Goodbye Afghanistan.

It's Sunday night, my last night here. I'm leaving tomorrow. Unless something remarkable happens on the trip home, this will be my last entry.

I can't even think of anything interesting to say, and I've had a lot of time to think about it. I considered writing about my opinion of the progress we've made here, but it would be only a narrow view of my small part in the big picture. Instead I'll just cut to the bottom line: twenty years. I think it will take another twenty years before we make a difference here.

I've done my part for the war on terror. Now, unlike the courageous men & women in the military, I can go home and not look back. Our soldiers, sailors, airmen, and Marines will likely be back--either here or Iraq. Hopefully I've been able to make a small contribution in the last twenty-two months with MPRI in Afghanistan.

I'm going home to a new job in Dallas; to my beautiful wife Julie; to my family and friends; and to the safety, comfort, convenience, and civility of a modern society.

Fair winds and following seas, my friends.

Out.

One of the team drivers, Abdul, and I have a running joke. I don't even remember how it started, but whenever one of us first sees the other we yell bachi-khar! Bachi-khar means "son of a donkey" and is a terrible insult. Our ongoing insult battle has evolved into exchanging made-up insults like bachi-shodi (son of a monkey), bachi-fil (son of an elephant), bachi-mahi (son of a fish), and others.

When I presented certificates last week, I made one special. Instead of "In grateful appreciation...blah, blah, blah..." on Adbul's certificate I wrote 'bachi-khar!" in the native language Dari, and included a picture of the donkey from "Shrek."

I win.

This morning my very first interpreter-translator (I've had four) Abdullah came by and presented me with a gift. Two Afghan outfits--one for me and one for Julie. If Julie and I ever immigrate to Afghansitan we'll be set for clothes, I think we each have three outfits now.

Disclaimer: I actually gave Abdul two certificates; a real one and this joke one. However, I think he treasures the joke certificate more.

Out.

The goodbyes have started.

Earlier this week my driver, Shirin, gave me an Afghan coat that his cousin sent from Mezar-e Sharif.

On Wednesday we had a little ceremony at the depot. My whole team was there, the US military, the ANA, and our translators and drivers. First I handed out certificates to all the translators and drivers, thanking them for their service during my tenure. Afghans love certificates. The translators presented to me a leather wallet made in Afghanistan, and the drivers gave me a rug with the likeness of Massoud. My team gave me a beautiful Afghanistan coffee table book and a cake. I gave a little speech thanking them and telling everyone how much I treasure my time here.

On Thursday the other MPRI logistics team had a little event for me. They raised an American flag, then lowered, folded it, and presented it to me along with a certificate. Then we went to the pizza restaurant and they had a little roast for me. Most of my team was there too, and they brought another cake. The logistics team gave me an Afghan flag embroidered with my name and time here.

On Monday morning, I'll have the traditional ceremony along with a handful of other guys leaving on Monday and be presented a plaque by the MPRI Program Manager.

I still have a little work to do, but for the most part I'll be checking out for the next few days--turning in my computer, phone, uniforms, etc.

It certainly was an adventure. Part of me will always be in Afghanistan.

Out.

God help us.

I've been thinking about how to best wind down this blog. Yep, I'm leaving. I arrived in Afghanistan on Jan 7, 2007 and I'll be leaving for good on Nov 10, 2008. Which, coincidentally, is the Marine Corps' birthday.

I was looking back at some of my first entries to try to find something to tie this all up and provide some closure. My very first entry is here. However, all I'm finding is that my first few weeks here seem like years ago. Actually it was only twenty-two months. I also looked at some of the first pics I took with my crappy little camera. I remember thinking how exciting, dangerous, and adventurous the whole thing seemed. I even optimistically started a separate folder for Afghanistan pics here, and now there are thousands of pics in my Photobucket.

Is it still exciting, dangerous, and adventurous? Somewhat. I feel the need to start out by once again explaining that I am not a soldier. There are thousands of true American heroes here, men & women of the US armed forces, who face real danger everyday. If they read this they'd probably laugh. I'm just a contractor, living and working in the relative safety of the Afghan capital Kabul. However, compared to my former occupation and to the casual reader browsing this from the comfort and safety of his home or office in places like Rapid City, South Dakota or Irrigon, Oregon this is a dangerous place.

Just last week, the Ministry of Interior was attacked. Within walking distance from where many of us work and live, most of us didn't give it a second thought. Taliban attacked the guards while one of them ran in and detonated his suicide bomb. Five people were killed and the building suffered major damage. That day, just like any other day, I traveled with my team down Jalalabad road to the depot, we worked all day, had lunch, went back down Jalalabad road, I went to the gym, got a go-plate from the dining facility, and went to the house. Just another day.

Each day before we travel, we call the BDOC (Base Defense Operations Center) for the road conditions. Alert conditions are set for each route according to the threat, which means the possibility of hostility. Amber means caution, Red means essential travel only, and Black means no movement at all. Our usual daily route is almost always Red--essential travel only. So on the way to work each day we're looking for possible threats such as vehicles that seem to be tailing us or trying to catch up to us; stalled, unoccupied vehicles; the absence of people/pedestrians (locals almost always seem to know when something's going to go down); and anything out of the ordinary. In addition, we instruct our drivers to drive like bats out of Hell, which they are happy to do. A moving target is harder to hit.

We have pre-prepared "accident cards" in each vehicle. If we should have an accident or wreck, we hand the card to the other driver and depart the area. Under no circumstance will we allow ourselves to be boxed-in or stranded. We always travel with at least two vehicles so if one becomes stranded we can get in the other one and get away.

You get used to it. Much like the cops who can stand around a gory crime scene telling jokes, you begin to get a little numb to the danger around here. I remember the first time I went home on leave. Julie picked me up at the airport (a six-pack of Shiner Boch waiting for me in the truck, God bless her). On the way down I-635 toward the house I remember feeling a little uneasy. We were in a lone vehicle, miles from "safety." I wasn't wearing body armor. There were no pedestrians. We stopped several times (for traffic lights). All of the overpasses seemed particularly threatening--good places for the bad guys to drop stuff on you--there are no overpasses in Kabul, probably all of Afghanistan.

It's going to be weird for a while when I get home.