Try a Kabob!

There were a couple of other marines in Gunny’s unit who were scheduled to transfer out to their intended destination earlier than the rest.  One was named Blosser.  He too, was another young, lean marine.  As he explained it, his body type was relatively new to him.  Apparently, he was a chubby kid.  After losing much weight (compliments of Marine Corps boot camp), he vowed to keep the weight off.  He was determined to keep this promise to himself by regularly visiting the gym and watching what he ate.  I’m sure he saw me as the devil whenever I offered him any one of a variety of sweets from my care packages.  Whenever I mentioned that he should start eating more to improve his skinny physique, he assured me that, in fact, he ate a lot – he just stayed away from junk foods, and tried to eat lots of veggies.  He might be in the right place for eating healthy.  

I’ve noticed that fruits and veggies do seem to thrive I this country.  Our rides through the bazaars are complete with shops, one after another, each displaying their colorful displays of the seasonal harvest.  While I’m not sure if they’re imported from neighboring countries, I imagine the local soil around Kabul is highly fertile.  The type of fertilizer however, is suspect. 

A delivery of cauliflower headed to one of the bazaars

In January of 2010 a journalist in Kabul wrote about its air quality.  He reported that in addition to the uncontrolled emissions of vehicles, gas-powered generators, and the burning of trash for heat, there were no sewer systems; so the human waste that’s simply dumped outside of many peoples’ homes, dries and gets carried by the winds.  Since there’s (literally) so much crap in the air, I guess whatever doesn’t get stuck to our nose hairs, sucked into our lungs, or rubbed into our eyes, eventually makes its way into the soil.  While I don’t know what’s in the fruits and veggies, they sure look good! 

While I’m on the subject of food, I may as well describe the meat markets! Along the roads, butchers display their products in front of their shops.  The skinned carcasses hang from hooks in the open air, unrefrigerated.  Every now and then, also lying on the ground in the vicinity of the once breathing cow would be its un-skinned head, for presentation.  Often neatly placed next to the head were the feet.  Presumably, this is to show that yes, the meat that one sees hanging before them, did indeed, come from this cow.  What one can tell from a head and feet, I don’t know. 

Some mental assembly required...

One day around lunchtime, Gunny was in the mood for a local meal.  He decided to buy lunch for anyone that was hungry.  He gave money to one of LA’s, who traveled to one of the shops outside of the compound, and shortly returned with some kabobs.  Later on, as we were preparing to leave, Gunny asked me if I had eaten any of the kabobs.  After I told him I hadn’t, he was apologetic (after learning that his Marines and the LA’s had eaten most of them), and assured me that he would buy more next time. 

When it was time to leave, Naeem, one of the LA’s, hitched a ride with us.  Since he was busy translating a class, he missed lunch.  Once in the truck, he quickly tore into the food that someone had saved for him.  As he ripped open the wrappings, the smell of the kabobs filled the cab.   He graciously offered to share his meal with me and Greg.  While I too, was famished, I didn’t want to take food from the poor guy, so I declined.  Greg did likewise.  Looking in the rear view mirror, I could see Naeem, stuffing the meat and some bread into his mouth.  As he did so, his cheeks grew to what looked like twice their size.  As I watch him continue to pack the food into his mouth, I was reminded of the Nathan’s Hot Dog eating contest in Coney Island.  I was hopeful that Greg wouldn’t have to jump into the back to perform the Heimlich maneuver on him.  Obviously, he was hungry, so I was glad I didn’t take any of his meal. 

Naeem, aka, Ricky Martin (see it)? We often dropped him off on our return trips from the compound.

The following morning, I woke before the alarm went off.  As had become the routine, I fired up my laptop to get the latest update on the status of the routes we would take to the training compound.  While it was warming up, I took the short walk to the storage trailer that was converted for bathroom use.  As I entered the latrine trailer, I heard the loud sound of someone heaving in the toilet.  The noises that came from the stall, emanated from way down, deep in his belly.  It was a deep, rich, retching that almost sounded alien.  The poor soul seemed to continue expelling his stomach contents continuously, pausing only to take a few short breaths, and then started all over again.  I walked through the door that separated the sinks from the toilets and urinals to brush my teeth.  A few wash basins to my right, a French soldier was washing up.  As the puking continued, we briefly looked at each other and smiled (no motherly instincts here).  He said something in heavily accented French to the effect of, “He shouldn’t be drinking the local water.”  I was tempted to say that the fellow’s condition was probably due some bad French wine that was smuggled in; but not wanting to be the cause of some international incident at Camp Phoenix, I took the high road and just nodded.  As I left the building the guttural gurgling sounds continued, but faded as I got further and further away.

