Maybe it's because I've been anxiously awaiting care packages I know are on their way. Or maybe it's because I was hoping to see a fellow St. Louisian who happened to be in Kabul, just a short car ride from here, and it fell through. Or maybe it's just because I've been jones'n for hubba bubbba bubble gum (no worries, I have a line on some gum and I'm pretty sure it'll be in my possession before month's end. It's covered). I'm not exactly sure why, but this week everywhere I turn, I am reminded of both how far from and how very near I am to "home".
Let me explain. As is evidenced by the picture accompanying today's post, I am most certainly not in Kansas (or Missouri) any more. I live on Bagram Air Field in northeastern-ish Afghanistan in a plywood "tent". I work less than a mile from the "Air Field" after which the base is named. That means planes in the morning, planes in the afternoon and, yes, you guessed it, planes at night - sometimes mid-night. For the most part, the sounds become familiar background noise - like traffic on streets at home. But every once in a while, something really powerful will take off and it isn't just the sound of a plane leaving the earth, it's an entire experience. The noise fills you from the inside out and the air around you seems to press closer against you and you can feel that plane pushing to get off the ground. You feel victorious, somehow, when it succeeds.
Things like that remind me of how far I am from home. I always find myself smiling (it's still new - i'm still smiling) about the "differentness" of everything but, at the same time, comprehending the difference brings to mind the familiar. At least, for me.
Anyway, so here I am listening to helicopters coming and going, "feeling" planes take off, waiting for care packages, daydreaming about bubble gum, the whole nine yards when, while walking home to my wood tent, lo' and behold, what to my wondering eyes should appear? No, not a miniature sleigh (stay with me here) - I see two old Texans (this project is filled with Texans) sitting in their camp chairs on the concrete slab in front of the military issued work "container" they call an office - fine as you please as if they hadn't a care in the world except making sure the bar-b-que gets turned.
Since there is no alcohol allowed on base - there is no alcohol allowed in Afghanistan, for that matter - I couldn't share a beer with them. BUT, as providence would have it, I had just come from the post office and picking up a care package (!!!!!), so I shared the next best thing. That's right, I shared my chocolate with them. And they agreed that it felt just like a summer's evening at home. We didn't even talk to each other - we just stared at the mountains and ate our chocolate. Just me, two old Texans in camp chairs and dark chocolate easter candy. Right there in the middle of Afghanistan.
Alas, all good things must come to an end and mine came to an abrupt end moments later when one of the Bosnian women (known for their charm) from the project stepped out of her wooden tent onto a balcony above us wearing her bathrobe, slippers and, believe it or not, curlers in her hair seeking a light for her cigiarrette. That was more reality than I needed so I tossed her some chocolate and hit the pavement ... er, the gravel dust road. I didn't wanna give up my Hawthorne groove :)
I have learned of an Afghanistan Province (there are 34 provinces here - each with it's own unique story) that is known as "the home of the winds". I'll tell you more tomorrow. Until then, peace, love and hubba bubba original flavored bubble gum forever (don't bother sending me any - I already have some on the way. I'm sure of it).
No comments:
Post a Comment