Posts
It’s Halloween in Djibouti, and there’re a few costumes of note. Plenty of folks dressed as sailors and army men and marines, and quite a few dressed as the overseas deployment of some Japanese Defense Force. Of course, there’s the last minute a toga or two, an inspired six foot tall whoopee cushion and, being so close to Somalia, there’re a few pirate costumes. I came as a consultant – t-shirt, cargo pants, and combat boots – my usual desert attire.
I haven’t been in Africa for decades. [Egypt really doesn’t count – just ask any Egyptian.] The place hasn’t changed. Djibouti City is classically Third World, still using up what’s left of the colonial infrastructure while hundreds of thousands live in poverty. Although it looked like some money was spent on the airport after the declaration of the GWOT, the improvements have not been maintained. The reception hall is too small for a 220 person passenger complement, stiflingly hot, with little moving air, exposed electrical reconnections, and scores of missing ceiling tiles and doors that just won’t close.
As expected, what also remains from the French occupation is a bureaucratic entry system, with stacks of ledgers and (count ‘em) *five* individual rubber stamps and one of the adhesive types associated with my sixty dollar entry visa. Bags in hand, I had to work on keeping my bags in hand, as a half dozen “porters” attempted to grab it away from me and haul it the fifty meters to the camp shuttle. Others weren’t so lucky in the shakedown, although the lesson itself had some value. Other, still, were shook down on the bus itself, as a couple of the porters entered the bus and worked over the already seated passengers.
It’s poor here. The main city streets from airfield to camp are barely above dirt, and mostly empty shops compete for the limited pedestrian traffic. Turning off the main road closer to the camp, we drove down a rutted, once asphalt road lined for a time with the hardscrabble zinc and scrap lumber construction that defines this type of economy. A little further, and the verges were paved with discarded plastic bottles and lada bags.
It’s poor here, and I’m hoping that there’s some semblance of an economy somewhere else in town. It’s large, and we haven’t seen much yet. We will, as our work here, among other tasks, is to try and coordinate future projects at the camp with the local, traditional architecture in the area. That probably doesn’t mean that we’ll build the next AfriCom HQ out of pallets and plastic sheeting, but perhaps it will be more reflective of how the rich people live here.
Anyway, it’s Halloween, and at the all persons club, (Eleven Degrees North (which is about our latitude (I think))) was hosting a few games and social events. They also had beer, which was nice.
And the DFAC has bacon at every meal, which is also nice.
Read More......
2009-11-01
2009-10-30
Frogtown
Ambulating up the left bank of the Seine, I approached an elderly woman walking from the opposite direction. At about three or four meters distance, she stopped suddenly, stooped to the sidewalk, and arose with a shiny gold ring in her hand.
What luck for her! She appeared amazed and immediately wanted to show it to me. Wow. Very shiny. I couldn’t understand the next part, even if part of it was sort of in French. She might have been smilingly deriding Amerika, or she might have been offering to give me the ring, just to share her good fortune.
I expressed that I already had a gold ring, and that she should keep the found object (she didn’t look particularly well off, at that). But she insisted, and wrapped my fingers around it as she appeared to bless both of our good fortunes.
Strange enough, I thought as I walked away.
Then I heard her again, calling me back, and asking, apparently, if I just might be able to spare a Euro or two for a cup of coffee. My luck was obviously with me, so it would be nice if I were to spread it around a bit. At that point, but probably a little before, I realized that the gold shiny thing was a bit too light to be gold, and that this was likely a scam. I thanked her again and returned the ring, certain now that she had the thing palmed when she first reached to the ground, and only pretended to pick it up off of the ground.
Ah, Paris in the late autumn. Cold. Dreary. Bleak. Complete with scamming gypsies. And cold. Did I say cold already? Maybe not that awfully cold. Not as bad as last time, but totally overcast, which doesn’t provide the best of light for image collection.
The Government wants me in Djibouti, and there’s few ways to get there. The non-preferred route runs through Chicago, Frankfort and Addis Ababa. Not that Ethiopia would be bad, but it is an extra leg (i.e. and extra take off and landing) and on the Ethiopian national airline, and it’s this last part that I would like to avoid. Hence, Route A, through Chicago, Paris, and straight in to the Djibouti International Airport, but with a large layover in Paris.
