Range Day

 

This weapon is illegal in three different ways in Missouri.  All kinds of awesome.

There are certain perks to being deployed to Afghanistan.  You get paid a lot.  Movies are cheap.  And no one questions when a civilian wants to shoot automatic weapons.

Back home it took multiple months of planning and permission granting to get a group of civilians from my home office to a range.  Body armor had to be issued.  Ammo had to be ordered.  Every round had to be fired, and every shell picked up to be counted, lest an investigation into the fate of unfired ammo be initiated.  It was a massive pain in the butt for 45 minutes of play time on the range.  

Afghanistan ranges are so much easier.

As with many things in life, it's not what you know, it's who you know.  One of our buddies works with a guy who was roommates with the guy that runs the range when they served in Ranger battalion together.  A quick phone call between roommates was all that was needed to get a group of seven of us a reservation.  We brought the weapons (well, most of them, more on that in a bit), they brought the targets and the ammo, and we were cleared until we ran out of time or bullets, whichever came first.  (Unfortunately, it was time.  Running out of bullets would have been a lot more fun.)

After a long and arduous SUV ride, detoured by protesting Kabulites and lazy traffic police, we arrived at Darul Aman, on the south side of the city.  The area was pretty interesting.  On one section of the base were ruins of a palace built by Genghis Khan.  Nearby were the King and Queen's Palaces, built in the 1920s to house, presumably, the king and queen of whatever monarchy ruled Afghanistan during that era.  And near the entrance to the base was a new construction site where an Afghan Government building is being built.  Four separate buildings home to three different ruling parties from three different centuries.  The one time in my life I wished I was a history major.  

The King's Palace on the right, flanked by the new Government building on the left, 

with the city of Kabul in the background.

The Queen's Palace with spy blimp on overwatch.

Up the mountain from these buildings and the surrounding camp was the range.  Upon a arrival we were introduced to the crew in charge, a British corporal, an Australian naval officer, and an American Marine gunnery sergeant.  The gave an abbreviated safety brief, crushing our hopes of shooting without having to wear body armor in the process.  As they set up new targets for us and broke out the ammo, we loaded magazines and prepped the weapons.  And one in particular attracted more interest than the others.

Everyone (minus myself) brought a Beretta M9 pistol, the basic weapon for senior enlisted and officers assigned at Camp Eggers.  We'd also secured three M4 assault rifles.  One of these was special (I'm holding it the picture at the beginning of this post), as it was equipped with a shortened barrel, a holographic red dot sight, and a detachable suppressor, aka silencer.  It had been issued to one of our resident officers by a Special Forces team at his home base.  I have no idea why they issued such a weapon to someone that was going to be working a desk job.  I also don't care.  I'm just so happy that it happened to someone that was willing to lend it to us to put through it's paces.

Seeing the suppressed rifle, the range crew felt compelled to make a trade.  If we would let them shoot the suppressed rifle, they would let us shoot their fully automatic rifles.  Needless to say, that wasn't a difficult decision.  So to our pool of available armaments was added the British L85A2 Carbine, a shortened version of the full rifle made for vehicle crews to carry in tight quarters, and the Australian's Steyr Aug.  (They also intended for us to be able to shoot an AK-47, but the guy that was supposed to be bringing the ammo for that gun flaked out and never showed up.)

 The British L85A2 Carbine.  A short little weapon with great sights 

and little recoil, but LOUD.  You knew when someone was shooting this.

The Steyr Aug.  Fun to shoot, but much trickier than the other weapons.

I can see quite a bit of training being needed to use this weapon effectively.

Commence the entertainment.

Besides the silencer, each of the three M4s had a different optical sight attached.  One had an ACOG, and the others had two different types of red dot sights.  These weapons were stationed at one end of the range and were free for whoever wanted to fire them to do so.  The Brit and the Aussie each ran a station for their weapon, helping the user understand the proper way to compensate for each rifle's quirks.  The Carbine was the most odd.  Besides pulling the trigger, everything was done with the left hand.  This even required reaching over the top of the stock to the right side of the weapon to draw back the bolt and chamber a round.  Lefties would HATE it.  It felt a little odd to me, as I was only using my left hand to hold the weapon when I was shooting the M4, but I was getting used to it by the time I ran out of ammo.  The Aug's special quirk was it's method of selecting how many rounds to fire.  You could either fire on semi automatic, or one round at a time, or on fully automatic, or rounds fire until you stop holding the trigger.  Most weapons have a switch on the side that lets you choose one or the other.  The Aug had a two-stop trigger.  Pull back to the first stop, and you fire one round.  Pull back to the second stop, and you fire many rounds.  This was very strange to adjust to, and I don't think I ever hit the target more than once when I was firing on automatic.  For one the kick was much greater on this gun than the others, but I was also consciously thinking about how far I depressed the trigger, wondering if I was going to get one shot or several.  This would be a hard weapon to get used to.

