Posts
I need a tune. Best submittal gets a piece of shrapnel.
Night of the Big Voice
Big ol’ Voice says “a bomb’s a comin’”
Hooch starts a shakin’ and I know he’s right
If one hits close I’m gonna soon meet my maker
Fuckers launch that crap most days and nights
Tryin’ to sleep when the static went at it
Follows the boom and I hear him each time
Stay under cover says the big guy, like last time
Gonna be a long night
Big ol’ Voice comes a squawkin’
I-Z will be rockin’ – Lockdown!
Big ol’ Voice comes a squawkin’
I-Z, man, it will be rockin’
Pulled the sheets way up under my chin then
Use my armor to strengthen the cause
Try to make myself awfully small now
Shrapnel? Flesh? Not good. Makes me squeamish.
Where are my homies I thought to myself then
They don’t care if I live or I die now
We was in lockdown and nobody checked on me
Gonna be a long night
(I say the)
Big ol’ Voice comes a squawkin’
I-Z will be rockin’ – Lockdown!
Big ol’ Voice comes a squawkin’
I-Z, man, it will be rockin’
[Attention in the compound. This is the Big Voice. We are in lockdown. I say again – lockdown, lockdown, lockdown. If you are outside, seek shelter and follow the instruction of the guard. If you are inside a hardened shelter, stand fast. I say again – lockdown, lockdown, lockdown.]
Read More......
2007-05-25
Finito
This is a dangerous place. Since setting wheels down 26 days ago, there have been 28 lockdowns, more often than not associated with mortar and/or rocket attacks on the I-Zed. More often than not, they hit us in the late afternoon and evening, although there are exceptions. More often than not, they hit us once on any day, although there are exceptions. More often than not, they launch three or less projectiles at us. Again, there are exceptions.
If Coalition forces get to the launch site fast enough, we kill them. If not, they try again in a day or two. Maybe they’ll get lucky. There are exceptions.
Enshallah.
Recently, the capability for the insurgents to target strategic locations with relative precision point to the use of Iranian gunners imported for the task. We have no way to stop this.
As predicted from the start, Operation Iraqi Freedom is a total failure. Throughout greater Baghdad, the violence and chaos worsens. If I had to state a reason (and I do, if only to keep this diatribe moving), I’d say that it’s in large part because the Iraqis don’t care to do anything about it. This (I’d say), is (in part) because there’s no national identity. The people feel that the violence isn’t against Iraqis, it’s against the Shias (or against the Suni (or against the Kurds)), and until such time as there’s a change in attitude on this level, there will be no peace in Iraq. Should the civil war run its course, it will result in three Iraqs, one for each sect. This is my preferred solution.
As a nation, we can do nothing about this. Nor should we. Our best course is to pack up our weapons and DFAC’s and embassy complex and go home. This place is chaos already. To stay or go will make little difference, except perhaps the Iraqi’s may then feel the necessity to solve their own problems.
A colonel told me a (seemingly true) story that goes something like this –
The Iraqi date business is a multi-billion dollar industry and a very large chunk of the country’s exports, potentially 20% or so. Pesticides need to be applied to the date palms at the appropriate time, or fruit production will be jeopardized. This is something the Iraqis knew, because Saddam forced them to know it, but something that they have not done in recent years, because they know that eventually, the Coalition will spray their dates for them. If they just wait long enough, we will spray their dates,… or build them a power plant,… or police their streets.
I believe that the only long term solution to the local date situation is to give this country back as soon as physically possible. Let the Arab League figure it out. Let the Iranis figure it out. Let the Israelis figure it out. Most of all, let the Iraqis figure it out. We have no place here.
If it’s 25 million threatened people we want to help, why not direct a trillion dollars at our own poor? If it’s our energy security we want, why not direct a trillion dollars at geothermal research. If it’s a global war on terror we want to win, why not stop being such global asshats?
I came over here for a wealth of reasons. I made some cash. I had me some adventure. I checked up on a failed program with no hope of success, and further realized that our only purpose here is to transfer your tax dollars to the corporations that supply weapons and materiel to the war machine. It’s entirely a selfish act on the part of the Administration and a huge example of false patriotism. And try not to believe the Democrats stand on higher moral ground. They own the same companies.
As homework, watch “V for Vendetta”. It’s inspiring.
Convoy to BIAP this afternoon. Wheels up tomorrow. Read More......
If Coalition forces get to the launch site fast enough, we kill them. If not, they try again in a day or two. Maybe they’ll get lucky. There are exceptions.
Enshallah.
Recently, the capability for the insurgents to target strategic locations with relative precision point to the use of Iranian gunners imported for the task. We have no way to stop this.
As predicted from the start, Operation Iraqi Freedom is a total failure. Throughout greater Baghdad, the violence and chaos worsens. If I had to state a reason (and I do, if only to keep this diatribe moving), I’d say that it’s in large part because the Iraqis don’t care to do anything about it. This (I’d say), is (in part) because there’s no national identity. The people feel that the violence isn’t against Iraqis, it’s against the Shias (or against the Suni (or against the Kurds)), and until such time as there’s a change in attitude on this level, there will be no peace in Iraq. Should the civil war run its course, it will result in three Iraqs, one for each sect. This is my preferred solution.
As a nation, we can do nothing about this. Nor should we. Our best course is to pack up our weapons and DFAC’s and embassy complex and go home. This place is chaos already. To stay or go will make little difference, except perhaps the Iraqi’s may then feel the necessity to solve their own problems.
A colonel told me a (seemingly true) story that goes something like this –
The Iraqi date business is a multi-billion dollar industry and a very large chunk of the country’s exports, potentially 20% or so. Pesticides need to be applied to the date palms at the appropriate time, or fruit production will be jeopardized. This is something the Iraqis knew, because Saddam forced them to know it, but something that they have not done in recent years, because they know that eventually, the Coalition will spray their dates for them. If they just wait long enough, we will spray their dates,… or build them a power plant,… or police their streets.
I believe that the only long term solution to the local date situation is to give this country back as soon as physically possible. Let the Arab League figure it out. Let the Iranis figure it out. Let the Israelis figure it out. Most of all, let the Iraqis figure it out. We have no place here.
If it’s 25 million threatened people we want to help, why not direct a trillion dollars at our own poor? If it’s our energy security we want, why not direct a trillion dollars at geothermal research. If it’s a global war on terror we want to win, why not stop being such global asshats?
I came over here for a wealth of reasons. I made some cash. I had me some adventure. I checked up on a failed program with no hope of success, and further realized that our only purpose here is to transfer your tax dollars to the corporations that supply weapons and materiel to the war machine. It’s entirely a selfish act on the part of the Administration and a huge example of false patriotism. And try not to believe the Democrats stand on higher moral ground. They own the same companies.
As homework, watch “V for Vendetta”. It’s inspiring.
Convoy to BIAP this afternoon. Wheels up tomorrow. Read More......
2007-05-24
Coffee
You'd think if we can put a man on the moon, I could get a decent cup of coffee in Iraq. Well, we can and I can, but that's not the point. The point is that I can't get a good cup of coffee from any of the six Braun coffee makers that populate the Company space.
In the DFAC we have a choice between "Coffee Strong" and "Coffee Light". Since I like my beans with a little bite, I had been getting my caffeine from the strong side. However, one morning there was a crowd in the way of the tap, so I tried the Light. There was no difference. Both were sort of crappy cups of coffee - neither stronger nor lighter – but tolerable.
So my pattern now is to get a cup after breakfast on my way to the office, then return to the DFAC for another cup just before they close at 0800. We have to go in the back door for this supplemental dose since, if we used the front door, the Army Specialist who counts people entering the DFAC would count us again (that's her specialty), and KBR would charge the taxpayers another $35. No way is their coffee worth that.
At 1000 or so, it's time for more, so I often walk to the back of the building to the back side of the building franchise location of Green Beans Coffee Worldcafe, an odd little café that sells three dollar lattes. I could get a muffin or a smoothie, I suppose, but I usually just get a three dollar latte. Primarily, because (as alluded to above), to local coffee is crap.
Imagine if you will, filling the coffee basket all the way to the top, then adding half a pot of water, then letting it cook all day long. That's what it tastes like on a good day. Oh, did I mention not cleaning the pot first? That's the special ingredient. What worse, is that the keepers of each individual pot believe that theirs is superior to all others (some even grind their own beans prior to sacrificing them to the gods of awful strained bean water). For me, the best bad coffee is still bad coffee, so I'm stuck drinking three dollar lattes.
Doing without is an option, of course, but a nice cuppa is one small reminder of the pleasures of home.
Like milk is a small reminder of home, of which there's been none of for the past four or five days. No fresh eggs, either. No peanut butter. No carrots. No Gatorade. No orange juice. No white bread for the grill cheeses. The sign outside the DFAC say it's "due to convoy". What the sign doesn't say is due to what. "Due to convoy", of course. Due to convoy being hijacked, perhaps?
That's the current trouble. The story goes that there were forty tractor trailer rigs headed up from the ports at Basra full of milk and eggs and Gatorade. Each vehicle had a driver and a shooter. Then, at some quiet location south of here, an oil tanker pulled across the road, stopping the first vehicle. Next, a second oil tanker pulled behind the last vehicle, cutting off any escape. As per plan, some 300 armed men appeared from the ditches and vegetation. The coalition surrendered. The trucks were stolen.
No one was injured, but some jihadist is now eating my carrots.
The talk is that lunch will be replaced with MREs until we can reestablish supply lines. Other talk is that I leave the IZ tomorrow. Read More......
In the DFAC we have a choice between "Coffee Strong" and "Coffee Light". Since I like my beans with a little bite, I had been getting my caffeine from the strong side. However, one morning there was a crowd in the way of the tap, so I tried the Light. There was no difference. Both were sort of crappy cups of coffee - neither stronger nor lighter – but tolerable.
So my pattern now is to get a cup after breakfast on my way to the office, then return to the DFAC for another cup just before they close at 0800. We have to go in the back door for this supplemental dose since, if we used the front door, the Army Specialist who counts people entering the DFAC would count us again (that's her specialty), and KBR would charge the taxpayers another $35. No way is their coffee worth that.
At 1000 or so, it's time for more, so I often walk to the back of the building to the back side of the building franchise location of Green Beans Coffee Worldcafe, an odd little café that sells three dollar lattes. I could get a muffin or a smoothie, I suppose, but I usually just get a three dollar latte. Primarily, because (as alluded to above), to local coffee is crap.
Imagine if you will, filling the coffee basket all the way to the top, then adding half a pot of water, then letting it cook all day long. That's what it tastes like on a good day. Oh, did I mention not cleaning the pot first? That's the special ingredient. What worse, is that the keepers of each individual pot believe that theirs is superior to all others (some even grind their own beans prior to sacrificing them to the gods of awful strained bean water). For me, the best bad coffee is still bad coffee, so I'm stuck drinking three dollar lattes.
Doing without is an option, of course, but a nice cuppa is one small reminder of the pleasures of home.
Like milk is a small reminder of home, of which there's been none of for the past four or five days. No fresh eggs, either. No peanut butter. No carrots. No Gatorade. No orange juice. No white bread for the grill cheeses. The sign outside the DFAC say it's "due to convoy". What the sign doesn't say is due to what. "Due to convoy", of course. Due to convoy being hijacked, perhaps?
That's the current trouble. The story goes that there were forty tractor trailer rigs headed up from the ports at Basra full of milk and eggs and Gatorade. Each vehicle had a driver and a shooter. Then, at some quiet location south of here, an oil tanker pulled across the road, stopping the first vehicle. Next, a second oil tanker pulled behind the last vehicle, cutting off any escape. As per plan, some 300 armed men appeared from the ditches and vegetation. The coalition surrendered. The trucks were stolen.
No one was injured, but some jihadist is now eating my carrots.
The talk is that lunch will be replaced with MREs until we can reestablish supply lines. Other talk is that I leave the IZ tomorrow. Read More......
2007-05-23
Mercenary
“Flea on de magadog?” Okay, maybe I’m not actually a parasite. Why mince words, though, when profiteer is such a nice one? The fact is, there’s a huge pile of money to be made here and if the Company don’t rake it, some other outfit will.
In all honesty, this reconstruction operation is little different than any other government program, more designed to benefit the contractors and bureaucrats than the people. Using Iraq as a specific example, by the time These United States gets out of here, assuming we can get out of here within the next few years, we will have spent over one trillion dollars on the effort. Our constructed benefit to Iraq over that time? Perhaps fifty billion dollars (plus seventeen thousand miles of T-walls and enough concertina wire to encircle the earth).