So, with about 16 hours in country, what to do? First, waste an hour on a delayed arrival, then find a dayroom at the Hilton to dump the bags, find a map and directions to the Metro, and hit the town about 1100. Since it was a *day* room, checkout is 1800, less about two hours on the train to and from downtown, doesn’t give much time for the whole grand tour thing, but let me tell you, five or six hours is an ample enough dose of France.
All I wanted to see was a Gauguin painting at the Musee D’Orsey. One of my associates wanted to see an arch at the Louvre. The other wanted to see a couple of the public gardens. The third was delayed leaving CONUS, and gets to fly through Addis Ababa.
As these were all downtown, we got off of the Metro at Notre Dame, took a few pictures, crossed off of the island and headed downstream. Sometime after we saw the requested arch, I found a cheap sandwich, then the gypsy.
Later, while approaching the Eiffel tower through that big park that’s there, I approached a tall black youth walking from the opposite direction. At about three or four meters distance, he stopped suddenly, stooped to the sidewalk, and arose with a shiny gold ring in his hand.
What luck for him! He appeared amazed and immediately wanted to show it to me. Wow. Very shiny,...
Wait a minute. I think I know this one. Sorry, I told the man, but I already know this scam. He smiled and continued on, thoroughly non-nonplussed.
Shortly thereafter, while assisting a newlywed couple with a photograph, they asked if I, too, had been “conned by the Gypsy” (that’s how I knew they were Gypsies). Sadly, no, but I couldn’t commiserate.
Shortly thereafter that, I assisted a young woman with her photograph, having seen her with a Polaroid held at arm’s length and trying to simultaneously focus and frame the shot. Holding the photograph, I was a bit surprised to see that it was of a poodle. She got the shot she wanted though, of the Eiffel Tower, the Polaroid poodle, and the helpful tourist who held the photograph for her. I would have taken the same shot.
Seemingly endless miles later, while returning to the Metro station, I approached an elderly woman walking from the opposite direction. At about three or four meters distance, she stopped suddenly, stooped to the sidewalk, and arose with a shiny gold ring in her hand.
What luck for her! She appeared amazed and immediately wanted to show it to me. Wow. Very shiny.
Hey, I laughed, you’re the same woman as on the other side of the river! She laughed, too, and continued on her gypsy way. We found our train and returned to the airport.
Read More......
What luck for her! She appeared amazed and immediately wanted to show it to me. Wow. Very shiny. I couldn’t understand the next part, even if part of it was sort of in French. She might have been smilingly deriding Amerika, or she might have been offering to give me the ring, just to share her good fortune.
I expressed that I already had a gold ring, and that she should keep the found object (she didn’t look particularly well off, at that). But she insisted, and wrapped my fingers around it as she appeared to bless both of our good fortunes.
Strange enough, I thought as I walked away.
Then I heard her again, calling me back, and asking, apparently, if I just might be able to spare a Euro or two for a cup of coffee. My luck was obviously with me, so it would be nice if I were to spread it around a bit. At that point, but probably a little before, I realized that the gold shiny thing was a bit too light to be gold, and that this was likely a scam. I thanked her again and returned the ring, certain now that she had the thing palmed when she first reached to the ground, and only pretended to pick it up off of the ground.
Ah, Paris in the late autumn. Cold. Dreary. Bleak. Complete with scamming gypsies. And cold. Did I say cold already? Maybe not that awfully cold. Not as bad as last time, but totally overcast, which doesn’t provide the best of light for image collection.
The Government wants me in Djibouti, and there’s few ways to get there. The non-preferred route runs through Chicago, Frankfort and Addis Ababa. Not that Ethiopia would be bad, but it is an extra leg (i.e. and extra take off and landing) and on the Ethiopian national airline, and it’s this last part that I would like to avoid. Hence, Route A, through Chicago, Paris, and straight in to the Djibouti International Airport, but with a large layover in Paris.
