Friday nights in crazyland

So I am sitting here in the office on a friday night, having just showered and feeling like a wet rat who was just pulled from a putrid Afghan river. I'm really not sure if the smell of the water is better than my flea-infested armpits. lol We have these showers that are built out of a tent, and they are a group sort of thing, so one must be comfortable with himself. The group shower isn't the worst part of it; it's the men from the other countries who check out your privates and you wonder if they are comparing or something.

The toilets are interesting also, as they sit up a few feet off the ground like a pidgeon perch (see pics). One pic is my bunkspace. We have some pretty nice sunrises every morning when the sand isn't blinding us. We still do not have any trucks to get around, so we walk through the sand all day. Some days up to 15 kilometers. The last surge of troops that came through our camp packed up half the camp and took it with them. It looked like a tornado hit after they left. I must hand it to them, they certainly can scrounge. We caught one soldier dragging a very large air conditioner (ours) down the road behind his humvee with a chain. I could write a sitcom with some of the things I see here, and especially some of the personalities.

The burn pit at the back of the camp is starting to get everybody sick every day, because the more troops that arrive, the larger the burn must be for the trash. Most days, the wind blows out of the mountains and take the ash right down into our lungs and eyes. People are crying and nauseous all the time.

The good thing about that is it makes the food taste edible. If you go into the chow hall already nauseous, how much worse can it get? We used to just cry from the food we ate, now we have a medical excuse.

Actually, the food has gotten much better, thanks to some creative work by our fine chefs. Still do not know what I am eating half the time, but it goes down okay.

On a better note, I'm off to Thailand in 11 days, so I have to push hard to get everything ready for my absence.

We are now calling our choppers the 'Flaming Rocks' because of the way they come out of the sky when they get shot down. These Russian choppers are real crates. When you ride in one, you really pucker your asscheeks, and not just from the enemy, but the bird itself. Many of the men choose to go out on Mil-Air flights, but that is a hassle. You have to wait up all night for an opening and they only fly you in the middle of the night. I choose the flaming rocks.

More later.

Jim