Mix that trillion Dollars around a bit, and it seems that each and every American is on the hook for about $3000. That’s a hefty tax to pay just to send our boys and girls out to kill and be killed by some extremist Arabs. And the kicker. Each Iraqi has “benefited” $40,000. How much peace could we have bought just by giving each and every one of them an envelop full of Benjamins?
There was an entirely different attitude here at the start of this program. There was hope, for one, and the Americans who came here did so because they were hopeful that we could affect a peaceful solution. Rebuilding a country was the most interesting piece of engineering work in the world four years ago. It was exciting work in an exciting environment and, although we were well compensated, I don’t think the people were here for the money nearly so much as they were here for the experience.
Now, there are a scant few idealists remaining. The bulk of the expatriates are mercenaries. Not that we’ve joined some private army, per se. No. It’s just that large numbers of the people are here solely for the money. As it became clear that the Iraq experience would not be one of success, the idealist folks who volunteered for this duty at the start have stopped coming. For this elite group, the potential for great project success brought them here. The money was just a nice bonus.
Now that the war winds well into its fifth losing year, the caliber of expatriates has slipped markedly. It’s no longer the A Team, but some other letter far down the scale.
And they’re mercenaries. Technically good enough at their jobs, but devoid of the passion that could raise the program up a level or two. Even with further uplifts to pay as enticement, they’re the best we can muster. Even with hardened facilities, private rooms, and cable TV, there isn’t enough to draw back those that might have made a real difference here.
This situation is mimicked in the field, where the best and the brightest tradesmen are having a better time in some other corner of the world. What’re left are those who do it for the money, skills be damned. Success be damned. The government side’s the same. The volunteers with the vision have been replaced by those who just need their ticket stamped.
The other side of our local mercenary population (and perhaps the most honest about it) are the contractors who provide security for us. Despite hundreds of soldiers living in Camp Freedom, none of them ever pull guard duty. The gunmen who man the checkpoints, issue badges, and patrol the Motel 6 are Third Country Nationals, typically AK-47 armed Third Worlders supervised by a couple of British companies. The PSD’s who escort the lucky few over the wire are the same – simply guns for hire. Slightly more venomous than the Pakistanis, Napalese, and Iraqis compound guards (in fact, a huge amount more venomous), they’ve mostly usurped the force protection role of the Army here.
Good or bad, I think mercenary armies are the war of the future. The domestic backlash for our failure here will be felt for decades. How much easier will it be for the Congress to issue a multi-billion Dollar Indefinite Deliverable / Indefinite Quantity contract to Halliburton or Bechtel then instruct them to invade Sudan? This keeps the soldiers at home where they belong, but still allows us to pursue our imperialistic dreams.
Iraq is tiring. Read More......
In all honesty, this reconstruction operation is little different than any other government program, more designed to benefit the contractors and bureaucrats than the people. Using Iraq as a specific example, by the time These United States gets out of here, assuming we can get out of here within the next few years, we will have spent over one trillion dollars on the effort. Our constructed benefit to Iraq over that time? Perhaps fifty billion dollars (plus seventeen thousand miles of T-walls and enough concertina wire to encircle the earth).
Mix that trillion Dollars around a bit, and it seems that each and every American is on the hook for about $3000. That’s a hefty tax to pay just to send our boys and girls out to kill and be killed by some extremist Arabs. And the kicker. Each Iraqi has “benefited” $40,000. How much peace could we have bought just by giving each and every one of them an envelop full of Benjamins?
There was an entirely different attitude here at the start of this program. There was hope, for one, and the Americans who came here did so because they were hopeful that we could affect a peaceful solution. Rebuilding a country was the most interesting piece of engineering work in the world four years ago. It was exciting work in an exciting environment and, although we were well compensated, I don’t think the people were here for the money nearly so much as they were here for the experience.
Now, there are a scant few idealists remaining. The bulk of the expatriates are mercenaries. Not that we’ve joined some private army, per se. No. It’s just that large numbers of the people are here solely for the money. As it became clear that the Iraq experience would not be one of success, the idealist folks who volunteered for this duty at the start have stopped coming. For this elite group, the potential for great project success brought them here. The money was just a nice bonus.
Now that the war winds well into its fifth losing year, the caliber of expatriates has slipped markedly. It’s no longer the A Team, but some other letter far down the scale.
And they’re mercenaries. Technically good enough at their jobs, but devoid of the passion that could raise the program up a level or two. Even with further uplifts to pay as enticement, they’re the best we can muster. Even with hardened facilities, private rooms, and cable TV, there isn’t enough to draw back those that might have made a real difference here.
This situation is mimicked in the field, where the best and the brightest tradesmen are having a better time in some other corner of the world. What’re left are those who do it for the money, skills be damned. Success be damned. The government side’s the same. The volunteers with the vision have been replaced by those who just need their ticket stamped.
The other side of our local mercenary population (and perhaps the most honest about it) are the contractors who provide security for us. Despite hundreds of soldiers living in Camp Freedom, none of them ever pull guard duty. The gunmen who man the checkpoints, issue badges, and patrol the Motel 6 are Third Country Nationals, typically AK-47 armed Third Worlders supervised by a couple of British companies. The PSD’s who escort the lucky few over the wire are the same – simply guns for hire. Slightly more venomous than the Pakistanis, Napalese, and Iraqis compound guards (in fact, a huge amount more venomous), they’ve mostly usurped the force protection role of the Army here.
Good or bad, I think mercenary armies are the war of the future. The domestic backlash for our failure here will be felt for decades. How much easier will it be for the Congress to issue a multi-billion Dollar Indefinite Deliverable / Indefinite Quantity contract to Halliburton or Bechtel then instruct them to invade Sudan? This keeps the soldiers at home where they belong, but still allows us to pursue our imperialistic dreams.
Iraq is tiring. Read More......
2007-05-21
Right in Two
Now, here’s a little musical/lyrical interlude: “Right in Two”, by Tool.
=====
Angels on the sideline,
Puzzled and amused.
Why did Father give these humans free will?
Now they're all confused.
Don't these talking monkeys know that
Eden has enough to go around?
Plenty in this holy garden, silly monkeys,
where there's one you're bound to divide it
Right in two
Angels on the sideline,
Baffled and confused.
Father blessed them all with reason.
And this is what they choose.
Monkey killing monkey killing monkey
Over pieces of the ground.
Silly monkeys give them thumbs,
They forge a blade,
And where there's one they're bound to divide it,
Right in two.
Monkey killing monkey killing monkey
Over pieces of the ground.
Silly monkeys give them thumbs, they make a club
And beat their brother down.
How they survive so misguided is a mystery.
Repugnant is a creature who would squander the ability
to lift an eye to heaven conscious of his fleeting time here.
cut it, divide it all right in two
They fight, till they die
Over earth, over sky
They fight
Over lies, over blood, over air
And light, over love, over son
Over blood
They fight, till they die, over what? for our lies!
Angels on the sideline again
Benched along with patience and reason
Angels on the sideline again
Wondering when this tug of war will end
cut it, divide it all right in two
Right in two...
=====
Used without permission. Read More......
=====
Angels on the sideline,
Puzzled and amused.
Why did Father give these humans free will?
Now they're all confused.
Don't these talking monkeys know that
Eden has enough to go around?
Plenty in this holy garden, silly monkeys,
where there's one you're bound to divide it
Right in two
Angels on the sideline,
Baffled and confused.
Father blessed them all with reason.
And this is what they choose.
Monkey killing monkey killing monkey
Over pieces of the ground.
Silly monkeys give them thumbs,
They forge a blade,
And where there's one they're bound to divide it,
Right in two.
Monkey killing monkey killing monkey
Over pieces of the ground.
Silly monkeys give them thumbs, they make a club
And beat their brother down.
How they survive so misguided is a mystery.
Repugnant is a creature who would squander the ability
to lift an eye to heaven conscious of his fleeting time here.
cut it, divide it all right in two
They fight, till they die
Over earth, over sky
They fight
Over lies, over blood, over air
And light, over love, over son
Over blood
They fight, till they die, over what? for our lies!
Angels on the sideline again
Benched along with patience and reason
Angels on the sideline again
Wondering when this tug of war will end
cut it, divide it all right in two
Right in two...
=====
Used without permission. Read More......
2007-05-19
Mailbaggage
For this installment, let's open the old mailbag, shall we?
"John" of "Minnesota" asks, "Are you out of your freaking mind?"
This has been covered before, "John", but yes, I probably am. Thanks for asking.
Next up, "Joel" from "Washington" writes to say "The Left complain that the completed work is largely shoddy and often unusable, while the Right complain that the real story of Iraq reconstruction has not been told. When you say a project is completed, what is known about its condition, and whether it is providing the designed benefit? Finally, any idea how many of these projects are to fix stuff the U.S. military broke in the first place?"
Good questions, all. And for lack of another topic today, I'll regurgitate what I wrote to "Joel" and "other people" last night. For a project to be complete requires that USACE sign off. They are the contracting entity in most cases, so it makes sense that they verify that the work is complete. This could mean little more than the project was constructed as per the plans and specifications. Knowing the situation here, I imagine that they are doing as little as possible. However, what follows construction here oftentimes is the necessary training and equipment installation that turns a building into a school, for instance, or turns a pole shed into a firehouse. This final step can lag behind physical construction for months or longer, in which time the building can be ignored, damaged, bombed, or completely vandalized and stripped of anything of value.
Those who are pro-reconstruction program cite the first part (complete physical construction means complete, dammit), those opposed, the second (until blackboards and fire trucks have been delivered, the project is worthless, jerk). I have no idea as to how many projects get pushed successfully (i.e. in a timely manner) through both components. I don't know if anybody does. What I do know is that the second component, what we call, simply, CD/OMS/NONC (Capacity Development / Operations, Maintenance, and Sustainment / Non-Construction), will be most of the new money dumped down this rathole over the next three or four years. Likely another billion dollars in total.
What's the "designed benefit" of a clinic, anyway? Is it a healthy child? Is it a working facility? A jobs program? A way to keep idle hands off of weapons? A way to jump start the local economy? A way to win the peace?
Maybe some. Maybe all.
As for fixing what we broke? We didn't break that much, physically. It was precision bombing for the greater part, destroying bridge decks (not suspension components), runways (easily patched), and the Iraqi Army (boom). What held most of this country together for the past thirty years has been birds' nests, baling wire, and the threat of death if your power plant fails to generate. Once we eliminated that threat, the smart folks who kept the infrastructure in tact packed their camels, got the hell out of Karbala, and immigrated to Jordan with their money and smart kids. This flight of the worker bees will take a generation to fix, if and once things stabilize.
And if this answer wasn't enough, this selfsame "Joel" asks, "It is also reported that Iraqis now have less electricity and potable water and health care and oil production than under Saddam: how are these matters squared with the reconstruction program claims of such high rates of completion?
Geez. Questions, questions, questions! Who's got time to answer all of these danged questions? You know, I'd guess that if a hundred million more citizens like "Joel" were busy asking these pesky "questions" five years ago instead of watching the final rounds of American Idol, we never would have been in this "war" at all.
_Then_ where would the reconstruction effort be? Hmmm?
Write your Congressman. I'm sure he knows. Read More......
"John" of "Minnesota" asks, "Are you out of your freaking mind?"
This has been covered before, "John", but yes, I probably am. Thanks for asking.
Next up, "Joel" from "Washington" writes to say "The Left complain that the completed work is largely shoddy and often unusable, while the Right complain that the real story of Iraq reconstruction has not been told. When you say a project is completed, what is known about its condition, and whether it is providing the designed benefit? Finally, any idea how many of these projects are to fix stuff the U.S. military broke in the first place?"
Good questions, all. And for lack of another topic today, I'll regurgitate what I wrote to "Joel" and "other people" last night. For a project to be complete requires that USACE sign off. They are the contracting entity in most cases, so it makes sense that they verify that the work is complete. This could mean little more than the project was constructed as per the plans and specifications. Knowing the situation here, I imagine that they are doing as little as possible. However, what follows construction here oftentimes is the necessary training and equipment installation that turns a building into a school, for instance, or turns a pole shed into a firehouse. This final step can lag behind physical construction for months or longer, in which time the building can be ignored, damaged, bombed, or completely vandalized and stripped of anything of value.