So, with about 16 hours in country, what to do? First, waste an hour on a delayed arrival, then find a dayroom at the Hilton to dump the bags, find a map and directions to the Metro, and hit the town about 1100. Since it was a *day* room, checkout is 1800, less about two hours on the train to and from downtown, doesn’t give much time for the whole grand tour thing, but let me tell you, five or six hours is an ample enough dose of France.
All I wanted to see was a Gauguin painting at the Musee D’Orsey. One of my associates wanted to see an arch at the Louvre. The other wanted to see a couple of the public gardens. The third was delayed leaving CONUS, and gets to fly through Addis Ababa.
As these were all downtown, we got off of the Metro at Notre Dame, took a few pictures, crossed off of the island and headed downstream. Sometime after we saw the requested arch, I found a cheap sandwich, then the gypsy.
Later, while approaching the Eiffel tower through that big park that’s there, I approached a tall black youth walking from the opposite direction. At about three or four meters distance, he stopped suddenly, stooped to the sidewalk, and arose with a shiny gold ring in his hand.
What luck for him! He appeared amazed and immediately wanted to show it to me. Wow. Very shiny,...
Wait a minute. I think I know this one. Sorry, I told the man, but I already know this scam. He smiled and continued on, thoroughly non-nonplussed.
Shortly thereafter, while assisting a newlywed couple with a photograph, they asked if I, too, had been “conned by the Gypsy” (that’s how I knew they were Gypsies). Sadly, no, but I couldn’t commiserate.
Shortly thereafter that, I assisted a young woman with her photograph, having seen her with a Polaroid held at arm’s length and trying to simultaneously focus and frame the shot. Holding the photograph, I was a bit surprised to see that it was of a poodle. She got the shot she wanted though, of the Eiffel Tower, the Polaroid poodle, and the helpful tourist who held the photograph for her. I would have taken the same shot.
Seemingly endless miles later, while returning to the Metro station, I approached an elderly woman walking from the opposite direction. At about three or four meters distance, she stopped suddenly, stooped to the sidewalk, and arose with a shiny gold ring in her hand.
What luck for her! She appeared amazed and immediately wanted to show it to me. Wow. Very shiny.
Hey, I laughed, you’re the same woman as on the other side of the river! She laughed, too, and continued on her gypsy way. We found our train and returned to the airport.
Read More......
2009-09-14
Sigh of the Times
Our hopes ran high until the initial personal foul sometime late in the first quarter. Backed up against their own goal line, the opponents quarterback was scrambling to the outside, fading further back towards the endzone, subject to the ongoing rush of crimson and gold. Without the penalty, perhaps the play would have ended with the bad guys at fourth down and long on their own one yard line. Without the penalty, perhaps the play would have ended with the interception that resulted from the Hawkeye’s errant toss downrange, thrown only to avoid an untenable situation with their backs against the wall.
Instead, the quarterback was forced out of bounds as his pass was intercepted, opposing fingers deep in his facemask. The bad guys benefitted – yardage and an automatic first down – and we watched the hopes of another season fade even before the first conference game. The Cyclones (aye, Sigh-clones), rarely fail to fail.
In recent years, I’ve found myself in Iowa City for the annual intrastate scrimmage. In fact, I’ve only seen the game once in Ames, about a thousand years ago during my second senior year there. But heck, when a friend leaves a cryptic email less than 48 hours prior to kickoff stating that you should be at some Dogtown bar the following evening and that there’s really no plan except to try and scalp some tickets,… What the hell. We had nothing scheduled for the weekend, anyway. A road trip seemed just the thing.
Fortunately, we found a hotel room to reserve, and the local inns were full. Ahead of us at the counter was some guy who had arrived just moments before us, unloading his bedraggled family from their Jaguar SUV. He was assuring the hotelier that he had talked to someone earlier and had given her his credit card number “and everything”. No, he couldn’t remember her name. No, there wasn’t a confirmation number. No, there wasn’t a room for them. However, we did have a confirmation number, and I now have a few more points on my preferred sleeper account.
