Part One

Part Two

although i do not claim to understand the biochemical realities, there is definitely something far more physiologically distressing about flying the opposite direction than the sun travels. that said, this really has been "tomorrow" for me after all...

(images included)

part three - "i love what you do for me"

The morning sun was already brighter then it should have been and the biting cold of the evening had already begun to warm. Had excessive sleep denied us our ride to Tora Bora? The plan as discussed the evening before had been to start at first light. Nasim still sat outside our window, where he had been keeping special watch over us during the night. The complete quiet threatened with the possibility that we were going to miss the war.

Inquiries revealed the less tragic, altogether more predictable truth of the matter. The alliance mujahadeen were behind schedule in organizing the convoy and everybody had overslept. Hustling into the courtyard of the compound, we found ourselves again locked, loaded…and waiting. Ahmed busied himself in what was apparently his typical fashion, moving from person to person to person, guard to commander, driver to doorman; obviously liked by all and something of a statesman. It was after listening to him detail the "arrangement of our wEE-Hicle" enough times that in a moment of satori we came to realize that his atypical vocal inflection was actually a heavy Russian accent. Good grief Charlie Brown.

The two-hour journey to Tora Bora, just southeast of Jalalabad, was not going to be inexpensive. $150 would provide a truck, driver, and one gunman for the day. If we did not return to Jalalabad before sunset, the same amount would be required for a return trip. Although we had restocked our finances at the Emirates Bank in Peshawar, we could only produce the equivalent 9,000 Pakistani rupees for a single journey. And we were not going to put out this quantity of rupage for just a few afternoon hours at the site. When we explained this to the lead muj fixer, he smiled and shrugged, "Well, I'm sure you will figure something out…"

Half past eight a.m., the blinking correspondents filed out stumbling into the intensely day lit exterior, directing the loading and securing of their Gear. Our driver, Sameer, seemed on an even-enough keel, a quiet mujahadeen trendoid. Where there are people, wherever they are co-existing or competing and fighting or fucking, there is Fashion. The height of muj fashion is the "Massoud look." Roguish. Defiant. Noble. Dark leather shoes, loose salwar trousers and long white below-waist flowing kurta suit, enveloped within a smart black vest. The vest is worn loose as well, the lack of button restraint characterizing the iconoclastic mercenary esprit d'guerre. Sleeves on the kurta are invariably rolled with care to the elbows, exposing a varying grade of gold watch. Dense growth on the chin, made slightly less profuse by the post-Taliban resurgence of trimming. Crowning the look, a wool swat rests on the head, roguishly slouched against an ear at a lazy angle. Many me-too muj poseurs, wanting to run with the big boys, adopt this guise to ingratiate themselves with the EA conquerors du jour. It is a look that is part traditional sicilian mafioso, part swaggering confident hero, and part defiant lawless mercenary.

We quickly forgot the actual name of the gunman that accompanied us in lieu of that conjured by his appearance. Dark complexion and Latin features, full uniform of camo fatigues, smart martial cap, marked and scored AK-47. It was the shape and structure of the beard attached to these features that made him the living avatar of a very different revolution, and our very own Fidel Castro. Around his waist, the sentimental medallion of past triumph he wore seemed an appropriate icon complimenting his countenance.

Between Ahmed's duffle, our two backpacks and plastic bag; the five of us had little problem occupying our "wee-hicle," a 1993 Toyota four by four truck. Within the plastic bag; our loaf of bread, chocolate, cheapie "Press" brand cigarettes to hand out, and suspiciously good american imports for Todd. It doesn't matter if you smoke or not. While in Afghanistan contending with unspecified quantities of the unknown, you might as well.

Five pick-ups and the Japanese van participated in this morning's convoy, one truck occupied exclusively by soldiers took Point, a corpulent porcupine brandishing an action-movie array of automatic rifles and swaying grenade launcher shafts. Pasted to the windshield of each vehicle, a color photocopy of Abdul Haq would indicate our factional alignment and serve as all access pass through the city and beyond. Driving straight and single-file is not a tendency natural to this entire continent of people. Thus it was with unnatural effort and much shouting that they managed to maintain a particularly tight and professional formation. Just at the edge of town we stopped along the road where a wrinkled old man and wrinkled young boy kept armed watch over half a dozen or so large barrels. The muj riding point zipped ahead, surveyed the area and established a loose perimeter before we allowing us to stop the engine and take on fuel.

