We’re continuing our weather pattern of windy and hot. I’m not sure how the Sahara feels, but it could not have been any worse than the last couple of weeks. I’m growing new flesh now to replace the stuff I lost during our sand storms when I had to run the 75 meters to the bathroom. I now know why the locals wear long sleeves, pants and scarves over their heads. I just thought it was because they were sensitive to the sun. I didn’t know about being sand-blasted. Why didn’t somebody warn me?! Regardless, as we progressed later in the week, the wind tapered off and brought us a tremendous thunderstorm which sounded much worse than it delivered. We received enough rain to make the new wood deck smell wet.
Memorial Day started this week off with some nice weather (in the morning anyway). We celebrated with a short yet meaningful ceremony at 0930 local that was attended by a U.S. Senator (I have no idea what his name is or where he is from), a few Canadians, and a few Frenchies. I would have loved to spend this weekend with my family up camping and Jeeping, but there is something truly special with celebrating this day with a plethora of American service members in a combat zone. It just has a different feeling: poignant, moving, and patriotic. The French should have spent this day thanking each and every American that they do not speak German today, but instead milled around doing nothing as usual. The more I am around the French; the more I am beginning to like the Egyptians.
With the remodeling of the B Huts, the internet has been up and down. Really it’s because our laborers just yank the Cat-5 cables out of the walls, off the buildings, and rip them from the poles. Teaching them to distinguish internet lines from other lines, with the exception of electrical wire, seems to be a very difficult task. So, last week and this week are filled with sporadic internet. There is no doubt the Hajjis are familiar with Newton’s 7th Law of Connectivity. When Craig is right in the middle of downloading or uploading a large file from the internet, terminate the connection. It’s taking me forever to do stuff over the internet here already and now splotchy connection is only making it worse.
Now that we are in our new hooches and have ample space our little 2’ x 2’ windows are more user friendly. We can actually swing the Plexiglas and wood framed window open exposing the torn screen that is supposed to prevent outside insects from entering. Remember a few weeks ago (maybe more than a few) when I mentioned the tiny biting flies? Well because of them and other flies, I have come to the conclusion that there are smart flies and dumb flies. The tiny biting flies are as whole, dumb flies. We hung the sticky fly strips up to reduce our fly population and captured very few of the larger, U.S.A common flies. Ed’s screen looks like it has been through a nuclear holocaust, but still shelters one third of his window opening. Yesterday, a fly entered his room through the screen and was making an attempt at being social. Ed, who quickly armed himself with the latest in anti-fly armament, whipped out his $.49 cent pink PX purchased plastic fly swatter and presented a hostile appearance. The fly, obviously either previously familiar with Ed’s room or employing the ‘know your entrance and exit’ theory, re-identified one of the myriad holes in Ed’s screen and departed before becoming one with the pinkness. Apparently this fly was a smart fly.
There have been others. In the case of one fly recently who would not stop landing on my thumb, although I kept shooing it away and swinging my hand wildly and with brute force, he was a dumb fly. I must have had something unbeknownst to me on my thumb that fatally attracted this fly. After multiple attempts are getting rid of it, I finally grabbed a fly-swatter and waited for it to once again land on my thumb as it was precariously perched on the table top. It did and I initiated the downward force sequence of the pink fly-swatter (we have more than one, unfortunately they are all pink) with enough speed, agility, and pressure to maim a Moose in Alaska. Needless to say, the fly disintegrated and my hand was now pink and red with the fly-swatter’s pattern stenciled across the back. Hah!
Would someone please tell me what the flat postal rate is for a #4 USPS box?! A week or so ago I mailed a couple of boxes at the “new” rate which I discussed in Week 28 as being $8.95, up from $8.05. Today, I went to our post office and mailed the same box for $9.15. The lady said that was the new rate. I argued with her. She ran it through the machine at least three times and punched in the zip code every time. I told her just a scant more than a week ago I mailed the same size flat rate box under the “new” rate for $8.95. I also told her the box I received yesterday from my wife cost $8.95. I said her machine was in error. I coughed up the extra 20 cents and asked her to get the machine serviced as it was wrong. She said “Sure”, but you could tell it was the kind of “sure” that meant “No way in hell am I going to do any such thing just because you are irritated over 20 cents”! I’m writing my Congresswoman over this!
In light of all these changes, I thought I would make a change as well. I took it upon myself to shave the hair off my chin in the middle of my goatee and grow out the rest like Paul Sr’s on American Chopper. I need to get it a little thicker and longer as it is pretty thin at the moment. Ed sure gave me a strange look and said it would take some time getting used to it. I kinda like it. I feel even more like a renegade around here. I’m thinking of showing back up at the post office and arguing with that lady again. This time, the new ‘stache will subliminally compel her to get her mail machine looked at. I’ll also bet I won’t get the “Sure!” this time.
