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13:40 – Baghdad. Craig had sent me up to the OMB (Office of Management and Budget) to kick their sorry asses into shape but, fortunately for them, their office door was well locked. Also fortunate was me, because the sorry asses I was suppose to kick were in the CPA Ministry of Finance, not the OMB. I can only imagine the depths of my embarrassment, apologizing to an accountant.
I chose to wait a few minutes outside their door anyway, and settled on one of the gilded and overstuffed chairs that are arranged in some of the few remaining open spaces about the palace hallways. The seat was comfortable enough, better than the cheap desk chair in the office, and a fine place to play a hand or two of hearts against the program resident on my PDA. In the midst of unceremoniously dumping the Queen of Spades on the unsuspecting opponent I’ve named after my brother-in-law, a woman completed the stairs and crossed in front of my little living room set, complaining into her cellie, “I am &@$% sick to death of the $%#@@, ^&%$, &%&^%, #$@ bureaucracy at the %$#(@ CPA!”
“Holy $#@*!”, I thought. It finally got to her.
Ah, I remember when Baghdad was cool. Back when the residents were all hard core world travelers in search of adventure, all of three months ago. Now, it’s starting to look like Washington on the Tigris, as more and more D.C. folks follow the money to an increasingly safer city (honest, it’s getting better,… I think). They bring with them the means, methods, and motivations that serve them at home and try to recreate that nurturing environment.
Nurturing the #$@ bureaucracy, that is.
Even with the announced and scheduled demise of the Coalition Government at the end of June, we still expect another thousand personnel to take up residence here within the next few months. Granted, I’m just a lowly consultant, but it seems to me that, if an organization is planning on reducing their presence, the number of people should decline. Ah, but what do I know? There could be concrete reasons why, but I’m guessing not.
Anyway, it seems like this situation really PO-ed the woman on the stairs. My reaction is to dust off my island mantra, “I’m not surprised”. Like the action of government should make sense here? Here of all places!
In Finance, when I finally spoke to them, I learned that the accountants had massaged some data I had sent them to a point where they had massaged the numbers to death and the numbers were no longer correct. Accountants.
Sometimes I sense a subtle mood shift within we ungrateful whiners at the PMO. Fire drill after fire drill has left us with an attitude less gung ho than we when we started. The way Congress and the various agencies in Washington toy with the Supplemental funds leaves us with a demeanor of ineffectiveness. The increasing bureaucracy makes me think that the Americanization of Iraq is almost complete.
Read More......
2003-12-31
2003-12-23
Tuesday, December 23, 2003
16:30 – Baghdad. The Solstice passed under clear and bright skies, providing Baghdad with one of the coldest days of the year. The chill was deep and the dry cold allowed me to see my breath for many hours into the day. I’d had enough of the office, though, and spent the holiday doing just about nothing for a change, alternating between lethargy and just plain laziness.
It rocked. Come the next morning, and I was about ready to get back to my duties, when I got a call from Carp over at the 95th, wanting to know if I’d like a ride to the pump station at Jadriya, south out of the CPA along the right bank of the Tigris. I could sit at my desk later, and immediately agreed. It was a trip out of the compound and a trip to some place new. Absolutely, I’d go, although I worked to effectively contain my enthusiasm. I mean, really. He is a Corporal, and I’m a fake GS-14. It wouldn’t look right to show too much emotion.
It had rained all night on the tin roof of the hooch and was still raining and still cold as I poked my head outside. I had two choices. To stay the most dry, I could rummage through the duffle bag (after dragging it out from under my bed) and find the camouflage poncho that was in there somewhere. But, no one else wears their ponchos, and I’d hate to, you know, not fit it – not be uniform, as it were.
Apparel choice number two was to wear the cotton field coat (in the ever attractive desert camouflage, of course) that the government issued to me, topped off with the black knit watch cap that I’ve worn for every winter I can remember. Sure, the coat wasn’t water resistant, but it was only ten minutes to the palace. I wouldn’t get too wet.
[This again was the build up.]
I hitched up with my crew of shooters in the parking lot. There were six guys in two urban assault vehicles, one a new Durango and the other an eight month old Suburban with enough battle scars to warrant the vehicular version of a purple heart and an honorable discharge. To a man, each camouflaged soldier had eschewed their Kevlar helmets in favor of black knit watch caps. Weren’t we the well dressed bunch? All uniform, but with the caps, not quite Army.
What’s more, since we were headed into a more active part of town, many opted for weapons shorter than the M-16’s they usually carry. The AK-47’s I expected. They’re light and reliable, and come with big ammunition clips. A couple of guys had the M-4’s, which are like shortened versions of the M-16/AR-15’s, and a few with very serious looking machine pistols (MP5’s, probably). Of course, there were plenty of semiautomatic pistols holstered in various configurations.
Well armed and dangerously well dressed, we mounted our vehicles and took to the Baghdad streets. Driving like thugs, we split lanes, and forced the more sedate Iraqis out of our way. Carp slid a CD into the dash, and the soothing sounds of way loud hip hop reverberated through the passenger compartment. There we were, me and my gang of U.S. Army homies, cruisin’ the Baghdad ‘hood, intimidatin’ the locals.
And my crew all knows all the words, and they bang their heads and sing along with Eminem and the chorus:
“You better lose yourself in the music, the moment
You own it, you better never let it go
You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow
This opportunity comes once in a lifetime, yo,
You better lose yourself in the music, the moment
You own it, you better never let it go
You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow
This opportunity comes once in a lifetime”
Sorta gangland. Sorta intense.
‘Cept all de headbangin’ homeboys be lilly farmboys outta Arkansas - be rappin’ wid a twang. Read More......
It rocked. Come the next morning, and I was about ready to get back to my duties, when I got a call from Carp over at the 95th, wanting to know if I’d like a ride to the pump station at Jadriya, south out of the CPA along the right bank of the Tigris. I could sit at my desk later, and immediately agreed. It was a trip out of the compound and a trip to some place new. Absolutely, I’d go, although I worked to effectively contain my enthusiasm. I mean, really. He is a Corporal, and I’m a fake GS-14. It wouldn’t look right to show too much emotion.
