Читать книгу Call of the Wild - Graeme Membrey - Страница 6

Chapter 1

Answering the Call

(1990 - Jan 91)

“It reminds me of the time, when I was in the wilds of Afghanistan, we lost all our provisions and had to live for 60 days on nothing but food and water.” This phrase had been attributed to the great American comic actor and total drunkard, W. C. Fields. I read this gaff in 1989 whilst still with the commando regiment in the Australian Army and I admit it made me chuckle. At the time, I was visiting the army headquarters in Canberra and this had been used on a poster as part of the army’s anti-alcohol campaign. Never did it occur to me that this saying would stay with me and in fact materialise into a five-year period inside Afghanistan. However, in this tome, I will refer only to those events and stories that occur in the very first year, in 1991, whilst I was on active duty with the army. A year where my world was turned upside down and inside out. It was a time of great learning and understanding whilst developing a serious interpretation of what life in other ‘worlds’ really meant.

It was a year of new adventures, some near misses and many opportunities to err and to soar. It was the start of a life cycle that I would never have imagined and yet still impacts me daily as I continue to live and work in high-risk locations around the world. Although Afghanistan was the first of many adventures in some of the world’s most dangerous places, it remains in my memory for its simplicity, yet innate sophistication. I loved my time in this hardened and often misunderstood country.

My time in Afghanistan came about through a close friend, a certain Lieutenant-Colonel Bill van Ree. I met Bill several times in the army but he was somewhat elusive and, as I was 5–6 years his junior, we never really got too close in those early army days. Bill was a highly regarded and successful combat engineer officer from Melbourne. I knew this, as I once saw his regimental number and noted that it started with the number 3 denoting he was from Victoria.

In those days, I remember seeing in the army newspaper, all the engineer officers and soldiers who were being posted for six months to Pakistan for mine clearance. Bill was one of them. I also saw dozens of other officers being posted for six or 12 months to training establishments in the US, or to the UK, or on United Nations observer missions to the Middle East, southern Africa and everywhere else. I was exasperated, as I never seemed to be in line for anything like this, yet my performance was equal if not better than most, or so I thought. Then one day, as I was in my unit in Perth, I received a ‘minute’ that said hitherto the Military Secretary staff were coming to Perth and that all officers from my regiment were to attend for a personal briefing. Excellent, I thought, as I really needed to get an overseas posting. Sure, I’d been to Tonga, Fiji, New Zealand and Nepal, but never on operations and never to a serious conflict zone. I felt like I was training for football all through the week and yet never getting selected for a game on Saturdays.

Now in those days the Military Secretary’s office was responsible for the higher level management of officers. I figured that it was these staff who you could argue with to either get you an overseas post, or to stop you going overseas, which I never ever thought would be a criteria I would need. So, when it was my time to eventually meet the Military Secretary staff, I was primed. I had rehearsed my ploy and was going to go in ‘angry’ and to complain bitterly about being left alone in Australia where I thought I’d be the last one to turn off the lights, because everyone else had been posted overseas. Well, that was my plan: simple and doable. But to make it more convincing, I thought I’d slap myself on the face a few times before I met my interviewing officer and think of some horrible things that had happened to me in the past. This actor’s methodology, I thought, would be ideal, and to make it more desirable I’d actually seen the same ploy used on TV many times before.

“Major Membrey,” I remember being called, and I stood up, shook my head, slapped my face and marched directly into the small interview room. In front of me was a senior colonel whom I knew a little from times in the Corps Mess in Casula, NSW, several years ago. He was a good man but I knew, in this post with the Military-Secretary, he would be very bureaucratic, and it did indeed start that way. He asked me a number of minor questions and showed me graphs to illustrate where I was sitting compared to many other officers and, to be honest, I was surprised to see I was edging into the top 15%. This suited me well, as I thought it would give me more ammunition to aim at him during my upcoming ‘rant’. He spoke of the necessities required for promotion to lieutenant-colonel and the myriad of ‘ticks in the box’ I needed, and more. Then, after all this, together with a few more power point graphs, it was my time to tell him what I thought of all he had said. I took a breath and started in my ‘aggressor role’, spouting all kinds of facts and figures and names and ranks of those who had gone where, and why, and more. I continued into my artificial, but somewhat convincing rant and rave about overseas postings when suddenly he interrupted me and said, “Oh, and I’d like you to consider a posting to the Iran-Iraq border as a military observer, as they have had recent chemical gas attacks and I’d guess you’d be highly suited to that type of condition. What do you think?” I was gob smacked. Had my rant worked or was this coming anyway? I didn’t care. I gulped, looked at him blankly and said, “What do you mean?” The colonel stared at me for a few seconds as if I was a zombie and then said slowly and calmly, “I’m offering you a United Nations military observer post in Northern Iran. Do you want it, or not?”

“Yes, yes sir. Many thanks sir. When does it start sir? When would I leave? What would be my role?” I replied, flabbergasted. He told me some detail that I can’t remember now, but he did say it would all be sent to me by paperwork during the coming week. I grabbed the colonel’s hand and shook it roughly as he stared. I then stepped back and saluted like I was a young cadet, broke out into a broad grin and yelled out, “Thank you,” as I looked towards the heavens. I was excited, amazed, enraptured and hyper-ventilating by the time I left the interview room. And as I did, I saw him smile broadly and chuckle as he turned away.

Well, here I was, the new ‘MO to the UN’ as I liked to hear my new post being described. In the coming few months I was to travel to Canberra for briefings, to Sydney for refresher course training and back to Perth for administration. I was as ‘proud as punch’ and as excited as ‘a puppy with two tails’. Shortly after, I was presented with new hi-tech walking boots, a range of civilian style backpacks and other high quality equipment through the army logistics staff for my imminent trip to Iran. First, I was to go to the city of Shiraz and then over towards the Iraqi border. I realised that if chemical gas was being used, and the intelligence photos I saw proved it had been, I would need a few more masks to take with me to throw at the desperate mob trying to chase me to get mine, if an attack occurred. So I surreptitiously acquired five additional gas masks and managed to get almost anything else I wanted. This was great, and I was primed and ready to depart.

In my Army Unit, we had some clever artists from within one of the sub-units and during the 3–4 administrative weeks before my departure, they often sent cartoons of my lookalike in funny situations in the gas fields of war. We had a lot of laughs over these. I was also able to wear my new, army-provided, hi-tech boots at work and all the unit knew of my upcoming post. I really did feel excited, privileged and somewhat useful.

Then, in September 1990, to my horror (though to the relief of the rest of the world), the Iranian President, Rafsanjani, suddenly signed a peace treaty with Saddam Husain and the Iraq/Iran war was over. In an instant, my six new gas masks and my new walking boots were no longer required. The UN had cancelled all the Military Observer (MO) postings to both countries whilst 14 other potential MOs and I were all disengaged. Stuck back with our units, once again.

