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.

I could have been born anywhere...


     There for the grace of God go I.  That's a phrase my dad (who is not religious) was fond of using in my youth.  He used it to remind me of how lucky our family was growing up, mostly lucky just to be born in the U.S.  And I am reminded of this daily - reminded of my dumb luck being born in the U.S. - while here in Afghanistan. 


A little kindness to these guys goes a long way.

     The U.S. Army has done away with MOS's (Military Occupational Specialities) like cooks and janitors, contracting them out to lower paid minions, while focusing on the essential military functions.  Makes sense to me.  But contracting overseas is a different game than SCA contracts in the U.S., where the wages are essentially set and those lower paid minions are U.S. citizens.  In Afghanistan, those performing less desirable jobs are most definitely not U.S. citizens.  In overseas contracting parlance, anyone who is not a LN (Local National) or a U.S. Citizen is an OCN (Other Country National).  Contractors will typically use a tiered wage system with LN's and OCN's, and  there are tiers within tiers of OCN wages.  The compensation rates are usually plucked from the comp rates in those countries, which, compared to  U.S. rates, can seem shockingly low.  In Afghanistan, the LN's (Afghan's) are the lowest paid of all, then come the Indians, the Bosnians and Kosovars, and finally, at the top of the heap, American citizens.  The Afghan's are the janitors and the food service folks.  In the DFAC, instead of hair nets, the men all wear beard nets, which keeps those suspicious looking curly hairs out of my food.  That's a good thing.  The Indians, Bosnians and Kosovars are doing the blue collar/lower level technical work.  Some of them are quite educated as well and many do excellent work - there is a gentleman working in a clerical area who has a degree in physics.  Can't get a decent paying job in his home country.  And I repeat, he performs a clerical function.  They're paid at rates slightly above what they'd earn in their home country in the same or similar occupations. However, it still takes the same coin to buy an unlocked Iphone.  The last time I checked, Apple didn't have a tiered pricing system for people from other countries wanting to buy their slick products.

      As I've said before, pretty much every American citizen working in Afghanistan is making six figures.  Most of the Americans working in Afghanistan were not making anything close to six figures back in the U.S.  Very, very far from it.  And why the high salaries?  Simply due to their being born in the U.S. and the U.S. being a prosperous nation and having a high GDP and comp rates. And, as I've said before, many of the U.S. citizens working overseas in support of DoD contracts are not the cream of the crop.  In support of that assertion, here's an objective stated on someone's resume (italics added):

OBJECTIVES:

To obtain a challenging position in better prospects for a bright future using my education qualifications and professional experience, an experienced quality oriented person with demonstrated success in the ability analysis problems, recommended solutions and implemented procedures to achieve production objectives. Solid communicational and interpersonal skills allowed the development of strong working relationships and well within time concentrate while maintaining bottom line sensitivity.

     No,  really.  Someone educated in the U.S. actually wrote that.  This goes to demonstrate that many American's working overseas making larger than life salaries are not necessarily any smarter than the LN's and OCN's they work side by side with.  The U.S. GDP helps justify higher rates of pay and some jobs require a clearance, which you need to be a U.S. citizen for.  Again, there for the grace of God go I, because I could have been born anywhere else in the world, but I wasn't.  If I was born elsewhere, my citizenship alone would have prevented me from those top paying jobs in the contracting world overseas.  Just like that. 

     My wife is half Japanese.  She often reflects on the fact that her family could have been part of the Japanese diaspora in the 1920's - 40's to the Pacific, and she could have been born on Saipan, Chuuk, Kosrae or in the Marshall Islands, where we met.  But, there for the grace of God she went, and instead, her family emigrated to the West Coast of the U.S.  After her mother's family was she taken away to what is still euphemistically called 'camp' during World War II, her mom ended up settling in Los Angeles and that's where my wife was born.  That blue passport is a fine thing to have.  We both recognize that being born a U.S. citizen, with the excellent public education, clean drinking water, good health care, roads, sewer, police, fire and military, not to mention living in a democratic nation where there has been uninterrupted, smooth transition to power since 1776, is a wonderful thing.  We could have been born anywhere else in the world.  But we weren't.