Ames looks nothing like Iowa City prior to the Big Game. Kinnick Stadium is in the middle of town, which pushes the tailgating into more widely spread parking lots. Cyclone Stadium (and Jack Trice Field) is situated in the middle of the Skunk River flood plain, with dedicated parking in the lots and fields to all sides. It’s a veritable sea of parked cars and pickups and vans and campers and tents and awnings and drunks college students. Most don’t even have tickets, they just enjoy getting loaded out of doors amidst a huge crowd and few toilets.
We parked somewhere near Veterinary Medicine about three hours before the game and hadn’t been walking ten minutes when we saw Story County’s finest escorting an obviously inebriated citizen from the grounds. As we didn’t have tickets yet, we thought of asking for his (since he wouldn’t be using it), but decided against it, thinking that he’d only have a single seat, and we not wanting to sit in the student section.
The first scalper we found was wearing a sign saying “tickets” standing not fifty feet from a guy with a sign saying “tickets wanted”. I thought it only neighborly to introduce the two but, surprisingly, they already knew each other. This guy wanted a hundred a half a piece for adjoining tickets he said were near the 20 yard line, about half way up. He dropped his price to one thirty-five as we walked away. I was almost ready to pay the man, but wanted to look a little further, especially since we really needed four tickets to accommodate our cryptic friends.
We continued our walk around the stadium, found that the ticket booth was only selling SRO (i.e. those awful bits of grass at the south corners), and continued walking. About three quarters of the way around, we found another scalper asking one twenty-five each for a pair, strangely so, near the 20 yard line, about half way up. I weighed the cost against driving 450 miles to drink in a parking lot, and gave the man a wad of cash before heading the rest of the way around the facility to meet some friends with beer in a convenient field. These friends already had tickets from our usual source (a mutual friend at the University), but we planned this trip way too late to take advantage of the free seats. We weren’t exactly sure where their free seats were, but we assumed they were near the 20 year line, about half way up.
Friends found, we found that they had collared some youth who was unloading his family’s season tickets for beer money. Since cheap beer in Ames is still pretty cheap, I gave him forty dollars for the set, speculating that our ticketless friends would eventually answer their phones and let us know if they were successful in finding seats on their own accord. At worst case, I could likely unload the worst of the tickets (likely near the 20 yard line, about half way up) and recoup some of our costs.
When they finally answered their page, we connected and split the total cost, reducing our ticket price to seventy-two fifty each – not too bad for a ninety dollar face value ticket. Appropriately intoxicated (adult appropriate, not student appropriate), we headed to the game, finding that the four tickets I purchased, from two different people a half mile apart, were in the same section, in the same row, and only two seats apart, in the center of the end zone, and nowhere near the 20 yard line. Not bad seats, really. Luck was with us that day. How could she not smile on the team as well,…
I forget sometimes. Forget that Lady Luck is fickle, and usually defers to her ugly stepsisters of Fate. As the Fates would have it, the home squad had twice the yardage in penalties, one lost fumble and threw four interceptions. On a surprising note, the 35-03 final score wasn’t their most embarrassing finish to this series, but it certainly wasn’t pretty.
Read More......
Instead, the quarterback was forced out of bounds as his pass was intercepted, opposing fingers deep in his facemask. The bad guys benefitted – yardage and an automatic first down – and we watched the hopes of another season fade even before the first conference game. The Cyclones (aye, Sigh-clones), rarely fail to fail.
In recent years, I’ve found myself in Iowa City for the annual intrastate scrimmage. In fact, I’ve only seen the game once in Ames, about a thousand years ago during my second senior year there. But heck, when a friend leaves a cryptic email less than 48 hours prior to kickoff stating that you should be at some Dogtown bar the following evening and that there’s really no plan except to try and scalp some tickets,… What the hell. We had nothing scheduled for the weekend, anyway. A road trip seemed just the thing.
Fortunately, we found a hotel room to reserve, and the local inns were full. Ahead of us at the counter was some guy who had arrived just moments before us, unloading his bedraggled family from their Jaguar SUV. He was assuring the hotelier that he had talked to someone earlier and had given her his credit card number “and everything”. No, he couldn’t remember her name. No, there wasn’t a confirmation number. No, there wasn’t a room for them. However, we did have a confirmation number, and I now have a few more points on my preferred sleeper account.
