Internet just went out again - a frequent occurrence here in my b-hut, the help desk, the base, and Bagram in general. I tend to laugh when customers at the help desk ask for “more bandwidth”. I guess it’s not their fault they have no idea that we can’t just hand it out like candy at a parade. Anyways, not important.
Abdul, the Afghani local who works at the Laundromat, asked me today “what time you are here until?” Through a little asking around on my part I found out what he meant was, how long is my deployment for? I told him about 9 more months and he was relieved. He explained to me in broken English that allot of people come through Bagram and leave quickly – in and out. I told him no, “I’ll be here awhile” and he was happy about that. He and I have established a common respect or platonic interest in each other – probably just because we are completely different. I’d say he’s probably in his twenties, although, many Afghani men look older than they really are. The sun, wind, sand, and hard lives have taken the toll on their faces. Abdul’s eyes are an extreme hazel, a little on the side of green, but more like very light beige. Against his dark complexion and hair, they are absolutely beautiful. I love seeing the rare occurrence of an Afghani with really light eyes. It’s like sifting through the sand and finding a gem. There are no Afghani women here. Period. Only the men work (outside the home). All the locals that work on base here are men.
The local men here are a whole subject on its own. I know that I tend to stick out in a crowd at times. I know I have tattoos, can have some wild hairstyles, and can be loud and eccentric at times. Even with those things all down played – tattoos covered, hat on, quietly walking down Disney Drive (the main drag in Bagram) I am still a target that the locals pierce with their eyes. Staring has become a very regular thing on day to day basis, yet it’s still very uncomfortable and at times, maddening. I’m not sure who’s more uncomfortable – me, feeling like a piece of chopped liver hanging out for the lions, or the local men here seeing an independent woman with her skin showing, and being tattooed at that? When I say “staring” I don’t mean just a long glance while I pass them. Staring as in, they see me in the distance, get the attention of their fellow men and simply gawk until I’m up close, and even after I pass. It’s not uncommon whatsoever for them to stop in the middle of their work and stare until I’m out of sight. I said that it can be maddening…but I know that it’s just a culture barrier. It’s a pure cultural difference. I’ve come to connect with a select few locals who have been really nice and sincere – the rest of them are just passing scenery. It’s hard to tell which ones hate me, and which ones don’t. There is a man in the DFAC (dining facility) that has a harsh face…weathered and old, who I’ve avoided looking in the eyes of for reasons stated prior. That’s why it amazed me the other day when he was staring at me with that look he said “hello” to me.
For those who have ever been in car accident and know the feeling of adrenaline that passes through the body after impact – that is the feeling I get every time there is an incoming. My heart pounds so hard it’s like I can feel it come through my throat. And we all know the deer in the headlights look too. When I try to describe the sound of the mortars hitting, the only thing I can compare it to is 4th of July. The sound a (professional) firework makes when it’s shooting out of the tube and up into the air – the low loud boom. The “Thuuuuuup”, then BOOM. I’ve only had the “opportunity” for a mortar to be close enough to hear the whistling sound it makes before hitting, just once. The feeling I get after the incoming is over: the Amber Alert has been called and the mortars are done, is kind of surreal. It’s when it’s done, and I actually have time to think, is when I get a little shaken up. To me, it’s always: is it done? Are they going to send more over? As soon as I hear those muffled booms the first thing I think is “Please god, not this time, please protect us.” I know that if it’s going to happen, it’s going to happen…if I’m in the wrong place at the wrong time, etc. I haven’t decided if we as people just say that to make ourselves feel better? The cold honest truth is: it’s scary. The other night I wasn’t sure if we were having an incoming or if it was the gunnery range – a tricky thing to decipher in the heat of the moment. I was sleeping and I heard the sound and shot straight up in bed…like in the movies when a hot young girl is having a bad dream.
The chances of it happening to you are very rare, considering the lack of direction of the mortar, how large the base is, how frequent/non-frequent the attacks are…but there is still fear in it. I could go back and forth on this subject of safety, all day long. I’ve been through living here, and through being back home. Living in the states has a lot of different factors in it regarding safety. Here, there is one safety concern to me, and that’s mortars. That’s it. It’s amazing to me that I feel safer here even with everyone carrying guns, then I do back home walking around a city block at night.
Moving on.
As far as the job, I don’t really want to spend much time on the subject. It’s extremely busy at the help desk, and can be pretty chaotic. It’s not something I will do for the rest of my life, and it’s a good income to me right now – but that’s about it. As frustrated as I can get there, I know that every move or influence on your life, has something to do with the outcome – so I’m staying put for now.
I miss dancing. I really miss dancing!! I suppose I could do it in my room by myself while no ones in here…but my god that is just not good enough! I just miss getting ready on a Friday or Saturday night, paying my 5$ cover at 1st Ave to get in some good house or drum n bass music in. It’ll come back to me, soon enough. I’ve paid some things off already, and I'm looking forward to getting the rest of it off my back. I’m also really looking forward to vacationing in March. I thought back home it was time for a vacation like every YEAR or so…but here it takes on a whole new meaning. VACATION is the sweet word, the sweet spot. If you don’t go at least every 6 months, you’d lose your mind. I can’t wait to wrap my arms around my family – to see the whites of their eyes! I can’t wait to ski with them and Jeron. I can’t wait to get tattooed! I can’t wait to see the cabin all wrapped up in white snow! I can’t wait to get a little glimpse of HOME.
Tootles for now…
Love from Afghanistan!
Corrina