My soldiers and fellow officers who were right behind me and saw how excited I was to be going also felt some remorse. Sincere thoughts of sympathy were sent my way. I really was discouraged. But at that time, and unbeknownst to me, the colonel from the Military Secretary’s office who had interviewed me for this post had also been informed. Apparently he had thought, “Don’t tell me, Membrey will be back whingeing again for another overseas post.” So he sought to find me another overseas post just to keep me quiet I suspect.

At about that time, Bill van Ree had returned from Pakistan as a demining adviser where he had met and got to know the head of the Afghan Technical Consultants (ATC) who were the largest demining group in Afghanistan. ATC was a large Afghan Non-Government Organization, or NGO. They deployed close to 1,000 Afghan nationals inside Afghanistan to undertake the complex and highly dangerous work of landmine clearance. ATC was based in Peshawar, Pakistan, but had several sub-offices and work sites throughout Afghanistan. The problem was that ATC deminers were trained by Australian and other international demining advisers in Pakistan, though none of these army men were authorised by their countries to travel inside Afghanistan to see them operate. Subsequently, no actual feedback or assessment as to how effective the training was could ever be made. So, Bill had concocted a vision of him returning to Pakistan, not as part of the demining training program but as the sole technical adviser for this NGO. This would enable him to work independently with ATC and to cross into Afghanistan unlike any other military persons who were required to remain clearly and solely in Pakistan.

But unfortunately for Bill, the grand plan he had developed and convinced the army’s senior management to support was about to go pear-shaped. Bill’s wife Maureen was dead against him going back to Pakistan, or to Afghanistan, and so after the post had been approved at the highest levels, Bill decided not to go. It was then that my name was dragged up by the Military Secretary’s office. My mentoring officer thought that I’d be just the right guy to replace Bill and so I was informed. Now for me, this was better than the MO post in Iran as this was for an entire year, not just six months. Better still, I could take my wife, Judy, at least to western Pakistan.

ooOoo

Sometime in about July 1990, as I lay lazily in my bed that Saturday morning, I realised Jude was up and about. I was hoping she would soon bring me a nice cup of tea, when suddenly she bounded back into the bedroom with a grin as wide as a Cheshire cat. I noticed she had something in her hand though clearly it was not my cup of tea. “What colour is that?” she burst out. I unenthusiastically accepted the thin tube-like device she thrust at me and looked. There were two mild stripes across a small opening in the tube that appeared to be red. It then hit me what was happening and I realised we were now confirmed to become Mum and Dad. By the time I heard of my new posting to Afghanistan, it was late 1990 and Jude was very pregnant. In fact, as we were departing Perth for Pakistan, she was five months into the pregnancy and it was showing. Both Jude and I were concerned this might interfere with the Pakistan posting and we remained terrified that, again, an opportunity for an overseas posting could be cancelled. But that did not come about, and I was eventually sent off by the Australian Army to Pakistan, with clearance to travel in Afghanistan as and when required.

ooOoo

Before we departed I was required to go through extensive pre-departure briefings in Canberra by the joint intelligence folk. During my first briefing, as I walked into the intelligence offices buried far below ground in the secretive domain of the intelligence world, I was with some other officers who were going to other overseas posts. The lieutenant-colonel who was to provide my specific briefing asked out loudly to us all, “Ok, who’s the silly fool being sent to Afghanistan?” to which I proudly said, “It’s me,” and was sent off separately for a long and detailed briefing. He told me of the warring groups, the unpredictability of Afghans, their history of fighting, the new terrorists groups training inside the Afghan borders and a host of other threatening scenarios. After he finished, I asked about carrying weapons and he simply said, “No.” I asked about emergency extraction and he said, “None.” I asked about life saving support and he said, “Look Graeme, this is a high risk posting. The Minister of Defence had to get the Prime Minister’s concurrence. But there really is no protection or support for you there. You’re basically on your own.” Now that is a hard apple to swallow when during all of your career, you spent a great deal of time determining the safety and care of your troops in combat or hardship. But to be honest, this new high-threat environment invigorated me. I realised someone had some confidence in me and at 33 years of age, I’d have to survive on my good deeds and with some good luck. I was ready to go!

ooOoo

Finally, the day of departure arrived and Jude and I had leased out our recently purchased house in Perth and were ready for the airport. We were both sitting on the floor of our house, with bags packed to our left and right, waiting for the taxi. The house was completely bare as all the furniture was now in storage. We chatted about how we really loved this place and recalled the work we had done to it, including the laughter we shared when we re-polished the timber floors and built the rear pergola and side fences … noting that I had forgotten the trailer was in the back yard and I needed a dozen soldiers to help me lift it back over the new fence. It really was a beautiful little house and we loved its broad rear garden.

Just then, across the other side of the room, from an in-the-wall oil heater that had been hidden by our couch, the head of a snake appeared. I stared and told Jude to look. We goggled at the snake. It was a long, dangerous brown snake called a dugite in Western Australia that is considered to be deadly. As it began to slither out into the room, Jude and I bolted upright and were ready to run, but it stopped. Its head moved back and forth with its tongue spitting in and out as it sensed our movements. Then, just as smoothly as it had slithered in through the heater, it reversed its movements and disappeared back into it. I looked at Jude in amazement and said, “Let’s get out of this crazy dump,” to which she replied, “I never really liked this place. Let’s sell it,” as we scurried outside to the now arriving taxi.

Later, at the airport, we eventually passed through check-in and immigration, then customs, to wait for our flight. We would catch the Qantas flight to Singapore, in business class thanks to the Australian Army, before changing over for the longer flight to Karachi. The real unknowns would then be waiting for us.

The adventure was just beginning.

ooOoo

We were one of the last passengers to board and the plane was really crowded, though it was to be only a short flight to Singapore before a stopover, then off to Karachi. As I sat down, a good looking stewardess came over and said, “Good afternoon sir. Would you like something to drink before take-off?” I was a bit taken aback and said, “Yes please. What have you got?” to which she responded quickly, “What would you like?” I knew then that I was in pseudo-heaven. So I had a glass of champagne and orange juice, and Jude, to my surprise, had a cognac. Just as I finished, the same lovely hostess came back, gave me a broad smile and took our now empty glasses as the aircraft began to be pushed back. I was feeling mighty relaxed and comfortable on my first real deployment overseas.

