week 13 - R&R

Wrote this one in several sessions--different amounts of sipping too… the mood may vary a bit.

Heard this song in my head a lot out there...

The recent world summit at Lisbon is being hailed as the most important conference in NATO history.... a call to learn from history and cease the temptation to abandon Afghanistan now that for the last 10 years we’ve played right into the enemy’s plan by being there in the first place. Calling the bluff of a radical movement which holds no borders and does not represent itself as any single sovereign entity. A mass of vehemently rooted ideals formed under a cauldron of poverty, isolation, and single-mindedness, but gently guided by the hands of a few elite wealthy (still talking about the terrorists here). And united the world now stands to keep a very loose stake firmly held into the biggest mud pit concocted in recent decades. A finger stopping a very large leak from forming… yet eager with hope to allow a clot to form so that we (and not others) may harness some very, very rich resources underneath the dry, itchy, skin

What does all this really mean? Well, the Colonel who directs the NATO international security coop in Kabul has to drag the bum Captain in his office out of the mudpit and up to NATO to follow up on the big Lisbon talks. It’s gonna be a rough work week.

Mirf does Mons (a tale of war, which is an ugly thing)

Opening shot: beer and waffles

Camera fades, and cut to a runway… dust is blowing across the shot. A subtle screech slowly increases in volume until an airliner rolls through the scene. Cut to a close-up of a cigarette hanging from a disgusting set of lips.

One dusty day in “the stan,” two elite soldiers are dropped off at the Kabul International Airport. Their mission: leave the country posing as civilians, but without using passports. The enemy: the most FUBAR ticketing, customs, security, and boarding process known to man. A pristine facility manned by absolute professionals and boasting the highest standards of efficiency and impartialness is not located at Kabul airport. And the two “civilians” trying to skip the country have crew cuts, camouflage printed backpacks, and one of them decided to wear his combat boots on travel day, in case some arse kicking is in order on this dangerous mission.

One of the soldiers is a very distinguished commander. A personality and posture forged under decades of battle followed by long stints near and behind enemy lines as an Army foreign area officer, defense attaché, and arms inspector. He holds in his possession the coveted “master” ID badge only bestowed to a few elite members of the coalition in central Asia, on the back of which reads something along the lines of “this individual is not to be messed with—EVER (under penalty of a huge arse kicking)—and may have access through any checkpoint he sees fit.”

The other soldier has been forged through years of Microsoft PowerPoint and Excel, isn’t even in the army, but is a Libra, likes long walks on the beach, and watched every episode of GI Joe to get ready for this assignment. His badge is a little different. It’s an ugly color, and there are stripes all over it calling immediate attention to it, and on the back it says something along the lines of “we had to give this guy SOME kind of ID… but this thing does not authorize the bearer facility access, weapons, ammo, vehicles, snack bar, combat air support, PX privileges, the use of a cell phone, calling card, internet, morale tent, dining facility, or THROUGHFARE THROUGH INTERNATIONAL AIRPORTS.”

The Colonel makes it through customs. I don’t.

The Colonel watches people boarding the plane. He turns around and sees me talking to the customs agent with my hands. The customs agent disappears with my orders and I am standing there trying not to laugh at the buffoonery that we KNEW was going to ensue before this trip. He sees the pit boss emerge from the tv room to deal with me. The pit boss looks over my orders while blowing lots and lots of cigarette smoke in my face, from a disgusting set of lips. The Colonel thinks “time to get on the plane, my boy is screwed.” I hand the pit boss my military ID (my REAL one, not the stupid ugly badge), and in a polite voice threaten to have his job. He gives the ID back and walks away to think about it. I see the Colonel fidgeting closer to the gate, and I make a decision. I walk back to the original customs agent. I whip out my passport (they pre-briefed us to never do this). I threaten to have the entire customs staff put in prison for eternity, tell him to stamp the passport, take a copy of my orders, and let me through so I can proceed with my mission to save his country.

