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.

Bad "Hat Hair" Days and Good Senses of Humor

I know what you're wondering:
"What is she doing NOW? Did she say she was in Afghanistan? Do they carry things on their heads in Afghanistan?"

I'm doing exactly what it looks like: I am carrying an office chair on my head so that I can avoid wearing my ugly, but mandatory, hat :)

Mystery solved.

You'd carry a chair on your head too, if you had seen the hat. That hat is not flattering. But the chair, well, it's ... I see your point. But at least the chair is black and it matched my shoes (you'll have to take my word for it). The same cannot be said of the hat.

The backstory: Anytime a contractor leaves the area where I live and work to conduct business on the military base, he or she must wear a hat and military-issued identification card that tells with which company they are affiliated. It's a security measure and, from a security-perspective, the hat is important. But, from a fashion-perspective, the hat is a nightmare. And it does unmentionable things to naturally "curly" (codeword for "frizzy") hair to which mankind should not be subjected. I was only thinking of others when I volunteered to carry that chair. It was a humanitarian effort -a favor to the rest of the occupants of Bagram Air Field, if you will - that prompted me to insist that I be allowed to carry the chair and, thereby, cover up my frizzy hat hair. Not having to wear the hat was just a peripheral benefit. I swear.

Really though, I wish I had pictures of the truly funny stuff: the mortified looks on the faces of both the men (remember, lots of Texans and Military Gents here) and women who saw me walking along with a chair on my head while my male co-workers flanked me, empty-handed (but for my hat) and grinning from ear-to-ear. One woman even confronted the guys about "making" me, a woman, carry a chair and she demanded of me "if [I] was crazy to not give up the chair". Little did she know that I'd fought for and won rights to carry that chair, fair and square. And I wasn't about to miss an opportunity to take off my (ugly) hat, so I just had to confuse both Texans and Military alike by politely thanking them for the offer, but firmly refusing to relinquish my "burden".

My boss took it all in stride. He merely nodded his approval and advised, "it's about time you started earnin' your keep around here." My boss, by the way, is neither Texan nor Military. He's from a state where it is not uncommon for a woman to carry a chair on her head: Louisiana.

(I know, I know. I hinted at a blog about rain and egos and all manner of interesting things BUT there has been a "technical difficulty" getting the picture I took for that blog out of the camera (okay, so it isn't a technical difficulty, per se - I just don't know how to get the picture out of the camera. You guessed it: somebody else took the picture accompanying this blog) so that blog has to wait until I am no longer a moron. Then, and only then, can it be posted.)

Another Day, Another Dari

Repeat after me, "Chotor Asty". Riiiiiight. And they say Dari - the Persian language spoken by the majority of the population in Afghanistan (also called Farsi, although I am referring to the Afghanistan dialect and not the Iranian dialect for the Farsi snobs among you) - is only considered to be a "Category II language in terms of difficulty for English speakers.'

To that, I say, "areh, dorost migi, vali cheh kar misheh kard!" which, loosely translates as, "Are you kidding? Category 2?! If you consider hurricane Katrina a category 2, then maybe. Otherwise, is there anyone here who speaks German?"

I warned you it was a loose translation.

I can't describe Dari as a "beautiful" or "romantic" languange like, say, Yiddish. But, as the saying goes: Beauty is in the eye -or, in this case, ear - of the beholder. And, as is true of most un-beautiful things, beneath the guttoral, phlegm-clearing-esque pronunciations, there is a rich, multi-dimensional and beautifully complex history that comprises the recipe for the language known as "Modern Dari". Not to be confused with Ancient or Middle Dari, if you please. Regardless of whether it's Dari, Farsi, Parsi or Lettuce, it's all greek to me. But, i've got a year or so to master it so I'll get back to you on that. Just don't hold your breath waiting for my progress reports on this one, folks. I predict they will be few and far between (in fact, forget I even mentioned this endeavor).

Meanwhile, progress has been made in both kickboxing and on the Rubik's cube. In matters of kickboxing, my instructor took pity on my scabby knuckles and ordered (pink) "wraps" for me and (purple) my sparring partner / hutmate, Erin. I think that point goes to ... yep, me. I hope my instructor doesn't get wind of this blog. In matters of the Cube, I cannot yet solve the "first tier" but if someone gets it started for me (which really means solving the first two tiers - yes there are only three. noone likes a know-it-all!) then I can almost solve the rest by myself. I hope my Rubik's cube instructor doesn't get wind of this blog either.