 

From near to far, A2 Carbine, M4 rifle, and M9 pistol.

In stark contrast was the silenced M4.  Lightweight, low recoil, large, bright, clear sights, and quiet.  It sounded like a nail gun instead of a rifle.  It wasn't quiet enough to be completely stealthy in a quiet environment, but outside from more than 50 meters, or in a large building from more than a few rooms away, I don't think the gun would be audible.  This thing was an absolute blast to shoot.  Dealing with the ammo magazine, on the other hand, was irritating.  We had a couple of cheaper plastic magazines that kept trying to give the rifle more than one bullet at a time when firing on three round burst mode.  I quickly learned how to clear the breach on my own, but after getting rounds jammed on three straight trigger pulls, I switched back to single shot mode and didn't have any more problems. 

After we were done shooting we policed the range for our brass.  I had to laugh at the difference between this range and the one I had been on back home.  At home we had one person shooting at a time with everyone else far behind the line, to the point we couldn't even see the target being shot at.  Here we had multiple people shooting, swapping weapons, shooting again, only pausing to let some soldiers at the far end that were adjusting their sights walk down and check their targets.  Back home we knew exactly how much ammo we had, we fired every round, we picked up every spent shell, and the empty cartridges were weighed.  The scale was sensitive enough to detect a difference of 100 rounds out of pallet load of spent ammunition.  Here we weren't even sure how much ammo we started with, had no idea how many rounds had been fired, picked up the brass we could find but didn't fret over every single one, and certainly didn't worry about counting them afterwards.  The fact that we were in a combat zone and that weapons training was an expected part of that freed the range officers from many of the annoying restrictions we put up with in the States.  This experience was a lot more enjoyable.

The palace and it's outbuildings have all fallen into extreme dis-repair.

Being occupied by the Russians didn't help anything, as evidenced by all the bullet holes.

Before heading home, we decided to drive up to the Queen's Palace and have a look around.  Like any good castle, it was built in a defensible position at the top of a decently sized hill, with no other major terrain features for a mile in any direction.  This arrangement offered a spectacular view of the city and surrounding mountains.  

The beginnings of the Afghan countryside on the outskirts of Southern Kabul.

 

The end of the Queen's Palace, and currently the only  

entrance not sealed off by concertina (razor) wire.

Inside the palace was quite amazing.  The damage done to the structure was significant enough that you really had to imagine what it looked like in it's hey day, but the potential for greatness was readily apparent.  The most striking architectural feature were the large columns running the entire height of the three-story structure, and tiled in green marble.  

Marble columns in the Queen's Palace, Darul Aman, Afghanistan.

As I walked through, I thought to myself that if this palace and it's larger companion across the way were ever to be refurbished, that would be a day when we would no longer be needed in this country.  When the Afghans can put together the planning, technical expertise, and funding to pull off a restoration project of this magnitude, it will be long after the conflict currently underway.  If I ever come back to Afghanistan in the future, I hope that this will be the case.  

As I write this I am less than two weeks from the end of my tour and departing Afghanistan.  There's not going to be a lot I miss about this place.  But experiences like these are going to be one of them.

All for tonight.  Out here.

Turkey Day

 Part of the Thanksgiving feast at Camp Eggers.  Yum.

Today is a day for remembering what you have and not taking those things for granted.  It's about family and fellowship and, of course, turkey.  I had fellowship with my friends.  My family is 7,000 miles away.  I actually skipped the turkey in favor of rather delicious ham.  The last check mark is giving thanks, so...

I am thankful for:

 

- 22 hours off work.  The duty day ended at 1500 on Thursday, and our customary morning off on Friday is still in effect.  That means I get ALMOST one whole day off.  What a luxury.

 

- My thoroughly awesome office mates.  We've been with each other 14 hours a day for almost 5 months and we still haven't killed each other.  We all share a similar sense of juvenile humor, which makes the day go by much easier and much faster.  I really don't think I could have picked a better group to spend my deployment with.

