Rolling Rock

Several of our sites are inaccessible to us and we are reliant on Local Nationals to oversee the construction. In our office we have not only LN Quality Assurance Representatives on all but one of our projects, but we also have a large staff of LN Project Engineers. The LNs can go where we can't, get there much easier, and are our eyes in the field. But nothing can take the place of an actual site visit. Once site we have is in Chaghcharan, a city about halfway between Herat and Kabul on the more difficult to traverse northern part of the ring road. Most traffic goes the flatter, longer way to Kabul to the south of Herat through Shindand, Kandahar, up through Ghazni and then to Kabul. But the second route is more scenic. The second route goes east from Herat through Obeh, Chesti Sharif site of the Salma Dam, Chaghcharan and then to Kabul.

This is the second time this month we were able to conduct a visit to Chaghcharan and the need for two visits comes from the remoteness of the airstrip. While we originally set up to fly in a team of six people, the night before we received a call that changed our manifest to four. This was a sore point of discussion because we know the plane can hold more than four. Not long after in a discussion on the matter we were corrected in our thinking because there were many hours of computations that went into the matter and the elevation of the airport, the orientation of the runway, and other factors truly did mandate the need for a decreased passenger load.

One reason we can make the visit with such a small group is that once we land we were joined by an ISAF (the fancy name given the Allied forces in Afghanistan) group on the ground that provided us security to travel to the site as well as while we were on the site, a squad of Lithuanians. Few realize that Lithuania has been a dominant country at times in its past. With its small size and long slumber while one of the Silently Swallowed Republics of the Union of Silently Swallowed Republics its role in history is mostly forgotten. However, Lithuania is also a member of the ISAF team in Afghanistan.

Back in June we had visitors from Virginia drop in to see the Herat University Women's Dorm project site. They are from a "sister" district. At the time these visitors arrived there were 43 different Corps Districts of which three districts operated in Afghanistan. This seems a bit redundant until you realize that each has a different mission. The two in-country districts, TAS and TAN, have since combined into TAA, which is responsible for the day-to-day projects being constructed that are all scheduled to be complete by December of 2014. The District that these visitors were from, TAM, is responsible for those projects that could last longer than December 2014 and are funded by a different source.

One of the things we discussed while they were in town is an idea that many times the competitive nature of Corps Districts is readily apparent. I witnessed this first hand in my first role when I had a chance to ask a question of the Deputy Commander of the Savannah District a question that no one in the Mobile District had been able to answer for me. He in turn asked his Chief of Construction and relayed the answer he received to me. After the third time of me telling the Chief (through the Deputy) that he wasn't answering my question, that Chief emailed my Chief of Construction and asked why I was bothering him. In short, he couldn't answer my question and it was making him look bad to his boss so he tried to make me look bad to mine. I was told that we would chalk this up to my not knowing better than to ask another district and I had a "free pass" on the matter.

This bothered me on multiple levels. First of all, if there is an answer to a question it should be shared amongst all who may have the need to know the answer. It isn't a matter of "we" know and "they" don't, we are all "we." Second, what I really pointed out was that no one knew what I was asking, so neither District had the answer. In other words I was pointing out not only that "we" didn't know but that "they" didn't know either. Third, I was being told that I should have known better than the ask every source that may have a potential answer for that answer, choosing instead to keep asking the same people who didn't know the answer the first time. I'm a big fan of solving the problem at the lowest level possible, but by definition that entails finding the lowest level possible to solve the problem. Clearly I had not found the lowest level possible yet. Last, I still never got the answer to my question.

What I did learn is that there is a stupid mentality, which I refuse to perpetuate, of District-centric knowledge storage. There are classes, programs, and centers of the Corps designed specifically for the sharing of information, I refuse to allow them to do all the work. If I have an opportunity to share or pick up something from someone I do not care if it is supposed to be shared, I only care if it is right.

This concept was bandied about with the TAM guys to include the anecdotal internal discussion about how "those guys are idiots." Until you meet someone different from yourself, whether by training, education, geographic district assignment, or any other distinction those "others" are often considered to be idiots. Once you have met them you discover that they are just like you. They cease to be idiots and become acquaintances. Sometimes even friends, most likely they can become a source of information that may help answer a question no one around you knows the answer to.

