R&R travels and the Burj Skyscraper of Dubai

My first year as a private contractor has come to a close, bringing with it the opportunity to go home for a couple of weeks. I spent November 23-December 10 at home, and had a great time, though it flew by. What did not fly by, however, were the trips to and from Iraq and home. Allow me to describe my fun trip home........

On November 19th, I boarded a Blackhawk helicopter that was to take me from Basra to Tallil Air Base, outside of Nasiriyah, Iraq; which, it did. Eventually. What should have been a 40-minute trip wound up being over 5 hours of hell. We stopped at 4 different bases up and down the Tigris River, all-the-while I'm stuck between 2 fat soldiers (is there another kind?) with their gear digging into my sides and my knees tucked up against my chest, to accommodate all the luggage that was stacked at our feet. My knees ached, my sides stung from whatever was piercing me (M-16 magazines, I believe), and the worst part was that I had no idea that we were stopping anywhere besides Tallil. So, every time we'd stop, a relief would wash over me....only to quickly turn to anger and a loud, internal "WTF ARE WE DOING??!!" when I'd realize it was another remote firebase that we had landed at to exchange more soldiers. Oh, I almost forgot.....the doors on the Blackhawk were wide open the entire ride, so the 40-degree air at 100 miles-per-hour felt great, whipping at my face for 5 hours.

When we finally arrived at Tallil, I grabbed my bags and made my way to billeting to get a cot in a transient tent, until I was to fly to Baghdad.

Three days later, I boarded a charter jet from Tallil to Baghdad. Again, what should have been a 40-minute jet ride turned into a 4 -hour ride-from-hell, as we stopped at Al Asad and Ballad.....again, with no one actually informing me that we'd be stopping off anywhere besides Baghdad. What made this ride so much fun, besides the duration and lack of any clue as to what was going on, was the fact that someone handed me a small cooler before I boarded the plane, for me to transport to a medic in Baghdad. "Sure, no problem". A liver, stool sample, H1N1 vaccines, I had no idea what was inside.....but when the the 40-minute ride turned into 3 hours, and the ice inside said cooler began to melt and drench the carry on bags of everyone within 3 rows of me, I instantly became the least popular traveler on that jet.

So, I'm finally in Baghdad.....great, right? Wrong. My former boss from when I worked in Tallil, a 60-year-old, prior army officer who LOVES me because I was a Marine, happened to be going on his R&R at the same time. He thought that this was just a fine coincidence, because we have just so much in common. In fact, he decided that we should become travel buddies, and never leave each other's sides until we got to Atlanta. Let it be known- when I travel, I like to be alone and quiet, and observe everyone else in the airports....I'm a people-watcher. I don't like to talk, just for the sake of talking. And I don't like it when old men put their hand on my shoulder or knee to emphasize their talking points, or for any other reason, for that matter. Enough said.

In the Baghdad airport, the plane taking us to Dubai was 7 hours late....which had consequences that made my day even worse. First, I was forced to sit and listen to the old boss talk. And talk. And touch my knee. And talk. Secondly, this thwarted any plans I had of site seeing in Dubai, as by the time I arrived, it was already dark and my flight home was that night.

Ok, so now we're on the flight to Dubai.....any chance of a peaceful ride was already ruined due to my new "best buddy" making sure that we sat together. Of course, I somehow again landed in the middle of a lard sandwhich, as my old boss is not thin and the old American Indian man to my right had flesh that was spilling over into my personal space. That flight lasted 3 hours. Or 3 days. It felt the same.

Now, I'm in Dubai. I tried to skate off by myself, but my stalker-boss would not allow that.....keep in mind that I was doing everything I could to appease him and not hurt his feelings, so I'd just smile and nod and go along with his ideas of fellowship while traveling. His next great idea was that he'd get us a hotel room so we could shower before our flight home. Yeah, that sounds fun....and so does not getting a hotel room, and leaving me the hell alone. But, since the government was already paying for the room, I obliged. I also understood that this old man was thrilled to be traveling with me, after all, I am a cool guy, and a former Marine, and he enjoyed telling me his Vietnam War stories. As much as I wanted to be left alone, I didn't want to be a jerk, either....and I knew I'd be home soon.

I finally lost him at the Dubai airport. However....the Dubai airport brought its own little surprise. After going through passport control and all that fun stuff, I had about 2 hours to kill. At one point, I needed to use the restroom...so, I did. Upon walking into said restroom, my eyes immediately met a site I will never forget, but wish I could- a middle-aged Arab man, dressed in a traditional, long white gown, called a Thobe. He was standing, awkwardly balancing himself, with one foot on the ground and the other actually inside the sink, washing it with soap and water. "Hm, that's weird." I thought to myself. But then, I saw something else resting on the counter. Yep. And, only because I know someone will email me and ask what exactly was resting on the counter, it was his genitalia. All of it. How I didn't throw up in my mouth, I don't know. But from now on, I'll bring hand sanitizer.

My stay at home was plagued by a head cold that didn't want to let up, but otherwise I had a great time. I'll be home for my sister's wedding, on March 6. Perhaps for good; I haven't decided yet.

Same same? No thanks, pal.

I felt like a kid on Christmas morning when I saw this Iraqi special forces shooting target, earlier this week. Apparently, the stereotypical, Iraqi criminal/terrorist sports a mullet haircut and tank top tucked into 90's-era Zubaz sweatpants. Hopefully, these targets will condition Iraqi soldiers to engage anything with a mullet, as growing one is never acceptable. (I recommend clicking on & enlarging the photo to fully appreciate the mulletude of the man on the target)

In August, the US government tightened access to certain internet sites, including most blog sites. I could read my blog, but no longer login to post new ones. Hence, the hiatus. This is also why, at the end of my last post, there is so much praise for my brother. I wrote the entry and emailed it to him to post. He added a bit to what I sent him.

A few of us are now paying some Iraqi interpreters a monthly fee for private internet in our rooms, which allows us unrestricted access to the web.

The month of August brought the same, hot weather, and many more rocket attacks. Thankfully, we haven't had any casualties since July.

September had slightly cooler temperatures, only a few rocket attacks, and I was moved from my position as labor foreman to work as an operations specialist, in our operations office. I now coordinate work between the special forces and our tradesmen. I work behind a desk and in front of a computer, and therefore only get to interact with Iraqis a few times a week. This is not necessarily a bad thing, however, as one of my last encounters involved a young Iraqi man offering me some good old fashioned SAME SAME. "Same Same" is how an Iraqi, in his broken English, refers to a same-sex encounter....and how he propositions said encounter. Here's how it went:

(Me, supervising a group of 5 Iraqis building/welding a chain-link fence on our camp)

Iraqi- "Mista, you married?"

Me- "Nope. Girlfriend. You married?"

Iraqi- "Yes! Me marry, 5 years! 3 baby!"

Me- "Wow, good for you. That's impressive."

