Tim Hortons in Kandahar, Afghanistan: An insider's view

Some days are harder
Because of the hot weather, we make a lot of iced cappuccinos, and I often dance a little when I make them. I sway back and forth, moving my hips to the sound of the mixer. I tell the customers it tastes better that way. It never fails to get a smile.

There are days when it’s hard to be upbeat, though. We’ve had six ramp ceremonies since I’ve been here. A ramp ceremony is when we send soldiers home in the very way we don’t want to – in a coffin. It’s a very formal event, with the troops marching out in formation. Those of us with the Canadian Forces Personnel Support Agency are put in our own ranks. We march behind our troops and take our place on the tarmac in front of the plane that will fly the bodies home. Other than the sound of marching feet, all is silent.

A brief service is usually conducted by the padre, a military minister. We pray, then the troops salute the caskets draped in Canadian flags, which are carried high on the shoulders of other soldiers. A bagpiper follows behind. I don’t think I’ll ever hear the sound of bagpipes again without remembering these ceremonies. Sometimes I cry, a little – for lives lost, and for families I’ve never met.

When we get back to work the mood is somber; soldiers come in with grief on their faces. They give their order quietly, avoiding eye contact. I can sense that tears are close for them. It can be hard to speak in those moments. Yet most of the soldiers appreciate our smiles and jokes. When we celebrate life, it helps us all deal with death a little easier.

In need of a change
I applied for this job in August 2006. I was wrapping up a contract job with an arts festival in Niagara-on-the-Lake, Ont., processing donations and sending out membership packages. I was looking for something different to do with my life; something that would feel like I was helping out a larger cause. I didn’t think I would get this job.

I’m 35, and although I’m not married and don’t have children, I assumed I’d be bypassed in favour of younger adventurers. But I found a range of ages and experiences when I was accepted into the two-week training course. One of my coworkers, Chantal, 24, from Timmins, Ont., signed up because her husband is a soldier here and she wanted to support him and their friends who are serving in this mission.

We work long hours, and there are no days off. By the end of a shift, I’m tired as I walk back to my tent. My little room is home, for now, and though it’s only the size of small car garage, it’s comfortable. I have a bedsheet for a door and a curving tent wall above my head. When it rains hard, as it sometimes does, the tent often leaks.

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