 

- Good security.  The only times I've had to wear my body armor were either voluntary or for a practice drill.  There have been very few incidents in Kabul during my time here, and none of them serious. 

 

- Friends that push me to work out.  Hitting the gym isn't something that do for fun in my spare time, and I don't have the discipline to stick with a routine that causes me pain on a regular basis.  Having buddies to push me to do better has been key to me getting in better shape.

 

- The forethought to load Arlo Guthrie's "Alice's Restaurant" on my iPod.  It just isn't Thanksgiving until I listen to that song.

 

- Freedom from Christmas songs.  I can't STAND to listen to Christmas music anytime before Thanksgiving or after New Year's.  My family, on the other hand, would listen to them all year long if allowed.  They are taking full advantage of my absence in this respect.  They even put up the tree last weekend.  Don't get used to it guys.  

 

- Quality Thanksgiving entertainment.  Namely, the Today Show on NBC broadcasting live from Camp Eggers.  It was pretty cool to walk past the cameras, the crowd of people trying to get on TV, the reporter, etc, then watch the scene on TV while eating dinner.  

Today Show correspondent Lester Holt prepping for a report from Camp Eggers.

 

- PS3s and 50" TVs.  Combined with people who have never played video games, hilarity ensues.  

- Only 17 days until my convoy leaves Camp Eggers!  Then begins the waiting game on flights to get home.  I have hope that I'll get home before Christmas, but trying not to get those hopes too high, as there is still a pretty good chance that I'll be in Kuwait instead.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone.  Stay safe on the roads, stay sane on the shopping trips.

Out here.

Meager Gestures

 Sorrow wears a sweater.

America is rich.  Even our poor people have enough access to food to become fat.  In the midst of financial crisis and high unemployment, it's easy to forget how blessed we are to live in the land of the free and the home of the brave.  But when confronted with poverty of great severity, the disparity between ourselves and others becomes all too apparent.

Consider this.  The average yearly salary for a worker in Afghanistan is around $400.  Yearly.  Salary.  Consider also that a house (like you and I think of) in Kabul costs hundreds of thousands of dollars because of international agencies and Coalition contract money driving up the price.  The high cost of living combined with the low earning potential makes Kabul ripe for class disparity.  The rich are very rich, by Afghan standards, and the poor are very poor, by any standard.  We are fortunate to be in a position to help.

The Volunteer Community Relations (VCR) program at Camp Eggers takes donations of clothes, school supplies, toys, and toiletries and arranges opportunities to distribute these items to the neediest of the needy in Kabul.  Every week, volunteers come together to sort the items by age group, size or category, and parcel out the items into equal portions.  About once a month, the organizers put together a convoy to visit a local refuge camp or an orphanage or other area where these items are needed.  To be eligible to go out on one of these missions, you must have participated in at least one VCR sort, and those that haven't been on a mission previously get preference over those that have for filling the spaces.  It's a good way to get out of the office, get off camp, and assist in doing the local folk some good.

 An Air Force officer showing the kids pictures of themselves on his digital camera.

Minds = blown.

The mission that ran most recently was entitled Operation Get-Ur-Done.  No, I'm not kidding.  It was actually rather appropriate.  This mission had been canceled four times due to planning snafus.  The chaplains office has primary responsibility for the VCR program, augmented by other volunteers.  Everyone involved has their "real" job to do, making finding time to organize VCR stuff difficult.  The people in charge of planning these missions also have very little mission planning experience, making it take longer than it really should.  An infantry officer would be able to do this stuff in his sleep, but a chaplain, not so much.  A site must be found, surveyed for security purposes, traveling routes planned, security escorts coordinated, vehicles reserved, passenger information gathered, mission briefing planned, mission briefing given, cats herded, all before a single item can be given away.  All of this must be done on top of the sorting and the packaging of the actual goods.  It's a lot of work, and it's a testament to the dedication of the volunteers that it gets done at all.

This mission was to be fairly large with five fully loaded SUVs and a box truck to carry the goodies.  We were visiting a refuge camp that houses people from the southern region of Afghanistan, people that had lost their homes or their livelihood in some fashion or another.  The booty was 90 trash bags full of stuff.  This wasn't enough to give one bag to each family living in the camp, so the group running the camp held a lottery, drawing names of 90 families to receive aid.  It's unfortunate we weren't able to supply something for everyone, but we only do what we can do, and hope we have an opportunity to visit again in the future.  An added wrinkle to this mission was that instead of having an American infantry platoon provide security for us, we would be meeting up with an Afghan National Army (ANA) unit.  And not only were they going to provide security, they were bringing other items to give away to the refuges.  I was quite interested to see how this was going to turn out.