Our trash cans disappeared! We had the galvanized steel 55 gallon trash cans sitting outside in between and amongst the B and C Huts. Every other day I would empty my room trash can in one of those lidless wonders. The Hajjis empty the outside cans daily except for Friday (their day off). But now all the cans are gone. What am I going to do with my trash? I guess haul it to the dumpster on the other side of Vance is the answer. Heaving this 13 gallon bag of what-not across the graveled Camp Vance 150 meters away is almost too much. And not only that, but I’ll have to walk back that same 150 meters. Someone has some explainin’ to do.
Did I tell you how much I love my extra 34 square feet of space in my room?! Lots! Tons! Oodles! I just really don’t know what to do with the space other than breathe it in (of course breathing deeply around here probably causes a form of Lymphoma). The tendency is to fill up this naked space with something, but what? I am continuing to resist the urge and just leave it open. Whenever I do think I need to put something more in my room, I perform a plethora of pirouettes just to feel the void’s vastness and remind myself that I need nothing more in my room.
There is a marathon here on June 3rd. I have been asked to run in it although my training for 26 miles has been quite slim. Running four or five miles every other day is not training for a marathon. On top of that, I promised my father in November 1999 right after mutilating myself by running the Seattle Marathon that I would never run another marathon as long as he was alive. Calling him to hear his voice was enough to convince me that I am not running this satellite marathon from San Diego of all places. Consider me out.
One among the many things I will rejoice in upon my return back to civilization is real utensils. By real, I mean metal, forged, weighted, balanced, cylindrical, smooth utensils that don’t crack, snap, or break under the pressure of hefting 16 grains of rice. I want to be able to stab things with a fork that doesn’t lose its tines at the first sight of mashed potatoes. I want a knife that can actually cut a green bean with its serrated edge without bending and turning the green bean into mush as I apply more pressure in an attempt to cut it. I want a spoon that can plow through my soupy Peanut Buster Parfait and truly extract a small portion of the hot fudge floating on the ice milk marsh without wilting and loosing the contents upon my shirt. On top of all that, I would also like real plates, bowls, and tongs. I’m exceedingly frustrated with our plastic and pressure-treated cardboard variety that requires both hands fanned out on the bottom to carry and allows osmosis to transfer my gravy through the bottom of my food tray. I will add that my plastic knife has been known to cut through the bottom of my tray on a couple of occasions.
I owe you an update on our trash can situation. Reliable reports suggest that the trash cans were unclean. Who woulda thunk it?! And our local health inspector deemed them unworthy of being in the presence of a living area. On top of that there were no lids to keep the bacteria inside the cans. I suppose having the lids blow around the camp in our wind gusts like low-orbiting UFO projectiles is a better health alternative. So instead the trash cans are gone and where they once stood are now piles of trash that get blown around. This is a much better idea than having those bacteria infested cans contain our trash. You see, soldiers are like Pavlov’s Dog. Once trained to do something a certain way, they are creatures of habit and continue their repetition even though some of the variables have changed. The U.S. military relies exclusively on repetitive training and execution. It’s what makes us the best. And now there are grumblings from some around here (not Ed or me) that the soldiers are not taking their trash to the dumpster. The nerve! Rumors do persist that we are getting new environmentally clean and bacteria containment trash cans soon. I cannot wait to get my first glimpse of one of these suckers. I’ll bet they cost the taxpayers an easy $250 a piece as opposed to the $12 ones we had previously.
I just had to send you the attached picture. Remember, we are in a combat zone here and we all have helmets and bullet-proof vests and guns and stuff. We even have combat vehicles that are ready to go at a moment’s notice. This is a picture of those vehicles. Combat loaded and ready armored HMMWVs (Hummers); combat parked with cutesy red signs and orange traffic cones! A couple of them even have chock blocks (rubber wedges that you stuff between the front and rear of a tire and the ground to prevent unwanted rolling)! These are part of our QRF (Quick Reaction Force) and although I like precision, attention to detail, and alignment, this seems to be going a little too far. I like my combat ready vehicles to look ready! Ammo draped all over to include hanging off the machine gun barrels, vehicles parked pointed in the primary direction of travel, and a communications guy fiddling with the radios 24/7. As you can see, these are not my idea of combat ready!
You’re going to have to read next week’s scintillating stories about my rave reviews of the grand opening of the brand new Pizza Hut here on Bagram. You’ll also have to be in jaw-dropping awe of our Amber Alert and those actions and activities expended in its apex. Additionally I’ll imbibe you with an Iliad of impulse buying that implies almost illicit irresponsibility. I know your eyes are yearning to scan that read already!
See you next week,
Craig
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