Yes, Virginia, There IS a Santa Claus ... In Afghanistan

You know how they say, "it's the thought that counts"? They're totally right. How fabulous is this santa, sleigh and reindeer some of the locals (Afghans) who work on the base built in secret - with some help from the woodshop/carpentry staff (admittedly, it appears very little help)? Okay, so it looks like Santa may have crashed a little on his landing but I think he's flying 4 reindeer shy of a full fleet, so cut him some slack.

The guys who built this were SO PROUD of their gift to us - their homage to our Christmas, our "most important" holiday (per their perception). I practically beamed with pride for them. They practically beamed with pride under the praise and gratitude. Everyone was beaming. Everyone was priding. It was an all-out Christmas morning beaming-with-pride fest.

As Santa is wont to do, he breached religious, geographical and even environmental/climate barriers and united us. Santa for president in 0-twelve. Merry Christmas to all and to all ... good presents.

Jingle Trucks, Jingle Trucks, Jingle All The Way

Jingle trucks are painted with intricate patterns and bright colors and usually have thousands of charms hanging from the sides and bumpers that sound like chimes blowing in the wind.

Local superstition tells the jingling charms and the lavish colors ward off evil spirits during the dangerous journey through the mountain passes between Pakistan and Afghanistan. And the journey is, indeed, a dangerous one since jingle trucks are the transport vehicle of choice in Afghanistan - for both the US Military and the Taliban.

Why might the US Military employ the jingle trucks to transport supplies when they have their own elite line of armed-and-ready-to-transport vehicles? Because the jingle trucks are less conspicuous. There are thousands of them fulfilling thousands of innocuous non-war related transportation tasks which makes it easier for the hundreds performing military supply missions to traverse the country unnoticed. At least in theory. And, even in practice, the theory is fairly successful. The practice is certainly not without its detriments but, too, it is rife with benefits.

What's good for the goose is good for the gander and the Taliban are not above smuggling their own rockets hidden in the innocuous materials. Therefore, it is not uncommon to see young soldiers and marines with M-16s on roadsides talking to the grizzled, bearded, unkempt drivers in their Afghan "pajamas" and their colorful trucks on old silk routes (for a true picture of the colorful jingle truck drivers -and other photos that bring Afghanistan to life - check out photographer David Lang's site at http://www.davidlang.com/. His photos are a treat for the senses).

Given the likelihood of the sight, it was with relative disinterest that I waited while troops searched a jingle truck ahead of my vehicle a few days ago. I barely registered the common scene of truck driver climbing down from his cab and being frisked as he turned out his pockets and offered his truck for inspection without objection. I zoned out to endure the delay (waiting is not one of my strong points) and had no idea how long I was gone or how far from the moment I'd traveled until I was pulled back to reality by the sound of Santa's sleigh.

Even my muddled brain quickly deduced that the source of Santa's sleigh bells was not Santa's sleigh at all, but the rhythm of the jingles on the idling truck - which, by the way, the driver had decorated with actual jingle bells tied to the bumpers with red, velvet ribbons.

But long before my brain performed aforementioned amazing deductive maneuvers, my unmuddled soul took me on an unlikely journey from the edge of an Afghanistan mountainside to the home of my childhood Christmases and returned me, in the space of a nanosecond ... grateful and renewed. Unlikely, unanticipated and unconsidered. So welcome.


And now, a Christmas song:

Dashing over the mountainside
In a 4-door up-armoured truck
We run into delay
And i think, "WTF?"

I drift into a nap
Hey, wait, I’m off the map
A second later I'm smiling like
A happy, Christmas sap :)

HEY!

jingle trucks, jingle trucks ...

*FYI: I am told the jingle trucks get their name from the jingling sound their charms make. Just so you know, there is competing name-origin story about a transport company called "Jinga" and the trucks originally being called "Jinga trucks" which morphed into "jingle trucks", blah, blah and blah. That story, however, offends my poetic sensibilities so I reject it on principal.

Let it Bluster, Let it Bluster, Let it Bluster

Announcer: And now, the BAF evening news with Cira Duffe sitting in for ... Katie Couric (why not? As long as I'm pretending, why not dream big? I know she's old-school but I like her so I'm her).

Camera 2 pans in on Cira sitting at her desk looking like she'd rather be on assignment in Thailand (whose tourist slogan, by the way, should be "Thai massage rules"): Good Morning. Katie is on assignment (in Thailand, I'm sure). In weather news, it's a blustery Friday on Bagram Airfield and promises to remain blustery through the weekend and well into February. Our mental health correspondent reports spirits remain high, despite the cold, rainy conditions and the frosty temps of the porta-potty seats, due in part to the amazing views afforded by the tumult of the winter zypher. In other words, folks, it's cold and snowing but there's a helluva view.

In fashion news, our correspondent cautions not to sport your "-25F thinsulated 2000g, lined, waterproof" Sorel Snow Boots in this weather lest you be made fun of by almost everybody else (a/k/a all the former special forces military tough people who refuse to transition from short sleeve to long sleeve shirts until the temperature drops below 40F) in your male-dominated corporate security department.

Happy Winds-day from blustery Bagram Airfield (if you are not presently imagining piglet blowing away sans scarf then you have been tooooo long without pooh).

It's Beginning to Look a lot Like Christmas

Snow? Check. Tree? Check (size doesn't matter). Pink "Santa" hat that says "Princess"? Check.

Sounds like we have everything we need for (an improvised) Christmas on Bagram Airfield!

What? Did you just say I'm missing some- You'll have to speak up, I can barely hear you. Ohhhhh, right, prezzzzents. What a great idea - I didn't even think of them (hey, pipe down - so what if I AM a present lobbyist?! You were warned in the very first blog... besides, I have been very good). Presents are a great idea. You're brilliant.

My boss only agreed to model the Santa hat on condition of anonymity and to show you the side where KBR will soon be embroidered in keeping with the spirit of the hat law (if not the letter).

Merry almost Christmas.

If Only In My Dreams

With only 20 shopping days left until "the big gift exchange," it isn't surprising that I have Missouri on my mind - not Missouri, per se, but all it houses who are near and dear to me.

What IS surprising is turning a corner in the middle of Afghanistan to find this sign pointing my way home!

Across all 7226 miles between (most of) you and me, I'm sending a steady stream of sappy, sentimental, heartfelt wishes for a beautiful and merry Christmas.

(Yes, for goodness sake, the hat has KBR embroidered on it (in little, hot pink letters)! Of course it isn't company issued ... but we've reached a compromise, the company and me. Merry Christmas to me - Ha ha)

It's A Beautiful Morning

A few weeks ago I found a bird's egg that had fallen from the nest and splattered on a doorstep. I was happily surprised to find two additional little eggs, still intact, snuggled into a nest above the door.

