Inches Apart, Worlds Away. (photo by Josh Rushing)There’s...

Inches Apart, Worlds Away. (photo by Josh Rushing)

There’s a great collection of photos on Foreign Policy from Afghanistan in the 1950s. The pictures are from Rajiv Chandrasekaran’s book: Little America: The War Within the War for Afghanistan.  The FP website describes the photo collection as, “Photos from a time when tiki bars and afternoons at the pool dominated the lives of Americans in Afghanistan.”

They reminded me of my last trip to Helmand Province, Afghanistan, in 2009. I embedded with the US Marines in what was one of the more miserable trips of my life. The heat was often near 130 degrees Fahrenheit and there was no electricity. We were sleeping in the dirt outside because the buildings continued to radiate heat like large clay ovens in the night. We were supposed to drink two dozen bottles of water a day that were also 130 degrees. It was like sipping coffee without the coffee when you already felt like you were on fire.

The only respite from the brutal conditions was a well that had been put in by US AID in the 1950s. My crew and I avoided the well at first for fear of bacteria or amoeba, but before long we were soaking our burned skins and dry throats in its cold flow. I’ll never forget that well and how such a small thing can make such big difference in one’s quality of life.

I’ll also never forget the base at Kandahar. We passed through it for only a matter of hours, but it seemed so telling about the US’s mission in Afghanistan. Rajiv’s title hits it on the head: Little America.

Here’s an excerpt from my observations there:

…We find out we are scheduled to depart on a military flight in the middle of the night. They need something to do with us for the next 10 hours. A master sergeant offers to take us to the social area of base. As we are driving across the enormous base, he gives us directions on how to get back to the dining facility for our evening rendezvous. We round a corner and he says, “Just remember when you get to the French cafe, take a left”. Clearly they don’t fight wars like they use to.

We drive past a coffee and doughnut shop, a Canadian hockey rink (sans ice) and a gym. Sand like talcum powder fills the air as does the sharp odor of boiling urine and baking feces from ubiquitous port-o-johns. Inside one such plastic stall, graffiti refers to the smell as “the persistent poop aroma”.

We go into the base store to pick up local SIM cards for our cell phones. Inside, soldiers in various uniforms from different NATO member countries shop for their war-time essentials, which by the look of the merchandise includes plenty of body building supplements and teddy bears, knives and flat-screen televisions.

We need to escape the heat, so we head to the computer lounge. They will not allow us in because we have bags. There is a rule, which we find out is another thing this base has plenty of, that says “no bags”. We go to an entertainment and recreation building. We hear it is air conditioned.  This time it is a double whammy, another rule - “no open-toe shoes”. I am in flip flops, my other shoes are in a bag the Marines stored for us. Our cell phones do not work, although it matters little because the number we are given for the Marines can only be dialed from another military phone. Finally we find such a phone and eventually our contact comes for us. We put our bags in his room and he gives me his running shoes to wear for the day.

So far the “hell” part of  “War is hell” seems completely self-imposed by uniformed bureaucrats, adult-hall monitors intent on ensuring soldiers wear ridiculous glow-in-the-dark belts as they walk around base and wash their hands before every meal. Perhaps, “War is kindergarten,” would be a more appropriate cliché, on this base at least.

In the MWR tent I sit on a leather couch that is so hot it puts the seat heaters in my car to shame. We have escaped the sun, but not the heat. I sweat profusely while writing “I sweat profusely”. Hundreds of soldiers watch TV, play pool and ping pong. A special area is set aside for what seems to be the most popular pastime. Two dozen black leather couches lie end-to-end facing flat screen TVs each hooked to a video gaming system. With real machine guns resting at their boots they play first-person shooter games. While not on real patrols they are on virtual patrols killing countless virtual bad guys and winning in contests where the idea of victory is clear and where there are no consequences for losing….

For the rest of the blog and more photos: click here.