Posts
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......
2007-05-13
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......
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