....30 seconds of silence......

Iraqi- "Yes, me very good, jiggy jiggy!"

Me- "I'm sorry, did you just say 'jiggy jiggy?" Followed by a fit of laughter, having never heard this term before.

Iraqi- "Yes! Jiggy jiggy! You like jiggy jiggy?

Me- No reply due to laughing fit.

Iraqi- "Oh, you like! You want jiggy jiggy? "

Me- "From you? No thanks, pal." Still laughing.

Iraqi- "Same same. You, very beautiful! You, me, same same."

Me- "Yeah, I appreciate the offer, but no thanks."

That was the gist of it, anyway. As most Marines and soldiers who have interacted with Iraqi men know, these propositions occur frequently. While at Abu Ghraib, we were offered "same same" and "feeky feeky" almost daily. Meanwhile, militias publicly lynch gay men to save face with their fellow Muslims....or superglue their bottoms and force-feed laxatives until they die....both of these are not uncommon in Iraq. A bit hypocritical, but whatever floats their boat.

In the next couple of days, I'm hitching a ride on an Army Blackhawk to head to Nasiriyah. From there I go to Baghdad to get my passport stamped, and then hop on an old, "how-is-this-thing-able-to-fly-God-if-you-spare-me-I-will-become-a-monk" Iraqi Airways jet to Dubai, and from Dubai to the States. It will be nice to be home for Thanksgiving, this year.

I'd like to thank my mother for sending me so much beef jerky and pistachios. The inconsiderate, Iranian-backed militia in Basra had the audacity to attack us with rockets for about 3 hours tonight, right in the middle of our dinner hours. This kept us holed up in bunkers and unable to get to the chow hall for the evening meal. Luckily, I had enough "pogey bait" in my bug-out bag, which I brought to the bunker, to keep my coworkers and I satisfied until the attack ended. Thanks mom.

At this point, it should be clear that I am not a racist. I am not so shallow as to judge a person by their race or ethnicity; lifestyle choices and eating habits, perhaps, but not something that is out of one’s control. I have always gone out of my way to help anyone in need here, regardless of their country-of-origin. That being said, I often find it difficult to look at the diverse people I work with and not picture them as their stereotype. Let me explain- there is a gentleman from Fiji here. He’s a very nice guy and works extremely hard. However, I cannot look at him without visualizing him clad in a leaf or loin cloth, clutching a spear, and dancing around a fire on a beach with a bone through his nose. I know, you can’t believe I actually wrote that. Well, as I’ve said before, this blog is about my daily observations, and I’m just keeping it true-to-form. Actually, I really have no idea if native Fijians even do what I envision. Perhaps they stick to apples and over-priced bottled water.

When I see the guys from Nepal, as in the gentleman on the left in the picture, I picture the same thing every time: his small frame hunched over, loaded down with 200lbs of the climbing gear of some wealthy, English aristocrat, headed for a Mt Everest base camp; a Sherpa.

Most of the guys from India dress and behave just like you and me- blue jeans, t-shirt, etc. Once in a while, though, you get someone such as the guy on the right in the photo. The traditional Hindi garb gives me images of him sitting, Indian style (obviously), around a woven basket, charming a Cobra with a flute (he has the flute, not the cobra). The other image conjured up by the Indian’s native outfit is that of one of the evil priests in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. I must say, also, that the Indians are probably the hardest and smartest workers I have ever seen, and it is my pleasure to work alongside them.

Now, in my defense, many of these thoughts were generated by hearing the guys laugh about their stereotypes. The Kenyans often joke about bringing me back a lion from their next visit home. Simon has gone into great detail, attempting to convince me that young, Kenyan men still hunt lions as a rite of passage into manhood. So, they do give my mental pictures a bit of ammunition.

Finally, I'd like to thank my brother Steve for being the greatest human being ever to exist. Of all time, EVER. I don't know how you do it, Steve, but you do it well, let me tell you. Keep it up! Someone's gotta be the man, right? We're all glad it's you!!!

Mortars Are For Cowards

I typically don't write about the daily mortar and rocket attacks because I don't want to worry my friends and family back home.  I'll make an exception for this post. We received the worst attack I have seen since 2004, when I was here as a Marine. I returned from the gym at about 9pm. At 915, I had just sat down and began checking emails, when I heard that distinctive, deep percussion "thmp!" in the distance; it is a sound that anyone whom has spent significant time in a war zone will be able to instantly identify- a mortar exiting its tube. This ominous sound alerts you to the fact that impact is imminent and only seconds away. All which time allowed me to do was drop to the floor and lie as flat as possible, as indirect fire blasts throw shrapnel up and out, in a mushroom shape. Sure enough, multiple rounds detonated in my camp. Rocks and dirt flew everywhere  I would give exact proximity to my office, but I would prefer to avoid giving those cowards any extra useful information (the instant, 24-hour-news-feeds gives them enough) After the first 10 hits, I made my way to the reinforced bunker, just in time to hear the volleys of more mortars being launched. This is as much as I will write, as I don't want to divulge any further details on this public blog. This article provides more details.... http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/31957966/ns/world_news-conflict_in_iraq/
My time in Basra has been filled with nightly rocket attacks. At times, it's reminded me of Abu Ghraib prison, where we were mortared and rocketed all day, every day. Several soldiers here, some of whom were my friends, have been killed. I have survived hundreds of mortars and rockets in my time in Iraq, and I hate them just as much now as I did at Abu Ghraib.   I detest the feeling of extreme vulnerability they fill you with once you hear them leave their tubes, not knowing where they will land, but that they are obviously close enough for you to hear their fins cutting the air.
The word is that the "bad guys" (insurgents, Al Qaeda-in-Iraq, etc) are trying to ramp up attacks across Iraq in an effort to undermine the Iraqi Army, whom are now taking over security as the US troops withdraw.

Flak Jackets and Burns

This picture is of me after a recent rocket attack. When donning the vest, I'm reminded of the movie Dumb & Dumber, when Harry asks the detective, "What if he shot me in the face?" The answer I'd get, if I asked this question, would be the same as in the film: "Well, Mr Petersen, that was a risk we were willing to take." The vests are a bit of a joke, though I guess they're better than nothing.....my flak jacket in the Marines actually surrounded and somewhat protected my torso and neck, unlike these.