Ames looks nothing like Iowa City prior to the Big Game. Kinnick Stadium is in the middle of town, which pushes the tailgating into more widely spread parking lots. Cyclone Stadium (and Jack Trice Field) is situated in the middle of the Skunk River flood plain, with dedicated parking in the lots and fields to all sides. It’s a veritable sea of parked cars and pickups and vans and campers and tents and awnings and drunks college students. Most don’t even have tickets, they just enjoy getting loaded out of doors amidst a huge crowd and few toilets.
We parked somewhere near Veterinary Medicine about three hours before the game and hadn’t been walking ten minutes when we saw Story County’s finest escorting an obviously inebriated citizen from the grounds. As we didn’t have tickets yet, we thought of asking for his (since he wouldn’t be using it), but decided against it, thinking that he’d only have a single seat, and we not wanting to sit in the student section.
The first scalper we found was wearing a sign saying “tickets” standing not fifty feet from a guy with a sign saying “tickets wanted”. I thought it only neighborly to introduce the two but, surprisingly, they already knew each other. This guy wanted a hundred a half a piece for adjoining tickets he said were near the 20 yard line, about half way up. He dropped his price to one thirty-five as we walked away. I was almost ready to pay the man, but wanted to look a little further, especially since we really needed four tickets to accommodate our cryptic friends.
We continued our walk around the stadium, found that the ticket booth was only selling SRO (i.e. those awful bits of grass at the south corners), and continued walking. About three quarters of the way around, we found another scalper asking one twenty-five each for a pair, strangely so, near the 20 yard line, about half way up. I weighed the cost against driving 450 miles to drink in a parking lot, and gave the man a wad of cash before heading the rest of the way around the facility to meet some friends with beer in a convenient field. These friends already had tickets from our usual source (a mutual friend at the University), but we planned this trip way too late to take advantage of the free seats. We weren’t exactly sure where their free seats were, but we assumed they were near the 20 year line, about half way up.
Friends found, we found that they had collared some youth who was unloading his family’s season tickets for beer money. Since cheap beer in Ames is still pretty cheap, I gave him forty dollars for the set, speculating that our ticketless friends would eventually answer their phones and let us know if they were successful in finding seats on their own accord. At worst case, I could likely unload the worst of the tickets (likely near the 20 yard line, about half way up) and recoup some of our costs.
When they finally answered their page, we connected and split the total cost, reducing our ticket price to seventy-two fifty each – not too bad for a ninety dollar face value ticket. Appropriately intoxicated (adult appropriate, not student appropriate), we headed to the game, finding that the four tickets I purchased, from two different people a half mile apart, were in the same section, in the same row, and only two seats apart, in the center of the end zone, and nowhere near the 20 yard line. Not bad seats, really. Luck was with us that day. How could she not smile on the team as well,…
I forget sometimes. Forget that Lady Luck is fickle, and usually defers to her ugly stepsisters of Fate. As the Fates would have it, the home squad had twice the yardage in penalties, one lost fumble and threw four interceptions. On a surprising note, the 35-03 final score wasn’t their most embarrassing finish to this series, but it certainly wasn’t pretty.
Read More......
2009-08-18
That was quick,...
It was almost short enough not to notice, except of course for the whole Afghanistan thing happening all around me. Still it was (or will turn out to be) eleven days away from home, almost too short to even bother with.
But bother I do, because that's where the job sends me, and I tend to like the job, despite some less than desirable situations.
The biggest difference between this and the other trips here was that there's a cute puppydog sleeping at my feet, a gift to the Contractor from the local Afghan Nation Army commander. [How could he say no? She's cute. The commander has hundred of armed tropps,...] I'm not sure if Socks has selected my desk because she likes me, or because it's 30 degrees cooler in the office than outside.
This time, my direct report is the Contractor, who has a somewhat varied motivation when compared to my usual client, now the contractor's client, and still your government. Ultimately, I'm committed to the old health, safety, and welfare thing, but my current employer has a rather specific contract and, despite some obvious changes that could save the taxpayer some sheckles or better coordinate the work with a number of future projects in the area, I really can't add to or modify the project (i.e., the contract).