I didn't want them "relocated" so I watched and waited in secret for them to hatch. When they hatched, they were so ugly they were precious and then I watched them grow up too quickly. It seemed as if one day they had their little baby down feathers and just a few days later they had their driver's licenses. They were finally discovered by others when they left their nest, apparently, without permission because when their mother came back she squawked at them so loudly and for so long that it drew attention. Everyone agreed they were days from leaving the nest to opted against relocation. This morning, nature took its course and the little guys left (i saw them with my own eyes) and haven't been back. They behind nothing but an empty nest and a poop-splattered doorstep.

The cold air has settled some of the dust (we had a nasty dust storm here a few days ago) and the Mountains "came back" this morning. I guess there must be some truth to that old addage, "He doesn't take a baby bird without giving you a mountain" :) I voluntarily stood outside this morning in the cold mountain air sipping coffee and watching the sun rise on creation.

Good Morning, from Afghanistan.

"Posing" for Playboy in Afghanistan

Girls are sort of in short supply over here. So when the yoga teacher advised his wife had sent his Hugh Hefner Halloween costume for his work party and lamented at not having a "bunny" I knew exactly where he was heading.

But I was ready. Armed with my standard, "Unfortunately, due to impossibly low weight restrictions imposed by the airlines, I was unable to bring my playboy bunny halloween costume with me to Afghanistan. Sorry." Had I stopped there, I would have been home scott-free. But I, ever the diplomat, just had to tease the gods and tempt fate by adding, "If I had a costume, I'd be only too happy to attend. Sounds like I'll miss out on a fun time."

I underestimated 3 things: 1. how seriously (dare I say "fanatically") some people take Halloween, 2. the abilities of the little Afghan tailors here on base to create something as loony as a muslim-country-modified playboy bunny costume in 4 days and 3. how funny the little Afghan tailors thought it would be to see me dressed like a bunny for a holiday they don't even celebrate.

As if my being in Afghanistan isn't unlikely enough, I can now add having been in Afghanistan dressed as a playboy bunny and winning second place at a halloween costume party to the list.

Yes, everyone wanted to try on the ears (I was just happy not to have to wear my KBR hat for the night - ha ha!)

Happy Halloween. I hope you end the night with the most candy.

There's Cold in Them Thar Hills

Suddenly, it's freezing up here in my mountains of Afghanistan. So I got to trade in the old, ugly summer hat for a new, ugly winter hat :)

In truth, it's only cold at night and in the mornings. By day, it's still almost a hundred degrees. JUST LIKE St. Louis!

Last night, we got our first snow. It didn't stick down here but the mountain tops are donning their winter coats and the flies are dropping like ... er... flies.

Fortunately, the Taliban tend to hunker down during the winter so hopefully the snow will bring the much-needed "chilling effect" on the death toll.

On a personal note, I was recently advised by a weathered vet (pun intended) of the Afghanistan winters to invest in a one-piece insulated snow suit for those 2am December bunker alerts. Shiver, Shiver. Maybe Iraq wasn't really so bad. Just kidding, Mom.

Women and Children First

Every day I read intelligence reports detailing the bodies of women found after having been stoned "to death" for transgressions such as traveling with a male who is not a relative. Just to explain how a stoning takes place, the accused offender is buried to her waist in sand and then stoned until "death." I place "death" in quotes because it isn't usually the stoning that actually kills them - the stoning breaks their spinal cord and shoulder bones, their forearms, shatters their hand and facial bones, sometimes a stone will hit with enough force and in just the right place to push out an eye, and almost always the teeth are broken - the killers don't have the patience to wait while they die from the wounds inflicted by the stones, so after the stoning they usually bash in their heads with the shovel used to bury them in the sand or back over them with a vehicle. The killers in the reports I receive are always Muslim extremists who claim credit for the stonings because it keeps people terrified. And terrified people are easier to control. When I say "Muslim extremists" I'm talking about the groups collectively known as the Taliban.

I don't get details of the number of orphans, per se, but my daily reports also contain details of the number of men and women who were executed in front of their children yesterday and last night by the Taliban - and, of course when the children are executed with the parents they appear in my reports. The Taliban do other, horrible, things to children including but not limited to dressing young boys in make-up (like little girls) and using them in lieu of women since "relations" with a woman out of wedlock are prohibited - the good, ole "letter of the law not the spirit of the law" defense. These atrocities are well-documented and common knowledge. You can easily find more information about the practices with minimal on-line research if you are so inclined.

My job requires also that I scour about 15 different public news sources for any news relative to Afghanistan. For the past 10 months, the only numbers rivalling those of people killed each night by the Taliban are the number of "women and children" killed as a result of some wedding or another having been bombed by the U.S. and/or Coalition forces.

What really happens is this: The Taliban move weapons and supplies (medical supplies, winter clothing, food, amunition, tanks) to their troops through giant tunnels in the mountains. These tunnels are not the kind you dig with a pick and axe - these tunnels are large enough to put an aircraft inside. I've seen tunnels wherein you can drive two tanks, side by side, with plenty of room for troops on foot to walk on both sides and not even feel claustrophobic - imagine a highway in a tunnel running from one side of Texas to the other. Concrete reinforced tunnels. BETTER than hollywood movie tunnels. I'm talkin' serious, professional tunnels. And, please notice my use of "troops" in reference to the Taliban. Not "groups", not "bands", not "gangs" - well-organized, well-trained troops making trips back and forth through the mountains between Afghanistan and Pakistan for supplies, for weapons, for ammunition, and to train more Taliban fighters.

THESE TUNNELS are quite valuable to the Taliban and their locations are some of the most valuable secrets in the war. SO, they build houses and even small villages to cover the entrances then they fill the houses with women and children to a) blackmail the people in the village into keeping the location secret so they don't lose their families and b) a ploy to keep the entrance from being bombed due to the international and national outrage of so many women and children being killed by US and/or Coalition forces.

Bottom line: When you read about all the innocent people killed by erroneous attacks against wedding parties please remember that most of them are shotgun weddings and the Taliban are holding the Uzis.

Grandma's House Seemed Bigger When I Was Little

When I was a kid, we played hide-and-seek almost every summer evening. We played (what some of you would consider the "sissy" version, I know) with a "home base". If you made it to base before getting tagged you were safe. But, if you got tagged, you were "it".

I was a risk-taker. I always hid close enough to the base that if I were spotted I'd have no chance of making it safely. However, if I weren't spotted and I played my cards just right, the moment the seeker turned to search for someone else I'd make a mad-dash for safety and test my mettle against that of the seeker.

Night after night, I'd hunker in my spot, trying not to breath. I'd wait, certain the sound of my pounding heart and "barely breathing" had revealed my location. I'd watch, certain the seeker was pretending not to see me so I'd be tricked into making my move prematurely.

With eyes wide, to absorb every ounce of available visibility, I'd kick into "fight or flight" mode and run for the base. Arms pumping furiously, legs pushing the limits of physics to gain the most distance and speed from every step, hands out-stretched, reaching for base like an olympic sprinter reaching for the finish line - the seeker would spot me, turn, race me to the base -AND!.

Well, some nights I'd make it safely and some nights I'd feel that fatal tag.

