How the Bedouin saved Christmas

Twas the (day of the day before) the night before Christmas, and all through the Sinai, many millions of creatures were stirring, but not the goddamn mail truck, it was fucked.  We have some seriously sketch trucks here.  A big part of it is that they simply get the wheels driven off them.  The MFO operates on such a shoestring budget that there is no money to replace trucks with 300,000 miles on them.  There are new things ordered, but they take years to get here.  Some sort of budgetary thing.  The box trucks for the mail runs are just worn the hell out.  A couple hundred thousand miles of desert driving is not the same thing as a couple hundred thousand miles driving in Kansas or something.  It’s pretty rough out here.

Anywho…

So the mail here comes through Israel.  They put it all in a bog box truck and drive it south.  We meet the truck at a certain point and give them an empty truck, then we drive the truck full o’ yuletide goodies southward.  Well, this truck had electrical problems, and when it hit a bump, the lights would all go batshit crazy, and the governor would lock the truck down to 40kph.  That’s 25 mph to you yanks.  That’s not a fun thing when you have to go 300 miles or so.  They shut off power to the system for a few minutes, and the system reset.  They had to do this a few times.  Then, of course, there was the fire.  Wasn’t much of a fire, but it did get them to pull partway off the road to try to find it.  Once they got things squared away, they attempted to pull away, only to have the road bed crumble under them, and end up all wonky in the ditch. 

While we were getting a wrecker spun up to go find them, a group of Bedouin came along with a dump truck, and rescued them.  This saved several hours on the evolution, allowing people to get their gifts on time.  Forget gold, frankincense, and myrrh, Joe got Care Packages, and the wise men rolled off in their dump truck. And to all a good night. & shit.

Bahhady, bahhady, bahhady, or “Why I’m sticking with WAL-MART” or “why none of you bastards got anything for Christmas.”

It was bad, man.  I have forgotten how irritating the third world can be.  Pardon me, there is an advisory on the wall here reminding me that we can no longer say “third world.”  The politically correct title is now “developing nation.”  The only thing developing is my fucking migraine.  Wow.  The second you get out of the taxi, you are swarmed by shills that try to divert you to their stores by any and all means including by surrounding you with 10 people and marching you up three flights of stairs to the store in question, where you must have tea and socialize and get whatever the store carries handed to/rubbed on/ sprayed on, or draped over you so you can “admire the quality.”  Super only for you mah frien special discount so I can start my day, first sale of the day special.  Escaping this trap only convinces the next shill (six feet away) that you still have money that he must take from you.  God, these fuckers are annoying.  I managed to make it in the tourist bizarre for almost two hours before my Battle Buddy escorted me to a cab and put me in time out.  Apparently I was beginning to get a 1000 meter stare and local police units were being summoned.

By the way:  “Handmade” does not mean it’s worth a shit.  The crappy finger painting your six year old niece did of the family dog is handmade.  That does not make it a Rembrandt.  Ragged seams, poor stitching and uneven button hooks are all shitty.  Even if they are handmade.  Truth to tell, clothing made on machines by 10 year old slaves in Laos is often higher in quality than “handmade” clothing made by hand by 10 year old slaves (probably still from Laos.)  The machine at least can make a tight stich.  I guess it’s just a sign of my running-dog imperialistic mentality of oppressing the poor that makes me resent being obviously, badly lied to and swindled.  I need to take some more cultural sensitivity classes I guess.

Pepsi does exist in the Sinai!  Next time I’m downtown and not hiding from the police, I will try some!  Coolness. 

I was really impressed by the quality of some of the knock-offs here.  If you look at the quality of forgeries in the US, it is often quite low.  The stitching is bad, they often switch thread colors to whatever happens to be on the bobbin, and the materials are obviously lower in quality.  I do not honestly believe Gucci would be a world famous brand if they shipped purses where the fastener was attached to the bag with a straight pin.  Some of the knock-offs I was offered in Miami had the names misspelled.  I am not very good at spelling, but Tommy Hillfinger was not too hard to spot.  True story.

