Posts
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Monday, December 28, 2009
2 Big Cups of Coffee After Midnight = Bad Idea
Here I am at almost two in the morning an I'm not remotely tired. I watched a couple episodes of The Wire Season 1 tonight with a Captain from the logistics section. It's become an almost nightly ritual of popcorn, coffee and TV crime drama.
Tonight we tried to build a gasoline-burning pot-bellied stove in our tent for warmth. We were halfway through trying to form a port for the exhaust chimney in the canvas when someone pointed out that we were either A) going to burn this motha down or B) going to asphyxiate from carbon monoxide poisoning. So the brainstorming began. We considered putting it outside, opening a door and putting a fan in front of it. Though, as hot as it could possibly get I think we'd end up with more cold air than hot air pumping in here. I still thought about suspending the exhaust from the ceiling somehow and running it out a door, but that's just ridiculous for the ways it could kill us listed above.
Eventually, Sergeant Phillips came up with an idea to build a lean-to/outhouse outside one of the doors to house the potbellied stove. We'll give a nice little slanted room for the rain, cut a hole for the exhaust and line the inside with aluminum foil as if we were cultivating marijuana in a closet. Will we be able to pull this off? Quite possibly. Will we burn down the tent in the process? Quite possibly, but it should be fun.
Tonight we tried to build a gasoline-burning pot-bellied stove in our tent for warmth. We were halfway through trying to form a port for the exhaust chimney in the canvas when someone pointed out that we were either A) going to burn this motha down or B) going to asphyxiate from carbon monoxide poisoning. So the brainstorming began. We considered putting it outside, opening a door and putting a fan in front of it. Though, as hot as it could possibly get I think we'd end up with more cold air than hot air pumping in here. I still thought about suspending the exhaust from the ceiling somehow and running it out a door, but that's just ridiculous for the ways it could kill us listed above.
Eventually, Sergeant Phillips came up with an idea to build a lean-to/outhouse outside one of the doors to house the potbellied stove. We'll give a nice little slanted room for the rain, cut a hole for the exhaust and line the inside with aluminum foil as if we were cultivating marijuana in a closet. Will we be able to pull this off? Quite possibly. Will we burn down the tent in the process? Quite possibly, but it should be fun.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Road Trip
Sunday afternoon I got a call from the Signal Officer (The Captain) of a battalion to the north of us. Our fielding team had already visited him, installed his radios and trained his operators, but they experienced some setbacks and asked me to come out for a visit. This would not normally have been possible, as the Brigade Signal Officer (The Major) is very covetous of his staff, and once he gets people he only lets them out of his sight when they have been drained either of their usefulness or their blood. Had he been consulted, my ass would've been stapled to a chair and stuck behind a desk... But he's home on R&R. And when the cat's away, the mice will play.
Staff Sergeant Jacobson, anAir Force network manager who has also been snatched up and held hostage by the The Major heard I was heading out and immediately got himself added to the convoy. He has been here for 3 months and hasn't once left KAF or even loaded his weapon, which has been draped flaccid and useless around his neck since he got here. We spoke with the local battalion logistics folks and let them know that there would be two of us moving out to their headquarters in the morning if they had room for us, and we packed for the trip.
I have learned from previous experience that there are certain essential items I should take with me anywhere I go, regardless of whether I plan to stay overnight or not--plans change. But this time it was clear I would be gone at least 2 or 3 days, so I packed accordingly. I made sure I got my microfiber travel towel and my shower shoes, as those are items I tend to forget. Also my wet weather gear and my so-called snivel gear, i.e. long underwear gloves, and cold weather boots.
Jacobson and I met in the morning and awaited the convoy, which finally arrived late in the afternoon. We climbed into an armored vehicle and set out for the FOB which lies about an hour north of KAF. The sun was setting as we drove through downtown Kandahar. While I could barely see anything out of my own window, I could see out the front and the other side a little bit and the impression I got is one of abject poverty. Business takes place right in the street, markets are formed by a loose collection of stalls and carts that are set up in the morning and taken down at night.
The street was at times crowded with young kids on bicycles. The gunner in our vehicle, on the never ending quest for hearts and minds, was shouting obscenities at them, encouraging them to get the $&*! out of way as we made our way through the throngs of people and vehicles. Most folks get over to the side of the road and stay there when the Americans roll through with their gigantic guns on top of their humongous vehicles, but 12 year-old boys know that they are invincible, so they play chicken with the MRAPs and Humvees secure in the knowledge that we are unlikely to crush or explode them.
We arrived to find a FOB under heavy construction. Too late for hot chow, we got some MREs and a bowl of cereal and met with the commo folks to discuss their network and what we could do for them.
When it came time to bed down, we were led to a small building in a walled-in compound. Every room was already jam-packed with cots, so it took some moving around and assembling to get our beds set up. There were two spots big enough to fit a cot and a backpack: a room crowded with American commos and a room crowded with French Canadians, including a female, which is a novelty out here in units below brigade. I elected to take this second room, as it was the closest I've been to a woman in almost two months.
I found out on a trip to France in 1996 that two years of French at Homewood High School only ever gave me enough understanding to ask directions, but not enough to understand them. A fact which was brought forcefully home when Chris Jones and I found ourselves lost in Nice with no idea how to get back to the hotel. Eventually we found a man who spoke French, Spanish, Italian and German, but no English. While his quadrilingual abilities proved ineffective for two-way communication, he was nice enough to walk us in uncomfortable silence to the Best Western Acropol.
Being able to ask "ou est l'hotel?" was a little less than useless with my new roommates, but we stumbled along as needed for the next two days.
After our beds were (literally) made and ready to accept us, we sat down around a firepit which was located conveniently outside our front door.
Sergeant Madden came late to the Army. At 35 he's got some graying hair and has to take orders from guys who are very much his junior. He got his guitar from a trooper at another FOB who had decided to learn how to play on deployment, but quickly and (it would seem) inexorably plateaued. So Madden brought it here and kept it in the back room of the hooch. He took it out for hours each night by the fire; two and a half years of playing has not been able to instill him with any rhythm. He strums the guitar, taps his foot and sings on three different beats, and no one can ever quite get the groove down. Jacobson and I were more than happy to relieve him of his instrument from time to time and trade songs.
My repertoire has dwindled in the last few years, as my guitar has spent most of its time hiding under blankets on the couch, or leaning up against a wall, but I was still able to crank out one or two tunes. And Jacobson taught me a few more which will get some polish when I get home.
Eventually we gave Madden his guitar back and retired to our rooms to sleep late into the morning. We awoke to hot chow and hot coffee and got to work.
The actual work there was mostly more of the same but with different people around. Jacobson got to solve some routing problems and help the battalion plan for some future expansion, and I helped them push position information through the network so that leaders can see where all of their guys are on the map in something resembling real time.
The Captain and I had what amounts to an hours-long Agree Fest. It turns out we're very nearly the same person in terms of our books, movies and music.
The food at the FOB was better than what we get on KAF, strangely enough. It is made by Army cooks and not by the lowest-bid contractors on the huge bases. I watched a man labor over a huge roast with a butcher knife, slicing it into hunks which they served with spicy mashed potatoes and mixed veggies. This was the best meal I'd had since coming to Afghanistan, and it was cooked by professional soldiers in a tent on a mountainside. They ration out two hot meals a day on the here, giving you MREs to supplement during lunch.
We completed our work over 3 days, squaring everyone away as best we could. We were again passing the guitar around the fire when a guy from D Company let us know we could have a ride home the following morning, Christmas Eve. We repacked our bags and turned in for the night.
I woke up this morning, rolled up my bedding and got everything packed away in my ruck sack. I carried it, along with my body armor and helmet to the tent where we were to be picked up an hour later and walked over to the mess tent to claim my hot breakfast. As I was leaving, I heard the opening strains of The Postal Service's "Such Great Heights." I suddenly experienced one of those moments of nostalgia and regret that seem to come so often in the fall and early winter.
"Everything looks perfect from far away/come down now, they'll say."
Walking back to DCO's tent with that song in my head, I took a minute to mourn everything that is no longer a part of my life; every wasted opportunity, every relationship fizzled, the memories only made sweeter by time. Maybe it's because I'm spending Christmas alone in Afghanistan, or maybe it's my thirtieth birthday which is looming so large and just a month away, but every once in a while you have to take a look at your life and ask what you're doing with it?
After a few sips of my Army coffee, I shook off that moment of self reflection, donned my body armor, and boarded the troop carrier for home.
Staff Sergeant Jacobson, anAir Force network manager who has also been snatched up and held hostage by the The Major heard I was heading out and immediately got himself added to the convoy. He has been here for 3 months and hasn't once left KAF or even loaded his weapon, which has been draped flaccid and useless around his neck since he got here. We spoke with the local battalion logistics folks and let them know that there would be two of us moving out to their headquarters in the morning if they had room for us, and we packed for the trip.
I have learned from previous experience that there are certain essential items I should take with me anywhere I go, regardless of whether I plan to stay overnight or not--plans change. But this time it was clear I would be gone at least 2 or 3 days, so I packed accordingly. I made sure I got my microfiber travel towel and my shower shoes, as those are items I tend to forget. Also my wet weather gear and my so-called snivel gear, i.e. long underwear gloves, and cold weather boots.
Jacobson and I met in the morning and awaited the convoy, which finally arrived late in the afternoon. We climbed into an armored vehicle and set out for the FOB which lies about an hour north of KAF. The sun was setting as we drove through downtown Kandahar. While I could barely see anything out of my own window, I could see out the front and the other side a little bit and the impression I got is one of abject poverty. Business takes place right in the street, markets are formed by a loose collection of stalls and carts that are set up in the morning and taken down at night.
The street was at times crowded with young kids on bicycles. The gunner in our vehicle, on the never ending quest for hearts and minds, was shouting obscenities at them, encouraging them to get the $&*! out of way as we made our way through the throngs of people and vehicles. Most folks get over to the side of the road and stay there when the Americans roll through with their gigantic guns on top of their humongous vehicles, but 12 year-old boys know that they are invincible, so they play chicken with the MRAPs and Humvees secure in the knowledge that we are unlikely to crush or explode them.
We arrived to find a FOB under heavy construction. Too late for hot chow, we got some MREs and a bowl of cereal and met with the commo folks to discuss their network and what we could do for them.
When it came time to bed down, we were led to a small building in a walled-in compound. Every room was already jam-packed with cots, so it took some moving around and assembling to get our beds set up. There were two spots big enough to fit a cot and a backpack: a room crowded with American commos and a room crowded with French Canadians, including a female, which is a novelty out here in units below brigade. I elected to take this second room, as it was the closest I've been to a woman in almost two months.
I found out on a trip to France in 1996 that two years of French at Homewood High School only ever gave me enough understanding to ask directions, but not enough to understand them. A fact which was brought forcefully home when Chris Jones and I found ourselves lost in Nice with no idea how to get back to the hotel. Eventually we found a man who spoke French, Spanish, Italian and German, but no English. While his quadrilingual abilities proved ineffective for two-way communication, he was nice enough to walk us in uncomfortable silence to the Best Western Acropol.
Being able to ask "ou est l'hotel?" was a little less than useless with my new roommates, but we stumbled along as needed for the next two days.
After our beds were (literally) made and ready to accept us, we sat down around a firepit which was located conveniently outside our front door.
Sergeant Madden came late to the Army. At 35 he's got some graying hair and has to take orders from guys who are very much his junior. He got his guitar from a trooper at another FOB who had decided to learn how to play on deployment, but quickly and (it would seem) inexorably plateaued. So Madden brought it here and kept it in the back room of the hooch. He took it out for hours each night by the fire; two and a half years of playing has not been able to instill him with any rhythm. He strums the guitar, taps his foot and sings on three different beats, and no one can ever quite get the groove down. Jacobson and I were more than happy to relieve him of his instrument from time to time and trade songs.
My repertoire has dwindled in the last few years, as my guitar has spent most of its time hiding under blankets on the couch, or leaning up against a wall, but I was still able to crank out one or two tunes. And Jacobson taught me a few more which will get some polish when I get home.
Eventually we gave Madden his guitar back and retired to our rooms to sleep late into the morning. We awoke to hot chow and hot coffee and got to work.
The actual work there was mostly more of the same but with different people around. Jacobson got to solve some routing problems and help the battalion plan for some future expansion, and I helped them push position information through the network so that leaders can see where all of their guys are on the map in something resembling real time.
The Captain and I had what amounts to an hours-long Agree Fest. It turns out we're very nearly the same person in terms of our books, movies and music.
Authors in common: Steinbeck, Vonnegut, Tom Robbins.It was eerie. He would say something he liked, and I would have to say "me too!" and I just couldn't stump him on any interest. He also played trumpet in the high school band, but he went on to play it for the Army when he enlisted out of high school. He even juggles and plays Go. He suggested that we hang out more stateside, but is a little afraid to introduce me to his wife since we're so similar and he's deployed so often.
Music in common: Primus (as youths), The Postal Service, Joni Mitchell.
Movies in common: Wes Anderson's films (we had the same impression of Rushmore: the first time wasn't so hot, fell in love with it the next time), The Coen Brothers, Paul Thomas Anderson.
The food at the FOB was better than what we get on KAF, strangely enough. It is made by Army cooks and not by the lowest-bid contractors on the huge bases. I watched a man labor over a huge roast with a butcher knife, slicing it into hunks which they served with spicy mashed potatoes and mixed veggies. This was the best meal I'd had since coming to Afghanistan, and it was cooked by professional soldiers in a tent on a mountainside. They ration out two hot meals a day on the here, giving you MREs to supplement during lunch.
We completed our work over 3 days, squaring everyone away as best we could. We were again passing the guitar around the fire when a guy from D Company let us know we could have a ride home the following morning, Christmas Eve. We repacked our bags and turned in for the night.
