Very respectfully

Conventions

I’ve always been interested in conventions of society or why people do what they do.  I’m not sure where handshaking in the Marshall Islands came from, but it is deeply ingrained and unique part of their culture now.  As a contractor there and also working as a liaison for the Army between the Marshallese workforce and local Government, I had to shake a lot of hands in the meet and greet VIP lines.  The Marshallese handshake is unique, a grip and pump – just once, never more, and then you move on to the next hand shaker in line.  At times, there was a long line of hands to be grabbed and gripped and I’d sometimes  let my gaze wander at the snaking line ahead to see how long that darn line was.   On occasion, my gander ahead would pick out someone who boldly had their finger twisting deeply up their nose.  Just straight out in the open, digging for the golden nugget, trying to pick a winner, unabashed mining.  And I knew I’d have to shake that hand.  In Afghanistan, we’re all terrified of getting sick and handshaking, so the Obama communist fist bump is quite popular here.  If you get sick, you are put on quarters (and by quarters, I refer to the cell block that passes for a place to sleep) and you don’t get paid. 

Cellblock (quarters).  Where you don't want to be.  Because it's dank and tiny.  And you don't get paid.  So fist bump all.day.long.

So we fist bump and wash our hands compulsively all day long to try to avoid the filthy virus laden palms that one has to lay flesh on when shaking hands.  That’s right, a hand extended in Afghanistan is met with a closed fist.  Seems apt for the location. There was, however, no way to get around the social convention of the handshake in that line, so we always had a bottle of hand sanitizer at the ready. 

I also helped Marshallese employees respond to intent to bar letters.  Some transgression would be committed (sometimes they’d take three candy bars through the checkpoint, rather then the allotted two…) they’d get a ticket, a police report would be generated, and depending on the level of infraction, they’d get the letter, letting them know the Provost Marshal intended to bar them from the installation.  This was a big deal, no access to the island = no job.  Because I speak Marshallese fluently, I would listen to their story and interpret as I helped them with their response in English.  Note the use of interpret versus translate – interpretation allows for some degree of poetic artistry, translation is just boring word for word repetition.  Every once and a while, there would be an unusual police report apart from the mundane…one police report said the employee had been found outside of a local drinking establishment, in the bushes, masturbating.  When asked to stop, said the police report, the gentleman did not comply.  As I read the report, I imagined the masturbator saying, “Wait, ooohhhhhhh, wait, hold on, I’m almost there!”  The write up went on to state the reported uncompliant employee pissed all over the officer’s shoes directly after refusing to obey the order to cease and desist pleasuring himself.  I read the report, listened to the employee’s story with a straight face (where he vehemently denied laying hands on himself in the bushes) and wrote a flowery response where I recall mentioning the difficulty of urination in such close proximity to an orgasm.  It was one of my better efforts.  The Provost Marshal, however, was humorless and was not buying what I was selling.  The employee was barred from the installation.  His boss brought him in as I was also the bearer of the unfortunate news.  She said, “Mr. Alan tried his best to help you, but it didn’t work out, so now you shake his hand.”  That’s right.  Tell the masturbator to shake my hand.  And there was no way out of it – conventions required the handshake (but thankfully, it was the Marshallese grip and pump, just once so there was no lingering). I couldn’t fistbump my way out of that jam.  And I couldn’t get to the copious amounts of hand sanitizer that was used fast enough after that handshake.

Now I’m back in Afghanistan at lovely Bagram Air Force Base.  One convention that fascinates me is the signature block on military e-mails.    Almost without fail, you’ll see some variation of ‘very respectfully’, then the rest of their signature.  Very respectfully or v/r.   When I worked for the Federal Government as a Department of Army Civilian, I v/r’ed with the best of them.  It was what was done, just like the handshake in the Marshall Islands.  Thank you, regards, best regards or the cheeky best were unheard of.  Verboten.  Haram.  Very respectfully or v/r were your two choices.   Although I’m back in v/r land, as a slimy contractor, I leave the v/r off of my signature block.  I’m kind of an infidel that way.  But back in the Marshall Islands, my boss at the time, who ended every e-mail with ‘Very Respectfully’, was furious at a decision a superior officer had made and he sent off a scathing e-mail, delineating  point by point the perceived negative downstream effects on the Host Nation, and the ramifications to the U.S. Army, of the decision.  He was very smart and a very good writer.  He was also very mad and you could hear the keys being pounded on fast and furiously.  The e-mail was close to being over the line, but he held it together until he finished the email.  The ‘Very’ was as conspicuously absent as a fistbump in a Marshallese VIP receiving line.  He punctuated that e-mail with what could have been interpreted as a disrespectful… Respectfully.

