So I finally found the Irish Pub I was so looking forward to visiting here in Amman. I spent about 10 Jordainian Dinar ($15) getting to this place. It is called "Rovers Return." I knew it was near a certain hotel, but the cabbie had never heard of it and he had to stop twice for directions to the hotel. Even then, I had to search around the back and down some stairs to find the place.
I walked into a typical Irish Pub. Not typical as in you could mistake this place for being somewhere on the Emerald Isle, but typical as in it looked like a Bennigans in Indiana somewhere. Okay, but I'm in Amman, so the "throw-anything-with-the-word-Ireland-or-Guinness-on-the-wall-and-see-what-sticks" sounds pretty good right now. I spy a Guinness tap, lick my lips and walk towards it. "Salaam alakim" says the bartender. I give him the cursory "wa alakim a salaam" and quickly get in a "Guinness." He looks at the tap, looks at me and says in broken English "no Guinness." I said "are you out." He says, "no Guinness." I look at the drink menu and damned if he isn't correct. Guinness is not on the menu. Apparently the tap is for show. I then ordered a Heinken. That Heinken cost me 6.00 Jordainian Dinar, plus a 10% service charge and a 17% government tax on alcohol. Making my almost $11 Heineken the most expensive pint on record. Then came the ultimate insult. He pulled out a Heinken "mini-keg" (see my post a few weeks ago) and tapped my beer from that thing. WTF?????
It has rained and snowed here for the past two days. I was the village idiot for walking around in the rain. Apparently it rains so infrequently here that they still believe you may actually melt. Mothers brought their children out to look at me wandering out in the rain. Every cabbie in Amman tried to get me inside their vehicle. When I would wave them off, they would just stare in disbelief. I can't wait to get to London.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Thursday, February 26, 2009
In Amman. No Guinness Yet, Just Testicles
(Top) Me about to eat a testicle; (Middle) The aforementioned testicle on it's platter; (Bottom) Kais and Alex enjoying the sight of me eating sheep testicle.
I made it to Amman this morning and for the first time our flight was actually early. I travelled with two guys from the PRT, Alex and Kais. Alex is originally from Lebanon and Kais was a General in Saddam's Army who fled after the invasion of Kuwait. They are both good guys with whom I have not had the pleasure of working too much at the PRT.
Alex told me that Kais and he were going out for a big Arab style meal in Amman, and they asked me to join them. After dumping our stuff at the hotel, we found a great little restaurant in central Amman.
We ate from a huge spread of everything from roasted chicken, to lamb, to hummas, some labaneh (a dried yogurt kind of like cheese)and roasted vegetables and bread. This is just the highlights -- there was also all types of pickles, relishes, etc. As you might have guessed from the title we also had "Sheep Balls" (roasted sheep testicles). Alex said that this is a great delicacy in Lebanon. I tried it, I ate it, and I liked it. Go figure. Alex also turned me on to a type of "lamb tartar" (raw ground lamb with pine nuts and hot peppers). It was all fantastic.
The only thing that really grossed me out was the salt flavored yogurt drink that they insisted I try. I tried it a few times, but dear Lord was it aweful.
We then toured the city which is much better with two Arabic speakers. All in all it was a fantastic day. I'm off to find the Irish Pub tonight.
I made it to Amman this morning and for the first time our flight was actually early. I travelled with two guys from the PRT, Alex and Kais. Alex is originally from Lebanon and Kais was a General in Saddam's Army who fled after the invasion of Kuwait. They are both good guys with whom I have not had the pleasure of working too much at the PRT.
Alex told me that Kais and he were going out for a big Arab style meal in Amman, and they asked me to join them. After dumping our stuff at the hotel, we found a great little restaurant in central Amman.
We ate from a huge spread of everything from roasted chicken, to lamb, to hummas, some labaneh (a dried yogurt kind of like cheese)and roasted vegetables and bread. This is just the highlights -- there was also all types of pickles, relishes, etc. As you might have guessed from the title we also had "Sheep Balls" (roasted sheep testicles). Alex said that this is a great delicacy in Lebanon. I tried it, I ate it, and I liked it. Go figure. Alex also turned me on to a type of "lamb tartar" (raw ground lamb with pine nuts and hot peppers). It was all fantastic.
The only thing that really grossed me out was the salt flavored yogurt drink that they insisted I try. I tried it a few times, but dear Lord was it aweful.