The next many hours were filled with the watching movies, more food followed a long sleep. At some point I recall being awoken by a soft pat on my shoulder and we seemed to be just 20 minutes from landing in Karachi. I forced myself to awaken quickly and started to go through the issues we might expect in Karachi. I got out our passports, filled in the immigration cards, and checked that indeed we were booked into the Sheraton hotel and that I had the on forwarding tickets from Karachi to Islamabad. All seemed good and I felt ready for the adventure to begin, though I really wanted to stay on this plane … forever. The food and service were so good I thought that perhaps I should become a permanent international business class passenger, though the practicalities of this might have been a concern. Finally, the aircraft tyres screeched again and there we were, in Pakistan.

ooOoo

For those of you who have been in this part of the world, you might understand how the situation might be, though in 1991 I can assure you it was much worse. The current Karachi airport was first opened in January 1994 and as this was still early 1991, we arrived to the old airport which was horrible. Jude and I said farewell to the Qantas crew and walked down the steps to an awaiting bus. It was old and dirty even though this was the business class bus. We arrived in the airport to join in with the crowding of hundreds of Pakistanis and others in similar clothing. All of them were shoving and pushing in huge groups, as they waved their passports and tried to force their way to be served by the immigration officers. No ‘stay behind the yellow line’ culture was given here. Well, I thought, nothing ventured, nothing gained, as I told Jude to stay right behind me and I joined the maddening throng. After what seemed an eternity, I managed to get our passports up to the immigration officer who was sweating profusely and seemed to also be having a bad day. Eventually we got through as the immigration officer violently stamped our passports, which were green ‘official’ Australian passports even though this had zero positive effect on the large sweating man. Then it was off to collect our bags. I wrestled with several other men to get hold of two rickety trolleys on which to load our several bags. The UN had given me additional money for extra baggage and Jude and I had five large suitcases, two of which were monsters and extremely heavy. I think we used all the extra baggage allowance as we were told our shipment may take several weeks to arrive in country and yet we still would have to live somehow. So we packed everything we could to take on the aircraft with us.

At the luggage turnstiles the locals seemed to permeate every spare piece of space as they pushed to get closer to the turnstiles. It was chaotic and totally inefficient as they not only blocked the vision of passing bags, but even they couldn’t swing off a bag and get it back to their trolley as just too many people were forced forward. After at least 20 minutes or more, I spied a couple of our bags and used my elbows and knees to get to them and bring them back to the trolleys. No one seemed to mind as I jostled and pushed others away. Finally, we got all the bags on the two trolleys and pushed our way towards the customs area. I looked at Jude and she had that grim determination look on her face and I knew she was OK, though I was still a little concerned as she was five months or more pregnant at the time. Everyone just seemed to walk through the customs check areas without concern or without being checked, so Jude and I did likewise. However, just then, a giant of a man came alongside me and said in excellent English, “Good evening sir and welcome to Pakistan. Please come over to the bench so that I might inspect your luggage.” I pushed our two green, official passports up to his face expecting to be released from his control, to which he just grabbed them, turned our first trolley away to the benches and that was that. Jude and I had to open each bag and then repack them after he lifted most of the items out and feigned interest. It took at least another 20 minutes to go through all the bags, even as I noticed hundreds of local Pakistanis walk directly by and out of the airport. As I closed the last bag, I was not a happy chappy! But, I kept my cool and we were allowed to pass. We then walked ominously towards the exit doors to the outside. From my travel pack sent to me a few weeks before, we were to expect to see a driver standing just outside the exit doors with a sign saying ‘Sheraton - Membrey’ on it. Yet, what Jude and I saw when we exited the concourse doors was something far different.

There in front of us was a sea of humanity with what seemed to be the entire population of the Sindh Province surging forward and grasping at us. The various signs being held up seemed to be in the local Urdu script and none appeared to have anything that remotely looked like ‘Membrey’. The crowding and jostling combined with the overbearing heat was incredible. It was almost 7 pm and yet the heat was palpable. Surely it must have been somewhere near 40 degrees Celsius.

Jude and I were amazed and perhaps a little in shock at the scenes now surrounding us. I called back to her over the deafening dull roar of the crowd, to keep her hands on her handbag. She yelled back, “You take care of your backpack!” With that, I looked down onto my trolley and the backpack wasn’t there. My brain revolted as I thought of the passports, cash, credit cards and travel authorities all missing. But then, almost at the same instant, I felt something on my back and I suddenly remembered I had put my backpack were it belonged. I was relieved but clearly it was not safe on my back, so I swung it down and onto my chest. The crowd was swarming and men kept grabbing my arm and yelling at me, asking if I wanted a taxi or needed a hotel. I kept my concentration and pushed forward with scant regard to any in front of me, and I could feel Jude’s trolley scrapping at my heels. After a minute or so we seemed to break free of the maddening crowd and although there were still hundreds of people running and walking back and forth, at least we could get together and hear each other talk. I said to Jude that we needed to find the Sheraton driver and that she should stay here with the trolleys and I would take just a few minutes to look and see if I could find him. Jude stared at me with her former military eyes and said plainly and without an expectation of a reply, “You are not leaving me here alone. We’ll both find him.” I had nothing more to say about that, and so we both moved off towards the parking area that seemed to be a likely place for the hotel taxis to be. We moved along the still crowded walkway until we came across a set of concrete stairs that rose up to the second floor where it appeared airport management offices were located. I stopped at the bottom of the steps and left the trolleys with Jude as I walked up 5–6 steps. From here I could see across the sea of black-haired heads. Just then, as if from the Gods above, I spied a neat looking, professionally dressed man striding towards us, through the crowds with his eyes aimed directly at me. He held up a sign with the letters I needed to see ‘M-E-M-B-R-E-Y’. I yelled down to Jude, “Here’s our guy!” and she swung around, broke out into a massive smile and held up both her hands waving.

“Good evening, Mr Membrey sahib. Good evening Ma’am sahib. My name is Danesh and I’m here to drive you to the Sheraton hotel.” His voice seemed like that from an angel at the time and I grabbed his hand, shook it firmly and said we were very glad to have found him. Danesh grabbed Judy’s trolley and we walked over to the car parking area where I saw a black, luxurious BMW. You have no idea how relieved both of us were as we got into the vehicle. It had been cooled by the air conditioning and with no more crowds, no more noise and no more tensions, we instantly relaxed. Danesh, by the way, was a very intelligent and worldly type of guy and we had some great conversation with him during the 30 minute drive to the hotel. Once there, Danesh jumped out, barked some orders in Urdu to the bell boys and then opened the door and guided us to the reception. As I told the reception staff our names and passed them our passports, Danesh came up to me and bent over politely whilst putting his business card into my hand. He said, “I hope you have a pleasant stay at the hotel, sahib, and if there is anything I can do, please just call me.” With that, Danesh skipped away back to his car and was gone. I didn’t have the chance to offer him a tip or anything, and he certainly didn’t seem to expect one. We need to meet up with Mr Danesh again, I thought.

ooOoo

Once in our room, Jude and I laughed and joked about the chaos and tensions we had just gone through and we realised this mission had only just begun. We ordered some snacks through room service, made a nice cup of tea and then slept deeply until late the next morning.

