Desert Rains

Afghanistan's parched earth is so thirsty that it has forgotten how to drink. Rather than the rains being soaked up, they roll off the land and the runoff quickly becomes flood waters in the flat lands of the southern desert. These waters follow the nation's southwestern slope into a large basin in the southwest corner of the land locked nation. Here, heavens rejected gift of life pools in this corner pocket, shortly before the heavens steal it back away, leaving a vast and barren salt crescent that straddles the border of Iran and Afghanistan and stretches over a hundred miles end to end.

Kandahar Airfield sits on a similar flood plain, and although the airstrip may have once sat on a small island of high ground, the base has now expanded beyond those seasonal shores. In the rainy season, residents quickly learn where they stand - or swim - as those minor changes in elevations make all the difference in whether your office and desert home are dry, or half sunk off the southern shores of the airfield.

Most residents who have been around for a year can speak of at least one heavy rain that turned intersections into river crossings. Or how the deep ditches along the road quickly swallowed up the untrained newbie, who drifted too far off the shoulder as he was wading into work in the muddy waters.

When I first experienced these floods in 2010, I thought surely this is rare event, since such a large section of the base was flooded, but more seasoned residents swore it happened every year, and that my experience was mild. This was highlighted when I began receiving e-mails titled 'Operation Noah' every time the forecast called for rain, warning me to put electronics up on tables to avoid losses as offices flood. I missed this years big flood but I was greeted with the tales of water three feet deep on some roads, and water stained walls on ground floor housing units, now condemned due to water damage.

Another interesting aftermath to flooding are the potholes. During flooding they are the lurking menace that keeps traffic traveling at a crawl as motorist tentatively navigate once familiar dirt roads that are now littered with new hazards under the murky waters that threaten to swallow a tire or submerge an engine block.

After the waters subside, the roads new topography hardens into bone rattling washboards that quickly snap axles of overworked rentals. The weeks after a flood the streets take on the look of a ghetto as abandoned vehicles begin the litter the curbs with one hub on a cinder block, or a tire curled up under the vehicle, because a driver was too slow to realize the rough ride wasn't just the road conditions.

Having experienced one flood and heard stories of so many others, my next obvious question is, why did we expand further out into the lowlands? I can only assume that the persistence of the dry season lulls people into believing the last year's floods were a fluke, and there is no way this desert is going to give way to lake side property again. Inevitably it does. Lessons are learned. Then the replacement unit arrives in country and the cycle repeats.

The new guys suffer through the summer heat and convince themselves the stories of flooding must have been exaggerated. After all, we haven't seen a cloud in the sky since we hit the ground. Construction represents progress, so we need to expand the base further south. Ten years of lessons learned, and still today the construction cranes of progress dot the southern horizon and new foundations litter the landscape. Maybe next year will be different.

More likely the drumbeat of 'development' will drive the expansion forward until we are forced to stop building and hand the whole thing over the an Afghan force who will watch the flood waters of international aid recede and the oasis of development fall into ruin. We have not learned our lessons, but I think the Afghans have seen this storm pass before and have learned all the wrong lessons. I can only hope they will weather the storm far better this time, and the aid that has seemed to roll of the back of most of the nation and pooled in the pockets of new political powers will be invested in more worthy development.

However, much like the desert rain, the foreign aid is beginning to evaporate from this parched land back into the western banks from wince it came. The newly minted upper class fear their riches will not bear fruit in their land. Instead, remembering the long dry spells and chaos that have racked this development desert, they would rather water investment properties in Dubai, instead of gambling on growth at home. Already, the money markets of Kabul are rich with the speculations of financial crashes to come. As coalition forces plan their withdrawal, the familiar dry years of old loom on the horizon.

Snow Day in Afghanistan

Afghanistan has a history of conflict, from Alexander the Great, to Genghis Khan, to the last four decades beginning with the Russians, to civil/tribal war, and the Taliban and Al Qaeda. The history of violence is tied to the geography, with the country straddling the crossroads of trade routes and conquest. Even the terrain seems violent. The jagged Hindu Kush Mountains mountains climb out of expansive dunes on the edge of the southern desert. The mountains stone is young, rough and sharp edged, like the countries population. Their violent rise, not yet softened by weather, erosion and time.

PHOTO: Alexander's castle on a hill above the town of Qalat, Zabul Province.

The weather is just as extreme, assaulting you with triple digit temperatures, on cloudless, dry days in the summer months, followed by some bitter cold winter nights. Plus, a constant wind that is channeled by the mountains so consistently that even an aerial view of the dunes looks like the gods themselves are blowing the land to the east, up against the mountains like an ocean of earthen waves crashing against a jagged shore. In the summer, the wind feels like a gust of heat from an open oven, providing no relief from the high temperatures. While in the winter, the cold wind cuts through your clothes, saps your skin of moisture, and chills you to the bone.

One might think that snowstorms would be one more assault on the senses here, but I have found the opposite to be true. The storms we have had this year, have settled in softly, with the winds giving way to calm, allowing the flakes slow, silent fall to bring on an almost therapeutic calm. The fresh layer of white, softening the harsh, sharp angles of the landscape and covering the barren brown landscape and cityscape of brown mud walls and buildings. It also dampens the harsh light of the typical cloudless days, and low clouds soften and conceal the sharp peaks of the surrounding mountains.

In the south, the snow is rare, which makes it a treat for the locals with limited resources and entertainment. The rarity is highlighted when you see kids running around in the snow wearing nothing on their feet except for flimsy sandals. It raises spirits both for novelty of seeing snow in the desert lowlands, but also in hopes that it is falling harder, and piling up deeper in the mountains, to sustain the Spring run off that will support the crops as they struggle against the parching heat of summer.

For me, it has brought on the feeling of being snowed in, like I should hibernate with a blanket and a book, in a cozy room with a window... if I could find a room with a window. The soldiers spirits have been lifted as well, and I have seen an assortment of gun strapped snowball fights, snowmen in camouflage caps, and even igloos being built before the melt ensues. A tactical pause, brought on by the limited mobility on icy roads and passes and reduced air support as well. Though the laundry list of tasks at hand can often seem daunting, and tomorrow may be filled with mud and mayhem, the snow seems to absolve everyone of responsibility for a moment. Enjoying the day, like a child that just heard school has been cancelled on account of snow.