There were some really good looking things out there that were reasonable priced, and the materials and workmanship were very nice.  The sunglasses were much nicer than the fakes you get in the US.  Remember the “fauxklies” that they used to sell around WCU campus?  Buhhhhh… About the only way that you know these ray-bans are fake is that they say “Ray-Ban” 17 times on the frame and lenses.  Although to be fair, given the criminal decrease in the quality of the classic wayfarers, these glasses might have actually held up better that the real ones. 

Rolexes do not tick.  Important consumer tip there.

Egypt does not play about a few things.  There was a local equivalent of a GNC at the “mall” that had a twelve foot tall poster of a freakish body builder with Arabic writing all over it.  In very large letters it said in English, “many fine steroids sold here.”  I guess “meathead” is universal. 

I will have to give a shout out to the Islamic culture about one thing.  It is a very strict, formal culture steeped in ancient traditions, as such it is highly conservative. They wait until after they serve you tea to offer you a date with their sister.  She is seventeen and knows not the touch of a man.  For you only mah frien.  Special sale for first customer of the day. In Honduras, the street urchins would hit you with that shit before you got out of the taxi.  I really can do without that.

I guess I can’t really be surprised about the hunger of the vendors.  This place is a ghost town.  Everybody I met wanted to assure me that all violence was in Cairo, and I should call all my friends and tell them that Sharm El Sheikh was as safe as a cradle.  For a world class dive resort, even in off season, things are sort of dismal.  Although, if one more fucker had tried to hug me, I was going to disprove the theory that violence was limited to Cairo.  They all wanted to teach me new words in Arabic.  When one of them offered to go to America to “supervise and ensure that there was no violence in schools anymore” I asked him how to say “green stick fracture” in Arabic.  His English was actually much better than you might expect, either that, or he was a very perceptive man.  He departed rapidly.  At this point my battle buddy decided that all the shouting and police whistles were directed more or less at us, and we departed the scene at once.

Always negotiate the price of the cab ride before you get in the cab.  Unless you are making a getaway.  In that case, pay the nice driver the three extra bucks with a smile.

 

BTW.  Christmas decorations can get a little off in non-Christian countries.

Gayest Snowman Ever

Content removed to reflect my current beliefs.  Also: too drunk to just find the fucking delete button.

Drive Wrong

Based on the results of my driving test, I am the greatest single threat to human safety since Ebola Zaire.  Wow.  Bad enough that I had to come off a 12 hour mid-watch and had to get up early to go take a driver’s test for a license that I don’t want and will never use.  No, that’s not bad enough.  I have to spectacularly fail the thing with a Kiwi evaluator who seems to genuinely enjoy his work.  According to the other Kiwi, this guy has never, in two years passed anybody.  No one.  He fails everybody, then goes and drinks beer.  My crimes against the free world:

1.       Driving a critically unsafe 12 feet with only one hand on the steering wheel.  10 and 2 is king in the Sinai, baby!  Forget all the modern research that shows 10 and 2 are about the worst possible hand positioning on a steering wheel that has an airbag.  TIS!  Fail!

2.      Exceeding the posted speed limit.  On a downhill slope, I allowed the vehicle speed to reach a blistering 27 KPH (for you “yanks” that’s  16.7 MPH.)  I am amazed that the Hungarians (the local equivalent of MP’s) did not jump out of the bushes and subdue me with pepper spray and billy sticks! Fail!

3.       On an unlined road, I failed to cross the centerline prior to making a left turn.  Fail!

4.      I did not perfectly center the truck when I backed it into the parking space.  I’ll cop to this one.  I did it!  Put me in bad driver’s prison.  There was 3 feet of space on the driver’s side, and only 5 feet of space on the passenger’s side.  It was a huge parking space, but there is no excuse when it comes to safety mister!  Fail!