Lazily we went down to the last sitting of breakfast then returned to the room to watch television and just relax. But, by the early afternoon, we were both getting a little bored and decided a drive around Karachi city might be fun. Now the UN and the Australian Army had cashed me up with travel allowances and although I am usually a tight wad with my money, I realised this was a good time to spend some. So I waltzed down to the lobby expecting to have the concierge find me a suitable taxi for our city trip. But just then, I saw Mr Danesh and walked towards him. Danesh jumped up and said, “Good afternoon sahib. I hope you and Mrs Membrey had a good night at the hotel.” I asked Danesh if he was available to drive us around the city for an hour and he agreed. On asking the price he said $40 US dollars. Now this was quite expensive, but as I had plenty of cash and it was the UN’s money, I agreed and said we would be down within 10 minutes. Jude was very happy about having Mr Danesh again and soon we were on our way.

The drive was very interesting and Danesh told us about the history of the place and showed us significant features. But to me, the roads all seemed to look the same, with thick crowds, rubbish everywhere and signs I couldn’t read. But on we went. After a while Danesh asked if we’d like to go to the Karachi beach and as I had recently seen a show on the dismantling of huge ships on the beach not so far from Karachi, I got a little excited. However, the ship graveyards turned out to be several kilometres east of where we were and so we didn’t see them. The city beach was wide, broad and flat. It extended for several kilometres to the east and to the west and the sand was a dark black. I wondered if this was a natural colour or from oil pollution as there was a strange smell to it. The water also was a murky brown. Nobody was swimming, even though it was ghastly hot and few people were even on the huge beach. I thought of the comparison between here and Australian beaches where somebody will be swimming regardless of the season. Then, as we were about to move back to the car, I noticed a lone camel man and his animal walking along the beach, with a Pakistani woman and her kids on top as tourists. I thought this might be fun, though time was against us and we needed to get back to the hotel. I did not know then I would ride that exact camel the following year.

On our return to the hotel I realised it had been almost two hours since we left. I therefore asked Danesh how much I owed him and his curt response was, “$40 dollars as agreed sahib.” I was about to remind him we had been gone for nearly two hours but instead just put a $50 US dollar note in his hand and thanked him. He smiled and shook my hand, and we went back to our room, each of us satisfied.

The next morning we were up and at breakfast at 8am as our flight to Islamabad was scheduled for 11 am that morning. We had packed our bags and had the bell boys bring them down to the lobby as I paid the bill and looked for Mr Danesh. Sadly he wasn’t there and we were loaded into an old, dirty mini-van owned by the hotel. The driver was an unfriendly type of guy in contrast to Mr Danesh. Jude and I steeled ourselves for the maddening crowds again.

Once at the airport several trolley boys rushed to the van and tried to grab our bags, but our driver held them back and selected two to assist us. “No more than 15 Rupees each,” he said sternly to me, then got in the mini-van and drove off. We were on our own again. The two trolley boys, though, were very helpful and got us into the airport without incident and right up to the X-ray machines. I paid them both and without comment they left. Once through the machines we were sans trolleys, and so I grabbed a nearby, seemingly abandoned one. As we loaded it up, a Pakistani man in a suit came up to me and said this was in fact his trolley and he had just been waiting for his bags from the X-ray machine. I apologised and asked him if we could keep it pointing to Jude whose pregnant belly could not be missed. He was very nice about it, agreed and wished us both well. I admit I was a little surprised but very happy. Perhaps I was wrong about the Pakistanis, I thought, and this became an issue of contention in the following months.

ooOoo

Once past security, we checked in at the counter and headed to the lounge of Pakistan International Airlines. I later came to know that many expats and a large number of Pakistani joked about the airline’s acronym of PIA. Back in 1991 it was commonly known to stand for Personal Inconvenience Assured, Prepare In Advance, or Parachute Is Advised. Not long after, I was to find out why!

The PIA lounge was disappointing to say the least. It was old and had dirty carpets and its chairs were over-used and deeply worn. The snacks consisted of just a few fried pastries and some weird-looking sweet cakes. All that was available to drink was water, soft drinks or tea. Quite a comedown from our time with Qantas but, unbeknown to us then, the new airport was just being started and would be opened some three years later.

Luckily, it wasn’t long until we had to collect our hand luggage and march off to the aircraft, and march we did. There were no passenger walkways to the aircraft, nor any buses, and so we must have walked about 600 metres or more along the sweltering tarmac from the gate to the plane. As we approached, I noticed there was scaffolding raised to the outer engine of the left wing of this old Boeing 707. I could see two technicians working with their heads inside the engine cowling. This was something to behold as we were intending to fly on this very aircraft and yet these guys were obviously still working on the engine. I was intrigued and a little concerned. As I walked, I continued to watch them. Both seemed to have finished their work and were trying to close the engine cowling. As they pushed it down to shut, it rebounded open. So, they slammed it and again it slowly opened. I saw them slam this cowling at least four of five times. Then one of them bent down and actually kicked the cowling with a Karate type kick. This was intended to really force it to shut, but the cover just slowly, once again opened. I was flabbergasted and could not stop watching. I couldn’t believe aircraft technicians were kicking an engine cowling shut, just before I was about to board the same aircraft. Then, the other technician who was now burying his head inside his tool kit, stood up, and with a smirk on his face, spoke to the other man. I couldn’t hear what he said, but he then put his head once again inside the engine and slowly pulled out a very large shifter, or wrench. He then gently pushed down on the cowling and it shut and locked. The two had a giggle, wobbled their heads and climbed down the scaffolding. I nearly tripped on the first step of the aircraft stairs as my lower jaw banged to the ground!

Anyway, the plane soon took off after the ubiquitous Islamic prayers over the sound system and we were off on our way to Islamabad. It was only a three-hour flight but I couldn’t help being disappointed at the lack of video service, grog and Qantas-standard chocolate mousse.

ooOoo

Eventually the tyres again screeched as we landed in Islamabad, though they also bumped and bounced as we hit the tarmac. After exiting the aircraft, we entered the airport that was at least air-conditioned though just as crowded and as bad as Karachi. We eventually collected our bags and moved outside into the heat of the day. Luckily, two gentlemen, a driver and a UN officer met us and took care of us straight away. The gentleman was Mr Tarek Zubari who was a former army officer and who became a good friend of us both in the coming months. Tarek advised us that we would travel directly to the Holiday Inn hotel and he hoped we had had a nice time in his country so far. Of course we both lied and said we had.

