Fighting Jet Lag

I had just enough energy to take a shower once I arrived at E’s apartment in the center of Tel Aviv. It was a mistake to lay down after that because my eyes didn’t open for another five hours. It was the middle of the day in Israel and I fell asleep. This is not the way to handle jet lag.

This is my fifth journey to the Middle East and jet lag is something I’ve become far too familiar with. Sleeping all day is the wrong strategy. But what can I do? I could barely speak from exhaustion. My brain literally shut off without even asking me if it was alright.

The Israeli time zone is eight hours ahead of Chicago and I had not slept for more than a few hours in two days.

After waking up, E and I hung out for a while and went on a walk in the evening. She showed me the way to my school that will start on the 28th and I already began memorizing the area. I decided early on that my first week here should be used to walk the city as much as possible. This is not only for the joy of experiencing and observing a foreign country, but also for familiarization and safety.

I did very little besides try to pull my head out of America and into Israel (and snap a few photos). Tomorrow is another day.

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Tel-ling Aviv Hello: 11/8/06

The trip was long, as expected, and I nearly didn’t make it on my flight out of Atlanta to Tel Aviv. When I landed in Atlanta, I had 20 minutes to go from the domestic terminal to the international terminal. And of course they are both on completely opposite ends of the airport. I landed, ran to Atlanta’s internal train, ran to the end of the international terminal and was greeted by a man yelling, “If you’re going to Tel Aviv, the doors are closing now!”.
Needless to say I was a bit out of breath as I stepped onto the plane. They were literally all waiting for me to arrive and I was greeted by the glaring eyes of the passengers. I wasn’t quite sure if it was because I was the only young little American girl or because I was heaving and panting down the aisle to my seat.

Fast forward 11 hours.

It was surprisingly smooth coming through Ben Gurion airport even though I did feel a bit nervous confronting the customs officer. “Where are you from?” “What do you do?” “Why are you here?” etc, etc, etc. They have a way with their eyes to make you feel guilty no matter if your answers are the truth or not. And I was stupefied by a question they asked on our customs form; “Father’s First Name“. huh?? I re-read it a few times thinking that my jetlag was already making me see things. I went over and over in my head why in the world that would make any difference for anyone. As E explained to me, “It’s an Israeli thing.” This answer accounts for a surprisingly great number of questions.

In Chicago, they made me check a guitar I brought with me. All other times that I’ve flown, they usually let people carry guitars onto the plane and stow it at the front. Apparently things have changed (as many things aren’t the same anymore in airports) and I was forced to check it as baggage. As I was waiting at Ben Gurian, it was the one piece of my baggage that didn’t come down the conveyer. I waited and waited and soon I saw that I had already been there for an hour. I knew that E and S were waiting for me on the other side and my cell phone wasn’t working for me to call and explain. So, impatient little me decided to go out of the secure area to meet up with them before panic set it.

How wonderful it was to see such friendly faces! E made up a little sign with my name on a guitar and in small print on the bottom, “Welcome to Iraq.” Ha. A couple of wise guys, I see.

I really was a bit overwhelmed. Everything felt just as surreal as when I came home from Iraq. It was an amazing mixture of both exhaustion and elation.

I explained to them what had happened with the guitar and S took such amazing control of the situation. He found the right number to call and spoke to the representative in Hebrew for me. I had to have my passport rechecked to go back into the airport luggage area and over to where my guitar was at. The jerks separated it as oversized luggage and didn’t tell me. It came out of the airplane on a totally different conveyer as the rest of the luggage which is why I couldn’t find it.

Even though I hadn’t slept in over 25 hours, I was still aware of a few differences on the drive into Tel Aviv. It always amazes me that other countries label official signs in more than one language. All of the highway signs are in Hebrew, English, and Arabic. Americans are so hard headed about this sort of thing. We’re just starting to put Spanish on some of our signs. (Like in public busses and stuff.) But overall, we’re a very “You wanna be in this country, then learn English!” sort of culture. I can really see how frustrating this can be considering that 41.9 million Americans are Hispanic. (Yeah, that’s right. Go Wikipedia!)

Other than that, the best initial feeling of Tel Aviv is that it felt like California. The fresh salt air. The palm trees. The 60 degree night. It felt fantastic. But after such a long trip (and considering it was already 8pm Israeli time) I ended up showering and going to bed. What a long (but well worth it) journey so far! I can’t wait to get started.

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Lovin’ the normal looking boogers: Journal 10/20/06

Where to even begin.

The ceremony.  Yes.  Let me just say that any hatred I had for being forced to stay in Wisconsin two days longer completely dissolved when I arrived.  The actual ceremony wasn’t what made my gut wrench (besides being reunited with my fam), rather, it was the last few miles to the armory.

At least twenty (yes, two zero) police squad cars were lined up waiting to escort us the last few miles.  Every single one of them had their lights and sirens blazing.  It was an amazing site, to say the least.  It made “Ms. No Emotions” over here choke up a bit.  We snaked our way thru residential streets and with all the noise, most of the people came out of their houses to see what the deal was.  It was a forced parade!  Fantastic!