The piss bottle

Well, THAT got your attention and no, it is not a euphemism, they are exactly as the name describes.  They don’t tell you before you come to Afghanistan that many of the males in the barracks use them.  It’s just not good press, and probably wouldn’t do anything to entice you to come on over to live in what is already a difficult situation, you know, with the war going on and all.  They were widely used by soldiers and contractors in Iraq and they are in Afghanistan as well – a dirty, nay, filthy little secret of this gig.  I was told that one guy’s job in a camp in Iraq was to dispose of the piss bottles in an environmentally friendly manner – his sole function.  He had to collect them, unscrew the lids and pour them out down a porta potty.  Every day I’ve ever had anything remotely resembling a bad work day, I’ve thought about that guy and that job.  And then I brighten right back up. 

Before you derisively snort, roll your eyes and mutter, “Savages,” allow me to attempt to sell you on the use of piss bottles.  We are in Afghanistan, after all, and most of us live in shared quarters.  Toilets and showers are outside.  When the call of nature calls, we have to put on some form of footwear and trudge outside in our sleeping costume and make our way to the latrines.  And it’s dark, so you’ll need a headlamp or a flashlight.  So, when it’s raining and snakes are afoot (is it aslither?) or it’s muddy, or there’s snow on the ground and it’s icy and it’s just so darn inconvenient, you turn to your friend the piss bottle.  You take care of your sordid business – carefully tilting the bottle so as not to create the sound of a gently running river– no, you want that flow to slide quietly down the inside of the bottle.  Consideration of others, you know, wouldn’t want to wake your bunkmates up now, would we?   Shaking the last few drops does present a challenge, it’s more of a shaking the entire bottle along with your member, trying not to slosh the contents high enough so you can keep things clean down below.  Screw on the top and settle right back into that peaceful slumber you awoke from.  Not so savage after all, eh?

Still  not convinced?  Try this on for size.   Thankfully, the Taliban spring offensive seems to be over.  We’ve gone a while without an attack.  But during the fighting season (they are fair weather terrorists, after all) we do get hit.  And when there is an attack, you can’t go outside until you hear the all clear call on Big Voice.  Outside.  Where the toilets are.  That’s where you can’t go.  Because the Taliban are particularly evil, I imagine this conversation up in the mountains right before the rockets are launched:  “Can we shoot it now Mohammed?”  “No Ahmed.  Wait.  The infidel’s bladders are not yet full.  We will wait until they are almost ready to burst before we fire.”  Then they probably sit in the mountains, smoking some of the good Afghan hash that is so prevalent right outside the wire, waiting, waiting, waiting. “Mohammed, now, can we fire the rockets now?”  “Patience Ahmed.  It is not yet time.  They may be dreaming about a river running, their loins may be stirring.  We will wait until the time is right.”  More hash is smoked in the interim because, well, this is my story.  Then, just as the older contractors begin to shift in bed getting ready to make the trip outside to pee I’m sure those darn terrorists both mutter, “Allahu Akbar,” as the rockets are launched.  And the folks on bases are stuck inside.  Where there are no bathrooms.  When they were just about to get up and pee.   While security sweeps the perimeter and finds the rocket(s), ensures there is no UXO laying around, we wait for the all clear.  The newbies do the pee pee dance as they cross their legs and hop about to keep from peeing in their pants.  The grizzled vets lean over, pick up their piss bottle and don’t even try to hide the sound.  It takes being stuck inside once, waiting for the all clear for a couple of hours to have an empty bottle at the ready. 
We had an attack one evening just as we were getting ready to close down shop and go to our bunks.  Once it hit, we were stuck inside, where time trickled by...slowly.   I was having a discussion with my boss (who is a woman) and as we waited, she mentioned she really had to pee.   Being the gentleman I am, I offered her the use of my helmet and said we'd all turn the other way while she filled it up.  She demurely declined.  She asked about everyone else in the office and I told her she didn't have to worry about the men, we were prepared.   I leaned in and whispered, "We use the bottle."   She was aghast at the practice, but after noticing the men taking care of business, as it were, and the women squirming and waiting for two hours she begrudgingly noted the practicality. The highly skilled can use a water bottle.  I'm not sure how they do it, years of practice, I guess, but I'm definitely not there yet.  I told her I'm a fan of the sports drink bottles - bigger aperture, I said, without missing a beat.  As she has done so many times during my tenure here, she turned red, and shook her head as she buried it in her hands.   The drink Mega Sport comes in two flavors, Lemon Lime and Berry.  I'd recommend always drinking the Berry - just to be on the safe side.
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The countdown