Yesterday, one of my Iraqi subcontractors, Abass, showed up to work with a rather prominent limp, which he was, rather unsuccessfully, trying to hide. He appeared to be in so much pain that he was having trouble performing event the most routine of his duties, so I asked him why he was limping. He hesitated, then removed his boot. He had on a partially white sock, and what I saw startled me. The sock, across his toes and front portion of the top of his foot, was discolored with an obvious mixture of blood and puss. I had him remove his sock, and my first thought was that it was the biggest blister I had ever seen. The wound completely covered 3 toes and continued to about an inch past the toes on the top of his foot. I've seen many blisters on the tops of feet in the Marines, and judging by the raw flesh exposed, mixed with the bloody puss, this was my assumption. Knowing the dangers of infection, and the fact that he could barely walk, I walked to my hooch and got my first aid kit. Upon returning with my supplies, I knelt down to begin cleaning his foot.....I should add a note here- it was obvious to me that he had no idea how to properly clean and treat this wound, hence, I was willing to help him out; besides, I had rubber gloves, so I didnt mind. As I was kneeling down in front of him, I was able to study his wound more carefully, and I realized that this indeed was not a giant blister, it was 3rd degree burn. When I inquired as to how he was burned, he either refused to answer or didn't understand how to explain it. At this point, I decided to, once again, break the ridiculous rules set in place by the powers-that-be, and go seek the advice of our on-site medic. The medic, being of sound mind and not easily persuaded by the contemptible rules which prevent us from helping out anyone but Americans who may be in need, insisted that if I kept it between he and I, he would love to go out to the work site and render aid to Abass. The doc (our nickname for any medic) too, was a bit surprised at the extent of the burn. It was relatively deep and oozing a myriad of colors that have never been oozed before, with noticeable infection setting in. But alas, he managed to clean it up, applied the appropriate creams and bandages, and a even offered up a few Motrin for the pain. Being that my arabic is not extensive enough to include medical terminology nor wound-tending instructions, I then walked to the office, logged into Google Translator and printed out instructions, in arabic script, for him to continue care. Yes, my instructions included the importance of immediately getting to a hospital, should the infection get any worse. After all the care was said & done, Abass begged me to not email his boss, or he'd be fired. This, of course, was conveyed via certain words, phrases, and gestures, as he doesn't speak much English. I assured him that it would remain between us. I must say: that I need to sneak around and guard the fact that I'm helping someone in obvious need, infuriates me. There's so much politically correct BS and fear of lawsuits, that I need to walk on eggshells just to give a guy some bandaids? If you're wondering, yes, I could easily be fired for this "offense", just as I could have been terminated for taking the Indians to the Romanian dentist. Where is the logic? Common senes? Where is the idea of basic, human decency? I guess that in contracts of this magnitude, all of that is lost.

Today, however, Abass returned to work and was doing much better. He had applied the creams and bandages and was not limping so profoundly. We got to talking, and it turned out that he was stationed in Fallujah as an Iraqi soldier at the same time that I was at Abu Ghraib prison with the Marines. He was there until 2007, which means he served alongside my brother, who was in Fallujah as a Marine from 2006-07. It's a small world....a very small, hot world.

Dreadful Heat & Sesame Street

I saw this little guy while convoying from Nasiriyah to Basra. I have no idea what kind of lizard this 2 1/2'-long one was.

I'm still enjoying my time in Iraq, though at times the days & weeks seem to drag by. The daytime temperatures are consistently in the 120's, and this is in the shade. In direct sunlight, the mid-130's. At night, the temperatures rarely drop below 100. However, as cliche as it is, it is a dry heat, and this does make a difference. Not a huge difference, but a noticeable one. I would posit that 120's in Iraq, with minimal humidity, is roughly equal to 100-degree weather in St Louis, with 90+% humidity. Here, sweating doesn't do much to help your body regulate itself, because the wind blows like a hot hair dryer, evaporating your sweat before it has a chance to cool you off.....at home, with 90% or more humidity, the sweat doesn't get a chance to evaporate, thus, not cooling you off. There's actually a fine balance between outside temperatures/wind/humidity and your sweat and your body's ability to utilize these factors to cool itself off. This is one reason that traditionally, Arabs wear long, loose-fitting clothing: so that the hot wind doesn't evaporate their sweat before it has a chance to work.

I don't mind the heat as long as I have ample water to drink. On average, I drink about 3 gallons a day. This is all I can do to prevent dehydration. In fact, I actually prefer the intense heat to cooler weather, such as anything below 70's. In the Marines, when I would proclaim my hatred of the cold (anything below 70), I would often hear, "just wait until we get to Iraq and it's 120!". Well, it's over 120 and I still prefer this to the cold. We don't have air conditioning, or at least none that we are allowed to use due to our generators lacking the capacity to handle them, which makes being indoors a bit uncomfortable. The intense heat affects the amount of food I eat, as my appetite is virtually non-existant during the day. I force myself to eat a bowl of Special K cereal, with a banana, for lunch.

This morning, I almost stepped on a snake, which I believe was a desert horned viper. I tried to go back to get a picture, but could not find it when I returned. Encounters with venomous snakes, here in Iraq, have increased exponentially in the last several weeks. After researching this online, I found this interesting yet very alarming article. http://www.independent.co.uk/environment/nature/as-iraq-runs-dry-a-plague-of-snakes-is-unleashed-1705315.html Perhaps it's true that water is the next "oil".....it’s often been said that the next resource wars will be fought not over oil but over water. In 2007 an 18-month study of Sudan by the UN concluded that the conflict in Darfur had its roots in water shortages. According to the report, disappearing pasture and evaporating water holes—rainfall is down 30 percent over 40 years in some parts of the Sahel—had sparked dispute between herders and farmers and threatened to trigger new wars across Africa. I hope Turkey cooperates, soon.

There is a gecko that lives in the bathroom in my hooch. I actually find him rather interesting and have allowed it to reside there for the past 2 weeks. We have a bit of an arrangement- he maintains the bug population in my hooch to a minimum, and I allow him to drink from my toilet and sleep in the corner, behind my toilet brush.

I had an interesting conversation with an Iraq soldier this morning......for some reason, Iraqis are always curious as to whether or not I'm married. When I answer in the negative, they look surprised......"You no married?! You- too much beautiful, you be married!" I believe this means that they think I'm a good-looking guy and I should be married.....I guess it's a cultural thing. This morning's conversation began like this, but this time he then followed with inquiring if I had a girlfriend. I told him "yes, 3 years......are you married?" He replied, "Yes, 2." I immediately thought he was saying that he had been married for 2 years. He then said, "One wife, baby 2 years, one wife, baby 5 months." I then realized that he was telling me that he had two wives, not that he had been married for 2 years. Good for him! I guess when you got it, you got it. Curiously, he strongly resembled the Count, from Sesame Street. I wanted him to say, "One! Two Wives, HA HA HA!" but I had no idea how to convey my wishes. "Waha! Neon....."

My Bosian friends are devastated by the death of Michael Jackson. Apparently he was still "cool" in developing parts of Eastern Europe. I also just caught one of them singing, "It's Raining Men", which says a lot. I'm not joking.

Swine Flu is over-hyped

You can click on these pictures to enlarge

It's been rather difficult to update this blog due to the lack of internet availability at my location in Basra. There is only one computer, which is to be used for work purposes; therefore it's difficult when sharing said computer with 5 other employees, to stay on long enough to write an update. However, I will soon have internet wired into my trailer. So, for now, I will condense a month and a half's worth of activity in this post.

