Please send me a DustBuster

Military patrols get lost because one road looks like the last


Martin Savidge reports from the field for CNN on major breaking news stories and has anchored several of the network's regularly scheduled newscasts.

Editor's note: In our Behind the Scenes series, CNN correspondents share their experiences in covering news around the world.

By Martin Savidge
CNN

KANDAHAR, Afghanistan (CNN) -- I live, eat and breathe Afghanistan. I also sneeze, choke and wear it.

This is one dusty place.

Just to type this tale, I'm armed with a DustGun spray can and a small paintbrush. Even so, my laptop looks as though it was pulled from King Tut's tomb. I'm at war with the dust but on the verge of requesting terms of surrender.

Afghanistan is in a four-year drought. The soil is so dry that it's been pulverized to the consistency of light brown baby powder.

The soldiers call it "moon dust," since each boot print looks amazingly like those first seen in television images from our neighbor in the sky. "That's one small step for man, one giant pain for those who have to work in it."

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EXTRA INFORMATION

Images from Operation Anaconda

Map of Afghanistan showing the location of the fighting

Savidge reports: The Battlefield

A reporter's reflections

The road home

Getting out

Mining snow

When I awaken in the morning, the dust covers my face. My clothes are constantly dusty. Even the ones still zipped in my backpack. I shake the dust off them and wash it from me in a daily skirmish fought with a bucket and a bar of soap, feeling victorious until I turn to see that dust has settled on my clothes while they were off my body.

The treachery! I'm Pigpen in the flesh.

Trees are dusty here. I thought they were dead but no, they just see water less than I do. My teeth are gritty, i.e. dusty. The dust pours into me through my nose, my mouth, my food, even my drink. My water is dusty. Why it doesn't turn to mud, I can never figure.

The soldiers like to spit, just to see the dust it kicks up. It fouls their guns, forces planes to return to base, gets into camera gear, gets on your nerves. People say, "Your hair's a mess, put something on it to keep it in place." But that would just make me more of a human dust magnet.

When you venture out into the Afghan countryside, you set foot on dust's home turf. A world without color. Stretching out like some limitless lunar landscape with virtually no landmarks.

"What in the world did the Russians want here?" is all I keep asking myself. Were they out to corner the world's dust market? Perhaps threatening the United States by hoarding all the Pledge?

Military patrols get lost because one road looks like the last and the next. Directions are meaningless: "Take a left at the next dusty intersection."

It's why I admire the Afghan people so much. They've mastered the perseverance of life amidst the dust. They manage to make things grow in it. They don't surrender. They build their homes, their villages, their cities with it.

I take a moment to soak up the warm sun, shuddering at the thought of what it means. It's heating the earth and when it's finished, the afternoon winds will come. Wind is dust's air force. I don't stand a chance.

I wave my once-white surrender flag, going down to dusty defeat.

Tomorrow: Savidge on the custom -- and the surprising impact -- of letters written to service people on duty. "Thank you for making our country safe. You are some of the bravest people in the world. ..."