     Human beings are hardwired to hope.  We all hope for different things and plan for all the things we want out of life.  We make those plans because we are hopeful that we don't get sick, that a tragic accident doesn't happen, that we don't lose our job, that after we go to school there is a good job waiting for us, that we find someone to love.   If we didn't have hope, we wouldn't plan.  Without hope, there would be bunches of uneducated people sitting around in their underwear, eating bacon, drinking beer and watching Jerry Springer. 
     But we don't.  We plan for the best outcome in life because we are hopeful.  Because dropping out of school, sitting around in your panties, eating bad food, drinking too early and watching trashy television, well, nothing good is going to come out of that picture. 
     Coupled with the hope and plans come countdowns.  We all mark the time for different events, whether it be a holiday, an anniversary, when school gets out, the weekend or maybe until the end of a work day. In Afghanistan, there are typically two big countdowns: 

1.  When you go on your R&R's.
2.  When you get on a plane for the last time out of here.

     I'm on countdown #2. We work seven days a week, so the days blend together and it doesn't really matter what day of the week it is, but you have to watch the time slip by somehow.  I'm not a sports fan, but every sport season's passing scratches more x's and o's off of the calendar.  Basketball has finished and now it's started up again, baseball has come and gone - all good news for me.  I was really looking forward to football season, because the ending of football season corresponds closely with my fly date.  They're still playing that silly game and I'm still here.  Each completed pass and each first down brings me closer to to the end game.
     Then there's the moon.  I watch the cycles of the moon a lot more intently now.  I get up when it's dark, come home when it's dark, the moon cycles just tick that time off naturally.  I'm a big waning crescent fan.  I only have three more full moons left in Afghanistan, and I'll fly on the first day of a waxing crescent.  Tick tock, tick tock.
     I'm looking forward to, for the first time ever in my life - winter.  It is already quite nippy here, in the mid 30's (0 - 3C) at night, getting up to the 50's (12 - 15C) in the day, and it's making that morning bike ride around the base a few degrees on the left side of brisk.  I've got the winter kit and plan to continue riding until there's ice.  There's that planning again, and the planning is always fueled by hope.  Why am I looking forward to winter?  Well, the Taliban have an annual spring offensive where they ramp up and attack more bases, explode more suicide vests and lob more rockets into all of the coalition bases.  We get hit about once a week.  Sometimes you hear the explosion, other times, Big Voice announces the impact, if you're lucky enough to already be in a hardened structure, you wait, if not, you get to hang out in a bunker with 20 or so of your closest friends until they call the all clear.  Those rascally Taliban are fond of 0100 attacks during holidays.  Spring has come and gone and we are in the midst of fall.  Winter?  They go back into the hole they came from during the winter and the attacks are far and few between so bring on the snow, and let the temperatures plunge while you're at it.  I figure I can get a few more full night's sleep out of the season and put my electric blanket to good use to boot.
     They asked me yesterday what the possibility of me extending another 4 months was, if there was anything they could do to get me to stay.  Slim to none, was my response.  I then leaned in and said very quietly, "And Slim has left town."  I've spent enough time overseas; the end of my time here is nigh, the proverbial nose of the plane has dipped.  Upon graduating high school, way back in once upon a time time, my mom said, "Time is the stuff life is made of.  Don't waste it."  While I don't consider my time here wasted, it's certainly high time to start spending that precious commodity differently.  And because I'm always hopeful and am always planning, the app I use below is just one more way to watch the time slip by.