Those who are pro-reconstruction program cite the first part (complete physical construction means complete, dammit), those opposed, the second (until blackboards and fire trucks have been delivered, the project is worthless, jerk). I have no idea as to how many projects get pushed successfully (i.e. in a timely manner) through both components. I don't know if anybody does. What I do know is that the second component, what we call, simply, CD/OMS/NONC (Capacity Development / Operations, Maintenance, and Sustainment / Non-Construction), will be most of the new money dumped down this rathole over the next three or four years. Likely another billion dollars in total.
What's the "designed benefit" of a clinic, anyway? Is it a healthy child? Is it a working facility? A jobs program? A way to keep idle hands off of weapons? A way to jump start the local economy? A way to win the peace?
Maybe some. Maybe all.
As for fixing what we broke? We didn't break that much, physically. It was precision bombing for the greater part, destroying bridge decks (not suspension components), runways (easily patched), and the Iraqi Army (boom). What held most of this country together for the past thirty years has been birds' nests, baling wire, and the threat of death if your power plant fails to generate. Once we eliminated that threat, the smart folks who kept the infrastructure in tact packed their camels, got the hell out of Karbala, and immigrated to Jordan with their money and smart kids. This flight of the worker bees will take a generation to fix, if and once things stabilize.
And if this answer wasn't enough, this selfsame "Joel" asks, "It is also reported that Iraqis now have less electricity and potable water and health care and oil production than under Saddam: how are these matters squared with the reconstruction program claims of such high rates of completion?
Geez. Questions, questions, questions! Who's got time to answer all of these danged questions? You know, I'd guess that if a hundred million more citizens like "Joel" were busy asking these pesky "questions" five years ago instead of watching the final rounds of American Idol, we never would have been in this "war" at all.
_Then_ where would the reconstruction effort be? Hmmm?
Write your Congressman. I'm sure he knows. Read More......
2007-05-18
Boom
Some days in Baghdad are atypical.
For instance, a couple of days ago I met a General. Granted he was merely a Brigadier, and not really that atypical for a general, but a general, nonetheless, and bumping into one is atypical. As it turns out, he’s the commander of the GRD – the USACE Region that manages the reconstruction program (among others duties). He was working the dinner crowd at the DFAC, meeting the troops and boosting morale.
It rained that day as well, which is nice for the cooling effect it brings, but sloppy in that it raises the dirt all around and slimes walls, windows, and vehicles. As we moved around outside, we didn’t bother hiding from the shower, in part for the novelty of rain, but also in that there was nothing we could do about it. Enshallah. The rain didn’t amount to much so late in the season, barely putting a dent in the annual numbers. Fleur, who manages the compound, will still have to water the foliage this week and next and through the impending summer.
The next morning, it was still cool, but the front that brought in the prior days rain had stirred the landscape and riled up the fine and choking dust. The morning sun was obscured, appearing for the first few hours only as a white disk in the desert sky, almost moonlike in its radiance. All was still, and calm, and peaceful.
Unlike the brief period the day before when the mortars rained down.
With the weekend approaching, I thought it might be a good idea to obtain the Army’s permission to borrow one of their vehicles. I’d like to take Wes to see some of the accessible sights and monuments, and just take the opportunity to experience the freedom of driving, in stark comparison to the controlled movement that we’re subjected to at Camp Essayons, a French word meaning “fubar”. Across the street, the compound that contains our hooches and the DFAC is Camp Freedom, an English word for “luxury accommodations (mind the guards, thank you)”.
As you know, I’m a very good driver, but only if “good” means “sort of aggressive and prone to excessive speeds.” If this designation was on my license, I’m sure I could get a few hours use of a government vehicle with little issues. After all, in the Middle East, aggressive speeding is key to survival. Oddly, this is not the case with the new and improved Department of Defense. They want calm, slow, and downright certified boring drivers behind the wheel.
That afternoon was looking slow, so I jumped into the process with as much vigor as I could muster. The first step towards boring certification is the briefing which was expectedly boring but, thankfully, quite brief. In it, a Master Sergeant presented an awful PowerPoint presentation, wherein she stressed that speeding, aggressive drivers aren’t cool, and that they’re more likely to get into accidents. As if!
Next was to take an on-line course in boring. It was interesting in its design, though, as there was no way to accelerate the learning process. I couldn’t advance from slide to slide until a set time had passed to read it. Worse, if I activated another window to use a different application, the boring class would stop, happy to sit idle until it received my full attention once more.
Bottom line, I wanted to drive around the Zone formerly known as Green, so I agreed to jump through whatever hoops they had for me. So,… midafternoon,… boring course certificate finally printed,… I was just getting back on task when the first round detonated in the compound. No warning, of course, just a deep boom and a shudder, like when a heavy door gets slammed shut a few rooms away.
Ten seconds later, another boom. This one seemed closer.
Ten seconds,… boom. Closer?
Five seconds,… boom. Further?
Boom. Closer?
Boom.
Boom.
Boom.
Boom.
Boom.
Boom.
Boom.
A dozen rounds in all in no more than two minutes – although it’s easy to lose count of both time and numbers. Big rounds, too. Likely 120 mm projectiles, launched from up to 8 kilometers away. Zeroed in on us. Trying to blow us up. Fuckers.
Sometime during this barrage comes the Big Voice, by now a little shaken, to announce the lockdown. Later during the barrage, it was obvious that he had been hit, as his voice turned all staticky, and then fell silent. Further announcements would come in person, as the PSD’s would provide status and instructions as they yelled their way through the spacious halls of the former art gallery where we work. The timing was on the fortunate end, as two or three hours on either side would have caught hundreds of people outside heading to chow. Three hit in the parking lot between the office and the DFAC, one fifty meters north of the office, one hit the Freedom Tower, one hit the security building, one topped a palm tree, and the rest hit just beyond the GRD compound wall.
The lockdown would last over three hours. There were two fatalities and ten other casualties. There was property damage. There were fuel spills and detritus that needed to be controlled and cleaned up. Typically, the All Clear comes ten or fifteen minutes after an attack. Typically, only one in four projectiles actually explodes. Typically, they land further away. This wasn’t a typical event.
We spent the first hour after All Clear status moving about the compound, surveying the damage and collecting bits of shrapnel, both near the blast sites and in some cases, over 100 meters distant. Of course, it could have been much worse, but it did turn out to be a somewhat effective attack on the Coalition – besides the personnel losses, the power supply to our server was damaged by the hit on the Tower and the batteries flagged after just a couple hours. It finally went on line after about 28 hours, forcing 600-800 people out of work for more than a day. Likewise the phone system, which is VOIP, was out of commission. Conservatively, the value of the time lost for these folks was in the low seven figures.
Add the cost of reduced morale to this (although the General was doing his best to assuage this condition) and it’s even more expensive. In the long term, the best and the brightest will be more hesitant to extend their tours here, or come to this shithole to begin with.
In the short term, the fuckers blew up the motor pool, so now I won’t be driving at all. Read More......
For instance, a couple of days ago I met a General. Granted he was merely a Brigadier, and not really that atypical for a general, but a general, nonetheless, and bumping into one is atypical. As it turns out, he’s the commander of the GRD – the USACE Region that manages the reconstruction program (among others duties). He was working the dinner crowd at the DFAC, meeting the troops and boosting morale.
It rained that day as well, which is nice for the cooling effect it brings, but sloppy in that it raises the dirt all around and slimes walls, windows, and vehicles. As we moved around outside, we didn’t bother hiding from the shower, in part for the novelty of rain, but also in that there was nothing we could do about it. Enshallah. The rain didn’t amount to much so late in the season, barely putting a dent in the annual numbers. Fleur, who manages the compound, will still have to water the foliage this week and next and through the impending summer.
The next morning, it was still cool, but the front that brought in the prior days rain had stirred the landscape and riled up the fine and choking dust. The morning sun was obscured, appearing for the first few hours only as a white disk in the desert sky, almost moonlike in its radiance. All was still, and calm, and peaceful.
Unlike the brief period the day before when the mortars rained down.
With the weekend approaching, I thought it might be a good idea to obtain the Army’s permission to borrow one of their vehicles. I’d like to take Wes to see some of the accessible sights and monuments, and just take the opportunity to experience the freedom of driving, in stark comparison to the controlled movement that we’re subjected to at Camp Essayons, a French word meaning “fubar”. Across the street, the compound that contains our hooches and the DFAC is Camp Freedom, an English word for “luxury accommodations (mind the guards, thank you)”.
As you know, I’m a very good driver, but only if “good” means “sort of aggressive and prone to excessive speeds.” If this designation was on my license, I’m sure I could get a few hours use of a government vehicle with little issues. After all, in the Middle East, aggressive speeding is key to survival. Oddly, this is not the case with the new and improved Department of Defense. They want calm, slow, and downright certified boring drivers behind the wheel.
That afternoon was looking slow, so I jumped into the process with as much vigor as I could muster. The first step towards boring certification is the briefing which was expectedly boring but, thankfully, quite brief. In it, a Master Sergeant presented an awful PowerPoint presentation, wherein she stressed that speeding, aggressive drivers aren’t cool, and that they’re more likely to get into accidents. As if!
Next was to take an on-line course in boring. It was interesting in its design, though, as there was no way to accelerate the learning process. I couldn’t advance from slide to slide until a set time had passed to read it. Worse, if I activated another window to use a different application, the boring class would stop, happy to sit idle until it received my full attention once more.
Bottom line, I wanted to drive around the Zone formerly known as Green, so I agreed to jump through whatever hoops they had for me. So,… midafternoon,… boring course certificate finally printed,… I was just getting back on task when the first round detonated in the compound. No warning, of course, just a deep boom and a shudder, like when a heavy door gets slammed shut a few rooms away.
Ten seconds later, another boom. This one seemed closer.
Ten seconds,… boom. Closer?
Five seconds,… boom. Further?
Boom. Closer?
Boom.
Boom.
Boom.
Boom.
Boom.
Boom.
Boom.
A dozen rounds in all in no more than two minutes – although it’s easy to lose count of both time and numbers. Big rounds, too. Likely 120 mm projectiles, launched from up to 8 kilometers away. Zeroed in on us. Trying to blow us up. Fuckers.
Sometime during this barrage comes the Big Voice, by now a little shaken, to announce the lockdown. Later during the barrage, it was obvious that he had been hit, as his voice turned all staticky, and then fell silent. Further announcements would come in person, as the PSD’s would provide status and instructions as they yelled their way through the spacious halls of the former art gallery where we work. The timing was on the fortunate end, as two or three hours on either side would have caught hundreds of people outside heading to chow. Three hit in the parking lot between the office and the DFAC, one fifty meters north of the office, one hit the Freedom Tower, one hit the security building, one topped a palm tree, and the rest hit just beyond the GRD compound wall.
The lockdown would last over three hours. There were two fatalities and ten other casualties. There was property damage. There were fuel spills and detritus that needed to be controlled and cleaned up. Typically, the All Clear comes ten or fifteen minutes after an attack. Typically, only one in four projectiles actually explodes. Typically, they land further away. This wasn’t a typical event.
We spent the first hour after All Clear status moving about the compound, surveying the damage and collecting bits of shrapnel, both near the blast sites and in some cases, over 100 meters distant. Of course, it could have been much worse, but it did turn out to be a somewhat effective attack on the Coalition – besides the personnel losses, the power supply to our server was damaged by the hit on the Tower and the batteries flagged after just a couple hours. It finally went on line after about 28 hours, forcing 600-800 people out of work for more than a day. Likewise the phone system, which is VOIP, was out of commission. Conservatively, the value of the time lost for these folks was in the low seven figures.
Add the cost of reduced morale to this (although the General was doing his best to assuage this condition) and it’s even more expensive. In the long term, the best and the brightest will be more hesitant to extend their tours here, or come to this shithole to begin with.
In the short term, the fuckers blew up the motor pool, so now I won’t be driving at all. Read More......
2007-05-17
Reports
Let's suppose we ignore the GWOT for a moment and concentrate on the success of the reconstruction program. The Congress threw a heap of money into the IIRF in 2003, and later, into the IIRF-1. From that huge pot of cash, there were 5576 planned projects, of which 5551 have been started and 5077 completed.
Then along came a veritable Pottery Barn full of tubs of money, including DFI, MNCI, USAID, ISFF, CERP, ESF, Miscellaneous Donors, and "others". Including these sources, our totals increase to 14224 projects, 13562 starts, and 11990 completions.
But wait, there's more!
Additional funds came from OMA and MILCON. With them, there are 14760 projects, of which 14075 have started and 12434 completed. The total value is just over $15 Billion, or around a million dollars a piece. However, the size and complexity range from less than $50,000 to well over $100 Million.
"Hey", you might ask. "Didn't you say we'd spent $30 Billion on reconstruction?"
