The Kandahar Jingly Market

  

                           Me with Jingly Bus, just arrived to unload for market

  Captain Moira escorted C.S.E. to the Kandahar Jingly Market after breakfast. She was as ever wearing boots that were too big for her and her camouflage fatigues looked like a snuggle blanket she was sitting in, rather than an official uniform that she was wearing. Stacks, Royal Marine, was in a spare seat on the bus.

  ‘There’s the famous Emerald Lake over to your right,’ Moira said, jabbing the window. ‘It gets more and more whiffy the hotter it is out. Sorry.’

  ‘The cesspool,’ Stacks explained to Colin Cole, tour compere, sitting with his head drawn back and his Sphinx look on his face. ‘Guys have been known to swim in it as a dare. Or been forced to as a quite serious punishment. People billeted in those tents over just the other side of it often wake up gagging from the stench. For some unfathomable reason they’re always allocated to journalists. Or touring VIP’s such as yourselves, if you piss us off.’

  ‘Guys….guys!’ Moira was clapping her hands as the bus pulled up at the Jingly Market. ‘I have things to do now till setting up for the show later, but I’ll send the driver back to take you to scoff at thirteen-fifteen. I might or might not be at scoff. Whichever, be ready to be picked up here at thirteen-fifteen.’

  Phil, closing comedian, said, ‘Thirteen twenty.’

  ‘Thirteen twenty-five,’ said Colin.

  ‘Thirteen-fifteen,’ said Stacks.

  As we walked through the turnstile Stacks said, ‘Thank fuck for the Jingly Market. An oasis in the mind-numbing boredom.’

 ‘Not finding the war part of what you do interesting at the moment?’ I asked.

  He stopped to buy a dollar's worth of Christmas Cracker novelties from a tiny local boy. 

  ‘In a weird sort of way I suppose you could say it's interesting,' he said. Smiling but final he told the boy no, no more dollars. 'But there’s also the hours on end sitting tight and being on watch up hills. Which reminds me. Message for you. Just been Facebooking Medders.'   

  In 42 Commando with Stacks, Medders had been at the Kabul shows. 

  'He’s already down in Kajaki. Sends kisses. Which makes you the honoured one. Had a total cloud on this morning and wouldn’t join in with the rest of them teasing the enemy. He’d been trying to have MSN sex last night, and his bird was replying slowly and not including anything like enough detail for his needs. And he’s got blue-balls with frustration. Then he logs over onto her Facebook page and finds that in the twenty or so minutes he’s been trying to get her to type dirty, she’s changed her Facebook profile picture and updated the Films and What I am Looking for sections. So he sends her a “You’re dumped, bitch”, message and logs off. And this morning there were the rest of them, knowing the enemy had them in their sights from across the dam, decided on the count of three they’d all jump up, wave Coo-ee! at them, then sit back down again. Did it maybe six times. Medders wouldn’t join in. Moany cunt. Still, at least he’s making himself useful looking after Stacks Junior for me.’ 

   I pulled up short. 

  ‘Latest is the little boy’s doing good, eating well, but he’s obviously missing his daddy.’ Stacks was watching me, grinning. ‘Chick, I haven’t fathered a bastard on an Afghan woman. Stacks Junior’s a dog. With no ears. Used to be a fighting dog. Given us by the local Mullah. This Mullah was dead skinny, so we called him Mullah Lite. He’d imposed a curfew on his people so we’d know that anyone out and about later than the curfew time had to be up to shit. In return, we helped out with food and water and medicine and whatever. Mullah Lite gave us this fighting dog. Little more than a puppy. And he’d already lost his ears fighting. Otherwise healthy. Took a shine to me from the off. Followed me everywhere, slept at the foot of my bed. Mullah Lite thought we’d want to use Stacks Junior for fighting – entertainment – so he gave us two other fighting dogs as well. Tangy, and Asbo. We called this third dog that cos he was a little bastard. We retired all three of them from the ring straight off. Gave them the free run of camp. Fed them, bit of obedience stuff, love. Asbo, even, calmed down. And lately when boys have gone on watch on the hill overlooking camp, one or more of the dogs have howled to be let out of the gate to go hang out with them up there. No-one sends them, they just want to go. Oh, look at you now - you have a napkin there?’ 

   He jogged left and raided a portaloo for some paper towels. 

   ‘Now, do you want to look at the DVDs first, rugs or fake onyxeque?’ he asked, handing the towels to me.

  ‘Let’s just walk first and spy out the lay of the land.’ I wiped my eyes. ‘Will you be out on more patrols here and Kajaki?’

  He shook his head. ‘Between here, Kajaki and Camp Bastion I’m collecting replacement equipment to send back up north where we’re tussling with the Taliban for a dam. If we’re not successful the Taliban could cut off the electricity supply to Kandahar. Imagine that happening back in the UK. London with no electricity.’

  ‘Worse if it was at Christmas.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Imagine Oxford Street all lacking twinkle if the River Thames got kidnapped.’

  We walked on. ‘And how’s your poorly hamstring holding up?' he asked. 'You got long left out here?’

  ‘It’s okay if I just stay off it. Off to Bastion for a couple of days after the shows here, then that’s it.’