Be well and tune in "tomorrow" for discourse on how St. Louis has stolen all of Afghanistan's rain and how I hold myself partially responsible (can you believe the ego on this girl!?!).

Late Bloomers and Persian Poets

There are things in life about which I truly wonder (why do our nose hairs grow beyond our nostril openings? is it really better to burn out than to fade away? why don't people realize that their nose hairs have grown beyond their nostril openings?) and things about which I know better than to inquire (what is that black stuff growing on the base of the toilets in the bathrooms here? what if the wing suddenly DOES come unbolted from this plane while I'm looking out the window on this transatlantic flight?) and, finally, there are things about which I never really wondered. Case in point: what is that pesky algorithm for solving the Rubik's cube?

Now you see why I titled the blog, in part, "late bloomers".

Yes, it has been more than 20 years since the Rubik's cube exploded onto the toy scene and took the world by storm. And, yes, it has been just under 20 years since anyone cared. Right again - I am the last individual alive who does not already know the secret of solving the "Cube" (changing the stickers around doesn't count). For decades I've dealt with this deficiency in secret - avoiding parties and office gatherings where the Cube may be whipped out suddenly for entertainment or a seemingly harmless "race" to see who can solve it the fastest; quickly changing the subject anytime a friend or stranger wanted to discuss the Cube and even feigning indifference when young children, having discovered my secret, taunted me mercilessly. You see my burden has been heavy.

Alas, as the saying goes, "you can run but you cannot hide [from the Cube]". Even in Afghanistan. In retrospect, it was foolish of me not to have anticipated this happening. Afterall, this area of Afghanistan is "rural" (to say the least). And it is an agricultrally based community. They are still playing with the Cube in such areas in the United States. Why would Afghanistan be any different? The bottom line is this: between Muay Thai kickboxing lessons and twelve hour work days, I am now loosening up my sore knuckle muscles learning to solve the Rubik's cube through legitimate algorithms. Go figure. Be warned that, when I come, there will be demonstrations and perhaps even a Rubik's cube death match ... or two.

Now, for Persian poets and the northern badlands (I'm as good for a seguay as the next guy but, I think you must agree, noone but Vonnegut could provide a truly worthy transition from the Rubik's cube to the Afghanistan provinces). As mentioned previously, I won't get to see much of Aghanistan while I'm here so I, at least, want to learn about what I'm not seeing. The poet in me was intrigued to learn of a Province in Afghanistan known called "Badghis" whose name comes from the Persion word, Badkhiz, meaning, "home of the winds".

The Province's location is almost equally poetic: it is 8,400 square miles of treeless, rolling grassy hills meandering between the Murghab and Hari rivers and extending northward to the edge of the desert of Sarakhs. In this treeless, rolling grassy-hilled home of winds that blow their way from river to desert, the Afghans grow and harvest, of all things, Pistachio nuts.

Badghis was home to Hanzala Gadghisi, who some consider the first Persian poet (no small distinction when one considers the legacy of Persion poets ... think Rumi) as long ago as the 9th century. In Badghis, Hanzala Gadghisi had occassion to pen what is thought to be the first poem in Persian Dari and, as such, the first Persian political poem used in Persian culture to call its citizens to seek freedom and pride and resist against foriegn invasion even at the expense of one's own life:

Even if eminence is in lion's mouth

Risk to achieve it

Either dignity, respect and esteem

Or a man's death

The poet in me wants to be a Pistachio nut that is born and raised on the stories carried by the winds that blow from Badghis.

Toto, We aren't in Kansas Anymore or, Home is Where You Plant Your Camp Chair

Maybe it's because I've been anxiously awaiting care packages I know are on their way. Or maybe it's because I was hoping to see a fellow St. Louisian who happened to be in Kabul, just a short car ride from here, and it fell through. Or maybe it's just because I've been jones'n for hubba bubbba bubble gum (no worries, I have a line on some gum and I'm pretty sure it'll be in my possession before month's end. It's covered). I'm not exactly sure why, but this week everywhere I turn, I am reminded of both how far from and how very near I am to "home".

