Farishta (30 page)

“So what are we doing? ” I asked my brother, who was still gripping me tighter than a drowning man in a stormy sea. Although Bill and I had drifted apart after I’d joined the Foreign Service, the potential loss of that final link to my childhood was summoning emotions I thought had faded long ago.

I remembered how much Tom and I had enjoyed visiting Bill and my parents at the ranch. My mother adored Tom, while Dad in his own gruff way had made him feel like he’d always been a member of our family.

One of our favorite things to do when we went to the ranch was ride the fence line. On those daylong mounted treks, we would walk our horses through miles of prairie short grass, checking for breaks in the barbed wire and rescuing stranded heifers. The last time we had visited the ranch together was right when we were starting to try for a baby. As we rode, Tom and I spent hours talking about the day when we would be able to share all of this with our own children. I had imagined lazy afternoons in years to come when I would send Tom off with Dad and the kids to check the pastures while Mom and I made fresh tortillas and roasted chili peppers for supper.

It was still painful to acknowledge that my dream of a large and loving family gathering at the ranch to celebrate the holidays was never going to happen. Bill had been running the business side of Dad’s spread for the past few years, but since he also worked part-time in Albuquerque as an accountant, he had already leased most of the land out to neighboring ranchers.

Bill’s wife, who also worked in Albuquerque, had been nagging him since they got married to give up their long-distance commute and move into the city. The thought of no Morgan family members on the ranch saddened me, but since I hadn’t lived there full-time for almost thirty years, I had little say in the matter.

Dad’s young wife, who clearly hadn’t planned on becoming the nursemaid to an invalid old man, was sitting near his hospital bed when we arrived. She was the saddest-looking person in the room, but it wasn’t because of Dad’s injuries. Bill told me she had just learned that although Dad’s estate would provide her with a comfortable living when he was gone, he had left the ranch to Bill and me.

Our ever-practical father, who knew that his young wife wouldn’t be willing to nurse him back to health and who didn’t want to bother Bill or me, had also with great reluctance arranged for the sale of fifty prime acres of his ranch to a developer in order to cover the expense of round-the-clock nursing care at home.

Six days after I arrived, we took Dad home and settled him into his rented hospital bed. The nursing assistants started their rotations, fussed over Dad, and pretty much took care of everything, to the great relief of the young Mrs. Morgan, who spent most of her time watching soap operas and doing her nails.

Bill and I went on a few rides together, but we didn’t go far and didn’t talk much while we rode. He asked very few questions about my life in Afghanistan.

On my last day at the ranch under the blazing New Mexico sun, I cooked an Afghan meal of lamb, rice, and dumplings in a solar oven Bill helped me assemble out in the barn with an old cardboard box, a windowpane, and aluminum foil. Even Dad, a meat-and-potatoes man, seemed to enjoy the food.

“This solar box stuff is pretty neat, Ange,” he said, smacking his lips.

“So tell us what it’s like over there in Afghanistan.”

“It’s beautiful, Dad, confusing and heartbreaking,” I began.

“Are you really the only woman with all those foreign soldiers? ” asked Dad’s wife, grimacing at the thought.

“I am for the moment,” I replied. “There were a few women at the PRT before me, but none lived there full-time, like I do.”

“I assume they all speak English,” huffed my father.

“Most of them are British, Dad. Their English is better than mine.”

“Why didn’t they put you with some of our American boys? ” he asked with a hint of anger in his voice.

“Most State Department officers are assigned to U.S. PRTs, but I really don’t mind being with the Brits. They’re great guys, and there’s a camp about fifteen miles from us with a unit of Texas National Guard soldiers who are training the Afghans. They treat me like family whenever I go out there for meetings.”

“Texans,” he harrumphed. “Too bad it wasn’t a New Mexico unit.” Dad paused to chew and swallow another mouthful of rice. The mention of Texas had reminded him of his favorite subject. “The Lobos are going to crush Texas Tech this fall, don’t you think, Bill.”

“Not unless UNM finds a new quarterback before the season starts,” Bill said with real concern.