5.      Based on how worked up the guy was, I think I may have accidently shot the pope.

This shit it typical military.  Don’t get me wrong driving is a full contact sport here.  These Bedouins are some crazy motherfuckers.  They will take a Datsun 720 (none of you are old enough to remember those) and weld on a ten foot wide bed.  Then load them with so much crap that it takes them 30 minutes to climb a hundred foot hill with a 2% grade.  Of course, once they make it up the hill, they keep it floored, so they can make up time coming down the hill.  If one of these things hits a fully armored F-350, the Ford loses!  Fuck being rated to take 3 RPG rockets, they can’t begin to handle a suicidal nomadic tribesman with a load of scrap steel and camel bowel soup.  An up-armored hummer will pop like a watermelon tossed off a building.

Auto accident is the signature wound of the MFO.  That’s all that really happens to anybody here.  Unfortunately, it happens quite often.  There is a macho game here among the Bedouins.  It seems to involve swerving through all the existing lanes of the road while cresting a hill.  Some sort of proof of courage.  It is entirely possible to be cresting a hill and have a guy swerve into your lane going 60 miles an hour.  Intentionally.  Fuck.  This Is Sinai.

Now, you have to understand the military mindset.  Whenever there is an accident, the military proceeds with the unshaken, inviolate belief that it was avoidable.  All stop, end of story.  So the poor sinner involved gets asked the critical question “what could you have done to avoid this?”  If the individual being questioned does not provide an immediate and satisfactory answer, one will be provided for him.  The provided answer usually involves the removal of rank and pay, so his first answer better be accepted.  “SGT Jones!  I can’t believe this could happen!  How did you allow yourself to be struck by a falling meteor?  What could you have done to prevent this?  PVT Williams got all crushed and burned to death!  You failed your Soldier!  How could you have prevented this?”  Seriously, this is exactly what an investigation into a meteor strike on an army vehicle would sound like.  Ask any of the MPs that follow my FB page.  They are all laughing and nodding right now.  Now if the stupid stopped there, if would be ok.  But it wouldn’t.  See, there are people in the Army whose whole justification, whose whole reason for existence is to analyze accidents and come up with prevention measures.  Under the Holy Mantra “one life is one too many” any common sense is flushed down the toilet and any manner of stupid can be used to provide justification for one’s phony-ass job.

See, what would happen in the above scenario is that SGT Jones, who let’s remember is damn glad to be alive, after surviving being in a truck hit by a fucking meteor, now has to justify not saving the life of his Battle Buddy.  Let’s remember that “act of God” is not a check box on any army form.  He will stutter something about admantium meteor shields attached to the body armor to be worn in trucks at all times.  Now, this answer will be accepted.  Really.  Jones’ CO knows there’s no fucking way that he could have avoided a fucking meteor!   But he has to “play the game,” because he has to report to his boss on how the accident can be avoided in the future.  And his boss will take the answer because he has nothing better, and he has to report it to higher.

Skip ahead 2-3 years.  Some Light Bird in the pentagon is struggling through the middle of his rotation as an army safety management officer.  His evaluation, and his chance for promotion, is based on his ability to make recommendations to improve safety.  But he really has nothing to do.  Anything that could reasonably be done was fixed 2-3 years ago at the company or battalion level.  But he has to produce something, or he won’t get a good rating.  So he will produce a recommendation that in areas where meteor strikes occur that local commands investigate the use of admantium meteor shields in all military vehicles.  He turns in the report.  Since the report deals with safety, it will be immediately disseminated to the lowest level.

It should, oh lord should be dropped there.  Yes, here is another chance for common sense to kick in, and the bulletin be crumpled up and tossed in the trash.  But no.  There are regulations that state that all safety bulletins will be posted, and inspections are conducted to ensure that they are.  There are individuals within every unit who are tasked with implementing all safety procedures.  They exist at the company level, battalion level, brigade level, division, and army levels.  Any of these monkeys can get hit by the Good Idea Fairy, and it’s game on.

