Welcome to Balad

I've never felt quite so much like a prisoner as I do here.

We are mandated to work 12-hour days Monday through Saturday and 6 hours on Sunday (morning or evening, our choice). We soften the blow by eating all three meals during the workday, doing site visits, relaxing when we feel like it, and going to gym. Not that it makes much difference, anyway, what we do when we're "at work" or not, to be truthful. You aren't really "off" here. If someone needs something done, you do it. If they have to walk to your tent and wake you up to make it happen, they have no compunctions about doing just that. So on-duty/off-duty...it's all about the same. The only thing I have a beef with is being forced to pull my combat boots on every single day. The least they could do is give us a day we could come in with PT (physical training) gear, which looks dorky but is more comfortable.

Anyhow. Since we're trapped here, pretty much, surrounded by hostile forces and constantine wire, and work inordinately long hours, I posted this pic on our office door:

It takes some of the pleasure out of the joke to explain it to everyone who sees it, but the allusion still amuses me, and let's face it: my amusement is all that counts here.

We don't get fed like we're in a concentration camp, though. The excessive amounts of food we're served was a bit of a shock when we first got here. We didn't know enough to specify how much meat to put on our plates, and thus got the default: heaping mounds.

On Sunday nights, they have steak, lobster, crab legs and shrimp at DFAC* 1 (there are four to choose from, one of which served Indian fare). This is the one night you want to be there. My first time through this line, the man in front of me requested steak, and I watched them tong two 12+oz. steaks onto his plate. Then he asked for lobster. They wedged a tail or two onto the plate, and he went on down the line, clogging his arteries. I gave them my plate and said, "One SMALL steak, please." I got a 10oz or so, which I was still unable to finish. It wasn't bad, though. Then I got some mushy green beans and macaronia and American cheese (yick)**, some strawberry milk in a box, and dined like royalty.

*DFAC = Dining Facility. Apparently, "mess hall" is passe in the Army now. This is the military way, isn't it? They determine that one term is disparaging because it is associated with something that is known to suck, then assign a new term to the thing that still sucks in the hopes people will no longer realize it still sucks. As you can see, it is non-effective, which ensures the Army will continue to use this technique. Oh, who am I kidding? The government does this, period.

** All cheese looks the same until you bite into it. If it cleaves to the roof of your mouth and sticks to your teeth, it's processed American junk. So I'm a cheese snob. Sue me.

The strawberry milk sounds like something for children, and I guess it is. But when you're getting shelf milk (a European thing: it needn't be refrigerated until opened), you tend to go for flavors to disguise the fact that it almost tastes like proper milk but not quite. We even have this:

I haven't worked up the guts to try it yet, but I'm told it's quite tasty. I'm saving the experience for later, when I get particularly bored and need some spice in my life.

I've noticed this about being here (and this is what I started out to write about a few paragraphs ago, come to think of it): the prisoner mentality kicks in when you're in this sort of situation. You find things--little things, any things--to look forward to. If they're somewhat short term, achievable foreseeable goals, so much the better. Like someday trying the banana milk, ferinstance.

I like it when someone calls or writes and tells me they've mailed a letter or care package It gives me something to look forward to in the next ten days or so.

Another twist on the "finding things" idea is that you get all excited if you find something unexpected that you can use, particularly if it will make your life a teensy bit more comfortable, maybe. I call this "scavenging." At one of our site surveys last week at a building the Army had been using and completely thrashed before deserting, we found two cots, one of which was in perfect condition. It was on the roof. (What we were doing on the roof? Um...surveying. Yeah. That's it. That's the ticket.)

This morning, while packing sandbags on my tent ropes in an effort to tighten its ever-loosening supports, because no one else seems concerned that our ceiling is getting progressively lower--the middle air conditioning "vent" scrapes ME on the head at this point--I stumbled across a forgotten pair of WileyX sunglasses, complete with neck strap. Mine, baby. (Not only are sunglasses so valuable around here that they could actually become a medium of exchange, but these are supercool glasses that fit almost like goggles.)

I've found myself constantly on the lookout for stuff I or we can use, should we need it, or failing that, something I can use for a moment's worth of entertainment. (In a windfall, I found a bunch of plastic packing bubbles the other day. When you're bored like this, what more do you need?) BOBs (big ol' buttloads/boatloads) of junk are laying around here everywhere, since the Army has been doing business here since sometime in 2003 (or earlier...I'm not sure), and are notorious for not picking up after themselves. They tend to discard rather nice issue items when they don't feel like lugging it back home, or just leaving unwanted supplies here and there for whoever my find and want them. It's like walking around in an Army surplus store where everything's free. (So I'm prone to a bit of exaggeration.)

This begins day twelve of my confinement. More prisoner mentality, there. How many people do you know who count days? Some people count backward ("133 more days and I'm outta here") but that not only depresses me to think about, but is misleading. You are here--not unlike a prisoner--at the whim of the government. You don't go until they say you go. You must either have a replacement in place or have the approval of your squadron commander to split before the replacement actually arrives. Then you have to catch a ride outta here (and with any luck, you'll get to forego Al Udeid, which reminds me...I have yet to finish my incoming yarn).

So I count up. It makes me feel as though I have something to build on, if nothing else. I'm into double digits now, see. In another week, I won't even be able to use the "I just got here" excuse. (On a home station, you can use this all the way up to and sometimes exceeding two months; deployed, you can use it for two weeks, maybe. The learning curve is vicious.)

So at this point, I'm just settled into life as it is now, because that's all I got. I'm looking at it rather like I look at running distances. The trick to distance running--assuming you're physically up to the feat--is to not think about how far you have to go, because the thought alone can be enough to crush your spirit. You can allow yourself to count the miles you've already run only. Only when the finish line is in sight can you let yourself begin thinking about how far there is to go.

When I first got here, I heard my boss explaining to someone that he'd found a heavy duty combination padlock when he first got here, and it had become his project to figure out the combination to it before he left. He'd try a few combinations a day, then put it back in his desk drawer. He was disappointed that he got it in less than a month. See what I mean? Prisoner mentality.

I derive joy from figuring out ways to rig things to make my life just a little bit posher (more posh?). I was tickled for a couple of days after I figured out how to rig up a towel rack on my bed in my tent. It'll probably make my whole week when I find a nice, dark, large, THICK sheet to hang clothesline-style in the tent for privacy (the ones I use now offer little more than the idea of privacy).

Since I'm rambling nonsensically now, here's a non sequitor pic of my boss this morning, at breakfast. We were all munching merrily along when I heard something that sounded like, "Gahugh."

Avoid the plums. They don't ship well. Stick with the quasi-safe fruit, like apples, grapes, chopped cantalope, watermelon and sliced pineapple (although the pineapple is iffy, too).

d