We then toured the city which is much better with two Arabic speakers. All in all it was a fantastic day. I'm off to find the Irish Pub tonight.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Keep Them in Your Prayers
This soldier and the others mentioned were part of our Brigade at Warhorse. God bless them.
Utah soldier, onetime teacher, killed in Iraqi firefight
By Matthew D. LaPlante
The Salt Lake Tribune
The students in Micheal Alleman's class didn't take kindly to the news.
It was the middle of the school year, and the popular fifth-grade teacher was leaving his career as an educator to join the Army. He told the class he wanted to be like the nation's first president, who left his career as a Virginia planter to take up arms against the British monarchy.
"He said that George Washington was his hero," said Samantha Larkin, 11, a student in Alleman's class at Nibley Elementary School in Cache County, last year. "But it was a little bit confusing to us."
On Tuesday, Alleman's former students were among those in several Utah communities coming to terms with a revelation that was even more difficult to accept: The teacher-turned-soldier had been killed in Iraq.
Army officials said that the 31-year-old Utahn, whose wife, children and parents reside together in American Fork, died Monday alongside two other soldiers and their interpreter in a firefight in Iraq's eastern Diyala Province.
The details of Monday's assault remain vague, but the father of another soldier killed in the battle told The Daily Star newspaper in Oneonta, N.Y., that the soldiers' patrol encountered a bunker and, when the soldiers drew near it, they were fired upon. The Army earlier had reported that Alleman, Zachary Nordmeyer and Michael Mayne had died in a roadside bomb attack. Iraq's insurgents often use bombs to draw in or disable the vehicles of U.S. soldiers, then follow the blast with small arms fire, but the Army did not provide an expanded account of the fight.
Alleman is the first Utah service member to have been killed in either of the nation's ongoing wars this year, and his death marks the first time a Utahn has fallen in combat in Iraq since July 2007, when American Fork resident Nathan Barnes was killed near Baghdad. The period between the two men's deaths coincides with a precipitous drop in violence across Iraq, including in Diyala, which was once among the nation's deadliest areas.
Given the significant security gains, the commander of Alleman's Alaska-based brigade combat team said in a recent conference call with reporters that his soldiers were sometimes bored with their duties.
"They came here expecting it to be more of a fight," Col. Burt Thompson, commander of the 1st Stryker Brigade Combat Team, 25th Infantry, said earlier this month.
But Thompson warned that Diyala was still a dangerous place, where al-Qaida guerillas remained capable of mounting deadly attacks.
Though too young to understand the complexities of the Iraq war, many of Alleman's young scholars had worried that their teacher might be harmed in the fighting. And so, Larkin said, not all of the students were supportive of Alleman's decision to leave. "The class was a little bit mean to him," she said.
Mindy Heaton, a literacy aid at the school and the past president of Nibley's PTA, said Alleman's departure left a difficult-to-fill gap in the staff and was hard on some of the students. "It was tough, because his class really liked him," she said.
But all seemed forgiven when Alleman returned from basic training to visit with his former students last winter. Arriving at the school with his family and wearing his dress uniform, just before Valentine's Day, he was greeted with gifts and handmade cards.
Larkin said Alleman looked proud in his uniform and seeing him dressed that way helped many of the students understand why he had left.
Principal Bill Landauer said it was clear that Alleman had found his niche. "He was the epitome of a soldier," Landauer said. "That's what he wanted to do, more than anything else. Teaching came second … the only thing that didn't come second was his family."
That family was huddled together Tuesday evening at Alleman's parent's home, where his wife and two sons have lived since shortly after he joined the Army.
Utah soldier, onetime teacher, killed in Iraqi firefight
By Matthew D. LaPlante
The Salt Lake Tribune
The students in Micheal Alleman's class didn't take kindly to the news.
It was the middle of the school year, and the popular fifth-grade teacher was leaving his career as an educator to join the Army. He told the class he wanted to be like the nation's first president, who left his career as a Virginia planter to take up arms against the British monarchy.
"He said that George Washington was his hero," said Samantha Larkin, 11, a student in Alleman's class at Nibley Elementary School in Cache County, last year. "But it was a little bit confusing to us."
On Tuesday, Alleman's former students were among those in several Utah communities coming to terms with a revelation that was even more difficult to accept: The teacher-turned-soldier had been killed in Iraq.