Good Idea Fairy defined

 

There are good safety people in the army.  From the first line supervisor who says “enough is enough” and breaks apart the rickety ass ladder that people have been using because they have nothing better to use, thereby forcing the unit to buy a safe ladder, to the Commander that genuinely makes safety an issue at his unit.  These guys save people a whole lot of pain and suffering.  Then there’s Chock-block Charlie.  These shitbags are everywhere.  There’s one in most battalions or higher.  These guys live to enforce regulations.  No matter how stupid the regulation, it is their power base and they will protect it.  They hold inspections to ensure the ropes connecting chock blocks are uniform in length and serviceable as required in (fill in the blank regulation.)  They pour over every new safety bulletin looking for new policies they can implement and enforce.  Unfortunately, they usually have gathered a lot of power over the years, and armed with the “one life is too many” ace in the hole, they can do anything.  Now Chock-block Charlie sees the new safety bulletin and remembers that there was a meteor strike in the area “a few years back.”  He uses the safety budget to have “meteor shields” made.  The maintenance guys can’t get enough budget to order parts to keep the trucks running, but good ole’ Chock-block comes up with the tax payer’s moulah to have 40 pounds of steel hammered into a shield that can be worn over an IBA.  Just like that, everybody is that much more miserable.  I mean safer.  Everyone is safer!

There is a picture in the MFO drivers training slides.  It shows where some Bedouin has lashed down several full length telephone poles sideways to the hood of his pickup and he is driving down the street.  The poles are taking out fences on one side of the street, and mirrors of trucks parked on the other side of the street.  Homeboy is just trucking right down the road.  Obviously ensuring that I fully cross the centerline prior to making a left turn will allow me to avoid all accidents.

This is Sinai!  Hand me my meteor shield, I’m off to war!

Dirty rats and Ben & Jerry’s

We actually have Ben & Jerry’s ice cream in the dining facility.  The freezer said Ben & Jerry’s, but I figured it would actually be Ben & Achmed’s knock off ice cream.  Nope.  There is a licensed franchise in Israel, and we get the good shit.  Kosher B&J!  Step off.  Dude can’t make a steak softer than WWII boot leather, but we get the Ferrari of ice cream.  Go figure.  The food is actually pretty damn good, although they have fruits I can’t identify.  Also, remember the 2 degrees off I keep going on about?  They have Coke Light.  Not Diet Coke.  No.  Coke Light. It contains a blend of artificial sweeteners that have been banned in the Western Hemisphere because they have been known to cause lab rat’s heads to occasionally explode.   You can’t even get this shit in the slums of Mexico, because it’s bad for you.

 

Oh Yeah!

Well.  It’s that time of year again.  Screw Christmas.  The Grinch was a sissy quitter.  He should have pawned all that crap he stole and hit Jamaica for the New Year.  My usual approach to a Christmas tree is with a flame thrower.  So, of course, my little yellow belt had to mail me a frigging Christmas tree.  DAMMIT!  I can’t go screw up the holiday for an 11 year old girl, so I could not just toss the box in the dumpster, like I normally would.  Besides, there might have been cookies inside.  No, I had to open the damn thing, set it up, decorate it, and take pictures to send back to her.  THEN I threw the damn thing in the dumpster.  And NO cookies.  To top it off, this little girl actually mailed me a real frigging tree!  (She gets extra points for getting a damn tree past customs and immigration.  She could have ended up a wanted felon in Egypt, but she got away with it.  Egypt does not allow the importation of live trees.)  ##### ########, International Master Criminal!  The down side of her ingenuity is that I had to sweep pine needles up from all over the damn place.

I did get some levity out of the situation.  There is some godless Christmas crap out there, but Elf on the Shelf is a new high in lows.  If you are not hip to this piece of Christmas crap, here’s how it works.  It is a little elf, designed to sit on a flat surface and dangle its little legs over the edge. (**BARF**)  The book that comes with it explains that it places itself in a room to witness the behavior of children and let Santa know who is being naughty.  Every night, it moves, and the children can be delighted in its choice of sitting spot the next day.  You know what we used to call somebody who did that in my old neighborhood?  A fucking snitch!  You want to hang out all day and watch me so you can drop a dime to the man?  I got something for you.  That thing appeared in the TOC, and it wasn’t here for more than 3 minutes before the Captain from Brooklyn strung the little bastard up with 550 cord.  I labeled the informer myself. 