I thoroughly enjoy working in Basra. Being that I work in a small, special forces camp, one must be placed on a special list in order to even enter our camp. This serves me well in that it eliminates unwanted guests coming by, such as upper management and others who seek only to find petty faults in others in efforts to boost their own careers. Picture Bill Lumbergh from Office Space.....the contractor I work for has a lot of these characters, so it's nice to see an army specialist at our front gate turn away one of them, simply because they're not on "the list". It actually happens quite frequently, and I love it.

We are able to do our jobs and avoid, for the most part, the trivial BS that seems to pollute the larger bases. My tasks consist of anything that the special forces need help with....special forces being Navy Seals, a few Air Force commandos, and Army SF's. It's like day and night compared to having to work for National Guard (nasty guard) soldiers, as I was while in Tallil. Some days I work with the electricians, grounding and bonding the various buildings, and other days I work with the carpenters (the tradesmen, not the 1970's singing duo). Not only is the atmosphere more relaxed, I also get to learn some new skills.

After six months of working in Iraq, I was finally able to take a vacation. I met my brother and Elizabeth in Mexico, and had a great time. I went snorkeling in the 2nd largest reef system in the world, toured the ancient Mayan Ruins, rappelled into a cenote and snorkeled inside (there were 1,000-year-old skeletons at the bottom, which you could see with a diving mask), rode a scooter around Cozumel, ate lobster and shrimp that had been caught locally that morning, relaxed on the beach, ziplined over an alligator-infested lake, got a great tan, didn't drink alcohol once, racked up 16,000 frequent flyer miles, and avoided Swine Flu. And to pre-empt anyone who may want to ask me, again, no, I was not worried about catching Swine Flu.....millions of people catch influenza each year, and there have only been 2500 confirmed SF cases, worldwide.

Now, I am sitting in Kuwait for the 3rd consecutive day.....Delta somehow lost my luggage, and I only got it back a few hours ago. It's very difficult to communicate lost luggage when you're dealing with 3 different languages.....English (me), Arabic (Kuwaitis), and Spanish (Cancun airport). But luckily, it only took 3 days. Now, in a few short hours, I will fly up to Baghdad to get my passport stamped, fly down to Tallil, and then take an armored SUV back down to Basra. I'm looking forward to that, so I can see the countryside.

I shall write more soon.

Addendum: In late January, 2010, I caught the H1N1 Swine Flu, and wow. It's not exaggerated. I couldn't recall being that miserable in my entire life. The virus spread throughout Camp Basra and my diagnosis was confirmed with a blood test. I was put on isolation for a week. Being sick isn't fun. Being sick in an austere place, a war zone, is less fun. 

I am a lucky man

"Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts.”-Mark Twain

This quote was in my daily "Art of Manliness" email this morning, and it reminded me of what I have experienced in my adventures in Iraq.

I find myself very fortunate to be working in Iraq right now. Besides the obvious monetary benefits, I have the joy of working with people from so many different ethnic backgrounds, countries and cultures, that it has enabled me to see people in ways I never have before. I have written about the certain amount of "sameness" which I have discovered is common amongst all the people I have worked with, despite their country-of-origin. I have been able to form meaningful friendships with so many different people, more than I ever thought possible, being just a kid from Illinois. I have learned to speak rather fluent arabic and I still email some of the Iraqis I met whilst working in Nasiriyah, even now that I am living in Basrah. A few weeks ago I had the privilege of talking to a local Iraqi man who has been working as an interpreter for the US military since the 2003 liberation. He told me how he and his friends and family had been waiting for the US to liberate them from Saddam's oppression. He was careful to clarify with me that he was being honest, that he wasn't telling me this simply because I was "American". He explained that under Saddam, there was no hope, no future for Iraqis. An Iraqi could go to a university, but there was no opportunity to really use that higher education....they were oppressed and limited. Now, he is able to use his degrees to travel and work around the world, something he never could have done only 6 years ago. He was a teacher before the war began, and said teachers now make many times more than they did before the war. Yes, he is tired of the troops being here, but is forever grateful for us liberating them. He specifically said, several times, "no one would do anything....the entire world just sat back and watched us suffer....only the US was brave enough to go in and free us......" The thing is, this is a tune I heard hundreds of times when I was here as a Marine in 2004; Iraqis thanking us for their newfound freedom. We spoke of who exactly the people were who continued the insurgency, who continued to attack US troops and Iraqis. His explanation reflected what I have learned in my sociology classes; that it's generally the less educated people, the people who don't really understand just what freedom means, that continue to fight. People with less education are typically more close-minded. But the majority, he said, are truly grateful to us.

I have worked with and befriended countless Indians (dots, not feathers) and Nepalis. I have sat and listened to 3 Sri Lankens describe, in detail, how they swam for their lives on December 26, 2004, as tsunami waves engulfed their entire village and killed every member of their families and thousands of their neighbors.

I have become friends with many, many Bosnians who told me countless horror stories of the Serbians executing thousands upon thousands of their countrymen, and how they too, could only sit back and take it, wondering why the rest of Europe only watched the genocide take place. Just this morning I spoke at length with former Bosnian soldiers who described the Serbs' calculated ethnic-cleansing campaign, and how they were powerless to stop it until the United States stepped in and beefed up Bosnia's forces, finally turning the odds around and putting an end to the slaughter. They said they love the United States for interceding and fighting for them. It is true, we do step on a lot of toes around the world. We irritate a lot of people and we often come across as imperialist war junkies. But when people are in need, we are the first and often-times only country to step in and help those less fortunate than us.

I have become good friends with a Kenyan, named Simon. Simon looks like he could be Seal's twin brother; he even has the facial scars. Of course, when I found out he was from Kenya, I naturally had to ask him if he had ever seen a lion. He responded with a 2-hour-long explanation on how yes, he has indeed not only seen many lions, he has killed a lion, and how it is a prerequisite for a Kenyan male to marry a Kenyan woman, to kill a lion with his bare hands. He went into detail on the methodology, execution, techniques, etc, on how one must go about killing a lion, complete with marker board outlines and vivid descriptions. I only later discovered that he was making it up as he went along. Simon speaks with a very thick, Kenyan accent, yet speaks perfect English. His grammar is flawless, something I appreciate, but moreover, it is amusing to listen to him speak because he uses very precise, proper words- absolutely no slang. "The room is illuminated!" as opposed to "it's bright in here", for example. I love it. Simon is a Christian, as I have found that most Kenyans are. He is the happiest and most gracious person I have ever met, and it is my pleasure to speak to him. He was a soldier in Nairobi in 1998 when Al Qaeda blew up the US embassy, killing several of his friends. Since then, the Kenyan military has put him through medical school, and he is here earning money to buy a CT Scan and Xray machine to open his own clinic in Kenya. His face and hands bear the scars of a medical school chem-lab accident, when a fellow student mixed combustable chemicals, resulting in Simon's severe burns.....and he is still the happiest person I have ever met, just grateful for every day life.