The subject had changed, and I knew we would not be talking about Afghanistan anymore this evening. But I didn’t mind. Listening to Dad and Bill blather on about football was strangely comforting, despite the fact that I had not the slightest interest in the sport. Even the conversation between Dad’s wife and Bill’s wife about a TV show I’d never heard of made me feel oddly at home.

Bill offered to do the dishes that night and suggested I take the dogs for a last walk. In the star-spangled blue dark of a balmy New Mexico summer evening, I strolled down our long dirt driveway with Dad’s two border collies bounding ahead of me.

As the moon rose over the Sandias, casting the same long silvery shadows that crept every night over the ragged peaks of the Hindu Kush south of Mazār, I was overwhelmed by an intense and inexplicable desire to be back in Afghanistan. I missed the sights, sounds, and smells of that distant land, but I also missed the feeling of purpose and camaraderie that comes from being thrust into a dangerous situation with a group of dedicated people. And, yes, if I thought about it long enough, I missed my conversations with Mark.

As I followed the dogs toward the main road, I wondered what these feelings meant for my return. How could that country I’d been so sure would destroy me have cast such a spell over me? And why was I so anxious to get back to a place where there were people who might actually want to kill me and where I encountered professional and personal frustrations on a daily basis?

Halfway down to the highway, the dogs almost tripped me as they scooted underfoot chasing a rabbit into a clump of chaparral. An approaching truck backfired once, then louder the second time as its headlights flashed by our gate on the unlit road.

I froze after the second explosion. My pulse went into overdrive. My palms and forehead grew clammy with sweat. The familiar wide-open spaces of my youth suddenly terrified me. I braced for another blast and irrationally reassured myself that it was just the Estonians conducting one of their demolitions.

Crouching in the dirt, my hands covering my face, I waited for the panic attack to subside. The dogs, sensing my fear, crowded around me, whining softly and pressing their cool noses against my neck.

After seven months of living behind the guarded walls and razor wire of the PRT, and leaving that confined space only when accompanied by armed soldiers or hidden under my burka, I felt suddenly naked, vulnerable, and terrified on this narrow dirt road I had traveled a thousand times in my youth.

The dogs helped, but it was the memory of Mike’s shouted instructions from first-aid class that pulled me out of what I vowed would be the last panic attack of my life.

The intense rush of adrenaline had ampified my senses, making it easy to scan my surroundings and describe to myself the sand verbena, black brush, and desert holly that grew in thick clumps to the western horizon. The dogs circled me until I stood up. When they were satisfied that I was okay, they lowered their noses to the ground and resumed their search for rabbits and field mice. My breathing became more regular. I whistled for them to follow me and walked back to the house. I would discuss this incident with no one.

 

 

Four days later, as the embassy plane circled for a landing at the empty airfield in Mazār-i-Sharīf, I was thrilled to see Fuzzy and Jenkins lounging against the Beast on the shimmering hot runway. They welcomed me with hugs. Although I knew my presence here was temporary—that these young soldiers and I would be leaving Afghanistan in less than six months—I felt at that moment as I climbed into the backseat of the Beast far more like I was coming home than I had in New Mexico.

We drove slowly into town and around the Blue Mosque, with the hot dusty summer air blowing through the Beast’s open windows. Fuzzy scanned the crowds as usual while Jenkins updated me on the comings and goings at the PRT.

“Are you guys hungry?” I asked. They had missed lunch waiting for my plane.

“I’m starving,” replied Jenkins. “We’ll get some leftovers when we get back to camp.”

“Let me buy you guys lunch in town,” I said. “Turn left up here, Jenkins, and we’ll make a stop at the open market where they sell food.”

“Are you sure this is a good idea? ” asked Fuzzy with a worried frown.

“Trust me, Fuz.”

“Stop here, Jenkins,” I said, jumping out of the vehicle and waiting for Fuzzy. He hoisted his rifle over his shoulder and followed me reluctantly to the smoking grill of a brochette seller, where I bought half a kilo of roasted lamb kabobs. At nearby stalls, I purchased three rounds of fresh-baked and still warm
naan,
three liters of Coca-Cola, and a sweet, ripe Mazār melon. Fuzzy helped me carry them back to the Beast.