Within a few minutes of returning to the B-hut, I learned that all of the routes had “gone black”.  This condition meant that the threat status was particularly high, and that no movement was allowed outside the camp.  The Marines and our group met in front of the hut to discuss the threat.  While we were talking, I noticed Blosser, with one of his hands to his stomach, looking particularly pale. 

“Was that you in the head this morning?” I asked.

“You heard me puking?”

“Who didn’t,” I said, “Did you have one of those kabobs, yesterday?”

 “Yeah, it hit me about 4 in the morning, and I’ve been sick ever since.” 

With that, he quickly turned and headed for the latrines for another session with the bowl.

…Note to self: Don’t eat anything at the training compound!

Grunts

We’re starting to forge a pretty good relationship with the new marines.  Gunny, their supervisor, is a good example of a competent, well-respected leader.  He gives overall direction to his men, then stands back to let them handle their responsibilities as best they can.  He’s always there to answer their questions, and makes his expectations clearly. They, likewise, seem to have no reservations about going to him for clarification or support in any matter.  They clearly respect him. 

Assisting Gunny is Sgt. Clev (short for Clevenger).  He’s a serious, quiet marine who knows his way around the weapons systems.  He helps Gunny by ensuring that all runs smoothly. At first I thought he was somewhat distant, but I later found that the silence I mistook for detachment was actually his high level of focus and concentration. 

Sgt. Clev with a new friend

Travelling with the marine team is Doc.  Doc’s a navy corpsman attached to the unit as their medic.  He’s a thin, young-looking 19 yr. old from West Virginia.  Befitting his specialty as a medic, Doc’s a bit more humanistic in his outlook, possessing more of an interest in learning about Afghan culture than his (as he describes them) “grunt” counterparts.  He’s quite inquisitive and keeps his eyes open to his many new experiences in the field.

Doc, keeping a watchful eye over all of us

Then there’s Corporal “H” (for Hollingsworth), from Ohio.  He’s a ball of energy that just can’t sit still. He was always moving about the training site exploring, climbing, crawling, and peeking into areas “just to see what’s there.” The pace he kept made me tire just watching him. 

A rare photo - Corporal H sitting still long enough to take a picture

Corporal H off again -  This time climbing down into an old sewage pit.  Months later, a peek from the top revealed swarming rats.

Unlike the previous marines who lived at Camp Eggers (which was about a 7 mile drive from us), this group lived at Camp Phoenix in the B-hut right next door to us.  In fact, since they didn’t have transportation, they travelled with us to and from the training site.  The close living arrangements assisted us in getting to know each other.

One evening a few days after our teams had met, Corporal H came to our B-hut to discuss training for the following day.  As soon as he opened the door to the darkened hut, there was a long pause. Peering into the darkness, he asked in a voice that was audible, but soft enough not to awaken anyone that was asleep, “Is anybody up?”  Someone from down the hall half muttered, “Yeah, I’m up.”  As Corporal H made his way down the hallway he said aloud, “It’s only 9 o’clock!  This is like a senior citizens home!”  His remark drew a few chuckles from those who hadn’t yet fallen asleep.  Being the oldest of our group (by only a couple of months), I chided in, “Hey, respect your elders.” He chuckled back.

Thanks, But I’ll Pass on Breakfast

After deciding that three full meals a day were a bit too much, I began skipping breakfast.  I chose to avoid the morning meal at the DFAC, since without fail, I always ended up eating more than I should.  Instead, my breakfast consisted of a Pop Tart or two with my morning tea (similar to what I used to eat at my desk at the college). 

There was another motivation for cutting down on breakfast.  A few days after I sprained my foot as a result of closing the truck door on it, I felt the gout starting to creep into my ankle.  Always with pills on hand, I began taking my gout medication in hopes of controlling the swelling.  Since the medication gives me the runs, I didn’t want to have to poop in the facilities at the compound.  Believe me, in comparison to the toilets here, the Porta-Johns at home look like executive washrooms.  Not only was it a losing battle against the flies, but the stench made me gag.  In addition, here, the customary method of doing number two is by squatting – I’m talking full squat, without the benefit of a traditional toilet bowl to sit on - that is, nothing to sit on.  What passes for the toilet, is a porcelain fixture with a hole, with two places to put one’s feet on either side.  And, you just squat to do your business.  Needless to say, between the flies buzzing, my inability to hold my breath long enough, and my fear of not being able to balance myself in such a stooped position, I soon figured that traveling to the compound on an empty stomach was a wise choice.

One of the compound's toilets - a good reason to skip breakfast!