Sunshine

The dust came in, the dust retreats, the sky is blue-grey, the sun beats through like a waterfall. Sunshine, a symbol of happiness, has quite a different meaning here. During Oregon summers I have a hard time not smiling when I wake up to sunny days. Yet here I yearn for a cloudy sky. Last night I went to midnight chow. The streets were quiet, temperatures dropped to 100 degrees, which after three months in the desert feels like a beautiful, winter chill. Back at home I locked myself out of my trailer and went to the housing office. One of the night workers walked with my back to my residence and unlocked my door for me. He has been in Iraq since December. Most civilian contractors spend two to four years without going home more than once. It makes my time here seem like less of a sacrifice.

Food

I have been away from home before. When I was 21 I visited New Zealand and Australia for three months. A couple years later I spent several months in Argentina. I have been with the military for nearly four months and let me tell you it seems like a lifetime longer than any other trip. For one thing, when I was in those countries I ate wonderful food. The tomatoes in NZ are as sweet and juicy as strawberries. Fresh veggies at restaurants and grocery stores sprout up like bouquets of flowers. Ice cream and beer await your purchase in every town and highway side stop. In Argentina, I was there in winter, the tomatoes were soggy and pizza always tasted off. But the panederias, bakeries, always offered croissants, doughnuts and other delights for under a dollar. We would spend hours sipping lattes with full cream in the cafes followed by more croissants. In Balad we have a coffee shop on the compound and I have indulged in carmel soy lattes on more than one occasion, but it just not the same. As for bread, I can't describe you the bitterness in biting into a stale, flavorless bun. On the up side the lettuce is usually fresh and the carrots are crunchy. There is a heathy bar, which serves some kind of white fish and cooked vegetables still dripping with water.
I think about food a lot, but surely the differences between my travels cannot be described within the narrow limits of cuisine?
Tonight in the chow hall, I explained to a soldier my recent daydreams including Pad Thai and carrot soup (even writing this makes my stomach growl). "Well food is a huge morale booster," he said as if this news could comfort me. I can't imagine any morale being boosted here. Yes the dining facility is much better that an MRE (meal ready to eat, containing freeze-dried, dehydrated food) or the processed mac and cheese and greasy beef servings at the cafeteria in Ft. Sill, Oklahoma where I started my deployment.
So relatively speaking, things are not so bad, but as I am writing this words at 4 am on an empty stomach I find reason to complain.
When I shut my laptop down I can eat in my dreams.

Butterfly

On the darkest days when the sand storm comes in and the base seems to have reached apocalyptic proportions. It is as if the sand could wash away all life and leave only a terrible fog. During one of these days I went to the chow hall, with the soil of the earth clinging to the corners of my rib cage. I cannot clean it out. I saw a soldier I know eating ice cream and his friend stood stoically by, his blue eyes glaring at the dimmed sun. I stopped to speak with them. I asked him if there was dirt in his dessert? He laughed; his friend was not listening. Then out of the sky a butterfly flitted by and landed on the quiet soldier’s camo hat. I pointed and smiled for the first time that day. How could such a delicate creature thrive in such an environment? No one else seemed blown away by the irony. So I laughed by myself and went inside to eat salad and rice on a plastic plate with plastic utensils.

Pretty

Breaking news! Two-piece bathing suits are now allowed at the swimming pool. On a good day you can see at least four women with bare bellies. It’s not so much the skin that is enticing, but the feeling of normalcy in a strange place. “You need to feel human,” a sergeant from another unit told me. He is allowed to wear civilian clothes when off duty. “You’re so lucky, I wish I could wear jeans,” a female soldier said to me in passing at the chow hall. I understand her words the camo uniforms are bulky and hot.
I suppose I take my civilian clothes for granted, but my beige and grey t-shirts are just about as exciting as the tons of gravel under my feet. This morning I found a long sleeved baby blue shirt that I had stuffed away in one of my bags. The soldiers are happy to see colorful material. My shirt is like a lemon for lost sailors suffering from scurvy. “The earth-tones were getting old,” says a soldier in reference to my wardrobe. So I guess I have found my calling and I should e-mail my mother and ask her to send over some lavender and crimson blouses. But with all the dirt here I think anything pretty will be whittled away.

Morning

This morning I made my way to the Internet cafe. On the road, the porta-potty cleaners were hard at work. Dressed in long sleeves and face masks they spray out the filth with a large hose attached to a truck. I hold my breathe and rush by, but before I can get out of the way I feel a light spray hit my arm.

Some mornings are harder than others.

Today the sky is blue and the dust is retreating into corners.

But there is nothing worse than the feeling of water and feces on your skin before you've even ingested your morning coffee. Well I guess it would be worse, my job could be cleaning the john.

My trials are nothing that a little soap and water can't fix.

4th of July

Last Fourth of July I drank micro-brews on my roof with a few friends. Fire works burst in the distance. We were indifferent to celebration. I went to bed early. Perhaps I had some grand notion that Independence Day in Iraq would be different, that the flags and patriotic streamers would solicit pride or joy or loneliness or sadness. I felt nothing, but the strange effect of another day in a dust storm in the desert, another day of sand and heat. I woke up with an orange glow filtering through my window. Outside the sand blocks out the sun.

It must be a joke. I keep waiting for a soldier to jump out of a cake and yell, “Today is actually Groundhog’s Day.” Wouldn’t that make us all roll in laughter for a little while?
But the only cake to be had was decorated with Lady Liberty and half-eaten by the time I made it to chow. I heard it was delicious. The 115-degree breeze stifles my appetite. Not that I am brave enough to complain, five years ago soldiers were huddled in tents eating MREs that turned their bowels into un-moveable solids.
At the compound, there is little talk about the ghosts of Fourth of July past. Most seem content in pretending the have forgotten the day or even the year because it really doesn’t matter. “Oh is that today?” the soldiers say smiling sheepishly in the sandy fog and looking at their dusty watches as if time could send an alert that people are celebrating back home with beer, bikinis and barbecues.
There is no way for me to reach home, no way to break through that hunk of concrete separating me from lakesides, mountains, the “I’m going to be sick” laughter with friends, the embrace of love, the look in his eyes when I smile and the trees gloriously standing dust-free. These are things I cannot reach and I cannot give those left behind more than a glimpse into life here. Yes, they can see my pictures read my words, but they cannot wipe sand from our faces, they cannot turn dusty doorknobs into cramped, ugly rooms and feel the utter emptiness. Dear ones at home, you cannot put your fingers on this place and those of us here in Iraq, know there is nothing we can do about that. And we are cut off from the wrist down too. The greatest tragedy is that life moves on, even without us.