Rat-bastard snitch gets his.

Once the tree showed up, it was only natural to hang the damn elf from the damn tree.  Good stuff.

The logical conclusion.

 

That’s right, the mail works!

Just got a package from the person who loves me the most!  Ok, you got me, I mailed myself some stuff.  The mail is less hit & miss and more miss & occasionally hit.  So far, the only thing I am really missing is GOOD BEER.  We are still on lock down and I have not been able to go out and see what the local area has.  As many wealthy European tourists as we get here, there should be some good stuff out there.  We shall see.  We have been in a non-drinking status since we got here.  We have another dry week or so.  8 days by my watch, but who’s counting?

Anyone that wishes to send me some cool junk, here is my address:

################
###############
######
#########

I have now confirmed that this address works so go ahead and use it.  Be warned: if any of you smartasses turns this address over to somebody’s fifth grade class so they can send “Christmas cards to the troops,” I will have you dealt with most severely.  Remember that my primary thug squad still lives on the same continent as you do, even if I don’t.  I am able to get most things I am used to.  As I have said several times, it’s about 2 degrees off.  I can get coke just fine, but I have yet to see Pepsi.  Maybe when I go downtown.  Here is another good one.  Pringles.  They have all damn kinds of Pringles here.  Sour cream & onion, BBQ, baked, salt & vinegar and cheese.  They only damn thing they don’t have is PLAIN.  The old red can.  No got.  WTF, Sinai?  How the hell they got nacho flavored and screamin’ dill pickle flavored, but no original?

I was going to edit my earlier blog and attach this to the bottom, but upon reflection, I don’t want to do that.  Despite both of these masterpieces containing references to snack foods (either before or after they go through the system) they don’t belong together.  Then I thought to just delay this and post it tomorrow, keeping to a daily-type schedule.  Then I thought that doing daily might make me feel compelled to write every day, thus removing the fun from it.  Then I gave myself a good shaking and smacked the side of my favorite skull upside the wall a few times.  I am writing this for me, so I’ll write whenever, and post whenever I like!  Thus resolved, I will do as the fictional race of beings the book Illegal Aliens did and “win a bloodless coup against the oppression that nobody cared enough to apply in the first place.”

Voting with your colon, or a cheesy bag of poo.

I did not get a chance to blog any at Atterbury, since the connectivity issues were so extreme, but there was one incident that I think bears repeating.  In honor of the Unknown Joe that performed this mighty deed, I wrote the following award in hopes I can someday turn it in when the hero is identified.  Those of you with no military connection may not get this, but I will provide an Army-civilian translation after the award citation.

To Soldier John Doe for heroically completing his mission despite numerous hardships and demonstrating his dedication and valor before the senior leadership of the battalion.  Soldier Doe used his situational awareness to determine that the below freezing temperature constituted a hazard to personnel, and demonstrated ingenuity and creativity in accomplishing his handling of hazardous materials using field expedient containment procedures.  His skillful handling of the hazard reflects the highest traditions of the military and is a credit upon himself and his unit.

 In English:

The Command Sergeant Major (The highest enlisted rank there is.  This man is at the absolute top of his profession.   He may be a National Guardsman temporarily activated, but he has the same pay grade as the Command Sergeant Major of the Army.  This dude is no small time NCO pulling night watch at the motor pool.) and the Battalion Commander were walking through the parking lot one freezing-ass cold morning.  The CSM noticed a flash of sliver from an object leaning against a port-a-pottie, reflecting the security light.  It was about 5:30 in the morning.  He went over and picked up a Cheetos bag.  As he picked it up, he noticed that it had something in it.  He opened the bag to gaze on it’s contents, and called the BC over to look also.  They both stood there, in the freezing pre-dawn, in the greenish light of a sodium vapor security light staring in wonder at the contents of the Cheetos bag.