It is interesting to note that all military and former military officers seem to have an esprit de corps regardless of their nationality, differing backgrounds or persona. I guess it’s a military conception, though it seems to always work and it certainly did with us and Tarek. He was a strong leader type of guy and at the Holiday Inn hotel he had our room upgraded, at no extra cost, and made us really feel welcomed. Before he left, he indicated that the next day was a free day for us and that we should just relax and avoid going outside the city as the Gulf War had just commenced in Iraq and things ‘could get a little uncomfortable’ in the streets. I noted this and promised we would remain in the hotel grounds. So with Tarek now gone, we made ourselves comfortable and I looked for the gym.

That evening, the Gulf War formally commenced and US aircraft entered into Iraqi airspace and bombed the daylights out of Baghdad. CNN was an upstart news service in those early days and the Gulf War was to bring them really into the main stream. We watched closely as the stealth fighter’s flight plans were explained on CNN, as were the bomb damage reports and other incidentals of the ongoing carnage. For the next week we were to spend every spare minute watching CNN, even though the news stories degenerated somewhat and soon we were watching not live bombing raids, but interviews of the half-brother of a distant cousin to one of the US Air Force pilots. But overall it was a terrific service with Bobby Batista with her crossed eyes and Wolf Blitzer with his squeezed voice as if he needed a quenching drink. Peter Arnett, a New Zealander, was also on CNN in those days and he had a booming voice. It was him who reported watching cruise missiles zooming in front of the Al-Rasheed hotel in Baghdad that he and other journalists were staying in. Years later I happened to meet Peter Arnett and realised his voice came across that way because he was three quarters deaf. In 2006, I was also to live in the Al-Rasheed hotel in Baghdad for about four months when I took the post as the UN’s Chief Security Adviser in Iraq.

ooOoo

The day we arrived in Islamabad went quickly and soon it was the next morning. I was collected by a UN driver and taken to the OCHA (Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs) headquarters that was also the UN demining program headquarters. It was located in the Pakistani Red Crescent compound that was a rambling facility, though many of the buildings had been used before the UN moved in. I soon learned of all its foibles and hiding spaces, but in the first day or so I was lost. I knew I had to represent my country as my first consideration and also represent the Australian Army in a professional manner, but I also needed to understand who these people where and what made them tick.

The head of OCHA was a Brit named Martin Barber and his chief of the demining program was Jan Hagland. Martin was very much a UN bureaucrat, though very effective and highly intelligent whereas Jan was an eccentric older guy from Norway who introduced himself as an ‘adventurer’. He had many stories of fantastic trips to the North Pole with dog carts and through the deserts of Pakistan on camels, and I came to like him a great deal. I spent the next several days meeting all the new staff, being briefed on the demining program and having administrative issues sorted out. The OCHA administrative officer was a Pakistani and a former military man. We became close friends over the following years, before he immigrated to the US. I have not heard of him since. Finally, I also met Selwyn Heaton who was a New Zealand officer at the lieutenant-colonel level. Selwyn was the senior adviser for the demining program, based in Islamabad and I got to know him quite well in those first few months before he returned home. He was an energetic and very smart operator who had a wisp of thick blonde hair over an otherwise balding scone.

My duty station was in Peshawar, two to three hours away by road and I thought I needed to get there as soon as possible. By the end of the week I was informed that my new day-to-day employer, Afghan Technical Consultants (ATC), would send a driver to collect Jude and me and drive us to Peshawar. This was exciting and most welcomed, as a week in a hotel really is about enough. Interestingly, the Holiday Inn eventually became known as the Marriot hotel and was bombed nearly twenty years later by Al-Qaeda in 2008, when large numbers of victims were injured or killed.

I finally said farewell to all the staff I had met at the headquarters in Islamabad and early that last afternoon I headed back to the hotel. On my arrival, Jude was just walking into the lobby after shopping with some ladies she had met at the hotel. One was a Dutch woman and the other a Pakistani lady who was, interestingly, from Peshawar. They had taken Jude out to buy the ‘necessities of life’, which, of course, included a number of bags full of new clothes. Jude had so many bags she looked like a kid at the Royal Melbourne Show. But Peshawar was far more traditional and austere than Islamabad and Jude would need all the comforts she could carry.

The next morning we were up and ready at 8.30 am after finishing an early breakfast and packing our bags. I had paid the hotel bill and we were ready to be picked up, though no-one had given us an exact time. By 9.30, I was a little concerned and rang the OCHA headquarters. They called back and said ATC had dispatched a driver and he should be with us shortly. By 10, I went down to the lobby to check that we didn’t have a driver sitting down there waiting for us, but no-one was there. I rang OCHA again at 11 but before they could call me back, my telephone rang and it was the reception saying our driver from ATC was here. I got the bell boys to collect our bags and down we went, all expectant. I was ready to receive another Mr Danesh when a young, pimply faced Afghan in baggy jeans and a padded denim jacket stood up and came towards me. He said his name was ‘Ridiculous’ or something similar and he grabbed some of our bags. I looked at Jude and she just smiled and we followed our man Ridiculous to the car. I scanned the car park for the expected UN Toyota Land Cruiser for our long journey to Peshawar. But none were apparent as Ridiculous approached an old, small and beaten up Toyota Corolla. Obviously this was to be our new vehicle. The bags wouldn’t all fit into the boot so we loaded the front passenger seat and squashed another into the rear with Jude and me. Ridiculous seemed embarrassed and was really very nervous even as I tried to calm him through a few jokes and a soft tone. But he never really did calm down that day and our trip from Islamabad to Peshawar was a frightful, if not adventurous, trip that deserves a special chapter, perhaps in another book, but not now.

Although somewhat expected but never really coming true previously, our adventures in the ‘wilds of Pakistan’ and of course Afghanistan, had really just begun.

ooOoo

After arriving in Peshawar following our stressful journey along the Grand Trunk road, we were taken to a large house in the outskirts of an area known as Hyatterbad. Hyatterbad was a new and partially under construction suburb of Peshawar that the very wealthy Pushtun folk and the international community were moving to. It was at the outer limits of Peshawar city though only 15–20 minutes from shopping areas. The house we were allocated to was the former communal house for the Canadian Special Forces troops assigned to the demining program. They had now all left along with the Americans, the French and the Brits, as the Gulf War had started and they were recalled back home.

This house was almost standing alone with only some partially built structures around it and a lot of nearly completed houses some 200–300 metres away. It was a good spot and large enough for a big Canadian team, but far too big and far too remote for me and my heavily pregnant wife. Although this was only our temporary accommodation, it still had the seven household staff, a driver, three gardeners and three more ‘external’ workers at the house all day and with many remaining during the night. Most slept in a small set of rooms at the rear of the property and were there 24/7. Now that’s ok once you’re used to it, but coming from Australia where really no-one has domestic staff, it’s a culture shock. Every meal was watched by someone who would hover around waiting to take empty plates and bring more food. Every activity was viewed and some form of assistance, whether an added hand or equipment, would be offered. And every rest period was monitored to ensure you were well and comfortable. I really found this hard to take and it frankly annoyed me greatly. But all this was free for us during the first weeks before we could find suitable accommodation.