As the visitors left, of course we all said, "Nice to meet you idiots!" However, the subject at hand was my visit to Chaghcharan with the Lithuanians. I've detailed before the difficulties in communicating with non-English speaking team members. I'm sure I will do it again. On this day, I had a frighteningly similar conversation with the Lithuanians that paralleled my previous conversation.

No matter where you go, no matter who you are, no matter what language you speak, everyone's an idiot until you get to know them. At which point you regret ever having labeled them as such and simply call them what we should have to start with, friend.

Surprise

Last week I surprised my whole family (except my Dad and sister who picked me up at the airport) by arriving home for an R&R Trip two days before I told them I'd be here. Have you any idea how hard it is to execute a surprise from 7,500 miles away? Not easy at all. When I got home and remembered we're Baptists, I rushed over to church where I proceeded to not find anyone except my youngest. When I enlisted the help of some others at church in short order I found them all. So at the end of my 30 plus hour trip there was a pleasant surprise for them and a relief that I was able to surprise them.

But that isn't the complete topic of this post.

As soon as I landed, I realized that people in the US still use such silly, archaic things as days of the week. For almost three months it hasn't really mattered what day of the week it was and even then, what day it was became a matter of subjectivity. With Friday as our 4 hour day, Friday is the weekend. This makes Thursday night, Friday night. Then, Saturday becomes Monday. The question I've most asked is, "What is today, Sunday?" Not very funny on Sunday, but cracks me up the rest of the week.

So, a return to worrying about what day of the week it is was a surprise, but again, not the complete topic of this post.

On a day I want to call yesterday (but was probably two days ago), I saw a post on Facebook that caught me off guard. As a few of you know, my blog underwent two rather distinct changes recently. First, it changed from being The Hole on the End of the Bible Belt when I moved to Afghanistan, then not long after the layout, function, and overall layout changed drastically.

This second drastic change was a direct result of me throwing my hands in the air and requesting the help of a professional, my cousin Edee (notice how I didn't say older cousin Edee, it doesn't bother me that there is such a large age difference between us with me being much younger).

One of the most important things, to me, that needed fixing was the page that allows for a download of my allegorical novella for subscribers. She easily fixed that and went on to re-vamp everything. The only thing she failed to add was an ad for her services.

So, back to month before last (or two days ago or whenever), Edee posted about some of her clients of which I am one. Since you already know about me, take this opportunity to get to know her and/or some of her other clients. You can also thank her for making this site a lot less difficult to navigate.

Link to the post jeans&beans

Thicken or Quit

I sit atop a wooden tower constructed in the corner of our compound approximately 4 meters off the ground. The temperature according to the thermometer in the shade is 99 but above the ground and out of the shade it is probably more like 104. I was in my room reading not at a chilly 22 degrees, but a Celsius 22. I came out for Corn Nuts and Mountain Dew. One of these is a tough commodity to have. Not the Corn Nuts, potato chips are the rare thing here. Chips get smashed in transit, and everything is trucked in. Corn Nuts, not so easy to smash. It is the Mountain Dew that is rare. Not because it is a soft drink, not because it is caffeinated, but because it contains High Fructose Corn Syrup. Most of the drinks here contain sugar. Pure, unadulterated sugar. The sweet nectar of beets and cane and not of corn.

The wind atop the tower blows stiffly. On the ground it is probably half as much. While it gusts frequently, it regularly keeps the flags flying nearly straight out. Flags do not last long in Afghanistan. We have replaced the three flags we fly (American, Afghanistan, and Corps of Engineers) once since I have been on the ground and all were torn to shreds by the wind as well as faded by the sunlight. Where I sit I have had to place rocks on both my bag and my now empty can to keep them from flying off the plastic table which feels like it has moved once or twice while I type.

One may ask why I came from a cool, dark place full of perceived comforts to sit on a hard chair in the baking sun to type a rambling diatribe on what is going on. Especially when one realizes nothing is going on. A smarter soul would simply know that I will answer that by the time I finish typing, but I mention it because I am not sure that I will.

There are three things I intended to type with this entry and I'm not sure which will come out at all. The problem started Monday when someone complimented my writing.