Some Joe took a shit in a Cheetos bag and set it against the port-a-crapper.

Now, this would be much less amusing except for a few factors.

a.       The bag in question was a single serving size.  The Joe in question had to very careful to avoid getting some on him.  Our soap and water facilities were limited to the showers at least a hundred yards from the barracks trailers, and I don’t care how much Purell you use, if you shit on your hands, you will have shit on your hands.

b.      There were standing orders that if you threw trash into the blue water, you were going swimming in the blue water to get it out.  Solution, don’t throw the bag in the water.

c.       Getting the two most important men in the Battalion to start at your turd before breakfast.

I know that I will never get to knowingly shake hands with this unsung hero, and I’m pretty much ok with that.  NOBODY is that stable taking a Clinton at 3 o’clock in the morning, and they probably have poo on their hands.

In today’s issue of “What The Fuck Sinai”  I re-jet lag myself, my SIM card fails to live up to expectations, and the freaking PX sells water bongs.

So we are having some scheduling pains.  The long and the short of it is I had to re-jam my sleep schedule to go to 12 hour shifts, six hours off the 12 hour shifts I had been standing.  I got 18 hours off, and slept 12 of them.  In the process I blasted a big hole in the acclimation I achieved.  I re-set myself to Sylva time.  So far I have been up for 22 hours, and I have got to try to make it another 10 hours before I crash, or I will be in poor state when I come back on shift at noon tomorrow.  I suspect this won’t last long, as people will begin to break quickly when they can’t maintain a sleep schedule.  I understand people outside the section who have seen this schedule on the bulletin board have a lively pool betting who will drop first.

I bought a SIM card from the PX (It’s actually called the “FX” (I think that’s for facilities exchange, but I’m not 100%) that was basically worthless as fuck.  It has voice and text only, and only works for ¼ the time I paid for if I call the US.  None of the apps on the phone work.  Big suckfest.  Then I bought a SIM card from the black market that was pure data.  Much better price, and all the apps work.  Great, I’ll use up my stupid USB wireless dongle and just use my phone as a hotspot.  Only pay one bill instead of two.  Fuck me running.  The guy didn’t get the SIM card set up to allow that.  The other 20 people that he sold to got hotspot, just not me.  I’ll get that fixed tomorrow, or my inner MP will demand that I start investigating reports of black market activities in the camp.

The FX sells hookahs.  Seriously.  No shit.  I had to take about 30 piss tests to be allowed to deploy here, and the damn base store sells drug paraphernalia!  Look, I get it, the hookah is used by people all throughout the Mideast to smoke tobacco.  Right.  That’s exactly what every head shop in America says.  They have little stickers that they put on all of them.  I used to be a hippie.  I went to Warren Wilson.  I was a dead head.  I know the deal.  Tobacco.  Riiiiggghhhhhttttt.  Doesn’t matter.  Possession of drug paraphernalia is a crime in the army.  You lose rank for that.  I am amused by this situation.

Hmmm... yup, that's a fucking bong alright.

A really cool puff of smoke

A really cool puff of smoke, that’s what you get when you don’t pay enough attention.  Oh, African power grid, why you so whacky?   Round prongs on the power plugs, 220 volts at the outlet.  What up with that?  Important lesson learned.  Just because you can plug something in, doesn’t mean you should plug something in.  In other news, raise your hand if you have bought a VHS player in the last decade.  Nah, you are nowhere near that cool.

