Death Underfoot: Part 2

Controlled Demolition

         We sat with the engine running, and waited for the explosion.

         A single electric cable lay on the ground, following the dirt road into the distance.   Further down, it fed into to a detonator, which was attached to a length of bright orange detonation chord.   This led down into a big crater-shaped recess in the desert, in which were piled over five tons of bombs, mortars, and shells.  

         Several sticks of a highly explosive, tar-like substance called P-3 had been rolled by hand into a ball the size of a large grapefruit, and placed on a 1000 pound bomb at the top of the pile.   The orange detonation chord ran through the black mound of P-3, and snaked in and out of the various kinds of meticulously stacked unexploded ordnance.

         I was in the back seat of a four-wheel drive truck, readying my camera.   In the driver's seat sat Aldo the boss, and in the passenger seat was Sascha, an imposing but friendly German whose grandfather worked as a mine clearer in World War 2.   They were both on edge, and constantly scanned the horizon.   They work for Handicap International, an important international organization, and are doing their best to save lives.    

         The area had been chosen for its remote location so as not to detonate near peoples' homes, but there was another reason, too.  

         Wherever bombs are dropped and mines are laid, you can bet that the economy isn't thriving, and that poverty is rampant (one example is that farming becomes impossible when the land is littered with explosives).   This creates a market for the kind of scrap metal that mines and UXO are made of.   In war zones, adults and children alike are routinely killed by digging them up or prying them open.  

         Afghanistan is certainly no exception.   Scrappers come to get anything they can, even recently detonated UXO that can still explode.   The going rate for scrap metal in Herat is five Afghanis per kilo, or about ten cents for a little more than two pounds.   They have come mostly by foot, across the windy dessert.      

         Aldo spoke.   "They're hiding now, so you can't see them, but as soon as the explosion goes off, they'll appear out of nowhere."

         We were at the minimum safe distance from the explosion site.   As soon as it went off, we were to drive as fast as we could to try to beat the scrappers to the site, and to keep them away for their own safety.   Random explosions usually follow the main one, making it a dangerous job.

         This demolition had an added risk.   The pile contained white phosphorus (which the US Army has lately been criticized for using in populated areas in Iraq).   White phosphorus burns for a very long time and cannot be put out.   When it gets on anything, from concrete to skin, it simply keeps burning.  

         Earlier in the week, I went to the storage facility where the mines and UXO cleared from the ground are taken to await demolition.   It was basically a big field with some guards and a fence around it.  

         Thousands of tons of explosive materials are organized into categories and simply stacked on the ground, many still in the original boxes.   Several conflicts are represented, as are several countries that manufacture such materials.   Everything from fragmentation mines to anti-tank rockets are piled high in all directions.   Some are shiny, some covered with rust.   Often, tiny crystals form on the surface of the metal, and can make an otherwise stable explosive extremely volatile.

         There is a separate section where white phosphorus munitions are kept.   They are less predictable than the others and the pile isn't allowed to get too big.   At the demolition I was awaiting, over two tons of the UXO contained white phosphorus.

         The clock ticked down, and suddenly a huge black and orange cloud appeared, followed by a deep crashing sound.   The truck immediately lunged forward on the bumpy dirt road, and I held on.

         Through the windshield, I saw the mushroom cloud growing. Then looking down, I saw the scrappers.

         It was hard to tell where they came from.   As we passed a group of them getting close to the blast site, we slowed down and Sascha jumped out and ran toward them.   Aldo and I continued on until the truck stopped, directly between scattered flaming metal and the poor men who'd come to try to salvage it.   We got out, and Aldo started screaming and waving for the men to stay away.   I snapped pictures.  

         Other trucks followed, fanning out, and Afghani mine clearers tried to gather the scrappers into groups and keep them back.   Aldo took the truck to another side of the blast.   I started aggressively yelling at the ones that are again approaching my position, trying to look like I was in charge of something. Secondary explosions sounded behind me, and I noticed a flaming shell that had been blown close to a mile away.   An old man was standing over it.

         In Afghanistan, there are many aid workers, both Afghani and foreign, trying to help those affected by mines and UXO.   They provide all kinds of much-needed support to the wounded and their families.   The problem is that millions of deadly objects are still underfoot, and will continue to maim and kill for decades to come.  

         What I experienced at the demolition seemed chaotic, but was, in fact, controlled.   Given the mine workers' resources and the situation in Afghanistan, they were doing an amazing job, and the important thing is that no one got hurt.   Watching these men do their dangerous work, I had a thought that if there were enough people like them, some of the other services wouldn't even be needed.