Baghdad or Bust III
Just when you think that Murphy's Law has run its course you realize that exactly the opposite is true. In Murphy's Law, not only will things go wrong whenever they can, but inevitably they get worse. I prefer a quote from my Dad: Shit comes in waves.
I checked out from the Embassy at exactly ten thirty last night. I surrendered my badge to the intelligence guys, received my passport, and checked out of the KBR brownstones, uh, I mean trailers. Of course, since I was technically no longer authorized to even take a piss within the IZ by myself, I had this sergeant trailing me wherever I went.
From the Presidential Palace, I returned the key at the billeting office, with the sergeant from intelligence lending me a hand with the body armor. Presto, before the fixed time of ten forty-five, my driver was there.
Damn, I told the sergeant. No such luck in Jordan, this business with punctuality. These guys really want to keep their jobs, I'm thinking. Affirmative, the sergeant said. It's not that hard to believe since the moment they lose their jobs and walk out of any of the gates of the IZ, there will be plenty of 'friends' to meet them, just drooling over themselves to put a bullet through his head for collaborating with the occupational force.
The Iraqi driver took me to where the Rhino was. I know what I wrote about these things earlier, but even a Hummer (the ultimate turd-shaped vehicle for men questioning their own sexuality and/or size of genitals) looks like a Ferrari compared to these things. I waited for another hour in the cold after being manifested until a few doors popped open and the Rhinos were ready to rock and roll.
Some contractor hopped on the Rhino and gave instructions on what to do if we were taking fire from either side, what body armor was required, how to take the stairs down the Rhino without twisting yourself into a pretzel, how to breathe, etc. The ride on the Rhino was uneventful, and we were dropped off at BIAP, the airport, at LZ Stryker, to be more precise. From there the guessing game began, Where did I go from there? Would I be able to move before I turned into a human iceberg, one wearing body armor, no less?
Help came from a most unexpected source. This pretty black lady (let's call her Janet) addressed me and asked where I was going. When I told her, she noticed that, in short order, I didn't have a catcard (the badges usually issued for anybody doing business within the Green Zone; without it, you might as well join the illegal immigrants in California or the prisoners at Gitmo as entities with no rights), didn't have my country clearance (a special thanks to my own office for that), nor was I allowed to stay at Sully for longer than a night unless I had official business (luckily I did).
I also realized that I knew who Janet was. She had once been stranded in Jordan after missing an outbound flight to Baghdad, and I helped her a little to contact her supervisor, book a hotel, and get on the next plane's manifest. I didn't have to do that at the time. She was neither a Chief of Mission employee or Embassy Staff. The easiest thing then would have been to let her fend for herself. I'm glad I didn't. She set me up with living quarters in no time, and I am absolutely sure there is no way I would have gotten that or received any other treatment than the typical runaround if I hadn't helped her out. With my bag stowed away, I went to sleep at around two thirty. Of course I missed breakfast the next morning, but sleep was just more important, and I still managed a solid six hours.
I showered and brushed my teeth the next morning and then ran into the fellas again from Sunday. When I called my counterpart in Baghdad to meet him, it turns out that he actually works at the Embassy, not at BIAP, as we'd all assumed. Should we just go ahead and give Murphy's Law another name? So my chance to meet him was yesterday. I won't be able to go back to the Embassy unless I can patent an invisible cloaking device and sneak onto some helo and then through the Pruvian manned checkpoints. Not going to happen. But imagine the fun I would have.
Me: Heyyyyyy, cabron!!!
Soldier: Que?
Me: (now whispering) Te quiero, hombre.
This would go on for hours until they would finally have to relieve the poor guy for emptying all of his clips at shadows. I still don't understand why Peruvians control checkpoints of an American held zone. Many times, they couldn't understand a word I was saying, and before you know it, the first brick of the tower of Babel begins to crumble. And all for what? What was Peru's take in this? A special bribe by the Bush administration? A scuba-diving weekend at the Tigris? Oh, I forgot. They wanted to be added to the Wall of Fame at our Embassy gym. What's good enough for Guam is good enough for Peru.
Later I paid a visit to the airstrip at BIAP and met with the ground chief responsible for most military planes. Talking under running engines is the ultimate exercise in futility. You might as well try to kick a soccer ball under water. What's worse, when the plane passes you, the dust swirls and kicks up, so now you have to cover your eyes. I imagine walking through a carwash would be a more pleasant experience.
It was off to my five star dinner at the mess around six. There's this sign posted at the sinks where you wash your hands before you enter the hall. I can't remember it verbatim, but it warns about incoming rockets and mortars and to hit the ground immediately when you here a whistle overhead.
People who have been here a while would remember the good ole days when incoming was the order of the day. Morning. Brush your teeth. Incoming. Coffee. Mortars. Lunch. Incoming. Naptime. Wake up, shithead, more incoming. Take a dump. Damn it, somebody just took a more compelling dump on me, etc. I can also believe that some people actually miss that kind of excitement. These are more than likely the guys who were born to wear the uniform. Not a problem: at the rate we're going we should always find a war for them.