I arrived in Basrah on April 5, after a 4-hour Blackhawk ride (we made several stops). It was interesting to see the Iraqi terrain from the air, most notably the vast wetland that intersects the arid desert.....it's remarkable....brown desert, then abruptly it's lush green vegetation, blue water, then brown desert. The above picture is the Tigris River. The other photo is a wild camel I managed to capture with my bare hands on my last day in Nasiriyah. I am lucky to be here.

I'll try to get Adam to take that rib back.....

Last week, it was announced that one volunteer was needed to transfer to Basra. For reasons including more opportunities for promotion and the more relaxed atmosphere that comes with a smaller, growing base, I submitted my name. On a day which I will not disclose on a public blog but in the near future, I will take a 100-mile Blackhawk ride to Basra, to work there permanently. I am very excited. And handsome. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Basra
Please click on the link, as the history of Basra is quite interesting. Legend says the Garden of Eden was there.....as my friend Matt Write cleverly told me, I should "try to get Adam to take that rib back". Sinbad the Sailor hails from Basra, as well. I wonder if there is still a cherubim with a flaming sword, guarding the Garden's entrance.....I doubt it.
When I broke the news to my Iraqi and Injun workers, they were genuinely sad. You need to understand that we work together over 13 hours a day, 7 days a week, and have grown to be friends. Though they work under me (not in the way Matt Haley wishes he could be under me, oh snap), I treat them as human beings, as I have written about in past posts. After I informed them of my transfer, one of them pulled me aside and told me, "you leave, no good. you stay. you good man, mr Jim." This just about broke my heart, knowing that the seemingly simple things I do for them mean so much. A couple of times a week, some of them will quietly ask me if I'm going to the PX (camp store- Post Exchange), and if so, if they gave me some money if I could buy a case of Mountain Dew for them. Once in a while I'll surprise them with Red Bulls or Monster energy drinks, which they love. Or, as I've written about, the much-needed dental operations or extra food we sneak out of the chow hall to supplement their budget-saving rice/bean diet. Even the constant "Good morning, Gandu!" brings laughter and uplifted spirits. I will say again, I am not trying to boast about my good deeds, only to show that these guys are no different than you or me. They are here trying to pay off debts, support families, save for an arranged marriage, or even rebuild after the 2004 tsunami (I am friends with 2 Sri Lankens who had to literally swim to safety that day). The only difference is that they were born in a 3rd world country, and I happen to be born in America. That is it. Senses of humor are the same (with mine being slightly funnier), basic values are the same, the desire to work to better one's life is the same, which brought all of us here in the first place. I will say again- extremists aside, people are basically the same. Everywhere. I just happen to be better looking than most.

This hyena was caught in Al Asad- it tested positive for rabies, Leishamaniasis, and mange.Occasionally we see one trotting across a road here.

I Am Not Mature

"hello my brother how are you i am going to karbla tom perhaps i find girl f there you know all girls there beatfuls and the eyes coulors brown all the ways good ihope you fine iam happy to hear this news about your vacation and perhabs when i gets on any chance to leave iraq to usa i will go to unversity your f hadi ali -iraqi" The latest email from an Iraqi friend, Hadi.
A while back, I wrote about my buddy, Hadi, who delivers propane to us every couple of weeks. He speaks english so well that he could easily be a translator, and, in fact, hopes to become a translator for the US Army, very soon. However, he fears for his family's safety, as he says "militias from Iran are back in town and threatening everyone working with Coalition forces". He gave me an example of just how dangerous it can be.....
His father died of a heart attack in 2007. Prior to his death, he had worked with the British troops in Basrah, where Hadi is from. One night, in 2005, he did his nightly duties of locking up all the doors and windows in his family's home.....but forgot one. In the middle of the night, they were woken up by a group of "very large men, Iran militia men". They beat him. They shot his younger brother in the leg, and they kidnapped his father. This part of the story was difficult to understand, but apparently the British troops whom his father worked with were able to find him and rescue him just before he was executed.
Now that things have improved in Basrah, Hadi, 21, works with us, but is afraid of the apparent growing Iranian presence in Basrah. He hopes to one day go to college in the US.
In other news, my daily communication "problem" with the servers in the chow hall is as funny as ever. I have learned that "Ma Chikini" is Nepali for "mother fu@%er", so I make it a point to mispronounce fried chicken when ordering this dish, instead requesting "fried ma CHIKINI". At first I am greeted only with blank stares and, "yes sir, fried chicken, sir...." To this I just respond more emphatically with "fried MA CHIKINI, please". When they realize I was saying "chikini" on purpose, they all burst into laughter. Whatever it takes to keep spirits lifted.

Gandu, not Ghandi

Many adjectives have been used to describe my rather particular brand of humor: brilliant, witty, jocular, facetious, dry, intelligent, ingenious, keen, funny, piquant, amusing, piercing, clever, audacious, and hilarious. A rather long, egotistical list, you say? Perhaps. However, one word exempt from this list is 'mature'......

The man to the left (my left) of me is Artan, my Albanian friend. Of course, our crazy friend, Sattar, whom I recently wrote about regarding his imbibing of blue toilet disinfectant, is being as classy as he knows how. (again, click on picture to enlarge)

Artan and I share a similar flavor of humor, and laugh all day long whilst working together. One thing we have taken to doing is learning new Hindi words and phrases, as there are thousands of Indians (dot indians, not feather indians) working as subcontractors here in Iraq. We learn the usual greetings and farewells, but alas, our education sessions always seem to include inappropriate words and phrases. What we do with our newfound knowledge is reflective of said missing word above, though funny nonetheless. On a daily basis, we see at least 50 Indians working in our chow hall. Most of them know us, as we exchange mutual greetings with them while being served our food. Occasionally, we use one of the new Hindi words we've learned, such as "shukria", which is 'thank you'. This usually brings a smile to a young Injuns face, and brings me satisfaction to be reaching out to the subcontractors, whom are generally treated with disgust and disdain by our government and its holier-than-thou contractors. Lately, however, I have been implementing my new, inappropriate words into my greetings, and I have never laughed so hard in my life. Picture me moving through the serving line at the chow hall......I see the tasty, mashed potatoes that I would like to be served....so, I say "Hello, Gandu! Mashed potatoes, please!" I immediately see confusion on his face. "what did this guy just say? did he really say, 'gandu'?" As I'm moving further through the line, I repeat the word to the next indian, with my next food request...."Hello, Gandu! Chicken, please! Shukria, gandu!" By this time, all of the servers behind the line are looking at eachother, trying to stifle and hide their imminent laughter, so I tell them "I learn 'Gandu'! 'Gandu' mean 'friend!". Upon hearing this, they are erupting in laughter, sidesplitting laughter. I keep a straight face, pretending not to understand why they are laughing at me, knowing all the while that I just called each of them "homo", in their native tongue. "Gandu" means "homo", in hindi. I walk away, continuing my act of ignorance, trying to hide my own smirk.