     We lived in the Middle East for a while.  While the Middle East does not have the most attractive geography in the world, they were geologically blessed being born sitting on a bunch of oil.  They didn't do anything to be born atop those oil derricks.   After this oil was discovered and shipped out and the money flowed in, then Middle Easterners hired maids and tea boys and general laborers to do the heavy lifting work that they just didn't want to do anymore.  And here's a story I heard from an Army Officer who was serving in Iraq.  A village elder contacted the U.S. military at a Forward Operating Base, pleading for a shipment of water.  They had no water, and were in desperate need.  The military arranged for a flatbed of bottled water to be delivered to the village, and when the truck arrived, the village elder was very grateful and thankful.  "There is a small problem with the delivery, sir."  The Army officer asked what the issue was, and the gentleman said, "Sir, since the war started, our Filipino's have left.  We have no Filipino's to take the water off of the truck for us."  The Army Officer was indeed a gentleman and quite hospitably said, "Well Mohammad, today is your lucky day.  You are about to get some good old fashioned on the job training."  Snap!

     I could have been born in Dafur, or anywhere else in the world which would have made my pathway to a comfortable life most likely more difficult.  There for the grace of God go I.  Or as my wife likes to say, "You are just the luckiest mf I've ever met in my life."  True that.

 

     The money.  I've always been about the money, ever since I was a wee lad.  I think this was mostly driven by my father, who in response to my pleas for a baseball glove, a fishing pole, a football helmet - whatever it was - would unfailingly say, "Sure.  You can have (x).  Just find a way to earn the money and you can buy yourself whatever you want."  The message:  If you want it, go out and get it.  Heard that message loud and clear dad, and in retrospect - it is greatly appreciated, although not so much at the time.  So off I trundled, helping my brother with his paper route (I loved collecting every month and looking for the pre 1965 sliver coins), finding golf balls in the woods and water hazards on the local golf course, doctoring them up and selling them back to golfers, or buying Craigmont soda for 13 cents a can, putting them in a cooler and pushing a wheelbarrow up to the tee right  before where the vending machine with sodas was.   Sold them for 25 cents, a handsome profit of 12 cents, almost 50%, with no overhead.  As I grew older, I worked as a busboy at Pals Pancake house in New Jersey and when I moved back to the Marshall Islands, I worked a variety of jobs, snack bar, lifeguard, and when I was back for summers and Christmas, I worked in heavy equipment, construction, whatever job I could cobble together.  I also found and sold rare shells, fished and sold what I didn't/couldn't eat, pretty much anything that would bring a few shekels in.  I was always on the hustle for the pennies to save so I could squander them on some pretty bauble later on.
   There are soooo many things I could write about when it comes to money and the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.  Corruption.  Graft.  The cost to get all of the equipment there.  The cost to sustain it.  The cost to get it out.  Military pensions.  VA costs.  Contractor's profits and business models.  Serious, long term injuries. Defense Base Act claims.  And the absolutely incalculable cost of lives.   Each topic really deserves coverage more in depth than I have the time to devote, but here's  a morsel on pay earned by contractor's.

     I'll admit it.  When sequestration was looming and Afghanistan winding down, I smelled one of the last chances to earn and save some of the stupid money.  And that's why I came back.

     "In all countries engaged in war, experience has sooner or later pointed out that contracts with private men of substance and understanding are necessary for the subsistence, covering, clothing, and moving of any Army."
     Robert Morris
     Superintendent of Finance, 1781