It had rained all night on the tin roof of the hooch and was still raining and still cold as I poked my head outside. I had two choices. To stay the most dry, I could rummage through the duffle bag (after dragging it out from under my bed) and find the camouflage poncho that was in there somewhere. But, no one else wears their ponchos, and I’d hate to, you know, not fit it – not be uniform, as it were.
Apparel choice number two was to wear the cotton field coat (in the ever attractive desert camouflage, of course) that the government issued to me, topped off with the black knit watch cap that I’ve worn for every winter I can remember. Sure, the coat wasn’t water resistant, but it was only ten minutes to the palace. I wouldn’t get too wet.
[This again was the build up.]
I hitched up with my crew of shooters in the parking lot. There were six guys in two urban assault vehicles, one a new Durango and the other an eight month old Suburban with enough battle scars to warrant the vehicular version of a purple heart and an honorable discharge. To a man, each camouflaged soldier had eschewed their Kevlar helmets in favor of black knit watch caps. Weren’t we the well dressed bunch? All uniform, but with the caps, not quite Army.
What’s more, since we were headed into a more active part of town, many opted for weapons shorter than the M-16’s they usually carry. The AK-47’s I expected. They’re light and reliable, and come with big ammunition clips. A couple of guys had the M-4’s, which are like shortened versions of the M-16/AR-15’s, and a few with very serious looking machine pistols (MP5’s, probably). Of course, there were plenty of semiautomatic pistols holstered in various configurations.
Well armed and dangerously well dressed, we mounted our vehicles and took to the Baghdad streets. Driving like thugs, we split lanes, and forced the more sedate Iraqis out of our way. Carp slid a CD into the dash, and the soothing sounds of way loud hip hop reverberated through the passenger compartment. There we were, me and my gang of U.S. Army homies, cruisin’ the Baghdad ‘hood, intimidatin’ the locals.
And my crew all knows all the words, and they bang their heads and sing along with Eminem and the chorus:
“You better lose yourself in the music, the moment
You own it, you better never let it go
You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow
This opportunity comes once in a lifetime, yo,
You better lose yourself in the music, the moment
You own it, you better never let it go
You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow
This opportunity comes once in a lifetime”
Sorta gangland. Sorta intense.
‘Cept all de headbangin’ homeboys be lilly farmboys outta Arkansas - be rappin’ wid a twang. Read More......
2003-12-20
Saturday, December 20, 2003
13:15 – Baghdad. Suffering through the sixth power outage of the day, and perhaps the tenth over the last sixty hours. Unit productivity has taken a bit of a hit, as with each outage there’s a loss of data. Sure, you try to save again and again, but it’s the time you forget that the room goes dark.
Fortunately, we’ve got a window, which will not be the case in the new space. I just peered into the ballroom and saw nothing. Cave dark. Future annoyance.
Fortunately for you, the laptop has a fresh charge and about three hours of Ramones, which I can play sans headphones, as they rest of my unit, wholly fed up with the lack of power and lost data, has slipped away for naps or walks to the PX or long smoke breaks or whatever.
And to think, I could have missed all of this frustration, and only suffered the resultant stories about it, had I taken the bus out to BIAP and watched the WWE wrestlers in action. Truly, civilization has taken a wrong turn, and reached a point where Vince McMahon and his traveling circus are fit entertainment for the U.S. military. Over lunch yesterday, a dozen of this troupe ate chow with the troops and then staged an autograph session outside the palace DFAC. The line was snaked throughout the hallways.
Hillary’s visit couldn’t compare.
Today they were set up at Camp Victory, presumably with scantily clad managers and elastic “wrestling” mat, for the next installment of their steroid monster theatre. Had I gone, I probably would have blown off the show after the first match and went to the duty free shop for more Bourbon, maybe shopped at the PX, although it’s not like I need anything. The Army provides my three hots and a cot, but they might have some crap I didn’t know I needed until I saw it.
Like coordinated brown underwear – just the thing to wear under your DCU’s. Maybe some elastic pants blousers. Hmmm? Chewing tobacco? Games for your X-Box? They got it all,… except for maybe a small broom, which I desperately need to keep the dirt in the hooch at bay. It just follows you home and refuses to leave.
I might have better luck at Big John’s Supermarket, which was built this week on a side street just north of the palace, just behind the curb.
For coalition employees, there are limited shopping opportunities. The PX is probably the best organized of the ventures, although it’s barely two trailers large. There’s also a small candy and smoke counter inside the palace, next to a couple of tables of overpriced Coalition logo wear. On Haifa Street, between the palace and the Assassin’s gate, numerous local merchants had set up scattered and flimsy shops, constructed of sticks and roofed with mats of palm fronds.
As with most tourist markets, the goods are all the same from shack to shack. Smokes, blankets, fake Rolex’s with Saddam’s image on the face, Iraqi Army medals, assorted trinkets, and holsters. Lots and lots of holsters. CD’s and DVD’s as well, all counterfeit. Cruising this strip on bicycles and scooters are teen boys, the pornographers, softly stating their wares as they scoot past.
Last week though, the CPA relocated all of these entrepreneurs to a side street north of the palace, where customer parking won’t cause such traffic problems. Here, Big John (probably not his real name) has constructed a five meter square brick structure as a “super”market. He has a plan - to sell high quality goods at a fair price with little profit. It took about five minutes of intense broken English conversation for me to figure out that he was selling cheap, not sheep.
I hope he has a broom. Read More......
Fortunately, we’ve got a window, which will not be the case in the new space. I just peered into the ballroom and saw nothing. Cave dark. Future annoyance.
Fortunately for you, the laptop has a fresh charge and about three hours of Ramones, which I can play sans headphones, as they rest of my unit, wholly fed up with the lack of power and lost data, has slipped away for naps or walks to the PX or long smoke breaks or whatever.
And to think, I could have missed all of this frustration, and only suffered the resultant stories about it, had I taken the bus out to BIAP and watched the WWE wrestlers in action. Truly, civilization has taken a wrong turn, and reached a point where Vince McMahon and his traveling circus are fit entertainment for the U.S. military. Over lunch yesterday, a dozen of this troupe ate chow with the troops and then staged an autograph session outside the palace DFAC. The line was snaked throughout the hallways.
Hillary’s visit couldn’t compare.
