Posts
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.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
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.
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