This house was fully furnished and had all manner of accessories that we thought the Canadians had left when they pulled out, in a hurry. Most obvious were the 40 huge boxes containing countless packets of Cornflakes, at least 30 boxes full of peanut butter jars and about another 30 boxes full of the chocolate drink Ovaltine. All these were stacked up like a secondary wall. This overburden of foodstuffs was amazing. The actual food we did eat was either bought by us in the local shops and markets or by the staff who we gave money to. We had a cook who prepared our meals and he was a lovely man, but things were just not right. The bread was flavoured with sugar to be extremely sweet, the tea was boiled black and gooey, the milk was only UHT and tasted vile, the meat was too tough to chew and the eggs were cooked in deep animal fat, or Ghee. The reality was that the food actually tasted good, but in those first few weeks, the difference from home cooking Australian style to that of suburban Peshawar was just too much to absorb all at once.

The first few nights in this remote and fairly isolated place were difficult as there were no street lights and we had to use a generator for electricity. We were for sure, not yet comfortable in north-west Pakistan and with the Gulf War battling in Kuwait and Iraq, it really was a serious security issue we had to contend with. I recall sitting outside after dinner talking to the main chowkidar, or home guard, as flashes erupted in the distance and were followed by muffled explosive sounds. What these were and what they were for, I don’t remember ever finding out, but at the time they were disconcerting. Rifle fire into the air, particularly with tracer rounds, was everywhere but came mainly from out west in the tribal areas. Our house almost bordered the tribal areas and so this was seen later to have been not so uncommon. But in those first few days it was unnerving.

One night, at perhaps 2 or 3 am, I woke up to the feeling of a gentle rocking. This seemed to accelerate and become more violent. It was an earthquake tremor but I couldn’t tell, just then, how bad it would get. I sat up and this woke Judy. She too sat there for a moment and then said in a strong and authoritative tone, “Tanks.” I said “What?” and asked her what she meant. “Tanks, there are army tanks coming along the road”, she said convincingly. I looked at her and said, “Are you joking. It’s an earthquake. Quick, let’s get outside.” So we pulled on a jacket and a bath robe and rushed outside to avoid falling items or a roof collapse. As we did, the tremors slowed and eventually ceased. I looked at Jude’s distorted and worried face and just had to laugh. She was not impressed and said to me in a convivial tone, “Well it could very well have been tanks,” then marched off up to bed. I haven’t raised that conversation very much in the past years and I remain a little concerned about writing it here now.

After about a week in Hyatterbad, I went to sleep in good spirits after playing some cards with Judy as there was no real television to watch except that from the region, meaning Pakistani and Indian films, or CNN. Incidentally, I won the card game that night so my spirits were high when I fell into a deep sleep, or so I thought. During the night I began to have small and very violent nightmares that woke me up several times. The last nightmare I remember was something being burnt onto my face, like a hot iron, in some macabre torture story. It was still dark but I remember waking and feeling hot and choked. I felt like someone was strangling me or that I had something tied around my throat. As I regained full consciousness I realised that my tongue seemed swollen and my eyes were squinty and sore. I got out of bed and went to the bathroom to rinse out my mouth and to cool my face with water. I turned on the light and in front of me, looking back from the mirror was a distorted and swollen face I had never seen before. Of course it was me, but my face was swollen dramatically. My eyes looked like I had just gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson, my nose was the size of an orange and worst of all my tongue was at least twice its size. I couldn’t believe it. I stared at my reflection then felt my face and twitched it as far as I could move it in any direction. It was bizarre. I went and woke up Jude who almost screamed and asked the obvious, “What happened to you?” Well of course I didn’t know, but I assumed I had an allergic reaction to something I’d eaten or that perhaps something had bitten me during the night. The food I had eaten was nothing special and Jude had eaten the same. We searched the bed sheets and under the bed and around the windows and light for some spider or insect but again, nothing unusual. I was mystified but more than a little worried. I was looking like a smaller version of the Thing in X-Men and didn’t know how long it would last. Jude made me a cup of tea that I tried to sip but my tongue was so thick and fat I really couldn’t. My personal fear was that I could choke if the swelling of my tongue continued as it would block my airway. Already I was snorting air but in reality I had quite clear breathing. The rest of my body was normal and my skin looked the same. I checked my pulse rate and my breath rate and they too were normal. All I could do was wait until morning, and then go see a doctor. Jude rang a friend we had met earlier and woke her. She asked which hospital we could go to and we got the response, “The north west Frontier Province Teaching Hospital downtown in central Peshawar.” I really didn’t get any better in the next three hours before we left for the hospital and in fact I could literally open my mouth, and my tongue hung out from my mouth by about two centimetres.

At about 7 am the driver turned up and after he got over his shock at my face, we drove to the hospital. We were told this was the best hospital in the province and so we expected a reasonable place that would be able to assist directly. But when we arrived I almost grabbed my tongue and turned the car around to go home. It was an old, run-down looking building of stained concrete with a messy, dirty car park that joined the main building. People had been there, apparently camping all night, waiting for service or waiting for news of friends and relatives being cared for. There were people everywhere. Inside, the dark corridors had few lights working and people were asleep on the floor throughout the hospital. Some were sitting in the corridors sniffing, coughing, moaning and spitting. It was a real mess. At the reception desk two young nurses looked at us with startled faces. Judy told them what had happened and that I needed to see a doctor now. The poor senior nurse saw Jude’s obvious urgency and asked us to fill in a bunch of forms. Jude grabbed them all and said authoritatively, “Where is the doctor?” With this, the nurse got up and beckoned Jude and I to follow her. As we walked along following this neatly dressed nurse, we passed four dead bodies lying in a recess area along the corridor and I felt like I’d come to a very wrong place.

The nurse then took us into a large medical room that had a number of stainless steel benches, a large sink, huge neon lights and an operating table. It wasn’t a real operating room but had quite obviously been turned into a temporary, ad hoc one. The green sheet over the operating table was heavily stained with what appeared to be blood and other human fluids. The outer packets of needles and bandage wrappings lay across the floor and the large bench had several old needles and empty medicine bottles upon it. This really was a house of ill repute, I thought, and here I was, suffering from some unknown medical complaint when in fact I might be infected with something far worse by just being here. The nurse took my personal details including my army regimental number because I couldn’t remember the number of my new ‘official passport’ and my UN Laissez Passer had not yet been produced. I wrote most of this onto the forms she gave me and noticed she was staring at my swollen and disfigured face. It was then, in this place of ruin and disgust, I realised I must of looked like a frightening monster with my eyes bloated, my nose three times its normal size and my tongue lolling awkwardly outside the range of my lips. I was really in a terrible circumstance and not helped by what I could see, smell and hear around me.

