This is my second attempt to write this entry. I had a beautiful literary masterpiece written previously, but the system crashed and I lost it. Last week I was thinking that my blog was looking a little bare and it was time to write something, but I was out of ideas. Mr. Big Hands was at the gate on Wednesday but I didn’t have my camera. I’m saving him for when I can get some pics to augment that story.

Thursday started out as any other day. Breakfast at 0530, then off to D-1 for more POI development, translation, and review. Strawberry, our crippled yard dog (sort of a cross between Pivo and Cooper), met me at the office for her morning snack. I always liberate a sausage link from the DFAC in the mornings for her. She must not be Muslim because she likes the pork sausages as much as the turkey ones. People that have been here a while told me that she used to be healthy, and would run with a beautiful athletic stride. Then one day she started favoring a hind leg, having apparently been hit by a vehicle. She still runs on three legs, like many natives of this country, adapting to her unfortunate circumstances.

Thursday, of course, is the beginning of the Islamic weekend, so we took off at noon and headed home. We always travel in pairs at least, with four vehicles and drivers dedicated to our section. Heading back along our usual route, we were stopped at a military road block on Jalalabad Road.

OK, Mom and Julie, stop reading now.

Mom, Julie, click here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s8MDNFaGfT4

There were about a dozen ANA soldiers with AK-47 assault rifles redirecting traffic down a side road off of Jalalabad Road. Our idiot driver at first attempted to go through the soldiers, at which they became extremely agitated. Dana and I quickly and unceremoniously corrected the driver and ordered him to follow the soldiers’ instructions. My heartfelt advice to anyone reading this: never argue with men carrying AK-47s.

We got out of that situation just fine, and were on an alternate route back to Camp Eggers, when we were stopped dead in traffic just before Massoud Circle. Massoud Circle is a traffic circle dedicated to a Kurd resistance leader killed by the Taliban. Massoud Circle is also the site of one of the worst IED attacks on a US military convoy. With Massoud Circle within sight, we were in a stand-still traffic jam, blocked in on three sides by other vehicles, and on the left side by the concrete barrier separating lanes of traffic. Normally, this type of activity would indicate that President Karzai was moving through the area. Traffic is typically stopped or rerouted to secure his convoy and escorts. But that day, President Karzai was in London meeting with Tony Blair.

We were starting to feel a little uneasy, blocked in traffic like sitting ducks. Some tricky and skillful maneuvering by our driver got us out of our position and heading in the opposite direction towards the airport. Our driver, Sharon, being a local and knowing the area, with best intentions (we presume) attempted to take a side road to get us back on track. The turn was into a narrow alley in a poor neighborhood. I say “poor neighborhood” to differentiate it from the safe houses. These were mud buildings, cluttered with daily activity of average Kabul natives. Not knowing what was ahead since we couldn’t see past the first turn about 20 meters in, we directed Sharon to back up and keep the vehicle on major, paved streets only.

He got us back on the main road and drove at breakneck speed in the direction of the airport. Keep in mind that there are no traffic laws in Afghanistan—at least I’ve never seen indication of any. Traffic circles are usually the most exciting, being congested with vehicles, pedestrians, donkey carts, trucks, soldiers, bicycles, and just about anything else you can imagine, intertwining in every direction with no clear right of way. It’s actually quite amazing to see, like a choreographed dance, all the players seem to move with an inherent grace, sort of like a school of shad or flock of sparrows shifting direction and skirting obstacles almost as one being, never colliding.

We made it back to the safe houses just fine. Never did learn what the detour and congestion was all about. After dropping Dana off at his house, the driver was going to my house and we were stopped for a short while in normal traffic. Kids, as usual, came up to my window to sell gum or simply beg. There was something I hadn’t seen before—a woman in a buqua leading a blind man. Impossible to tell how old she was, I got the feeling that the man was her son, as opposed to being her husband. I rolled down my window and gave her all the cash I had on hand—three dollars.

Friday was a better day. Went to Camp Phoenix with some other MPRI personnel and played racquetball, then went to the PX and ate pizza. Went back home and took a nap until suppertime. Fridays are a feast. This Friday I had steak and crab legs, with pralines & cream ice cream for desert.

Yesterday was a bonanza. I had two boxes in the mail. One was some PT shirts and shorts I ordered with the $30 Wal-Mart gift certificate I won in the monthly photo contest; and the other was from Julie. Valentine’s card & candy, magazines, headphones, an optical mouse for my notebook computer, and assorted mail.

Now it’s Sunday morning, a normal work day, and I’m sitting in my conex box/office writing this in MS Word to copy into the blog later. Has to be later because the internet is down. It’s snowing hard, and whenever it rains or snows, the internet goes down.

I added some new pics to the photobucket. You’ll see the burqua woman & blind man; my interpreter/translators Aimal & Abdullah; Dana; Dana’s driver, Sharon; and Strawberry.

Out.