"I love what you do for me"

Those words resounded with feeling this morning, especially in the feeling of the ass-part of the body. The arranged wee-hicle was a 1993 Toyota truck. Tearing ass around rocky Eastern Afghanistan in a solidly constructed four-wheel drive truck must be the wet-dream fantasy pulp-fiction of every gap-toothed off-road enthusiast. The road more lumps and contusions of the earth than navigable surface. Jarred and bumped and shaken and stirred we three, gear, cameras, packs of cigarettes and chocolates a violent salad being tossed in the backseat. Distorted Afghan music screeching almost as loud as the suspension out of speakers functioning twice as well. For an offense punished by the Ministry of V&V a month prior with severe beatings and months in jail, our driver had a surprising collection of audio cassettes.

Our passage took us through several small villages, the road narrowing to minimally passable limits between mud and thatch structures probably looking no different than a century prior. Like the roar of Silence, the absence of otherwise omnipresent commercialism made the environment all the more alien. Not an advertisement of any sort on any surface, being free from life's otherwise constant companions of Coca-Cola, Honda, Whirlpool, and other multi-nationals or local companies was almost disquieting. The terrain itself a dry dust rocky uneven vastness, not quite desert but not quite tundra. From which it is difficult to imagine scrabbling out any sort of agricultural subsistence. Gummy old men, timid children and burqah-obfuscated ghostly women underscored the absence of an entire age bracket of men. The convoy never slowing or pausing through these communities, livestock and children scrambled for safety as we lurched through. Our driver might have been enjoying the experience as much as ourselves, however we urged him to exercise caution; nothing creates a lynch mob faster than a dead child. As the wee-hicle ahead slows briefly to negotiate an exceptionally tenuous furrow, a child runs behind and makes a grab at some of the gear in the back. Unable to defeat the ropes securing it, he falls to the side just before crushing disfigurement courtesy of our bumper.

Thirty minutes out, a distinct shape becomes discernable, bisecting the hazy pallid-blue sky. It grows; four fuzzy fingers tracing chalk lines through the air ahead of us. Wavering and amorphous the lines seem to grow and spread from condensed vanishing points. This is wrong, we are seeing it reversed. These smoking dots are the points of origin, smoldering fires in the sky on the move and trailing smoke. Now sweeping clockwise in our direction towards where first visible. Before completing their loop, they cut an even tighter arc to create a circle within a circle. Our eyes glued skyward on these growing stratospheric scratches, continuing to tighten into a hazy spiral, menacing sky-sharks moving with lazy confidence in to the kill. Through the noise, the suspension, the music, the road - the following explosions could be heard but not seen.

         Yet...

Full stop to replace a flat; wagons circled around the rehabilitation of the disabled beast. Getting a better look at Fidel Castro and his smart uniform, the eye is drawn inevitably towards the gleaming emblem at his waist, worn from years of polishing. A legendary trophy and sentimental icon of noble struggle against immeasurable odds. Securing his leather belt a telling thing - a buckle from the Soviet Army, a relic from their grand Ruddy days of Evil Empiredom.

More fingers trace the tactics of the War on Terror through the sky. Rounding the penultimate bend, the current focal point of the American war machine comes into view. The sky above it is a black and hazy milieu, not from burning smoke, but from displaced soil vaulted skyward into the cold morning air. A new spiral takes form. These cloudlike phenomenon the symptoms of an unnatural tempest; the Eye of the storm within the worst place on the planet to find shelter. Cave or No Cave.