The LGN Diet

The LGN Diet

   The LGN Diet was specifically designed in Afghanistan and the title alone will ensure the book, once written, sells wildly.  Disclaimer:  It is not based on a doctor's nor a nutritionist's advice.  I've been on the LGN Diet for the past 4 months, and the results are amazing.  I've lost that last stubborn 10 pounds I couldn't get rid of prior to coming to Afghanistan and getting on the LGN Diet band wagon.
     The LGN Diet was developed based on pure, raw sexual desire.  And we all know sex sells.  The LGN Diet is not too prescriptive, yet is guaranteed to work if you follow the guiding principles.  Too much of anything will kill you, including water, so you can eat whatever you want.  Just in moderation.  Do you like ice cream?  Have some.  Meat?  Why not?  Pizza?  Sure.  Chocolate?  All. Day. Long.  Eat whatever you want.  I know, sounds good right?  And, it is based on sex.  Already want to buy it, don't you?   Here's the tiny catch.  You have to exercise as well, but it doesn't have to be that taxing and you can do whatever kind of exercise floats your boat.  
     I ride a bicycle around Bagram every morning - it's part of my routine right after breakfast.  It's a fairly leisurely 13 km ride and there is very little traffic on Disney (the main drag) in the am so the soldiers can do their PT.  I also stop off at the clamshell gym a few times a week - that's a part of my exercise component of the LGN Diet.  A soldier's exercise is of course, mandatory, but I love to watch all of the running styles.  For the most part, they make running look very painful.  There are a very few gazelles out there who make running look effortless, but they are the one percenters.  The other 99%?  Some swing their legs outwards as they take each stride, others lean forward and there is one gentleman whose style is so jerky, it reminds me of a rock 'em sock 'em robot.  But he's out there, every morning, herky jerkying along.  There are some supermen and women who run around the base in full kit - their 40 lb Kevlar vest and ruthsack.  I do not feel very manly as I ride bicycle past them, by the by.  I saw two soldiers the other week, one exhorting the other to finish their run, but he did it in such a soldierly way. "C'mon, Godamnit you pussy, c'mon!  You can puke after you finish, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon!  Puke after you finish!"  The Korean civilians wear their floppy hats and walk together as a group, swinging their arms vigorously and the Korean special forces guys run in formation and chant their cadence loudly.  The fat soldiers and contractors?  They invariably walk.  All part of the exercise component of their management LGN Diet, I can only assume. Whatever works for you. Running, walking, cycling, the gym, yoga, Zumba, a Salsa or a Country dance class (yes, they have all of them here).  The chubsters who are walking must be either just starting the LGN Diet or are failing, but only because they don't adhere to the guiding principle.  All you have to do is expend more calories than you consume.  The LGN Diet doesn't tell you how to adhere to the guiding principle - do you want to pork out at surf and turf night?  Go for it!  Want to pile on some french fries?  Have a few more, courtesy of the LGN Diet!  You're welcome! You just have to walk a bit faster or spend a few precious seconds more in the gym to balance the gluttony.
     There are a few quirks to the beta version of the LGN Diet.  It was designed in Afghanistan and part of it was driven by General Order (GO) #1, which all U.S. contractors and soldiers have to adhere to.  Alcohol is a no go.  Verboten.  Haram.  Per GO#1, consumption of alcohol will earn you a one way flight out of the war zone, where, surprisingly, many people want to stay.  For me, getting rid of a few extra calories per day in beer just melted the pounds away and it can work for you too!  But in the final version of the LGN diet, alcohol consumption will be encouraged.  A tipple here and there will help you as you peer in the mirror.  LGN?  Have another sip, and you just might.  And then there's the other component of the LGN Diet based on GO#1.  No sex.  Not in the war zone, my friends, it could be detrimental to discipline and good order in theater. At least that's the line the military spins. That's the bad news but that's how sex ties into the LGN Diet.  Once beta testing is done, sex, and lots of it, will be strongly encouraged - just another part of the exercise regime, the more acrobatic, the better.  The good news is that when we are on a four month rotation, not drinking beer and abstaining from sex, we are all focused on the work we are doing here first, but then on the LGN Diet secondly.  Because after four months +, when you are about to visit your husband/wife/boyfriend/girlfriend or are going to troll around for a partner to get your freak on, you want to LGN.  Perhaps you can tell I'm 8 days away from getting on this plane, going on leave and am going to meet Gwyne for vacation, but when I see her, I'll Look Good Naked (LGN).