Army officials said that the 31-year-old Utahn, whose wife, children and parents reside together in American Fork, died Monday alongside two other soldiers and their interpreter in a firefight in Iraq's eastern Diyala Province.
The details of Monday's assault remain vague, but the father of another soldier killed in the battle told The Daily Star newspaper in Oneonta, N.Y., that the soldiers' patrol encountered a bunker and, when the soldiers drew near it, they were fired upon. The Army earlier had reported that Alleman, Zachary Nordmeyer and Michael Mayne had died in a roadside bomb attack. Iraq's insurgents often use bombs to draw in or disable the vehicles of U.S. soldiers, then follow the blast with small arms fire, but the Army did not provide an expanded account of the fight.
Alleman is the first Utah service member to have been killed in either of the nation's ongoing wars this year, and his death marks the first time a Utahn has fallen in combat in Iraq since July 2007, when American Fork resident Nathan Barnes was killed near Baghdad. The period between the two men's deaths coincides with a precipitous drop in violence across Iraq, including in Diyala, which was once among the nation's deadliest areas.
Given the significant security gains, the commander of Alleman's Alaska-based brigade combat team said in a recent conference call with reporters that his soldiers were sometimes bored with their duties.
"They came here expecting it to be more of a fight," Col. Burt Thompson, commander of the 1st Stryker Brigade Combat Team, 25th Infantry, said earlier this month.
But Thompson warned that Diyala was still a dangerous place, where al-Qaida guerillas remained capable of mounting deadly attacks.
Though too young to understand the complexities of the Iraq war, many of Alleman's young scholars had worried that their teacher might be harmed in the fighting. And so, Larkin said, not all of the students were supportive of Alleman's decision to leave. "The class was a little bit mean to him," she said.
Mindy Heaton, a literacy aid at the school and the past president of Nibley's PTA, said Alleman's departure left a difficult-to-fill gap in the staff and was hard on some of the students. "It was tough, because his class really liked him," she said.
But all seemed forgiven when Alleman returned from basic training to visit with his former students last winter. Arriving at the school with his family and wearing his dress uniform, just before Valentine's Day, he was greeted with gifts and handmade cards.
Larkin said Alleman looked proud in his uniform and seeing him dressed that way helped many of the students understand why he had left.
Principal Bill Landauer said it was clear that Alleman had found his niche. "He was the epitome of a soldier," Landauer said. "That's what he wanted to do, more than anything else. Teaching came second … the only thing that didn't come second was his family."
That family was huddled together Tuesday evening at Alleman's parent's home, where his wife and two sons have lived since shortly after he joined the Army.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Off on Leave
I am getting ready to begin the process of getting out of Iraq for a little R&R in Europe. Before that can happen there is the requisite week of travel to Baghdad and through Amman before arriving in London. Irene and I will rendezvous there and after a few days take the Eurotrain to Paris where we will spend another five days. I'm looking forward to seeing the sites in London. And then, after we have seen the sites, perhaps we'll drink an ale or two in an English Pub with some "blokes" before going next door for some fish 'n chips or "bangers and mash." Paris on the other hand holds no allure for me, and is solely for Irene's benefit. As much as I'd like to drink an ale in London, I'd like just as much the opportunity to smack a snooty Frenchman in the mouth for breathing. However, in the spirit of sacrifice and harmony I am going to put on a pleasant disposition and have a great time. Not since I agreed to go to a Dar Williams concert (picture a folksy chick with an acoustic guitar and a crappy playlist)with Irene have I made such a huge sacrifice in the name of marital harmony. I also figure I should build up some goodwill now for the numerous Brewers games I will be attending throughout the months of August and September.
In other news, things here in Diyala are pretty much the same. The violence is down a little. We are all waiting to see if the selection of the new Provincial Governor is going to throw things back into chaos, or if we are past that point and there will be a peaceful turnover of power. The new Government will be Sunni led, unlike most of the country, so Diyala should be swimming upstream for the foreseeable future.
The weather here has been fantastic other than the occasional day or two of dust storms. It is like springtime in Florida, cool and crisp in the morning, and about 70degrees during the day. If I hadn't lived through the 135 degree days already, I wouldn't believe they were coming.