 An ANA soldier stands guard from the bed of his pick-up truck while 

children watch from the window.

The drive to the camp took about 20 minutes through the heart of Kabul.  On the way to the camp, we passed by the Iranian Embassy, which was an interesting experience.  Seeing the guards standing guard outside the gate and knowing that they could be guarding any number of things designed to disrupt Coalition efforts in Afghanistan made my skin crawl a little.  I was lucky enough to be seated next to a local resident that served as an interpreter for Camp Eggers.  He was able to point out several things in the city that we would have missed otherwise, and answer questions we had about the things we did see.  As it turned out, he only lived about three blocks from the refuge camp, and he apologized profusely for not being prepared to have us come and visit his home.  For all the things the Afghans aren't, one thing they are is hospitable.  These people will give until they bleed and ask if you'd like seconds.

On arriving at the camp, I was rendered speechless.  The dwellings where these people were living were clay brick huts, clearly hand-built, with a tarp for the roof.  While this by itself wasn't really that surprising, the juxtaposition of these mud huts next to a ten-story apartment building was striking.  The camp appeared to have been built on an empty field in the middle of a city of 2.5 million people.  Coming from America where zoning laws and building codes and public health regulations and any number of other things would render this little shanty town illegal, it was hard to screw my mind into the reality staring me in the face.

 The road leading away from the refuge camp into the nice part of town.

Unfortunately, I was too gobsmacked to take pictures of the camp itself on the drive in, 

and we weren't in a position to see the camp during the distribution.

 The ANA set up their perimeter and brought in the supplies they had to distribute while we got the box truck in the right spot and got the bags ready to hand out.  Someone produced a rope and stretched it across one end of the road for the people to line up behind.  There were kids crawling all over the place to see what we had brought for them.  I'd dealt with kids in two different spots in Afghanistan before this trip: the German school, and the street outside ISAF.  The school kids are clean, well kept and well mannered.  The street kids are dirty, persistent, and prone to picking pockets if they think they can get away with it.  The kids at the refuge camp were filthy beyond belief, very polite, and genuinely glad to see us.  Not in the "Yay!  I can make money off you today!" way of the street kids, but in the ecstatic, bubbly, hyper-curious way children act on Christmas morning.  Most of them were dressed in clothes from America, obviously handed out to them by some organization once upon a time.  I was glad we were here to help them further, but the supplies seemed so meager for a need so great.  I wished we could do more.

If sandals are all you have, you wear them.  Even when it's muddy.

Once the distribution started it was bedlam.  The people getting supplies were orderly, waiting their turn to have their hand marked with a sharpie before being allowed to cross the rope to the truck.  Everyone else was going nuts.  There was a small trench near the road where people were walking back and forth, climbing the low dirt wall to see if they could convince someone to give them something, even though they weren't one of the ones in line.  There were kids just curious to see what was going on, underfoot like an annoyingly adorable kitten.  There were herds of goats being ushered through our midst.  But through all the madness, the ANA were amazing.  They took charge of the distribution, not only of the stuff they brought, but of the stuff we brought as well.  The Camp Eggers crew was quickly but politely brushed aside to let the Afghans pass out the aid to their countrymen.  Which ended up being perfectly fine with me, as I got to snap away on the camera and take in the scene.

 An Afghan girl collecting supplies for her family.

To only be able to help 90 families was hard.  Judging by the size of the camp, there were at least several hundred families living here, I wanted to be able to help them all.  Sadly, it was not to be.  The supplies disappeared quickly, and were soon gone, spirited away on the backs of children, women and old men (very, very few working age men came to pick up supplies, interestingly) into the mouths of clay huts.  As we loaded back into our cars, some of the kids gathered around the vehicles asking for pens or candy.  One old man made it very clear through pseudo-sign language and charades that he was hungry and wanted us to give him food.  But we pulled away, aid tapped for the time being.

Stinky, smelly goats being herded through the distribution.  I had to laugh.

 And the goat herder.  His flock of twenty or so animals was completely under control.

The experience was rewarding, and definitely something I needed to see.  I understand now why they give mission preference to people that have only been to one VCR sort over the people that have been twenty times.  Seeing poverty and sorrow and strife on TV or in a magazine doesn't punch you in the gut like it does when you see it first hand.  True recognition of our privileged existence requires staring into the face of a child who doesn't know where his next meal will come from.  Going on one mission is all you need to want to help out in anyway you can.  