Today they were set up at Camp Victory, presumably with scantily clad managers and elastic “wrestling” mat, for the next installment of their steroid monster theatre. Had I gone, I probably would have blown off the show after the first match and went to the duty free shop for more Bourbon, maybe shopped at the PX, although it’s not like I need anything. The Army provides my three hots and a cot, but they might have some crap I didn’t know I needed until I saw it.
Like coordinated brown underwear – just the thing to wear under your DCU’s. Maybe some elastic pants blousers. Hmmm? Chewing tobacco? Games for your X-Box? They got it all,… except for maybe a small broom, which I desperately need to keep the dirt in the hooch at bay. It just follows you home and refuses to leave.
I might have better luck at Big John’s Supermarket, which was built this week on a side street just north of the palace, just behind the curb.
For coalition employees, there are limited shopping opportunities. The PX is probably the best organized of the ventures, although it’s barely two trailers large. There’s also a small candy and smoke counter inside the palace, next to a couple of tables of overpriced Coalition logo wear. On Haifa Street, between the palace and the Assassin’s gate, numerous local merchants had set up scattered and flimsy shops, constructed of sticks and roofed with mats of palm fronds.
As with most tourist markets, the goods are all the same from shack to shack. Smokes, blankets, fake Rolex’s with Saddam’s image on the face, Iraqi Army medals, assorted trinkets, and holsters. Lots and lots of holsters. CD’s and DVD’s as well, all counterfeit. Cruising this strip on bicycles and scooters are teen boys, the pornographers, softly stating their wares as they scoot past.
Last week though, the CPA relocated all of these entrepreneurs to a side street north of the palace, where customer parking won’t cause such traffic problems. Here, Big John (probably not his real name) has constructed a five meter square brick structure as a “super”market. He has a plan - to sell high quality goods at a fair price with little profit. It took about five minutes of intense broken English conversation for me to figure out that he was selling cheap, not sheep.
I hope he has a broom. Read More......
2003-12-17
Wednesday, 17 December 2003
PART III - REFOCUS
=====
13:30 – Baghdad. As soon as I can figure out how to insert a *.pdf file into Power Point, we’ll be another step closer to changing offices again. It will also mean the loss of our Frisbee court, where Miles and I recently taught a couple of the cleaning guys how to toss the thing. [Imagine completely Frisbee-less society. It stuns the brain.]
This will be my fifth desk since arrival, once it happens. Or “if” it happens. Things change here by the second sometimes, and there are increasing rumors of abandonment (frustration-based, primarily). I don’t have a verifiable clue as to how these rumors get started, but I do know how they spread.
Letters home.
Holy Crap! It’s me that spreads these rumors! Ah well.
Just like day follows night, rainbows follow the rain, stink follows a wet dog, and journalists follow the scandal, politicians and other career oriented individuals follow the money. Not surprisingly, our $18.6 Billion is like a beacon to these people. A beacon shining like a hundred suns, stinking like a thousand wet dogs, calling them to make the money their own, and advance themselves as a result.
The State Department is these wet dogs, and they’re a slobberin’ over the reconstruction money.
Each year, you and I (provided that you and I are paying our Federal taxes like good Americans) fund lots and lots of projects not dissimilar from what we’re trying to accomplish here - irrigation works, modifications to the power grid, housing projects, water treatment – lots and lots. Oftentimes, these humanitarian works are managed by USAID (United Stated Agency for International Development) and, truth be told, USAID-ers have been in Iraq for some time doing that thing that they do.
However, they were not given control over the Supplemental funding. The Department of Defense was. Certainly, there were some power plays involved at the time, but I might guess that the money went to Defense to spend because we’re still in the midst of a war. As well, in going with Defense, we can easily employ USACE, their soldiers and engineers, to take a large role in the construction management aspects of the work. Plus, they can shoot the bad guys when necessary.
This may or may not matter in Washington, where the greenback is more powerful than the squad automatic weapon.
The latest power play involves the “Reserve” budget, whereby a portion of the supplemental funds would be reserved for later contracts. The benefit to stopping the progress half way through to reselect contractors is beyond the comprehension abilities of my wee brain. Undoubtedly, the same contractors would be recontracted – “they’re already here” is the best reason for selection, followed by “they’re already here”. Another reason might be allow some other entity to become the contracting authority.
Hell, it really doesn’t matter to me that much, except that the politics tend to get in the way of the work. Millions of dollars and months of my life have been spent setting up this Program Management Office as a clearinghouse for project planning and construction. To gut the Office before the first project turns dirt would further lower my low opinion of “representative” government.
Question: Can you still say “gut” when all that remains of the carcass is the skin?
We started with $18.6 Billion for reconstruction, but the PMO needed a portion of that to manage our own program, then a whole bunch was spent on procurement right away for crisis spending, leaving $12.6 Billion for construction. That was quick.
The current State Department plan is to have a $5.0 Billion Reserve (maybe give this for France and Germany to spend here so they won’t be so mad at us) and give $2.0 Billion directly to USAID to spend as they see fit (regardless of the prioritization exercise we just completed) and a Billion to the Ministry of Oil (likewise), leaving around $4.6 Billion for construction.
But wait! There’s less!
The New Iraqi Army needs another $200 Million, and CPA needs $200 million for emergency construction, and another $200 Million for other USAID non-construction items. Then the last line of this (“not for distribution”) PowerPoint slide reads another $2.0 Billion for even more USAID non-construction items.
This leaves around two billion dollars in the PMO kitty.
Actually, this was simple. Another iteration and the entire pot will be reallocated and we’ll be finished here.
Oh, don’t worry. It’ll change tomorrow, once a fresh pack of piranhas smells the loot.
Completely Unrelated Anecdote: At the Ministry, the teaboy presents the tea on a small silver (well,… chrome, or something shiny, regardless) serving tray – small glass tumblers on wee painted saucers. He drops off the tea, then returns about ten minutes later to pick up the dishes. So, best be done by the time he gets back, because he will take your tea cup, finished or no.
But that’s not the unrelated anecdote, just the lead in to the unrelated anecdote. The unrelated anecdote should be next.
Right.
Today, the teaboy returned to clear the second serving, or so I thought, until he failed to clear the second serving and instead proceeded to track and hunt a fly that had been pestering the us for the past few minutes. Moving in between us and around the table, he dodged and feigned and ultimately whacked the fly to death with the hand towel he had as a weapon.
Then he cleared the tea. Read More......