Perhaps I'll write a little something poolside from Jordan. Better yet, I'll take some pictures of Amman's only Irish Pub (amazing what you can find on the internet) and share them with you. I think I am also going to try and go to the town of Jerash, which is a very well preserved Roman city in Jordan.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Brushing Up On My Aramaic and Harmonica
Lessons every night from 11:00 p.m. to midnight
Mass at Warhorse is held at 8:00 a.m. and 6:00 p.m. every other Sunday. It takes place every other Sunday because the priest has to travel to other FOBs to give everybody a crack at salvation. I usually attend the 6:00 p.m. mass and then proceed to dinner.
In any event, this particular Sunday there were about five soldiers in the chapel when I arrived, and I walked in the door followed by three other civilians. I sat down and began focusing for mass. There was still a little time left and the priest was milling about making small talk. A middle-eastern woman and two men had taken a seat off to my left a few seats down from me. I was barely paying attention, but I could hear the priest asking her if she was an interpreter. She said she was. He then asked if "all four of you are interpreters." She answered in the affirmative. Now might be a good time to point out that the priest here at Warhorse is Polish and speaks with a slight accent. But, he clearly said all "four of you." I looked around. There were five soldiers, and four civilians (myself included). Now I'm thinking to myself "alright no big deal, so he thinks I'm an interpreter. I've been called worse."
I decided to read the order of worship until mass began. As I started reading, I heard the priest re-engage with this woman and ask "do you all speak Aramaic?" She responded "yes."
Fast forward. We are 3/4 of the way through mass and about to say the Lord's Prayer when the priest asks the nine of us to form a circle around the altar and join hands. He then declares that he hates to put anyone on the spot, but "wouldn't it be great if we heard the Lord's Prayer in Aramaic? The same language used by Jesus!"
Well, you can guess where this is headed. The priest looks at me and asks me to begin. I shake my head figuring now is not the time to explain that for a woman skilled in the arts of translation she should probably know the difference between "three" and "four," and that I'm not an interpreter but a lawyer, etc., etc. The priest then says to me "don't be shy, you can do it." This isn't like lying to a cab driver in Amman. I figure faking Aramaic is probably not a talent you can bluff your way through (although I must confess it crossed my mind that if I just started mumbling something the others might join in and get the priest of my back). Finally, after what seemed like an hour, but was probably only a few seconds, the woman who started all this began to speak. At several points throughout the prayer, the priest's eyes turned back to me. There I was, not saying a word. Great, now in his mind I'm a no-good-Aramaic-speaking-non-participating-goofball. Normally this wouldn't bother me, but when it comes to getting in good with the guy upstairs I need all the help I can get.
I would also like to give a special "shout out" to my mother-in-law Lori, who included a harmonica and a harmonica lesson book and instructional DVD with her latest care package. I don't think I'll be jamming anytime soon, but I've been trying to find a passive-aggresive way to annoy my co-workers and I believe my new harmonica should more than do the trick.
Monday, February 2, 2009
The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (Parental Discretion is Advised)
This past weekend I went to Khanaqin, a city in the northern portion of Diyala province. Khanaqin is largely a Kurdish area. As most of you probably know the Kurds are rabidly pro-American. Not only did we protect them with fly-over zones before the war, but we also took Saddam to task for his gassing of the Kurds (he was hanged for it). Things there have been relatively safe compared to the rest of Diyala, although it was a question whether there would be violence because of the election. Khanaqin is relatively close to the Iranian border.
A few shots of Election Day. My little Kurdish friend had "173" (the number assigned to the Kurdish Union Party) painted on his cheeks and got to dip his finger in the ink. His mother was so proud of the fact that we wanted to take a picture of him.
THE GOOD
On January 31, 2009, the provincial elections were held. I was the "Team Leader" (you can't have two people in a room around here unless you give one of them a B.S. title they can lord over the others -- can't stand that crap) of a group of election monitors. We were tasked with going to the polls around the city and in the countryside and checking on what was happening. It was a fantastic experience. The Kurds were so fired up about the elections and excited to be voting. It was a family affair all of the way. Everyone was dressed in their "Sunday best" (but they are Muslim, so actually it was their "Friday best"). Many of them were wearing Kurdish flags signifying their support for the coalition of Kurdish Political Parties that were on the ballot. The kids all accompanied their parents to the voting booth, which was a fantastic message for these little kids about the value of voting in a future Iraq.