The Colonel and I run to the gate. We commandeer a shuttle and race down the tarmac towards the jet, which has relocated to another boarding area to wait for ground clearance. They roll out the stairs and open the door so we can get on. Guess the cat’s out of the bag at this point. I stretch out on the seat, take off my military boots, curl my toes, and pass out.

This is a huge black horse. And the tallest building in the world. To fantasize about BASE jumping off that thing... makes me hungry.

Chow and a tea at a ski lodge? While it’s 90 degrees outside

Dubai, where people have billions of dollars to make weird stuff real

After another half day of rugged traveling, we were inserted deep into enemy territory…

I miss my old broomball team back in Ohio: SUPER MONKEY RUCKUS!!! Everyone, meet the Mons Monkey… Mons Monkey, keep waving your angry fist at everyone

We needed to survey our surroundings. In the spirit of finding tall objects on this trip, I charged the big hill with the Col and his just-arrived wife (I definitely need to marry a woman who likes to travel). We went right after the bell tower, then hung out in some old WWII entrenchments.

Our cover involved staying at a really nice hotel. My actual room was even more romantic than my bathroom. Unfortunately the government forgot to provide a beautiful female spy to help my story. She would have been bored anyways watching me analyzing beer and chocolate every night.

The next morning, as I was carefully staking out a suspicious waffle stand, WikiLeaks revealed my mission, and the Facebook “where am I exactly right this instant” thing nailed my location, and next thing I knew ninjas on motorcycles were coming after me. Luckily, I had studied a 12 minute YouTube Russian parkour video before this trip, which allowed me to avoid some gnarly stars and a roundhouse or two. I landed on one of the bikes and just rode and rode towards the horizon, the shimmering orange sunrise reflecting against my pupils. I ran out of gas right exactly at this spot in a subway bus stop.

It had been nice to ride a boxer beemer again… I missed my old girl dearly and this ancestor brought back a wave of compartmentalized memories and feelings. She and I had done some miles together back in the day. Most of the states, the Rockies, Ozarks, Smokies, Baja, the Dragon, the ring of fire, the cannonball run, the iron butt. She had kept a lookout for bears when we camped together and was always ready to go when I felt like screaming into the wind. She wasn’t fast, but she was loyal, and comfortable, and I had loved our short time together on this world.

And this, her spiritual sister, saved me from monkey-hating ninjas and let me know that I was safe for the time being… to hide out in this big city

Figured I could disappear in this jungle for at least a day. I hadn’t had a good walk in a while and felt the need to put in some miles. Once again, I set out for high ground

Upon entering a quiet park, I paused and put my hand on the ground. I listened to the gentle rustle of the leaves making their final end-of-fall flutters towards the earth. I breathed in and closed my eyes and took in all that the world had to offer my senses. With a clear mechanism, the tiniest glints of light, the subtle deltas in sound frequencies produced by the fluidly changing air pressures surrounding me in this ether of chill November air—the heat slowly dissipating from my warm core, being donated to the universe from an imperfect black body… it all was real, and soothing, and poetic.

When I opened my eyes I was surrounded by gypsies

I guess I don’t have the Force

I ran… and ran… they wanted money… for food, for an operation for their father’s cousin’s pony… for some new gold teeth. They cooed their begs in a chorus of undulating chants… forming a primal sound like something you would hear at the dawn of time in the savannah. Persistent, steady, orchestrated, flocking.

It was as if the falling leaves froze in space… time slowing down for everything but me and that ghastly wave of hands and voices, always at fingertip distance, gently chiming in my eardrums… trying to convince me to give up, to stop running, to accept fate. I swatted the leaves out of the way… I used my forearms as hammers and shattered through the crispy frozen air, through the gray that was trying to envelop me… and I emerged from the park, and found a way to gain altitude.

