Reporting from Afghanistan: Kabul, DAY 1

Sunday, May 17, 2009 -- 3:00 AM CST
-Kabul, Afghanistan

I'm on another planet.

People are waving their arms and running and screaming, dodging in and out of traffic, barely avoiding being hit by our wildly careening Toyota Corolla as we speed north from Kabul to Bagram.

On this planet there's no fear- unless you count me. To my right, my driver, Rohullah, grins and asks in Pashto if he can smoke, holding up a cigarette with the hand not gripping the wheel. I laugh and he lights up. For the first time in six years, I want one too.

We are flying. The Toyota's barely on the road, if you can call this a road. It's lined by bazaars on both sides, vendors and shoppers running back and forth, drivers doing nothing to avoid them. Rohullah doesn't seem to even notice the people as he blasts the horn and weaves in and out of traffic. This guy can drive.

I'm rolling some tape along the way. I want to shoot everything I see, because I can't believe it. I've never seen such poverty before- and while I knew I'd see plenty of it here, I never imagined this. All I can think about is how tough you'd have to be just to live here. We drive across a flooded street.

As we bounce across the potholes on the other side, I promise myself I'll never complain about anything again. I'll break that promise three times by dinner.

Turns out we took the back way to Bagram. Later, a Master Sergeant from Plainfield looks around a crowded mess hall and tells me that of all the people in it, he and I might be the only ones who've seen that road.

Rohullah pulls over, yells something out the window. A street vendor hands him two bottles of water. He pays, gives one to me, and floors it again. I like this guy. Finding him was lucky. I needed a ride in a hurry and took a chance. He doesn't speak English, but understood "Bagram," and at the time, that was enough.

See, things went a little off the rails today. Back in Chicago, I was booking a ride from the airport when I got a better offer. Here's what my National Guard contact wrote: "When you make your flight arrangements, fly into Kabul (KAIA), we will pick you up in an armed escort. You will feel like a third world dictator when you see us arrive, but who cares, you'll be safe, you'll be with the best soldiers, and they're all from Illinois."
Who could say no to that?

But when I landed- no escort, no soldiers- and the would-be dictator wound up hanging around outside the Kabul airport way longer than anyone should. I roasted in the sun, shot a little video, and tried to reach my guy. I was told he was on his way. Three hours later, it was clear my world phone wasn't ready for this part of the world- and that I had overstayed my welcome.
It's a war zone. Things like this happen all the time and you just have to roll with them. If all else failed, the Army was expecting me at Bagram Airfield by 4:30 that afternoon- so at least I had somewhere to go. Enter Rohullah: cab driver from Hell.

The outskirts of the base are like a scene from a movie:  blowing sand, razor wire, trucks and Humvees and guys with guns. The second we stop, a little boy shoves his head through my window and starts yelling in perfect English, his grimy face two inches from mine.
"Your friend will come for you! You must wait here!"

"And who might you be?" I ask, as I shove open the door. I need Rohullah's cell to call inside. He hands it over as I start to unload my gear, six or eight little hands reaching for my bags. I wave them away. The cell connects just as a short convoy of Humvees with big antennas passes by. The connection drops- as it always will when those trucks are around. I connect again and Sgt. Warren Wright of the Media Operations Center says he'll be right out. The little boy's name is Idris. He's ten, and quite the entrepreneur. He and his pals are selling cool drinks to the Afghan truck drivers who pass through here. They also steal anything not tied down. We talk about life in Afghanistan, school, soccer and money. The boys are funny, dirty and happy.

There's some change that keeps falling out of a pocket in my laptop bag. I get it out, hold it up, and the happy little boys turn into a pack of rabid little wolves, snarling and clawing over each other. All except Idris. Even when I try to throw him a quarter, he just shrugs and lets the wolves have it. My ride is here. We drive past the razor wire onto a base twice the size of my hometown.

-Tom Negovan, WGN News Special Report