Tomorrow at this time I expect to be back in my digs in Jordan, barring any breakdowns - I almost used the adjective 'unforeseen', but that would be misleading. Lord, I can't wait to be with the family again.
I checked out from the Embassy at exactly ten thirty last night. I surrendered my badge to the intelligence guys, received my passport, and checked out of the KBR brownstones, uh, I mean trailers. Of course, since I was technically no longer authorized to even take a piss within the IZ by myself, I had this sergeant trailing me wherever I went.
From the Presidential Palace, I returned the key at the billeting office, with the sergeant from intelligence lending me a hand with the body armor. Presto, before the fixed time of ten forty-five, my driver was there.
Damn, I told the sergeant. No such luck in Jordan, this business with punctuality. These guys really want to keep their jobs, I'm thinking. Affirmative, the sergeant said. It's not that hard to believe since the moment they lose their jobs and walk out of any of the gates of the IZ, there will be plenty of 'friends' to meet them, just drooling over themselves to put a bullet through his head for collaborating with the occupational force.
The Iraqi driver took me to where the Rhino was. I know what I wrote about these things earlier, but even a Hummer (the ultimate turd-shaped vehicle for men questioning their own sexuality and/or size of genitals) looks like a Ferrari compared to these things. I waited for another hour in the cold after being manifested until a few doors popped open and the Rhinos were ready to rock and roll.
Some contractor hopped on the Rhino and gave instructions on what to do if we were taking fire from either side, what body armor was required, how to take the stairs down the Rhino without twisting yourself into a pretzel, how to breathe, etc. The ride on the Rhino was uneventful, and we were dropped off at BIAP, the airport, at LZ Stryker, to be more precise. From there the guessing game began, Where did I go from there? Would I be able to move before I turned into a human iceberg, one wearing body armor, no less?
Help came from a most unexpected source. This pretty black lady (let's call her Janet) addressed me and asked where I was going. When I told her, she noticed that, in short order, I didn't have a catcard (the badges usually issued for anybody doing business within the Green Zone; without it, you might as well join the illegal immigrants in California or the prisoners at Gitmo as entities with no rights), didn't have my country clearance (a special thanks to my own office for that), nor was I allowed to stay at Sully for longer than a night unless I had official business (luckily I did).
I also realized that I knew who Janet was. She had once been stranded in Jordan after missing an outbound flight to Baghdad, and I helped her a little to contact her supervisor, book a hotel, and get on the next plane's manifest. I didn't have to do that at the time. She was neither a Chief of Mission employee or Embassy Staff. The easiest thing then would have been to let her fend for herself. I'm glad I didn't. She set me up with living quarters in no time, and I am absolutely sure there is no way I would have gotten that or received any other treatment than the typical runaround if I hadn't helped her out. With my bag stowed away, I went to sleep at around two thirty. Of course I missed breakfast the next morning, but sleep was just more important, and I still managed a solid six hours.
I showered and brushed my teeth the next morning and then ran into the fellas again from Sunday. When I called my counterpart in Baghdad to meet him, it turns out that he actually works at the Embassy, not at BIAP, as we'd all assumed. Should we just go ahead and give Murphy's Law another name? So my chance to meet him was yesterday. I won't be able to go back to the Embassy unless I can patent an invisible cloaking device and sneak onto some helo and then through the Pruvian manned checkpoints. Not going to happen. But imagine the fun I would have.
Me: Heyyyyyy, cabron!!!
Soldier: Que?
Me: (now whispering) Te quiero, hombre.
This would go on for hours until they would finally have to relieve the poor guy for emptying all of his clips at shadows. I still don't understand why Peruvians control checkpoints of an American held zone. Many times, they couldn't understand a word I was saying, and before you know it, the first brick of the tower of Babel begins to crumble. And all for what? What was Peru's take in this? A special bribe by the Bush administration? A scuba-diving weekend at the Tigris? Oh, I forgot. They wanted to be added to the Wall of Fame at our Embassy gym. What's good enough for Guam is good enough for Peru.
Later I paid a visit to the airstrip at BIAP and met with the ground chief responsible for most military planes. Talking under running engines is the ultimate exercise in futility. You might as well try to kick a soccer ball under water. What's worse, when the plane passes you, the dust swirls and kicks up, so now you have to cover your eyes. I imagine walking through a carwash would be a more pleasant experience.
It was off to my five star dinner at the mess around six. There's this sign posted at the sinks where you wash your hands before you enter the hall. I can't remember it verbatim, but it warns about incoming rockets and mortars and to hit the ground immediately when you here a whistle overhead.
People who have been here a while would remember the good ole days when incoming was the order of the day. Morning. Brush your teeth. Incoming. Coffee. Mortars. Lunch. Incoming. Naptime. Wake up, shithead, more incoming. Take a dump. Damn it, somebody just took a more compelling dump on me, etc. I can also believe that some people actually miss that kind of excitement. These are more than likely the guys who were born to wear the uniform. Not a problem: at the rate we're going we should always find a war for them.
Tomorrow at this time I expect to be back in my digs in Jordan, barring any breakdowns - I almost used the adjective 'unforeseen', but that would be misleading. Lord, I can't wait to be with the family again.
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