“Dig in, fellows,” I said. “You’ll love it.”

 

 

I was silently disappointed to learn that Mark had been sent south to Helmand for several weeks, but the familiar faces of the other soldiers and the terps, who greeted me warmly as I hauled my suitcase up to my room, wrapped me in a blanket of familiarity as comforting as that first cup of tea I made for myself when I entered the main PRT building.

I remained tied to my desk until an invitation arrived a few days later from one of the MOT commanders to accompany him and his men on a ten-day patrol into a remote corner of Sar-e Pol Province.

August 12, 2005
✦ SAR-E POL PROVINCE

A late afternoon breeze sweeping down the canyon rustled the tamarisk bushes next to the stream where I had knelt to wash my hair. It was day six of our patrol through the most remote mountain districts of Sar-e Pol.

We had stopped to make camp for the evening, and I was taking advantage of this opportunity to wash my hands, feet, face, and hair with running water. I leaned over, dipped my head into the stream, and was rinsing shampoo from my hair and eyes when I heard splashing and shouting.

“Angela, stay down and don’t move!” It was Captain Tim Baker, the commanding officer of our three-vehicle patrol. The splashing was now accompanied by barking. I froze into a crouched position, and turned my head just enough to see a gigantic earless dog, his teeth bared, splashing over the rocks in the stream and coming fast in my direction. I took a deep breath, recalled the promise I’d made to myself in New Mexico, and stayed still.

Behind the approaching dog, I could see three bearded, turbaned Kuchi nomads carrying large staffs. They were trailed by six camels loaded down with supplies and three women wearing indigo gowns, their arms, ears, and noses jangling with gold jewelry. Small children chased one another around the camels. None of them seemed at all concerned about the huge dog that was about to attack me.

Glancing over my shoulder again, I could see Fuzzy standing near our campsite. His rifle was trained on the dog, which he was about to shoot, when a sharp whistle from one of the nomads brought the animal to a sudden halt. The dog was less than three meters away from me, and the thick ruff of its matted brindle coat was raised in anger. It bared its teeth, swung its earless head, the size and shape of a bear’s, in my direction and let loose a final low growl before trotting back to the herd and resuming its job of guarding the sheep.

Fuzzy lowered his weapon and went back to helping the others set up their tents and communications equipment in the shade of the massive orange-streaked slab of granite that loomed over our campsite.

“All clear, Angela. Back to your shampooing,” shouted Baker, his laughing voice echoing off the steep canyon walls.

As the caravan lumbered by on the opposite side of the stream, I sat on a flat rock, dangled my toes in the water, and greeted the women in Dari while I dried my hair. They smiled and waved back, but their men stared at me in silence—as though I were an alien species—neither male nor female, or perhaps a bit of both. They did lift their long wooden staffs to wave at the soldiers, who returned their greeting.

This journey had taken us into valleys—Hazara, Pashtun, Uzbek, and Tajik—that hadn’t been visited by NATO soldiers for more than a year. In each village where we stopped, Captain Baker and his second-in-command would go off with their interpreter to meet with the district chief or local warlord.

Now that I no longer had to hide my language skills, I used these opportunities to speak with the women. As soon as our convoy rolled into the center of a village, I would cover my hair with a head scarf, put on a knee-length tunic, and stand in the road next to our vehicles. Within minutes, curious women would crack their heavy wooden doors just wide enough to peek out. As soon as they spotted a female with the soldiers, they would poke their fingers out and invite me to enter their walled compounds, where they could remain hidden from prying male eyes.

It was always a challenge explaining to them who I was and why I was traveling alone with so many men. The cultural chasm between us was almost too vast to bridge, but they still seemed anxious to share with me stories about their children’s schooling, local opium trafficking, and the real power brokers in their districts.

The biggest concern for these women was that their husbands or their sons might have to go into battle again—against other warlords, the Taliban, the Russians, or a new foreign invader. They did not yet include us in that last category.