I did. Good luck finding the other fifteen.
Regardless of your preferred method of accounting, this is the program than needs managing. Some 15,000 projects at 15,000 locations, with 15,000 individual contracts, plans, and specifications. 15,000 sets of documentation and 15,000 sets of project data. To provide some perspective, the Company numbers each of our projects and it took us the better part of 95 years to complete 15,000 projects. Here, it was accomplished in four years and, as with the Company, they're a little behind on the filing.
As many of you are aware, individual project management is no small task. However, projects are generally discreet, whereas this program is continuously growing into new and interesting shapes. Ultimately, while project management is about getting the bricks and mortar into a neat pile, the core of the program management is reporting the status of the piles of bricks and mortar. Is the pile tall enough? Was the piling done in time? Have all of the bricks been used?
In base form, I've already done what 500 people do full time. I told you above that we are 82.42% complete with all projects. Sounds easy enough - until some agency asks the level of completion of CERF funded communications projects in Arbil. Someone else may want to know the projected project dollars spent from last April through 2008 for primary healthcare centers contracts less than $100,000 in the USACE Southern District.
I'm not saying these folks need these particular data sets, they just want these particular data sets. When it's something that gets reported in a regular format and on a regular schedule, it's called reporting. When the request is for a new arrangement of data (usually exchanging rows for columns and usually for a briefing ten minutes from now), it's called a "drive by". Drive by reporting is a massive time waster, and probably keeps a score or more employed.
That's neither here nor there. The key thing is the reporting. Primarily, it's to the flock of general officers who see the reconstruction as integral to the success of our mission here. The reports also satisfy the needs of the various funding groups,... and Laura Bush.
So to satisfy these requests - we need a huge data base.
And we'll give it a name.
And the name will be grand!
And we'll call it ----- IRMS!!!!!!
Of course, it's a freaking acronym. What isn't?
IRMS, the Iraq Reconstruction Management System, gets some of its data from the field project managers through their own independent data base, other data from schedulers in USACE district offices using third party software, more from the various sectors gleaned from their various spreadsheets and trackers, and who knows what else from where else. It's a huge, huge thing, and is served and massaged by the fifty Company people that we already have here.
While we knead the IRMS, the primary focus of the four Sectors is to feed it. Unfortunately, the change in shape of this program over the years has resulted in changes to the form of the data, resulting in a number of reporting inefficiencies and some IRMS indigestion (Vaal is unhappy). A clear advantage to the consolidation of the sectors under the one Company is that data input standards can once again be imposed and the IRMS will again receive wholesome, fiber-rich data entry, vital to the production of regular reports.
At that point, we'll be able to better control the drive bys and Laura Bush, and I'll be able to report with confidence that we're 82.42% complete with all projects. Read More......
Then along came a veritable Pottery Barn full of tubs of money, including DFI, MNCI, USAID, ISFF, CERP, ESF, Miscellaneous Donors, and "others". Including these sources, our totals increase to 14224 projects, 13562 starts, and 11990 completions.
But wait, there's more!
Additional funds came from OMA and MILCON. With them, there are 14760 projects, of which 14075 have started and 12434 completed. The total value is just over $15 Billion, or around a million dollars a piece. However, the size and complexity range from less than $50,000 to well over $100 Million.
"Hey", you might ask. "Didn't you say we'd spent $30 Billion on reconstruction?"
I did. Good luck finding the other fifteen.
Regardless of your preferred method of accounting, this is the program than needs managing. Some 15,000 projects at 15,000 locations, with 15,000 individual contracts, plans, and specifications. 15,000 sets of documentation and 15,000 sets of project data. To provide some perspective, the Company numbers each of our projects and it took us the better part of 95 years to complete 15,000 projects. Here, it was accomplished in four years and, as with the Company, they're a little behind on the filing.
As many of you are aware, individual project management is no small task. However, projects are generally discreet, whereas this program is continuously growing into new and interesting shapes. Ultimately, while project management is about getting the bricks and mortar into a neat pile, the core of the program management is reporting the status of the piles of bricks and mortar. Is the pile tall enough? Was the piling done in time? Have all of the bricks been used?
In base form, I've already done what 500 people do full time. I told you above that we are 82.42% complete with all projects. Sounds easy enough - until some agency asks the level of completion of CERF funded communications projects in Arbil. Someone else may want to know the projected project dollars spent from last April through 2008 for primary healthcare centers contracts less than $100,000 in the USACE Southern District.
I'm not saying these folks need these particular data sets, they just want these particular data sets. When it's something that gets reported in a regular format and on a regular schedule, it's called reporting. When the request is for a new arrangement of data (usually exchanging rows for columns and usually for a briefing ten minutes from now), it's called a "drive by". Drive by reporting is a massive time waster, and probably keeps a score or more employed.
That's neither here nor there. The key thing is the reporting. Primarily, it's to the flock of general officers who see the reconstruction as integral to the success of our mission here. The reports also satisfy the needs of the various funding groups,... and Laura Bush.
So to satisfy these requests - we need a huge data base.
And we'll give it a name.
And the name will be grand!
And we'll call it ----- IRMS!!!!!!
Of course, it's a freaking acronym. What isn't?
IRMS, the Iraq Reconstruction Management System, gets some of its data from the field project managers through their own independent data base, other data from schedulers in USACE district offices using third party software, more from the various sectors gleaned from their various spreadsheets and trackers, and who knows what else from where else. It's a huge, huge thing, and is served and massaged by the fifty Company people that we already have here.
While we knead the IRMS, the primary focus of the four Sectors is to feed it. Unfortunately, the change in shape of this program over the years has resulted in changes to the form of the data, resulting in a number of reporting inefficiencies and some IRMS indigestion (Vaal is unhappy). A clear advantage to the consolidation of the sectors under the one Company is that data input standards can once again be imposed and the IRMS will again receive wholesome, fiber-rich data entry, vital to the production of regular reports.
At that point, we'll be able to better control the drive bys and Laura Bush, and I'll be able to report with confidence that we're 82.42% complete with all projects. Read More......
2007-05-15
Acronyms
A couple times day, I'm subjected to someone saying that some task or another "isn't rocket science." I imagine the point is that rocket science is still a difficult task, at least, more difficult than rebuilding Iraq. Another phrase we use internally, salvaged from the last time we were here, is "Enough of that, I've got a country to build." I'm that good. Honest.
And it ain't rocket science (as our search for WMD's discovered).
Perhaps what would help is a few "600 pound brains", which was the personnel requirement of an Army Colonel for those slated to join his staff at the JROC (Joint Reconstruction Operations Committee). After all, in a "fully developed theatre", we should be able to get whatever we need.
Learning the language is one of the first hurdles to hit you here, and one of the hardest to overcome. It's not so bad when real words are used in new and interesting ways ("dogs are a vector for disease"), but the unending stream of acronyms is the true language barrier. There're acronyms for everything - from equipment, to programs, to groups of persons, and they're everywhere and all the time.
There's so many, in fact, that if I could learn a fresh fifty each day, I still couldn't learn them all by month's end. I've got a couple of lists for reference that include roughly 1500 distinct usages, from AAR (After Action Review/Report) to ZADCO (Abu Dhabi Gas Industries, Ltd.). Beyond that are the acronyms that aren't on these lists for whatever reasons, plus those that are made up on the spot (TBD).
They're time savers, I suppose, conserving effort and precious seconds when speaking and writing. For example, it's much easier to say MNSTC-I ("min-sticky"), than it is to say Multi-National Security Transitional Command - Iraq. Likewise with IMPACS, the Institute for Media, Policy, and Civil Society.
Sometimes, you just have to say the letters. Like with SVBIED, Suicide Vehicle Based Improvised Explosive Device, or with JCCIA, the Joint Contracting Command - Iraq/Afghanistan.
Sometimes it's a mix of abbreviations and acronyms, like SOCCENT ("Sock Cent") for Special Operations Command, Central, or OCONUS for Outside the Continental United States. I suppose to use the real words instead of the abbreviated versions would add about 50% to the length of each meeting.
Sometimes it's out of control, like with the USAJFKSWCS, the United State Army John Fitzgerald Kennedy Special Warfare Center and School. Fortunately, they aren't opening a dozen satellite classrooms as a part of the education reconstruction efforts, or we'd have to add some regional designation onto the end of an already too long jumble of letters.
Quite weird is the IUP, which is really an acronym made up from the acronyms IRMO, USAID, and PCO. However, IRMO just reorganized as ITAO, so the overall acronym won't change, just the underlying acronyms. Simple!
What a few of us are looking for, though, are acronym verbs. The local acronyms mostly describe nouns (GBU - Guided Bomb Unit), occasionally adjectives (INJ - Injured), sometimes a transitional phrase (IOT – In Order To), but very rarely verbs (DOW - Died of Wounds). The goal, of course, is to be able to put together complete sentences without using many words at all, to whit: EKIA (GSW) by IDF from COIN CO of IP (Enemy killed in action (gun shot wound) by indirect fire from counter insurgency commanding officer of Iraqi Police).
Sure, my acronymic language skills are rough today, but give me a couple of weeks. Regardless, it's easier than learning Arabic, and if I get tired of the AEPs (Acronym Education Periods), there's plenty of other catchy phrases and terminology that I can work to better understand. For instance,
I need to comprehend "management by wishful thinking."
I must learn what's "less than a glimmer of hope?"
I must master "configuration management."
I should already know that "deconflicted" means "conflicted."
I must recognize the "demand signal."
I must realize that "nothing here is permanent."
I must identify the "belly button."
Upon first seeing this last one in a document authored by a Submariner, I'd assumed it was a Naval term, but have now learned that it refers to the SPOC, or single point of contact.
Through it all, though, I've learned one thing - "IRMS is more than IRFF".
Yessir. Read More......
And it ain't rocket science (as our search for WMD's discovered).
Perhaps what would help is a few "600 pound brains", which was the personnel requirement of an Army Colonel for those slated to join his staff at the JROC (Joint Reconstruction Operations Committee). After all, in a "fully developed theatre", we should be able to get whatever we need.
Learning the language is one of the first hurdles to hit you here, and one of the hardest to overcome. It's not so bad when real words are used in new and interesting ways ("dogs are a vector for disease"), but the unending stream of acronyms is the true language barrier. There're acronyms for everything - from equipment, to programs, to groups of persons, and they're everywhere and all the time.
There's so many, in fact, that if I could learn a fresh fifty each day, I still couldn't learn them all by month's end. I've got a couple of lists for reference that include roughly 1500 distinct usages, from AAR (After Action Review/Report) to ZADCO (Abu Dhabi Gas Industries, Ltd.). Beyond that are the acronyms that aren't on these lists for whatever reasons, plus those that are made up on the spot (TBD).
They're time savers, I suppose, conserving effort and precious seconds when speaking and writing. For example, it's much easier to say MNSTC-I ("min-sticky"), than it is to say Multi-National Security Transitional Command - Iraq. Likewise with IMPACS, the Institute for Media, Policy, and Civil Society.
Sometimes, you just have to say the letters. Like with SVBIED, Suicide Vehicle Based Improvised Explosive Device, or with JCCIA, the Joint Contracting Command - Iraq/Afghanistan.
Sometimes it's a mix of abbreviations and acronyms, like SOCCENT ("Sock Cent") for Special Operations Command, Central, or OCONUS for Outside the Continental United States. I suppose to use the real words instead of the abbreviated versions would add about 50% to the length of each meeting.
Sometimes it's out of control, like with the USAJFKSWCS, the United State Army John Fitzgerald Kennedy Special Warfare Center and School. Fortunately, they aren't opening a dozen satellite classrooms as a part of the education reconstruction efforts, or we'd have to add some regional designation onto the end of an already too long jumble of letters.
Quite weird is the IUP, which is really an acronym made up from the acronyms IRMO, USAID, and PCO. However, IRMO just reorganized as ITAO, so the overall acronym won't change, just the underlying acronyms. Simple!
What a few of us are looking for, though, are acronym verbs. The local acronyms mostly describe nouns (GBU - Guided Bomb Unit), occasionally adjectives (INJ - Injured), sometimes a transitional phrase (IOT – In Order To), but very rarely verbs (DOW - Died of Wounds). The goal, of course, is to be able to put together complete sentences without using many words at all, to whit: EKIA (GSW) by IDF from COIN CO of IP (Enemy killed in action (gun shot wound) by indirect fire from counter insurgency commanding officer of Iraqi Police).
