Re-embedding or "Out to get your war on"

Baghram Air Base- Every time I re-embed I am re-reminded how slow it starts, how much mundane waiting is involved in covering the U.S. military.

Again, I am dropped off at the mega-base, this time by an Afghan taxi driver and a local fixer who drove me an hour and a half north from Kabul. The drive was at times a methodical, yet crazed avoidance of potholes, and a picturesque tour of the northern highway's mountains and roadside shops, crammed with Afghan cars and minibuses headed to the mountains for Friday picnics.

Then the malaise hits. Baghram Air Base, the U.S. Forces' largest Eastern supply hub, is to speak frankly, the pits. The typical cluster of Army, Air Force apparatchiks, KBR contractors and foreign troops working and socializing in a weirdly alternative world that neither resembles Afghanistan, nor the smaller military outposts which dot the rest of the country. I meet my friend Simon, who's been an embedded photographer here for the last three months, and we, no different than the other 20,000 individuals on base, make our mandatory PX and coffee runs.

Embedding as a reporter is like peeling an onion or cracking one of those Russian dolls to get to a smaller, more valuable doll inside. You have to get through the big, loud, soul-less bases, to get to another smaller, yet equally soul-less division-level base, one we flew to this morning, near Jalabad, where it's at least 15 degrees hotter than Kabul, yet still not touching the inferno that is Baghdad.

From here we will be pushed out to a battalion level base, and will appeal to the commander or public affairs liaison to visit an even smaller, company-level base where we both know there's the opportunity to really learn how soldiers live, interact, fight, rebuild, patrol the community around them. It's a process, and the process takes patience unless you're the New York Times or represent another outlet with pull. Mostly it's worth it, if only to meet a few unique individuals, go on some truly memorable patrols and slowly a story forms somewhere in the back of your head. Sometimes it's not worth it. Sometimes it's too crowded. This August, everyone seems out to get their war on.

There seem to be dozens and dozens of journalists in Afghanistan this month. Violence has been increasing for the last three months in a row and elections are to be held nationwide on the 20th. I've been told there are 41 candidates running against Karzai, but only one, Dr. Abdullah Abdullah, the former foreign minister from the northern region, stands a serious chance of shaking Karzai's hold on power. Our public affairs contact tries to sell us on some "less desirable" areas which she claims are "very kinetic". We don't have much choice, her area of operations is crammed with journalists, especially those who were "transferred" from Patika after the U.S. solider was kidnapped.

Thinking again, there's not much to complain about. The camaraderie is always cool. At Baghram, in the press hut, dubbed Hotel California, Simon and I shared some chats with true characters- the mandatory Fox reporter who idolized Rush, the cool, hyper-smart Wired reporter in the process of writing a comprehensive book on U.S. reconstruction efforts in Iraq and Afghanistan, and in our little bunk room, a Ukrainian-bred, Brookynite named Demo who takes awe-inspiring photos of Chernobyl and Detroit, but has never traveled to an active war zone before.

Demo impressed Simon when he pulled out a brand new armored vest, dubbed "the turtle" by its manufacturer because it offers protection from groin up to the chin. Demo put it on for the first time in our cramped room and he did look like a turtle. There's no question he will remove the bullet-proof sleeves and add-ons one by one, as he realizes he will never get the shots the AP expects of him on his ten-day contract unless he has enough freedom of movement to lift his camera high enough to see through the viewfinder.

"Any of your guys need defogging cream?" Demo asked us. Simon smiled, "De-fogging cream?"

We have no idea what it is, but we both help ourselves to the greenish cream, meticulously rubbing it over the lenses of our protective eye glasses. Most likely it will coat them with a fine dust by tomorrow.