I woke up this morning, rolled up my bedding and got everything packed away in my ruck sack. I carried it, along with my body armor and helmet to the tent where we were to be picked up an hour later and walked over to the mess tent to claim my hot breakfast. As I was leaving, I heard the opening strains of The Postal Service's "Such Great Heights." I suddenly experienced one of those moments of nostalgia and regret that seem to come so often in the fall and early winter.
"Everything looks perfect from far away/come down now, they'll say."
Walking back to DCO's tent with that song in my head, I took a minute to mourn everything that is no longer a part of my life; every wasted opportunity, every relationship fizzled, the memories only made sweeter by time. Maybe it's because I'm spending Christmas alone in Afghanistan, or maybe it's my thirtieth birthday which is looming so large and just a month away, but every once in a while you have to take a look at your life and ask what you're doing with it?
After a few sips of my Army coffee, I shook off that moment of self reflection, donned my body armor, and boarded the troop carrier for home.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
I Have Been Remiss
I wish I could say that it was work that has kept me from writing, but it's probably everything else. With the Internet right here at my fingertips I have access to things like Texts from Last Night and Lamebook which provide literally minutes of entertainment each day. That combined with the unparalleled ability for America's fighting men and women to bullshit for extended periods of time have left me with little time to write, and little to write about.
I suppose I could tell you about Tablemus Prime, the transforming furniture engineered by Specialist Mills while he was still in charge of the tent. He took scrap lumber, hinges and electrical tape and turned a stack of tool cabinets into... ... a stack of tool cabinets with a table on top. But, the work table could be folded up and tucked behind the cabinets in case you wanted more room, much like the NordicTrac machines of the 80s, which could fold and up fit under any large, cumbersome bed. However, with Mills now in far away Zabul province, the remaining commo folks took great pleasure in disassembling and destroying Tablemus Prime.
We took off our hats out of respect for the life and service of the table. The soldier in the back there actually stood on top of it at one point to reach a high shelf, while it was already loaded down with tools, radio amplifiers and 20 lbs of paperwork. And Tablemus strained and cried, but supported her throughout the entire operation.
Most days the skies are incredibly clear, and at night I can see all of the stars that I've been missing for the last four years in good ol' overcast Rochester. I actually found myself stepping out of a port-a-john a few nights ago and was so struck by the number and brightness of the stars in the sky that I had to stop and stare a moment. You live under it all your life, and only on rare occasions do you take the time to look up and really see it. I only know a few constellations, but I was able to pick out Orion (thanks to Orion Pictures), Cassiopeia (courtesy of the movie Serendipity, thanks John Cusack), and Mars--Mars is red, and easy to spot. I know this from the movie Red Planet.
It seems like once a month, though, the rainclouds form from whatever moisture there is in this dustbowl and drops dirty, smelly rain on us for a day. While the smell of rain is usually a comfort, out here it's a combination of wet dog, and something truly foul, which is somehow much worse than wet dog. This happened on Friday, while my poncho was safely ensconced in my sleeping tent (not to be confused with the work tent) half a mile away. And of course I had some work to do outside, so the hoodie that my sister sent to me now carries the burden of a month of wear and stinky Afghan rain.
The ground soaks up as much as it can, but it still leaves huge, fetid mud puddles everywhere and misery abounds.
I suppose I could tell you about Tablemus Prime, the transforming furniture engineered by Specialist Mills while he was still in charge of the tent. He took scrap lumber, hinges and electrical tape and turned a stack of tool cabinets into... ... a stack of tool cabinets with a table on top. But, the work table could be folded up and tucked behind the cabinets in case you wanted more room, much like the NordicTrac machines of the 80s, which could fold and up fit under any large, cumbersome bed. However, with Mills now in far away Zabul province, the remaining commo folks took great pleasure in disassembling and destroying Tablemus Prime.We took off our hats out of respect for the life and service of the table. The soldier in the back there actually stood on top of it at one point to reach a high shelf, while it was already loaded down with tools, radio amplifiers and 20 lbs of paperwork. And Tablemus strained and cried, but supported her throughout the entire operation.
Most days the skies are incredibly clear, and at night I can see all of the stars that I've been missing for the last four years in good ol' overcast Rochester. I actually found myself stepping out of a port-a-john a few nights ago and was so struck by the number and brightness of the stars in the sky that I had to stop and stare a moment. You live under it all your life, and only on rare occasions do you take the time to look up and really see it. I only know a few constellations, but I was able to pick out Orion (thanks to Orion Pictures), Cassiopeia (courtesy of the movie Serendipity, thanks John Cusack), and Mars--Mars is red, and easy to spot. I know this from the movie Red Planet.
It seems like once a month, though, the rainclouds form from whatever moisture there is in this dustbowl and drops dirty, smelly rain on us for a day. While the smell of rain is usually a comfort, out here it's a combination of wet dog, and something truly foul, which is somehow much worse than wet dog. This happened on Friday, while my poncho was safely ensconced in my sleeping tent (not to be confused with the work tent) half a mile away. And of course I had some work to do outside, so the hoodie that my sister sent to me now carries the burden of a month of wear and stinky Afghan rain.
The ground soaks up as much as it can, but it still leaves huge, fetid mud puddles everywhere and misery abounds.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Bust a Deal and Face the Wheel
The comparisons began as soon as we stepped off on the tarmac. The dust in the air, the throngs of people each with their own agendas, the pervasive presence of weaponry wherever you look, the stink of poop in the air: KAF is Barter town.
For those that aren't familiar with the story of Mad Max, and his adventures in the post-apocalyptic Wasteland of central Australia, I must refer you to the movies Mad Max, Mad Max II: The Road Warrior and Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome. It is in this last installment that Max (Mel Gibson), finds himself under the thumb of Auntie Entity (Tina "I'm Not Even Kidding" Turner), the founder and ruler of Bartertown. This oasis is a center for trade, and all life revolves around business, electricity, and the pig sh*t they use to generate the electricity.
Differences are settled in a pretty reasonable manner, in single combat inside the giant steel cage which is Thunderdome. "Two men enter, one man leaves."
Now, I could go on forever about what a terrific movie that is. It's proof that there is no hard and fast rule binding a movie's position in a trilogy to its quality. Take the Godfather series. I & II are phenomenal, but The Godfather: Part III is just a shadow of the previous two. Maybe it's Sofia Coppola's wooden acting, maybe it's that bizarre and anticlimactic death scene at the end, but it's definitely the weakest of the three. In the case of the Godfather, number II is where it's at. The pinnacle of the series.
The Star Wars trilogy also seems to take this tack. While I like Return of the Jedi, it had the best effects, the dark-clothed Luke, and the death of the Emperor, it also had those damn Ewoks. I mean, they're trying to convince us that an uneducated insurgency can beat down a technologically superior occupier with just sticks and rocks?
Bad example. But in that series as well The Empire Strikes Back is more vibrant and more interesting. You get to meet Yoda, you see Luke develop all of his Jedi skills and it has that great downer ending. While hardly a cliff-hanger, it certainly leaves you hungry for more.
My favorite counterexample to the second film being the best is definitely Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. First off, they get points for Nazis and Sean Connery. They completely left the Nazis out of Temple of Doom, and personally I think the movie suffered for it. Last Crusade combines all of those great elements of comedy, action and Christian mysticism which made the first movie so engaging, and then they throw in a guy getting chopped up by a propeller blade. Kudos to Lucas and Spielberg for that.
And like the Indiana Jones trilogy (and it is a trilogy, I consider the fourth movie so terrible, I'm blotting its existence from the very universe of my perceptions), Mad Max has a kick-ass third movie.
Why did I get off on the trilogy rant? One of the side effects of having a singularly disordered mind. The point was to make the comparison between Bartertown and KAF. How do I get back on the thread, here?
Oh yeah:
Who runs Bartertown? The Canadians. That's who.
For those that aren't familiar with the story of Mad Max, and his adventures in the post-apocalyptic Wasteland of central Australia, I must refer you to the movies Mad Max, Mad Max II: The Road Warrior and Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome. It is in this last installment that Max (Mel Gibson), finds himself under the thumb of Auntie Entity (Tina "I'm Not Even Kidding" Turner), the founder and ruler of Bartertown. This oasis is a center for trade, and all life revolves around business, electricity, and the pig sh*t they use to generate the electricity.
Differences are settled in a pretty reasonable manner, in single combat inside the giant steel cage which is Thunderdome. "Two men enter, one man leaves."
Now, I could go on forever about what a terrific movie that is. It's proof that there is no hard and fast rule binding a movie's position in a trilogy to its quality. Take the Godfather series. I & II are phenomenal, but The Godfather: Part III is just a shadow of the previous two. Maybe it's Sofia Coppola's wooden acting, maybe it's that bizarre and anticlimactic death scene at the end, but it's definitely the weakest of the three. In the case of the Godfather, number II is where it's at. The pinnacle of the series.
The Star Wars trilogy also seems to take this tack. While I like Return of the Jedi, it had the best effects, the dark-clothed Luke, and the death of the Emperor, it also had those damn Ewoks. I mean, they're trying to convince us that an uneducated insurgency can beat down a technologically superior occupier with just sticks and rocks?
Bad example. But in that series as well The Empire Strikes Back is more vibrant and more interesting. You get to meet Yoda, you see Luke develop all of his Jedi skills and it has that great downer ending. While hardly a cliff-hanger, it certainly leaves you hungry for more.
My favorite counterexample to the second film being the best is definitely Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. First off, they get points for Nazis and Sean Connery. They completely left the Nazis out of Temple of Doom, and personally I think the movie suffered for it. Last Crusade combines all of those great elements of comedy, action and Christian mysticism which made the first movie so engaging, and then they throw in a guy getting chopped up by a propeller blade. Kudos to Lucas and Spielberg for that.
And like the Indiana Jones trilogy (and it is a trilogy, I consider the fourth movie so terrible, I'm blotting its existence from the very universe of my perceptions), Mad Max has a kick-ass third movie.
Why did I get off on the trilogy rant? One of the side effects of having a singularly disordered mind. The point was to make the comparison between Bartertown and KAF. How do I get back on the thread, here?
Oh yeah:
Who runs Bartertown? The Canadians. That's who.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
I am not a Teacher
I've known this for years. Whenever someone has asked for help with trig or calculus or physics, be it back in high school or even now, I can give them the quick rundown, the salient points. When, after they've gotten the condensed version, they still don't understand? I'm stumped. "What's so hard to understand about this," I'd think. "I mean, consider the relationship between position, velocity and acceleration and that's derivatives and integrals right there! I don't get what you don't get..."
It is from this wholly un-empathetic position that I dispense my knowledge. If it's something you need to know, and it's stuck in my head? I'm not going to be able to get it out in the right words to make myself understood.
The ironic part of this is that I'm driven to teach people the things that fascinate me. Ask any girl I've ever dated and she can remember the time that I explained the Internet to her--the OSI reference layers, the interconnected web of redundant router links, the Transport Control Protocol which makes the web run, but performs shoddily on high latency or flaky links--they've all had to sit through the rundown. Probably multiple times. I have been accused in the past of "overinforming people against their will."
So I can lecture, but I don't think I teach. Ask any of the people who have had to sit through my diatribes about network architecture if they absorbed anything and I bet you'll get a lot of blank stares.
That's why I was so nervous to teach a radio class today. Actually, nervous is not the word, I've been dreading it. I put off my prep as long as possible, I even pushed the training back by four days when the convenient excuse of a commanders' conference came up. But as always, there comes a reckoning, and it caught up with me today.
Determined to at least get an outline together, some rudimentary lesson plan, I stayed late last night, sitting and staring at a blank Word document. As the temperature ticked down from 42 to 40, my fingers started to get a little stiff, a little numb. Already I had begun a PowerPoint Presentation with some radio features and configuration options, but it wasn't going anywhere. Plus, I had nowhere to project or show the slideshow to them, so it was a wasted exercise. No, what I needed to do here was organize my thoughts.
Finally around 11:0pm, when the temperature reached a balmy 38, I cranked out two pages worth of outline, with all the high points they would need to get two radios to talk to each other. With that much in the can, I called it a night and started the cold walk home. I drifted into the MWR tent which is right next to my place in an effort to warm up before I walked into the indeterminate climate of my tent. It turned out that Predator was playing in the little movie room there, and right at the beginning, too. So despite the late hour, and the impending training the following day, I settled in to watch Arnold earn the begrudging respect of an alien race... by killing one of them.
This morning I woke up and abandoned my cohorts in order to get to work a little early. I figured if I had just a little more time to go over the material, it would all gel and I would have nothing to worry about. All day long I watched the clock, waiting for 1400 when I knew they would arrive and expect me to know something about my own product.
When they finally did come, we had chairs and boxes set up as a rudimentary classroom, with a whiteboard at the front on which I could scrawl my unintelligible chicken scratch. And I proceeded, by fits and starts, to teach them the ins and outs of the radio system.
I definitely screwed up some stuff in the beginning. I made simple things too complicated, and complicated things too simple. I had to go back and explain myself on some points several times. And some of them continued to make mistakes after I showed them the problem multiple times. But eventually, they were getting it.
At the end, I gave them a simple, practical exercise: make one radio talk to another one. We put them on the clock, hoping to get it in under 15 minutes, but that first time they clocked in around 17 minutes. I sent them out for a smoke break while I reset the radios back to factory defaults and then challenged them again, but this time to complete in under 10 minutes. They scraped by at 9:37.
So mission accomplished, I guess. I could definitely do better if I have to do it again. Pick more clear scenarios, explain the concepts a little better from the start instead of having to clean up misunderstandings at the end. The sad thing is, this is really one of our simplest products--7th graders could do as well if they've ever peered into the Linksys router in their house. But I feel good that they can do it now, and that I didn't break into flop sweats and pass out.