     The quote just goes to show you the contracting game has been going on a loooonnnnnggggg time.  Any government can't do it all by themselves, so they contract out to companies to provide support services.  Requests for proposals are put out, companies submit bids, are selected, and pile in to do whatever work is required to assist with the military mission.  That's the very simple version.  In some cases, the work done is quite mundane - think running a small town or city.  The  Logistical Civil Augmentation Program (LOGCAP) contracts really deal with the logistics of operating a base, the power generation, roads, sewer, water, housing.  The carpenters, power plant operators, electricians and the like are earning 6 figure salaries.  Other contracts maintain equipment/vehicles or do secret squirrel stuff.  When you add up what you don't pay for while overseas, housing, utilities, food (in Afghanistan) and throw in the 95.1K tax exemption, well, you're talking about some serious coin.  The tax exemption alone adds an effective 23K to your salary, if you assume a 25% tax rate.  That's what you would have paid in taxes if you were back in the good 'ole U.S. of A. but don't pay overseas which allows you to save at a much higher rate.  But most people do have responsibilities back in the States - spouses, houses, children, cars and other money drainers.  These jobs allow them to take care of those bills and breathe easier because most of those folks wouldn't have been earning six figure salaries back in the U.S.  Very far from it.  I know of one young woman who was earning 26K/year doing administrative work somewhere back home.  And in Afghanistan, with the 35% uplift for danger, 35% uplift for hardship and her bonus...90K+.  So we are talking, at the very low end, a group of employees who are not the best and brightest (this is no dig at craftsmen, whose skills I respect and value highly, this is a dig at the fools who work over here) getting paid quite well.  And that's at the low end.  Although the freewheeling early days of Iraq and Afghanistan are over and salaries and profit margins are quite a bit tighter then they were in the gravy years, it can still be quite lucrative, particularly given the difficulty of a lower skilled person looking for jobs in the U.S.  Some contractors pay a higher hourly rate but only give you the uplift on the first 40 hours, others pay a lower rate and uplift all wages.  It works out to be pretty much the same.  And there are quite a few higher paying positions as well.
     As we draw down, and quite thankfully prepare to partially exit Afghanistan, the perks that soldiers and contractors overseas enjoyed are diminishing as well.  There is a huge push to save money and be cost conscious.  'Bout time.  They used to have at least 5 flavors of ice cream at the DFAC.  They are now routinely down to 3.  And surf and turf night?  It used to be lobster.  Every Friday.  Do you know how many times I've had lobster in the 7 Friday's I've been here?  Once.  Breaded shrimp.  Catfish.  Crab legs.  I don't think they should expect American Jedi war heroes (and the humble contractors who support them) to have to suck on a crab leg to get a tiny morsel of meat.  What kind of  surf is that?  I'd be guessing the kind of surf that doesn't cost quite as much as lobster.
     And where there are foolish people earning large sums of money, there will always be some entrepreneur nearby, willing and able to help separate those fools from their money.  I stopped by a bazaar today just inside the base.  Those ersatz mink blankets you see in developing nations everywhere?  Well they sell them here as well.  Mickey Mouse and Confederate Flag blankets for sale, right here in Afghanistan.  If someone is foolish enough to buy that crap, someone else is smart enough to put it up for sale.  Well done, well struck my capitalistic friends.
 

     Bagram is a mature base.  By that, I certainly don't mean it is filled with mature individuals with mature thoughts.  The graffiti certainly bears that out.  I mean it has been here for a while, and doesn't appear to be going anywhere, even after 2014.  In addition to the many DFAC's, there is Burger King, Subway, Popeye's, Pizza Hut, a few Green Beans Coffee (Honor first, coffee second is their motto), as well as places to buy a sim for your GSM phone or a GSM phone, local goods, to include carpets, gems, clothing and pirated DVD's.  Do you like Clint Eastwood?  You can get a boxed set of every movie he's ever been in.  Or pretty any much any other action type figure.  Very enterprising, those Afghani's.   There are also places to get your haircut and a massage from one of the girls from Krygystan.  Fancy a local meal?  There is Afghan restaurant off Disney named Aziz's, should you want to try something more entertaining instead of the free food provided 3 times a day.  For my palate, the DFAC is absolutely...adequate.  Aziz's will most likely not separate me from any of my pennies.   So  how mature is Bagram?  So mature that in one week, I've received mass e-mail blasts inviting me to:

March Madness 3 on 3 basketball tournament.
Kickboxing aerobics.
Country night two step dancing.
Body 4 life step aerobics.
Latin dance competition.
Texas Hold 'em (for prizes, not monetary gambling).
Friday night movies!
And I saw an ad while at the main PX for a DJ battle/face off - something like DJ T Money vs DJ DRama.  Or something like that. 


     That's in one week.  Sounds like a cruise ship or some kind of vacation, right?  I know what you're thinking - accommodations, a buffet meal three times a day, activities - where do I sign up for this kind of vacation and  how much does it cost?  As the infomercials say on late night television, "But wait, there's more!"  They pay you while staying at the resort.  That's right, you get paid to be here!  Unbelievable, right?
     Unbelievable for a reason, my friends.  Think Carnival Cruise gone wrong.  But here's what I think really sets Bagram apart - there are a few websites set up to sing the praises (or not) of life on Bagram. I Love Bagram (ILB), R.O.T.W (Reason Of The Week) and DFAC recipes.  There is also nakslist.com.  Nakslist.com is the craigslist of Afghanistan, but only for the bases, not for those who really live in Afghanistan proper. I bought a bicycle off of nakslist the first week I was here. And if you look at nakslist, there are really only posts for Bagram and Kandahar - all of the other FOB's don't participate. Like many things in life, it's a numbers game.
     ILB is just what it sounds like - a bunch of posts, all satirical, on all the special things that brings one pleasure while deployed here.  If you browse ILB, you will quickly find out that Bagram is not as much of a vacation resort as all of the advertised extra curricular activities might lead one to believe.  Most of the comments/posts fall into these categories:

1.   Food and the DFAC.  Mostly complaints about food and sightings of women in the DFAC.
2.  Sex (and lack thereof) and masturbation. 
3.  Related to sex, #236.