Sure, my acronymic language skills are rough today, but give me a couple of weeks. Regardless, it's easier than learning Arabic, and if I get tired of the AEPs (Acronym Education Periods), there's plenty of other catchy phrases and terminology that I can work to better understand. For instance,
I need to comprehend "management by wishful thinking."
I must learn what's "less than a glimmer of hope?"
I must master "configuration management."
I should already know that "deconflicted" means "conflicted."
I must recognize the "demand signal."
I must realize that "nothing here is permanent."
I must identify the "belly button."
Upon first seeing this last one in a document authored by a Submariner, I'd assumed it was a Naval term, but have now learned that it refers to the SPOC, or single point of contact.
Through it all, though, I've learned one thing - "IRMS is more than IRFF".
Yessir. Read More......
2007-05-14
The Program
In our last episode, loser Reform Party Vice Presidential Candidate Vice Admiral James Stockdale (Retired) asked, "why am I here?" The corollary to this wizened question might be, "what am I doing here?"
Rebuilding a country, dammit! And, to quote Our Great Leader, "it's a hard job." It must be, or we wouldn't still be doing it after four years.
When we arrived in October 2003, the dozen of us were tasked with developing a program for the reconstruction of Iraq. We had blown up some of it during the occupation, Saddam had stolen lots of it between the two Gulf Wars, and the Baath Party had neglected all of it for the thirty years prior. Reconstruction would be a huge, Marshall Plan scaled effort, for which we would be allowed to spend the paltry sum of just over $18 Billion (equivalent to less than two months of war mongering). At the time, we figured that the country needed five times this amount (about eight months of war mongering) to get the infrastructure into a self-sustaining condition.
We went CONUS six months later as the Programming and Contracting Office was built over our heads, and under the impression that the work would be substantially complete four years later.
Now, go figure, the work is substantially complete. In fact, additional funding has been secured in the intervening years, and over $30 Billion has been spent to date on everything from prisons to schools. This only puts us $60 Billion away from success (or about five months of war mongering).
In the mean time, our group of twelve has morphed into a medusa with some 500 heads, each of them keeping track of something or another. Seriously, I don't know what they all do, despite this very same figuring being what I'm here for.
Raise your hand and cluck like a chicken if you're confused. If not, start clucking anyway, because you soon will be.
At this time, the program management hydra is subdivided into four primary sectors substantially relating to the various Iraqi ministry groups of Oil, Electric, Public Works, and Facilities. Each sector is managed by large multi-national engineering firms. In short, sector management develops projects for a number of design-build contractors, and then manages the projects, analyses performance, and reports as necessary. All of the data goes through a reporting sector which, most coincidentally, is run by the Company and its joint venture with Michael Baker Group and Hill International. [For those outside the Beltway, knowledge (i.e. data) is power.]
Now that the construction programs are winding down, the need for four large program management sectors is diminished. This is where I come in. It's my job this month, with four others, to develop a transition plan to move sector management from four sectors into one "Super Sector", merged with our existing operations. In the process, we'll carve out the dead wood and redundancies (read: hatchet man), eliminate the competition, and reduce total staffing by half, from which the Company will receive all of the profits, instead of just a fifth.
If you're having trouble picturing this, just imagine a pack of mangy curs feeding off the dregs of a bloody battlefield.
I'm the disease-ridden flea on the dog's ass. Read More......
Rebuilding a country, dammit! And, to quote Our Great Leader, "it's a hard job." It must be, or we wouldn't still be doing it after four years.
When we arrived in October 2003, the dozen of us were tasked with developing a program for the reconstruction of Iraq. We had blown up some of it during the occupation, Saddam had stolen lots of it between the two Gulf Wars, and the Baath Party had neglected all of it for the thirty years prior. Reconstruction would be a huge, Marshall Plan scaled effort, for which we would be allowed to spend the paltry sum of just over $18 Billion (equivalent to less than two months of war mongering). At the time, we figured that the country needed five times this amount (about eight months of war mongering) to get the infrastructure into a self-sustaining condition.
We went CONUS six months later as the Programming and Contracting Office was built over our heads, and under the impression that the work would be substantially complete four years later.
Now, go figure, the work is substantially complete. In fact, additional funding has been secured in the intervening years, and over $30 Billion has been spent to date on everything from prisons to schools. This only puts us $60 Billion away from success (or about five months of war mongering).
In the mean time, our group of twelve has morphed into a medusa with some 500 heads, each of them keeping track of something or another. Seriously, I don't know what they all do, despite this very same figuring being what I'm here for.
Raise your hand and cluck like a chicken if you're confused. If not, start clucking anyway, because you soon will be.
At this time, the program management hydra is subdivided into four primary sectors substantially relating to the various Iraqi ministry groups of Oil, Electric, Public Works, and Facilities. Each sector is managed by large multi-national engineering firms. In short, sector management develops projects for a number of design-build contractors, and then manages the projects, analyses performance, and reports as necessary. All of the data goes through a reporting sector which, most coincidentally, is run by the Company and its joint venture with Michael Baker Group and Hill International. [For those outside the Beltway, knowledge (i.e. data) is power.]
Now that the construction programs are winding down, the need for four large program management sectors is diminished. This is where I come in. It's my job this month, with four others, to develop a transition plan to move sector management from four sectors into one "Super Sector", merged with our existing operations. In the process, we'll carve out the dead wood and redundancies (read: hatchet man), eliminate the competition, and reduce total staffing by half, from which the Company will receive all of the profits, instead of just a fifth.
If you're having trouble picturing this, just imagine a pack of mangy curs feeding off the dregs of a bloody battlefield.
I'm the disease-ridden flea on the dog's ass. Read More......
2007-05-13
Coordination
For limited release.
If you care to see my office, point Google Earth to XX XX XX.xx N XX XX XX.xx E, more or less.
The ziggety zaggety building is the Freedom Towers. North of that is a parking lot. Across the street to the east are four rectangular buildings side by side. My work space is in the south end of the second one from the west.
My commute then is back across the street, west across the parking lot and across the next parking lot. The walled complex just north of this lot is one of the old prisons, rumored to contain some of Saddams torture facilities. To the south of this lot is where Fleur has their management office for the GRD facilities in the IZ. South of that is a couple of mostly vacant lots where the DFAC is.
West of the DFAC are a bunch of sort of rectangular nondescript foundation looking things. My hooch is in the middle of the group of three, towards the north end on the west side.
The image appears to be about three years old. Read More......
If you care to see my office, point Google Earth to XX XX XX.xx N XX XX XX.xx E, more or less.
The ziggety zaggety building is the Freedom Towers. North of that is a parking lot. Across the street to the east are four rectangular buildings side by side. My work space is in the south end of the second one from the west.
My commute then is back across the street, west across the parking lot and across the next parking lot. The walled complex just north of this lot is one of the old prisons, rumored to contain some of Saddams torture facilities. To the south of this lot is where Fleur has their management office for the GRD facilities in the IZ. South of that is a couple of mostly vacant lots where the DFAC is.
West of the DFAC are a bunch of sort of rectangular nondescript foundation looking things. My hooch is in the middle of the group of three, towards the north end on the west side.
The image appears to be about three years old. Read More......
2007-05-12
Why Oh Why?
Sometimes, after the “Are you out of your mind?” types of questions end, there is a call to explain the work that I’m doing here. However, in deference to those who ask, I do not believe that I have completely lost touch with reality. On that note, if the statement was, “you should have your head examined”, I’ve already got that covered, as a more serious bout of headaches suffered prior to deployment had my head deep into one of the local MRI machines. After confounding the technician/nurses with my ability to sleep through the noise, these expensive medical tests confirmed that my brain is right where it should be – so there.
Am I touched in the head? No doubt. You’d have to be to go to Baghdad these days.
So, in the words of loser Reform Party Vice Presidential Candidate Vice Admiral James Stockdale (Retired), “why am I here?”
Well, it’s complex.
Cash? Sure, there’s cash, but it’s really not enough by itself.
Adventure? That, too. It’s not enough on its own, but in the right combination with cash, we’re getting closer.
The opportunity to scribe these missives? Now, that puts me over the edge. You see, I can never make time to write at home, and there’s nothing like continual 12-14 hour days full of meetings and typing and meetings and typing to make a person rush right home and type some more.
Perhaps it’s the meetings? Nah. Three a day is my practical limit and I’m already over-meetinged by nearly a week.
Slack days at the home office? Sure, in part. This is work, and work buys food for the cats. Had I remained in Minneapolis this month, I would have likely been sent to another office anyway to keep me billable. In many respects, this place is no worse than Las Vegas and, in some respects, better. No worse in that both are deserts. Better in that,…. uh,… [Insert brain fart here. I knew I was going somewhere with this thought, I just got lost along the way. I’m sure, though, that there was something better here than in Las Vegas. I really am. Trust me on this one.]
Health, safety, and welfare of the public? Now we’re talking motivation! The reconstruction program for Iraq, if successful, stands to benefit over twenty-five million persons. It will provide clean water and sanitation, irrigation, education, transportation, incarceration, and electrification to most Iraqi nooks and crannies – services that most have never had before (except maybe the incarceration). It will allow the citizens of Iraq to stand on their own and determine their national identity and destiny. Plus, it will provide hundreds of millions of barrels of oil to deserving Americans. Hooah!
That’s plenty of reasons, no?
No?
How about the need to follow up on what once was an idealistic pursuit of human betterment, followed closely by the need to check up on what the media and administrative establishment has been telling us about this place for the past four years. How’s that for heartwarming cynicism?
It’s almost reason enough, but what really tips the scales is that international work is great fun. No doubt.
=====
Otto: That was intense!
Bud: The life of a Repo Man is always intense.
===== Read More......
Am I touched in the head? No doubt. You’d have to be to go to Baghdad these days.
So, in the words of loser Reform Party Vice Presidential Candidate Vice Admiral James Stockdale (Retired), “why am I here?”
Well, it’s complex.
Cash? Sure, there’s cash, but it’s really not enough by itself.
Adventure? That, too. It’s not enough on its own, but in the right combination with cash, we’re getting closer.
The opportunity to scribe these missives? Now, that puts me over the edge. You see, I can never make time to write at home, and there’s nothing like continual 12-14 hour days full of meetings and typing and meetings and typing to make a person rush right home and type some more.
Perhaps it’s the meetings? Nah. Three a day is my practical limit and I’m already over-meetinged by nearly a week.
Slack days at the home office? Sure, in part. This is work, and work buys food for the cats. Had I remained in Minneapolis this month, I would have likely been sent to another office anyway to keep me billable. In many respects, this place is no worse than Las Vegas and, in some respects, better. No worse in that both are deserts. Better in that,…. uh,… [Insert brain fart here. I knew I was going somewhere with this thought, I just got lost along the way. I’m sure, though, that there was something better here than in Las Vegas. I really am. Trust me on this one.]
Health, safety, and welfare of the public? Now we’re talking motivation! The reconstruction program for Iraq, if successful, stands to benefit over twenty-five million persons. It will provide clean water and sanitation, irrigation, education, transportation, incarceration, and electrification to most Iraqi nooks and crannies – services that most have never had before (except maybe the incarceration). It will allow the citizens of Iraq to stand on their own and determine their national identity and destiny. Plus, it will provide hundreds of millions of barrels of oil to deserving Americans. Hooah!
That’s plenty of reasons, no?
No?
How about the need to follow up on what once was an idealistic pursuit of human betterment, followed closely by the need to check up on what the media and administrative establishment has been telling us about this place for the past four years. How’s that for heartwarming cynicism?
It’s almost reason enough, but what really tips the scales is that international work is great fun. No doubt.
=====
Otto: That was intense!
Bud: The life of a Repo Man is always intense.
===== Read More......
2007-05-10
Nothing But
Almost got ran over by Dick Cheney’s motorcade this evening on my way to chow. Okay, maybe it wasn’t actually W’s Evil Overlord, but he was in town today, further strengthening the resolve of the Coalition.
Sure.
It really was someone important, though, as they had sirens. Sirens, however, border on the idiotic. Why would you want to advertise your presence to such an extreme as to scream, “Ooh, ooh, look this way at something important!”? Morons are just asking to get whacked.
Not only sirens, but flashing lights, four Humvees, three armored Suburbans, and a couple more urban assault vehicles full of Iraqi Army. If it wasn’t some Dick, it was some other VIP. Personally, I stayed behind a thick steel wall until they had passed. Just doing my part to get a decent pizza again. Perhaps they’ve got pizza at the Embassy (the Palace formerly known as the, er,… Palace). Per haps I’ll find out the next time. I say. “the next time”, because we found a friendly Master Sergeant to escort us in a couple of nights ago for dinner and a short tour.