Today, I broadened my act with phrases, such as "Mae teri gand marunga", which I pretend to think means "How are you doing?" In reality, this means "I want to have sex with you." When this is used as part of a greeting, the reaction is priceless. Their initial look of disbelief and shock, followed by some of the loudest laughter I have ever heard, is so funny that I need to start filming these and posting them on youtube. I am funny.

My Friends

A quick note- yes, Daniel Larusso from 'Karate Kid' was, in fact, based on the man in the front/right of this picture.

Each morning, I drive from my office to the front gate where I pick up our Iraqi workers. Most of them live in Nasiriyah or its surrounding villages, spend the day working on our base, and return to their homes at night. These are some of our Iraqi workers who work with me. I'm wearing my "shemagh", which one of my workers bought for me in Nasiriyah. I absolutely love it, as it's such a practical piece of gear. It keeps the sun off of the face and neck, protects the eyes and mouth from the blowing sand, and keeps the head cool. I plan on single-handedly making shemagh's fashionable in the US, should I ever decide to return.

The temperatures are finally approaching 100 degrees, which I love. I would prefer to be uncomfortably hot than uncomfortably cold, so I'm looking forward to summer. When you're in intense heat, you can always drink water and sit in the shade to find relief- however, there's no getting warm when you're in extreme cold. You can pile on the layers, but it's still cold and miserable- for me, anyway.

The base I'm working on is expanding at a rapid rate, though you probably don't hear this on the news. It is obvious that this base will be a permanent, US/Iraqi base, after the majority of US troops have returned home. For me, this means job security.

I'm enjoying myself a lot out here. I love working with the Iraqis, as we seem to get along rather naturally. Most of them seem to share my brilliant sense of dry humor, and I appreciate their toughness and work ethic. I respect them, and they seem to respect me. The fact that they know I was "mushatabariyah" ('warrior of the sea', Marine) in the Sunni Triangle back in 2004 helps this, but I also treat them like real men, unlike a lot of the Americans do. I have worked with several Iraqis who have told me that they preferred working with Marines over the Army, only because of the fact that the Marines treated them with respect, as opposed to just some 2nd class local national.

Manute Majanuhn

Please click on the picture to enlarge; note the expression on the man's face. Hence, the epithet I have ascribed to him.....

I met the young man in this picture about a week ago when I had to fill in for his usual escort. He is a 21-year-old Iraqi from Nasiriyah; his name is Sattar. The first time I saw him, I was absolutely horrified. You see, the tank of blue water that he is standing above is the neon-blue sanitation water that is the toilet water of portable bathrooms. In the picture, he is filling the tank with water, which has the concentrated blue chemical added to it. Well, before the concentrated blue chemical is diluted inside the tank that you see, it is stored in a 55 gallon drum, which gets syphoned out into a smaller container, and eventually poured into the white tank that you see. About 30 seconds before I met Sattar for the first time, he was apparently having trouble getting the hose to begin its syphoning...so, naturally, he placed the hose into his mouth and sucked. Hard. Too hard, and too long. The hose was not a clear hose, and before he knew it, he had a mouthful of royal-blue, industrial-strength, toilet disinfectant. All I could hear was a horrific scream, nay, a screaming gurgle, as he attempted to spit the caustic substance onto the sand. I was in shock. He was laughing. You must also understand the extreme to which this liquid stains everything it comes in contact with. 6 hours later, he looked like he had just eaten a Smurf, whole (I'm assuming smurfs have blue blood). His teeth and tongue were still blue the next morning. I later learned that he had done the same thing the week before, but with gasoline. The title of this post is the new nickname I have given him, to which he takes great pleasure in- "fu#%@ng crazy", in Arabic.

Now, let us also take a look at the company he works for, "Future Services". I do not understand this name. What does it mean? If I call them because I am interested in their business, will they simply inform me that "no, sir, I am sorry, we cannot perform our services until a later time...."?

"But I need this done now!"

"I am sorry, sir, we are Future Services."

It doesn't make any sense, and I don't like it.

"good m iam hadi from basrah how are you my brother i miss you"

This is an email I received today from my new friend, "Hadi". Hadi is obviously from Basrah. The one-line email is a bit odd, but his english writing is much better than my arabic, so I won't judge him too harshly. He is a 19-year-old entepreneur who makes his living selling propane to people, including our military. He is very well-spoken and very friendly, and although I was leery to give him my email address when he asked for it, I humored him and wrote it down. Here is how I met him..... Three days ago, my boss approached me while I was sitting at my desk in our office. "Hey Jim! I've got a mission for you, you're gonna love me!"

I replied with, "Um, Ed, if 'loving you' is the mission, I'd rather not take part."

It took him a few seconds to understand my little joke.....typical. The mission was to drive the Suburban just outside the front gate and link up with a young man selling propane, escort and sign him in, and bring him to the work site so we can switch out our tanks. So, I did. The ride with Hadi was an interesting one. He was immediately friendly and talkative, asking me numerous questions about America. He knew many of the US states and was very proud of this fact. His dream was to ultimately save enough money to move to Texas and attend "university". All of the Iraqis know of Texas. And Michael Jackson, "King of Pop, yes?" Our conversation eventually shifted to the pre-invasion era, and Hadi described to me how his father was forced to fight in Saddam's army for 30 years. His uncle, his father's brother, had refused and had subsequently been executed. This seems to be a resounding story in Iraq; people refusing to follow Saddam, mysteriously disappearing or executed by his secret police. I heard countless stories like this while at Abu Ghraib, and and same is true down here.

My 2nd sighting.....

Habbaniyah Waterfall- this is the species of mullet (the haircut, not the fish) that I was lucky enough to encounter only two days ago. Note the locks of long black hair, cascading past the neck and shoulders; draping onto a shirt that would have been stylish only 20 years ago. The "molester-mustache", meticulously groomed with such pride that anyone gazing upon it will only turn away in shame; shame that they do not also own such fine craftsmanship of outdated facial hair.

A rare specimen indeed, this is only the 2nd mullet I have seen in my almost 12 total months in Iraq. The first was in July of 2004; an insurgent being escorted into Abu Ghraib prison- fitting, isn't it? Like an exciting episode of Cops, but with the criminal actually clad in a shirt (ever notice how the criminals on that show never wear shirts?).