You can't make this shit up is a refrain heard in the contracting world overseas.  And you really can't.  I learned two things scrolling through ILB (I had to look both of them up).  The first was does the carpet and drapes match?  #236 originally got that wrong.












Here's the original #236 post:

236. Yes, I am a female. Yes I look good. Yes I have red hair. Yes the friggin curtains match the drapes, and no you can't see for yourself you stupid mouth-breathing, knuckle-dragging, trailer-trash, swamp-ass, flea infested idiot. # 249 called her out and said it was the carpet and drapes, not curtains and drapes.  And yes, I had to look it up in Urban Dictionary.com.    Something else I saw liberally mentioned in ILB was the term 'fleshlight'.  I am a bit green when it comes to sex toys, I guess that's the category it would fall into.  I had to look that up on the internet.  And unless you want to be seriously grossed out, don't look it up.  The rest of this blog is devoted to #236, who either never existed, or who is gone, gone, gone. But the myth lives on. 243. Angry red heads. See number 236. 244. Hey 236, you'll be a four again soon. Enjoy your moment of glory. 249. Smart-assed "deployment self-assured" women who run their mouths, and don't know what they are talking about. Hey 236 - "curtains" and "drapes" are the same thing. The question is, do they match the carpet? But really, who's running carpet these days? 253. Looking at every fat readheaded female and wonering if its 236. 272. Wondering if the large red head whose ass looked like two wildebeasts fighting in a gunny sack while I was behind her on the eliptical machine is number 236. 281. 236...will you marry me? 282. Taking the time for search Bagram for mythical things that may or may not exist...personal space, privacy, clean showers, unicorns, and oh, hot red heads...here's to you #236. 283. The chicken bones and used condoms in the bunkers over by the new RLB's. I'll bet #236 knows how they got there... 298. Red heads with blue eyes... pretty sure 236 was in the green bean today. I'd follow her around all. day. long. 306. Having conversations about #236 and not even knowing if she is really a girl or a guy quoting what he was told by a Desert Queen. 322. For that hot blonde who enjoyed her Popsicle to the fullest on Weds dinner at aviation dfac, thank you for refilling the bank. I don't think 236 stands a chance against this talent! 345. Could #236 be the third? Or is she the one who got convinced to have a three-some? 351. You can take a shower with 236 and get 6 minutes of water. 378. Hey #236, didn't I divorce you, if not, consider this message as being served. It's over. 393. Walking from the BX to the four corners and not seeing one officer! I'm taking that luck to Vegas! 236 I've got an extra ticket for you since you're now divorced. 417. Using "#236" references in everyday conversation, and everyone knowing exactly who the fuck you're talking about. 428. Putting 236 and 375 together and making an '8'. Ladies, you know we love you. 435. Over hearing an Airmen at the greenbean, that he is #236. 545. Relooking when DADT is repealed so I can date #236. 620. Be nice to 236: maybe "curtains" and "drapes" is all there is...maybe the carpet is gone. 648. Side tracked at sick call wondering if the carpet matches the drapes too... lmao, I almost called her 236 675. Because I hate Justin Beiber and I hate #630.... but I'm definitely willing to become a lesbian if #236 is! It goes on an on and on.  3,672 posts at last count and #236 just won't go away. I'm almost tempted to buy the t-shirt.  But I won't.  She isn't real. But this one takes the cake: 540. The hilariously awkward way my roommate acted when I caught him staring at the tattoo of #236 naked on my leg. A #236 tattoo on his leg.  That's a piece of Bagram lore to take with you for the rest of your life. Up next - the money.

Graffiti

                Let’s get  this out there:  I like graffiti.  I like witty, urbane, interesting,  cutting graffiti.  The type of graffiti you find in bathroom stalls in graduate school.  Clever.  Kind of like the anonymous precursor to facebook, where a discussion may be started by a Marxist, dissing Reagan’s Capitalism and his trickle down theory of economics as fatally flawed.  Once the discussion is started, the perpetrators always return to the scene of the crime (the same stall) to see who has commented on their thread.  They like to return well before the call of nature has tooted its clarion horn.  ‘Cause they want to see who responded to their post.  Fun stuff.  

