Day 183: Can you hear me now?

I’ve been in Kabul for just shy of seven months now and the routine, while still routine, has begun to nip at my nerves a bit.

Let me explain: First, the early morning bathroom trips to facilities about 50 feet away which, during the summer months served as a nice escape from my quarters, is now into a 40-degree chill – right around the corner snow will make it even more “fun.” As the Afghan National Army major I mentor told me; “It’ll get much colder here,” and he used his hand to show how much snow is possible – extending his hand from the ground, stopping just under his knee caps.

Secondly, each time I “phone a friend” I’m faced with the typical three or four tries – network failures, lost signals etc. – before a successful call. Once a cute cultural disadvantage, “Can you hear me now?” really has taken on a life of its own here. Members of the team can be seen moving in crisscrossing patterns around the camp, with each step hoping to bring a better signal. “Go outside the gate,” one tells me. “No, behind the piss shack,” another yells.

I describe my living quarters as something comparable to those serving a year’s sentence at a minimum security prison – though prisoners have access to indoor plumbing.

My “living area” is 7x9 feet worth of Little America – slightly smaller than I had given it credit for initially. On occasion the cramped quarters has me, first, banging my head against the underside of my bunk bed; then backing up into my wall locker and spinning around just in time to smack my toes on the ladder that takes me to my bed. Again, initially quite comical, but now tend to piss me off a bit.

After multiple such instances, it's become aggravating – though I find myself laughing about it all in a twisted sort of way. And I continue to tell myself it could worse … and it surely could be, as our young troops across Afghanistan are living in much more austere environments, dodging bullets.

At work flecks of yellow dust float down from the ceiling whenever someone on the second floor moves; I presume it's paint as it settles on my keyboard, computer, chair and hair. At the base of the walls little yellow "ant hills" grow in size as the weeks pass. I sometimes wonder whether the Russians or Taliban noticed such things when they occupied my chair. 

Every night I call my lady friend back home, and I repeat the process in the morning. It's just to say "Hi." But she too notices the difference in my demeanor on occasion. I'm an easy going "Guy" but with each passing day, I look for a new hobby or vehicle to expend some energy. It has become such that I look forward to laundry day.

Anyone need some laundry done? Can you hear me now??