The 2nd sighting occurred earlier this week....a convoy of "jingle trucks"(shown in picture) stopped at our base to refuel. An avid mullet hunter, I easily spotted the prey inside his truck at 400 meters away, bouncing down the road, all the bells and whistles screaming "hey dude, look at me- but watch yourself, I will fight you at the drop of a hat". In terms of "mulletude", this gentleman had it all. The truck, the attire, the 'stache, and as I would soon see, the swaggar. As his truck rolled to a stop at the fuel point, the driver's door opened.....I swear I saw the clouds part and rays from heaven shine down upon my find, with a multitude of heavenly host singing "Hallelujah, Hallelujah!". He then, cool as can be, climbed out of the truck, leaned against the side, and lit a knockoff Marlboro- with a match. Unfortunately, these sightings don't always happen when I am armed with my trusty Olympus digital camera (my weapon of choice in the task of mullet-documenting), and I wasn't able to capture him- this time.

Mullets are the same virtually everywhere in the world. Languages and locations may differ, but the same cocky swagger and insistance upon all things 1980's remains steadfast. They are elusive and cunning, but I will continue the hunt.

Various Updates...

As much as I appreciate the Romanian dentist's willingness to help our subcontract-ors in need, my desire for the US to declare war on Romania grows greater with each day. I have no desire for bloodshed, I only yearn to be amused by watching their "military" wage battle against us. Judging by their inability to march or maintain even the slightest levels of physical fitness, I think the battle would be the most entertaining event in human history. For example, this is one of their tactical vehicles. Each of their vehicles proudly displays their national colors- I see a bullseye.
I have now taken two Nepali workers to see the dentist. One suffered from a nasty abscess and, after a cycle of antibiotics, had the problem-tooth extracted. The other gentleman had a double root canal performed on him; I can't imagine the amount of pain these guys were in prior to getting help. My anger at my employer and the US government, for subcontracting to companies who allow this to happen is stronger than ever.
I received an award earlier this week for staying up all night to assist in an emergency infrastructure problem. I was also up for "best looking on base" and "wittiest sense of humor", but lost out on both.
We are in the middle of a two-day sandstorm and it's far from enjoyable. My head, sinuses and throat are all in pain from breathing in 4,000-year-old camel dung, which is essentially what the dust is made up of.
My mission to capture the remaining cast members continues....as does my devising a plan for my war.

"Hey, Dr. Jones, no time for love. We've got company."

I have recently discovered that I have the privilege (and I stress the word, 'privilege') to work with the former cast of the 1984 blockbuster, "Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom". The gentleman posing with me is Jonathan Ke Quan, who played the character, "Short Round". Perhaps the memorable line "No Mo Parachute, Docta Jones!" rings a bell? Yep, this is him, in the flesh. A privilege, indeed.

I will be attempting to capture the rest of the cast on my camera, though they are proving to be quite the elusive prey, to say the least. Stand by.

Subcontractor = subhuman?

A few days ago, I was amusing myself by mentally picturing how funny it would be if we went to war with Romania. There are a number of Romanians still "fighting" in Iraq (the quotes are due to my belief that they really don't attack much other than the chow hall). Now, I definitely respect their resolve to continue helping with the mission here. However, I just cannot help but to smirk to myself every time I see them. "Rag-tag outfit" would certainly be a fitting euphemism. Several weeks ago, I was working in their camp, "Dracula" (a name which I find hilarious, and if you need this explained, you should read a geography and history book). One of the units at Camp Dracula was preparing to head home and attempting to practice for their homecoming parade. Apparently the parade would require them to perform some pretty highly-skilled and technically-advanced maneuvers, such as MARCHING. Watching these characters "march" was the equivalent of watching a flock of blind sheep wander through a field, with perhaps only a hint of purpose. The ability to perform close-order drill, or march in unison, is one of the fundamental necessities of a military unit in that it builds unit cohesion and reinforces the concept of fighters and leaders. I am not trying to make fun of these guys, only to describe how funny they appeared to me. It was the combination of their complete inability to march fluidly and in anything that remotely resembles unison, their out of shape, portly bodies, and the fact that none of them seem to be carrying the same type of weapon (it's as if they each brought the family shotgun from home), that made the thought of America going to war with them so entertaining to me. However.......
One of my Nepali workers has been complaining of a toothache for some time now. There really isn't anything I can do for him, as subcontractors are obviously subhuman and don't require square meals nor proper medical care. I watched his condition quickly grow worse- and I mean "watched". Over the course of only a few days, his condition grew from "Mr, much pain, much pain" to him looking like he was holding a couple of ping pong balls in his right cheek. I frequently asked him about the treatment he was receiving at his subcontractor compound, and I was constantly told that he was given ibuprofen. Ibuprofen, for swelling bigger than a ping pong ball. Now, it doesn't take a dentist to know that he probably had an abscess and that he needed something more than a non-steroidal anti-imflammatory drug. An abscess, besides being obviously painful, can become very dangerous, very quickly. It is caused by something- baceteria. Ibuprofen only relieves symptoms- this is common knowledge-it doesn't kill bacteria. After watching this for a few days, I was absolutely furious. I had no other choice than to break the rules and take him to get help. I mean seriously- how can people be so indifferent, so apathetic, when other peple are in obvious pain? If I didn't do something, he would either die from choking or septic shock. The only dentist I know of who would be willing to help someone out, discreetly, was the Romanian dentist. And she did. She cared that this person, not this subcontractor, was in pain and needed help. The drive back from the Romanian camp was absolutely crazy. About 10 seconds after we climbed into the van, the incoming sirens began screaming. I knew what that meant: rockets. Sure enough, rockets began raining down on the base. So I'm driving like a bat out of hell with a Nepali dude in my front seat, his mouth filled with cotton, dodging mortars and rockets, thinking "What a way to go out...I'm going to take a rocket dead center in this van and they're going to find the charred remains of me and some random Nepali worker. They'll think I was trying to smuggle him off base or something. Alas, we made it back to my camp unharmed and my Nepali friend slipped back into his work crew without notice.
 I really can't say enough good things about the Romanians now, though I still think my imaginary war would be funny. Maybe we could use paintballs.
In proofreading this, I see that it could appear that I'm trying to make myself out to be a "saint" for helping this guy out. I am not. I'm just really, really pissed off at how these subcontractors, these "third country nationals", are treated. They are underfed and malnourished (rice for every meal, occasionally chicken with rice), underpaid, and treated worse than the garbage they pick up and sort. They are not treated like human beings and that is an understatement. It really, really pisses me off- and they do the actual work around here.

Candy, Camels, and Bedouins

These pictures portray local camel herders; bedouins. Since patroling Khaladiyah and Abu Ghraib with the Marines, I have always enjoyed handing out candy to little kids (though not for the same reason my good friend, Matt Haley, likes to....). A lot of the kids don't have much of anything, and it's always nice to see them light up at something as seemingly small as some candy or a bottle of fresh water.

Though I don't get these opportunity as much anymore, I do enjoy them when they're presented.