Security procedures are one of the largest changes in the I-Zed (the oh so cool way to say Eye Zee now), and the Palace/Embassy has some tough security. Fortunately, our Sergeant has the right badge that allowed her to escort a few of us to a “State Department meeting” (nudge, nudge). Of course, I can’t go into details of the specific security procedures. Let’s just say they stopped short of a cavity search.
Regardless, I learned a very valuable lesson. The Department of State eats better than the Department of Defense.
Much better.
Much MUCH better.
They had lettuce.
And everything. They had freaking everything. For the past week, we’ve been eating brown. All things brown. Crunchy brown, soft brown, sweet brown, mild brown, hard brown and liquid brown. Brown freaking brown brown. The State Department, though, had prawn, and quesadillas, and fruit, and stir fry, and meatloaf, and pie, and lettuce. Ahh, we were stuffed by the end of it.
They even had the rare Beck’s NA. It’s a non-alcoholic product, of course, but slightly more tasty than the Coors NA (awful) or the Holsten NA (not so awful, but tastes a little like cow). The only good thing about any of them is that you can have one at your desk and at least pretend it’s a real beer.
For afters, we took a brief tour of the common areas of our old home. It was like when you go back to your old high school a few years after graduation. The structure is about the same, but the spirit is somehow different. For our newby, Wes, it was like being the spouse at a class reunion – he couldn’t see any difference at all, he was just happy to get some lettuce. Read More......
Sure.
It really was someone important, though, as they had sirens. Sirens, however, border on the idiotic. Why would you want to advertise your presence to such an extreme as to scream, “Ooh, ooh, look this way at something important!”? Morons are just asking to get whacked.
Not only sirens, but flashing lights, four Humvees, three armored Suburbans, and a couple more urban assault vehicles full of Iraqi Army. If it wasn’t some Dick, it was some other VIP. Personally, I stayed behind a thick steel wall until they had passed. Just doing my part to get a decent pizza again. Perhaps they’ve got pizza at the Embassy (the Palace formerly known as the, er,… Palace). Per haps I’ll find out the next time. I say. “the next time”, because we found a friendly Master Sergeant to escort us in a couple of nights ago for dinner and a short tour.
Security procedures are one of the largest changes in the I-Zed (the oh so cool way to say Eye Zee now), and the Palace/Embassy has some tough security. Fortunately, our Sergeant has the right badge that allowed her to escort a few of us to a “State Department meeting” (nudge, nudge). Of course, I can’t go into details of the specific security procedures. Let’s just say they stopped short of a cavity search.
Regardless, I learned a very valuable lesson. The Department of State eats better than the Department of Defense.
Much better.
Much MUCH better.
They had lettuce.
And everything. They had freaking everything. For the past week, we’ve been eating brown. All things brown. Crunchy brown, soft brown, sweet brown, mild brown, hard brown and liquid brown. Brown freaking brown brown. The State Department, though, had prawn, and quesadillas, and fruit, and stir fry, and meatloaf, and pie, and lettuce. Ahh, we were stuffed by the end of it.
They even had the rare Beck’s NA. It’s a non-alcoholic product, of course, but slightly more tasty than the Coors NA (awful) or the Holsten NA (not so awful, but tastes a little like cow). The only good thing about any of them is that you can have one at your desk and at least pretend it’s a real beer.
For afters, we took a brief tour of the common areas of our old home. It was like when you go back to your old high school a few years after graduation. The structure is about the same, but the spirit is somehow different. For our newby, Wes, it was like being the spouse at a class reunion – he couldn’t see any difference at all, he was just happy to get some lettuce. Read More......
2007-05-09
Hooch
As you may recall, housing the last time started with a night sleeping in the dirt at BIAP, and progressed through the 150-man hallway and the six-man closet, before culminating in the four-man tin hooch. I'm pleased to report that one of the tangible benefits of our democracy building activities here for the past four years and our "well developed theatre" is that the Coalition housing stock has improved markedly.
Soon after processing through GRD (the USACE Gulf Region Division) security that first night/morning, I received keys to hooch 5-38 in the Motel 6. Motel 6 is a collection of perhaps a dozen long, two storied buildings, each with perhaps 64 rooms accessible from the exterior. There's a walking path, just inside the T-walls and concertina wire perimeter. There's plenty of space between buildings, a couple of trees, horseshoe pits and volleyball near the pavilion.
In the middle of each floor of each building is a day room, housing a difficult pool table, kitchenette, uncomfortable lounge chairs, and a washer/dryer (which I'll use every second or third day until the airline recovers my bag and/or I secure more clothes.
My second floor quarters are barely 9 feet by 14 feet (126 square feet), with 30 square feet relegated to the private bath. Standard furnishings include a small desk, desk lamp, small bed, small fridge, small wardrobe, nightstand, and television. I suppose that over time, it could be rather homey, although this would be stifled in part by the limitations in how the furniture could be arranged. After a week here, I've determined that there is, in fact, only one way to organize what's in here. It's an inefficient and obnoxious arrangement.
The shower curtain doesn't reach the lip of the pan, the exhaust fan doesn't work, the windows and floor are filthy, the clothes bar is crooked, the wiring is scary and the cable choices have been sanitized by the U.S. Government. Ahh, but it's home and, as above, I've stayed in much worse. From here, it's five minutes to the DFAC, then another five minutes to the offices. Location, location, location.
The military side of the GDR has got it much worse. They are housed in Conex's, stacked two high for two acres right next to the offices. It looks like a commercial dock. They get a ping pong table, though. Read More......
Soon after processing through GRD (the USACE Gulf Region Division) security that first night/morning, I received keys to hooch 5-38 in the Motel 6. Motel 6 is a collection of perhaps a dozen long, two storied buildings, each with perhaps 64 rooms accessible from the exterior. There's a walking path, just inside the T-walls and concertina wire perimeter. There's plenty of space between buildings, a couple of trees, horseshoe pits and volleyball near the pavilion.
In the middle of each floor of each building is a day room, housing a difficult pool table, kitchenette, uncomfortable lounge chairs, and a washer/dryer (which I'll use every second or third day until the airline recovers my bag and/or I secure more clothes.
My second floor quarters are barely 9 feet by 14 feet (126 square feet), with 30 square feet relegated to the private bath. Standard furnishings include a small desk, desk lamp, small bed, small fridge, small wardrobe, nightstand, and television. I suppose that over time, it could be rather homey, although this would be stifled in part by the limitations in how the furniture could be arranged. After a week here, I've determined that there is, in fact, only one way to organize what's in here. It's an inefficient and obnoxious arrangement.
The shower curtain doesn't reach the lip of the pan, the exhaust fan doesn't work, the windows and floor are filthy, the clothes bar is crooked, the wiring is scary and the cable choices have been sanitized by the U.S. Government. Ahh, but it's home and, as above, I've stayed in much worse. From here, it's five minutes to the DFAC, then another five minutes to the offices. Location, location, location.
The military side of the GDR has got it much worse. They are housed in Conex's, stacked two high for two acres right next to the offices. It looks like a commercial dock. They get a ping pong table, though. Read More......
2007-05-07
Surroundings
I would have hoped that I'd be able to sleep through the night after a few nights of practice. Hmmm. There are a lot of noises that I don't usually hear in suburban Minneapolis. Perhaps that's got something to do with it?
My new hooch in the "Motel 6" is located right between the hospital helipad and the military helipad. These are not helipads like what you'd see in the States, as there're a hell of a lot more traffic generated by a hell of a lot more helicopters. The flights are almost a constant from both ports - I'd guess a couple score or more of flyovers on a typical night - as aircraft head out or return from their various patrol, support, combat, or medical missions, always in twos.
Without the helos, things would be almost quiet, as most folks respect the local established quiet hours, 2000 to 0700. I'm almost used to the helicopter noises anyway, as there's no doubt which side is flying them. The booms from the incoming mortars and rockets are a different story, and I could probably learn to sleep through them as well, except that they're too often followed by an exclamation by the Big Voice (the Voice formerly known as Giant) announcing "Lockdown, lockdown, lockdown!"
At that point, rolling over is the typical response. The Motel 6 is concrete, and should offer substantially more protection than our tin homes from the last portion of the 2003-2004 trip. Likewise, the offices are concrete, as is our DFAC. The DFAC, however, is further protected by a two layered overhead protection system. Erected over an existing building and, with steel roof and legs, it looks like a monstrous open walled tractor shed.
To protect the building and occupants (primarily) underneath, the top layer is designed to detonate any incoming mortar rounds, while the secondary layer is designed to contain the blast and fragments. Not to brag, but I do have some small part in the installation and success of these systems, as I used to approve the timesheets of a structural engineer who performed the quality assurance analyses on many of these facilities.
They number in the hundreds at this point, I'd guess, over DFACs primarily, as well as other locations where groups of Coalition people gather. One more step in the hardening process.
"All clear, all clear, all clear", says the oft repeating Big Voice.
Perhaps a little more sleep. Read More......
My new hooch in the "Motel 6" is located right between the hospital helipad and the military helipad. These are not helipads like what you'd see in the States, as there're a hell of a lot more traffic generated by a hell of a lot more helicopters. The flights are almost a constant from both ports - I'd guess a couple score or more of flyovers on a typical night - as aircraft head out or return from their various patrol, support, combat, or medical missions, always in twos.
Without the helos, things would be almost quiet, as most folks respect the local established quiet hours, 2000 to 0700. I'm almost used to the helicopter noises anyway, as there's no doubt which side is flying them. The booms from the incoming mortars and rockets are a different story, and I could probably learn to sleep through them as well, except that they're too often followed by an exclamation by the Big Voice (the Voice formerly known as Giant) announcing "Lockdown, lockdown, lockdown!"
At that point, rolling over is the typical response. The Motel 6 is concrete, and should offer substantially more protection than our tin homes from the last portion of the 2003-2004 trip. Likewise, the offices are concrete, as is our DFAC. The DFAC, however, is further protected by a two layered overhead protection system. Erected over an existing building and, with steel roof and legs, it looks like a monstrous open walled tractor shed.
To protect the building and occupants (primarily) underneath, the top layer is designed to detonate any incoming mortar rounds, while the secondary layer is designed to contain the blast and fragments. Not to brag, but I do have some small part in the installation and success of these systems, as I used to approve the timesheets of a structural engineer who performed the quality assurance analyses on many of these facilities.
They number in the hundreds at this point, I'd guess, over DFACs primarily, as well as other locations where groups of Coalition people gather. One more step in the hardening process.
"All clear, all clear, all clear", says the oft repeating Big Voice.
Perhaps a little more sleep. Read More......
2007-05-06
Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes
My, how things have changed, and a great portion of our casual conversation has centered around this. "Back in the day,… When we were here the last time,… It used to be that,…" start many of our conversations.
It’s reminiscence, in part, mixed with a desire to keep our newest team member (hither fore uninitiated to the Mideast) up to speed, and a need to establish our credibility with those who are here already. This last part will probably be the most vital as we delve into the work, but for now, it lets others know that we were here first, and that the program that they are still trying to manage is the one that we set up at the start. [“What ever have you done with our reconstruction program? Morons!”]
Lots has changed, though. It hits first on the incoming flight where a commercial airliner brings you to BIAP with minimal hassle. Once there, we processed through Iraqi immigration, adjacent to immigrating Iraqis. Limited taxi service was available just outside the terminal. When we left in March 2003, there was no commercial air service. However, once air service was established, it must have allowed even more of the wealthier Iraqis to skip town, so there’s no one left to support the small restaurants and shops that were just starting to populate the terminal back in the day. As a result, there’re no shops.
Back in the day, once you were on the airport with suitable kit and papers, it was relatively simple to access the various military camps and facilities that extended for thousands of hectares around the tarmac. Today, I get the feeling that the military here has compressed and hardened their position. There’s less open space, more of the giant concrete T-walls, and a more intense security posture. It wasn’t the inviting place that it was in the beforetimes, when we would regularly cruise out to BIAP at a hundred miles per hour for trunkloads of booze from the duty free shop.
The IZ is even more so, with the T-walls running down both sides of most streets. Subdividing. Isolating. There’s no access to the former presidential palace, the grounds, hallways and closets of which I used to call home. It’s now the U.S. embassy, and no one gets in unless they’re super special.
There’s no Haji Mart either, which used to be a place to go just to go to some place. There’s no Chinese Restaurant or local pizza place, and very few Iraqis. There was a time not long ago when I could stroll in relative safety through the streets of this quarter and explore. We could get vehicles and drive to the airport or to the Al Rashid for a round of tennis or a few drinks.
