It’s been a harsh winter in Spokane, Wash. I recently came close to crashing my truck, sliding around a snowy corner. As dangerous as it was, it didn’t come close to my first experience driving outside the wire in Afghanistan.
If I knew then what I know now, I never would have agreed to the mission.
Not long after reaching the city of Herat, Sgt. Herbokowitz needed someone to take a State Department employee to the airport. I’d grown tired of guard duty and Herat’s limitless pie, so I volunteered.
“Who’s going?” I asked.
“You, Ms. Bader, and an Afghan guard,” Herbokowitz said. “Can you drive stick?”
I could, but wasn’t all that good at it. I’d driven old Army trucks around the woods, rarely higher than third gear.
But I drove the Toyota Land Cruiser out onto the Afghan street, my M16 and Ms. Bader to my right, the Afghan and his AK-47 in back. I was driving an unarmored vehicle with no radio and no map. We wouldn’t stand a chance against a determined enemy force. On my own, I’d have absolutely no knowledge of how to return to base. We had no means to call for help.
I tried to shift into third, and the vehicle screeched to a halt. “Sorry,” I said, restarting the Toyota.
We got going again and weaved through lawless traffic, dodging donkeys and potholes, and struggling to shift gears correctly. But we finally reached the airport. Ms. Bader could speak some Farsi and asked the Afghan to direct me back to base. She thanked us and boarded a plane.
We waited for her to take off, offering some nearby Afghan boys crackers and Pop Tarts I’d found in the back of the truck.
Finally, it was time to return to base. I patted my chest. “Reedy.” I pointed at the Afghan, and he replied, “Gholhan.”
“OK, Gholhan.” I pointed to the left. “I say left. You say?”
“Chop.”
I kept pointing. “Chop. Left. Chop?”
He nodded. Similarly, I learned that “raste” means right.
Before we drove back through town, hoping not to get killed, I decided we needed music. I popped in a tape I’d found in the glove compartment. The swirling strings of the Smashing Pumpkins’ “Tonight, Tonight” brought back the 1996 adventurous spirit of my teenage years, and I hit the gas.
I thought to myself, “I don’t know where I’m going; Gholhan doesn’t speak English; if we get attacked, we’re dead; and I can barely drive this thing!” I cranked the volume, laughed, and sped away from the airport.
Afghans don’t always drive in neat, orderly lanes, so I had to be creative, snaking through traffic. Approaching a bridge behind a motorcycle and a slow truck, I knew I was in trouble. I couldn’t downshift. “Hold on, Gholhan!”
I sped up and swerved into the left lane — at the exact moment the motorcycle did the same. I had one option. I put the pedal to the floor as I pulled onto the rough gravel left shoulder, passing both the truck and motorcycle. It was something I’d never attempt in my own truck.
Oblivious to what I was saying, Gholhan only nodded. I swerved across traffic into the right lane just before we reached the bridge.
Gholhan directed me with “Raste!” and “Chop!” commands. It all worked relatively well until eight roads converged on a completely uncontrolled intersection.
“Oh, you gotta be kidding me. Raste or chop?!”
“Chop.”
But two left turns were possible.
“Chop or chop-chop?!”
“Chop-chop!”
I honked the horn and cranked the wheel. My tires squealed.
We missed hitting a truck, a man on a bike, three cars, and a boy with a wheelbarrow, rocketing through the chaos until we found ourselves on the right street. “That was stupid!” I exclaimed.
Gholhan laughed like he understood what I just said.
“It was stupid,” I thought later while eating some more pie back at base. I could hardly believe the Army had sent me on such a reckless mission.
Of course, when I thought about it more, I realized that if I weren’t here, I’d be back in Iowa teaching high school English. It’s remarkable any of this was happening to me.
Trent Reedy served as a combat engineer in the Iowa Army National Guard from 1999 to 2005, including a year’s tour of duty in Afghanistan.