Mostly because changes at this point in the game all have time consequences and, as they say, time is money. We could develop the best project ever, but if it comes in two months later, how will the intended missions be supported? The change in attitude is just about wearing a different hat, and my suitcase is full of hats. Right now, hats and clothes and tools and personal protective gear and everything else that I brought over here, in anticipation of my flight out in a little over three hours.
What gets left behind this time is a Kandahar that's even larger and more congested than before, as more and more personnel, materiel and materials get deposited here every day. Two new PX's opened since I was here in May, to cater to the larger populations. There's the Kandahar Hotel where, for a mere $160 a night, you can get a ten foot square space in a C-can with a shared bath. There's a three month waiting list for this level of luxury.
In case you don't need to sleep, the local Green Bean now serves what they call the MOAC (Mother of all Coffees), four shots of espresso topped off with their house blend. For now, I'm sticking with the Latte. Tim Hortons continues to do a brisk business, and I usually brought back some tasty Canook donuts to the crew each morning, doing what I could to move the process forward.
I enjoyed the relative luxury of the Contractor's camp for this last week. The private room. The better quality DFAC. My assigned vehicle. The shady piazza. Sadly, they just cleaned and filled the pool last night, so I won't have a chance to go for a dip before I leave. I'll save that for Dubai, where I'll crash at a downtown hotel for the ten hours I have between flights.
I stumbled across a Helen Keller quote the other day (get it? "stumbled across"? she's blind? I swear,...) that seems apt, "Life is either a daring adventure or nothing."
Homebound now, and looking forward to the next one.
Read More......
But bother I do, because that's where the job sends me, and I tend to like the job, despite some less than desirable situations.
The biggest difference between this and the other trips here was that there's a cute puppydog sleeping at my feet, a gift to the Contractor from the local Afghan Nation Army commander. [How could he say no? She's cute. The commander has hundred of armed tropps,...] I'm not sure if Socks has selected my desk because she likes me, or because it's 30 degrees cooler in the office than outside.
This time, my direct report is the Contractor, who has a somewhat varied motivation when compared to my usual client, now the contractor's client, and still your government. Ultimately, I'm committed to the old health, safety, and welfare thing, but my current employer has a rather specific contract and, despite some obvious changes that could save the taxpayer some sheckles or better coordinate the work with a number of future projects in the area, I really can't add to or modify the project (i.e., the contract).
Mostly because changes at this point in the game all have time consequences and, as they say, time is money. We could develop the best project ever, but if it comes in two months later, how will the intended missions be supported? The change in attitude is just about wearing a different hat, and my suitcase is full of hats. Right now, hats and clothes and tools and personal protective gear and everything else that I brought over here, in anticipation of my flight out in a little over three hours.
What gets left behind this time is a Kandahar that's even larger and more congested than before, as more and more personnel, materiel and materials get deposited here every day. Two new PX's opened since I was here in May, to cater to the larger populations. There's the Kandahar Hotel where, for a mere $160 a night, you can get a ten foot square space in a C-can with a shared bath. There's a three month waiting list for this level of luxury.
In case you don't need to sleep, the local Green Bean now serves what they call the MOAC (Mother of all Coffees), four shots of espresso topped off with their house blend. For now, I'm sticking with the Latte. Tim Hortons continues to do a brisk business, and I usually brought back some tasty Canook donuts to the crew each morning, doing what I could to move the process forward.
I enjoyed the relative luxury of the Contractor's camp for this last week. The private room. The better quality DFAC. My assigned vehicle. The shady piazza. Sadly, they just cleaned and filled the pool last night, so I won't have a chance to go for a dip before I leave. I'll save that for Dubai, where I'll crash at a downtown hotel for the ten hours I have between flights.
I stumbled across a Helen Keller quote the other day (get it? "stumbled across"? she's blind? I swear,...) that seems apt, "Life is either a daring adventure or nothing."
Homebound now, and looking forward to the next one.
Read More......
2009-08-17
And then there was two
Got an email the other day, asking if I'd consider 6-12 months in Bahrain. My first reaction was instant rejection. It's 115 degrees in the shade here - how bad would it be closer to both the equator and the sea? Of course, it would be an assignment on a tropical island, and I do seem to like those.