                I moved into my new room and the AC was not working.  I since figured out that it was iced over and defrosted it.  Don’t know how long that will last, but we will see.  There was a small electric fan clipped on the bed, so I decided to use that while defrosting the AC.  I plugged in the fan into a weird-ass power strip and turned it on.  The blade began to move and I got a really cool puff of smoke, and the fan burned out.  D-E-D.  Dead.  Just because the plug fit into the weird power strip, (I really need to attach a picture of some of these things on this blog, I will figure out how,)  does not mean that the fan cold handle 220 volts.  There is a 110 volt step down transformer that I bought off the outgoing guy for 20 bucks.  It was in a box when he gave it to me.  I guess it should have been used with the fan.  Belatedly, I looked at my laptop and nook power supplies, and say that they both use 110-230 V.  Whew, ‘bout blew my shit up.  That would have been bad, man!  Got to remember to check my camera battery charger before I plug that in.  If I ever get it.

 

Wierd-ass power strip

                The mail is a very iffy proposition here.  It was really regular and stable until things went to shit in Israel, now it’s Insha’Allah.  I mailed a box of clothes and my camera bag (with the damn battery charger) to myself because I need the space in my duffel bags.  In addition to being stupid enough to mail my battery charger, I mailed all my shorts, keeping none in my duffel bags.  I know my thinking at the time.  “Damn,” said I, “it’s 19 degrees, I don’t need shorts.  Send them off.”  Good thinking.  So, off to the post store goes I to buy a pair of shorts.  Remember the 2 degrees off I was mentioning earlier in the blog?  Here you go.  European sizes.  I apparently wear a size 44 shoe.  I grabbed a pair of “32” shorts off the rack.  I have worn a size 32 waist since I got out of the Army.  The first time.  I live in a 32 inch waist.  The shorts were not even close.  32 may have technically been the waist size, but that’s where similarities ended.  The waist sort of fit but…  Remember that the Speedo is really popular in Europe?  These shorts were designed with that sensibility in mind.  There was no room in the junk drawer.  When a pair of shorts gives me the dun-lop disease with my junk, there is a problem.  That fashionable, I don’t want to be.

                Last, but not least, VHS.  VHS is a going concern in the Sinai.  Seriously.  I shit you not.  We have this really cool outdoor theater that plays fairly new movie releases.  For some weird-ass reason we get the movies in VHS format.  The guy that had my job before me had a Jurassic Audiovox VHS player shipped over here, so I gave him 20 bucks for it.  We can play new release movies at out leisure.  On VHS.  Too strange to be fiction.  TIS.

First Day of Deployment

It’s sort of the little things.  At first, I just figured that it was the result of my first trans-Atlantic flight screwing me up, but now I realize that there are just a whole lot of things that are 2 degrees off.  For example.  Coke.  Now, I have not been able to go downtown, but based on what I see on post, Coke adds life, but you can forget about Pepsi.  Doesn’t exist.  Coke has the ingredients listed on the can in simple, easy to read, plain text.  There are no preservatives in Coke here, and its all cane sugar.  Alters the taste a bit, kind of odd.  The cans are a tiny bit thicker also, they just feel wrong.  It’s not bad, it’s just… off.  The plumbing here also off.  The hot and cold knob are on the sides of the faucet, and I do mean on the sides of the faucet.  They knobs face out on each side facing to your left and right.  To get the hot water, you turn the knob away from you, to get cold, you turn the knob toward you.  Every time I turn the faucets off, I feel like I’m trying to wring something’s neck.  Freaking weird.  The toilets here are also from the save-the-whales school of thought and a flush uses about an ounce of water.  I am a good ole’ southern boy, and a gallon of water a flush is often inadequate to get the job done.  The toilets here have some sort of vacuum system and they don’t fool around.  I’m a little afraid to do a courtesy flush while sitting on one of those things.  All sorts of things might end up damp.

One of the first things I saw when I got to the hooch was a note of the door from someone with the previous rotation that tagged out with us at the airport.  It said “remember: TIS (This Is Sinai).”  That really seems to sum it up.  We are in North Africa, and the operative word here is AFRICA.  Africa has been confusing the unholy bat shit out of white people since white people discovered Africa.  It’s an institutional thing that has only gained momentum over the centuries.  Hell, the Jews wandered around the Sinai for 40 years.  The damn thing is only about 100 miles wide.  The sun rises in the east, sets in the west.  The average person walks 4 miles an hour.  Come out of Egypt, walk due east for a month, BAM, Israel.  Can’t miss it.  40 years?  Welcome to Africa.

