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 :-).

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