  ‘Bastion. Lower any expectations you might foolishly have had. And Reg Varnay’s in charge down there, just warning you. Known to be one of the two hardest Marines around. His mate Steve’s the other one. Steve’s not out in theatre at the moment so at least you’ll be spared the double act. But if you see a certain sharkish chill in Reg’s eye and a riffle through his moustache, get yourself sharpish out of the vicinity. Authority hardcore, is Reg.’

  I said, ‘Don’t answer if you can’t, but about the initiation rites that were leaked to The Mirror. I’ve been curious since Medders mentioned it in Kabul...’

  ‘I bet you have.’ He looked thoughtful for a few seconds. ‘I wasn’t actually there when the nod concerned filmed it on his phone – he was seriously failing to make the grade, by the way - but I have been there for other fun-times. The thing I’ll say is that it’s our choice, no-one makes us do it. Made, actually: we’re banned from it now. Orders from on high.’

  ‘Why would straight men behave like that?’

  ‘Er…statistics, princess? Not all Marines are straight. And, whatever, porno versions of family games are just something Marines do. Tiddly Winks played with your thumb and forefinger is boring. And why would you play Battle Stations Torpedo with soap from your hands when you can play it with good old frozen Mars Bars out of elsewhere?’

  I wondered if the Marines’ initiation rites might be a form of sexual display.

  ‘But who are we displaying to?’ Stacks wanted to know. ‘It’s just us.’

  We were at the biggest of the DVD stalls; sixteen trestle tables covered in white plastic laid out in a square. Crouched in the middle, dishdasha billowing over a stool, the stall holder was having a good morning.

  ‘There’s anything and everything on here, look,’ said Stacks.

  Sex and The City with copy in Japanese on photocopied inlays, Bob the Builder – ‘Probably dubbed into Taiwanese!’ – recent cinema releases.

  ‘Careful of those,’ Stacks warned. ‘They buy them from someone who was sat in the cinema filming the screen. Good from the atmosphere point of view – punters’ noise and the occasional chuck of popcorn. Drawback is when whoever filmed it was sat where they can’t catch the whole screen properly. I bought 300 and the actors were all cut off at CGI-enhanced chest height.’

  ‘Like with some of the Russian Ballet classics that have been put out on DVD. When Yevteyeva’s swan wing movement takes her hand above her head it goes into a weird split screen.’

  ‘Just like that.’

  Haggling ruthlessly, he bought seasons one and two of Heroes and Disney’s Cinderella. 

  ‘The cartoon’s for when I look after my sister’s kid when I’m home,’ he told me. ‘She’s going to get bored with Lion King any time soon and won’t go upstairs any more when I send her all eager to watch it. “Go to your room”. Chook chook chook chook up the stairs. Wait of ten seconds. Then: “Hakuna Matata”. Over here now - let’s buy you a dishdash. But, listen, if you decide you want one, you’re doing the haggling. I’ve done mine for the day – don’t like doing it; but they do take the piss with the prices.’

  ‘Then all’s fair then.’

  ‘Not, seeing as they take such a risk getting here.’

  ‘What risk?’

  ‘The Taliban ambush them on the roads to and from KAF.’

  ‘To pillage pirate DVDs and school of Camden Lock overpriced bric-a-brac shit?’

  ‘To kill them for helping the Infidel.’

  ‘What the…?!’

  I had just seen something nasty on the rug stall.

  

  ‘And Yanks love these,’ Stacks said.

  ‘No!’

  ‘They have to have both rugs. First plane hitting, second plane hitting. They snap up set after set of them. We’re lucky to see a complete set of two on the stall just now.’

  ‘That is some really dark-subject-matter tufting, right there.’

  ‘Right, try this on.’

  He was holding out a dishdasha he';d taken off a neighbouring stall. Other squaddies, smiling, stopped to watch as I pulled it over my head.

  ‘You all coming to the C.S.E. show?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah, giving it another go,’ said one. He looked furious. ‘We all went last night and couldn’t understand a fucking word. Thought the sound system must be fucked, then in the break we found out it was the Norwegian lot’s show.’

  Smoothing the front of the dishdasha I said, ‘It’s too white, Stacks. I must look like Moby Dick in it.’

  ‘They make them white to reflect the sun,’ he said.

  ‘That’s a fallacy. All colours have the same sun-reflecting and soaking up properties.’

  ‘Someone’s been at the Discovery Channel, haven’t they? You’d need a full burka, of course, being a woman, even just for your stage job. Then you’d have to go in boots of taxis and stand in the special cage in buses. When you visit me in Manchester I might try and get the council to instigate that arrangement for you on the Metrolink.’

  I eased myself free of the dishdasha and Stacks gave it back to the stall holder with a nod of thanks.

  ‘He was loving you in it,’ Stacks said, quietly, as we walked on. ‘You play your cards right and maybe one of his thousand-odd nephews could have a night off sore-arse duty. You heard about Man Love Thursday?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We have to allow them a day a week to let off gay steam. Kissing each other, touching each other’s’ legs in this weird way they have. You can’t pass a tarpaulin anywhere of a Thursday without it’ll be undulating, providing Afghan shag-cover. And a gay couple in the Taliban shot a mosque Imam in Helmand cos he wouldn’t marry them. Imagine me in my bib and tucker in St. Clement’s firing off a couple of rounds at the lawful impediment moment. “More tea, vicar?” Ka-boom!  That's not a proposal, by the way, get your hopes down.  Though I'll bum you if you want, cos you're sad and can't seem to get any.'

  Reader, I parried him. 

   To be continued...