That's how the trip from Baghdad International Airport to the inner wire of Camp Victory felt. Even though I could not see my seeker, until I actually tagged home base I wasn't sure I'd make it. The trip was tense, made more so by the sudden onset of emergency vehicles zooming past with sirens-a-la-1970's-B-movie blaring in the direction of a rising tower of black smoke on the roadside in the distance ahead of me. It did not ease my mind that immediately thereafter my driver and our military escort of Hummers executed an unexpected U-turn without consideration for the concrete median discouraging such manuevers opting to back-track and take an alternate route to the base (the military base, not my hide-and-seek base).

Once inside "the wire" it was an entirely different story. It was like the suburbs: sprawling across so many miles the shuttle system has a gray line that takes you to a green line so you can catch the yellow line to the Cinnabon; no streetlights or sidewalks; traffic, traffic, everywhere and not a ride to hitch. I couldn't wait to get back to my brownstone in the ghetto (a/k/a: my B-hut in Afghanistan). Oh, yeah, the real pisser: The guest quarters in Iraq do NOT have indoor plumbing. Just my luck!

Anyway, the training was fine and, you know, all things considered the base was fine too. It's just that I'm partial to Afghanistan and I'm biased against the suburbs. Iraq and I weren't meant to be. I guess I'll have to nix those plans for my broadway production of "Me and My Baghdad".

The strangest thing about the whole trip - now that I've left and come back, Afghanistan seems smaller.

Baghdad or Bust

I gotta go to Iraq for a few days. Please, please - this is a good thing: all of the housing in Iraq has indoor plumbing :-). It's practically a vacation destination compared to Afghanistan!

I'll be at Camp Victory in The Green Zone if you want to google it and get the lowdown. I'm told they have a Cinnabon. No kidding. Everyone who hears I'm going to Victory says, "Oh yeah, you'll like it. They have a Cinnabon."

I'll probably be out of comms (communications, for you civies reading this) until 28-ish September while I travel. I'll only be in Baghdad for 4 days but it takes an additional 5 days to get there and back. Go figure.

So, no blog until I return from the Emerald City-Zone. I'll try to bring ya a Cinnabon or something.

Birthday at Bagram AirField

Ignore the poster of intestines and the bottles of malaria meds in the background. The swanky martini bar was booked so my Birthday Bash was thrown at one of the Army's medical clinics and, I gotta say, those Army docs really know how to host a birthday party! Considering I am in Afghanistan - the land of "no sex, drugs or rock-n-roll" ... not to mention "no family, good restaurants or day spas"- I had a surprisingly awesome birthday.

Yeah, so my gifts were presented in bed pans (i'm assured "new, not used" but, hey, what else are they gonna say?) with turnicut bows and high-lighter colored name tags. Yeah, so my birthday cake was stolen from the chow hall and tasted a little bit like Afghanistan dust by the time it got to the clinic. Trivial insignificalities. I had fun and, when it was all said and done, I turned 36 surrounded by lottsa well-wishers who are pro's at making "a-million-miles-from" feel like home.

Little Orphan Ahchmed

I'm not gonna beat around the bush: Orphans in Bamian will freeze to death this winter if you don't send them some clothes, shoes and coats. It's that simple.

The orphan population in Afghanistan is epic - NPR,Afghanistan Now and thousands of other websites detail the humanitarian impact of the ongoing war here. Bamian is at a higher altitude where it is already snowing.

The yoga teacher on base is a pilot (he drops supplies to remote military camps) who has identified hundreds of kids in Bamian orphanages as needing your "used but clean children's cold-weather gear and footwear in good condition" for children ages Toddler through High School.

So, please yardsale and goodwill to your little hearts' contents. Maybe your church would like to take up a collection or maybe your child's class would like to sponsor a clothing drive. Send the clothes and coats and warm socks and shoes to:

Will Sherman

Blackwater Aviation

Bagram AFB

APO AE 09354

(FYI: You can ship a small, flat-rate priority box for $11 while a 30 pound box of clothes will cost abou $40 to ship; the max weight you can ship to an APO is 50 pounds; packages cannot exceed 130 inches combined length and girth)

An important aside may be to remind you that clothing without writing is preferred - we don't want to risk bringing the children detrimental attention by offending the extreme muslims (The Taliban).

If all of the above hasn't moved you to orchestrate a monumental effort on behalf of the Afghan Orphans then let me throw one last guilting effort your way: September 14 is my birthday. Let it sink in ... yes, that IS today! Oh my goodness - you forgot? You didn't get anything in the mail to me? Don't fret - it's all good. All I wanted, anyway, was clothes for the orphans (okay, clothes for the orphans and dark chocolate but it's still too hot in my part of AFG for you to mail dark chocolate). Isn't that convenient!?! :) And don't worry - I'm putting my money where my mouth is. I'm donating all of my shrunken clothes to the kids. Ha Ha.

Now, go have a shot of something that would violate General Order No. 1 (No Alcohol Allowed) and eat a big, gooey chocolatey dessert in my honor. Blow out a candle, make a wish on my behalf - and then get busy sending these kids some clothes.

If You Prick Them They Will Bleed; If You Tickle Them They WILL Laugh

There is Pain: Who is older? The man or the boy? Cover their faces and look only at their eyes. It's difficult to tell. The boy was born into war and it is all he's ever known. The man is old enough at least to remember a time of peace. I'm not sure which is more difficult.

There is Laughter: The children who come close to the entry gate (top) LOVE to have their picture taken - but only so that they can SEE the pictures of themselves! Much like my baby nieces and nephews (heck, much like ME) in St. Louis, the kids barely stand still and smile long enough for me to press the button before they blitz me with demands to show them their smiling, inquisitive selves. And, inevitably, they giggle at what they see. Which makes me giggle at what I see.

This is Life.

The Magic Number: 450

Sensory memory is a great thing. After spending approximately 150 nights in my B-hut (wooden tent-building thing) and making a minimum of 3 trips, from that location, per pre-bed / mid-night / wake-up to use the "facilities" it finally happened:

I can make the trip there and back with my eyes mostly closed.

There are a variety of reasons why I might wish to make the trip without seeing the scenery along the way, but the most beneficial among them is that I made the trip mid-night without really waking up and, thus, was able to get back to sleep within seconds of getting back to my bed.

No small feat, I assure you.

Imagine waking up in the middle of the night, going out your front door, walking to the end of your block, using the neighbor's bathroom then making the return trip to your bed. Seeeeeeeeee. Being able to make the trip without waking up all the way suddenly becomes a very handy-dandy skill to have, doesn't it?

The result of being well-rested: two blogs in three days!

Home: Where I Didn't Hang my Hat

"Where's the Hat?!"

I recently returned to St. Louis for two weeks of rest and relaxation after spending 6 months in the Afghanistan desert and mountains and do you think people wanted to know about burkas or taliban or poppy fields? No, sir. They wanted to see the hat!