Although the audible products sounded nothing like BOOM and varied depending on ordnance deployed ("KREE-GURBLUE-PCHAAAUUUUUrrrrmmm" says the precision JDAM. "CRACK!-CRACK!-CRACK!-CRACKOW!" say the carpet bombs. "WHIIIISHH-BLAAAT!" proclaims the rare BLU-82.) a simple "BOOM" punctuating the remaining body of text serves as reminder that apart from rare exception, each 10 minute span of or so of our existence for the next several days was punctuated by a tremendous shattering blast. Like distant thunder, several seconds elapsed before the sound reached you. Unlike the transience of lightning, the blossoming plumes of debris already exploded skyward remain suspended in the air; still-life of explosion presented for several minutes. Without fail, an encore to this encore performance could be expected before the dissipation of the former.

         BOOM

A line of soldiers blocking the road divert our column of steel bodied, dust spewing dung beetles onto a small plateau. At its apex, an assemblage of mud structures constitute the command and control center for the Eastern Alliance assault on the entrenched Taliban hold-outs and alleged members of the Al-Qaeda terrorist network. A football huddle of journalists crowd in a close semi-circle around Commander Haji Kadir, clinging to him like the nappiest of Taliban beards. Contrary to the previous day's announcement of surrender negotiations, he declares that it is now non-negotiable ultimatum: Surrender or Die. Asked how surrender is possible without discussion and impossible during incessant bombing, he shrugs off such concerns as conveniently beyond his control. "The Americans will do what they will do." He complains about the poor condition and morale of his fighters, admitting five casualties and three deaths in the past day. He repeats reports claiming that women and children accompany the estimated 1,000 fighters. In fact, there were unsubstantiated reports that some of the women had been allowed to forego purdah and take arms in their defense. Across from him a weapon wielding mujahadeen chorus line pose for a photo-op; assuming austere beleaguered expressions and masculine stances of commitment as the photographers unleash full burst streams onto them. When we ask around for information on the fate of the 800 Pakistanis released by the governor that morning, it seemed a forgotten detail, a casualty of fleeting attention spans. Back in the wee-hicles, we bounce another five kilometers towards the smoke, the blasts, and the mountain.

         BOOM

Past the last small village and its mosque, a final rise delivered us to yet another surreal scene. A rocky mound 300 meters long by 100 meters wide amidst a great deal of nothing. Here however were to be found a lot of some-things. Satellite uplink dishes, impromptu broadcast booths, power generators, miles of cable, and a hundred or so of the West's best correspondents, techs, and television personalities. Milling about chatting, sipping coffee, smoking cigarettes, popping airlifted donuts while the not-so-very-distant hill in the immediate foreground performs regular repeat performances of the Apocalypse. This had to be the Restaurant at the End of the Universe.

An inoperable Soviet T-55 tank plastered with posters of slain Tajik commander Massoud awaited repairs and served as delicious press photo-op. Stand next to Mickey and smile. Our conversations regularly losing their aim, plans being laid or points being made rendered irrelevant by the enormity of destruction occurring immediately to our east. We considered our options come nightfall, curling up near the CBS tent or finding some encamped soldiers seemed our likeliest options. At some point, it was decided that Adam and Ahmed would scour the village for accommodation while Todd wandered this media "Camp Rhino" on an information gathering operation.

         BOOM

Judging the specificity and redundancy of air strikes; it wasn't difficult determining the layout of the battle and approximate location of the front-line. Adam returned after some time, with a house [read: shack] rented for $100 we would share with Kirk and Nadia, the Canadians. The news from the front was that there was no news from the front; the mujahadeen had been denying access beyond this point. Our driver, whom we had been operating under the assumption was available to drive us for the entire day, refused to take us any further down the road towards the forward positions.

In a turnabout, the first of his surprising feats, Ahmed convinced our driver that he should spend the night with us, and return to Jalalabad with us as part of our original round-trip deal. With this piece of good news, we decided to forego our accommodations and sleep in the truck. This seemed to cause Ahmed to regret his resourcefulness, laughing nervously, "In the truck?! …why not..." We apologized to him that he was stuck with us instead of sipping brandy in the CNN tent. While we were informing the Canadians of our decision, we met Rick, producer of the AirNews team. He was returning to Jalalabad for supplies, and when he overheard our plans to "chill" in the truck, he offered to try to scare up some blankets in town.