Let me explain. As is evidenced by the picture accompanying today's post, I am most certainly not in Kansas (or Missouri) any more. I live on Bagram Air Field in northeastern-ish Afghanistan in a plywood "tent". I work less than a mile from the "Air Field" after which the base is named. That means planes in the morning, planes in the afternoon and, yes, you guessed it, planes at night - sometimes mid-night. For the most part, the sounds become familiar background noise - like traffic on streets at home. But every once in a while, something really powerful will take off and it isn't just the sound of a plane leaving the earth, it's an entire experience. The noise fills you from the inside out and the air around you seems to press closer against you and you can feel that plane pushing to get off the ground. You feel victorious, somehow, when it succeeds.

Things like that remind me of how far I am from home. I always find myself smiling (it's still new - i'm still smiling) about the "differentness" of everything but, at the same time, comprehending the difference brings to mind the familiar. At least, for me.

Anyway, so here I am listening to helicopters coming and going, "feeling" planes take off, waiting for care packages, daydreaming about bubble gum, the whole nine yards when, while walking home to my wood tent, lo' and behold, what to my wondering eyes should appear? No, not a miniature sleigh (stay with me here) - I see two old Texans (this project is filled with Texans) sitting in their camp chairs on the concrete slab in front of the military issued work "container" they call an office - fine as you please as if they hadn't a care in the world except making sure the bar-b-que gets turned.

Since there is no alcohol allowed on base - there is no alcohol allowed in Afghanistan, for that matter - I couldn't share a beer with them. BUT, as providence would have it, I had just come from the post office and picking up a care package (!!!!!), so I shared the next best thing. That's right, I shared my chocolate with them. And they agreed that it felt just like a summer's evening at home. We didn't even talk to each other - we just stared at the mountains and ate our chocolate. Just me, two old Texans in camp chairs and dark chocolate easter candy. Right there in the middle of Afghanistan.

Alas, all good things must come to an end and mine came to an abrupt end moments later when one of the Bosnian women (known for their charm) from the project stepped out of her wooden tent onto a balcony above us wearing her bathrobe, slippers and, believe it or not, curlers in her hair seeking a light for her cigiarrette. That was more reality than I needed so I tossed her some chocolate and hit the pavement ... er, the gravel dust road. I didn't wanna give up my Hawthorne groove :)

I have learned of an Afghanistan Province (there are 34 provinces here - each with it's own unique story) that is known as "the home of the winds". I'll tell you more tomorrow. Until then, peace, love and hubba bubba original flavored bubble gum forever (don't bother sending me any - I already have some on the way. I'm sure of it).

Show No Mercy (to Cira) Kickboxing "Classes"

You may be surprised to learn, as I was, that the base I'm on offers a plethora of diversions including but not limited to: yoga on Monday and Wednesday evenings, a beauty salon where you can get a manicure or pedicure, hip-hop and salsa nights in the main gym and, I heard through the grapevine, a kickboxing class. Of course, my first choice was yoga but it starts about the same time my work ends so logisitically it wasn't ideal. My second choice was the beauty salon but that baby is booked through Christmas (apparently it was the first choice of many before me). Hip-Hop and salsa don't start until 11pm and I wake up at 4am. Enough said. That leaves kickboxing, by default. And, I figure, it's probably meant to be anyway because I really need a cardio work-out. Good stuff all around. Must be fate. It's gotta be destiny.

As it turns out, I think it's more like karmic come-uppance. I won't incriminate myself by detailing the abuse I heaped upon my younger siblings growing up but, let me assure you, the Universe was keeping notes and I'm getting back what I dished out - in spades. The kickboxing "class" is taught by some of the Special Forces on base and they teach by example: show no mercy.

I should have beeen suspicious when I looked around and saw only 6 other people in the class (besides myself and my hutmate, Erin, who works with the guy from Special Forces who granted us access to the class). Did I mention those six others were already in military work-out gear? That's right, I'm foreshadowing the obvious outcome of this tale but, read on, the journey is entertaining. The Teacher (believe me, the capitalization of "Teacher" is warranted here) asked if anyone had done any kickboxing. I was still clueless so I admitted I had done some aerobic kickboxing at home. He sauntered over to me and asked to see my hands. I obligingly provided them, still clueless. He said, "Aw, you got that soft, pretty skin." pause. pause. "I'll take care of that in no time at all." And that, my friends, was my introduction into the bare-knuckled kickboxing form known as Muay Thai.