Bahdy… bahdy!  I have the BEST DEAL for you, ma friend, ma friend!  Yeah, I’m in the land of flea markets and haggling.  Everyone is your friend and your “bahdy” and has a super deal for you.  In that noble spirit, my First Sergeant had a super deal for me.  The guy I was replacing was still living in my room, so I spend the first couple nights in the room of a guy that was not here yet.  I got to move to a “better” room today (the room I was supposed to be in.  Keeps the paperwork simple.  BAM.  The air conditioning does not work.  Super deal #1.  Caveat emptor is the law of the land around here.

There is an amazing concept that I have learned since I got here.  It is called “Insha'Allah.”  It, very simply, means “if God wills it.”  In the south, we often say “God willing…”  but we fuck it up!  These cats have it going on!  Insha’Allah can be used by pious, hardworking people as an honest expression of hope for the future.  Or it can be used as it is used around here.  Around here it means “don’t hold your breath.”  The real difference of usage is the accompanying shrug and slight smile.  Not a smirk, the Egyptians are a very polite people, but a tiny smile.  The shrug and smile tells you that hell freezes over before you get what you need.  Try a rustling handshake next.  See the next paragraph below about The Power of a Buck.  Insha'Allah.  How much trouble I could have gotten into as a child if only I had this magical expression.

DAD:  “Boy!  I told you to mow the lawn!  When is the grass getting cut?”
ME: (shrug, slight smile) “Insha'Allah.”

DAD: “Boy, do you think that trash can is going to empty itself?”
ME: (shrug, slight smile) “Insha'Allah.”

You see the potential here?  It’s freaking limitless!  I think I will immediately adopt this procedure for future relationship issues.

Girlfriend “We never go anywhere anymore!  When are you taking me out?”
Me: (shrug, slight smile) “Insha'Allah.”

Girlfriend “YOU CAME TOO SOON!”
Me: (shrug, slight smile) “Insha'Allah.”

Oh, yeah, this is going to be the wave of the future. 

                One of the most amazing differences here is the amazing power of a buck.  Really.  A buck makes things happen.  I took in a sack of clothes to the laundry.  Laundry is a free service here. 

Me: “When will this be back?”
Guy at The Counter: “Thursday maybe… maybe before the weekend.”
Me: “Thursday??”
Guy at The Counter: “Insha'Allah.”
Me (slipping a buck under the bag): “No sooner?”
Guy at The Counter: “Tomorrow after twelve.”

A buck gets things done here.  If you try to tip a waiter in America a buck, you will get looked down upon.  A cabbie will curse you in languages you will never speak.  Around here, people actually do things for a buck.  It’s amazing to me.  A good military haircut costs 2 bucks.  You might think that it is because the area is poor and a dollar goes a long way, but you would be wrong.  A case of Coke that Walmart would be selling for 4.99 costs 9 bucks.  We are in a resort area.  There are 10 casinos within 4 square miles.  The Red Sea is a destination for divers worldwide.  This place is the Rivera for the upper middle class all throughout the Mideast.  Dunno, maybe there is some sort of class system in place where the average person is shut off from access to American money and it is worth more or something, but people sure are glad to get a buck here.

                Oh, yeah, one last thing.  Bottled water.  They don’t fuck around here.  There is no joke about bottled water being a waste of money and bad for the environment.  This is a desert, and people here would stab their grandmother over a cup of water.  We don’t have any of those sissy-ass 20 oz bottles of Evian, or Crystal Springs, oh hell no!  The bottled water here is called “BARAKA” (which loosely translates to “water”) and the only sized bottle it comes in is 1.5 liters!  20 oz bottles are WEAK!  We carry around a liter and a half at a time.  The freaking bottles look huge.  It’s sort of disconcerting, but TIS!

Freaking huge looking bottle