Writers will typically do one of two things. The first is develop a thick skin.

When you tell people you write most people think that's neat. Some will say, "I tried to write as well," "I have a great story in me." Sometimes they try to get you to write their stories for them. Writers are never at a loss for stories. They do not need ideas. They make take some, will probably make them better, but they do not need them. Sometimes people ask to read your stuff. That is when they may criticize. Other times they get your writings and never read them. A lesser writer would flinch or worry at this point. Is my writing good enough? Am I any good? Will anyone read me and want to buy my work? When can I quit my day job?

The accomplished writer will not worry about these things. They develop a thick skin. They write for themselves first and others later. Others may like their stuff, may even crave their stuff, but they do it to entertain themselves first and foremost. Your opinion does not matter. Criticize all you want. Incorrectly tell me not to infinitive split, or end with prepositions all about. And God forbid not to start a sentence with a conjunction, or any other bad grammar rule that's bandied about like the proper Queen's Latin those rules are. Critics abound. So do enthusiastic readers who never crack open the work.

I began to grow my calloused skin quickly when soul after soul told me they wanted to read my allegory of Jonah and yet months later none did. One individual, who had a great deal to do with the genesis of my allegory on multiple layers, not only asked to read it but six months later admitted to having lost the copy and asked for another. His wife, who said she'd rather read a paper copy than an electronic version, was similarly given a copy but I do not believe that either have to this day, years later, cracked it open. I'd be the first to admit my error if either told me so, but even though some of the former's doctrines and mantras are included in the story, neither has ever broached the subject again.

I grew wiser and did the same. I never take offense when someone says they want to read and yet never does. Even the few people who I encourage to read my work I tell that I will hold no ill will towards if they do not. Of course, I also do not encourage many to read either for the same reason. I do want people to read my writing. I want them to enjoy it. But that isn't why I do it.

Thick skin is one writer's action. It is a defense. When a potential agent, or publisher sends rejection notice or fails to reply, writer's grow thick skin. Else they would be discouraged. The second writer's reaction is to go into seclusion. There is the occasional Harper Lee. Would any other work be as celebrated as her only? J.D. Salinger is reputed to be storing his writings in a vault or safe deposit box for what or when who knows? Seclusion is a writer's defense of extreme measure. We write for ourselves, but it is only through the sharing of our human emotions, thoughts, and experiences that we, reader and author alike, have an opportunity to grow.

Grow thick skin or crawl in the corner. Those are the only options.

On the surface there appears to be a third. Write and don't share until it is finished, polished, and its success is certain. That is not an option. The writer who would choose this course is not a writer. They are not cowards, they just will not write. A work cannot be written, edited, polished, and published by a single individual. Even in this age of self-published drivel it cannot be done. There are hidden jewels of literature. There are always stories like The Shack. Vonnegut or Hemingway may well have spent days on single sentences and had their works completely printable by the time someone saw them, but it still takes more than a genius to get it out. No man is an island of perfection. Nor is a woman. Writers do not exist in a vacuum.

Publish or perish is the mantra of the educated professor. Write or die is the work ethic of writers, of authors, of any who twinkle the light fantastic on the keyboard, pen, pencil or quill. Authors must write. Writers must write. Thick skin it is.

A writer who must get constant back-petting, ego-stroking, and reassurance of their abilities will not get far and never get published again. Thick skin or quit. I regret to report there is no second.

Harry Houdini could take a hit or kick to the stomach. Of any caliber or size. But died from a blow to the abdomen. While Harry began to brace, his would be challenger struck. The Great Houdini knew what was coming but was not yet prepared. It wasn't a sucker punch but it circumvented his defence.

In a similar manner, a compliment circumvented mine. In one well-meaning note, a compliment to my writing set me aback. How do you move forward? More paralyzing than a misplaced ill word. Fear of being able to perform is a real issue.

Is my comparing of Houdini's work to mine extreme or unfounded? Perhaps, but its symbolism is appropriate. Not long after I completed my allegory I attended a class studying Pilgrim's Progress by John Bunyan. I never read it, even during the class (I did read Pilgrim's Regress by C.S. Lewis for what it was worth, an allegory of Bunyan's allegory). While studying the book I took a sidelong glance at my own work. It appeared to be like looking at a three-year old's crayon doodle compared to a work of Da Vinci. My talents such as they were, paled, indeed never had a right to be compared to the likes of John Bunyan's work. There simply is no comparison.