Tomorrow is test #2, when they set them up in the field and put them on top of a 50 ft. mast. Will they be able to achieve comms? We'll find out...
It is from this wholly un-empathetic position that I dispense my knowledge. If it's something you need to know, and it's stuck in my head? I'm not going to be able to get it out in the right words to make myself understood.
The ironic part of this is that I'm driven to teach people the things that fascinate me. Ask any girl I've ever dated and she can remember the time that I explained the Internet to her--the OSI reference layers, the interconnected web of redundant router links, the Transport Control Protocol which makes the web run, but performs shoddily on high latency or flaky links--they've all had to sit through the rundown. Probably multiple times. I have been accused in the past of "overinforming people against their will."
So I can lecture, but I don't think I teach. Ask any of the people who have had to sit through my diatribes about network architecture if they absorbed anything and I bet you'll get a lot of blank stares.
That's why I was so nervous to teach a radio class today. Actually, nervous is not the word, I've been dreading it. I put off my prep as long as possible, I even pushed the training back by four days when the convenient excuse of a commanders' conference came up. But as always, there comes a reckoning, and it caught up with me today.
Determined to at least get an outline together, some rudimentary lesson plan, I stayed late last night, sitting and staring at a blank Word document. As the temperature ticked down from 42 to 40, my fingers started to get a little stiff, a little numb. Already I had begun a PowerPoint Presentation with some radio features and configuration options, but it wasn't going anywhere. Plus, I had nowhere to project or show the slideshow to them, so it was a wasted exercise. No, what I needed to do here was organize my thoughts.
Finally around 11:0pm, when the temperature reached a balmy 38, I cranked out two pages worth of outline, with all the high points they would need to get two radios to talk to each other. With that much in the can, I called it a night and started the cold walk home. I drifted into the MWR tent which is right next to my place in an effort to warm up before I walked into the indeterminate climate of my tent. It turned out that Predator was playing in the little movie room there, and right at the beginning, too. So despite the late hour, and the impending training the following day, I settled in to watch Arnold earn the begrudging respect of an alien race... by killing one of them.
Arnold side note: In all those old action movies he plays characters with the most American-sounding names and yet he can't break out of his thick Austrian accent. I suppose Predator may be the exception to the rule as his name is "Dutch," which could be a hint at his region of origin, but just look at some of the others:I think the movie was a way to put off sleep, to push out my conscious mind and more opportunity to worry about the impending training. It's the same reason I listen to my iPod while I'm walking around and why I read before I go to sleep--closing your eyes at night, like walking alone, is an opportunity for honest self-reflection and must be avoided at all costs.Every one of those names is as Anglo Saxon as John Smith, and he talks like he's just off the boat. I wonder if they give him backstories for his characters to explain this little inconsistency, or if they just brush it away with a wink and a nod.
- The Running Man: Ben Richards
- Total Recall: Douglas Quaid -- I don't know if he can pronounce 'Douglas'
- Kindergarten Cop: John Kimble
- True Lies: Harry Tasker
- The Sixth Day: Adam Gibson
This morning I woke up and abandoned my cohorts in order to get to work a little early. I figured if I had just a little more time to go over the material, it would all gel and I would have nothing to worry about. All day long I watched the clock, waiting for 1400 when I knew they would arrive and expect me to know something about my own product.
When they finally did come, we had chairs and boxes set up as a rudimentary classroom, with a whiteboard at the front on which I could scrawl my unintelligible chicken scratch. And I proceeded, by fits and starts, to teach them the ins and outs of the radio system.I definitely screwed up some stuff in the beginning. I made simple things too complicated, and complicated things too simple. I had to go back and explain myself on some points several times. And some of them continued to make mistakes after I showed them the problem multiple times. But eventually, they were getting it.
At the end, I gave them a simple, practical exercise: make one radio talk to another one. We put them on the clock, hoping to get it in under 15 minutes, but that first time they clocked in around 17 minutes. I sent them out for a smoke break while I reset the radios back to factory defaults and then challenged them again, but this time to complete in under 10 minutes. They scraped by at 9:37.
So mission accomplished, I guess. I could definitely do better if I have to do it again. Pick more clear scenarios, explain the concepts a little better from the start instead of having to clean up misunderstandings at the end. The sad thing is, this is really one of our simplest products--7th graders could do as well if they've ever peered into the Linksys router in their house. But I feel good that they can do it now, and that I didn't break into flop sweats and pass out.Tomorrow is test #2, when they set them up in the field and put them on top of a 50 ft. mast. Will they be able to achieve comms? We'll find out...
Monday, December 7, 2009
The National Passtime
The Canucks
They just couldn’t help themselves. Something deep inside the Canadian psyche forced them to build it—they never had a choice. They’re nominally in charge of KAF and therefore have a lot of personnel here, and a vested interest in keeping them sane, and this was the best way to do it: they built a hockey rink in the desert.
In the corner of the boardwalk closest to Tim Horton’s (another hometown favorite in Canadia), they erected an outdoor hockey rink on a concrete slab and every day they spend hours running up and down, chasing an orange ball.
Kudos to them, I suppose. I mean, the Americans have been here for 8 years and I see no signs of a baseball diamond. Though, there are numerous basketball courts and a beach volleyball pit. All that’s left to complete a reenaction of the memorable scene from Top Gun is Kenny Loggins.
I’ve never actually watched a hockey game in my life, in spite of multiple offers from my friends in Rochester. I did watch Slap Shot with Paul Newman a few years ago, supposedly the definitive hockey movie, but I was not impressed. I kept waiting for the contrived depth of Field of Dreams, the hilarity of Bull Durham, or the drama of Remember the Titans—I was left wanting. All I saw were pretty broad attempts at humor and a lot of blood.
Perhaps I’m missing that essential ingredient which makes hockey interesting to me, some kind of ice chromosome. There’s no great tradition of winter sports in Alabama, unless deer hunting counts. I can’t ice skate backwards. I consider the Winter Olympics to be the Boring Olympics. I say that like marathon running is exciting in the summer Olympics, but at least they have the 100 yard dash. It’s thrilling to know how much can change in thousandths of a second; heroes made, dreams crushed, records broken. That’s drama!
Speaking of incomprehensible sports, I stumbled on a cricket match on the Boardwalk yesterday. I think we’ve all seen it on TV at some point, and I believe in the past that someone tried to explain the rules to me, but it’s just bewildering. Luckily there was an English bystander who informed me of the following:
There are 11 players on each side. The offense consists of two batsmen on opposite sides of the pitch, and the defense has a bowler who is hurling the ball at one of the batsmen. Should this batsmen get a hit that goes beyond the far marker, that’s four runs. If the catcher fails to catch the ball, that’s a run, and if the batsman hits a ball inside the field, he has to run between the wickets, and each time he does, he scores a run. Meanwhile the opposite batsman is also running, and they switch places occasionally.
An average games lasts 20 overs, but I’m not sure what makes a batsman out… Or ends an over…
My head is still spinning.
So why am I sitting here watching the Canadians pine for ice, and the English batsmen run between length of the pitch between the wickets? I suppose because there’s nothing else to do. I’m trapped on an airbase in Afghanistan with no TV and limited access to the Internet? It’s made even sports entertaining.
They just couldn’t help themselves. Something deep inside the Canadian psyche forced them to build it—they never had a choice. They’re nominally in charge of KAF and therefore have a lot of personnel here, and a vested interest in keeping them sane, and this was the best way to do it: they built a hockey rink in the desert.In the corner of the boardwalk closest to Tim Horton’s (another hometown favorite in Canadia), they erected an outdoor hockey rink on a concrete slab and every day they spend hours running up and down, chasing an orange ball.
Kudos to them, I suppose. I mean, the Americans have been here for 8 years and I see no signs of a baseball diamond. Though, there are numerous basketball courts and a beach volleyball pit. All that’s left to complete a reenaction of the memorable scene from Top Gun is Kenny Loggins.I’ve never actually watched a hockey game in my life, in spite of multiple offers from my friends in Rochester. I did watch Slap Shot with Paul Newman a few years ago, supposedly the definitive hockey movie, but I was not impressed. I kept waiting for the contrived depth of Field of Dreams, the hilarity of Bull Durham, or the drama of Remember the Titans—I was left wanting. All I saw were pretty broad attempts at humor and a lot of blood.
Perhaps I’m missing that essential ingredient which makes hockey interesting to me, some kind of ice chromosome. There’s no great tradition of winter sports in Alabama, unless deer hunting counts. I can’t ice skate backwards. I consider the Winter Olympics to be the Boring Olympics. I say that like marathon running is exciting in the summer Olympics, but at least they have the 100 yard dash. It’s thrilling to know how much can change in thousandths of a second; heroes made, dreams crushed, records broken. That’s drama!
Speaking of incomprehensible sports, I stumbled on a cricket match on the Boardwalk yesterday. I think we’ve all seen it on TV at some point, and I believe in the past that someone tried to explain the rules to me, but it’s just bewildering. Luckily there was an English bystander who informed me of the following:
There are 11 players on each side. The offense consists of two batsmen on opposite sides of the pitch, and the defense has a bowler who is hurling the ball at one of the batsmen. Should this batsmen get a hit that goes beyond the far marker, that’s four runs. If the catcher fails to catch the ball, that’s a run, and if the batsman hits a ball inside the field, he has to run between the wickets, and each time he does, he scores a run. Meanwhile the opposite batsman is also running, and they switch places occasionally.
An average games lasts 20 overs, but I’m not sure what makes a batsman out… Or ends an over…
My head is still spinning.
So why am I sitting here watching the Canadians pine for ice, and the English batsmen run between length of the pitch between the wickets? I suppose because there’s nothing else to do. I’m trapped on an airbase in Afghanistan with no TV and limited access to the Internet? It’s made even sports entertaining.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Sunday, November 29, 2009
FOB Hopping
As has been previously noted, the company is reluctant to let me travel while I’m here. They are unaccustomed to sending employees to warzones without the benefit of some prior service. I suppose they think that years of training could somehow prevent me from getting blown up by an IED.
Meanwhile, my two colleagues are traveling all over the country performing vehicle installs and training soldiers. As we speak they are at a nearby FOB (Forward Operating Base) which is just a short convoy away. For the last week or so, I’ve been conspiring with them to get a lift out there and see what battalion life is all about. Say what you want about KAF (and I have), but it’s a little surreal, and isn’t quite part of the war. Friday, they finally obliged me as we had a convoy going out to do some radio testing and I was able to convince folks that I could actually help them do this.
It had been drilled into me by much more experienced people to never leave the base without the following:
a) Change of clothes
b) Fart sack (sleeping bag)
c) Toothbrush
However, for a day trip 30 minutes down the road, there’s no way I’m going to need to lug all of that crap around. It’s enough that I need body armor and a helmet to ride in the convoy, so I packed light with just a change of clothes stuffed in the bottom of my bag.
Friday morning I showed up bright and early with my body armor, my helmet and my backpack, ready to hit the bricks. Of course 0800 never means 0800. It took a couple of hours for the convoy to pick up their mail, and extra equipment, collect stray personnel, etc. By the time we rolled out, it was getting ominously close to the scheduled time to return again.
There are weapons all over the base, with the exception of most of the civilians, everybody is carrying one. However, they’re never loaded; they’re just inert devices that people begrudgingly haul around, lean against tables, balancing by the barrel on their feet and otherwise treat with a certain disregard. I was finally reminded that these are deadly instruments and tools of war as we headed out of the gates. Before we left the safety of the base, the gunners “went hot,” locking and loading their .50 caliber machine guns and their MK-19 grenade launchers. That’s a sound I haven’t heard before and it’s a little chilling.
The ride itself was—thankfully—uneventful. I spent most of it listening to the radio chatter between vehicles with a pair of headphones in the back seat. Drivers would talk each other around turns and across bridges while the gunners worked out who was covering which direction.
When we arrived, there was not a lot of time to chat and hang out. The turnaround time was under and hour and we had to do our testing. I was about to grab my stuff and jump in the truck for the ride back when the Battalion Signal Officer grabbed me and said, “you’re not going out until tomorrow, I’ve got some network problems you need to work out.” So with that, I found myself staying overnight on this FOB without my toothbrush, or a sleeping bag. Lesson learned.
The FOB is a lot cleaner than KAF. The buildings are laid out nicely, there’s not so much dust in the air, and of course the ever-present poo smell of KAF was noticeably absent. Even the food was better. It had a canned quality to it, but canned food is apparently better than the “fresh” stuff we get at most of the DFACs.
I spent the night on a cot in the COMMO hut. A bed would’ve been nice, but it would have been much colder in the barracks, so I sacrificed a little comfort for a little heat. And I might have slept through the night had not the night shift plus 5 or 6 guys come in around 0300 to troubleshoot a problem. They left around 0430, which was about the time I woke up for good. I spent the rest of the morning watching The Last Castle with Robert Redford.
After breakfast, we packed up, said our goodbyes and convoyed back home to KAF. The mood is definitely tense in these convoys, and who can blame them? There’s death around every corner over here. Just last week the battalion we visited lost two guys to roadside bombs. They had a midnight ramp ceremony for those two just the next night. The ramp ceremonies are where the dead are put on a flight back home, and units from all over the base come out to honor them on their way out. I haven’t attended one yet, and I’m conflicted about whether or not I want to see that.
Meanwhile, my two colleagues are traveling all over the country performing vehicle installs and training soldiers. As we speak they are at a nearby FOB (Forward Operating Base) which is just a short convoy away. For the last week or so, I’ve been conspiring with them to get a lift out there and see what battalion life is all about. Say what you want about KAF (and I have), but it’s a little surreal, and isn’t quite part of the war. Friday, they finally obliged me as we had a convoy going out to do some radio testing and I was able to convince folks that I could actually help them do this.