Right! There was a time we could drink.
But no more. The look and feel of the Coalition is one subjected to the long term effects of fear, paranoia, and imperialism. It feels closed and terribly isolated. Read More......
It’s reminiscence, in part, mixed with a desire to keep our newest team member (hither fore uninitiated to the Mideast) up to speed, and a need to establish our credibility with those who are here already. This last part will probably be the most vital as we delve into the work, but for now, it lets others know that we were here first, and that the program that they are still trying to manage is the one that we set up at the start. [“What ever have you done with our reconstruction program? Morons!”]
Lots has changed, though. It hits first on the incoming flight where a commercial airliner brings you to BIAP with minimal hassle. Once there, we processed through Iraqi immigration, adjacent to immigrating Iraqis. Limited taxi service was available just outside the terminal. When we left in March 2003, there was no commercial air service. However, once air service was established, it must have allowed even more of the wealthier Iraqis to skip town, so there’s no one left to support the small restaurants and shops that were just starting to populate the terminal back in the day. As a result, there’re no shops.
Back in the day, once you were on the airport with suitable kit and papers, it was relatively simple to access the various military camps and facilities that extended for thousands of hectares around the tarmac. Today, I get the feeling that the military here has compressed and hardened their position. There’s less open space, more of the giant concrete T-walls, and a more intense security posture. It wasn’t the inviting place that it was in the beforetimes, when we would regularly cruise out to BIAP at a hundred miles per hour for trunkloads of booze from the duty free shop.
The IZ is even more so, with the T-walls running down both sides of most streets. Subdividing. Isolating. There’s no access to the former presidential palace, the grounds, hallways and closets of which I used to call home. It’s now the U.S. embassy, and no one gets in unless they’re super special.
There’s no Haji Mart either, which used to be a place to go just to go to some place. There’s no Chinese Restaurant or local pizza place, and very few Iraqis. There was a time not long ago when I could stroll in relative safety through the streets of this quarter and explore. We could get vehicles and drive to the airport or to the Al Rashid for a round of tennis or a few drinks.
Right! There was a time we could drink.
But no more. The look and feel of the Coalition is one subjected to the long term effects of fear, paranoia, and imperialism. It feels closed and terribly isolated. Read More......
2007-05-05
The Beginning
Words to live by: if, in the retelling, some event will make a great story, treat it as adventure and start enjoying it now. And so far, one adventure after another. First was the dead battery on the car I was going to use to get to the airport.
No, no, no. First was that the Company sent me the wrong sized helmet. "But", she said, "all of them are the same size. Let me measure the other one." Off then, to the various surplus shops in the Cities until I found one with few scratches and large enough to fit my noggin.
Next the flax vest which was the right size, but was delivered without the all-important ceramic plates that would raise its effectiveness from 3A to 3. Sure, it's just a letter, but it means the difference between stopping a forty-four or a NATO 7.62, the cartridge of choice for the bad guys in the Middle East. The plates came special delivery with about 26 hours to spare until flight time. Anyway, I'm fine with the additional eight or ten pounds of packed and carried weight. All told, the gear weighs over 30 pounds. I just wish the whole thing wasn't black.
Then came the battery. Then came the "necessary and required" special screening by the assholes at the TSA. Once suitably degraded, I knew my adventure had begun.
I flew to Chicago and met up with two more adventurers who were with me the last time. There, we sat in the international terminal for the two hours required prior to international flights, and then for an additional hour until the end of the first travel day, and then four more hours before Royal Jordanian saw it fit let their flight leave the ground, bound for Amman.
Day two went both fast and slow. Fast, because we were flying east at 600 miles per hour, and an hour in the air was equivalent to nearly two hours on the ground. By the time we landed, we would be eight time zones east in just twelve hours and only slightly shagged, a fine way to finish day two. The slow part of course was the seemingly interminable flight with bad food and a worn out seat (note to self: avoid Royal Jordanian Airlines). In Amman, our local agent failed to appear where he was supposed to appear (although we did find another Companyman, Wes, standing in line with us), so we had to suffer without an interpreter (a.k.a. fixer) through a couple of visa and cambio lines, then the immigration line, then down to the baggage carousels where, like Mr. Samir upstairs, one of my bags failed to appear.
By the time I filled out the proper lost luggage forms and found a ride to the hotel, it was close to three. My wake-up call was for six and, wearing all the clothes I had left, I returned to the airport to get on my flight into Baghdad. Compared to three years ago, the Fokker F28-4000 flight was sedate, and got us into BIAP at noon, just in time for the first of about ninety meals at one of many DFAC's, still operated by KBR.
We spent the rest of the day in and about a day room at Camp Victory, awaiting our opportunity to ride a Rhino Bus into the IZ, or International Zone. Waiting at Camp Stryker for this bus marked the end of travel day three, as the busses only run during the wee portions of the night, quite the change from before.
Day Four starts at midnight, the third midnight in a row, and in three different time zones. At this point, I've been traveling for a long time with little sleep (sleep on a plane doesn't count for much). If it wasn't for the Red Bulls and monster cashews I yanked from the Marriott mini bar in Amman, I'd be worse off, but what really keeps me awake at this point is the fact that most of those hours have been spent sitting in uncomfortable chairs where sleep is impossible.
So. It's midnight. It's Iraq under a full moon. It's the middle of the largest coalition base in the Middle East. What does one do for a couple of hours while waiting for a bus? Back to the DFAC, I suppose for MIDRATs, or midnight rations. Sadly, "It's something to do", and sleep is out of the question just yet.
The man at the travel counter said that the busses would arrive to transport us into the city between one and three-thirty. In tune with the rest of this journey, they arrived at three-thirty. There were eight of these Rhino's - stout, tough, armored busses, similar to the one that Bill Murray and Harold Remus (with P.J. "Spatula Treatment" Soles) stole in the last half of "Stripes", but without all of the creature comforts.
Once 150 soldiers (Ugandans and Americans, mostly) and civilians (and a conex full of gear) were loaded, we made the fifteen mile trek into the International Zone (the zone formerly known as Green).
There, our contact did contact us, and I found myself in my new billet as six o'clock and a new sun approached. The executive summary is below.
00:00 01:00 Find a car that runs and drive to the airport
01:00 03:00 Security, wait
03:00 05:30 Fly
05:30 13:00 Security, wait
13:00 25:00 Fly
25:00 28:00 Visas, immigration, customs, and taxi rides
28:00 31:00 Sleep
31:00 32:00 Taxi rides, immigration, security
32:00 34:00 Wait
34:00 35:30 Fly
35:30 50:30 Immigration, security, wait
50:30 53:00 Transport, security, process
53:00 61:00 Sleep
Waiting 26.5 hours
Flying 15.0 hours
Sleeping 11.0 hours
Active 08.5 hours
One last note on this subject - by the time I woke up, it was about two in the afternoon locally, equating to about five in the morning in Minnesota, which is about the time I wake up at home.
Dealing with jet lag goes on tomorrows' agenda. Read More......
No, no, no. First was that the Company sent me the wrong sized helmet. "But", she said, "all of them are the same size. Let me measure the other one." Off then, to the various surplus shops in the Cities until I found one with few scratches and large enough to fit my noggin.
Next the flax vest which was the right size, but was delivered without the all-important ceramic plates that would raise its effectiveness from 3A to 3. Sure, it's just a letter, but it means the difference between stopping a forty-four or a NATO 7.62, the cartridge of choice for the bad guys in the Middle East. The plates came special delivery with about 26 hours to spare until flight time. Anyway, I'm fine with the additional eight or ten pounds of packed and carried weight. All told, the gear weighs over 30 pounds. I just wish the whole thing wasn't black.
Then came the battery. Then came the "necessary and required" special screening by the assholes at the TSA. Once suitably degraded, I knew my adventure had begun.
I flew to Chicago and met up with two more adventurers who were with me the last time. There, we sat in the international terminal for the two hours required prior to international flights, and then for an additional hour until the end of the first travel day, and then four more hours before Royal Jordanian saw it fit let their flight leave the ground, bound for Amman.
Day two went both fast and slow. Fast, because we were flying east at 600 miles per hour, and an hour in the air was equivalent to nearly two hours on the ground. By the time we landed, we would be eight time zones east in just twelve hours and only slightly shagged, a fine way to finish day two. The slow part of course was the seemingly interminable flight with bad food and a worn out seat (note to self: avoid Royal Jordanian Airlines). In Amman, our local agent failed to appear where he was supposed to appear (although we did find another Companyman, Wes, standing in line with us), so we had to suffer without an interpreter (a.k.a. fixer) through a couple of visa and cambio lines, then the immigration line, then down to the baggage carousels where, like Mr. Samir upstairs, one of my bags failed to appear.
By the time I filled out the proper lost luggage forms and found a ride to the hotel, it was close to three. My wake-up call was for six and, wearing all the clothes I had left, I returned to the airport to get on my flight into Baghdad. Compared to three years ago, the Fokker F28-4000 flight was sedate, and got us into BIAP at noon, just in time for the first of about ninety meals at one of many DFAC's, still operated by KBR.
We spent the rest of the day in and about a day room at Camp Victory, awaiting our opportunity to ride a Rhino Bus into the IZ, or International Zone. Waiting at Camp Stryker for this bus marked the end of travel day three, as the busses only run during the wee portions of the night, quite the change from before.
Day Four starts at midnight, the third midnight in a row, and in three different time zones. At this point, I've been traveling for a long time with little sleep (sleep on a plane doesn't count for much). If it wasn't for the Red Bulls and monster cashews I yanked from the Marriott mini bar in Amman, I'd be worse off, but what really keeps me awake at this point is the fact that most of those hours have been spent sitting in uncomfortable chairs where sleep is impossible.
So. It's midnight. It's Iraq under a full moon. It's the middle of the largest coalition base in the Middle East. What does one do for a couple of hours while waiting for a bus? Back to the DFAC, I suppose for MIDRATs, or midnight rations. Sadly, "It's something to do", and sleep is out of the question just yet.
The man at the travel counter said that the busses would arrive to transport us into the city between one and three-thirty. In tune with the rest of this journey, they arrived at three-thirty. There were eight of these Rhino's - stout, tough, armored busses, similar to the one that Bill Murray and Harold Remus (with P.J. "Spatula Treatment" Soles) stole in the last half of "Stripes", but without all of the creature comforts.
Once 150 soldiers (Ugandans and Americans, mostly) and civilians (and a conex full of gear) were loaded, we made the fifteen mile trek into the International Zone (the zone formerly known as Green).
There, our contact did contact us, and I found myself in my new billet as six o'clock and a new sun approached. The executive summary is below.
00:00 01:00 Find a car that runs and drive to the airport
01:00 03:00 Security, wait
03:00 05:30 Fly
05:30 13:00 Security, wait
13:00 25:00 Fly
25:00 28:00 Visas, immigration, customs, and taxi rides
28:00 31:00 Sleep
31:00 32:00 Taxi rides, immigration, security
32:00 34:00 Wait
34:00 35:30 Fly
35:30 50:30 Immigration, security, wait
50:30 53:00 Transport, security, process
53:00 61:00 Sleep
Waiting 26.5 hours
Flying 15.0 hours
Sleeping 11.0 hours
Active 08.5 hours
One last note on this subject - by the time I woke up, it was about two in the afternoon locally, equating to about five in the morning in Minnesota, which is about the time I wake up at home.
Dealing with jet lag goes on tomorrows' agenda. Read More......
Saint Urho’s Day
I'm back.
=====
It was just another day like no one other before it.. One of those days where, intentions not withstanding, the gods had me in their thoughts and planned a luau around the event.
I had a simple plan, really. Just meet up with a few riding buds and head for what is locally known as the "Lakes Area". It's sort of strange, I guess, for a "Land of Ten Thousand Lakes" to have a "Lakes Area". The lakes seem to be everywhere, so why note any particular portion of the state? But I digress.
Get used to it.
I suppose if I really liked to motor around the local lakes, I would have bought a big power boat years ago instead of a motorcycle. For a biker, though, it's not the lakes that are particularly interesting, but the fact that roads generally go around them and, as lakes have undulating shorelines, the adjacent roadways oftentimes have undulating geometrics. In the Midwest then, where you can sometimes see dead flat and unbroken fields of beets for miles on end, the state highway can extend for tens of miles with nary a hint of deflection. Lake areas (and swamp areas and river areas) give this biker the chance to turn, and turning is one of the primary pleasures of the sport.
