She's Baaaaaaack!
"Is she your new room-mate?" Marty the Pool Guy asks.
"Yeah...what's that look for?"
"Oh, nothing," he smiles.
"What?"
"She's a little hyper, that's all..."
"Great."
I called it my transitional hooch. It was miserable. I had left the nice one and the nice job, and now lived in what they called "the projects." Rather than having a private bath, I now had to share one with a women who, apparently, was very "friendly." Each night she moved furniture around, for what reason, I don't know, and each night she entertained a myriad of, uh, friends. I would make my 2AM trek to the bathroom, only to find a different half naked man in there each night. They didn't introduce themselves. And they pee'd on my bathroom floor.
After a month, I moved "forward." At least I was no longer at risk for having to share my room, with the sentinal of the other unmade bed across the room perpetually taunting me. The thought of a room-mate made me cringe with horror. But the new hooch was cleaner, smaller, and though I still had to share a bathroom, I shared it with a person that-so far-isn't nearly as, uh, friendly.
Yesterday she returned from vacation, and finally moved in. Last night was our first night. She was banging on the bathroom walls, moving crap around, and had ten-yes, ten-Indian men helping her move all her furniture from her old hooch. I saw the old hooch: you couldn't walk in for all the furniture. She actually had a bar set, for Christ sake. Two tall stools and a matching table. What? Are we entertaining? Drinks at ten?
There was no hope of it all fitting into the smaller room. The sweaty Indian men spent the majority of the day attempting to stuff what they could, in terms of furniture of course, into her room. It wasn't pretty. I don't know what the hell they were saying, but they were saying alot of it. The Indian men here, BTW, are the backbone of this war. Without them, there would be no war. They haul, sweat, shovel, and work in the sun all day, never complaining. And they move our crap around, sometimes with quizzical looks at the way we Americans live here. At this camp, we are all in hooches of varying sizes and comfort levels. The Indians? They live 12 to a connex, stacked like cordwood in flimsy bunkbeds. They pay for their tickets here, and have two year contracts. They are paid a fraction of what the Americans are. They don't get vacations. They can't leave unless they are fired. And they work like dogs, day in and day out, ignored by most of the Americans, who have the audacity to specify in their subcontracts that they must take a shower every day or risk losing their jobs.
Bang, stomp, clatter. By nightfall, it was like living next to a construction zone. What the hell was she doing over there? I put in ear plugs and went to sleep.
Back in my nice hooch, when I lived there, I had some blankets and stuff that made it a little more comfortable. Once I left, I had no desire to pretend that Iraq was home. Dave had crushed me, broken my spirit, left me drifting and I just didn't care. I sent almost everything home. I now have decided that spartan is good, that I never ever want to confuse this place with my other life. Now I have a bed, a nightstand, a lamp, a desk, a flag on the wall, some books, and that is about it.
I rose early, as usual. My eyes were still bleary as I ran the water in the shower, waiting for it to warm up. I looked around: she had hung pictures on the wall, a mirror on the door, and a clock over the sink. There was a new rug on the floor by the shower. There was an entry rug, and a box with all her shoes lined up at the door. It was homey, kind of nice, and there was some attempt to coordinate colors, no uncertain feat given our chronic dearth of logistical support here. I can certainly appreciate that. She had installed a shower curtain with an entire acid-trip of flowers on it, placed a girly-pink candle in the soap dish, and even was so considerate as to place a can of Lysol on top of the toilet tank (I'm trying to convince myself it is not personal). Hmmm. I believe I have met Iraq's own Martha Stewart, and we share a bath.
I'm rebelling by not making my bed today.
"Yeah...what's that look for?"
"Oh, nothing," he smiles.
"What?"
"She's a little hyper, that's all..."
"Great."
I called it my transitional hooch. It was miserable. I had left the nice one and the nice job, and now lived in what they called "the projects." Rather than having a private bath, I now had to share one with a women who, apparently, was very "friendly." Each night she moved furniture around, for what reason, I don't know, and each night she entertained a myriad of, uh, friends. I would make my 2AM trek to the bathroom, only to find a different half naked man in there each night. They didn't introduce themselves. And they pee'd on my bathroom floor.
After a month, I moved "forward." At least I was no longer at risk for having to share my room, with the sentinal of the other unmade bed across the room perpetually taunting me. The thought of a room-mate made me cringe with horror. But the new hooch was cleaner, smaller, and though I still had to share a bathroom, I shared it with a person that-so far-isn't nearly as, uh, friendly.
Yesterday she returned from vacation, and finally moved in. Last night was our first night. She was banging on the bathroom walls, moving crap around, and had ten-yes, ten-Indian men helping her move all her furniture from her old hooch. I saw the old hooch: you couldn't walk in for all the furniture. She actually had a bar set, for Christ sake. Two tall stools and a matching table. What? Are we entertaining? Drinks at ten?
There was no hope of it all fitting into the smaller room. The sweaty Indian men spent the majority of the day attempting to stuff what they could, in terms of furniture of course, into her room. It wasn't pretty. I don't know what the hell they were saying, but they were saying alot of it. The Indian men here, BTW, are the backbone of this war. Without them, there would be no war. They haul, sweat, shovel, and work in the sun all day, never complaining. And they move our crap around, sometimes with quizzical looks at the way we Americans live here. At this camp, we are all in hooches of varying sizes and comfort levels. The Indians? They live 12 to a connex, stacked like cordwood in flimsy bunkbeds. They pay for their tickets here, and have two year contracts. They are paid a fraction of what the Americans are. They don't get vacations. They can't leave unless they are fired. And they work like dogs, day in and day out, ignored by most of the Americans, who have the audacity to specify in their subcontracts that they must take a shower every day or risk losing their jobs.
Bang, stomp, clatter. By nightfall, it was like living next to a construction zone. What the hell was she doing over there? I put in ear plugs and went to sleep.
Back in my nice hooch, when I lived there, I had some blankets and stuff that made it a little more comfortable. Once I left, I had no desire to pretend that Iraq was home. Dave had crushed me, broken my spirit, left me drifting and I just didn't care. I sent almost everything home. I now have decided that spartan is good, that I never ever want to confuse this place with my other life. Now I have a bed, a nightstand, a lamp, a desk, a flag on the wall, some books, and that is about it.
I rose early, as usual. My eyes were still bleary as I ran the water in the shower, waiting for it to warm up. I looked around: she had hung pictures on the wall, a mirror on the door, and a clock over the sink. There was a new rug on the floor by the shower. There was an entry rug, and a box with all her shoes lined up at the door. It was homey, kind of nice, and there was some attempt to coordinate colors, no uncertain feat given our chronic dearth of logistical support here. I can certainly appreciate that. She had installed a shower curtain with an entire acid-trip of flowers on it, placed a girly-pink candle in the soap dish, and even was so considerate as to place a can of Lysol on top of the toilet tank (I'm trying to convince myself it is not personal). Hmmm. I believe I have met Iraq's own Martha Stewart, and we share a bath.
I'm rebelling by not making my bed today.
posted by akantha at 4:27 PM
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