The rugged high altitude regions of the Hindu Kush back in Afghanistan present the ideal environment for creating some of the fiercest warriors on the planet. Hours every day spent training and surviving in that element create hulking musculatures, powerful hearts, and giant lungs. I consider sitting in front of a computer, drinking shit loads of coffee, and taking a flight of stairs into the office every day a tough training regimen. The climb up this dainty tower would be nothing in comparison to my rough life in Kabul.

There were firefighters in New York almost 10 years ago who ran MILES lugging 100 lbs of gear, then UP those multiple octaves of floors to get people out of those towers… if that day had not happened, I wouldn’t be climbing these stairs. But if I weren’t climbing these stairs right now… right at this moment, I wouldn’t be thinking about those men and women

There are things you have to do sometimes… drinking overpriced bubbly on top of the E.T. is pretty neat.

Now I have to interject with introspect… a pause from this already tangential rambling about the world, albeit a semi-flowing story with pictures. I would never want everyone to understand every phrase, every poem, writings and lyrics, quotes and references, but writing helps me remember. So here it goes: Standing in sub-zero temperatures several hundred feet above Paris, before deciding I would write any of this, before taking most of these pictures, but sipping on a cool drink (and one designed to clear mental blocks) and watching the people and things around me… I made a decision that I believe is going to change my life forever. It’s not great, and it’s not horrible. It is merely a turning to face the elephant that’s been walking by my side for decades now, and realizing it is there.

How was that? Well, the dude in that picture definitely has a shit-eating grin. What the heck man, don’t ruin a story with statement that way! Well there’s this one other thing I need to mention too. But I’m going to tie it back to my tale of war in just a second, so bear with me… the one final piece of this cosmic interruption, this realization, pause, coming to, eye opening… is the leap. The jump. The freefall. Every big thing is tied to the jump that follows. A career change, marriage, kids, dream chasing, letting go… sacrifice. You can leap off, enjoy the silent plummet, pull your parachute (of course)… and sometimes you still wake up in the E.R. And the scar becomes a part of you

There I was, there I was, there I was… I heard the moans and chants below, ever present, judging and condescending and sticking me—HARD—with false guilt. I had to escape those damn gypsies. I paused to study the city, memorizing every street, every curve, every detail of every building… constructing a cognitive map like a rat in a maze. I knew the only way to disappear for good was to blend in and go underground. And do it quickly. Finding my chi, I threw my pointy plastic champagne glass to the side (this happened in slow mo as well in order to commence the badass escape sequence). Continuing in a graceful display of flexibility, strength, and coordination, I doffed my extra extra large fake Afghan NorthFace jacket and sent it flapping through the sky, eclipsing the sun for just a moment from those in the immediate vicinity… creating just enough of a distraction. As the nameless crowd was mesmerized by the large loose black jacket forming various unorganized forms of living origami as it chaotically unraveled in a whim of choppy breeze, dancing against gravity, rocking as if it were a soft fluttering yoyo on the end of an invisible string with a giant providential hand giving it the occasional pull, I continued this run-on sentence by shimmying over “the wire” and looking for a landing site (with no trees).

And then

I jumped

And after giving into the relative well of potential created by the earth’s mass, after tracking the invisible bend of space and time which we feel as gravity, after my acceleration with respect to the universal reference frame immediately pegging at an exact perfect zero… gliding through the air for 4 or 5 minutes—because in the movies the skydiving sequences are always crazy long—a big beautiful canopy popped open over my head… attached to the rig I had been hiding under my huge jacket just 4 or 5 minutes before.

And to my surprise, the chute, which I had bought pre-packed at Target (NOT Walmart) and thus hadn’t even known what it looked like, was beset with beautiful patterns of blue and yellow fabric… the two most pleasant colors to the human eye according to psychological research. And on the top was embroidered the phrase “screw you gypsies”

As I dumped the gear into some bushes, my jacket gently landed next to me, just like in that scene where Indiana Jones goes off the cliff in a tank and his hat comes back for him. I walked away into the brisk evening, towards a spot where I could blend in for a little while

And then I went underground

Now THAT’s a knife

And a couple flat bits I liked:

Vernet

Biard

That one’s for my friends who just ran the ultra in Antarctica

While hiding underground, I did convince the most beautiful woman in the world to let me grab a picture with her. As usual, couldn’t score a number

As night fell, duty called, and I started the journey back across the border

After eating a lot of food

Reading a book on a train

Sleeping on a train

That distinct double-double sound as the car’s iron wheels clank over a rail crossing… cada, cada!

