My Afghan 15 Minutes of Fame

Sheberghan, Afghanistan—I was well into my visit to Afghanistan when I was invited to take a day trip to the rural town of Sheberghan located northwest of Kabul. Yes! I was thrilled about the opportunity to see life outside of the capital city of Kabul. I had traveled enough to know that leaving the capital city of any country was a sure way to experience its true essence. But given that I was in Afghanistan during the war, I wasn’t sure I’d get the chance.

From the Kabul airport, a chartered plane transported a sizable group of people representing both US government and government contractors. The plan was to go to the forward operating base (FOB) to attend the graduation of a recent cohort of Afghans who had completed soldier training delivered by US government contractors comprised of former law enforcement and military veterans. Various meetings were also slated for trip, to check in on FOB operations.

I was the only gal along for the ride.

It was a beautiful day to fly over Afghanistan. As always, I sat by the window and gazed at the rugged landscape below, which was largely barren, brown, and dry, and absent of any vegetation. Once we landed, we were strategically divided into several cars instead of transported in one big vehicle to the FOB, standard safety protocol to guard against a mass attack. I was given a flak jacket to wear for the ride. Sheberghan had previously been known for random ambushes, though I had been told that things had improved in recent months and needn’t worry.

I was paired to ride with a US Army Veteran by the name of Carlos. I had met Carlos the week before in Kabul and was glad to be in his company. Puerto Rican in origin, Carlos was of average height, and had olive brown skin, black hair, and brown eyes. I immediately felt comfortable around him. Mild-mannered, he was easy to be with and I enjoyed speaking Spanish with him.

We slid into the backseat of a small car. Well-armed and dressed in camouflage, Carlos briefed me on what would happen if our car got ambushed on the way to the FOB.

“If we get ambushed, I might literally grab and drag you around to safety but don’t take it personally if I’m a bit rough with you,” he said with a rather matter of fact voice that put me at ease, despite the warning.

“OK”, I said, while thinking to myself, “stay calm, cool, and collected…you’re here because you chose to be…just trust that all will be fine…”

Thankfully, we made it to the FOB in about 15 minutes event-free. We were given a bit of a hard time at the gate. But we got in, parked, and got out of our cars.

The FOB was small and a bit non-descript, as many camps seemed to be with their mostly white or sand-colored buildings. In the center of this FOB were a few large gymnasium-type structures with arched roofs, surrounded by smaller rectangular beige stucco buildings that served as dorm rooms for the Afghans trainees. In the front left corner of the FOB were several white shipping containers strung together into one continuous building that were dorm rooms for expat instructors and managers. 

What stood out were the numerous vehicles lined up along the single road that circled the FOB’s perimeter. In the front lot, several forest green trucks with “Police” painted on the doors in English and the local language were parked, their flatbeds outfitted with machine gun outposts. Intermixed were several white Toyota pickup trucks. Along the FOB roadside were also several sandy brown armored tanks. Afghan men dressed in Army camouflage milled about all of the vehicles.  

As we got out of our cars, the gate guard approached us in the parking lot with an air of authority. 

“You have to leave your guns in the car. Can’t walk around the camp with them.” 

“Why not? Is the Colonel allowed to carry his guns?” shot back Carlos, still seemingly annoyed by the hard time we were given at the gate.

“Yes, he is.” 

“Well, I’m with the Colonel.” 

Begrudgingly, the guard stepped aside, and we proceeded towards the buildings, a bit of tension still hanging in the air. 

We took a cursory walk around part of the FOB then headed to the graduation ceremony. We entered the classroom building to a ceremony already underway. Speeches were delivered in English by US Embassy representatives and the government contractors, and interpreted into Dari. I didn’t know much about this program at all, so I stood at the back of the room, intrigued and curious, watching, listening, and taking pictures as one by one, each of the Afghans got up to receive a diploma of sorts.

After the ceremony, I was sent off to sight see while the rest of the group headed into meetings. Carlos had murmured to me earlier that he would rather I not leave the base for safety reasons. But me being me, I wasn’t going to let fear get in the way of experiencing all that I could. So, I went with the idea, feeling excited to see more. Besides, I assumed that I would not have been encouraged to go if the risk was too high.

Three Afghan men were assigned as my tour guides. One was related to a higher up, and therefore served as my main escort, driver, and personal insurance policy against being taken advantage of. Dressed in a light blue cotton shalwar kameez, he was around 5’10” and heavy set. He had a stack of thick black curls on top of his head, beautiful dark eyes the size of walnuts, a thick mustache, and brown skin to match mine. Another was a guard who carried a machine gun in case we were attacked. Lanky and a bit taller than me, he wore a dark brown shalwar kameez with a beige vest. Lastly, a tall, lanky man dressed in a pin-striped suit and collared shirt with no tie, came along as the only one of the three who knew any English (which wasn’t much).

So, without my flak jacket, I was whisked around town in the front passenger seat for a 90-minute tour with three enthusiastic and gracious hosts. 

We first when to a “safe house’ to see the Buzkashi horses (the Afghan national sport, often likened to polo). We then drove out to the city park and various other spots around this beautiful, pastoral town where there was no visual evidence of a war that was already 8 years old and ongoing. Everywhere we went, my hosts eagerly took photos—me with each of them as well as group photos in various combinations, snapped into memory with all four of our cameras—mine, and each of theirs.

My tour guides had morphed into the Afghan paparazzi!

I happily obliged, my comfort level assuaged by the fact that if anything inappropriate happened to me, their jobs working for the Americans would be at stake. Besides, their enthusiasm was kind of cute and I felt like I was in the midst of my fifteen minutes of fame!

Admittedly I was at first puzzled over their eagerness to take so many photos of and with me. After all, they didn’t know me from Adam. But after thinking about this fun and funny experience it came to me—how often do Afghan men get to spend time with an unaccompanied and uncovered adult female, i.e., not wearing a burka, and an American one, to boot?

Probably never.

It made sense. That while I jumped at the chance to see what life was like in another part of Afghanistan, these three had likely jumped at the rare chance of hosting a single gal, a foreigner, for an afternoon. And it was a lovely little tour. I was charmed by beautiful Sheberghan and my three hosts. It had been a unique experience for all of us. But perhaps more so for them, than for me, I thought.

Upon my safe return to the FOB, my host immediately checked in with me.

“How were the guys during your trip? Did anything happen I should know about? Seriously, if anything happened, you should tell me.”

I smiled.

“Nothing happened at all. They were good hosts. They were funny. They took lots of pictures of me.”

And off we went to the chow hall for some eats before returning to Kabul. My 15 minutes of fame, now over and behind me.