It had been drilled into me by much more experienced people to never leave the base without the following:
a) Change of clothes
b) Fart sack (sleeping bag)
c) Toothbrush
However, for a day trip 30 minutes down the road, there’s no way I’m going to need to lug all of that crap around. It’s enough that I need body armor and a helmet to ride in the convoy, so I packed light with just a change of clothes stuffed in the bottom of my bag.
Friday morning I showed up bright and early with my body armor, my helmet and my backpack, ready to hit the bricks. Of course 0800 never means 0800. It took a couple of hours for the convoy to pick up their mail, and extra equipment, collect stray personnel, etc. By the time we rolled out, it was getting ominously close to the scheduled time to return again.
There are weapons all over the base, with the exception of most of the civilians, everybody is carrying one. However, they’re never loaded; they’re just inert devices that people begrudgingly haul around, lean against tables, balancing by the barrel on their feet and otherwise treat with a certain disregard. I was finally reminded that these are deadly instruments and tools of war as we headed out of the gates. Before we left the safety of the base, the gunners “went hot,” locking and loading their .50 caliber machine guns and their MK-19 grenade launchers. That’s a sound I haven’t heard before and it’s a little chilling.
The ride itself was—thankfully—uneventful. I spent most of it listening to the radio chatter between vehicles with a pair of headphones in the back seat. Drivers would talk each other around turns and across bridges while the gunners worked out who was covering which direction.
When we arrived, there was not a lot of time to chat and hang out. The turnaround time was under and hour and we had to do our testing. I was about to grab my stuff and jump in the truck for the ride back when the Battalion Signal Officer grabbed me and said, “you’re not going out until tomorrow, I’ve got some network problems you need to work out.” So with that, I found myself staying overnight on this FOB without my toothbrush, or a sleeping bag. Lesson learned.
The FOB is a lot cleaner than KAF. The buildings are laid out nicely, there’s not so much dust in the air, and of course the ever-present poo smell of KAF was noticeably absent. Even the food was better. It had a canned quality to it, but canned food is apparently better than the “fresh” stuff we get at most of the DFACs.
I spent the night on a cot in the COMMO hut. A bed would’ve been nice, but it would have been much colder in the barracks, so I sacrificed a little comfort for a little heat. And I might have slept through the night had not the night shift plus 5 or 6 guys come in around 0300 to troubleshoot a problem. They left around 0430, which was about the time I woke up for good. I spent the rest of the morning watching The Last Castle with Robert Redford.
After breakfast, we packed up, said our goodbyes and convoyed back home to KAF. The mood is definitely tense in these convoys, and who can blame them? There’s death around every corner over here. Just last week the battalion we visited lost two guys to roadside bombs. They had a midnight ramp ceremony for those two just the next night. The ramp ceremonies are where the dead are put on a flight back home, and units from all over the base come out to honor them on their way out. I haven’t attended one yet, and I’m conflicted about whether or not I want to see that.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
The Long Walk to Glory
My team and I have been waiting for tools for weeks now. They were supposed to be shipped out at the end of October, and whoever was responsible for it must have gone on vacation because they just sat in the office while we started doing installs with bubble gum and hundred mile an hour tape. However, last week someone finally got their act together and FedExed them to us. They arrived yesterday, but FedEx couldn’t find our building so I got a ride out to their on-post office to pick up the package.
While I was there I gave the FedEx folks my phone number in case other shipments arrived for us. After we got back to the office and unloaded the tools, it only took an hour for them to call and tell me that a packaged had just arrived, personally addressed to me. Contents? “Brownies and cream cheese bars.”
Holy smokes. For those that haven’t had the pleasure, my mother’s cream cheese bars are a diabetic coma in a 9x13 pan, and her brownies are legendary. When I heard the Thai FedEx worker mangle the word “brownies” into my ear, my mouth began to water and my eyes glazed over like a Krispy Kreme Doughnut. With little time left before closing, I couldn’t pick them up yesterday, but I vowed to make it by today and bring my bounty back to the office for all to partake.
My plan was to go during my lunchtime trip to the gym in order to balance out any health benefits I might accidently receive from a midday workout. Only, when 11:30 rolled around, all of the people I know with a truck or keys to a truck were nowhere to be found. While the FedEx office is conveniently located right near my tent, there is one barrier that gave me pause—a KAF landmark. That’s right, the only thing standing between me and my brownies was the Sh*t Pit.
Throughout history and literature are examples of men who faced great risk for great reward. Theseus solved the labyrinth and killed the minotaur, for which he was rewarded with Ariadne and the goodwill of Crete; Harry Potter faced down a three-headed dog and sacrificed his friends in a game of Wizard’s Chess for the Philosopher’s Stone; and Tim Robbins crawled through 500 yards of human waste to gain his freedom in the Shawshank Redemption.
With these heroes of old in mind, I girded my loins and set off on the long walk to glory.
Just beyond my tent is the laundry, and past that is no man’s land as far as I’m concerned. The scent of fabric softener was still in my nostrils when I beheld the Great Beast. At first I stayed on the opposite side of the road, preferring to skirt around it as much as possible, but I noticed some soldiers walking right along the edge and I figured if they could do it so could I.
I was not prepared for what I saw. The whole thing is probably 100 yards across and separated into quarters. The section nearest me, while nowhere near its capacity, still contains an impressive mound of poop. Workers are busy every day emptying the Pit and moving its contents to some other desecrated hole in the ground, so right in the middle of this section was a backhoe which was shoveling out excrement into a waiting phalanx of dump trucks. I walked between the trucks, careful not to step in their leavings—the dark track which leads like a perverse trail of breadcrumbs to some other Hell.
At this point, with the wind at my back, this was no worse than any other day living in the shadow of the Pit, but as I walked past it and down across the road I was right in the line of fire. This was really the worst I have ever experienced it. The air was palpably filled with that awful stench, in much higher concentrations than I have ever known. With FedEx within sight, I thought I was going to throw up. I tried breathing through my jacket, but that didn’t help. A cravat held in front of my face was no good either, and in the last few steps I actually started to gag and ran the remaining 20 yards to the safety of the office.
Once inside, the nice Asian workers remembered me from yesterday and gave me my package, all smiling faces and laughing comments, unaware of the gauntlet I had run to get to them. I was tempted to open the package right there and share the bounty with the nice folks who were holding it for me, but the thought of walking back with the box in any way compromised made me sick all over again. I will have to pay them back later.
With my treasure secured, I started the walk back, this time staying safely in the outside lane. Somehow it went a lot faster than the first pass. I managed not to be hit by either the dump trucks, passing tactical vehicles or the occasional ATV and reached the safety of my tent. Once inside, I doused my hands with Purel, cut into the box and tasted the delicious heaven within.
It had only taken four days to get here from the states and the treats were almost as good as the moment they came out of the oven. My parents had been careful to seal them in Rubbermaid containers, and layer them with wax paper, holding in the moisture and keeping them fresh. Once that first cream cheese bar hit my lips it was like a trip back home. These were the treats we made for bake sales, for teachers at Christmas—a lifetime of sweet memories in a little yellow bar.
With my quest complete, I hid the booty under some dirty clothes, and marched off to the NATO gym to earn some of the 5000 calories I was about to eat.
Thanks, Mama.
While I was there I gave the FedEx folks my phone number in case other shipments arrived for us. After we got back to the office and unloaded the tools, it only took an hour for them to call and tell me that a packaged had just arrived, personally addressed to me. Contents? “Brownies and cream cheese bars.”
Holy smokes. For those that haven’t had the pleasure, my mother’s cream cheese bars are a diabetic coma in a 9x13 pan, and her brownies are legendary. When I heard the Thai FedEx worker mangle the word “brownies” into my ear, my mouth began to water and my eyes glazed over like a Krispy Kreme Doughnut. With little time left before closing, I couldn’t pick them up yesterday, but I vowed to make it by today and bring my bounty back to the office for all to partake.
My plan was to go during my lunchtime trip to the gym in order to balance out any health benefits I might accidently receive from a midday workout. Only, when 11:30 rolled around, all of the people I know with a truck or keys to a truck were nowhere to be found. While the FedEx office is conveniently located right near my tent, there is one barrier that gave me pause—a KAF landmark. That’s right, the only thing standing between me and my brownies was the Sh*t Pit.
Throughout history and literature are examples of men who faced great risk for great reward. Theseus solved the labyrinth and killed the minotaur, for which he was rewarded with Ariadne and the goodwill of Crete; Harry Potter faced down a three-headed dog and sacrificed his friends in a game of Wizard’s Chess for the Philosopher’s Stone; and Tim Robbins crawled through 500 yards of human waste to gain his freedom in the Shawshank Redemption.
With these heroes of old in mind, I girded my loins and set off on the long walk to glory.
Just beyond my tent is the laundry, and past that is no man’s land as far as I’m concerned. The scent of fabric softener was still in my nostrils when I beheld the Great Beast. At first I stayed on the opposite side of the road, preferring to skirt around it as much as possible, but I noticed some soldiers walking right along the edge and I figured if they could do it so could I.
I was not prepared for what I saw. The whole thing is probably 100 yards across and separated into quarters. The section nearest me, while nowhere near its capacity, still contains an impressive mound of poop. Workers are busy every day emptying the Pit and moving its contents to some other desecrated hole in the ground, so right in the middle of this section was a backhoe which was shoveling out excrement into a waiting phalanx of dump trucks. I walked between the trucks, careful not to step in their leavings—the dark track which leads like a perverse trail of breadcrumbs to some other Hell.
At this point, with the wind at my back, this was no worse than any other day living in the shadow of the Pit, but as I walked past it and down across the road I was right in the line of fire. This was really the worst I have ever experienced it. The air was palpably filled with that awful stench, in much higher concentrations than I have ever known. With FedEx within sight, I thought I was going to throw up. I tried breathing through my jacket, but that didn’t help. A cravat held in front of my face was no good either, and in the last few steps I actually started to gag and ran the remaining 20 yards to the safety of the office.
Once inside, the nice Asian workers remembered me from yesterday and gave me my package, all smiling faces and laughing comments, unaware of the gauntlet I had run to get to them. I was tempted to open the package right there and share the bounty with the nice folks who were holding it for me, but the thought of walking back with the box in any way compromised made me sick all over again. I will have to pay them back later.
With my treasure secured, I started the walk back, this time staying safely in the outside lane. Somehow it went a lot faster than the first pass. I managed not to be hit by either the dump trucks, passing tactical vehicles or the occasional ATV and reached the safety of my tent. Once inside, I doused my hands with Purel, cut into the box and tasted the delicious heaven within.
It had only taken four days to get here from the states and the treats were almost as good as the moment they came out of the oven. My parents had been careful to seal them in Rubbermaid containers, and layer them with wax paper, holding in the moisture and keeping them fresh. Once that first cream cheese bar hit my lips it was like a trip back home. These were the treats we made for bake sales, for teachers at Christmas—a lifetime of sweet memories in a little yellow bar.
With my quest complete, I hid the booty under some dirty clothes, and marched off to the NATO gym to earn some of the 5000 calories I was about to eat.
Thanks, Mama.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Risky Business
I managed to watch three Tom Cruise movies this week. Three. Though, there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for this.
Out here I don’t have a lot of choices about my entertainment. I filled up a hard drive with movies and TV shows, and I’ve been watching them off and on, but it really lacks that “trip to the movie theater” feeling I crave from back home. Lucky for me, the MWR (Morale Welfare and Recreation) tent has a tiny movie theater consisting of a flat screen TV and four rows of comfy couches. No popcorn, though.
Ever since he went crazy on Oprah, and called Matt Lauer “glib” for questioning a philosophy which paints psychiatry as the devil, I’ve been wary of Tom Cruise. I didn’t watch Mission Impossible 3, I didn’t watch Valkyrie, and I hung my head in disapproval about Scientology concepts like silent childbirth. But damnit, I must admit that he’s made some good movies.
That’s why when I walked past the MWR Café Cinema on Tuesday I just couldn’t resist anymore when I saw that Cocktail was playing at 1800. I tried to talk my friends into going, but my requests were only met with confused looks and questions about my sexual preferences. Obviously, they don’t remember that movie as fondly as I do. I love all of the bar tricks, the off the cuff poetry, and the kickass soundtrack which—like Dirty Dancing—spawned two soundtrack albums, both of which my family owned on CD in the late 80’s and played ad infinitum in our conversion van.
In spite of the unjust mockery, I was able to really enjoy the movie. Laughing for the good times, crying for the bad. Poor Coughlin’s reach far exceeded his grasp. At least in death he was able to teach Bryan the things he should’ve learned himself in life.
Wednesday night, I dove into my library and pulled out the Paul Newman classic The Hustler. With support from Jackie Gleason and George C. “M-F’in’ Patton” Scott, this is a great film. The last time I saw it, I think I was too young to really understand the tragedy of the love story, the life he was attempting to leave behind, and the addictive side of Fast Eddy’s incredible talent. But I think age has given me the wisdom to see the movie through more sympathetic eyes.
The real movie buffs will see where this is going. What do you watch after you watch The Hustler, and what does this have to do with Tom Cruise? Well, after watching Robert Rossen’s The Hustler from 1961, you should really follow it up with the Scorsese-directed, 1986 sequel The Color of Money. Paul Newman reprises his role as Fast Eddy Felson and takes a young, dumb upstart (Cruise) under his wing to teach him the Art of the Hustle. Tom Cruise is really phenomenal in this movie, playing a complete flake with perfect mid-80’s, Jersey hair, and a totally guileless personality.
Friday morning I walked back through the MWR and read the movie board. While I couldn’t remember the film, I knew that there was something I wanted to see at 2000. So that became my goal all day: be in the MWR by 2000 to watch… well, whatever movie it was. And I shared this idea with some of the Air Force guys I work with and without knowing what the movie was, they agreed to go.