We passed a couple of elementry schools and all of the kids flowed out of the schools when we passed to wave little flags.

But the killer of all killers was an older man (at least of the WWII era) who stood like a rod on the sidewalk in front of his house saluting our bus as we passed.  I choked down the tears for that one.

It’s been hard convincing myself that I’m home now.  After we were released by our commander, I couldn’t get enough hugs from my family and the people in my unit.  Somewhere along the road I had forgotten how good it felt just to be hugged.

I’ve been having a great time the last couple of days visiting family and friends.  Everything is pretty much on hold until I can get the proper number of visits under my belt.  And I’m sure that I won’t start to feel normal again until I can start a new routine.

Here’s a short list of things that have freaked me out in the past week:

1.  No shower shoes.
2.  The tingle on my back from where my weapon used to rest.
3.  The way my body is exhuming toxins from itself. (a.ka. The pimple ranch on my face and crapping at least three times a day.)
4.  Blowing my nose and seeing normal looking boogers.  (Not sand or dirt.)
5.  Missing the people in my unit so badly that it’s threatening ulcers.

 

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The Return: Journal 10/12/06

It’s been hard trying to find the right words to express how this all feels…  the return, I mean.  After going through Navy customs in Kuwait, we boarded a commercial Boeing 757.  Our path took us from Kuwait to Ireland to Maine to Wisconsin.  Each stop had it’s own interesting emotions.

Kuwait was full of torment.  After taking care to pack my bags so that everything would fit, I had to dump everything out for a Navy customs officer and re-pack again.  My inspector wasn’t all that bad and he let a lot of things go without actually looking at them.  But I was caught off guard when the pouch I used to strap a magazine to my M-4 had a loose round still in it.  It literally flew out of my magazine holder and clunked onto the table top in front of him.  We both looked at each other and I gave him my “Oh crap!” eyes.  He countered my reaction with his scolding eyes and shoved it in the amnesty box behind him.  All I could do was laugh nervously and say, “You’d be surprised at how ammunition just floats around like that in Iraq.”

In Ireland it seemed like half the unit stocked up for their liquor cabinets back home.  People were snatching up $150 bottles of scotch and whiskey like they didn’t exist back in the states.  I just made a promise to save myself for a cold domestic beer back in the U.S. 

In Ireland I was reminded at how wonderful that type of climate smelled.  The way the moisture sweetened the air was something I had obviously taken for granted.  It was cool and green and everything was very much alive.  My senses had adjusted to the air of Iraq with it’s constant smell of burning trash, feces, and dust.

My layover in Maine was more of the same.  I may as well have still been in Ireland.  The local VFW was there to greet us and I could see a few of them smirk as we “ohh & ahh’d” at the smell outside.  We just couldn’t get over how it felt!  It was drizzling a bit and we hadn’t felt rain for 6 months or so.  And even then it was a dirty wet dog sort of smelly rain in Iraq.  The rainy season in Iraq creates great lakes and sinking sand pits that make daily life a near hell.  But in Maine it was just invigorating.

When we finally made it to Wisconsin (our last stop) it was snowing.  Not big clumpy snow but the brutal wind whipped snow that stabs into eyes and ears.  There was no possible way for us to prepare for the sort of cold that would greet us outside of that airplane.  Of course very few people remembered to pack gloves or jackets.  The day before we were literally in a 100 degree desert getting sand blown into our faces.  And today we are in 30 degrees getting smacked with snow.   How can someone possibly prepare for the shock that causes on a body? 

 There were a few family members at Volk Field and a troop of VFW folk.  It was a lovely effort but a bit awkward too.  Most of us were just standing around and a bit agitated after spending the last 20 hours in an airplane.  Not to mention the added strain of being VERY cold and feeling out of place in the big airport hangar. 

So far everything in Ft. McCoy is familiar from when I mobilized here last year.  Everything gives me a feeling of déjà vu.  But my head is still back in Iraq.

Funny story:

While some of us were standing around at Volk Airfield waiting to get bused to Ft. McCoy, a family member of someone popped a plastic bag with his hands.  In the big hangar it naturally echoed quite loud.  A few of us instinctually turned our heads as we had grown accustomed to these noises (of a more serious nature) in Iraq.  We noticed each other reacting to the noise and mocked rolling to the ground as if it was an incoming round or something.  Then without hesitation we began to recite the recorded message that our post in Iraq would put over the loudspeakers every time we had indirect fire in the camp:  “This is the command post.  This is the command post.  There has been an indirect fire attack.  Post attack recognizance teams are released to conduct UXO sweeps.  All other personal are released.  All clear!  All clear!  All clear!”  We heard that message so many times that it had become ingrained in our brains.  A mantra of sorts. 

We’ll be bussed back to our armory outside of Chicago in 5 days and finally released back into the wild.  God damn has it been a long road.