To get to the first polling station we had walk about six city blocks without our military security (the U.S. Army had agreed to stay away from the polling sites). We had one personal security detail from the Embassy to escort us into the polling stations. I also had a weapon, but trust me, that made no one feel safer including myself. He was all about protection and he was freaking out about the idea of walking this gauntlet of people that had lined up along the street. It was awesome though. The people of Khanaqin were waving and giving us the thumbs up. Kids on bikes with Kurdish flags were whizzing by us doing stunts to impress us. The women would go inside and bring their children out to greet us as we walked past. They would smile and beg us to take their picture. It was probably one of my favorite experiences yet in Iraq.
We inspected the polls and they were very well run. It was basically what you would expect on election day. People showed their ID card to the person at the door, they were directed to one of the rooms based on an alphabetical assignment of their name, they would go in the room, show ID again, get a ballot, go to the voting booth, fold it up, place it in the ballot box and then dip their finger in the iconic indelible purple ink (to prove they had voted and prevent them from voting again). It took about five minutes to vote and the enthusiasm inside was the same as the enthusiasm outside the polling site. There were observers from other political parties to make sure that everything was legitimate. We were welcomed to talk to anyone we wanted and observe any step of the process. I am prevented from making any public statements as to the legitimacy of the election -- but reading between the lines you can probably figure out my opinion of how it went.
My friend and interpreter Mohammed sitting on his cot in our room. None of us got much sleep in there.
THE BAD
We were staying at COP (no idea what that stands for) Cobra. The living accommodations were spartan to say the least. We were dropped off by the Blackhawks and basically told to go to the rundown structure down a gravel road. The rundown building was an open room with about twenty guys already sleeping on cots in there. There were ten of us, and no more cots. We spent the next hour or so scouring the camp for ten cots. We found some filthy ones, some that had to be propped up by cinder blocks, wooden sticks and boxes. The door would open every few minutes, the military interpreters in the room would listen to Iraqi music all night and more than few of the people in the room snored rather loudly. Oh, and it smelled like body odor and onions.
The DFAC was not much of a DFAC at all. This was kind of like the movies or an episode of M*A*S*H, some private with a ladle spooned out slop onto a cardboard tray. No choices except "do you want food or not?" The food bordered on the inedible. Let's put it this way, the next day I ate some Army MREs (Meals Ready to Eat) which have been much maligned over the years, and they were much better than the food I had the night before at the base's DFAC.
I warned you. Don't even ask what the hell the stick with the towel on the end was for.
THE UGLY
If you have read my past posts I think you must be aware of my biggest fear over here. It is not a suicide bomber, it is not a Vehicle Borne IED (VBIED), not a mortar round landing on my head while I'm sleeping, but rather the Middle Eastern "bathroom experience." Well my friends imagine please my horror when I arrived at COP Cobra to find that there are NO WESTERN STYLE TOILETS on the COP. To say that I was clutched by fear would do a disservice to what I was truly feeling. My first thought was "don't panic, this can't be true. Some colonel must have a port-a-john stashed away somewhere." No such luck. Next I thought "I'll wait it out, I can do three days." Seven hours later I faced my moment of truth. In my head I repeated the phrase "dead man walking" as I headed for the "latrine." I held my breath, for the pungent aroma was not easily overcome. I walked about four doors in and used my elbow to push open the door. I stared in disbelief at what lay before me, a white porcelain hole in the floor surrounded by a sludge of urine, feces and God only knows what else. I retreated. I methodically checked the remaining stalls. Sadly, stall number four was the pick of the litter. I went back there. I slowly closed the door behind me. I stood there paralysed with fear. "Wait I thought, somebody said something about a chair" I looked to my left. There, in the corner, was a gray folding chair (just like you sat on in grade school at an assembly), but this my friend was no ordinary chair. For in the middle of this gray folding chair some inventive soldier had cut a hole with (I presume) tin snips. The hole was just large enough to "handle the situation" as it were. And for added comfort, he had also used duct tape to line the inside of the hole lest someone suffer a cut in the most delicate of locations. I'm not sure which was more disgusting, the chair or that hole in the floor. "Oh, the humanity" I thought to myself (as my mind envisioned a large Zeppelin going down in a New Jersey field). I folded the chair up and ran out of there faster than I thought my thirty-five year old legs could take me.