Begin Rocket Attack Interlude
Before the movie played, we had a few rocket attacks on base. Mostly these are characterized by an alarm screeching “ROCKET ATTACK … … … ROCKET ATTACK” at you, followed by 15 minutes of nothing and then an “ALL … … CLEAR … … ALL … … CLEAR.” This time was a little bit different. I heard the initial alarm go off for a few seconds and then felt and heard a BOOM! which came as a surprise to me. I was waiting in line with some soldiers to get a haircut, and we took the opportunity to all file out and do our jobs. My job was to get nearby a bunker and wait to see what happened.
What happened was a column of smoke rose from somewhere not terribly far from me, and four ambulances screamed by. I found out the next day that they were carrying two dead Eastern European soldiers and two injured Eastern European soldiers, a rocket having landed right on their bedroom. Now, this might be cause for further concern if these guys could aim their rockets, but the very nature of the way they work makes it nearly impossible to repeat a shot. They can’t use the same place twice, and if they sit still and wait to find out if they got a hit, they will be blown up by someone… And I can tell you that someone got blown up in response to that attack.
End Rocket Attack Interlude
After all that excitement, I figured a movie would be a nice treat, so my Air Force pals and I went to the MWR to find out what the movie was and to watch it. It turned out to be A Few Good Men, written by Aaron Sorkin and starring Cruise, Jack Nicholson and Demi Moore in her first Navy role, but not her last. I love Sorkin’s writing, so it’s always a pleasure for me to watch his stuff. His characters tend to stand on a pretty tall soapbox some of the time, but I can forgive that for the good plots and the clever banter.
So that’s how I went from a Tom Cruise-free existence to one completely steeped in his work. Maybe Top Gun will grace the screen next week and I can continue the streak.
Also, incidentally: I'm just fine after the attack. Didn't even really shake me up, so don't worry. And remember, they can't aim these things for sh*t.
Out here I don’t have a lot of choices about my entertainment. I filled up a hard drive with movies and TV shows, and I’ve been watching them off and on, but it really lacks that “trip to the movie theater” feeling I crave from back home. Lucky for me, the MWR (Morale Welfare and Recreation) tent has a tiny movie theater consisting of a flat screen TV and four rows of comfy couches. No popcorn, though.
Ever since he went crazy on Oprah, and called Matt Lauer “glib” for questioning a philosophy which paints psychiatry as the devil, I’ve been wary of Tom Cruise. I didn’t watch Mission Impossible 3, I didn’t watch Valkyrie, and I hung my head in disapproval about Scientology concepts like silent childbirth. But damnit, I must admit that he’s made some good movies.
That’s why when I walked past the MWR Café Cinema on Tuesday I just couldn’t resist anymore when I saw that Cocktail was playing at 1800. I tried to talk my friends into going, but my requests were only met with confused looks and questions about my sexual preferences. Obviously, they don’t remember that movie as fondly as I do. I love all of the bar tricks, the off the cuff poetry, and the kickass soundtrack which—like Dirty Dancing—spawned two soundtrack albums, both of which my family owned on CD in the late 80’s and played ad infinitum in our conversion van.
In spite of the unjust mockery, I was able to really enjoy the movie. Laughing for the good times, crying for the bad. Poor Coughlin’s reach far exceeded his grasp. At least in death he was able to teach Bryan the things he should’ve learned himself in life.
Wednesday night, I dove into my library and pulled out the Paul Newman classic The Hustler. With support from Jackie Gleason and George C. “M-F’in’ Patton” Scott, this is a great film. The last time I saw it, I think I was too young to really understand the tragedy of the love story, the life he was attempting to leave behind, and the addictive side of Fast Eddy’s incredible talent. But I think age has given me the wisdom to see the movie through more sympathetic eyes.
The real movie buffs will see where this is going. What do you watch after you watch The Hustler, and what does this have to do with Tom Cruise? Well, after watching Robert Rossen’s The Hustler from 1961, you should really follow it up with the Scorsese-directed, 1986 sequel The Color of Money. Paul Newman reprises his role as Fast Eddy Felson and takes a young, dumb upstart (Cruise) under his wing to teach him the Art of the Hustle. Tom Cruise is really phenomenal in this movie, playing a complete flake with perfect mid-80’s, Jersey hair, and a totally guileless personality.
Friday morning I walked back through the MWR and read the movie board. While I couldn’t remember the film, I knew that there was something I wanted to see at 2000. So that became my goal all day: be in the MWR by 2000 to watch… well, whatever movie it was. And I shared this idea with some of the Air Force guys I work with and without knowing what the movie was, they agreed to go.
Before the movie played, we had a few rocket attacks on base. Mostly these are characterized by an alarm screeching “ROCKET ATTACK … … … ROCKET ATTACK” at you, followed by 15 minutes of nothing and then an “ALL … … CLEAR … … ALL … … CLEAR.” This time was a little bit different. I heard the initial alarm go off for a few seconds and then felt and heard a BOOM! which came as a surprise to me. I was waiting in line with some soldiers to get a haircut, and we took the opportunity to all file out and do our jobs. My job was to get nearby a bunker and wait to see what happened.
What happened was a column of smoke rose from somewhere not terribly far from me, and four ambulances screamed by. I found out the next day that they were carrying two dead Eastern European soldiers and two injured Eastern European soldiers, a rocket having landed right on their bedroom. Now, this might be cause for further concern if these guys could aim their rockets, but the very nature of the way they work makes it nearly impossible to repeat a shot. They can’t use the same place twice, and if they sit still and wait to find out if they got a hit, they will be blown up by someone… And I can tell you that someone got blown up in response to that attack.
After all that excitement, I figured a movie would be a nice treat, so my Air Force pals and I went to the MWR to find out what the movie was and to watch it. It turned out to be A Few Good Men, written by Aaron Sorkin and starring Cruise, Jack Nicholson and Demi Moore in her first Navy role, but not her last. I love Sorkin’s writing, so it’s always a pleasure for me to watch his stuff. His characters tend to stand on a pretty tall soapbox some of the time, but I can forgive that for the good plots and the clever banter.
So that’s how I went from a Tom Cruise-free existence to one completely steeped in his work. Maybe Top Gun will grace the screen next week and I can continue the streak.
Also, incidentally: I'm just fine after the attack. Didn't even really shake me up, so don't worry. And remember, they can't aim these things for sh*t.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
The Heat 2: Electric Boogaloo
The Heat 2
Holy smokes, there’re heaters attached to this tent! Someone finally complained to the folks at KBR about the temperature of our tent at night and in the morning, and its deleterious effects on our oral hygiene as a result of all the water being frozen solid when we wake up.
KBR balked at the prospect of just turning the heat on, that would be irresponsible as the heaters produce enough carbon monoxide to kill all of us in our sleep. Instead, they needed to test out the system and make sure they weren’t going to off a bunch of American soldiers, contractors and members of the media. The investigation consisted of turning the heat on all day long, pushing the already steamy daytime temperatures up close to 100 and placing CO detectors throughout the tent.
When it was time for bed on that first heated night, I thought I’d won the lottery. I took off my faux fur blanket and stuffed it in a laundry bag to make a proper pillow before settling on top of my sleeping bag for a warm and comfortable night.
I woke up with my eyelids frozen shut around 2 in the morning and managed to coordinate my body through the tremors to take my blanket out of the laundry bag and drape it over myself, summoning up the last vestiges of my metabolism to push my body temperature back up to something recognizable as a human average. Apparently heat is a luxury reserved for the daytime, and you’d better store up as much of it as you can before lights’ out.
In fact, I wonder if the heater is hooked up to the light switch. That would answer some questions, or maybe the thermostat is wired backwards. That would conform to my theory that they’re blasting air conditioning in here at night.
Holy smokes, there’re heaters attached to this tent! Someone finally complained to the folks at KBR about the temperature of our tent at night and in the morning, and its deleterious effects on our oral hygiene as a result of all the water being frozen solid when we wake up.
KBR balked at the prospect of just turning the heat on, that would be irresponsible as the heaters produce enough carbon monoxide to kill all of us in our sleep. Instead, they needed to test out the system and make sure they weren’t going to off a bunch of American soldiers, contractors and members of the media. The investigation consisted of turning the heat on all day long, pushing the already steamy daytime temperatures up close to 100 and placing CO detectors throughout the tent.
When it was time for bed on that first heated night, I thought I’d won the lottery. I took off my faux fur blanket and stuffed it in a laundry bag to make a proper pillow before settling on top of my sleeping bag for a warm and comfortable night.
I woke up with my eyelids frozen shut around 2 in the morning and managed to coordinate my body through the tremors to take my blanket out of the laundry bag and drape it over myself, summoning up the last vestiges of my metabolism to push my body temperature back up to something recognizable as a human average. Apparently heat is a luxury reserved for the daytime, and you’d better store up as much of it as you can before lights’ out.
In fact, I wonder if the heater is hooked up to the light switch. That would answer some questions, or maybe the thermostat is wired backwards. That would conform to my theory that they’re blasting air conditioning in here at night.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
How to Call or Text Me
If anyone's interested, this is my number over here, including international codes for the US. So if you want to call or text me, use this:
011-93-799486387
International charges will apply.
011-93-799486387
International charges will apply.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Notes on Food
The Boardwalk
I was surprised to find a mall when I got here. Right in the middle of all of this chaos, there is a large square surrounded on all sides by a wooden boardwalk and lined with shops and restaurants. Sure, the shops and restaurants are all inside carved-up shipping containers, but that doesn’t change the fact that they sell trinkets, rugs and American fast food. There’s a Burger King, a Subway, a Pizza Hut, and two—yes, two—coffee shops: a Tim Horton’s and a Green Beans. So far I’m partial to Green Beans, but I may have to start going to Tim Horton’s to pay back some of the Air Force folks who have been buying the majority of the coffee lately.
My first dinner on post came from Burger King because I had yet to get a meal card which would allow me to eat in the mess halls. My chicken sandwich tasted pretty familiar, maybe a little too much mayonnaise slathered on it, but a reasonable approximation of home. The fries, on the other hand, were spot on.
The other night I decided to see what Pizza Hut could offer, and got a Personal Pan Pepperoni, Cheese Sticks and a Coke for $9. I really wanted to compare it to the Pizza Hut I had in Kuwait, which was a pale shadow of its American counterpart. I have to say, in spite of the fact that it’s apparently impossible to get a true pork product in this country and all the pepperoni is beef-based, the Afghanistan Pizza Hut is not bad. I’ll never order the cheese sticks again, but I’ll sure as hell go back for a cheese pizza.
Niagara DFAC
This is where I have taken the majority of my meals so far. Upon my arrival, I heard it referred to as the North American dining facility, which isn’t the same thing as saying the American dining facility. This is in no way more evident than in the bacon. At breakfast they offer “Canadian Bacon” and “European bacon.” An American dining facility would more likely offer “Just Bacon.”
The first day I had breakfast at Niagara, I got a burrito. I ate about half of it before deciding that I could do better. Since then, I’ve tried everything from powdered eggs to powdered milk, and I’ve at last settled on the very best meal Niagara has to offer for breakfast: the burritos. That said, I see some potential in the short order grill. I’ve already gotten a ham, onion and egg scramble. It seems the ham was my downfall. All of the meat here has the potential to taste a little skunky, even the salted, smoked and cured kind. But I'm going to hit up the grill again in the future.
Dinner is a bit of a mixed bag as well. One of the most satisfying meals I’ve had so far was a hamburger and fries, again off the grill. It was nice just to have a familiar favorite that is hard to mess up.
Friday night on post is steak night. This sounded pretty exciting after sweet and sour vegetable night and undercooked beef sausage night. So it was with great anticipation that I went to Niagara for steak night. We were treated with some thin-sliced sirloin, green beans, buttered potatoes, tomato soup and chocolate pudding—really a fine meal on paper (plates). But, once again I was foiled by the aged-foreign-beef dilemma. Yes, it is by definition steak, and it was much improved by healthy dollop of A1, but I must say it didn’t live up to its promise.
However, I’m assured that miracles are beheld at the American DFAC on Friday nights. And this will be investigated in the future.
Update: I finally visit the American DFAC!!! Details below...
Cambridge DFAC
The British have their own dining facility on KAF, and it is consistently the best thing available. It’s pretty close to where we work, so we walk down there for lunch most days and are greeted with any number of combinations of meat and pie (lamb and vegetable pie, shepard's pie, cottage pie, chicken pot pie, etc., etc), and a host of desserts which are all referred to as “pudding.”
Most of the DFACs have banks of TVs along the walls, and while Niagara plays different sports over Armed Forces Network, Cambridge plays the BBC. I’ve seen this be news, sports, and once I’m pretty sure it was a costume drama replete with powdered wigs and pantaloons. Of course you can never hear anything, but that touch of class reaches all the way from the World Service right down into the salad bar—you can tell.
We still have yet to have dinner or breakfast here, but I’m planning on trying it sometime in the future. I know one thing: when I ate “pork sausage links” at Niagara and felt like puking, but tried a nearly identical dish at Cambridge, it was wonderful. The British aren’t really known the world over for their cuisine, but they seem to have gotten something right here in KAF.
The Mythical American DFAC: Harvest Falcon
Since we got here, we’ve heard stories about the American DFAC. Somewhere south of our tent, there is a place of unimagined treasures: ice cream and lobster tails, steak and potato bar, and all the pizza you can stomach. Surely this couldn’t be true; surely, such a flower could never bloom in the desert.
Friday night we were invited to join Army signal folks for steak night at the American DFAC. When the sun sets on KAF, the dust brings visibility down so low that you have to drive slowly to avoid running off the road or squashing pedestrians, so we made our careful way down south in the boss’s truck. As we pulled into the parking area, the dust parted to reveal the outer reaches of Shangri-La: rows and rows of refrigerated containers, crawling with kitchen staff, raiding the great hoards in order to feed the Army lining up for the feast.