=====
13:30 – Baghdad. As soon as I can figure out how to insert a *.pdf file into Power Point, we’ll be another step closer to changing offices again. It will also mean the loss of our Frisbee court, where Miles and I recently taught a couple of the cleaning guys how to toss the thing. [Imagine completely Frisbee-less society. It stuns the brain.]
This will be my fifth desk since arrival, once it happens. Or “if” it happens. Things change here by the second sometimes, and there are increasing rumors of abandonment (frustration-based, primarily). I don’t have a verifiable clue as to how these rumors get started, but I do know how they spread.
Letters home.
Holy Crap! It’s me that spreads these rumors! Ah well.
Just like day follows night, rainbows follow the rain, stink follows a wet dog, and journalists follow the scandal, politicians and other career oriented individuals follow the money. Not surprisingly, our $18.6 Billion is like a beacon to these people. A beacon shining like a hundred suns, stinking like a thousand wet dogs, calling them to make the money their own, and advance themselves as a result.
The State Department is these wet dogs, and they’re a slobberin’ over the reconstruction money.
Each year, you and I (provided that you and I are paying our Federal taxes like good Americans) fund lots and lots of projects not dissimilar from what we’re trying to accomplish here - irrigation works, modifications to the power grid, housing projects, water treatment – lots and lots. Oftentimes, these humanitarian works are managed by USAID (United Stated Agency for International Development) and, truth be told, USAID-ers have been in Iraq for some time doing that thing that they do.
However, they were not given control over the Supplemental funding. The Department of Defense was. Certainly, there were some power plays involved at the time, but I might guess that the money went to Defense to spend because we’re still in the midst of a war. As well, in going with Defense, we can easily employ USACE, their soldiers and engineers, to take a large role in the construction management aspects of the work. Plus, they can shoot the bad guys when necessary.
This may or may not matter in Washington, where the greenback is more powerful than the squad automatic weapon.
The latest power play involves the “Reserve” budget, whereby a portion of the supplemental funds would be reserved for later contracts. The benefit to stopping the progress half way through to reselect contractors is beyond the comprehension abilities of my wee brain. Undoubtedly, the same contractors would be recontracted – “they’re already here” is the best reason for selection, followed by “they’re already here”. Another reason might be allow some other entity to become the contracting authority.
Hell, it really doesn’t matter to me that much, except that the politics tend to get in the way of the work. Millions of dollars and months of my life have been spent setting up this Program Management Office as a clearinghouse for project planning and construction. To gut the Office before the first project turns dirt would further lower my low opinion of “representative” government.
Question: Can you still say “gut” when all that remains of the carcass is the skin?
We started with $18.6 Billion for reconstruction, but the PMO needed a portion of that to manage our own program, then a whole bunch was spent on procurement right away for crisis spending, leaving $12.6 Billion for construction. That was quick.
The current State Department plan is to have a $5.0 Billion Reserve (maybe give this for France and Germany to spend here so they won’t be so mad at us) and give $2.0 Billion directly to USAID to spend as they see fit (regardless of the prioritization exercise we just completed) and a Billion to the Ministry of Oil (likewise), leaving around $4.6 Billion for construction.
But wait! There’s less!
The New Iraqi Army needs another $200 Million, and CPA needs $200 million for emergency construction, and another $200 Million for other USAID non-construction items. Then the last line of this (“not for distribution”) PowerPoint slide reads another $2.0 Billion for even more USAID non-construction items.
This leaves around two billion dollars in the PMO kitty.
Actually, this was simple. Another iteration and the entire pot will be reallocated and we’ll be finished here.
Oh, don’t worry. It’ll change tomorrow, once a fresh pack of piranhas smells the loot.
Completely Unrelated Anecdote: At the Ministry, the teaboy presents the tea on a small silver (well,… chrome, or something shiny, regardless) serving tray – small glass tumblers on wee painted saucers. He drops off the tea, then returns about ten minutes later to pick up the dishes. So, best be done by the time he gets back, because he will take your tea cup, finished or no.
But that’s not the unrelated anecdote, just the lead in to the unrelated anecdote. The unrelated anecdote should be next.
Right.
Today, the teaboy returned to clear the second serving, or so I thought, until he failed to clear the second serving and instead proceeded to track and hunt a fly that had been pestering the us for the past few minutes. Moving in between us and around the table, he dodged and feigned and ultimately whacked the fly to death with the hand towel he had as a weapon.
Then he cleared the tea. Read More......
2003-12-14
Sunday, December 14, 2003
18:00 – Baghdad. The hooch is a vast improvement over the six man closet, which was a vast improvement over the north hallway. Even for a trailer, it’s not that bad. One caveat, my only prior experience living in a trailer was the two years that I spent residing in “Miss Liberty” on Lincoln Swing in West Ames. If I had to rank that particular college housing experience, I’d put it somewhere between north hallway and sleeping in the dirt at BIAP, only more dirty.
The new digs are spanking new. I’d almost written “sparkling”, but nothing stays clean here for any measurable length of time. New they are and already broken. Cheap they are, too.
Each unit is “I” shaped or “H” shaped, depending on your point of view. For the sake of discussion, let’s just agree right now that they’re “I” shaped. OK, they’re really “H” shaped, and each leg and cross member is about eight feet wide. Planted in an open field near the palace by the score, they read like an asthmatic climbing stairs. Approach from the side, and it’s Pancho Villa’s war cry.
It’s a brisk ten minute walk from door to door. From the office at the south end of the palace, walk the entire length of said palace, past the Marine checkpoint, weave through the concertina wire, down one of the aisles of the 500 Man Camp, and turn right into the 266 Man Extension to the 500 Man Camp. We’re the second to last unit meaning, “one more trailer and we’d be further from the palace than anyone”.
To each side of the trailer are the sleeping quarters, less than 200 square feet a piece, housing two men each. Each resident gets a bed, metal wardrobe, and metal end table. The center piece is about eight feet square, with a tiny one holed bathroom and connecting hallway. The bathroom leaks from every direction, but it does have hot water, and by “hot” I mean “could sear the hair off a pig carcass” – from zero to steam bath in five seconds. The interior finish is all attractive metal, so I bought some Iraqi modern art to hang on the walls and soften it up a bit. In all, it’s a fully adequate place to store my hat until spring.