Ultimately, I resolved to maintain my initial reaction, and hold out for a better tropical island assignment. Bahrain would certainly be interesting, but stifling could describe it as well.
Definitely stifling here today, but a full five degrees cooler than yesterday. Having little to accomplish, I headed out to the project site, and watch the surveyors host a goat rope, then observed some 12" slump (self leveling) concrete get placed as a foundation slab, and a wheeled excavator trench through a half meter of moon dust.
By then, it was barely 1000, and I had the rest of the day to fill. How I actually made it to the end is still somewhat of a mystery, but I think I can attribuite it to the selective amnesia from which some trauma patients are known to suffer. Tomorrow,... more of the same.
Read More......
Ultimately, I resolved to maintain my initial reaction, and hold out for a better tropical island assignment. Bahrain would certainly be interesting, but stifling could describe it as well.
Definitely stifling here today, but a full five degrees cooler than yesterday. Having little to accomplish, I headed out to the project site, and watch the surveyors host a goat rope, then observed some 12" slump (self leveling) concrete get placed as a foundation slab, and a wheeled excavator trench through a half meter of moon dust.
By then, it was barely 1000, and I had the rest of the day to fill. How I actually made it to the end is still somewhat of a mystery, but I think I can attribuite it to the selective amnesia from which some trauma patients are known to suffer. Tomorrow,... more of the same.
Read More......
2009-08-14
Ho Hum
Friday, now, I'm pretty sure. If there's any change to the days here, it's Friday, when local labor takes the day off, some outfits take a half day, and the bazaar's in town. I slept in, somewhat intentionally.
My plan was simply to sleep until I got up, and to throw off the last of the nine and a half hours of jet lag that followed me here. Simple enough, but at 0330, some joker in the war department decided that a half hour of outbound artillery would be a nice diversion, and it took a little while for me to recognize the specific boom of rounds leaving the KAF.
At that point, I could again drift off, and stayed drifted until 0900. Not really sleeping until noon, but the best I could muster. Perhaps I'll do better tomorrow, although I likely won't benefit from the late night of socializing I enjoyed on Thursday.
Another benefit of my current situation is that, on many Thursdays [They say "many", but I shouldn't be here except for the one.], nice bar-be-ques are convened at a couple of rotating locations. The menu's simple - meat on the barby - served on some of the local flatbread. The guest list was more varied, including logistics contractors, service contractors, education and training contractors, heavy contractors, and a couple of high ranking officers of the Afghan National Army Special Forces brigade, which is situated right next door.
I'd like to mention that there were a couple of cold beers, but I won't be mentioning that (the slushy Tiger Lagers), because we don't drink here,... especially the high ranking officers of the Afghan National Army Special Forces brigade, which is situated right next door.
Regardless, I got to sleep in, accomplishing another goal, then processed the emails that came in overnight (turning down six months to a year in Bahrain), typed a memo, and tried to get the local phone to work. This afternoon, I'll head to a brief meeting, then to the bazaar to look around, then to the PX for a cigar.
Big plans.
Read More......
My plan was simply to sleep until I got up, and to throw off the last of the nine and a half hours of jet lag that followed me here. Simple enough, but at 0330, some joker in the war department decided that a half hour of outbound artillery would be a nice diversion, and it took a little while for me to recognize the specific boom of rounds leaving the KAF.
At that point, I could again drift off, and stayed drifted until 0900. Not really sleeping until noon, but the best I could muster. Perhaps I'll do better tomorrow, although I likely won't benefit from the late night of socializing I enjoyed on Thursday.
Another benefit of my current situation is that, on many Thursdays [They say "many", but I shouldn't be here except for the one.], nice bar-be-ques are convened at a couple of rotating locations. The menu's simple - meat on the barby - served on some of the local flatbread. The guest list was more varied, including logistics contractors, service contractors, education and training contractors, heavy contractors, and a couple of high ranking officers of the Afghan National Army Special Forces brigade, which is situated right next door.
I'd like to mention that there were a couple of cold beers, but I won't be mentioning that (the slushy Tiger Lagers), because we don't drink here,... especially the high ranking officers of the Afghan National Army Special Forces brigade, which is situated right next door.