I punched (well, I punched with my right hand, but I only manged to "push" with my left hand - hey, it was my first lesson!). I kicked. I'm not yet authorized to kick any higher than about ankle level but, let me tell you, at ankle height, I've got some power. After an hour of practicing my pushing and ankle kicking I was even allowed to spar. No, they did not allow filming so you will not be able to view it on You Tube and make fun of me. But if they had allowed filming you would have put it on You Tube and you would have made fun of me. And at the end of my one and a half hour lesson (but who's keeping track of every agonizing minute, really?) my Teacher advised me that my bloody knuckles demonstrated to him my willingness to work hard and granted me permission to return the following night. For more bleeding.

Talk to you tomorrow - if I can still type :).

Afghani = Money. Aghan = Person

Wikipedia led me astray.

It defined "Afghani" as both "currency" (correct) and "a native or inhabitant of Afghanistan" (not correct ... or, at the very least, poor form). I thought to avoid the use of "Afghan" out of respect for the residents of Afghanistan (I mean, haven't they been through enough?) and to help you, dear reader, refrain from pulling out your decades-old one-liners about "grandma blankets", dusting them off and foisting them on whoever innocent happens to be nearest you every time you read about the Afghans I meet. Alas, I could not save you from yourselves. Go ahead and get it out of your system: the residents of Afghanistan are, and in fact prefer to be referred to as, Afghans.

Afghanistan is, actually, very much like the United States in one respect - it is a melting pot, or "crossroads", of culture and diversity. Everything I know is still just "book learning" but Afghanistan is an ethnically and linguistically mixed population as a result of its location "astride historic trade and invasion routes". Interesting, huh? So, all sorts of cultures came through while on conquering missions (Darius the Persian, conquering, Alexander the Great on his own conquering binge, Buddhists going down the Silk Road, and conquering, the Muslims, conquering, the Mongols, obviously conquering, and the Persians again), and left their footprint in the landscape (see picture accompanying this post - it's Afghanistan country-side but very Asian in influence), culture and bloodlines of Afghanistan.

Not to worry, I'm not a bookworm so any further history lessons on the life and times of all things Afghanistan will not be discussed in these pages - you'll have to investigate for yourself and bore your own friends.

Better days a'coming: I have a line on an interpreter who, I hear, speaks fondly of the Province in which he grew up and who may share stories of his childhood with which I hope to regale you in future posts. I also hear he knows a guy who might hook me up with a tasty eggplant and rice dish while telling me aforementioned stories of youth. mmmm, yummy. Stay tuned. . . . In the interim, I am participating in a kickboxing class taught by some of the special forces on base and I hope to tell you all about my bloody knuckles and my butt-whoopin' tomorrow.

What can I tell you about Afghanistan?

Be forewarned: I know "none" of Afghanistan.

Bagram Air Field is surrounded by mountains. I wake up to mountains and fall asleep to mountains. Layer after layer of mountains in every direction and on all sides. I cannot see beyond the mountains. The southern edge of the Himalayas looms out there beyond the Afghani mountains just in case I hoped to sneak a peek through any of the Afghani peaks.

Between me and the mountains are mine fields. Yep. In a circle in every direction surrounding the base - courtesy of the Russians who mined everything before "leaving". A souvenir, of sorts, to keep the Afganis from celebrating too exuberantly the Russian retreat. And, if the mines weren't enough of a deterrent, in the mountains are Taliban. Yep. In every direction. In a future e-mail you will hear more about the "fallen comrades" convoy that rolls through the base about once a week - proof positive that the Taliban in those mountains are as real as the landmines in those fields.

Needless to say, I will not be traversing any mine fields or venturing to any mountain tops to see what I can see (as promised, mom). So, I can tell you nothing about "The Afghanistan" because I will neither see nor experience many of the treasures the pictures I've seen indicate this land has to offer. I will have to tell you, instead, about "My Afghanistan Experience" or "Life on an American military base located in Afghanistan". And that will have to be enough. My sister will not be surprised that I have, somehow, managed to travel half-way around the world and still have nothing to talk about except myself. On the bright side, the base is filled with Afghani citizens who work hundreds of jobs and I promise to share with you any things about Afghanistan and life that they are inclined to share with me. So, pop in once in a while to stay up to date on my Afghanistan "hearsay" testimony (that's for my lawyer friends). Oh yes, be also forewarned that I will pepper the blog with shameless requests (requests, demands. potato, potahto) for care packages and that I am not above using guilt and the text-version of puppy dog eyes to hypnotize you into doing my will where care packages are concerned. This may end up being an expensive blog for you to read.