeping bag tucked into a liner, and a makeshift pillow made out of a blanket and a laundry bag. I moved the mattress that was on the top bunk to give myself a luggage rack, and to make use of the steel mesh for hanging my ID and my flashlight, and to dry my towel. It’s really not too bad once you come to terms with the fine layer of Afghan dust tracked in by my 65 roommates and the seriously foul foot stench that seems to hover by the front door… Or by that one guy’s rack by the front door… He’s getting some anti-fungal foot powder from the rest of us for Christmas.

Just outside the tent is a row of shower trailers, each one with (luxury) hot water and (decadence) flushing toilets. Timing is important with the showers. Until today, I have done all of my showering before bed, but feeling a little lazy last night, I decided to wait until I woke up and grab one in the morning. Apparently 0630 is the same time that every foreign worker in the place takes a shower before going to work. While there were shower stalls available, there were only three minutes of hot water left. Of course I found this out by taking three minutes of a comfortable shower.

Something should be said here about the work force. All of the physical functions of the base—collecting trash, cleaning bathrooms, cooking and serving food, managing the shops on the boardwalk—are performed by an army of LBGs, or Little Brown Guys. These LBGs hale from all over the world, from Bangladesh to The Philippines and they do every bad job here and basically keep it running. There’s no telling how AAFES recruits them. There must be really good money involved, because it probably takes more than dental coverage to convince someone to drive a garbage truck in Afghanistan.

By far the most important feature of the neighborhood has to be the Sh*t Pit. Looking at an aerial photograph, the Pit (represented by a steaming volcano, below) appears at first glance to be a park, or a reservoir, or maybe even a very large helipad. But no, that massive circle with the crosshairs in it represents the collected leavings of all 15,000 residents of Kandahar Airfield. And if you look just to the east of the Pit, you will see my home. Every day the pump trucks roll across the base, collecting the sludge of countless Port-a-Lets, and empty it into its final resting place, right next door to me. The proximity is bad enough psychologically, but the wind in the evening puts the icing on the cake by wafting the stench over and around us, permeating the tent with an abominable smell as it seeps in through every crack and crevice.


View Home Sweet Home in a larger map

Every day as I walk home from work, into the wind, that air blowing through my clothes and my hair, my face forms a permanent scowl of disgust. Last night, in the cruelest blow yet dealt by the Pit, I noticed a horrible taste in my mouth while I was waiting in line for dinner. Imagine the worst sensation of morning breath you have ever known, that subtle stickiness on the roof of the mouth that tells you it’s time for Crest and Listerine. That is what it felt like. I took some time for thoughtful reflection on what I had eaten and the last time I had brushed my teeth, and I realized the awful truth: it was the sh*t. The waste of thousands had congealed onto the back of my throat to provide me with literal sh*t breath. It’s been 24 hours, and some marathon brushing, and I still taste it.

Travel and Arrival in Afghanistan

Our flight out of Kuwait was scheduled for 0800, and because we’re a little paranoid about international travel in general, and efficiency in the Middle East in particular, we met in the lobby at 0530. Bags were packed and, as you can see, weighing me down pretty well. I have one of those green army duffel bags (back), my rucksack (front), the hard case for my cameras (right hand) and a large, rolling blue duffel (left hand). Luckily I didn’t have to carry it too far.

We were driven to the airport by a Bangladeshi gentleman who has spent the last 17 years in Kuwait. According to the US State Department, of the ~3 million Kuwaiti residents, only 1 million or so are citizens. Of those million citizens, 90% are employed by the state in some way. The rest are foreign workers who come to Kuwait and provide everything else the population needs—construction, cleaning, fast food, gas stations, etc. etc. The foreign workers make up almost all of the private work force. This was nowhere more evident than in the hotel where none of the employees were Kuwaiti; they were Chinese, Indian, Bangladeshi or what have you. The truly impressive part was that no matter where they came from, the all knew both English and Arabic, and probably a few more common languages.

Once at the airport, we were able to bypass the porters who are there to take your bags and extort 15 USD from you, and make our way back to the airline counter. Before we could check in, however, we were screened through a security checkpoint. At first I was impressed with this additional layer of security, until I noticed that nobody was watching the screens. The security guys were just talking and drinking coffee as we went through, completely ignoring whatever contraband we were sneaking into their airport or out of their country.