Eventually a doctor came to see me. He spoke good English and seemed very professional, calm and sympathetic. He looked at my face, put on a clean pair of surgical gloves and inspected my tongue, ears and nose. I think he was quite taken aback by my affliction but perhaps a little relieved to get away from the death cases that had apparently been going on through the night. The doctor asked many questions about any former allergies, of which I had none, previous incidents of swellings and unusual insect bites or strange food in the last 48 hours of which I knew of none. He really didn’t get much help from me as I had no idea why I was sitting here looking like Joseph Merrick, the Elephant man. Finally he determined that the swelling and bashed up look was all of the same doing. He surprisingly said it was caused by a severe and unusual reaction to stress. I almost choked and said, “But, I don’t understand. I’ve been through far greater stress in my army life and nothing has done this to me before.” The doctor was mildly interested in my response and just said that this is what he believed was the case and with a couple of anti-inflammatory injections and some form of settling medicine, I would be free to leave and the swelling would disappear in a day or two. I admit I was a bit disappointed with his diagnoses, but what could I do? He told the nurses, as now a second nurse had joined us, some instructions in Urdu whilst he continued to take my blood pressure and stick his fingers into my mouth, nose and ears. The nurses left then returned a few minutes later with two syringe needles and a couple of small bottles. I was a bit pessimistic and it must have shown as the doctor said, “These are new needles and they are still in date as are these two bottles of ‘something and something else’ so please do not worry.” He smiled and indeed I did relax and allowed him to inject the two medicines into my arm. Thanking the doctor and the two pretty nurses, we walked outside again, down the wretched corridors and past the diseased and agonising people waiting for medical attention, or death, and left the Hospital. I felt more relaxed on the way home and perhaps it was the medicines already taking effect or the calming comments from the doctor.

We got home and I went straight to bed and slept for another eight hours. It was well into the late afternoon when I did wake up, and, although I felt lousy, my face and tongue seemed to have reduced in size. I ran to the bathroom to check the mirror and the swelling had definitely reduced and my tongue was far smaller. Feeling happy, I stayed up for some time but again hit the rack and slept till the early morning. The swelling took three days to completely disappear and it was a frightening experience though one that has never repeated itself. It quite possibly could have been a nervous reaction to the stress of those first three weeks in the country, but to be honest, I have had much worse periods in my life since then and nothing like this has taken place. I still believe I may have eaten something, or had been bitten by something, or perhaps a combination of all three options took place in those strange and concerning first few days there in Peshawar.

ooOoo

Not so long after all this madness was over, Jude and I were in Islamabad as I was required to attend a briefing and we were told we should buy some great Pakistani made furniture. Some other internationals we had met, told us that the shops in Islamabad could make any timber furnishing in any design we wished. To be honest, until now, Jude and I had lived on a basic Army officer’s salary and had been used to buying second-hand furniture at second grade fairs. But, here we were in Pakistan where everything was made cheap, but to high standards and we were cashed up! A very good shop that had reasonable pricing was described to us and off we went in a hurry, to look. This shop had beds and chairs and rockers and coat stands and clothing stands and tables and wardrobes, in fact, any type of furniture you could think of. We looked all over the display area of the shop and really wanted to buy some. But, we didn’t have to buy what we saw, we could have our own designs made for us and all that was needed was a drawing or photograph. Although I was aware that prices in Pakistan were cheap, this was too much and really I had trouble digesting what we could buy for the amount of money we were being charged. I asked the gentleman showing us around whether it was possible to add this, delete that or perhaps change this design for that. In response, he said politely, though with a certain knowledge and authority, “Sir, in Pakistan, anything is possible.” I could never forget this saying and smiled widely as he said it.

We selected a number of smaller items including some jewellery boxes and nick knacks and we thought what we really needed. Then, it was back to Peshawar where Jude and I roamed through a myriad of magazines and advertising leaflets until we decided what furniture we really wanted. I have always been somewhat of a traditional guy, with a penchant for colonial fare and this is what we chose: a master bed with colonial backing stays and a dining table as big as it could be, though with a removable centre piece and of course we thought to include an array of the inlaid, brass designs that really were something special. This was backed by classic chairs, a high standing coat rack and a rocking horse complete with real horse hair for the tail. The total cost was minimal and we had all of it delivered within four weeks. I now understand that young children were probably responsible for the construction of our cheap furniture, but that too is another story.

ooOoo

It was now time to meet my new boss and see what Afghan Technical Consultants was all about. I was in a mix of eagerness to find all this out, together with some in trepidation of meeting these new Afghan people who I’d heard of and seen so much about. It was a Monday morning when my driver, whose name was in fact Siddiqullah, not ‘Ridiculous’, came and picked me up at 9 am sharp.

I was dressed in my Operation Salam uniform that was a mix of bad Pakistani ‘tailormanship’ and poor judgment by the military folk who authorised its colour and style. Operation Salam was the overall project name for the United Nations humanitarian assistance support to Afghanistan, and the demining program was a part of it. As a technical advisor within Operation Salam, I was considered to be an ‘expert on mission’ and therefore, like the demining advisors and trainers, I was supposed to wear this hideous uniform. It was a long-sleeved, open-shirt style uniform of a light tan colour, with several ugly badges sewn on each shoulder like a boy scout. It really was neither military nor professional in its appearance though I was required to wear it, and I did, for at least the first two weeks.

Siddiqullah and I arrived at the ATC offices and I got out of the car and went to walk inside. I had seen the old house that was being used for the ATC offices earlier, as I had snooped around the city, trying to get my bearings in the previous three or four days. It was in an older section of Peshawar and had a high, dark brown and moss-covered brick wall at the front with only about four metres of garden before the actual house. I remember thinking, even as I walked in for the first time, that there was basically no stand-off protection should an explosion occur outside. Making this worse, there was no guard out front and the gates were open for anyone to walk inside. There was also just a simple fly-screen door that led inside the office space proper, where there was a number of scattered desks with papers and documents all out and readable by anyone who entered. My security feelers were up and alert already. As I walked inside the office I thought, this is going to be a tough duty station.