A few days after the mission, my Little One had a birthday.  She turned four.  I was able to "attend" the party through Skype and watch her and her friends make crafts, eat cake and ice cream, and, of course, open presents.  As I watched her rip open her packages, dwelling on each box only long enough to absorb what she had received before moving on to the next one, I was overwhelmed by how lucky my little girl was.  She had a warm home that wasn't made out of mud, a full belly, the beginnings of an education, and not a care in the world, beyond whether or not the present she wanted was in the box with the blue paper or the purple paper.

I tried to imagine what the toys and money being lavished on my daughter would mean to the little girls huddled together for warmth in the refuge camp.  How many meals would that money buy them?  How many nights would they be kept warm and dry by the clothes being unwrapped?

I wondered if their wildest dreams even approached my little girl's reality.

Somehow, I doubted it.

*****

If you have any items you wish to donate to the VCR program, box it up and send it to:

VCR Program (Pool House)

Chaplain's Office NTM-A/CSTC-A

APO AE 09356

Donations accepted include clothing, toys, school supplies, toiletries and other hygiene items, diapers, etc., etc.  Think about what you'd donate to a homeless shelter.  Those items will be welcome.  Try not to send anything with pigs or a religious message, as these will not (and actually cannot) be distributed.   And DON'T put the word "Afghanistan" ANYWHERE on the box.  If you do, the box will get kicked into the Afghan mail system instead of the military mail system and will never be heard from again. 

In addition to the Afghan outreach, VCR also sends boxes to soldiers on remote operating posts around the country.  Magazines, microwave popcorn, old DVD movies, and anything else you think a soldier in the mud would relish are welcome as well.  Many of the places around the country don't have a store to shop at, so they depend on home for resupply of all the good things in life, like Gold Bond and clean socks.  Trust me, you'll make some grunt's day.

That's all for tonight.  Out here.

The Ghar

Kabul Military Training Compound on the left, Kabul on the right,

and some very tired LTCs in the front.

As a rule, they don't let us out much here at CSTC-A.  There's not a lot of need for operations research analysts to go out on convoys around the city, and definitely not outside of the city.  So it's fairly exciting to get out of the office for some "R&R".  Well, only the second part of that term is applicable in this case.  There was definitely no resting.

"Ghar" is the Dari word for "mountain".  The spot we call The Ghar is a relatively small pile of rock on one of the Afghan National Army (ANA) training sites just on the outskirts of Kabul.  Groups from CSTC-A used to organize trips to hike to the top fairly often, but the approval procedure changed a few months ago, making it a lot more difficult to put together.  My predecessor had climbed several times, but I'd been here for almost 5 months and still hadn't gotten to go.  Thankfully, one of my office mates got to be buddies with the aide of the approving authority and was able to get a Ghar trip cleared.  As the adage goes, it's not what you know, it's who you know.

Friday mornings are the only suitable time to go climbing a mountain.  Fridays are the low battle-rhythm day, meaning no work until 1300.  It's a chance to sleep in, recharge the batteries, go do some shopping at the bazaar and generally relax.  Having the work day start that late gives time to travel, climb, return, rest and recharge before the job begins again.  Unfortunately, this means waking up at 0415 on my sleep-in day.  Boo, times two.  We met up at the parking lot at 0500 for a final briefing before rolling out at 0530.  Security precautions necessitated multiple groups of cars along multiple routes all meeting at the same place around 45 minutes later.  We started hiking up the slope just as the sun was peaking through the clouds on the horizon.

Here comes the sun, doo-do-do-dooo...

Now, I've been working out 6 days a week while I've been here, weightlifting for the past few months.  My body has changed shape, and I feel pretty good about myself.  

Then the mountain decided to serve me some humble pie.  

Total ascent on this "relatively small" mountain was around 1,000 feet.  I'd climbed maybe 50 when my lungs and I had to have a little chat.  They were filing formal complaint about being used so strenuously somewhere where the air was so thin.  In their opinion, I should turn back now before they go on strike and make me pass out.  There were threats on both sides, but I won out in the end by offering frequent breaks on the way up.  I'm just glad they didn't have a union.  Seeing the coup I won over my lungs, my legs' protest was fairly weak, as they knew my determination was no match for their pathetic whining.  They made their objection, it was noted in the log, then I beat them into oblivion to drive home the point that I would not be denied a summit.