The mission, then, was to find someplace to turn, turn, and turn some more. The mission was also to find some tasty local barbeque. The mission was also to witness the shrine of Saint Urho. The mission was to ride somewhere.
For those painfully unaware, Urho has long been the beloved patron of Finnish vineyard laborers (I'll let you know when I start making things up). In ancient Finland, workers would move cautiously through the fields of wild grapes, ever watchful for the giant bears which (here's where the story gets sketchy) would steal their pic-a-nic baskets. Bears weren't the real problem. No. It was grasshoppers. Monstrous, saber toothed grasshoppers and, to believe the scale of the big fiberglass Urho, they were two feet long and as big as your thigh.
Only three words can describe these incredibly large insects – big freaking bugs. And there was only one saint with the Finnish language skills to rid them from the countryside. So, says the legend, pre-sainted Urho stood between the vineyards and the grasshoppers and exclaimed, "Grasshopper, grasshopper, go away". Miraculously (since that's how you get to become a saint), the grasshoppers went away,... and there was much rejoicing.
And that's about it for Menagha, Minnesota.
And for this, we rode hundreds of miles one way? Yes, absolutely. We met at the Sinclaire in Maple Grove, juiced up and headed northwest into 45 degrees and a steady rain up I-94 and past Saint Cloud to drier roads near Sauk Center, where we turned north on US 71. Made a brief stop to make a few gear adjustments and wound our way through one picturesque little community after another. Gassed up again in Menagha post-Urho and started our eastern leg onto county highways.
Up to Menagha, the roads had been mostly straight, but much of the next hundred or so miles was routed on curvy roads situated between scores of lakes. With temperatures now in the 70's and sunny skies, this would be the highlight of the trip and would take us through to lunch.
But then things got interesting. As instructed by my GPS, I dutifully made a left turn and found myself leading our group onto a gravel road. "Odd", I thought, as I specifically told the device to keep me on the pavement. You see, the Yamaha FJR 1300, while a most capable street bike, tends to underperform when the pavement ends. Craig, Todd, and Ric, however, were all riding GS1200's, BMW's adventure tourer.
Despite not wanting to ride the rocks, I've done my share, so I kept moving forward, confident that the three GS's would be happy to spend a little time less civilized.
A half mile later, I checked my mirrors to see all three trailing bikes fully stopped in the middle of the road and well behind. Assuming the worst, I turned around and rode back to join them, only to find they had taken the opportunity of this deserted country lane to water the flowers, so to speak. Haven't they ever heard of the Stadium Pal? With a sigh, I turned around again and continued.
At the two mile marker, the road was in good shape and I crossed Bunny Hill Road at close to 50 mph. Now, what was the deal with Bunny Hills, I pondered. It took me a second to remember that bunny hills were those mildly sloped portions of mountain resorts, where the uninitiated could try their hand at skiing prior getting creamed on the double diamonds.
And as I made this realization, I realized I was going sideways as the rock disappeared entirely and was replaced by soft and sinking sand. Well, maybe not entirely sideways, but to hear the others tell it, my rear tire was dancing three or four feet from side to side at it lost traction and the front wheel plowed into the earth.
In retrospect, I might have foreseen the changing conditions had I been thinking, but I never would have survived it upright had I been doing so. The key to staying on two wheels was not thinking at all, but staying loose and working with the bike (I'm sure it didn't want to go down, either). The sand was going to slow us down, regardless of our attitude, I just needed to stay vertical.
Again in retrospect, thinking hard prior to the change in "pavement" would have been futile, as two of the three following bikes were also caught off guard, despite seeing my wobbly ballet a couple of seconds earlier. Enjoying the countryside, enjoying the day - that lack of tension is what kept me on two wheels.
Fun! And now that the fun's over, we'll just move forward for a few hundred yards and the gravel will return like it always does,... almost always does. In this case, it was another three miles of soft, saturated, and rutted sand, then four miles of wet and inconsistent aggregate washboards before we found the tarmac again at MN 64. Later on, we found over an inch of sand stuck to the inside rim of one of the GS's rear wheel, testament to how deep we were sinking.
Now it was overcast, the temperature was down below 60, and we had wasted quite a bit of time off road. I was cold and hungry, and needed to boost my sprits just to keep my head in the game. In this regard, Crow Wing County highways fit the bill, winding around Ossawinnamakee, Hay, Whitefish, Pig, Cross, Pine, Greer, Adney and other lakes and down a narrow Mississippi River valley from just north of Jenkins to almost Crosby.
Now enter the Black Dog. Or rather, we entered the Black Dog (at the River and MN 6 at Wolford), which satisfied all barbeque requirements for road warriors - they had barbeque and they were open. It was good food (great ribs in a honeyed sauce with tater tots) and a great place to tell lies about how we almost didn't survive the sand below Bunny Hill Road. More than one had unsuccessfully adopted an Urho-based mantra, "sand, sand, go away".
Bellies full, we made a few gear adjustments and headed southeast towards Mille Lacs. There, we found a fog bank over the highway, caused by the warmer day and the remains of the ice along the western shore of the lake. A cool and special effect, which lowered the surrounding temperature to near 40 again. South of Milaca, US 169 turns to a divided four lane facility and runs dang straight back to the Cities. Sunny again, and almost 80 degrees as we got closer to home.
We bade our sayonaras at a petrol dump in Elk River, were we first heard, and then watched as a boat and trailer became disattached from their tow vehicle. At low speed and witnessed from a safe distance, this sort of thing can be really funny. Fortunately, this incident was at low speed and witnessed from a safe distance. Hence, really funny.
All told, a great day. Hot and cold. Wet and dry. Paved and not. Giant saint. No morons. No enforcement. Lots of horsepower. Freedom of the open road. And just the right amount of adventure for a suburbanite on a Saturday. It's the sort of day, the sort of ride, that sticks with you for a while. My thought is that it will tide me over until I get back from Baghdad. Read More......
=====
It was just another day like no one other before it.. One of those days where, intentions not withstanding, the gods had me in their thoughts and planned a luau around the event.
I had a simple plan, really. Just meet up with a few riding buds and head for what is locally known as the "Lakes Area". It's sort of strange, I guess, for a "Land of Ten Thousand Lakes" to have a "Lakes Area". The lakes seem to be everywhere, so why note any particular portion of the state? But I digress.
Get used to it.
I suppose if I really liked to motor around the local lakes, I would have bought a big power boat years ago instead of a motorcycle. For a biker, though, it's not the lakes that are particularly interesting, but the fact that roads generally go around them and, as lakes have undulating shorelines, the adjacent roadways oftentimes have undulating geometrics. In the Midwest then, where you can sometimes see dead flat and unbroken fields of beets for miles on end, the state highway can extend for tens of miles with nary a hint of deflection. Lake areas (and swamp areas and river areas) give this biker the chance to turn, and turning is one of the primary pleasures of the sport.
The mission, then, was to find someplace to turn, turn, and turn some more. The mission was also to find some tasty local barbeque. The mission was also to witness the shrine of Saint Urho. The mission was to ride somewhere.
For those painfully unaware, Urho has long been the beloved patron of Finnish vineyard laborers (I'll let you know when I start making things up). In ancient Finland, workers would move cautiously through the fields of wild grapes, ever watchful for the giant bears which (here's where the story gets sketchy) would steal their pic-a-nic baskets. Bears weren't the real problem. No. It was grasshoppers. Monstrous, saber toothed grasshoppers and, to believe the scale of the big fiberglass Urho, they were two feet long and as big as your thigh.
Only three words can describe these incredibly large insects – big freaking bugs. And there was only one saint with the Finnish language skills to rid them from the countryside. So, says the legend, pre-sainted Urho stood between the vineyards and the grasshoppers and exclaimed, "Grasshopper, grasshopper, go away". Miraculously (since that's how you get to become a saint), the grasshoppers went away,... and there was much rejoicing.
And that's about it for Menagha, Minnesota.
And for this, we rode hundreds of miles one way? Yes, absolutely. We met at the Sinclaire in Maple Grove, juiced up and headed northwest into 45 degrees and a steady rain up I-94 and past Saint Cloud to drier roads near Sauk Center, where we turned north on US 71. Made a brief stop to make a few gear adjustments and wound our way through one picturesque little community after another. Gassed up again in Menagha post-Urho and started our eastern leg onto county highways.
Up to Menagha, the roads had been mostly straight, but much of the next hundred or so miles was routed on curvy roads situated between scores of lakes. With temperatures now in the 70's and sunny skies, this would be the highlight of the trip and would take us through to lunch.
But then things got interesting. As instructed by my GPS, I dutifully made a left turn and found myself leading our group onto a gravel road. "Odd", I thought, as I specifically told the device to keep me on the pavement. You see, the Yamaha FJR 1300, while a most capable street bike, tends to underperform when the pavement ends. Craig, Todd, and Ric, however, were all riding GS1200's, BMW's adventure tourer.
Despite not wanting to ride the rocks, I've done my share, so I kept moving forward, confident that the three GS's would be happy to spend a little time less civilized.
A half mile later, I checked my mirrors to see all three trailing bikes fully stopped in the middle of the road and well behind. Assuming the worst, I turned around and rode back to join them, only to find they had taken the opportunity of this deserted country lane to water the flowers, so to speak. Haven't they ever heard of the Stadium Pal? With a sigh, I turned around again and continued.
At the two mile marker, the road was in good shape and I crossed Bunny Hill Road at close to 50 mph. Now, what was the deal with Bunny Hills, I pondered. It took me a second to remember that bunny hills were those mildly sloped portions of mountain resorts, where the uninitiated could try their hand at skiing prior getting creamed on the double diamonds.
And as I made this realization, I realized I was going sideways as the rock disappeared entirely and was replaced by soft and sinking sand. Well, maybe not entirely sideways, but to hear the others tell it, my rear tire was dancing three or four feet from side to side at it lost traction and the front wheel plowed into the earth.
In retrospect, I might have foreseen the changing conditions had I been thinking, but I never would have survived it upright had I been doing so. The key to staying on two wheels was not thinking at all, but staying loose and working with the bike (I'm sure it didn't want to go down, either). The sand was going to slow us down, regardless of our attitude, I just needed to stay vertical.
Again in retrospect, thinking hard prior to the change in "pavement" would have been futile, as two of the three following bikes were also caught off guard, despite seeing my wobbly ballet a couple of seconds earlier. Enjoying the countryside, enjoying the day - that lack of tension is what kept me on two wheels.
Fun! And now that the fun's over, we'll just move forward for a few hundred yards and the gravel will return like it always does,... almost always does. In this case, it was another three miles of soft, saturated, and rutted sand, then four miles of wet and inconsistent aggregate washboards before we found the tarmac again at MN 64. Later on, we found over an inch of sand stuck to the inside rim of one of the GS's rear wheel, testament to how deep we were sinking.
Now it was overcast, the temperature was down below 60, and we had wasted quite a bit of time off road. I was cold and hungry, and needed to boost my sprits just to keep my head in the game. In this regard, Crow Wing County highways fit the bill, winding around Ossawinnamakee, Hay, Whitefish, Pig, Cross, Pine, Greer, Adney and other lakes and down a narrow Mississippi River valley from just north of Jenkins to almost Crosby.
Now enter the Black Dog. Or rather, we entered the Black Dog (at the River and MN 6 at Wolford), which satisfied all barbeque requirements for road warriors - they had barbeque and they were open. It was good food (great ribs in a honeyed sauce with tater tots) and a great place to tell lies about how we almost didn't survive the sand below Bunny Hill Road. More than one had unsuccessfully adopted an Urho-based mantra, "sand, sand, go away".
Bellies full, we made a few gear adjustments and headed southeast towards Mille Lacs. There, we found a fog bank over the highway, caused by the warmer day and the remains of the ice along the western shore of the lake. A cool and special effect, which lowered the surrounding temperature to near 40 again. South of Milaca, US 169 turns to a divided four lane facility and runs dang straight back to the Cities. Sunny again, and almost 80 degrees as we got closer to home.
We bade our sayonaras at a petrol dump in Elk River, were we first heard, and then watched as a boat and trailer became disattached from their tow vehicle. At low speed and witnessed from a safe distance, this sort of thing can be really funny. Fortunately, this incident was at low speed and witnessed from a safe distance. Hence, really funny.
All told, a great day. Hot and cold. Wet and dry. Paved and not. Giant saint. No morons. No enforcement. Lots of horsepower. Freedom of the open road. And just the right amount of adventure for a suburbanite on a Saturday. It's the sort of day, the sort of ride, that sticks with you for a while. My thought is that it will tide me over until I get back from Baghdad. Read More......
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