Nineteen carefree, hat-free days (they WANT me to wear the one on the left; I WEAR the one on the right) I spent away from my military base in Afghanistan. The answer is "yes, it was all that and then some." But I'm back on base - safe and sound - and what a homecoming it was. They had a bunker party to celebrate my return :-) Awww, fellas, you shouldn't have.

I had a great visit home - of course I did. I got hugs, I saw friends' smiling faces, I was gifted many bottles of wine! I got sumo-wrestler body slammed - in a good way :-), I beat my nephews and little brother (fair and square!) in a cannonball contest in mom's pool, I had "obnoxiously early jet-lag coffee" with my peeps (be grateful you don't live in the same house with me), I hugged my mom and sisters so much i left an imprint on them, I made everyone pose for so many pictures they actually couldn't wait for me to leave town again!

I didn't get to spend enough time with everyone. So e-mail me. And write me letters. And help me make up for missed time.

Welcome back.

Single Digit Midget

I meant to tell you before but it slipped my mind: I have only 1 day remaining before I fly home.

YEAH, RIGHT it slipped my mind! AS IF! WOOOHOOOOO. One day and a wake-up!

Maybe it's because I'm only ONE DAY from heading home (only home for 2 weeks but we aren't talking about that yet), but for some reason the air smells sweeter, the flies seem gentler and my clothes - well, my clothes are still tight at hell but two out of three ain't bad :-)

You can see from this picture taken at a recent good-bye gathering that everyone is as happy to see me go as I am to be leaving - ha ha!

I leave Bagram Air Field on 28 July and should be CONUS (sorry, i tried to resist but I've been infected with the acronym virus!) on 30 July - boots on ground by 1300L HRS!!! Pray for me that I don't have to sit next to anyone on any of my flights who is either chatty, smelly, perky or any combination thereof (hey, i'm not mean - i'm just sleep and civilization deprived). On second thought, why not put your prayers to really good use: pray for me that every other passenger assigned to my rows on every single one of my 4 separate flights misses their flight leaving me with the entire row to myself AND that, in addition to the standard beverages, fare and snacks usually served, the flight i'm on mistakenly receives a supply shipment of hubba bubba. Peace. See you in 3...2...1.

4th of July: Just Like Mom Used to Make

Why yes, that IS a swimming pool by which I sit lounging and munching on my ... watermelon!

Okay, so we didn't get fireworks (something about illuminating the entire base and making us an easier target) or the day off from work. But we DID get a BBQ with all the trimmings, a blow-up pool filled with bottled water that doubled as an "ice-bath" for our fake beer (you know it, baby!) and a foot pool for our glow-in-the-dark white legs (Whew, shield your eyes from the glare off of those shins!) and, last but not least, a few hours of visiting like normal people and pretending we were in our own backyards (except for the helicopters :-).

Hope you had a happy 4th. See you in three weeks (exactly).

Not Quite a Tomb Raider

The dust has settled and, as you can see, I lived to tell the tale.

Since a picture is worth a thousand words, I'll shut up. Just know that I am not being tortured -at least not in this picture (although it looks like I am talking to someone so I can't say the same for my listener).

Oh yeah, you may be wondering why I'm smiling given recent accounts of porta-potties, flies, heat and stench ... the answer is "Hubba Bubba, baby!" I got it and it rocks. I've been so busy (and quiet) chewing my HB that I haven't complained about anything in 5 days.

For those of you who have ever wondered how to get me to shut up: take a note. See you in 29 and a wake-up!

But It's a Dry Heat

Actually, it's a dry and dusty heat. One would think the flies would just keel over from heat exhaustion. But not these flies. Afghan flies are like New Yorkers. They practically cuss you out and tell you to find your own porta-potty. You open the door and they're like, "whatta you lookin' at? some privacy here? gees"

Okay, you guessed it: I'm a little slap happy. Today is exactly 30 days and a wake up until I jump on a plane to the cooler climates of St. Louis-in-July. Bring on that wall of humidity to greet me straight off of the plane. Yum!

I'm stoked also because I have it from a very reliable source that a friend of a friend is hand-carrying a special delivery of hubba bubba to Bagram Air Field for delivery to yours truly, as we speak. I hope it doesn't melt. Ha Ha!

Scratch That - I Gotta Whole New Gripe

Uh, forget what I said about the flies and the camels and the small clothes. W-O-W. Wow! This place is, suddenly, under dust. I can't even FIND the porta-potty right now.

No, that is NOT a mountain in the background, it is a wall of talcum-powder dust that is BIGGER than the mountains. It makes the mountains look like nothin'. It's like a tsunami of dust. I'm practically at a loss for words, so amazed am I by what I'm witnessing in my edge of Afghanistan. I am most certainly awe-struck. Finally, something has snapped me out of my lethargic longing for home and all things un-hot and un-camel-like.

As I watched the dust bear down upon the world (and snapped these pictures with my cell phone before taking cover), I thought of a line from a poem that recently found me:

There is no army

that can stand

against

a whisper of air

How true it is. Both sides have been, temporarily, grounded by something so much bigger than us all.

On the bright side (and this blog really is, afterall, about the bright side), I'm pretty sure we won't have a bunker drill tonight.

The Big Bamboo

I think Rumi and his Whirling Dervishes were onto something: There exists no sadness so profound that a good "Jamaican Dance Mix" CD and some "crazy dance" can't cure.

I have a good co-worker. He, happily married for 21 years (retired Navy Diver who everyone jokes spent a little too much time being oxygen-deprived) and a 4 year veteran of working in Afghanistan, puts up with my moodiness and does more than his part to give me a good kick in the arse when I feel too sorry for myself. He also has a great sense of humor and just returned from vacationing in Jamaica. This morning, I walked into a song by a Jamaican calypso band about a Big Bamboo playing nearly full blast on our little bose computer speakers ... he wouldn't even meet my eyes as he said, "I read your blog yesterday, young lady. You dance in the back of the office - I'll dance up here in the front."

And so it went. Like two ships passing in the night, so close but so far away, we each jammed in our separate corners of this little world and cared not that our clothes were not too small and that our socks do not match.

Then he gifted me with some fly strips and fabric softener dryer sheets and reminded me that today is a brand new day. Maybe I CAN make it 47 more days. Now I just gotta go on a hunger strike so I can fit into my clothes for the flight home :-).

Life In The Fast Lane

Your eyes do not decieve you. That IS a roadsign directing cars, donkeys and camels to observe designated lanes. And while 5 months ago I would have chosen the donkey/camel lane, this week I would LOVE to be cruising down the highway in a car right about now (and a car with air conditioning would be just this side of heaven).

This has actually been my most challenging week in Afghanistan. Given that I live in a wooden tent-building with 9 other chics, that I "hold it" until the porta-potties get cleaned, that we've had 4 bunker drills in three weeks and that I am completely out of matching socks, you gotta wonder: what could possibly tip the scales enough to make this THE MOST challenging week?