Back in Mons

Love those quiet night walks

While I was trying to score a date with a painting in Paris, the Col and his wife went to Bastion. Her parents’ neighbor fought in “the war.” They found one of the villages he was assigned to protect over sixty years ago. Wow

Cut

Within one hour of entering NATO Supreme Headquarters—a ‘60s era building with pictures of Eisenhower speckled all over the walls—I again found myself, as I have many times on this assignment, as the only captain sitting in a room where there should not be captains. This time it was coffee in the supreme allied commander’s office. The various colonels in the room discussed policy, strategy, international issues… you know, colonel stuff… and I practiced crossing my legs European style for a half hour. I eventually started mirroring every leg movement that the colonel on my left was doing… every folding and unfolding of the leg as it draped over its counterpart, every twitch of the ankle. Eventually the colonel on my right started mirroring me. We were this odd row of three grown men, sunk into a plush leather couch, sipping coffee with our pinkies in the air, moving our legs in unison, while one of the world’s most important generals solved life’s problems with us.

Then it was upstairs to the vaulted war room, the grisly core of the coalition… the heart pumping blood through NATO’s veins [arteries, whatever]. They were very excited to have someone as low ranking as me at HQ. Apparently I knew how to use a computer… now before you say something like “Dan, you don’t even know how to do shit on facebook”, let’s not dismiss that in a Cold War era command office, the one who can operate Microsoft office products is king. But that’s not what they were most excited about… goodness no. The pinnacle of my deployment, my single-handedly most important contribution to the war on terror? I got to fetch print jobs for all of them down at the end of a 100 yard hallway for the entire week.

I probably don’t need to mention that Belgium does a few things right

Or that Mons is a college town and even a weeknight in December will include shenanigans.

Or that I like steaks… big red steaks

Thanks again Col for dragging me out on this spectacular trip

One of our last nights in Belgium, we went to a German officer’s house and ate Italian food with a Frenchman and a Brit. There were no boundaries to the ribbing that ensued multiple crossways over the table. First the host’s story of how the Blitzkrieg was able to defeat the far superior French tank force. The Brit tried to hop across and help defend the Frenchman with some horsecrap story about the French being too proud to use Gerry cans to refuel their fleet… it was a futile effort and soon the German was lobbing jabs at the Brit while sliding the remaining Italian food to his side of the table. Then the Frenchman tried to pull me into the fight by explaining why Bernoulli and Eiffel were much more influential to the research community than the Wright Brothers; I kept my peace until we started talking about Japanese theme parks and how they’re becoming more popular than American ones. That angered me for some reason and I spent four or five minutes in heated banter with all players. Once the Italian food was consumed by us guests, the host in desperation insisted we try ALL his favorite German beers… fair enough. After our onslaught was slowed down, I decided the only appropriate way to end the conversation was to excuse myself to go to the bathroom and drop a giant bomb.

The hostess was an artist. Several of her paintings blended mountains against the female form. One in particular reminded me of Dead Woman’s Pass in Peru and my painful hike through it. Something about a naked woman pressed against the earth gives special meaning to climbing a mountain. Not all summits are made of rock… but a painful climb will yield painful lessons.

Horses in a gentle trot… become rigid and plastic… float into the night sky, each spinning in an arbitrary direction, a collaborative but slow explosion of artificiality, dispersed into the cosmos.

The carousel is gone, the carnies go on their way, and blue takes place.

And I see love, before flying back to the real war.

Mission accomplished.