After check-in, we had to be screened again by what I would consider the normal security line, and finally a third time before boarding. The third time was really the best as even the incessant beeping of the metal detector was completely ignored. I suppose they knew where we were headed and figured one extra gun in Afghanistan wouldn’t make much difference.

We flew a charter flight into Afghanistan, which I had never done before. There are a few differences between this charger flying and regular commercial air travel. First: the plane was pretty old. Though the inside had been refurbished with nice new seats and clean carpet, they didn’t hide the fact that it was a DC-9, which (if memory serves) has been out of production for a number of years. There were also subtle hints about the age in that both the flight attendant call button and the air vents which were old-style, aluminum things designs, indicative of a bygone age. You got the feeling that the ash trays in the arm rests had seen action in the past.

The second difference from a commercial flight was that the pilot was completely oblivious to the fact that he had passengers in the back. He was constantly making course correction, or big changes in air speed or altitude—it was a little disconcerting. I think his somewhat erratic course was a result of navigating by land features, following the Arabian coast down the western edge of the Persian Gulf. As we reached the horn of the peninsula, instead of going east over the Gulf, he turned west at the major landmark of Dubai, and luckily enough, I was on the right side of the plane to see what infinite wealth and some creativity can do to the desert.

This turn was part of a scheduled stop in Muscat, Oman for refueling. This included a very speedy and frightening landing, with the plane lurching from side to side as he attempted to get all three wheels on the ground. Why he had to stop there is beyond me—Afghanistan is not really all that far away, and I figure we should have been able to make it on one tank of gas. My guess: gas is cheaper in Oman and he stopped to top off. He also made a very speedy and frightening landing in Oman on the way.

As we made our final approach over southern Afghanistan, we could only see the vast, dusty plains in all directions occasionally interrupted by an errant mountain range. The pilot banked hard to line us up with the airstrip, lowering his landing gear in the middle of the turn (another unique feeling on an airplane). With our stomachs up near our throats he raced in for a landing at Kandahar Airfield.

Thankful to be alive, we grabbed our bags, in-processed and headed for the billeting office to get a bunk somewhere. We found ourselves in an open bay with 70 other folks and picked two next to each other and near the door, removing the top mattress to prevent anyone from stealing what had become our luggage racks.

With that done, we finished out our day with Burger King, a trip to the gym and a fitful night’s sleep in sleeping bags on hundred year old mattresses.

Welcome to Afghanistan

First Full Day in Afghanistan

So guess what: no data access from my phone. There goes all of the emailing, chatting, blogging that I had planned to do over the phone. I'm limited to voice and text, and our equipment we were going to use for Internet access is stuck in a shipping crate back in the States for who knows how long.

Things are ok so far. We got our bunks inside a huge open bay. The dust is truly magnificent here.

More to come.

Can't Sleep

I woke up an hour early (0430) and don't feel like going back to sleep. I just heard the morning call to prayer go out over the city.

Afghanistan in the Morning

Our flight to Afghanistan takes off from Kuwait Airport at 0800 (see how I'm already fitting in?), which means I have to wake up in something like 5 and a half hours. I never sleep much while I'm on the road, especially when I have to get up in the morning.

I meant to write a lot more about Kuwait, but there's really not a lot to say. It was pretty boring as we spent most of the time in the hotel eating and going to the gym. We were only here waiting on the next flight in country, anyway.

I did record a video-blog-kinda-thing that I was going to post on here, but after fiddling around with a couple of really terrible (but free) editors trying to put in my pictures as well, I gave up telling that story altogether. Maybe I'll post it later.

The gist of it can be found in my pictures of the city. Brook and I walked around and took in the architecture the other day until it got unbearably hot. That very tall spire is the Liberation Communication Tower and is part of the Ministry of Communication. It was in construction when the Iraqis invaded in 1990 and construction was finished after coalition forces liberated the country--hence the name. It's 1220 feet tall. Our driver on the first day told us it was 1200 meters tall, which seemed strange to me as I figured I would've heard about a structure that was a kilometer tall.

The first picture is the view from my hotel room. It would look better if there wasn't so much dirt on the outside of the windows, but what you see appears to be a very large and unattended cemetery. What look like beach chairs are actually head stones, and the uneven lumps are where the bodies are buried. Nice view, right? In the meantime, Brook can see Liberation Tower and the Persian Gulf from his room--I got hosed.

The next time you hear from me, I'll be in Afghanistan.

Kuwait City