And then, weeks later, I remembered, I am not Bunyan. I have not had untold hours to hone my skill, my craft, my words. Not in the quantities he did, yet. Michelangelo did not paint the Sistine Chapel overnight, and he didn't do it for his first work.

I got back on my writing regimen. I  began again to push, thick-skinned to no avail, but still I wrote. Still I write.

The day after my work was complimented, my wife sent me a copy of a book I had read literally years ago. Caravans by James Michener. I read it as a lad of 14 or 15. And yet, reading it again, in Afghanistan it was as if I had never read it before.

Michener wrote it in the 50s but the setting was 1946. The observations of Afghan life, while ever so much more in-depth than mine, has only one flaw that I have noted so far. That of a feeling of nationalism towards the country. There is no real patriotism toward Afghanistan the country. The people are fiercely protective, of family, of clan, of region, but not of the country. His other observations mimic so many of those I have included in my posts to date. Sixty years less of battle, scars, and wars. No Soviet airbases, no American Forward Operating Bases, but mimicked observations. Michener during his time in Afghanistan was immersed in the country, in the countryside. He walked without weapon, without body armor, without guards at all. Michener walked at will. Yet he walked with the same jaded, American eyes that had been opened, unleashed, and recognized that to see the world through such lenses would do no one any good. So he didn't.

Yes, I find myself trying to compare my work to Michener's and it will fail. I am not the master of prose that James was. I may never be. But I strive to show any who chose to read my work a different perspective, to open their eyes, and their minds to a world that may only exist between the messed up ears that sit below my hairline. I write because I cannot not write. I cannot not raise my feeble voice to holler at the howling wind. I cannot fail to share my useless thoughts and desires to any who would choose to listen. Even if none choose. The choice to write is not mine. It is in me. It is me. It is.

I have no choice but to believe in free-will, and I have no choice but to write. When I fall off the horse I will get back on. I can do no less and to attempt to do less would be to attempt to stop breathing. The level of my work may never achieve the level that received the compliment. But I had better begin to thicken to compliments too because I have no choice but to write. Whether it surpasses or falls far short.

There was no choice to remain in the comfort of my room when the rugged outdoors beckoned. Cool, cozy, warm surroundings serve no purpose when there is the chance to experience the harsh, dusty, heat of a place few will ever get to see. The friendly confines of a place called home.

By the way, Corn Nuts suck. Send Zap's and Barq's.

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Heart of Herat

Today I had an opportunity to travel into the heart of Herat. We had some visitors from Virginia working on a dormitory for Herat University fly in for just a few hours to see the site and I was able to hitch a ride to see it as well. This wasn't just because it's good to be the king, but I was better able to pitch our office's ability to oversee the eventual construction of the facility. So yes, I went because I'm the boss and I could.

While riding around in body armor and Kevlar helmet in an up-armored SUV is not getting old (yet) it is becoming something I can expect. As you may imagine, it isn't comfortable. The windows, obviously, don't roll down, and while they up sized lots of parts (suspension, transmission, etc.) I don't think they increased the climate control much. Something you notice in the back at 100+ Fahrenheit even if the dashboard thermometer is in Celsius. The seats may be after-market, but they still leave something to be desired, not uncomfortable, but you don't fall asleep real easy either. There is limited visibility from the back seat, and I always have to sit in the back. This isn't a complaint, I just see less and have to turn my head (in a Kevlar helmet) more.

An unintended side effect happens once we're at the site. When we stop the driver stays in the vehicle, but the other team members get out and secure the site. Imagine any TV or movie where a pair of armed police or soldiers cover one another in almost exaggerated movements. Now change the pistols for rifles and put the snazzy dressed cops in military garb. Don't forget to load the medic down with rounds (I swear he has at least 300 rounds on him at any given minute). Now you have it, except it is more fluid, graceful, and less stupid looking. Once the site is secure, someone opens my door for me. I keep telling them when I get home and go to the grocery store I'll be waiting for my wife to come around and open the door.