Honest, compared to the other crap that surrounds me here, it’s really nice for the most part, but has troubles beyond the leaks in the loo. The wall mounted heater has a broken thermostat. The front door creaks. My bedroom door doesn’t latch. The roof isn’t bulletproof.
… because the roof is made of thin sheet metal, and it will do little to stop the hundreds of thousands of bullets which are filling the skies as I write. Saddam, as it turns out, was captured crawling on his belly in a hole of his own digging yesterday. As soon as the news broke, out came the automatic weapons and the celebrations started. We have GOT to start doing this in the States. Birthdays (blam, blam, blam). Bat Mitzvas (Kapow!). Arbor Day (budda budda). Easter (pop, pop, pop, pop).
Anyway, we’ve been instructed to stay under hard cover tonight. Well and good, as there’s a big deadline tonight, and I may have to work through it to make it. So, I’m stuck in the office all night,… but you’re free to move around.
So what are you waiting for?
This is a historic night!
Grab your guns and head to the porch. Ram a magazine home and pop off a few rounds for freedom. Read More......
The new digs are spanking new. I’d almost written “sparkling”, but nothing stays clean here for any measurable length of time. New they are and already broken. Cheap they are, too.
Each unit is “I” shaped or “H” shaped, depending on your point of view. For the sake of discussion, let’s just agree right now that they’re “I” shaped. OK, they’re really “H” shaped, and each leg and cross member is about eight feet wide. Planted in an open field near the palace by the score, they read like an asthmatic climbing stairs. Approach from the side, and it’s Pancho Villa’s war cry.
It’s a brisk ten minute walk from door to door. From the office at the south end of the palace, walk the entire length of said palace, past the Marine checkpoint, weave through the concertina wire, down one of the aisles of the 500 Man Camp, and turn right into the 266 Man Extension to the 500 Man Camp. We’re the second to last unit meaning, “one more trailer and we’d be further from the palace than anyone”.
To each side of the trailer are the sleeping quarters, less than 200 square feet a piece, housing two men each. Each resident gets a bed, metal wardrobe, and metal end table. The center piece is about eight feet square, with a tiny one holed bathroom and connecting hallway. The bathroom leaks from every direction, but it does have hot water, and by “hot” I mean “could sear the hair off a pig carcass” – from zero to steam bath in five seconds. The interior finish is all attractive metal, so I bought some Iraqi modern art to hang on the walls and soften it up a bit. In all, it’s a fully adequate place to store my hat until spring.
Honest, compared to the other crap that surrounds me here, it’s really nice for the most part, but has troubles beyond the leaks in the loo. The wall mounted heater has a broken thermostat. The front door creaks. My bedroom door doesn’t latch. The roof isn’t bulletproof.
… because the roof is made of thin sheet metal, and it will do little to stop the hundreds of thousands of bullets which are filling the skies as I write. Saddam, as it turns out, was captured crawling on his belly in a hole of his own digging yesterday. As soon as the news broke, out came the automatic weapons and the celebrations started. We have GOT to start doing this in the States. Birthdays (blam, blam, blam). Bat Mitzvas (Kapow!). Arbor Day (budda budda). Easter (pop, pop, pop, pop).
Anyway, we’ve been instructed to stay under hard cover tonight. Well and good, as there’s a big deadline tonight, and I may have to work through it to make it. So, I’m stuck in the office all night,… but you’re free to move around.
So what are you waiting for?
This is a historic night!
Grab your guns and head to the porch. Ram a magazine home and pop off a few rounds for freedom. Read More......
2003-12-10
Wednesday, 10 December 2003
14:30 – Baghdad. Due to an intel snafu, my ride from the 95th failed to pick me up from the Ministry, and I had to beg a ride back to the CPA with a couple truckloads of Brits. The immediate effect was that I returned to the supposed Green Zone too late for chow, so I returned to my desk for lunch. As is the rule at the PMO, I shortly submitted my four to five hundred word review, as follows.
In my family, few meals say "Happy Birthday" as well as hot, fresh, and tasty Italian cooking. So I was not at all displeased with my random choice from the MRE crate, Menu Item number 23, "Chicken with Cavatelli". But what I found inside the brown plastic bag was way more than I could have ever wished for, not just "Chicken with Cavatelli", but "Breaded Chicken Breast Patty with Pasta Shells in Tomato Sauce with Rib Meat", packed by the Wornick Company of Cincinnati, Ohio.
This is just what I craved, and could barely contain my expectation for the 12 minutes I gave the water activated heater to work its magic. The chicken was firm and lightly breaded, and only partly reminded me of a soggy McNugget. The pasta was suitably al dente, coated with a mild yet flavorful sauce interspersed with minced garlic (garlic, water, phosphoric acid), dehydrated onions, and oleoresin paprika. For more interest and pizzazz, I added the 1/8 ounce of included Tabasco. [Fat: 11 grams. Carbs: 30 grams. Calories: 280.]
The "Wheat Snack Bread" was next [Fat: 5 grams. Carbs: 25 grams. Calories: 180.] coated with "Fortified Peanut Butter" or PNB [Fat: 19 grams. Carbs: 9 grams. Calories: 260.]. Frankly, I couldn't eat much of this, having just consumed a bag of cavatelli. Also, it's all a bit dry, and my beverage was almost gone. Well, maybe one more bite.
I was momentarily tempted to relight my candle for the "Spice Pound Cake" [Fat: 12 grams. Carbs: 36 grams. Calories: 280.] but, while Miles probably would have easily been convinces to sing Happy Birthday again, I think this may have just worked to annoy Brian, so I ate my cake in silence.
Barely lucid at this time, I could only stare dumbly at the bag of pretzels [Fat: 1 grams. Carbs: 22 grams. Calories: 110.]. Save them for later.
The entire meal was eaten with a spoon or by hand and washed down with a half litre of water in which was mixed "Beverage Base Powder Orange", a Tang-like powder reminding me of how truly space age these pre-packaged, stay-fresh-for-years meals really are. [Fat: 0 grams. Carbs: 32 grams. Calories: 130.]
Altogether, Number 23 brings 48 grams of fat, 154 grams of carbohydrates, and 1,240 calories to the table. Plenty for an active troop, and more than enough for an increasingly older and lethargic engineer.
I'm sold now, and will never forget that the M in MRE is for "Mmmmmm". Read More......