         BOOM

We settled for an afternoon of talking to the fighters, gathering information, and documenting the apparatus of the war. Most of the mujahadeen tolerated the oversights and violations in observing Ramazan, from Nic Robertson's chain-smoking, to plump mulleted technicians Powering through Power Bars. Some were clearly bothered, but few made clear their indignation. Our "friend" Habib was one of them. On several occasions he approached in an unhabib-ly manner without the look of a habib on his face while my match was mid-strike. In so many Pashto words, none of them at all sounding habib-ly, he expressed that he would really prefer it if I would not flaunt my Infidel-ity. "No problem, man…," replacing my unlit luxury into its pack.

         BOOM BOOM

As evening fell, Ahmed found us and told us of an Afghani family in the village that would feed us and let us stay the night with them for a couple thousand pakistani rupees. Though we pride ourselves on our DIY approach, we are also opportunists, and this evening found us particularly hungry opportunists. Smiling at the prospect of not having to sleep in his truck with us, our driver bounced us a click back down the road to the mud structure that was our promised haven. Bowing through the doorway, we found a low mud walled room, several reed woven cots against a wall, the majority of space occupied by the typical afghani communal area. Utilized for dining, sleeping, meeting, and smoking, the men present directed us to designated spots on the floor around the perimeter. Over the next half hour, two dozen or so young men, some as young as 14, entered with rifles and joined the growing assemblage, depositing their weapons by the door. They were all soldiers of the same clan, returning from a day of fighting on the hill. Talking to them, we developed a loose understanding of the mechanics of the battle, and where things stood on the hill above. To our amused consternation, Ahmed insisted on insisting that we were Canadian.

         boom

The erratic faint illumination provided by the kerosene lamp in the center of the room made for dramatic chiaroscuro of darkness and deeply lined faces. Delicious offerings laid out were made short work of, followed by cups of the obligatory chai. The patriarch of the clan, a formidable Pashtoon elder with a regal turban and fierce streaked beard, stood dimly lit in the background lecturing for a considerable time in a commanding baritone. Although Ahmed translated little of what he said to us, his tone often communicated the substance of his words.

After clearing away the plates a large hookah is placed in the center of the room. One of the men produced from his pocket a giant coiled snake, the head of which he ripped off and placed in the bowl of the water pipe. Transubstantiated from solid to gas, the serpentine wisps of hashish smoke smelled sweeter, milder, less herbal than marijuana. While all present took turns from the pipe, Ahmed told us it was a good time to drive back to the first house we had planned to rent that we could confer with our 'colleagues' and see about those blankets. Walking outside, he muttered under his breath something about "making our escape." Hesitant to drive in the dark without a guard (Fidel Castro had left earlier) our driver was alarmed when our vehicle wouldn't start. Ahmed appeared nervous, and we asked him what his comment meant. "It is a good idea if we leave. And not come back."

the dust plumes from the speeding trucks grew long over the rock and fine soil

reload

ahmed explained to us that in the many graveyards we passed along the road, it is customary to place a flag atop the marker stone if the person died unnaturaly. there were very few stones without flags.

a pause for repairs

Fidel Castro

Fidel's Buckle

me shooting ahmed watching adam taking pictures of the japanese filming everything

Ahmed and our "wee-hicle"

B-52 vapor trails

here comes trouble...

speeding towards the destruction

Commander Haji Kadir

a refined specimen

putting these pictures together i realize that Habib must have had it out for me from the start - his gaze is fixated on me in, like, all these pictures

"Well I don't see anyone else standing here..."

posing for a kodak media moment™ at alliance hq...

once this dwarven muj was sure i was getting him, he struck his pose for me

...and on top of the PR tank in the media encampment. [Soviet T-55]

these men are not like this. it is all an act for you, the home audience. they laugh and bullshit all day but when the cameras come out, they give us what we want to see...embattled beleagured noble fighters struggling with unfaltering commitment against unfavorable odds

although the PR tank was mobility impaired, it infrequently operated as stationary mortar, shelling the hill

there were several other combat ready armored units not far away. the crew of this Soviet tank breaking fast at Iftar.