DFACS and beard nets

    

     There are those amongst us contractor scum (as we are referred to by many) who are wont to complain. It's too hot. It's too cold. I hate the 120 days of wind. Dust storms suck. The hours are too long. My roommate snores. I sleep in a bunk bed. The mail is too slow. I don't like getting up at night to go outside to pee. We had incoming again last night and I didn't sleep well. I don't like wearing the battle rattle.  The PX has no toothpaste/shampoo/soap.  The DFAC had crappy food today.
     To the complaints, the soft sensitive side of me says, "Wear lighter clothes. Put more clothes on. Yes it is windy, wear a mask. Dust storms do suck, don't they? Yes, the hours are long. Your roommate? Pfffffttt. My wife snores louder than your roommate. Living conditions are tough for soldiers too. We are in a war zone. We have to wear the battle rattle when the military tells us to.  No toothpaste?  Amazon ships in about a week." In short, go find a job someplace else where you work fewer hours, have fewer responsibilities and your pay reflects the time worked and lower duties as well.  Those jobs are out there.  They typically come with fries, though.  And yes, that's me being my soft, sensitive self.  Cuddly like a bunny rabbit, that's what they say about me.
     But today, it's all about the Dining Facility, known to all and sundry in theater as the DFAC. On BAF, there are quite a number of DFAC's and they are reputed to be of varying quality. I've made an effort to go to most of them and I believe there are qualitative and quantitative differences. I'll not bore you with the differences between Yelner, Koele, Dragon, North and Warrior DFAC's, 'cause that's just not interesting.  Well, just this one boring difference:  Yelner shrimp stir fry - 85% cabbage and other vegetables, 15 % shrimp, North DFAC, 85% shrimp, 15% cabbage and other vegetables.  The ratios are completely reversed.  It is unbelievable.   But because I live on the red headed step child side of BAF, I only get over to taste the forbidden fruits of the other DFAC's maybe once a month. 
     You know what I find interesting?  Where people sit whilst mowing down their chow.  The first time I was in Afghanistan, I did notice that each company would sit at the same table, and people sat at pretty much the same seats at the 'company table', as if seating was reserved.  There is, of course, no such thing, it is open seating, but I do remember a few young Afghans with punked hair who sat at the end of 'our' table.  The Deputy Program Manager would glare menacingly at them as they had the temerity to sit at 'our' table.  Their unmitigated gall was unmatched.  But, being Afghans and having a warrior temperment,  they just ignored his stare down and eventually, they became the Afghans who sat at the end of 'our'table. That never stopped the DPM from throwing daggers with his eyes every time they sat down.
     And this go around, I see it as well.  The same people, the same time, the same entrance, the same food, sitting with the same people in the same seats.  If an interloper happens to be sitting in 'their' seat, you see a moment when they are flummoxed, then they sit at the nearest table and adjust their schedule so they are safely ensconced in their seat the next day.  If you examine your own life, I'm sure you will see one big  bundle of routines and habits.  Get up at the same time, start shaving on the same side, leave for work at the same time, take the same route - think about the habits and routines - I find them interesting.   I ride my bike around BAF every morning.  I used to shake things up, sometimes I'd turn left, other times I'd turn right, now I always turn right.  I can't account for why.  It's just a little over 13 km, and I've ridden well over 1500 km since I've been here - the same route, the same loop, the same time.  I just broke a pedal yesterday, so I join those who are momentarily befuddled as their routine is disrupted while I wait for the miracle that is Amazon to deposit a pair of pedals on my doorstep.   I like to change where I sit, but I typically sit on the same side.  I, like many others,  like my routine. 
     The DFAC is not open all day, so there are some tricks that are used to take some snack food out - I've just observed these tricks, mind you; I only take two items out, as allowed by DFAC policy.   When I was working Kuwait, I had to be professionally dressed as I lived off base and had to be ready at a moments notice to go to a Ministry, interact with our sponsor, go to a hospital, or in the case of employees behaving badly, to the hoosegow.  Not a lot of food you can fit into a decent pair of slacks.  I knew I wasn't going to be leaving the confines of a base this trip, so I packed accordingly - I brought contractory contractor clothes only.  We all dress pretty much the same - there go those routines and habits again.  511 cargo pants are the de rigueur 'uniform' for contractors, and they come in handy, for some, when you go to the DFAC.  There are two cavernous pockets in the back, two voluminous pockets in the front, and an additional two pockets that merely resemble a small ravine that some manage to fill with more than their two items.   There are others who wear a jacket.  In the sweltering summer heat.  Just to the DFAC.  C'mon fellows.  A little discretion goes a long way. 
     But the thing that really tickles me about the DFAC are the beard nets.  I like them.  Nobody wants to see a curly-q hair in their food, so hopefully the beard nets prevent any of them falling in to my nourishing food.  But if I ever see a foreign hair in my food, well, I suspect I'll quickly become a fruititarian for the duration of my tour here.