Our driver lives in Herat, not far from where we drive. Several of our local national workers do. I always kind of wonder what he thinks. To him this is just like his commute in to work, and yet we go armed to the teeth in armored vehicles. Even he has an AK-47 in the vehicle with him. So, he wakes up, drives down to Camp Stone, gets dressed in armor, grabs a rifle, and drives back home.

One of the things I hate is the fact that by the time I see something through the window it is too late to take a picture of it. I travel around a lot with my iPhone ready to take pictures, but still miss several things I would love to share. Lucky for you, I'm a dangerously overeducated writer.

Along the way there are people in cars, on motorcycles, on zarangs, on bicycles and on foot. All over. This is a vibrant city full of life and activity. Yes, it is a war zone, yes there are suicide bombers somewhere among the masses of people (and yes, they don't operate often around this area). There are IEDs found along the road often. My security team keeps up with these things and adjusts my plans accordingly so I am safe, but those are things that are out there.

And yet, children go to school. Old men sit on the corner drinking chai tea and watching the world whiz by. I would love to compare their conversations to those had at corner stores in urban or rural America. No doubt they are similar. Businessmen hurry along with briefcases, kids with backpacks, families travel together, groups of like minded people, vendors push their wares, or just stand in their shops. Swinging gates provide glimpses into cloistered courtyards and private parking lots crammed with dirty, banged up, old cars, trucks, and motorcycles. Shop doors are swung wide open and inviting. There are strip malls and convenience stores. They don't say Circle K or Outlet Store, some are in English so I know. My security team points out landmarks, the Texan points and says, "That's Herat's Best Buy." The driver says, "Over here is a high school." There's the Governor's mansion.

A picture is worth a thousand words, but I've wasted 749 to get to this one.

We passed a small ferris wheel. It had four seats, each 90 degrees from each other. It stood about 2.5 meters high. It is made of steel tubes but they are well worn. Dirty, dusty, not painted, at least not a color that's recognizable. The seats have no padding I can see. A man in a scarf and loose white robes turns the handle that manually operates the ride. As it enters my limited field of vision, a young boy, maybe 6 or 7 years old is riding from the 10 o'clock position to noon. He holds on to the sides of the seat bucket. Is he smiling? I can't tell. Before I can notice more he is gone.

Another fleeting scene of life that won't be duplicated. In a country ravaged by war, constant battles over and over since time immemorial. But a youngster had a chance to ride a street ride. His parents took the time for him to have some fun. Pleasant memories are built one small mind at a time.

For my part I recalled a ride on a merry-go-round many many years ago. I was maybe six or seven. I never noticed the cars go by.

A young boy had a scary yet thrilling ride on a portable ferris wheel and one grown man felt a connection for a fleeting second with a spot of life far from his comfort zone yet close to his heart and mind.

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Pork You

I have arrived at the next stage of my adventure, getting here was its own adventure and will be the subject of several posts as I transition to the new blog I mentioned in my last post. But first, a quick note to tell you where I am.

Those who know me would not be surprised to know that before I allowed the Corps to transition me to the Mississippi Coast Resident Office I verified that it wasn't named the Gulfport Resident Office. The fact that at the time it was in Orange Grove, a long ago annexed part of Gulfport, was less of a concern because even now that it's located at the Stennis Space Center (last stop on I-10 before the dimension shift also known as LA state line) the official location listed is Biloxi.

Along that same vein, before I seriously considered a move to Afghanistan, I verified that pork products would be available. This morning I had a sausage biscuit with a bacon chaser. And I don't mean that turkey bacon stuff, they have that, but that's a last resort.

The increased security, concertina wire atop the fence outside my office window, concrete T-walls around everything aside, it could be easy to forget I'm in an active combat zone. This morning at the DFAC (that's dining hall for the un-acronym minded) I saw a frail woman. She was super thin, slightly wrinkled, drawn face with wispy, thin, un-coiffured blond hair. She was wearing what passes as heels around here, slightly higher than my combat boots but much smaller area, not stiletto sized, but smaller. As she passed by my table I couldn't help but notice that on her hip was a 9 mm handgun in a military holster. Frail or not, this woman won't take crap of anyone and is ready for it.

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