The line stretched out the door for a hundred yards before we got to it, but our hosts assured us that it would go fast once it started moving. And he was right, after the doors opened it took us under 5 minutes to get inside and behold the wonders it held.
Steak and lobster tail. And not the dried up, funky boot leather they served at Niagara on Steak Night, but a tender and scrumptious sirloin smothered in onions and mushrooms. And while I was disappointed in my search for steak sauce, I found a variety of it awaited us at the table. The other DFACs just have salt and pepper waiting for you, but Harvest Falcon had A1, Heinz 57, Ketchup and hot sauce. Who knows where they get the lobster, but it looked pretty appetizing and was raved about by everyone that had it.
Next came the first buffet of sides: your choice of corn on the cob, mixed vegetables, home fries or baked potato, with a healthy dollop of gravy available "if sir requires." I was starting to feel like one plate wouldn't do it.
And holy cow, a whole buffet full of fried goodness including french fries, onion rings, hot dogs and the freedom to take anything you choose.
And what’s this? More meat? Yes. Ravioli, grilled chicken, chicken kabobs, and down there on the end: little personal pizzas.
It was as if I had died and gone to fat guy heaven. As I piled the trimmings higher and higher on my plate, someone reminded me that I will be here for three months and have ample opportunity to overindulge on Steak Night, or any other night for that matter.
I was able to limit myself to steak, baked potato, green beans, and a few onion rings on top, but man oh man, did I want one of those little pizzas… But I’ll be back, and I’ll bring my appetite.
I was surprised to find a mall when I got here. Right in the middle of all of this chaos, there is a large square surrounded on all sides by a wooden boardwalk and lined with shops and restaurants. Sure, the shops and restaurants are all inside carved-up shipping containers, but that doesn’t change the fact that they sell trinkets, rugs and American fast food. There’s a Burger King, a Subway, a Pizza Hut, and two—yes, two—coffee shops: a Tim Horton’s and a Green Beans. So far I’m partial to Green Beans, but I may have to start going to Tim Horton’s to pay back some of the Air Force folks who have been buying the majority of the coffee lately.
My first dinner on post came from Burger King because I had yet to get a meal card which would allow me to eat in the mess halls. My chicken sandwich tasted pretty familiar, maybe a little too much mayonnaise slathered on it, but a reasonable approximation of home. The fries, on the other hand, were spot on.
The other night I decided to see what Pizza Hut could offer, and got a Personal Pan Pepperoni, Cheese Sticks and a Coke for $9. I really wanted to compare it to the Pizza Hut I had in Kuwait, which was a pale shadow of its American counterpart. I have to say, in spite of the fact that it’s apparently impossible to get a true pork product in this country and all the pepperoni is beef-based, the Afghanistan Pizza Hut is not bad. I’ll never order the cheese sticks again, but I’ll sure as hell go back for a cheese pizza.Niagara DFAC
This is where I have taken the majority of my meals so far. Upon my arrival, I heard it referred to as the North American dining facility, which isn’t the same thing as saying the American dining facility. This is in no way more evident than in the bacon. At breakfast they offer “Canadian Bacon” and “European bacon.” An American dining facility would more likely offer “Just Bacon.”
The first day I had breakfast at Niagara, I got a burrito. I ate about half of it before deciding that I could do better. Since then, I’ve tried everything from powdered eggs to powdered milk, and I’ve at last settled on the very best meal Niagara has to offer for breakfast: the burritos. That said, I see some potential in the short order grill. I’ve already gotten a ham, onion and egg scramble. It seems the ham was my downfall. All of the meat here has the potential to taste a little skunky, even the salted, smoked and cured kind. But I'm going to hit up the grill again in the future.Dinner is a bit of a mixed bag as well. One of the most satisfying meals I’ve had so far was a hamburger and fries, again off the grill. It was nice just to have a familiar favorite that is hard to mess up.
Friday night on post is steak night. This sounded pretty exciting after sweet and sour vegetable night and undercooked beef sausage night. So it was with great anticipation that I went to Niagara for steak night. We were treated with some thin-sliced sirloin, green beans, buttered potatoes, tomato soup and chocolate pudding—really a fine meal on paper (plates). But, once again I was foiled by the aged-foreign-beef dilemma. Yes, it is by definition steak, and it was much improved by healthy dollop of A1, but I must say it didn’t live up to its promise.However, I’m assured that miracles are beheld at the American DFAC on Friday nights. And this will be investigated in the future.
Update: I finally visit the American DFAC!!! Details below...
Cambridge DFAC
The British have their own dining facility on KAF, and it is consistently the best thing available. It’s pretty close to where we work, so we walk down there for lunch most days and are greeted with any number of combinations of meat and pie (lamb and vegetable pie, shepard's pie, cottage pie, chicken pot pie, etc., etc), and a host of desserts which are all referred to as “pudding.”
Most of the DFACs have banks of TVs along the walls, and while Niagara plays different sports over Armed Forces Network, Cambridge plays the BBC. I’ve seen this be news, sports, and once I’m pretty sure it was a costume drama replete with powdered wigs and pantaloons. Of course you can never hear anything, but that touch of class reaches all the way from the World Service right down into the salad bar—you can tell.
We still have yet to have dinner or breakfast here, but I’m planning on trying it sometime in the future. I know one thing: when I ate “pork sausage links” at Niagara and felt like puking, but tried a nearly identical dish at Cambridge, it was wonderful. The British aren’t really known the world over for their cuisine, but they seem to have gotten something right here in KAF.
The Mythical American DFAC: Harvest Falcon
Since we got here, we’ve heard stories about the American DFAC. Somewhere south of our tent, there is a place of unimagined treasures: ice cream and lobster tails, steak and potato bar, and all the pizza you can stomach. Surely this couldn’t be true; surely, such a flower could never bloom in the desert.
Friday night we were invited to join Army signal folks for steak night at the American DFAC. When the sun sets on KAF, the dust brings visibility down so low that you have to drive slowly to avoid running off the road or squashing pedestrians, so we made our careful way down south in the boss’s truck. As we pulled into the parking area, the dust parted to reveal the outer reaches of Shangri-La: rows and rows of refrigerated containers, crawling with kitchen staff, raiding the great hoards in order to feed the Army lining up for the feast.
The line stretched out the door for a hundred yards before we got to it, but our hosts assured us that it would go fast once it started moving. And he was right, after the doors opened it took us under 5 minutes to get inside and behold the wonders it held.
Steak and lobster tail. And not the dried up, funky boot leather they served at Niagara on Steak Night, but a tender and scrumptious sirloin smothered in onions and mushrooms. And while I was disappointed in my search for steak sauce, I found a variety of it awaited us at the table. The other DFACs just have salt and pepper waiting for you, but Harvest Falcon had A1, Heinz 57, Ketchup and hot sauce. Who knows where they get the lobster, but it looked pretty appetizing and was raved about by everyone that had it.
Next came the first buffet of sides: your choice of corn on the cob, mixed vegetables, home fries or baked potato, with a healthy dollop of gravy available "if sir requires." I was starting to feel like one plate wouldn't do it.
And holy cow, a whole buffet full of fried goodness including french fries, onion rings, hot dogs and the freedom to take anything you choose.And what’s this? More meat? Yes. Ravioli, grilled chicken, chicken kabobs, and down there on the end: little personal pizzas.
It was as if I had died and gone to fat guy heaven. As I piled the trimmings higher and higher on my plate, someone reminded me that I will be here for three months and have ample opportunity to overindulge on Steak Night, or any other night for that matter.
I was able to limit myself to steak, baked potato, green beans, and a few onion rings on top, but man oh man, did I want one of those little pizzas… But I’ll be back, and I’ll bring my appetite.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
The Heat
When I was gearing up for this trip in the military stores around Ft. Benning, I was severely impressed with the compactness of my sleeping bag. It stuffs down into a bag smaller than a gallon of milk, and provides (as the bag says) comfort down to 45° F, and a low of 36°. Even though the temperatures up in the mountains can get very low here in the winter, it sounded just about right for me here in Kandahar where the lows don’t often brush below freezing. So I anticipated feeling pretty toasty in my tiny purchase.
If only I could fit inside of it.
I can get into it and zip it up almost to my elbows before it becomes obvious that I can’t fit both of my arms in there. And damn if it doesn’t get C-O-L-D in this tent at night! So each night when I go to sleep, I choose one arm to sacrifice for the greater good of the rest of my body, and switch them out when I wake up in the night unable to feel the cold one.
While this system has its flaws, it’s also steadily improving. The American PX (which is out of practically everything, but that’s another story), stocks these garishly patterned Korean blankets that resemble fur in the way they feel and the way they leave little lint balls all over everything you own. I bought one of these for $34.95 in a desperate bid to be warm over 90% of my body, and buddy did it make the difference.
The first night with the blanket I dropped off around 9:00 pm and didn’t stir again until 6:00 am. Of course, I’m faced with a new problem of having to leave my little cocoon of warmth for the reality of 30° air around me, and the cold concrete floors. But I suppose I’ll take that rather than be freezing all night.
If only I could fit inside of it.
I can get into it and zip it up almost to my elbows before it becomes obvious that I can’t fit both of my arms in there. And damn if it doesn’t get C-O-L-D in this tent at night! So each night when I go to sleep, I choose one arm to sacrifice for the greater good of the rest of my body, and switch them out when I wake up in the night unable to feel the cold one.
While this system has its flaws, it’s also steadily improving. The American PX (which is out of practically everything, but that’s another story), stocks these garishly patterned Korean blankets that resemble fur in the way they feel and the way they leave little lint balls all over everything you own. I bought one of these for $34.95 in a desperate bid to be warm over 90% of my body, and buddy did it make the difference.
The first night with the blanket I dropped off around 9:00 pm and didn’t stir again until 6:00 am. Of course, I’m faced with a new problem of having to leave my little cocoon of warmth for the reality of 30° air around me, and the cold concrete floors. But I suppose I’ll take that rather than be freezing all night.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
The Filet of the Neighborhood
I have been living in overflow housing on Kandahar Airfield for almost a week now. For the most part, time spent in the tent is time spent sleeping. If I come back here and there are more than 30 minutes to spare, those minutes are spent napping. My bunk is about as comfortable as I can make it. I have a small sleeping bag tucked into a liner, and a makeshift pillow made out of a blanket and a laundry bag. I moved the mattress that was on the top bunk to give myself a luggage rack, and to make use of the steel mesh for hanging my ID and my flashlight, and to dry my towel. It’s really not too bad once you come to terms with the fine layer of Afghan dust tracked in by my 65 roommates and the seriously foul foot stench that seems to hover by the front door… Or by that one guy’s rack by the front door… He’s getting some anti-fungal foot powder from the rest of us for Christmas.
Just outside the tent is a row of shower trailers, each one with (luxury) hot water and (decadence) flushing toilets. Timing is important with the showers. Until today, I have done all of my showering before bed, but feeling a little lazy last night, I decided to wait until I woke up and grab one in the morning. Apparently 0630 is the same time that every foreign worker in the place takes a shower before going to work. While there were shower stalls available, there were only three minutes of hot water left. Of course I found this out by taking three minutes of a comfortable shower.
Something should be said here about the work force. All of the physical functions of the base—collecting trash, cleaning bathrooms, cooking and serving food, managing the shops on the boardwalk—are performed by an army of LBGs, or Little Brown Guys. These LBGs hale from all over the world, from Bangladesh to The Philippines and they do every bad job here and basically keep it running. There’s no telling how AAFES recruits them. There must be really good money involved, because it probably takes more than dental coverage to convince someone to drive a garbage truck in Afghanistan.
By far the most important feature of the neighborhood has to be the Sh*t Pit. Looking at an aerial photograph, the Pit (represented by a steaming volcano, below) appears at first glance to be a park, or a reservoir, or maybe even a very large helipad. But no, that massive circle with the crosshairs in it represents the collected leavings of all 15,000 residents of Kandahar Airfield. And if you look just to the east of the Pit, you will see my home. Every day the pump trucks roll across the base, collecting the sludge of countless Port-a-Lets, and empty it into its final resting place, right next door to me. The proximity is bad enough psychologically, but the wind in the evening puts the icing on the cake by wafting the stench over and around us, permeating the tent with an abominable smell as it seeps in through every crack and crevice.
View Home Sweet Home in a larger map
Every day as I walk home from work, into the wind, that air blowing through my clothes and my hair, my face forms a permanent scowl of disgust. Last night, in the cruelest blow yet dealt by the Pit, I noticed a horrible taste in my mouth while I was waiting in line for dinner. Imagine the worst sensation of morning breath you have ever known, that subtle stickiness on the roof of the mouth that tells you it’s time for Crest and Listerine. That is what it felt like. I took some time for thoughtful reflection on what I had eaten and the last time I had brushed my teeth, and I realized the awful truth: it was the sh*t. The waste of thousands had congealed onto the back of my throat to provide me with literal sh*t breath. It’s been 24 hours, and some marathon brushing, and I still taste it.
Just outside the tent is a row of shower trailers, each one with (luxury) hot water and (decadence) flushing toilets. Timing is important with the showers. Until today, I have done all of my showering before bed, but feeling a little lazy last night, I decided to wait until I woke up and grab one in the morning. Apparently 0630 is the same time that every foreign worker in the place takes a shower before going to work. While there were shower stalls available, there were only three minutes of hot water left. Of course I found this out by taking three minutes of a comfortable shower.
Something should be said here about the work force. All of the physical functions of the base—collecting trash, cleaning bathrooms, cooking and serving food, managing the shops on the boardwalk—are performed by an army of LBGs, or Little Brown Guys. These LBGs hale from all over the world, from Bangladesh to The Philippines and they do every bad job here and basically keep it running. There’s no telling how AAFES recruits them. There must be really good money involved, because it probably takes more than dental coverage to convince someone to drive a garbage truck in Afghanistan.