P.S.  Myspace is blocked on the government comp at Ft. McCoy.  Bummer cause it looks like a have a crap load of messages and blogs to read.  I promise that I’ll catch up to them all when I get home!!

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Doha, Qatar pt 1: Journal 9/5/06

by Ms. Babble on September 5, 2006
in Culture Shock, Qatar

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Doha, Qatar pt 1: Journal 9/5/06

It’s been quite a while since I’ve felt so mentally exhausted. The week in Qatar was an invigorating fight to be aware. In hindsight, it was an interesting education on how to survive alone in a foreign place. Here in Iraq I’ve always had the people in my unit to rely on; familiar people who are experiencing the same thing as myself. Even though I traveled with another person in my unit there and back, he is ironically the one person I have nothing in common with nor do I particularly like. We exchanged polite hellos when we saw each other in Qatar but other than that, I was on my own.

Twice I was able to break free of the prison they put all the American military folk in. The first time was an organized event I signed up for to downtown Doha. The next day I found a sponsor who signed me out of post like a piece of property. Both times I was dumped off at the huge shopping mall downtown. Upon arrival they gave us enough time to blink a few times at the huge glass monstrosity, synchronize our watches, pat us on the head, and then disappeared into the shopping maze. On the first day I was literally left there standing alone while everyone else disappeared in a sea of black and white robed Arabs.

Prior to leaving post for the big city, they warn us of things not to do. It mostly relates to clothing as the Qatarians are a very conservative bunch. But its also for our own safety. They strongly suggested that we wear long pants and shirts preferably without any American logos. We had to be careful not to make any indication that we’re in the American military (no military IDs, dog tags, Army backpacks, etc.) But honestly, upon arrival I think you would be an idiot not to identify us as military people. All the guys had the “high and tight” haircuts and I was one of the few women not wearing a long black robe with my face covered.

I wandered the mall and pretended to care about all the fancy jewelry shops and shoe stores. I was amazed that a mall so big (it had 5 floors!) could have so little in it. After an hour of wandering, I bought a couple of shirts mainly because I was curious about the money conversion and how that all worked. At that point I still wasn’t too clear about the money conversion. Back on post they never told us what the rate was. The only clue I had was when they announced a golf trip that cost 150 Riyals or $45-$50. So, I just assumed the rate was about 3 Riyals per $1. At the ATM in the mall, I withdrew 100 Riyals just to be safe.

My second big purchase in Qatar?? McDonalds baby! And yes, they have the Quarter Pounder with cheese. I got the 2 cheeseburger meal for 14 Riyals and sat down to enjoy it next to 4 veiled ladies. They all got these HUGE meals with super sized fries and drinks. It was dying with anticipation to see if they would take off their veils to eat or not. I’m eating my burger and looking out of the corner of my eye as I see them slip their food gracefully underneath their veil. I was amazed! Not once did I see a hint of skin. No chin.. No cheek. Theyre experts. They ate everything without once revealing any part of their faces.

My first trip out to this shopping center was fairly uneventful. It was mostly just a culture shock as I had to get used to all the men staring at me and making cooing noises behind me on the elevator. I spent the last hour reading at a café with some of the most wonderful cup of coffee I’ve ever had. And apparently they dont use milk or creamer in their coffee. When I asked for cream I got the most unusual confused look. And when the waitress finally understood what I wanted, she struggled to poor the cream as it kept overflowing with too much coffee in the cup.

On post, I was adopted by two guys who are also stationed in Anaconda. During my second trip into the city one of them managed to get on the same group with myself. J and I were dumped off again at the same shopping mall while our sponsors went to eat dinner and watch a movie. This time around everything seemed a lot easier as I was already familiar with the building. The groups of black veiled women didn’t disturb me as much as the day before. We wandered around and looked at a few things. He was determined to buy a nice pair of sunglass but when the salesman finally revealed the price (about 900 Riyals or $260) we scooted out of there as politely as possible. We enjoyed a nice meal at Applebees (can you believe they have all the American restaurants there too?!). He asked the waitress how good their Philly Cheese Steak was. We both had to choke down a laugh when she looked at him and said, “It’s about this long…” and indicated with her hands the length of the sandwich.

Driving back to the post, I fell in love with the city. The Persian Gulf is the most beautiful body of water I’ve ever seen. I can’t possibly describe the colors of blue it revealed. It felt like 90% of the city was under construction, but it still held amazing potential. The sky scrapers are being built by some of the most genius architects and all of the houses are solid stucco white. We passed by slums and palaces alike. There were shiny black Hummers and old run down jalopies. Men in pure white wearing Dulce & Gabana sunglasses next to tired laboring workers trying to hitchhike a ride home.

Unfortunately, we were forbidden to take any photographs (the authorities threaten to confiscate our cameras and throw us in prison). But a few brave souls did a few hip shots of the area and maybe I can scrounge up a few shots for you soon.

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