It's not really one thing - it's a combination of 5 things each of which, I think you will agree, build upon the other:

1. The flies. It's hot. It's porta-pottie country. Enough said?

2. The heat. It was 108 degrees F at 04:10 this morning...in the shade.

3. Shrinkage. Stay with me here - this is about me, not you: I'm talking laundry shrinkage. The only thing hotter than our weather is the temperature of the water in which all clothes are washed. ALL clothes regardless of color, race or creed. I'm walking around in tight clothes on a military base when it's 108 degrees. You begin to feel my pain.

4. The camels and the donkeys. See "1. The flies" and let your imagination soar.

5. The smell. The Afghan people possess many amazing and extraordinary abilities, but bathing is not one of them (it's a cultural thing and, quite frankly, a lack of water in which to bathe. I do not say this to be mean - I am only sharing with you the rich and multi-sensory experience of my Afghanistan summer). They often travel in groups of 20 and are accompanied by donkeys, camels and flies. The smell, my friends, the smell. Of course, since it's 108 degrees and i'm hiking around base in my shrunken clothes, I can only surmise that they feel the same way about me :-).

If you would like to do your part to improve international relationships, send Febreeze.

A Room with a View

B-Hut is actually short for "Billeting Hut". But I think of it as the "Bee Hut" because the interior is divided into 10 little pod-cell rooms and all of us busy, Bagram Air Field worker bees return to the hut each night, after a long day of work, buzz a little to each other (not "buzzed" mind you) then crash for a few hours before stumbling back into daylight for round ... i've been here so long I can't remember what round i'm on. I know, though, that I have only 60 rounds remaining before I board my plane heading home for a visit.

In the picture above, you can see rows and rows of our little bee huts. If you're up for a game of "where's waldo" let me assure you that the porta-potties, made infamous in a previous blog, are included in here somewhere, too.

Anyway, as you can see, even though I work in a combat zone and live in a bee hut, my office has one helluva view. Did i mention it's on the corner? Yeah, that's right - I gotta corner office. Okay, okay -it doesn't have a window, but whatever. The bottom line is that about a hundred times a week somebody asks me "why do you stay?" and even though I ask myself the same question about a hundred times a day (more during bunker drill days), all I have to do is look around to remember that I stay because I like the way the world looks from where I'm standing.

The Buddhas of Bamiyan ... "Gone" But Not Forgotten

In the caves in the mountains of the Hindu Kush in the valley of Bamian in the center of Afghanistan there once "stood" two 120+ foot tall buddhas. These near-mythical in stature statues had been carved from the stone of the mountain (a la Mt. Rushmore) and stood watch over the valley of Bamian in the Province of Bamiyan providing a welcoming presence to the weary travelers and buddhists on piligramage since circa the second or third century (AD).

Brace yourselves: In 2001, the Taliban (you can find videos of the event on-line if you're interested, but I warn you it will make your soul cringe to watch them) turned their tank barrells on the buddhas and obliterated them, wiping all trace of the buddhas from the face of the mountain-side. When the air cleared, all that remained of the awe-inspiring Buddhas of Bamiyan was a pile of sand.

I nearly wept with the realization that I will never rest eyes upon the Buddhas of Bamiyan. Even if the war ends and I return to this beautiful country in a time of peace I and the rest of mankind have been irreversibly deprived of the opportunity to marvel at the feat that once was the Buddhas of Bamiyan. The most tragic part, for me, was the "why" of it all: as if blowing the stones to smithereens could somehow also blow to smithereens thoughts, ideas and beliefs.

And yet, the fate of the Buddhas is, ironically, very Buddhist.

The Tibetan Buddhists are known for their sand art. Mandalas are sand "paintings" of what are considered to be the multi-level maps of spiritual consciousness. They are painstakingly exact in design and measurement and buddhist monks spend days and days tapping sand into the mandalas a few grains at a time. A few GRAINS at a time! Why bother? Because the value of the work can be accessed only through the process of making it... but the monks do not tap the mandalas for themselves - oh, no, they have tapped so many grains of sand that they possess internal multi-level maps with well-worn creases in the folds - no, the monks tap the mandalas for the benefit of all of humanity. And, when the mandala is completed, the monks walk away from the sand painting, leaving it on the steps of the temple to be carried away by the wind ... each grain of sand moving on to fulfill its next purpose.

Maybe I will see the Buddhas of Bamiyan. One grain at a time.

Tastes Like Chicken

It is "the windy season" in Bagram, Afghanistan. The Airfield is basically situated in the bottom of the "bowl" of the mountains. Much like a baggy-pantsed skaterboarder on a half-pipe, the wind gathers momentum on its way down the mountain sides then gathers speed as it cruises across the Air Field to get enough velocity to make it up the other side of the mountain.

Remember we have no dirt here? Only talcom-powder-like dust? I finally realize the value of nose hairs.

Oh. My. Goodness. The talcom-powder dust gets everywhere. Ever been to the beach and gotten sand in your swimsuit? MMMHMMMM. I have seriously considered ordering a motorcycle helmet with visor. To those of you who are thinking, "lady, ever heard of eye protection for keeping out sand?", I say, "I got your 'eye protection' right here! What about my teeth? My hair? Did I mention my teeth?" Bet you didn't know that dust is "chewy" did you?

Speaking of teeth, when I was a kid anytime my mom wanted me to try some weird meat like rabbit or squirrel or frog legs (I grew up in the country, okay!) when pressed for details regarding the taste, she would always tell me, "it tastes like chicken."

A few days ago I was at a luncheon of home-cooked food hosted by some of the Linguists who work for the military as interpreters on the project. It was a feast - even for a vegetarian (which I've been for the last 12 years)! Lentils, eggplant, rice, vegetables, a big hunk of meat in a pot with a bunch of stuff in it that all the carnivores at the lunch oooohed and aaaaaahed over - a feast, I tell you. I was sitting next to an Afghan citizen who asked me, in what was admittedly limited english but good enough to communicate with each other over lunch, what my lentils tasted like. That's actually sort of a tough question to answer even for someone who speaks my language well, so I did my best to explain the taste of lentils. We both smiled at the inadequateness of my ability to do so, but it was a shared laugh and he appreciated my efforts. I, of course, in turn asked him, "and how is your lunch?" To which he responded by looking at the big hunk of goat meat on his plate and offering, "it tastes a leeetle beeet the same like chicken."

No Lie.

I'm Sending Out an "SMS"

Anyone who has ever had any dealings with the military knows that everything is communicated in acronyms. Information is distributed on a NTK basis (need to know), your status is G2G (good to go), if you expound in response to a specific question you've provided TMI (too much information - i sure wish I could have used that when I was practicing law), all personnel are governed by SOP's (standard operating procedures), emails are addressed to ALCON (all concerned) and when your tour of duty is over you return CONUS (continental U.S.).

Well, there is one acronym you won't find in any SOP but it is THE acronym that actually unites all of humanity. Every (and I do mean EVERY) human being who has ever walked this earth shares in common this one thing - from my friend in East Timor who used to wash his clothes on rocks in a lake in Guatemala to Bill Gates in his brain-house that knows how many parts per million of oxygen is inhaled in each breath- we have all experienced the mystery of the SMS. The Single Missing Sock.