By far the most important feature of the neighborhood has to be the Sh*t Pit. Looking at an aerial photograph, the Pit (represented by a steaming volcano, below) appears at first glance to be a park, or a reservoir, or maybe even a very large helipad. But no, that massive circle with the crosshairs in it represents the collected leavings of all 15,000 residents of Kandahar Airfield. And if you look just to the east of the Pit, you will see my home. Every day the pump trucks roll across the base, collecting the sludge of countless Port-a-Lets, and empty it into its final resting place, right next door to me. The proximity is bad enough psychologically, but the wind in the evening puts the icing on the cake by wafting the stench over and around us, permeating the tent with an abominable smell as it seeps in through every crack and crevice.
View Home Sweet Home in a larger map
Every day as I walk home from work, into the wind, that air blowing through my clothes and my hair, my face forms a permanent scowl of disgust. Last night, in the cruelest blow yet dealt by the Pit, I noticed a horrible taste in my mouth while I was waiting in line for dinner. Imagine the worst sensation of morning breath you have ever known, that subtle stickiness on the roof of the mouth that tells you it’s time for Crest and Listerine. That is what it felt like. I took some time for thoughtful reflection on what I had eaten and the last time I had brushed my teeth, and I realized the awful truth: it was the sh*t. The waste of thousands had congealed onto the back of my throat to provide me with literal sh*t breath. It’s been 24 hours, and some marathon brushing, and I still taste it.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Travel and Arrival in Afghanistan
Our flight out of Kuwait was scheduled for 0800, and because we’re a little paranoid about international travel in general, and efficiency in the Middle East in particular, we met in the lobby at 0530. Bags were packed and, as you can see, weighing me down pretty well. I have one of those green army duffel bags (back), my rucksack (front), the hard case for my cameras (right hand) and a large, rolling blue duffel (left hand). Luckily I didn’t have to carry it too far.We were driven to the airport by a Bangladeshi gentleman who has spent the last 17 years in Kuwait. According to the US State Department, of the ~3 million Kuwaiti residents, only 1 million or so are citizens. Of those million citizens, 90% are employed by the state in some way. The rest are foreign workers who come to Kuwait and provide everything else the population needs—construction, cleaning, fast food, gas stations, etc. etc. The foreign workers make up almost all of the private work force. This was nowhere more evident than in the hotel where none of the employees were Kuwaiti; they were Chinese, Indian, Bangladeshi or what have you. The truly impressive part was that no matter where they came from, the all knew both English and Arabic, and probably a few more common languages.
Once at the airport, we were able to bypass the porters who are there to take your bags and extort 15 USD from you, and make our way back to the airline counter. Before we could check in, however, we were screened through a security checkpoint. At first I was impressed with this additional layer of security, until I noticed that nobody was watching the screens. The security guys were just talking and drinking coffee as we went through, completely ignoring whatever contraband we were sneaking into their airport or out of their country.
After check-in, we had to be screened again by what I would consider the normal security line, and finally a third time before boarding. The third time was really the best as even the incessant beeping of the metal detector was completely ignored. I suppose they knew where we were headed and figured one extra gun in Afghanistan wouldn’t make much difference.
We flew a charter flight into Afghanistan, which I had never done before. There are a few differences between this charger flying and regular commercial air travel. First: the plane was pretty old. Though the inside had been refurbished with nice new seats and clean carpet, they didn’t hide the fact that it was a DC-9, which (if memory serves) has been out of production for a number of years. There were also subtle hints about the age in that both the flight attendant call button and the air vents which were old-style, aluminum things designs, indicative of a bygone age. You got the feeling that the ash trays in the arm rests had seen action in the past.
The second difference from a commercial flight was that the pilot was completely oblivious to the fact that he had passengers in the back. He was constantly making course correction, or big changes in air speed or altitude—it was a little disconcerting. I think his somewhat erratic course was a result of navigating by land features, following the Arabian coast down the western edge of the Persian Gulf. As we reached the horn of the peninsula, instead of going east over the Gulf, he turned west at the major landmark of Dubai, and luckily enough, I was on the right side of the plane to see what infinite wealth and some creativity can do to the desert.
This turn was part of a scheduled stop in Muscat, Oman for refueling. This included a very speedy and frightening landing, with the plane lurching from side to side as he attempted to get all three wheels on the ground. Why he had to stop there is beyond me—Afghanistan is not really all that far away, and I figure we should have been able to make it on one tank of gas. My guess: gas is cheaper in Oman and he stopped to top off. He also made a very speedy and frightening landing in Oman on the way.As we made our final approach over southern Afghanistan, we could only see the vast, dusty plains in all directions occasionally interrupted by an errant mountain range. The pilot banked hard to line us up with the airstrip, lowering his landing gear in the middle of the turn (another unique feeling on an airplane). With our stomachs up near our throats he raced in for a landing at Kandahar Airfield.
Thankful to be alive, we grabbed our bags, in-processed and headed for the billeting office to get a bunk somewhere. We found ourselves in an open bay with 70 other folks and picked two next to each other and near the door, removing the top mattress to prevent anyone from stealing what had become our luggage racks.With that done, we finished out our day with Burger King, a trip to the gym and a fitful night’s sleep in sleeping bags on hundred year old mattresses.
Welcome to Afghanistan
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
First Full Day in Afghanistan
So guess what: no data access from my phone. There goes all of the emailing, chatting, blogging that I had planned to do over the phone. I'm limited to voice and text, and our equipment we were going to use for Internet access is stuck in a shipping crate back in the States for who knows how long.
Things are ok so far. We got our bunks inside a huge open bay. The dust is truly magnificent here.
More to come.
Things are ok so far. We got our bunks inside a huge open bay. The dust is truly magnificent here.
More to come.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Can't Sleep
I woke up an hour early (0430) and don't feel like going back to sleep. I just heard the morning call to prayer go out over the city.
Afghanistan in the Morning
Our flight to Afghanistan takes off from Kuwait Airport at 0800 (see how I'm already fitting in?), which means I have to wake up in something like 5 and a half hours. I never sleep much while I'm on the road, especially when I have to get up in the morning.
I meant to write a lot more about Kuwait, but there's really not a lot to say. It was pretty boring as we spent most of the time in the hotel eating and going to the gym. We were only here waiting on the next flight in country, anyway.
I did record a video-blog-kinda-thing that I was going to post on here, but after fiddling around with a couple of really terrible (but free) editors trying to put in my pictures as well, I gave up telling that story altogether. Maybe I'll post it later.
The gist of it can be found in my pictures of the city. Brook and I walked around and took in the architecture the other day until it got unbearably hot. That very tall spire is the Liberation Communication Tower and is part of the Ministry of Communication. It was in construction when the Iraqis invaded in 1990 and construction was finished after coalition forces liberated the country--hence the name. It's 1220 feet tall. Our driver on the first day told us it was 1200 meters tall, which seemed strange to me as I figured I would've heard about a structure that was a kilometer tall.
The first picture is the view from my hotel room. It would look better if there wasn't so much dirt on the outside of the windows, but what you see appears to be a very large and unattended cemetery. What look like beach chairs are actually head stones, and the uneven lumps are where the bodies are buried. Nice view, right? In the meantime, Brook can see Liberation Tower and the Persian Gulf from his room--I got hosed.
The next time you hear from me, I'll be in Afghanistan.
I meant to write a lot more about Kuwait, but there's really not a lot to say. It was pretty boring as we spent most of the time in the hotel eating and going to the gym. We were only here waiting on the next flight in country, anyway.
I did record a video-blog-kinda-thing that I was going to post on here, but after fiddling around with a couple of really terrible (but free) editors trying to put in my pictures as well, I gave up telling that story altogether. Maybe I'll post it later.
The gist of it can be found in my pictures of the city. Brook and I walked around and took in the architecture the other day until it got unbearably hot. That very tall spire is the Liberation Communication Tower and is part of the Ministry of Communication. It was in construction when the Iraqis invaded in 1990 and construction was finished after coalition forces liberated the country--hence the name. It's 1220 feet tall. Our driver on the first day told us it was 1200 meters tall, which seemed strange to me as I figured I would've heard about a structure that was a kilometer tall.
The first picture is the view from my hotel room. It would look better if there wasn't so much dirt on the outside of the windows, but what you see appears to be a very large and unattended cemetery. What look like beach chairs are actually head stones, and the uneven lumps are where the bodies are buried. Nice view, right? In the meantime, Brook can see Liberation Tower and the Persian Gulf from his room--I got hosed.
The next time you hear from me, I'll be in Afghanistan.
 |
| Kuwait City |
Saturday, October 31, 2009
12 Hours Aloft
Thanks to an antihistamine which Brook was thoughtful enough to bring and generous enough to share, I slept through most of the flight. I got something close to eight hours of sleep, which is funny when you consider the fact that I was averaging less than five over the last week at Ft. Benning. I guess it took sitting in an elaborately upholstered seat which refused to recline all the way to really get some good sleep.
That and drugs.
We barely made it in time for the flight. Because we were flying Business Class, we got an invitation to the Oasis Lounge in JFK's Terminal 4. It seemed pretty posh: free drinks, halal-friendly buffet food, and they would make an announcement when it was time to board your flight. This made us a little nervous as were still on the open side of security, but these people are professionals, they know what they're doing.
So we got the last alcohol we were going to see for a while (red wine for me, and something really fruity for Brook... Vodka and cranberry, I think), and settled in to use the free wifi for a bit. I took that time to download a few episodes of The Office for the road and charge my iPhone off my laptop battery.
So with a 10:00 pm (2200) flight, and the clock eeking past 9:20, the lounge staff announced Kuwait Airlines Flight 118 was boarding. Like, already boarding. And we're on the wrong side of the security checkpoint. So we grab our stuff and head downstairs and are greeted with what can only be described as Little Bangladesh in front of us in line for security. We went back to the lounge to ask if there was some sort of First Class pass-through which would allow us to bypass the cluster-f**k/soft target that was the security line, but the lady behind the desk just shrugged her shoulders and we went downstairs to wait in line. As we got closer to the front, the status of our flight on overhead screens went from "Boarding" to "Last Call" and we started to worry. Would they hold an international flight because two Americans were too dumb to watch a clock?
Luckily, we didn't have to find out. We made it through security with enough time to powerwalk our way to the gate and make it on in time for tea.
That and drugs.
We barely made it in time for the flight. Because we were flying Business Class, we got an invitation to the Oasis Lounge in JFK's Terminal 4. It seemed pretty posh: free drinks, halal-friendly buffet food, and they would make an announcement when it was time to board your flight. This made us a little nervous as were still on the open side of security, but these people are professionals, they know what they're doing.
So we got the last alcohol we were going to see for a while (red wine for me, and something really fruity for Brook... Vodka and cranberry, I think), and settled in to use the free wifi for a bit. I took that time to download a few episodes of The Office for the road and charge my iPhone off my laptop battery.
Side note: I've got two phones on me at all times (because my company refuses to pay for my iPhone) and they can both be charged from USB. My laptop has a big, honkin' battery hanging off the back which is great for charging my other devices when they're more important than my laptop.
So with a 10:00 pm (2200) flight, and the clock eeking past 9:20, the lounge staff announced Kuwait Airlines Flight 118 was boarding. Like, already boarding. And we're on the wrong side of the security checkpoint. So we grab our stuff and head downstairs and are greeted with what can only be described as Little Bangladesh in front of us in line for security. We went back to the lounge to ask if there was some sort of First Class pass-through which would allow us to bypass the cluster-f**k/soft target that was the security line, but the lady behind the desk just shrugged her shoulders and we went downstairs to wait in line. As we got closer to the front, the status of our flight on overhead screens went from "Boarding" to "Last Call" and we started to worry. Would they hold an international flight because two Americans were too dumb to watch a clock? Luckily, we didn't have to find out. We made it through security with enough time to powerwalk our way to the gate and make it on in time for tea.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Smallpox Vaccine Sucks as an Adult
21 days. That's how long I have to continue changing the band-aid on my upper left arm. It takes three weeks for the vaccination shot to go through its various stages and provide me with the much-touted immunity the Army so desires me to have.
This slide-set from the CDC shows the progress I should expect my site to go through over the next three weeks. So far, mine doesn't look like anything, so I've got a lot to look forward to. Like the pustule that will form and fill smallpox-laden pus. The awful scab that will daily tempt me to mess with it before finally falling off of its own accord. And finally, the scar that will forever identify me as someone who received the vaccine.
If only it were good for more than 10 years, I'd never have to worry about it again. And really: do I need to worry about it? The last reported case EVER was in 1978 in England, and that was the result of mishandled samples in a biology lab. According to wikipedia, the guy in charge of smallpox research killed himself over, which sounds like a very compelling movie plot.
So what's all the hubbub? Why are all of our service men and women in the Middle East required to be vaccinated against a disease that has been successfully eradicated in the human population? Well, apparently the Soviets developed a particularly virulent strain of the already lethal virus, produced 20 tons of it, and to this day it has not been entirely accounted for in the rest of the world.
So yeah, maybe it's reasonable in principle, but do I have to keep changing this band-aid daily? Look how much hair it took off on the first day! And they suggest that you rotate it a little bit every day so that your skin doesn't get too irritated. I'm going to have a 3" bald circle on my upper arm when this is all over...
This slide-set from the CDC shows the progress I should expect my site to go through over the next three weeks. So far, mine doesn't look like anything, so I've got a lot to look forward to. Like the pustule that will form and fill smallpox-laden pus. The awful scab that will daily tempt me to mess with it before finally falling off of its own accord. And finally, the scar that will forever identify me as someone who received the vaccine.If only it were good for more than 10 years, I'd never have to worry about it again. And really: do I need to worry about it? The last reported case EVER was in 1978 in England, and that was the result of mishandled samples in a biology lab. According to wikipedia, the guy in charge of smallpox research killed himself over, which sounds like a very compelling movie plot.