Regardless, I got to sleep in, accomplishing another goal, then processed the emails that came in overnight (turning down six months to a year in Bahrain), typed a memo, and tried to get the local phone to work. This afternoon, I'll head to a brief meeting, then to the bazaar to look around, then to the PX for a cigar.
Big plans.
Read More......
2009-08-12
Afghanland III
I thought "Afghanland 3 - The Redemption" would be a cool title for this one but, as it turns out, there's still little that is actually redeeming at Kandahar. Sort of like "Terminator 3: Redemption" or "Kickboxer 5: The Redemption", but probably more like "Rock Bottom - From Hell to Redemption", where Jason Mewes tries to kick Heroin.
Why can't I quit this place? 'Cuz it's fun. "It's a blast", sings Jello Biafra. Actually, he sings "Tomorrow you're homeless. Tonight it's a blast!" But who's picking nits.
Big changes here in the past three months. For one, is about a thousand degrees hotter than when I left here in May. Every day is above 100 (er,... 1000), and the air conditioners have a most difficult time keeping up with it. Construction continues apace throughout the base, with new shelters and housing and stuff all getting built at once.
They've even added short block walls to the interiors of each of the DFACs, to subdivide the space and increase PAX blast protection.
The biggest change is that this time, I'm working for one of the many contractors here, coordinating the design of some big thing between him and the design team back in the States. As it turns out, one minute after I stepped off of the plane here, I became the Companyman with the most experience in country. Hopefully, it won't turn into anything more than a fleeting honor, as I'd much rather be known as the Companyman who has the most time on a tropical island.
The hugest change is in the accommodations. This time, I've got a 40 foot C-can (we used to call them "CONEX Boxes", but that is *so* last quarter) to myself - bedroom, private bath, lounge. There's another bedroom, but noone lives there this week. This place is comparably sized to Miss Liberty, my trailer on Lincoln Swing, although my current blue and white vinyl walls and ceiling still pale in comparison to her green shag, floor-to-wall-to-ceiling carpeting.
And I got a vehicle assigned. A right drive Toyota. Not that I need to drive anywhere, but I've got one, just in case. Of course, I could drive to a more distant DFAC if I wanted to, or use it to haul donuts to the office. Probably use it to tool around aimlessly, as my legendary efficiency has resulted in me being about done with my assigned tasks, just one day into a one week gig.
I brought some books, figuring this would be the case.
Read More......
Why can't I quit this place? 'Cuz it's fun. "It's a blast", sings Jello Biafra. Actually, he sings "Tomorrow you're homeless. Tonight it's a blast!" But who's picking nits.
Big changes here in the past three months. For one, is about a thousand degrees hotter than when I left here in May. Every day is above 100 (er,... 1000), and the air conditioners have a most difficult time keeping up with it. Construction continues apace throughout the base, with new shelters and housing and stuff all getting built at once.
They've even added short block walls to the interiors of each of the DFACs, to subdivide the space and increase PAX blast protection.
The biggest change is that this time, I'm working for one of the many contractors here, coordinating the design of some big thing between him and the design team back in the States. As it turns out, one minute after I stepped off of the plane here, I became the Companyman with the most experience in country. Hopefully, it won't turn into anything more than a fleeting honor, as I'd much rather be known as the Companyman who has the most time on a tropical island.
The hugest change is in the accommodations. This time, I've got a 40 foot C-can (we used to call them "CONEX Boxes", but that is *so* last quarter) to myself - bedroom, private bath, lounge. There's another bedroom, but noone lives there this week. This place is comparably sized to Miss Liberty, my trailer on Lincoln Swing, although my current blue and white vinyl walls and ceiling still pale in comparison to her green shag, floor-to-wall-to-ceiling carpeting.
And I got a vehicle assigned. A right drive Toyota. Not that I need to drive anywhere, but I've got one, just in case. Of course, I could drive to a more distant DFAC if I wanted to, or use it to haul donuts to the office. Probably use it to tool around aimlessly, as my legendary efficiency has resulted in me being about done with my assigned tasks, just one day into a one week gig.
I brought some books, figuring this would be the case.
Read More......
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