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.