If I ever put a message in a bottle afloat on the sea it will ask, "Have you seen my other sock? I know it was here when I put it in the washer. If you have a single sock of your own, send it to this address and I will make a match." If ever I am an anthropologist I am going to devote my career to tracking down the first civilization to lose a sock in the wash. I'll bet money they found a mateless sock in King Tut's Tomb.

I don't know how it happens - I match my socks before I take them in my laundry bag to the drop-off point. A small Afghan man inventories my laundry and counts every pair of socks as an "item". My laundry gets washed in the same bag it was delivered in. It then goes straight to the dryer before getting stacked on a shelf for me to pick up 3 days later. The bag never gets unzipped, the laundry never gets taken out and yet, in David Copperfieldien fashion, without fail one of my socks disappears.

One day we will be invaded by aliens who smother us in a barrage of our own single missing socks.

Happy Mother's Day (thanks for losing my socks when I was a kid, mom. You helped to prepare me for the real world).

Proof Positive

My mom has requested proof that I am alive.

I tease my mom about this, but if you'd been through what I put my mother through, you too would demand proof periodically.

Take, for instance, the "new job paperwork" that one must fill out for a job like this. You know how normal jobs have you fill out things like "emergency contact information" and "401k contribution" documents? WELL, when you take a job like mine, the paperwork is a little more surreal. You've got your standard, "emergency contact" forms, sure - but, you've also got, "Questions only you would know the answers to in case you are taken hostage" and "Distinguishing marks by which you could be identified in the event of [fill in the blank with any horrible possibility and you're on the right track]" and, my personal favorite, "Family Plan for managing media contact if you are taken hostage". HA HA HA - this ain't Edward Jones!

Anyway, because my mother indulges me in my galavanting, I can indulge her request for proof positive (notice the date stamp on the photo, please ... and that's my little niece, KiKi, on my computer screen saver in the background - isn't she cute! Good job on that one, sis) that I'm alive and kicking - and caring for my pet basil (c'mon, mom - who but me could come up with this crazy stuff?!?) in Afghanistan.

Next post: Less about me, I promise.

From Humble Beginnings ... My Pet Basil

I ordered basil on a gray, overcast and chilly March day in Afghanistan. I knew spring was springing in "the Lou" and I was homesick for green. Turns out, you can order green and have it shipped to your doorstep. Even in Afghanistan.

The basil arrived on an even colder, grayer, overcast-er day. I ripped open the package, took a big whiff of the "soil" (not "dirt", as was previously mislabelled) and introduced my uninspiring little basil seeds to their new friends, parsley and chives, planted them together in the galvanized steel garden and told them to "play nice" with one another. And they did!

Of course, everyone had their suspicions about what was growing in the pots on the balcony in front of the Security Office and who am I to confirm or deny their suspicions? And honestly, growing basil, parsely and chives ... and, oh yeah, did I mention I have a separate, identical container devoted entirely to strawberries? ... makes about as much sense as cultivating my very own Mary Jane. After all, it's not like I have a kitchen, or even if I did, that I would actually cook anything, but the basil makes sense to me. It's like a very low-maintenance pet. I water it, I make sure it has sunlight and shade. I try not to kill it. I feel a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction each day thatit didn't droop over dead while I slept. No, I'm not going to break into a text version of Elton's, "The Ciiircle of Liiiifffe" - but if they ever make my life into a movie ... :)

The Field is Hot

As previously mentioned, Bagram Air Field is surrounded by land-mines. Consequently, military personnel continuously work to clear the fields. When they find a mine, they detonate it, but they warn everybody in advance. So, periodically, throughout the day, the loud speaker will announce, "Attention all personnel: The field is hot. There will be a controlled detonation in 5 minutes."

It got me thinking: Wouldn't it be helpful for relationships to have a loud speaker warning system that made cautionary announcements? "Attention husband: you have angered the wife. The field is hot. There will be a 'controlled' detonation in 4 seconds. The extent of control exercised will depend upon your proximity to the detonation. Run for your life or risk loss of limb(s). All requests for damages will be evaluated applying an "assumption of the risk" standard." (sorry guys, I'm a chic - you'll have to put your own "guy announcements" on your guy blogs)

I'm distracted, today, by wars at home so, I'll close with this: If you are at war on your home front, I wish you a "cease fire" and the associated peace that accompanies that status; if you are at peace on your home front, go get a good hug (sincerely, it's been 67 days since I last hugged anybody - go get a hug, it feels good!). Talk to you soon. See you (and maybe even hug you - if you're anywhere near St. Louis) in 99 days... but whose counting?!

Bunker or Bust ... No Cameras Allowed

For some reason, as a teen-ager, I imagined my life would involve a course more along the lines of "Berkely or bust" but, as they say, the best laid plans of mice and free-spirited girls.

So, there I was, sound asleep in my wood-tent-building, snuggled under my electric blanket, dreaming - I'm sure - of either dark chocolate or hubba bubba, when I was roused from my slumber by three short blasts of the siren followed by an intercom announcement: Red Alert, Red Alert, Red Alert. Report to the nearest bunker in kevlar vests and helmets. Red Alert, Red Alert, Red Alert ... bunker drill exercise.

I was never so happy to hear the word "exercise", in all my life. My relief, however, was short-lived when I realized it was 0300 hours. If you're slow on the uptake for calculating "military time", let me help you out: 3 a!m!.

One might imagine that I would be bitter about being shocked awake - only three hours after going to sleep and only three hours before waking up for work - for anything other than the real thing, but one would be wrong. And do you want to know why I was not bitter? Hmmm? I was not bitter because I have a "bunker bag" packed, ready to go and hanging on a hook by the door in the event of just such an emergency (some folks pack "baby bags", I pack a "bunker bag". I live in Afghanistan!).

Before I came to Afghanistan I promised myself two things. First, that I would work out, eat healthy and be even healthier in my thirties than I had been in my twenties. Second, that if I were ever called to the bunker, all bets were off! and I was gonna eat everything I'd denied myself in the name of the treadmill! So, the contents of my bunker bag will make you hope you end up in my bunker if ever you find yourself bunker bound in Afghanistan.

Cira's Bunker Bag Contents:
flashlight, ho-ho's, warm socks, dark chocolates, gloves, chocolate chip cookies, bottled water, reeses' peanut butter cups, transistor radio, doritos, camping/hiking nasa blanket thing, whole cashews, passport, gummy bears, a daily devotional for service members (because when you're really called to the bunker, not even dark chocolote is enough - thank you, dad) and ritz crackers with canned cheese whiz. To be added in the near future: hubba bubba (uh-uhhhm, Mr. Lang).