So what's all the hubbub? Why are all of our service men and women in the Middle East required to be vaccinated against a disease that has been successfully eradicated in the human population? Well, apparently the Soviets developed a particularly virulent strain of the already lethal virus, produced 20 tons of it, and to this day it has not been entirely accounted for in the rest of the world.
So yeah, maybe it's reasonable in principle, but do I have to keep changing this band-aid daily? Look how much hair it took off on the first day! And they suggest that you rotate it a little bit every day so that your skin doesn't get too irritated. I'm going to have a 3" bald circle on my upper arm when this is all over...
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Waiting for Even More Shots
I'm sitting on a bus, in the rain, waiting for a van to take me off-post for a measles, mumps, rubella shot. I'm sure I received one as an infant, otherwise I would never have attended public school or college. I guess an air of erudition doesn't substitute for a shot record.
Today we clear medical. So far I've had my physical, vision, dental and immunization records scrutinized, I've received two of my most painful shots to date, and I've waited on this stupid BlueBird bus for two hours.
The smallpox vaccine is basically a small tattoo on my upper left arm. A very nice LPN stabbed me a few dozen times with a smallpox-infected needle. This was far from plesant and will produce a truly disgusting pustule before scarring over. All that for a disease that only exists in a few labs around the world. I guess we do that because some of those labs don't belong to us.
That plus anthrax = bad day.
All that and I was up for a 3:30 meeting this morning.
Welcome to the army lifestyle.
Today we clear medical. So far I've had my physical, vision, dental and immunization records scrutinized, I've received two of my most painful shots to date, and I've waited on this stupid BlueBird bus for two hours.
The smallpox vaccine is basically a small tattoo on my upper left arm. A very nice LPN stabbed me a few dozen times with a smallpox-infected needle. This was far from plesant and will produce a truly disgusting pustule before scarring over. All that for a disease that only exists in a few labs around the world. I guess we do that because some of those labs don't belong to us.
That plus anthrax = bad day.
All that and I was up for a 3:30 meeting this morning.
Welcome to the army lifestyle.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
I Should Be Asleep
First off, a big thank you to everyone that I saw or spoke to while I was in Birmingham this weekend! It was a pleasure to see an early Thanks-birth-mas with everyone. For folks that couldn't make it by the house on Friday, I understand and you owe me a beer when I get back. ;)
I just posted the pictures on PicasaWeb, so everyone check those out if you get a chance.
So I'm down here at CRC, and have been since Saturday morning. I left my parents' house at around 3:15 am to drive down to Columbus in order to be there for registration at 8:00. It turns out that nothing important happened until around 0900 (it was at this point that I converted to 24 hour time), so I felt like I threw away several more hours of sleep, but is one to do?
Saturday was spent waiting in lines for different things. At first we waited in line to get copies made of our passports so that we could wait in line to be issued badges. With our stinking badges in hand we all formed up with our fellow deployees and headed up the hill to be educated a (very) little bit on what is to happen to us this week. Apparently, it's a lot of paperwork and waiting for things to happen. At least that's my impression after two full days.
Today we got in around 0630 (it gets earlier every day, so far) and were fitted for our kevlar body armor. This took all of a half hour at which point we broke until 1230. I must say that this is where the big difference between us and the Army lies--if we were enlisted we'd have to spend the intervening four hours on our hands and knees organizing gravel or something. As it was, we headed back to the hotel to relax and catch up on lost sleep.
Speaking of which, I have to be back there in just a few hours, so I think I'll cut this one short. Thanks again to everyone for coming to the party on Friday!
I just posted the pictures on PicasaWeb, so everyone check those out if you get a chance.
So I'm down here at CRC, and have been since Saturday morning. I left my parents' house at around 3:15 am to drive down to Columbus in order to be there for registration at 8:00. It turns out that nothing important happened until around 0900 (it was at this point that I converted to 24 hour time), so I felt like I threw away several more hours of sleep, but is one to do?
Saturday was spent waiting in lines for different things. At first we waited in line to get copies made of our passports so that we could wait in line to be issued badges. With our stinking badges in hand we all formed up with our fellow deployees and headed up the hill to be educated a (very) little bit on what is to happen to us this week. Apparently, it's a lot of paperwork and waiting for things to happen. At least that's my impression after two full days.
Today we got in around 0630 (it gets earlier every day, so far) and were fitted for our kevlar body armor. This took all of a half hour at which point we broke until 1230. I must say that this is where the big difference between us and the Army lies--if we were enlisted we'd have to spend the intervening four hours on our hands and knees organizing gravel or something. As it was, we headed back to the hotel to relax and catch up on lost sleep.
Speaking of which, I have to be back there in just a few hours, so I think I'll cut this one short. Thanks again to everyone for coming to the party on Friday!
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Cab's Coming in Two Hours
I'd like to think that I'm packed up. I'd like to think that I've got all of the high points covered, that I'm prepared for every eventuality, but I'm probably not. For one thing, I think I over-packed in a lot of areas. I've got somewhere between 16 and 20 pairs of boxer shorts in my bag. Almost 3 weeks worth of underwear. That might make more sense if there wasn't a laundry room right in our hooch. I suppose that gives me most of a month's worth of wiggle room in the event of a maintenance issue, but I'm sure it's just adding weight and volume.
I also may have overdone things in the clever t-shirt department. I packed the dragon t-shirt from last week, along with my other--more introspective--dragon t-shirt. While it is a fire-breathing dragon (bad-ass), it's also a lonely dragon with no friends to wish it a happy birthday, attempting to blow out candles which he can never extinguish. Surely the Joe Army can appreciate the unfortunate irony here. I'm sure I'll be lauded for my sense of style, and ultimately for my sensitivity.
I may have packed too many socks as well, though everyone who's been there tells me there's no such thing as too many socks. I believe I have 15 pairs that'll do for my boots, along with 6 pairs of ankle socks (for all of the running I've convinced myself I'm going to do over there).
All in all, my belongings have added up to one giant duffel bag, a much smaller shoulder bag, the aforementioned Pelican case, and my backpack.
Now I just have to wait.
After spending all day packing I don't know what to do with myself for this next little period. I don't have a car here, and the bike is packed in the back of the garage. I suppose Icould blog about the endless minutia of my life--that might kill some time.
I also may have overdone things in the clever t-shirt department. I packed the dragon t-shirt from last week, along with my other--more introspective--dragon t-shirt. While it is a fire-breathing dragon (bad-ass), it's also a lonely dragon with no friends to wish it a happy birthday, attempting to blow out candles which he can never extinguish. Surely the Joe Army can appreciate the unfortunate irony here. I'm sure I'll be lauded for my sense of style, and ultimately for my sensitivity.I may have packed too many socks as well, though everyone who's been there tells me there's no such thing as too many socks. I believe I have 15 pairs that'll do for my boots, along with 6 pairs of ankle socks (for all of the running I've convinced myself I'm going to do over there).
All in all, my belongings have added up to one giant duffel bag, a much smaller shoulder bag, the aforementioned Pelican case, and my backpack.
Now I just have to wait.
After spending all day packing I don't know what to do with myself for this next little period. I don't have a car here, and the bike is packed in the back of the garage. I suppose Icould blog about the endless minutia of my life--that might kill some time.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Party at Lux and Racing the Snow
First off: thank you to everyone who made it out to Lux on Saturday night. I had a great time seeing everyone and only had to pay for one drink myself. A special kudos to Michelle who encouraged me not to wear my awesome dragon vs. eagle t-shirt (who will win in the epic battle??? You'd think flames would be a problem for a bird, but he seems to have it handled). Instead I wore a pretty spiffy black button-up number. That, combined with my wool overcoat, spiked hair and new glasses made me irresistible to at least one fellow who was bear-trawling at Lux on Saturday. I was certainly flattered, and he seemed like a very nice fellow, but ultimately not my type.So I'm trying to beat the winter out of town. I spent most of the weekend trying to come up with good similes for winter arriving in Rochester:
- "Winter in Rochester falls like a guillotine."
- "Winter in Rochester descends like a flaming air liner."
- "Winter in Rochester arrives with the suddenness of a bullet."
- etc., etc.
There are actually some updates as of this morning on my schedule to get out of Dodge. I will be flying to Birmingham on Wednesday, and driving from there to Ft. Benning for training on Saturday. This is actually a bit of sticky point as in-processing starts at 0800 in Benning and I'm planning to have another going-away party Friday night in Birmingham. I think I'll just have to roll out of bed at 0400 and make my way down there--at least traffic will be light on 280.
So after training, I've already got my flight to Kuwait booked. After that, I'm dependent on the military to get where I'm going, so we'll be holed up there for a little while. I'm looking at a map right now, and you'll notice that conspicuously lodged between Kuwait and Afghanistan is a very large expanse labeled "Iran." Hmm... I guess we take the long 'round.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Packing Equipment
A couple of months ago I was at a party where a friend showed me his Canon XSi, digital SLR. Now I've owned an SLR in the past, but to be honest I never learned how to use it. It took pretty good pictures on the automatic settings, so I never felt the pressure to learn about aperture, shutter-speed, film speeds, etc. While it was in my possession, it was reduced to a very expensive point-and-shoot camera. But after seeing what John was able to coax out of his XSi, I decided I needed to get one, and more specifically that I needed to take one to Afghanistan. So I started saving a few bucks from every paycheck until I was able to buy one from Amazon.
However, taking a reasonably expensive DSLR to the desert creates a host of problems. Like: how am I going to keep it from getting pulverized by sand, snow, ice and soldiers? Well in my job, I have to ship fragile and expensive items all over the world all of the time, and I've been introduced to the magic of Pelican cases. Pelican makes all kinds of cool hardened cases in a variety of shapes, sizes and colors for any application imaginable. And they also come with foam which can be plucked out and molded into any shape... Well, so long as that shape can be made up of tiny squares.
I picked up a Pelican 1400. I guessed on the size, but it seemed like it wouldn't be so small as to be useless, and not so big as to be a giant pain to lug around. It greeted me when I got home from work tonight, and I set about customizing it to fit all of my various, fragile electronics.
The foam that comes with the case is essentially a bunch of 1 cm2 columns of foam which are loosely attached to one another. This allows you to pluck out entire columns all the way to the bottom (which is a separate piece of foam, incidentally) and mold your case to fit its intended contents.
I grabbed my camera bag and started looking through it to find the items that I absolutely had to have with me, and separate them from the items that would just take up space. Once I had it narrowed down to my still camera, my video camera, assorted power and data cables, I laid them all out on top of the foam and tried to arrange them so they would all fit. Taking a tip from the Pelican Quick Start Guide, I used toothpicks to mark the corners of all the items I planned to shove in there.
After that it was pretty easy to mark the spots and start plucking out the foam. If ever you find yourself with a pocket that's too deep (for instance, my video camera is not as thick as the case is deep, so I feared it might rattle around in there), you've got all of the foam you already plucked out to fill in the gaps and give support to smaller items.
I puzzled over how to take a picture of my camera case with my camera inside of it, so I had to resort to my phone which has no flash and doesn't take the best of pictures even in adequate light. But, here's the finished product, along with all of the items that have been squeezed securely into it.
Notice that I still have some space left in the front right part of the case. Originally I was going to store a portable hard drive in there to archive images, but I've already got a reasonably hardened case for that. Maybe I can put some of the small, rewritable DVDs that my video camera takes in there.
Now I just have to worry about someone walking off with it... Maybe I can label it "MEDICAL WASTE."
However, taking a reasonably expensive DSLR to the desert creates a host of problems. Like: how am I going to keep it from getting pulverized by sand, snow, ice and soldiers? Well in my job, I have to ship fragile and expensive items all over the world all of the time, and I've been introduced to the magic of Pelican cases. Pelican makes all kinds of cool hardened cases in a variety of shapes, sizes and colors for any application imaginable. And they also come with foam which can be plucked out and molded into any shape... Well, so long as that shape can be made up of tiny squares.
I picked up a Pelican 1400. I guessed on the size, but it seemed like it wouldn't be so small as to be useless, and not so big as to be a giant pain to lug around. It greeted me when I got home from work tonight, and I set about customizing it to fit all of my various, fragile electronics.The foam that comes with the case is essentially a bunch of 1 cm2 columns of foam which are loosely attached to one another. This allows you to pluck out entire columns all the way to the bottom (which is a separate piece of foam, incidentally) and mold your case to fit its intended contents.
I grabbed my camera bag and started looking through it to find the items that I absolutely had to have with me, and separate them from the items that would just take up space. Once I had it narrowed down to my still camera, my video camera, assorted power and data cables, I laid them all out on top of the foam and tried to arrange them so they would all fit. Taking a tip from the Pelican Quick Start Guide, I used toothpicks to mark the corners of all the items I planned to shove in there.
After that it was pretty easy to mark the spots and start plucking out the foam. If ever you find yourself with a pocket that's too deep (for instance, my video camera is not as thick as the case is deep, so I feared it might rattle around in there), you've got all of the foam you already plucked out to fill in the gaps and give support to smaller items.I puzzled over how to take a picture of my camera case with my camera inside of it, so I had to resort to my phone which has no flash and doesn't take the best of pictures even in adequate light. But, here's the finished product, along with all of the items that have been squeezed securely into it.
Notice that I still have some space left in the front right part of the case. Originally I was going to store a portable hard drive in there to archive images, but I've already got a reasonably hardened case for that. Maybe I can put some of the small, rewritable DVDs that my video camera takes in there.Now I just have to worry about someone walking off with it... Maybe I can label it "MEDICAL WASTE."
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