Beard nets...

It's all about the fort

        I'm pretty spoiled.   The last time I was in Afghanistan, I posted up at Green Village, which is as luxurious as Afghanistan gets - your own room, temperature controlled, your own bathroom, bath and shower (and unlike on base, I could control the water temperature there), AFN TV, DVD player, carpeted, daily maid and laundry service, indoor pool - the list goes on.  It was not hardship duty, but yes, I did get the hardship uplift.  Then I came back to Afghanistan this go around.  I knew living on base would be a very different experience, but even though I kind of knew what to expect, as I said before, when I was taken to my bunk I did look, pause and ask, "Is this, ummm, my permanent billet?"  Why yes, yes it was.

     There are a few types of places where you will lay your head down at the end of a day here at the lovely resort we call Bagram, but all of those fort making skills practiced in your youth will pay off if you should ever find yourself here.  At the zero star level, there is the transient tent - meant for those who are going to spend a few nights or those who are waiting for permanent billeting.  The beds are bunk beds, and the bottom bunk is much preferred.  Who wants to climb down that ladder in the middle of the night to go outside to pee?  Certainly not me.  The transient tent has a few squatters - they have made it their home and don't want to move out.  Go figure.  Garnering a half a star would be permanent tent billeting.  It is all temperature controlled, so it is icy cold in the summer and toasty warm in the winter, but you are still in bunk beds.  The biggest disadvantage to tent living is when there is incoming, you have to leave the tent and hole up in a bunker until you hear the 'All clear, all clear, resume normal ops' from Big Voice.  Moving up the the shaky one star level (don't think you'll see this on Trip Advisor) are the infamous B-Hut's, one step up from a tent, but not by much.  It's

Inside my old B-Hut

short for Barracks Hut and the term came from the British Army way back in once upon time time, and it was meant for temporary living.  Well, 10 years later here in Afghanistan, they're still standing, but just barely.  I had 28 snoring, farting roommate's stewing in their man juice in my B-Hut, and I considered myself fortunate because I had a bottom bunk.  For about 3 weeks, I had no top bunker and there was dread every day I came  home.  I'd key the cypher lock, then open the inside door, cracking it slowly to see if there was some stranger with their gear on the top bunk.  For three weeks, the unpleasant anticipation was met with exquisite relief - no top bunker.  Then one day, someone's gear appeared on the wall locker next to mine.  Fortunately for me, my incredible run of luck continued.  He was a top rate top bunker - older, like me, quiet, went to sleep early, woke up early and bonus of bonuses, he didn't snore.  For some reason, a B-Hut is considered a 'hardened structure' and when we get hit, you don 't have to wait it out in the bunkers.  As you can see, there is very little room to be shared by two grown human beings.  I'm certain a new Yoga pose will come from living like this - Pelican hopping twist, or something like that, from the gyrations you engage in whilst getting dressed in the morning.  Excellent.  Now repeat on the other side for balance.  It will be all the rage.

My bottom bunk cell block inside B-Hut. 
Note the fort like privacy curtain.

