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.