Now out in the night air I thought to myself "what the f**k is going on here?" Actually, that is a lie, I'm pretty sure I screamed out loud "what the f**k is going on here?" Fortunately, fear had alleviated the situation for a while. I redoubled my efforts. No bran, no caffeine, nothing which could cause any type of issues. Now, it was a race against the clock, and the clock had about a twelve hour head start.
I would like to tell you that through solid will-power I was able to overcome the odds. And it would be quite the story if I could write that a medical miracle had occurred and I was able to avoid that hell-hole for three (almost four) days. But, sadly, I cannot. It happened (twice actually). I'm sure that twenty years from now (or six months) some of you will hear the gory details of what happened inside stall "number four" over a beer at the County Clare, but right now -- I'm just not ready to talk about it. I'm just hoping the Department of Justice has a good therapist on staff.
A few shots of Election Day. My little Kurdish friend had "173" (the number assigned to the Kurdish Union Party) painted on his cheeks and got to dip his finger in the ink. His mother was so proud of the fact that we wanted to take a picture of him.
THE GOOD
On January 31, 2009, the provincial elections were held. I was the "Team Leader" (you can't have two people in a room around here unless you give one of them a B.S. title they can lord over the others -- can't stand that crap) of a group of election monitors. We were tasked with going to the polls around the city and in the countryside and checking on what was happening. It was a fantastic experience. The Kurds were so fired up about the elections and excited to be voting. It was a family affair all of the way. Everyone was dressed in their "Sunday best" (but they are Muslim, so actually it was their "Friday best"). Many of them were wearing Kurdish flags signifying their support for the coalition of Kurdish Political Parties that were on the ballot. The kids all accompanied their parents to the voting booth, which was a fantastic message for these little kids about the value of voting in a future Iraq.
To get to the first polling station we had walk about six city blocks without our military security (the U.S. Army had agreed to stay away from the polling sites). We had one personal security detail from the Embassy to escort us into the polling stations. I also had a weapon, but trust me, that made no one feel safer including myself. He was all about protection and he was freaking out about the idea of walking this gauntlet of people that had lined up along the street. It was awesome though. The people of Khanaqin were waving and giving us the thumbs up. Kids on bikes with Kurdish flags were whizzing by us doing stunts to impress us. The women would go inside and bring their children out to greet us as we walked past. They would smile and beg us to take their picture. It was probably one of my favorite experiences yet in Iraq.
We inspected the polls and they were very well run. It was basically what you would expect on election day. People showed their ID card to the person at the door, they were directed to one of the rooms based on an alphabetical assignment of their name, they would go in the room, show ID again, get a ballot, go to the voting booth, fold it up, place it in the ballot box and then dip their finger in the iconic indelible purple ink (to prove they had voted and prevent them from voting again). It took about five minutes to vote and the enthusiasm inside was the same as the enthusiasm outside the polling site. There were observers from other political parties to make sure that everything was legitimate. We were welcomed to talk to anyone we wanted and observe any step of the process. I am prevented from making any public statements as to the legitimacy of the election -- but reading between the lines you can probably figure out my opinion of how it went.
My friend and interpreter Mohammed sitting on his cot in our room. None of us got much sleep in there.
THE BAD
We were staying at COP (no idea what that stands for) Cobra. The living accommodations were spartan to say the least. We were dropped off by the Blackhawks and basically told to go to the rundown structure down a gravel road. The rundown building was an open room with about twenty guys already sleeping on cots in there. There were ten of us, and no more cots. We spent the next hour or so scouring the camp for ten cots. We found some filthy ones, some that had to be propped up by cinder blocks, wooden sticks and boxes. The door would open every few minutes, the military interpreters in the room would listen to Iraqi music all night and more than few of the people in the room snored rather loudly. Oh, and it smelled like body odor and onions.
The DFAC was not much of a DFAC at all. This was kind of like the movies or an episode of M*A*S*H, some private with a ladle spooned out slop onto a cardboard tray. No choices except "do you want food or not?" The food bordered on the inedible. Let's put it this way, the next day I ate some Army MREs (Meals Ready to Eat) which have been much maligned over the years, and they were much better than the food I had the night before at the base's DFAC.
I warned you. Don't even ask what the hell the stick with the towel on the end was for.