               The first time I had to use the toilet here, I noticed the stern warning taped to the outside of the entrance to the throne, “Warning:  This is government property.  Graffiti is prohibited.  Blah blah blah.”  I opened the door to find the walls covered with graffiti.  Nasty stuff.  Nasty and embarrassing that Americans, native English speakers who wrote that shit are that uneducated.  The graffiti is absolutely riddled with spelling and grammatical errors.  And then there is some downright racist stuff. 

                The demographics of the workforce amongst contractors in Afghanistan is interesting.  On Bagram, you’ll find primarily Americans from all regions of the U.S., but the Indians can outnumber Americans by a 2:1 ratio.  There are also Kosovars, Nepalis and a smattering of Afghanis.  I’m unfailingly polite to the Afghanis.  If there ever is an incident where the perimeter has been breached and some insugent group is looking for a few good infidels (and my infidel-ness is chart topping, I assure you), I hope they’ll point me out and say, “Not that one.  He’s a good man.  He knows my name and learned a few words of Pashtu.  Spare him.”  I’ll give him the big thumbs up and say, “Allahu akbar to you, my brother!  That’s what I’m talking about!”

                But the international workforce can sometimes lead to misunderstandings and differences, and can lead to some unpleasant graffiti (factoid:  the singular of graffiti is graffito).  Most of the stuff is appalling.  There is a lot of black/white name calling, which has nothing to do with the workforce from around the world, which is even more of a reason for it to be inexcusable.  There is the liberal use of the ‘n’ word.  There are proclamations of the end of the U.S.  because Obama was re-elected.  And again, Obama is a Muslim and was born in Kenya.  Like I said, not the stuff of graduate school.  Or high school.  Even Michelle is fair game.  Children.  Please.  Are Sasha and Malia next?   The black population hits back against Mitt Romney and the white establishment;  we’re all racist crackers.  Go home if you don’t want to be here, Obama won the election.  Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.   Clearly, there are some deep rooted issues at stake.  In 1991, Rodney King asked if we could just all get along.  Apparently, even after almost 23 years, the answer is no.  There is one person who uses a red pen to correct grammar, punctuation and spelling, without entering the fray.  Just things like, ‘Indefinite article not needed here.  No need for a comma.  If there is no pause when speaking, you don’t use a comma.”   My kind of graffiti.  But the rest is just uneducated, lowest common denominator crap.   

                 The most virulent graffiti is directed at the Indian workforce.  Some of the most interesting, educated, hard working and competent people I have worked with overseas have been Indians, particularly from the State of Kerala, which spends the greatest percentage of their budget on education, and from my perspective, Kerala is getting a bang for their buck. But the graffiti is aimed at  toilet habits, which apparently are unknown and foreign to those from the U.S.  For those who don’t know, many in the Indian subcontinent, and throughout Southeast Asia and East Asia use squat toilets and water to clean themselves.  By the by, there are a number of studies out there that show squatting while dropping a deuce has health benefits.  I won’t bore you with the nitty gritty, but if you’re interested, go ahead and google it for grins.  What really gets the sitters going is the empty water bottles (brought in to clean the nether regions after squatting) and what the sitters refer to as ‘ass water.’  The first time I heard that phrase, I couldn’t stop chuckling.  Really?  Ass water?  I chuckle even as I write this.  For those squatters who are not careful, when cleaning the nether regions with water, drops  may splatter on the toilet seat.  When a sitter goes in a stall and sees droplets of water on the toilet seat, they can rest assured they did not come from a pure mountain fed fresh spring.  No, those wet spots are…ass water.  Who wants to have to clean that shit up?

                The graffiti is really not fit to print, so anyone who was looking forward to the gory details of the insults hurled back and forth will be disappointed.   And don’t you think ass water is a detail that is gory enough?  We all live on the base.  We work together, we eat together.  The living quarters are segregated (not sure why that is, perhaps a morbid fear of getting too close to ass water prompted some planner to have the Indians in separate living quarters – not sure if the Kosovars are housed separately as well).  Living and working together should engender some sort of camaraderie – and it does, up to a point.   And that point, the Mason-Dixon line of Bagram, and I suspect throughout every FOB in Afghanistan is between those from whom the ass water comes and those who enter a stall to find the most unwelcome ass water.  The division is between the sitters and the squatters.  And baby, I’ve seen the graffiti to prove it. 

Up  next?  Bagram, a mature base and an ode to #236.