My fans

I believe in taking care of myself; a balanced diet, a rigorous exercise routine. During the day when there's a lull in the workload, I sometimes like to hit golf balls into the vastness of the desert. On this particular day, my golf game was so unbelievably good that some of my Indian workers felt compelled to fashion scoring cards and rate each of my hits! Needless to say, I was quite impressive.

(click on the picture to view in necessary detail)

I don't understand idiots

I try not to use this blog as a platform to pontificate, rather to only share my daily observations and perhaps a humorous anecdote. However, there are a few things that have irritated me to the point where I need to share. Thanksgiving Dinner was one, and the self-proclaimed "anti-war protestor" is the other.
My duties enable me to have one of the few vehicles in my department, and for that I am fortunate. It also gives me the obligation to chauffer those who don't have vehicles, which I don't mind at all. One of these individuals is a 50-something-year-old man from Michigan. He is not smart. I thought I was absent-minded, but this guy takes the term to entirely new levels. Not only forgetful, he seems to lack that little voice inside his head that says "hey, maybe this isn't such a good idea", etc. For example.....I have been driving him from work to the chow hall, and then across camp to his hooch, despite it being 20 minutes out of the way for me. I do this because I can sympathize with being the new guy- I missed a few meals when I first arrived here because I didnt know where places were and how to get there. I don't mind at all. However, a few nights ago, I couldnt take him...so, he hitched a ride with someone else, who wasn't willing to wait for him to eat and then drive him to his camp. So, he decided to just go into the chow hall, eat, and walk back....this would have been fine, save that he carries a man-purse everywhere he goes. Bags are not allowed inside the chow hall. Apparently not eating wasn't an option for him, so the great idea that he came up with was to stow the bag outside the chow hall while he went inside to eat. He found a KBR truck and placed the bag on the ground next to the truck. This is not a good idea. Mu Sien, as Iraqis would say. It doesn't take a seasoned vet to understand that while in a war zone, unattended bags tend be taken as threats by MP's and the like. IED's, you know? So after he finishes his fit of gluttony, he exits the chow hall only to be greeted by a group of fans, known as EOD (explosive ordnance disposal) and the friendly neighborhood Military Police. No explanation can justify this level of ignorance.
I felt kind of bad for him, knowing that he had never served in the military, and things can seem a bit overwhelming while first arriving in-country. So the next day as I was driving him across base to work, I tried to make some friendly conversation with him. "So, do you ever regret not being in the military?" I asked this because he said he had gotten a deferment while attending college during Vietnam, and maybe deep down he felt he had missed out on the experience. I wasn't trying to pry, only to be friendly. "Oh hell no! I hate the damn military! I hate everything they stand for. Big corporation, killing innocent people, doing whatever they want. It was a tough struggle for me just to come here, knowing I'd have to work around these people. I was a damn war protestor in college." he said, in total seriousness.
"These people...." I kept thinking to myself. He honestly said "the military". Not "the war". I was appalled. My mind kept switching from feeling even more sorry for him for being so ignorant as to all of the positive things the military has done, to hoping that a 120mm rained onto his hooch later that night as he climbed into the soft bed that the military provided for him. You know that scene in "True Lies" where Arnold is test driving a used sports car while Bill Paxton, as the sleazy dealer, is giving Arnold graphic details about the hot new broad he's banging? Arnold says not a word, only knocks him out with one quick blow to the face. This is what I was picturing.
I said nothing.
The next day, as he climbed into my truck, I asked him how his day had gone. He mentioned something about "just another day in the military industrial complex that Truman warned us about.
"Eisenhower", I corrected him, saying nothing more.
As we drove along, he mentioned how his Iraqi driver had asked him for a pint of milk that he hadn't drank at lunch. He told me, "Hell no! I ain't givin him my food, I might drink it later."
That got me to thinking.....why is he a war protestor? Why does he loathe us military so much? My first instinct was that maybe he just cared about other people so much that he hates the idea of war, because war inevitably contains civilian deaths. I can understand this...I think there are times where war is a necessity, but I can respect his respect for life being so strong that he hates fighting. But, judging by his adamant refusal to share food with his Iraqi worker, who makes a fraction of what we make, this cannot be the case.
When I was at Abu Ghraib, we Marines went out of our way to help the local people. I bought 3 kids bikes. Andre, Haley and I snuck food out of the chow hall every night to give to a local Iraqi boy, Malach, who's parents had been killed in tribal fighting. We didn't gain anything from these actions other than knowing that we were helping out people less fortunate than us. I sneak food for my workers every single day, simply because I feel bad for them for not getting the portions or quality of food that I have. My point in all of this is that I care. Marines care, and a lot of soldiers care. We understand the ugliness of war, and as someone wiser than me once stated, "nobody hates war more than those who have seen it".
I am still confused as to why someone would hate the military. If you hate war so much, instead of a futile demonstration, why don't you do something about it? Something constructive. Start by trying to learn arabic (he refuses) to build a relationship with the local populace. Small tokens go a long way. Who knows, maybe one of the kids who has a new bike will become Prime Minister someday, and remember a dashing Marine who spent his own money on a nice new bike.

1/3 of my life is complete

Yesterday was my 30th birthday. I appreciate the multitude of Facebook birthday wishings. Unfortunately I cannot reply to anyone on Facebook at this time due to my laptop dying yesterday. I am now only able to use the community computers, contained in dusty tents with long lines of soldiers and contractors waiting to log into what seems like IBM computers using Prodigy dialup. Perhaps its Compuserve....nonetheless, they and the service are prehistoric. I had been paying a small, monthly fee to have internet in my hooch, but can obviously not utilize that until my laptop is fixed. I have since turned my dead laptop into an Iraqi man from Nasiriyah, who has a small repair shop in the local hadji-mart. He has a good reputation and his price, along with diagnosis, seem fair. Until then, no facebook and no pictures attached to these posts. (facebook is not allowed on government computers due to the amount of bandwidth used)
30 is a landmark. I don't like it much, but then I don't have much of a choice. I am glad I quit drinking while still in my 20's, as you're much more prone to being labeled a "drunk" if you're seen overly-imbibing while past 29....at least in my opinion, anyway. Why not just not have more than one beer, you may ask? Why quit? Well, if you must ask this, then you don't know me well.....beer drinking was the olympics, and I was a gold medalist- enough said. It's like the Tim McGraw song, "My Next 30 Years"- 'drink a little lemonade and not so many beers....maybe I'll remember, my next thirty years'.
I share my birthday with Elvis Presley (with whom I share sex appeal and good looks), Stephen Hawking (who shares my intellect and ability to hit a golf ball), Charles Osgood (whom I believe says "and now, the REST of the story-I could be wrong), and David Bowie (whom I fortunately share only a birthday with).
I did nothing on my birthday other than overload on "Airborn" drink mix to thwart a headcold, and continually remove/replace/push power button/pray in futile efforts to get the computer to work. I did eat a piece of apple-like pie, which was decent after drowning it in a large dose of ice cream.
I shall write again soon......