Siddiqullah led me to the open office spaces through a short hallway to another open space that seemed like a small waiting area where several mujahideen-looking men sat, staring goggle-eyed at me. We passed by and entered through an open door into what was obviously a bedroom before being made into an office. I walked inside and saw a huge desk with several lounge chairs and a low coffee table. The walls were stained with black streaks from moisture and living micro-organisms, whilst the carpet covering the area under the chairs was basically worn through. The desk area was empty, but four Afghan men, all in traditional dress, were sitting in the lounge chairs and each of them stopped talking and stared directly at me as I walked in. Immediately I realised I was interrupting a meeting though Siddiqullah had just led me straight in. Not a great way to meet my new boss, I thought, as one of the men stood up and smiled broadly. “Assalam Alikhum,” he said to me as he jostled to come around the table and shake my hand. This was clearly Kefayatullah and I shook his hand and said hello. Both of us were a little unsettled and ill at ease, but I introduced myself and said I was sorry to have interrupted his meeting and that I’d come back in shortly. Kefayatullah smiled his broad, toothy smile again and said something to his guests in local Dari language and then to Siddiqullah, and everyone started to leave the office. Kefayatullah invited me to sit at an office chair at his desk whilst he walked around to take his rightful post behind the desk. He was a little nervous, as was I, and he asked me how I had settled in, was my house OK, was Siddiqullah behaving, and several other inconsequential questions. I answered all of these and began to explain what I knew of my assignment with ATC. I was about to ask where would I sit in the office and what he expected from me, when a tall, elder gentleman and two younger Afghans walked in. I was introduced to the older gentleman first, Mr Wali Sahib the administrative officer, then the two other senior officers of ATC. Wali Sahib was a gentleman, and he and I would become very good friends in the next several months. I found him to be a highly respected person and one of wisdom and great humour. We were to share a lot of jokes, laughs and a few tears over the course of the year.

But at this first meeting all of us seemed a little nervous of each other and I think it was because we were from such varied cultures that none of us seemed to know what to expect of the other. It was a friendly and cordial meeting but I think both Kefayatullah and I were both glad when it ended. After another handshake and toothy smile, I left Kefayatullah’s office and walked out with Wali Sahib to find what I thought would be my office space. My memories of this first meeting with Kefayatullah are a little vague though I remember he spoke reasonably good English and appeared very friendly, albeit uncertain of who I was or what I was to do. Kefayatullah was in his early 40s and wore a short but thick beard and was about my height. He was a bit on the fattish side and clearly was no sportsman or fitness enthusiast as I noticed his slim arms and his slightly bulging waist line. I found it hard to piece together who he really was for two to three weeks as he always had people in his office and several more waiting to get in. It really was pandemonium at his personal office and if I needed to see him in those first several days, either I’d have to wait and wait, or I’d have to interrupt a meeting. It seemed like he did everything and anything himself and all visitors only came to see him. Unusual, I thought, and something I’d need to look at.

So on this first day, I walked around the offices with Wali Sahib as he introduced me to a range of staff members who were all very interested to see and meet me. To be blunt, I felt like I was a gold fish in a small glass bowl as everyone just stared and gawked at me and of course this didn’t end that day. The gold fish bowl experience would last my entire time in Pakistan and Afghanistan though I got very used to it after some time.

As I walked around the office, I thought there was something odd about it, though I didn’t realise what it was until the next day or so. There were no women at all in the office. Not one woman visitor or employee, or worker at all. I thought this to be strange, though as I was trying to learn new names and functions and really couldn’t put too much thought into that just then, but I would later. After Wali Sahib had shown me around the crowded, dirty and seemingly unorganised offices, I asked where I was to be seated. He sort of mumbled something back to me then starting whispering in Persian to a few of the minions around us. I then realised that I really was just a ‘visitor’ as there had been no thought to any form of office space, or even a seat, to be allocated for me. It seemed as if ATC assumed I would work somewhere else and just drop in occasionally. Wali Sahib was very embarrassed about this oversight and he quickly had one junior officer grab all his papers and paraphernalia from his desk and vacate his small office for me. Whilst he did, Wali Sahib invited me into the kitchen and had a tea boy make us both a hot cup of chai. As we drank and stood in the kitchen I asked him what he thought I was here to do. Now in Afghan syntax there is a word that gives seniority or a sense of endearment to the person you are talking to. It is the word “Jan” which is pronounced something like “Jon”. Well at this time, Wali Sahib answered as honestly as he could and said, “Membrey Jan, I was told you were coming as the technical advisor for ATC and we are very glad to have you come here all the way from Australia. But I must tell you, I was not informed that you would arrive today and I am sorry for the confusion. But let’s see what we can do.” It was an honest response but not particularly helpful to me. I looked out of the kitchen into the former dining area that was full of desks with papers strewn about and pin boards with Islamic pictures on them and the old, dank and smelly atmosphere with people walking about in strange clothing. Oh my God, this next twelve months are going to be hell, I thought that morning.

Finally Wali Sahib shook my hand and went back to his office and I was placed temporarily in the formerly occupied administration office, though I have no idea where the original officer had gone to. There didn’t seem to be any other space available in the entire building and I didn’t actually see the guy again for some days. It was a mystery, but there I was, sitting at a small desk in the ATC office, with no guidance, no work to do and not being able to see what the organization was all about. I had to do something about this, and quick.

After a demoralizing and confused next few days, the weekend finally came around and although I now knew many of the ATC staff, I really hadn’t done anything more than read a few odd reports and look at some maps of the demining sites in Afghanistan. Nevertheless, I was very relieved the weekend had come. Jude and I spent the weekend shopping, looking for a new house and I was thinking of ways I could get involved in the ATC operations and be able to do what I thought I could do best: to guide the administration outputs and review and agitate the operational functions of the NGO. By the following Monday morning, I had a plan and an earnest resolve in my heart.

Monday morning soon came around and so, in my unprepossessing Operation Salam uniform, I went forth to rally my actions in bettering the operational efficacy of ATC, or something similar to that. Of course when I arrived at about 9 am, the gates were fully open and people walked in and out unchallenged whilst Kefayatullah’s office was already being loaded with the usual gatherings of visitors and associates. I walked straight into his office and of course interrupted a meeting, but said very politely that I needed to meet with him straight after lunch and that I would be back in his office then. Kefayatullah just sat there looking over his reading glasses then smiled and said, “Of course Membrey Jan. I’ll see you then,” to which I nodded, saluted and walked out. This was the first organised meeting I had with him and Wali Sahib. It started a chain of reactions that set up the year as one of the most interesting and personally satisfying times of my life.

At this next meeting and the subsequent ones we had daily, Kefayatullah, Wali Sahib and I made a great many changes. We organised the desks throughout the office into functional areas and placed two, three or four desks in all the various bedrooms. We had the notice boards filled in, we set routines for the distribution of paperwork, timelines and deadlines for staff and organised the security of the office. We had the external gates locked, whilst hiring security guards to monitor and register incoming visitors and another to man the front door, which was changed to a steel-framed door. It was also decided to allocate me my own private space and to establish an ‘office’ for me as the technical advisor. But most importantly, we made the major decision to leave these offices and find a larger and more modern space for ATC. This would take us almost three months, though we did it and the office became a place where staff and visitors actually felt comfortable and professional. In a very short time, we made a huge impact on the everyday operations of the ATC offices and of course in the coming weeks, I would become deeply involved in the operational side of the demining. This was where the real challenges were to be found!