While I can't exactly say that I or the 19 strangers in pajamas, kevlar gear and helmets, enjoyed the bunker drill, I can definitely say that it could have been worse. Instead of grumbling about the cold or the tired or the craziness of voluntarily working in a combat-zone, we sat, hunkered in our bunker in companionable silence, munching our snacks and trading cookies for gummy bears like third-graders with boxed lunches. The real beauty of the moment was that I think every last one of us gave thanks before devouring our snacks - maybe the realest thanks I've ever given - that this was only an exercise.

Relativity and Fishes and Dirt ... Oh, My!

My favorite days are always care package and letter-receiving days. No surprise. That will never change. My second favorite day is always up for grabs, though, and I'm always surprised by the contenders.

My second favorite day used to be Friday night because they have special food in the Dining Facility that makes it feel like the weekend (I'm a vegetarian so I can't actually eat any of it but, hey, it's all about the atmosphere). Then, for a while my second favorite day was Sunday because, even though I work 7 days a week, I always try to do something special on Sunday: get a manicure, watch a movie, skip working out and eat lotsa junk food.

My new second favorite day is whatever day they clean the porta-potties located near my office. I live for porta-pottie cleaning day. It's the only day I actually use the porta-pottie. The rest of the days I hike the 1/2 mile to use the indoor facilities. That means I hold it a lot. But, I'll be damned if there isn't a rule here that you have to drink 8-10 bottles of water per day due to hydration issues (compounded by the altitude and desert-y climate in our Afghanistan valley). And co-workers are told to keep track of each other's water intake much like McCarthy encouraged neighbors to report neighbors for being commies, so you can't skimp on the water intake. Effect: holding it is harder than it sounds (and those of you who've ever taken a car trip with me - heck, those of you who've ever taken a Wal-Mart trip with me- know that "holding it" was never my strong-point anyway). And I have to time it just right because if one holds it too long and then tries to make a half-mile hike ... well, I don't have to spell it out for you. Every once in a while, I find myself already needing to go again during the walk back to the office. Curse my small bladder.

Don't think I didn't consider making porta-pottie-cleaning-day my first favorite day. I struggled with it, I truly did. In the end, the care packages and letters won - but only by a nose hair.

The fishes did not come from the porta-potty :) Hey, someone guessed it and I have to set the record straight! If they ever kick the bucket though, they may end up in the porta-pottie. Someone suggested that, like the rain, the fish were a gift from God. Indirectly, they really were: The goldfish, I am told, spent their early childhood as most goldfish do - in an aquarium somewhere in New Jersey - before embarking on a transatlantic flight. They were confiscated by Customs Officials in London and tagged as "illegals". They found their way out of the Customs holding cell and into the hands of a Kentucky fly-fisherman-come-contractor who adopted the fish and made them his traveling companions for the London-Dubai leg of his journey. The goldfish then spent 2 days in a water pitcher in a 4 star hotel in Dubai before being smuggled onto a flight heading to ... Baghdad, Iraq. The carpenter had to leave them in Bagdad in the care of a Philippino manicurist who worked on the military base. The manicurist developed an affection for the fish so brought them with her from Iraq to Afghanistan when she was transferred. When she quit the gig and left for home, she entrusted them to the only person who could protect them from being flushed as contraband during a Health and Welfare Inspection - a Security Officer :) Smart lady. And that is the story of the fishes.

Updates: I have learned to shatter facial bones, hypothetically of course, using my knees and elbows in muay thai kickboxing. Good times. I can still only solve one level of the Rubic's cube (though, in my defense, I'm not sure if this is because I am a slow learner or because my teacher always has cookies and I know that mastering the cube means an end to the cookies). It has rained for 4 days at Bagram Air Field which means plenty of water for the farmers and plenty of puddles to splash in while sporting my super-cute galoshes.

In closing, I ordered a small herb-garden (ain't the internet grand!?!) which arrived a few days ago and has been soaking up the rain. I already have a couple of little, green sprouts popping out of the soil and I expect to harvest chives, basil and parsley before heading home on my break (probably mid-to late-July). I have no idea what I will do with my harvest, but I promise to use it for good and not evil. This sounds really weird (but, hey, by now know I'm weird even if you didn't before) but when I opened the herb garden box, I was assailed by the smell of real dirt (they send dirt to grow your herbs in) and it was the best smell. We don't have real dirt in my part of Afghanistan (plenty of porta-potties but no dirt) and I guess I miss it. So, if you get a chance to plant some flowers or even dig up some fishing worms (that is, if it ever stops raining long enough for the mud to become dirt once more), think of me :)

Goldfish and Girl Scouts

Are they live or are they memorex? They're ALIVE and swimming in a bonafide aquarium on the top shelf in the office I work in on Bagram Air Field.

You are probably wondering the same thing every person who walks in the door wonders, "How in the sam-hell did you get goldfish to Afghanistan?"

Fed-Ex.

No, I'm just kidding. But, I'm not going to tell you how. You have to submit your guesses in the "comments" portion of the blog and I'll tell you how they got here in the next blog. I know - that's so mean of me. And you are right. But I'm not doing it to be mean (not directly, at least). I'm doing it because I want to challenge you to figure this out for yourselves. There are few true mysteries remaining in this day and age, but this may very well be one of them. I am also doing it because I just can't wait to see what you come up with (some of you are very funny and I'm not above using you for the entertainment of everyone). I promise not to point and laugh. Scout's honor.

Speaking of Scouts, I have the Girl Scouts and Fed Ex to thank for the enjoyable afternoon that finally inspired me to pen this blog: I just enjoyed a thin slice of heaven, otherwise known as a "thin mint" girl scout cookie. It was absolutely divine - though, technically it was 5 slices of heaven and "they" were divine. I was at an area of the base called the "entry control point" when one of the military personnel came into the room, where I was working, carrying a big box. He plopped the box on my desk, opened the top and revealed treasures beyond my wildest dreams - more girl scout cookies than even a soldier could eat. He was in a sharing mood and I was in no position to refuse an order from an officer of the United States Government, so I made my selection and he left me to enjoy my cookies in solitude. And enjoy them I did. I traded 1/2 a sleeve for my Farsi lesson (I'm working on the alphabet) used another half to spread the goodwill of our Girl Scouts to the girl-scoutless-peoples of Afghanistan. I kept the other sleeve for myself. I opened my silver packet and, a la Homer Simpson, can only express my feelings as follows: mmmmmmmm, thinnn mints (that's what Homer Simpson would have to settle for if he were here since, as mentioned previously, there is no beer in Afghanistan).

While I'm shouting out "thanks" and giving out "props", I'd like to shout out a big thanks to my little brother, Brayden's, class - we finally got some rain over here and it was deep enough to warrant a legitimate wearing of my sassy rain boots! "Thanks", my brother-from-another-mother (love you). Of course, the appreciation extends to all of you who sent rain wishes in this direction - even those of you who did your own, individual rain dances ... in the nude (but, next time, I do NOT need to know that you were nude. That's really too much information and this is a family-blog :-).

Here's hoping you find your own little slice of heaven today.