In my family, few meals say "Happy Birthday" as well as hot, fresh, and tasty Italian cooking. So I was not at all displeased with my random choice from the MRE crate, Menu Item number 23, "Chicken with Cavatelli". But what I found inside the brown plastic bag was way more than I could have ever wished for, not just "Chicken with Cavatelli", but "Breaded Chicken Breast Patty with Pasta Shells in Tomato Sauce with Rib Meat", packed by the Wornick Company of Cincinnati, Ohio.
This is just what I craved, and could barely contain my expectation for the 12 minutes I gave the water activated heater to work its magic. The chicken was firm and lightly breaded, and only partly reminded me of a soggy McNugget. The pasta was suitably al dente, coated with a mild yet flavorful sauce interspersed with minced garlic (garlic, water, phosphoric acid), dehydrated onions, and oleoresin paprika. For more interest and pizzazz, I added the 1/8 ounce of included Tabasco. [Fat: 11 grams. Carbs: 30 grams. Calories: 280.]
The "Wheat Snack Bread" was next [Fat: 5 grams. Carbs: 25 grams. Calories: 180.] coated with "Fortified Peanut Butter" or PNB [Fat: 19 grams. Carbs: 9 grams. Calories: 260.]. Frankly, I couldn't eat much of this, having just consumed a bag of cavatelli. Also, it's all a bit dry, and my beverage was almost gone. Well, maybe one more bite.
I was momentarily tempted to relight my candle for the "Spice Pound Cake" [Fat: 12 grams. Carbs: 36 grams. Calories: 280.] but, while Miles probably would have easily been convinces to sing Happy Birthday again, I think this may have just worked to annoy Brian, so I ate my cake in silence.
Barely lucid at this time, I could only stare dumbly at the bag of pretzels [Fat: 1 grams. Carbs: 22 grams. Calories: 110.]. Save them for later.
The entire meal was eaten with a spoon or by hand and washed down with a half litre of water in which was mixed "Beverage Base Powder Orange", a Tang-like powder reminding me of how truly space age these pre-packaged, stay-fresh-for-years meals really are. [Fat: 0 grams. Carbs: 32 grams. Calories: 130.]
Altogether, Number 23 brings 48 grams of fat, 154 grams of carbohydrates, and 1,240 calories to the table. Plenty for an active troop, and more than enough for an increasingly older and lethargic engineer.
I'm sold now, and will never forget that the M in MRE is for "Mmmmmm". Read More......
2003-12-09
Tuesday, December 09, 2003
11:30 –Baghdad. On the way back to my spanking new Turkish trailer the other evening, the narrow walk between sandbag barrier and trailer wall was unexpectedly flooded with a gaggle of giggly girls – maybe a half dozen in all, maybe twelve to sixteen years old – who skipped or pranced or whatever giggly girls do past me and down the path.
My initial reaction, of course, was a neck wrenching double take. Why would there be children here?
Huh? Why?
Ok, I’ll tell you, and spare you the speculation.
I was nearing the aforementioned Turkish trailer the next day and exchanged pleasantries with a soldier who was sitting in one of the plastic hooch chairs a few doors down. From him I learned that his duty was to guard these girls. Apparently, they were from the north, had turned in their parents and other family members for manufacturing IED’s, and were now under the protection of the Coalition. The haggard G.I. had been chasing them around all morning and had finally corralled them in their trailer, an exercise akin to herding cats. This morning, the Marines were encircling this trailer with concertina wire, having recognized the dangers within and without. Ultimately, this means our “Bremer Youth” program is working.
We’re still having problems with our local power supply, however, so not everything is working as well as our reeducation campaigns.
A large group of Ungrateful Whiny Prima Donnas motored to the Al Rashid last night to celebrate John’s departure. Maybe it was rude to have this celebration while he was still here, even taking him with us, but we were dying for a non-KBR meal. There’s a couple of restaurants at the hotel, which had been closed for Ramadan, and had just reopened. We had made reservations for a dozen and a half at one or the other of them. It really doesn’t matter which because, as it turned out, the hotel was in complete darkness when we arrived.
Fortunately, most of us carry flashlights everywhere and these torches provide ample illumination towards and into the basement bar. Here, we were obligated to drink as much beer as we could before it warmed up and was lost forever, a task we pursued with zeal until a big armed guy (big guy, big arms, big gun) interrupted our labors to inform us that the hotel would be closing at 19:30. As this meant our restaurant would not reopen, we went DFAC (no joke – to the Dining FACility) on the first floor to chow on KBR food. As expected, it tastes a little better in the dark after a few liters of beer.
They did have better cookies than at the palace (which is more cake-centric, anyway).
After dinner, as we worked our way through the lobby on our way out, the lights started to flicker back to life. No one doubted that this was a suitable going away party.
What else ain’t working? The decapitation contractor’s plan to get the giant Saddam heads off the palace grounds, that’s what ain’t working.
In answer to the call by Force Protection, I volunteered for Head Inspection. On the surface, this was in direct response to their need for additional personnel as required to keep a close eye on the Iraqi contractor, thereby ensuring the safety of the Coalition. The request was made of all hands, since the Army is too busy elsewhere to pick up these mission critical assignments. Under the surface, my real desire for volunteering was because I wanted to watch big equipment move stuff. Hell, that’s why I became an Engineer to begin with.
And move stuff they did, just not very far.
The four heads came down last week, taken from their mounts atop the palace and deposited on the ground adjacent, until such time as the contractor could secure a smaller crane to load them onto flatbeds and haul them away. Crane secured, the contractor returned and in the past three days has worked to gets the heads off site.
When I arrived at my two hour shift this afternoon, there was one of the heads, nose down on a flatbed, cabling taut to the 20 ton crane. Soon, the crane’s idle increased, and the head was lifted while the truck drove out from under it, and the head was set nose down in the dirt. Then there was much scrambling and discussions by the crew during which I learned that the front gate was too narrow for Saddam’s shoulders, and he was too tall for overhead power lines, and they couldn’t easily transport him on his side, but they might just use a cutting torch and take off a portion of his width, but when the back gate was remeasured it they found it would pass the despot, and it’s 15:30 and time to call it a day.
This was the first head. Three days, and all that’s happened is Saddam’s bronze bust has gone from an upright position to a nose down in the dirt position. If this is typical for Iraqi contractors, we’ll never get our eighteen billion spent. Read More......