THE UGLY
If you have read my past posts I think you must be aware of my biggest fear over here. It is not a suicide bomber, it is not a Vehicle Borne IED (VBIED), not a mortar round landing on my head while I'm sleeping, but rather the Middle Eastern "bathroom experience." Well my friends imagine please my horror when I arrived at COP Cobra to find that there are NO WESTERN STYLE TOILETS on the COP. To say that I was clutched by fear would do a disservice to what I was truly feeling. My first thought was "don't panic, this can't be true. Some colonel must have a port-a-john stashed away somewhere." No such luck. Next I thought "I'll wait it out, I can do three days." Seven hours later I faced my moment of truth. In my head I repeated the phrase "dead man walking" as I headed for the "latrine." I held my breath, for the pungent aroma was not easily overcome. I walked about four doors in and used my elbow to push open the door. I stared in disbelief at what lay before me, a white porcelain hole in the floor surrounded by a sludge of urine, feces and God only knows what else. I retreated. I methodically checked the remaining stalls. Sadly, stall number four was the pick of the litter. I went back there. I slowly closed the door behind me. I stood there paralysed with fear. "Wait I thought, somebody said something about a chair" I looked to my left. There, in the corner, was a gray folding chair (just like you sat on in grade school at an assembly), but this my friend was no ordinary chair. For in the middle of this gray folding chair some inventive soldier had cut a hole with (I presume) tin snips. The hole was just large enough to "handle the situation" as it were. And for added comfort, he had also used duct tape to line the inside of the hole lest someone suffer a cut in the most delicate of locations. I'm not sure which was more disgusting, the chair or that hole in the floor. "Oh, the humanity" I thought to myself (as my mind envisioned a large Zeppelin going down in a New Jersey field). I folded the chair up and ran out of there faster than I thought my thirty-five year old legs could take me.
Now out in the night air I thought to myself "what the f**k is going on here?" Actually, that is a lie, I'm pretty sure I screamed out loud "what the f**k is going on here?" Fortunately, fear had alleviated the situation for a while. I redoubled my efforts. No bran, no caffeine, nothing which could cause any type of issues. Now, it was a race against the clock, and the clock had about a twelve hour head start.
I would like to tell you that through solid will-power I was able to overcome the odds. And it would be quite the story if I could write that a medical miracle had occurred and I was able to avoid that hell-hole for three (almost four) days. But, sadly, I cannot. It happened (twice actually). I'm sure that twenty years from now (or six months) some of you will hear the gory details of what happened inside stall "number four" over a beer at the County Clare, but right now -- I'm just not ready to talk about it. I'm just hoping the Department of Justice has a good therapist on staff.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
One Day Trip to Baghdad
(Top photo) Another going away party. It feels like the tenth this month. (Bottom) My beloved mini-keg, worth its weight in gold.
I just got back from Baghdad about a day ago. I went down there to get a new ID badge and finally pick up my weapon from the DOJ. As of January 1st, the old digs at the Embassy are closed. Instead, they have opened the New Embassy Compound which is pretty unbelievable. Office buildings, tennis courts, basketball courts, indoor swimming pool and some pretty amazing apartments. The apartments are nicer than most I have had in my life (with a few less windows). They have flat panel televisions, modern stainless steel appliances and pretty nice furniture. Perhaps most surprisingly, they have a PX shop with limited groceries and a pretty extensive liquor selection. I managed to bring back a souvenir from Baghdad, a Heineken mini-keg, which would easily make me the most popular guy on the FOB. I have kept it a well guarded secret, however.
Bad news for the soldiers, although General Odierno authorized Superbowl beer for all of the troops in Iraq, he left the final word to the individual base commanders. I guess the current commander is a teetotaller or something because he put the kibosh on the beer. That probably makes my Heineken mini-keg all the more valuable. Thankfully I now have a weapon to defend it from those who would try and tap its frothy goodness. I have yet to decide what occasion is important enough to tap this bad boy. Perhaps when I get back from my election trip.
I am heading out into the far reaches of Diyala later this week to be an "international elections observer." It should be interesting. It turns out that in Iraq they actually want to know who you are when you vote, unlike other third-world backward elections where you don't have to show any identification and the process is easily susceptible to voter fraud. Oh, wait that sounds a lot like Wisconsin. Anyway, I'm looking forward to the experience. I can't say where we are going, but it looks like military tents and sleeping bags are in my future for the next few days.
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