"He's the Reason for the Teardrops on my ...Richak"

Taylor Swift is a young, country (& western? is it still called that?) singer. Rajeed Ulah is a young, Afghan cashier. Rajeed knows neither Taylor Swift nor any English. How then, did it come to pass that Rajeed Ulah can sing every word to the chorus of Taylor Swift's hit song, "Teardrops on my Guitar" in almost perfect English? And why did Cira include a picture of a "Richak" with this blog posting (wait, what IS a Richak)?

First thing's first: A "Base Exchange" is the military's version of a Mini-Mart (on bigger bases it is more like a Wal-Mart or even a CostCo, but not on my base. On my base it's a Mini-Mart). It has things like cheezits, shaving cream and CD's. Sometimes it has canned Vienna sausages and Haloween cards but not bottled water or shampoo. It's hit and miss what you will find there. The one thing they always seem to have are kick-ass sound systems (pardon my french, but "kick-ass" is the brand) which always seem to be playing at the "come check me out" volume when one enters the store.

Second thing's second: I do not know who chooses the music designed to entice the troops to purchase these marvels of audio-capability, but I don't think it's a dude. If it was video, yeah, maybe a dude. But audio only? No way.

Enter, Rajeed Ulah. No, Rajeed does not choose the music (please refer to "second thing's second" to refresh your memory). Rajeed is a young Afghan man who works as a cashier at the Base Exchange. For twelve hours a day, 5 days each week, Rajeed stands at the cash register yelling, "NEXT!" (so that the next person in line may advance to pay. It's a military base - you don't advance until you are told to do so). Rajeed doesn't talk to anyone during those twelve hours except, occassionally, a fellow Afghan cashier who stands back-to-back with him working one of the other registers.

The aforementioned Taylor Swift song temporarily (thank goodness) became the soundtrack to my life by happy accident. I was "NEXT!" in Rajeed's line. Rajeed scanned my purchases. In silence. Rajeed turned the digital cash register screen to show me the amount due. In silence. I swiped my card and waited. In sil- wait -the silence was broken by Rajeed singing along, in almost American sounding English, to the chorus of a song I hadn't even noticed playing on the kick-ass sound system: "Teardrops on my Guitar".

It took a second for my mind to reconcile the inconsistency, so I did a double take and said, somewhat increduously I might add, "you know this song?" After all, I didn't know the song (I had to google what I heard him singing!). Admit it, some of you don't know the song. Aren't you a teensy bit incredulous, yourselves, that the Afghan cashier knows it? Am I alone here?

Rajeed's immediate response was to sort of stop singing and reduce it, instead to a "mumbling singing". You know, like when you're singing in the car and someone asks you a question and you turn down the radio to sort of listen to the question but your still mumble-singing? That's what Rajeed did to me as he smiled politely and cast a glance between the PIN machine and the line as if to remind me that the whole world was waiting for me to enter my PIN so he could yell, "NEXT!". I entered my PIN. But I was still curious, so I pressed on with, what I admit, was not much of a variance on my previous question but which I was certain would yield a different response anyway: "this song? you sing?" I asked, mumble-singing my own attempt at the words I could hear playing (which went something like, "he's the reason ... nah nah nah nah nah nah guitar".

Comprehension dawned for Rajeed first. He turned to the co-worker at his back, asked something in a language other than English and his co-worker, without turning around, very slowly enunciated, "no eeeenglis. no eeeeng lis". Comprehension dawned for Cira. Rajeed turned back to me and said, "no eeenglis m'am". My mind registered three things: Rajeed called me "m'am"; Rajeed doesn't know any English; Rajeed was just singing in perfect English. I felt like Scooby Doo, "Hruhhhh?" Rajeed had to prompt me, yet again, to finish my transaction. No surprise that, by this time, the music had changed. As I scooped up my bag, Rajeed yelled, "NEXT!" and I walked away to the sound of him mumble-singing - I kid you not - "Gimme more, gimme more, gimme gimme more..."by Brittany Spears.

Wow. What a short, strange trip it had been.

The next day, I took my friend who speaks the local languages with me to learn more about this "Next American Idol" - like his name - and confirmed that he does not know English. When he learned what had brought my attention to him, he had but one question for me: what is a "geeyah tar"? In the interests of international relations, I demonstrated my best "air accoustic guitar" and ad-libbed a little musical humming that made him laugh (sorry - I'm no musical ambassador).

Rajeed was generous, though, and gave me something in exchange: "geeyah tar", in Afghanistan, is "Richak". And now we know.

Forty Days and Forty Nights

It just so happens that I AM waiting for the flood.

When I left St. Louis forty days and forty nights ago, all was well in the world: It was February. It was freezing cold. My mom was sad (not about the cold, about me leaving - at least that's what I choose to believe). Since I left, the whole place has gone to hell in a handbasket: The state is practically underwater. I hear "coastal" condo developers are knocking on Kansas' and Arkansas' doors. Someone e-mailed me a picture of Noah's Ark floating down St. Louis' inner-belt.

Here's what I say to my fellow, suffering-St. Louisans: Could you hook a sistah up and send a little this (Afghanistan's) way?!

You may be wondering, "Why would Cira use 5 pounds of the precious 33 pound luggage- limit with which she was allowed to travel half-way around the world (due to the impossibly low restrictions imposed by the charter from Dubai to Bagram) lugging galoshes - though, now that I look closely I see that they are super-cute, sassy galoshes - but still, 5 pounds? on galoshes? Seems like such a waste!"

Ever the savvy traveler, I did my homework and learned that around this time every year, Bagram Air Field is underwater (okay, I didn't exactly do any homework - a friend who lived her told me). And not by accident - by design. The "locals" (Afghan citizens) live in fields just beyond the perimeter of the military base (yes, the same fields the Russian Military left land mines in and yes, your worst fears are realized about once every couple of months despite ongoing military efforts to clear the fields of mines). The Afghans farm those fields because they depend upon the meager crops for their meager livlihoods. I've mentioned before that the "dirt" in this country is actually "dust". This dust is not like the dust that coats our televisions and bookshelves (at least in my house) in the States - this dust is the consistency of talcom powder. Try getting talcom powder to soak up enough water to grow a tomato plant and you quickly grasp why the locals who farm these fields must dam the creek that flows from the mountains through their fields and flood the valley surrounding Bagram. No floody, no foody.

So far this year: no floody.

It just goes to show that one man's trash is another man's treasure. St. Louis has too much floody and (at least this part of) Afghanistan has not enough. So, I have the children of one of the local workers I've befriended here - and all of his children's classmates - doing a "desert" dance for St. Louis and all of Missouri and I'm writing to ask that, in return, my little brother, Brayden's, class perhaps do a rain dance for Afghanistan.

We are hoping that you soon dry out and that all of your evaporated waters fall here, in the valleys of Bagram Air Field. Love to those of you who are suffering hardships from the floods. My thoughts and the thoughts of many caring people here - who are all too familiar with hardship and suffering - are sending hopes to you across the miles for relief in the very near future.