My initial reaction, of course, was a neck wrenching double take. Why would there be children here?
Huh? Why?
Ok, I’ll tell you, and spare you the speculation.
I was nearing the aforementioned Turkish trailer the next day and exchanged pleasantries with a soldier who was sitting in one of the plastic hooch chairs a few doors down. From him I learned that his duty was to guard these girls. Apparently, they were from the north, had turned in their parents and other family members for manufacturing IED’s, and were now under the protection of the Coalition. The haggard G.I. had been chasing them around all morning and had finally corralled them in their trailer, an exercise akin to herding cats. This morning, the Marines were encircling this trailer with concertina wire, having recognized the dangers within and without. Ultimately, this means our “Bremer Youth” program is working.
We’re still having problems with our local power supply, however, so not everything is working as well as our reeducation campaigns.
A large group of Ungrateful Whiny Prima Donnas motored to the Al Rashid last night to celebrate John’s departure. Maybe it was rude to have this celebration while he was still here, even taking him with us, but we were dying for a non-KBR meal. There’s a couple of restaurants at the hotel, which had been closed for Ramadan, and had just reopened. We had made reservations for a dozen and a half at one or the other of them. It really doesn’t matter which because, as it turned out, the hotel was in complete darkness when we arrived.
Fortunately, most of us carry flashlights everywhere and these torches provide ample illumination towards and into the basement bar. Here, we were obligated to drink as much beer as we could before it warmed up and was lost forever, a task we pursued with zeal until a big armed guy (big guy, big arms, big gun) interrupted our labors to inform us that the hotel would be closing at 19:30. As this meant our restaurant would not reopen, we went DFAC (no joke – to the Dining FACility) on the first floor to chow on KBR food. As expected, it tastes a little better in the dark after a few liters of beer.
They did have better cookies than at the palace (which is more cake-centric, anyway).
After dinner, as we worked our way through the lobby on our way out, the lights started to flicker back to life. No one doubted that this was a suitable going away party.
What else ain’t working? The decapitation contractor’s plan to get the giant Saddam heads off the palace grounds, that’s what ain’t working.
In answer to the call by Force Protection, I volunteered for Head Inspection. On the surface, this was in direct response to their need for additional personnel as required to keep a close eye on the Iraqi contractor, thereby ensuring the safety of the Coalition. The request was made of all hands, since the Army is too busy elsewhere to pick up these mission critical assignments. Under the surface, my real desire for volunteering was because I wanted to watch big equipment move stuff. Hell, that’s why I became an Engineer to begin with.
And move stuff they did, just not very far.
The four heads came down last week, taken from their mounts atop the palace and deposited on the ground adjacent, until such time as the contractor could secure a smaller crane to load them onto flatbeds and haul them away. Crane secured, the contractor returned and in the past three days has worked to gets the heads off site.
When I arrived at my two hour shift this afternoon, there was one of the heads, nose down on a flatbed, cabling taut to the 20 ton crane. Soon, the crane’s idle increased, and the head was lifted while the truck drove out from under it, and the head was set nose down in the dirt. Then there was much scrambling and discussions by the crew during which I learned that the front gate was too narrow for Saddam’s shoulders, and he was too tall for overhead power lines, and they couldn’t easily transport him on his side, but they might just use a cutting torch and take off a portion of his width, but when the back gate was remeasured it they found it would pass the despot, and it’s 15:30 and time to call it a day.
This was the first head. Three days, and all that’s happened is Saddam’s bronze bust has gone from an upright position to a nose down in the dirt position. If this is typical for Iraqi contractors, we’ll never get our eighteen billion spent. Read More......
2003-12-07
Sunday, December 07, 2003
10:00 – Baghdad. As a strange follow up to the billeting rant, I’ll offer the following:
We had just finished dinner. We, being four of my five office mates, Skip having stayed behind. Miles, Jeff, John, Brian and myself found an open table at which to enjoy (or at least pretend to enjoy) the evening fare. I had the breaded turkey cutlet, potatoes in the style of Leon, some not overly overcooked green peas, a few fresh vegetables and what they call cherry cobbler. The cobblers are surprisingly popular, despite the fact that they are no more than pie filling covered with bran flakes and baked. Of course, a bowl of pie filling has its place, too.
There then developed some hubbub as I approached the Gurka who now guards the entrance to the new PMO offices. Some small investigation soon led to the discovery of, essentially, an all points bulletin – that the palace guards were to recognize and detain (for Force Protection, no less), none other than the infamous Laura from billeting.
At first, I figured that Chuck (who was conveniently standing at the door) had somehow found her image and cut and pasted the wanted poster, but then a call came through the Gurka’s radio to verify the mission’s validity. So I’ve still no reason why this action is being taken (except perhaps for dereliction of duty) but Haliburton has a ticket for her on tomorrow’s flight out of Iraq.
That’s one way to leave.
The most common, but not always most popular, method of exit is to await the end of your rotation. During the past few weeks, a large number of those who were early into Baghdad are starting to rotate back to CONUS. This generates a heap of confusion because it was never done before. At least, not done on any scale. Methods need to be developed to accommodate the return of TA-50s, country clearances through Kuwait and airline tickets for the return flight, medical debriefing, return of supplemental equipment and reassignment of billets. Presumably, all this will be figured out (i.e. streamlined) by the time I depart. One of the last things I want to do is spend a few days at the Pentagon or at Fort Bliss waiting for a TB scratch test to germinate (or whatever they do).
On this note John, one of our Planners, is scheduled to de-Iraqify himself on Wednesday. He was instrumental in the early planning [again, duh] stages of the project, and has worked himself out of a job. With his departure comes an increasing barrage of short jokes – legs don’t reach the floor, can’t see over his desk – reminders to all of his decreasing time in country. John’s been a stabilizing influence during his time here, a trait that we’ll need more of over the next few months.
He’ll be replaced with a new Company hire, some guy with “lots of prison experience”. Er, I’m not completely sure what this means, but I’ll be on the lookout for cell block tattoos.
Unrelated Tidbit: Garry Trudeau roasted us in the Sunday comics this week but, like most journalists, he shops for his facts at the outlet mall. In the last panel, he shows the bored PMO drone using a Macintosh. How wrong could he be? This is a 100% Microsoft Coalition. Read More......