The path up the slope was not always apparent, often times requiring scrambling hands and feet over large rocks, or trying to climb up little, loose, sliding pebbles.  There weren't any rock walls to scale or anything, but it wasn't exactly a gentle hike either.  My method of ascent was to pick a big rock up the mountain a ways, set a goal to reach it before taking a break, then push my goal back to the next big rock instead.  I knew if I didn't push myself I wasn't going to get up the mountain fast enough to have time to enjoy the top.  That worked out pretty well for me.  In no time I was nearing the crest, raising my head over the rise to see the end...

Wait a minute.  Why are people still walking around the corner?  Where are they going?  Don't they know this is the end?  Let's just follow them and see what's over h-...awwww, crap....

The mountain had tricked me.  Complete fake out.  From the base, the spot I was standing on clearly was the top.  Now from the "top", clearly there was more mountain to climb.  /fume.  Trudge, trudge, trudge, trudge, pant, pant, pant, pant, top in sight, nearing summit, keep moving, keep moving....

Now what is this?  Seriously, I'm at the top this time.  Where is everyone?  Wait, what's over here?  Oh, you've got to be kidding me...

Just as deceiving as a low-down dirty...deceiver.

I can't explain how soul crushingly terrible it was to find out that the mountain had made a fool of me again.  I mean, c'mon!  False endings are an annoying gimmick in a movie or a song, but they're downright infuriating on a friggin mountain.  So, once again, I'm climbing, climbing, this time I can see a crowd of people at the top so I know I'm actually nearing the end.  And those two stupid fake endings made reaching the real one all the more sweet.

 The CJ7 gang at the top of the Ghar.  No, the anonymous one is not in the picture.

The view from the top of my newly conquered mountain was pretty amazing.  On the south side of the mountain was Kabul and the Army training grounds.  The city looked like quite the sprawl, as it should be, home to around 3 million people and all.  The thing noticeably different about this city was the lack of tall buildings.  Even in my relatively small hometown of Kansas City, home to around 1 million people, there's a couple dense clusters of skyscrapers.  Kabul might be lucky to have a building that tops 10 stories.  On the north side was the valley leading away to the mountains that eventually blend with the Himalayas some 300 miles from here.  The landscape was dotted with defensive fighting positions for armored vehicles, though whether they were an extension of the training grounds or left over from the British or Soviets I do not know.  I took a hometown newspaper up the mountain with me, and a card from a kid in New York named Jack who's class sent us letters and candy.  I also took pictures of my girls, and took pictures of their pictures on top of the mountain.  Even if they couldn't be there in body, I brought them there in spirit. 

Left to right, Daughter Prime, Wallflower, and Little One, at the top 

of the Ghar in Afghanistan.  Sort of.

After an all-too-short stay at the peak, it was time to head down and back to Camp Eggers.  Whereas the ascent saw my lungs and legs complaining, the descent was the cue for my toes to join the whining.  Good balance on my toes was the only thing that kept me from rolling down to the bottom in more than a few spots.  Finding that balance in combat boots is not simple.  I breathed a thankful prayer that there are men out there better than I that volunteer to hike these mountains carrying 50+ pounds of armor, weapons, ammo and other gear in search of the enemy.  I didn't have a true appreciation for the difficulty of that task before.  I do now.

 Me in my body armor on the way back to town.  Very happy

I only had to carry the pistol on the ascent. 

The ride back to Eggers was interesting in its own right.  On the way to the Ghar, the sun wasn't even up, so it was dark and there weren't a lot of people around.  On the drive back into town, the streets were packed.  It was, after all, Friday morning.  Friday is the Muslim holy day, and while traffic was reduced from typical levels, more people were out on the street than I had seen during my two previous trips through town.  Lots of shopping was going on at the roadside fruit vendors and butchers.  Sadly, the burger joint looked closed.  No, I'm not kidding.

Apparently we've brought our bad eating habits with us from America.

The Ghar is one of the best experiences I've had during my time here.  We get to spend quite a bit of recreation time together as a group, but it's so much more satisfying when you can go somewhere besides the office or the dining facility to do it.  We're planning to go once more before I head home, some time in early December.  It looks possible that my replacement will actually be on the ground by then.  Hopefully that is the case, as that would be pretty cool to hike to the top with a co-worker from back home.  We'll just have to see.  

Coming up next, more exciting adventures outside the walls of Camp Eggers.  Stay tuned.  That's all for tonight.  Out here.