     I just moved into the next level of housing - concrete building with no real name yet other than Phase V and VI.  I'm sure that contractors will give it a more amusing name other than the bland Phase I - VI.   This living situation is a vast improvement over the B-Hut.  I'll now have a total of 8 guys in my room (4 on each side with doors at the end of the walkway) and wonder of wonders, no one above me.  A real bed.  No chance that anyone will move on top of me.  No more daily dread.  It's funny how quickly one acclimates to life here, because my new living quarters seem palatial and private - 50 square feet.  I'm thinking of subletting out some of the space for storage, I just don't know what to do with the surplus area. 

    At the tippy top of the food chain is the dry and wet CHU, both garnering a Bagram 4 star rating.  CHU is an acronym for Containerized Housing Unit.  The dry CHU means you have to go out side to get to a toilet, like the rest of us schlubs and the Holy Grail of housing in theater is the wet CHU - a toilet and shower inside of your dwelling.  Unthinkable.  Yet a few of these rare birds do exist.

    

CHU living

     If you are in any type of billet besides a CHU, then it's really all about the fort.  As a wee lad growing up, give me a blanket, a few cushions, or a cardboard box, and I'd whip up a serviceable fort.  And that's what everyone does here, creating a faux sense of privacy, but it helps us sleep at night.  I pity the young fools who don't have good fort making skills - they must look at the empty space with thumbs twitching involuntarily.  No, my young friends, there is no video game console.  Get to work and make yourself a fort.

     And after you've made your fort and done your time, then you get ready to leave - we all leave here someday.  When someone announces their departure, there is first the insincere, "I'm sad to see you go," followed by the very sincere, "What are you selling?" The more experienced and talented among us manage to get both phrases in without taking a breath.  Then you hear the hushed, excited twitter amongst colleagues of, "Will that free up a bottom bunk?"  Yes, it's come down to that.  Will that free up a bottom bunk.  I've broken free of the shackles of being a bottom bunker or a top bunker, I feel as if I've evolved to stand upright.  But tomorrow, I think I'll stroll down to the billeting office to see just where I am on the OML list for a CHU...

      

Predictability

     The field of DoD contracting is definitely a subculture all to itself.  Generally, leadership is comprised of white, retired military officers.  Some of them have made what I've heard referred to as 'the turn', as in they've made the transition from the military mind set to the corporate world.  In the military, they accomplished the mission at all costs.  As newly minted businessmen, they now attempt to provide a product or service for a fair profit, and now they need to mind the cost.  Some of them have most definitely not made the turn and believe they are still in the military.  With the drawdown in Afghanistan progressing at a fast and furious pace and contracting for the  DoD contracting, they won't survive in the business world.   At the other end of the employment spectrum, depending on the nature of the contract or services that are provided to the government, are typically ex-enlisted military, some retired, some not.  Many of them do not have transferable skills outside of the DoD contracting world and will struggle mightily once the overseas gravy train comes off the tracks.  That train is just about to be derailed, my friends.  Many of the people you meet and interact with in this unique world, regrettably, are not the most interesting or educated.  For educational standards, I submit this excerpt from a resume.  I sure did get a belly laugh out of this though - makes me think of going back to school myself.  I believe I could get my hands around the curriculum.