We had just finished dinner. We, being four of my five office mates, Skip having stayed behind. Miles, Jeff, John, Brian and myself found an open table at which to enjoy (or at least pretend to enjoy) the evening fare. I had the breaded turkey cutlet, potatoes in the style of Leon, some not overly overcooked green peas, a few fresh vegetables and what they call cherry cobbler. The cobblers are surprisingly popular, despite the fact that they are no more than pie filling covered with bran flakes and baked. Of course, a bowl of pie filling has its place, too.
There then developed some hubbub as I approached the Gurka who now guards the entrance to the new PMO offices. Some small investigation soon led to the discovery of, essentially, an all points bulletin – that the palace guards were to recognize and detain (for Force Protection, no less), none other than the infamous Laura from billeting.
At first, I figured that Chuck (who was conveniently standing at the door) had somehow found her image and cut and pasted the wanted poster, but then a call came through the Gurka’s radio to verify the mission’s validity. So I’ve still no reason why this action is being taken (except perhaps for dereliction of duty) but Haliburton has a ticket for her on tomorrow’s flight out of Iraq.
That’s one way to leave.
The most common, but not always most popular, method of exit is to await the end of your rotation. During the past few weeks, a large number of those who were early into Baghdad are starting to rotate back to CONUS. This generates a heap of confusion because it was never done before. At least, not done on any scale. Methods need to be developed to accommodate the return of TA-50s, country clearances through Kuwait and airline tickets for the return flight, medical debriefing, return of supplemental equipment and reassignment of billets. Presumably, all this will be figured out (i.e. streamlined) by the time I depart. One of the last things I want to do is spend a few days at the Pentagon or at Fort Bliss waiting for a TB scratch test to germinate (or whatever they do).
On this note John, one of our Planners, is scheduled to de-Iraqify himself on Wednesday. He was instrumental in the early planning [again, duh] stages of the project, and has worked himself out of a job. With his departure comes an increasing barrage of short jokes – legs don’t reach the floor, can’t see over his desk – reminders to all of his decreasing time in country. John’s been a stabilizing influence during his time here, a trait that we’ll need more of over the next few months.
He’ll be replaced with a new Company hire, some guy with “lots of prison experience”. Er, I’m not completely sure what this means, but I’ll be on the lookout for cell block tattoos.
Unrelated Tidbit: Garry Trudeau roasted us in the Sunday comics this week but, like most journalists, he shops for his facts at the outlet mall. In the last panel, he shows the bored PMO drone using a Macintosh. How wrong could he be? This is a 100% Microsoft Coalition. Read More......
2003-12-04
Thursday, 04 December 2003
19:20 – Baghdad. Hard to believe that it’s been eight weeks since I left Minnesota. Time flies when you’re working eighty-hour weeks.
The tour’s about a third done, and I’m tired, but not yet tired of it. We’ve just completed the first part of the programming process, the identification and prioritization of the (literally) thousands of individual projects that we wish to accomplish with the seemingly unlimited, but actually incredibly limited funds available. Really, it’s only eighteen billion. Take away our administrative and other costs, and we’ll spend less - around fourteen billion on actual construction. But even that has it’s share of non-tangibles, like additional project security, housing for expatriate staff, property acquisition, escalation due to local conditions and the expected increases in materials costs and the like and it’s more on the order of twelve billion in physical improvements over the next three years.
Sure, this still seems like a large chunk of change to those of us complaining that a pint of Guinness is six bucks, but it’s really nothing to the Congress that’s spending a billion a week just to propagate the war. Seems we could have just raised the bounty on Saddam and got away from here for much less.
We’ll never really be done with the prioritized program lists. Even now, the Ministries are fine tuning them and arguing about the overlarge construction estimates that they developed themselves, always trying to get more projects out of a limited pot of cash. However and regardless of any strong desire from the Ministry, for this phase, the final word on water resource projects in Iraq comes from me.
Then Jeff. Then Craig. Then Dave. Then Paul.
And when Paul (Ambassador Bremer) gets done with his tweaks, the list goes to Congress.
Then to George. Then to Laura, who really wants a pediatric hospital. It’s “for the children.”
[duh]
But even then, the list is fluid, and can change quarterly, through a rather simple reporting practice. There was one point this last week when we were informed that any changes to the list would take an actual Act of Congress (which, as it turns out, is really, really difficult), but as usual, conditions have changed. Now it just takes and Act of Me and Jeff and Craig and Dave and Paul.
And maybe Laura, who really wants a pediatric hospital “for the children.”
[double duh] Read More......
The tour’s about a third done, and I’m tired, but not yet tired of it. We’ve just completed the first part of the programming process, the identification and prioritization of the (literally) thousands of individual projects that we wish to accomplish with the seemingly unlimited, but actually incredibly limited funds available. Really, it’s only eighteen billion. Take away our administrative and other costs, and we’ll spend less - around fourteen billion on actual construction. But even that has it’s share of non-tangibles, like additional project security, housing for expatriate staff, property acquisition, escalation due to local conditions and the expected increases in materials costs and the like and it’s more on the order of twelve billion in physical improvements over the next three years.
Sure, this still seems like a large chunk of change to those of us complaining that a pint of Guinness is six bucks, but it’s really nothing to the Congress that’s spending a billion a week just to propagate the war. Seems we could have just raised the bounty on Saddam and got away from here for much less.
We’ll never really be done with the prioritized program lists. Even now, the Ministries are fine tuning them and arguing about the overlarge construction estimates that they developed themselves, always trying to get more projects out of a limited pot of cash. However and regardless of any strong desire from the Ministry, for this phase, the final word on water resource projects in Iraq comes from me.
Then Jeff. Then Craig. Then Dave. Then Paul.
And when Paul (Ambassador Bremer) gets done with his tweaks, the list goes to Congress.
Then to George. Then to Laura, who really wants a pediatric hospital. It’s “for the children.”
[duh]
But even then, the list is fluid, and can change quarterly, through a rather simple reporting practice. There was one point this last week when we were informed that any changes to the list would take an actual Act of Congress (which, as it turns out, is really, really difficult), but as usual, conditions have changed. Now it just takes and Act of Me and Jeff and Craig and Dave and Paul.
And maybe Laura, who really wants a pediatric hospital “for the children.”
[double duh] Read More......
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