     Perhaps the individual meant Associates Degree or Associate of Science - but it's attention to detail that sets a resume, and the individual apart from the masses.  And that detail certainly got my attention, but not in the right way.
     Every once and a while though,  you run into someone who does not fit the profile of a DoD contractor.  Bradley is one of these individuals and one who most definitely broke whatever mold he was forged from.  Let's start off with this:  he owns a bulldozer in Nigeria.  That kind of guy.  I'll get back to Nigeria in just a bit.  Bradley is in his mid 40's, prematurely gray, reasonably fit and not at all bad looking.  He's  educated, skilled, well read, widely travelled and can speak intelligently on a  variety of topics.  My kind of people, with the exception of his peculiarities.  Peculiarities you ask?  Well,  Bradley loves women and drugs.  Unabashedly.  The drugs are all prescription drugs and have been vetted through the physician here.  But the women and the stories of the women are something else.  Bradley is in the upper echelons of management and at a business dinner in Dubai, he asked if he could bring a date.  He received the affirmative and then showed up with not one but  two 'dates', who were of the for hire date variety.  That kind of move takes some chutzpah.  He went to see a doctor in Dubai, the doctor wasn't there, so he stopped by the pharmacy (because he hates to go to a hospital and come away empty handed) said he had a girl back in the hotel and asked if they could give him some Cialis.  And they gave it to him.  He maintains an apartment in Thailand, and currently has three women living there.  He has a girlfriend in London, and a Cambodian girl he's been writing for whom he's just procured a visa to come visit him in Dubai when he's on his next R&R.  She's never been out of Cambodia.  He has pictures in his office of 4 very attractive women, one of whom is the girlfriend in London.  I don't know about the other three women in the  pictures, but I'm fairly certain that none of them belong to the three women who currently live in his apartment.  Bradley loves women, and doesn't mind admitting that he pays for their companionship and sexual favors.  That kind of guy. I don’t get it at all. But I will say this, I know plenty of guys overseas who have wives and girlfriends in the U.S. and who go whoring in Dubai, Thailand or the Philippines.  At least Bradely is a confirmed bachelor and brazenly open about his exploits.
     His bulldozer in Nigeria has been a bust so far, the guy who he has running it for him has managed to wheedle more money out of him for repairs than he has been able to send him when the bulldozer is rented out.  But hey, it's a bulldozer scheme in Nigeria, what the hell did he expect?  He told me a story the other day about his time in Nigeria, when he was working for an oil company - he said he knocked up a Nigerian prostitute.  I did not ask if he was having unprotected sex with the Nigerian prostitutes, I let his story roll on.  I certainly did wonder  how anyone who has any type of education could get someone in this day and age - particularly a Nigerian prostitute - pregnant.  The man has a M.A. in Chemistry.  There must have been some Biology in his educational background somewhere.  But I digress.  He said the girl confronted him, told him she was pregnant.  Bradley  offered her a million Naira - the equivalent of $17,000, to either take to get an abortion or to use to raise the child.  She agreed to take the money, and he paid out the money in installments.  While he may have been foolish enough to get a Nigerian prostitute pregnant, he was not so fiscally foolish as to give a Nigerian prostitute a cool million all in one fell swoop.  He took care of fiscal foolishness when he bought the bulldozer.  In Nigeria. 
     When they met to exchange the final installment, she showed up with a group of her prostitute friends.  She demanded another million.  Bradley recoiled in shock and told her that many men wouldn't have even offered her the first million and there is no second million coming - that was the agreement and that was it.  No more money. She then began to grab his arm and hit him and her friends started shouting at him and joined in the pushing and pulling.  His driver recognized the situation was about to turn ugly and shoved him into the car and attempted to drive away, but the car was surrounded by angry Nigerian prostitutes.  They rocked the car back and forth and pounded on the windows.  The driver was able to eventually inch out and make it back to the safety of the oil compound.  There Bradley sat, safely ensconced in his office when he heard the chants, muffled at first,  "Brad-ley, Brad-ley, Brad-ley."  Yes, the group of Nigerian prostitutes had gathered outside his office and were chanting his name - they wanted Bradley and the second million or his blood.  His boss came in and asked what the hell was going on.  Bradley looked out the window at the growing mob and looked at his boss and said, "Not sure, seems like a case of mistaken identity."  The din continued to get louder, "Brad-ley, Brad-ley, Brad-ley Brad-ley.  We want Brad-ley, we want Brad-ley, we want Brad-ley!"  The security detail was called in and the girls were escorted out of the compound.  'Cause that's how they roll in Nigeria. 
     As I said before, most of the folks you meet in Afghanistan are predictable and really not that interesting.  Hell, even the Taliban and their rocket attacks follow a formula - Springtime on a windless night, 0100, you can bet on it.  There's not a lot of variation there.  Big Voice comes on and you hear, "IDF impact, IDF impact, shelter in place, don IBA."  I'm certain the Taliban mutter to themselves right after they shoot the rocket, "Allahu Akbar."  Why?  Because they have no imagination, that's why.   The people, the work, the bicycle ride around the base every day, the food and yes, even the attacks - predictable. 
     But there is a small group of folks here on Bagram who wait for Bradley to take his next R&R so we can be entertained by his ribald tales upon his return.  Although you could fairly write the script for his stories yourself,  his predictability breaks up our monotony.