Developing Country Diet Plan

Hello there fair readers! I’m back. Been out of commission for quite a while, which is why I have yet to give my homage to the Winter Kiwis, who departed April 29. You know you always remember your first, so Crib 6, my first group, remains my favorites, but Crib 7 definitely had its characters. More on that anon.

Yes, I have been out of commission. The day of the RIP/TOA (very intimidating acronym -- stands for Relief in Place/Transfer of Authority) between the Winter Kiwis and this latest group (that’s right, I’m now breaking in my THIRD group), April 29, was an interesting day for me. The transfer ceremony itself, with all due pomp and circumstance, was quite poignant, save for the glaring snafu when the new flag representing the new contingent, when it hit the apex of the flagpole, popped off its string and fell back down to the ground. Everybody’s jaws were clenched rock solid, so you did not see anyone react, but EVERYBODY reacted. Hopefully it is not an ill omen, but so far, well, it’s early still.

Part of my thing on departures has been to take Kiwi Shir down to the C-130 and see everybody off. No chance of that this time. The new Brigade Commander (the Kiwis’ boss in the Coalition) was on hand for the ceremony, and needed to be minded. The new Kiwis were too busy to make time to meet their new Commander (another ill omen), so they foisted the Colonel off on me and the Civil Affairs officer here, a great guy who ran his own PRT in Khost before arriving here. Needless to say I was miffed. I wanted to say goodbye properly, but that option was taken away.

Ok, this is a military operation (mostly), suck it up, salute and move on. We gave the Brigade Commander (actually a nice guy, in the real world he’s Dean of Academic Affairs at Purdue) the nickel tour of the area, the Buddha niches, Red City (still my favorite), and took him out to a returnee (that’s the word we now use for refugees who have been back in country for a while) village. That ate up an entire afternoon.

The weather had been less than forgiving. Fierce winds beat down on us, so much so that the armored Landcruisers we rode in were getting pushed all around the road. A real challenge for driving (fortunately I was just a passenger this time around). When we would stop at a given site, it was hard to stand in one place, as the wind pushed us all over. Gusts were definitely hurricane force (probably not Katrina or Rita force, but hurricane nonetheless).

So, after an afternoon of that, I’m beat. We get back, I manage to slurp down some dinner (have I mentioned how much food I eat here? There’s a reason I’m exercising 2 hours a day and not losing any weight) and then head to the office.

That’s when it hit. Urgh. You know the drill. Trying to act normal, but running for the WC/head/salle de bain/toilet/john every 5 to 10 minutes, hoping like hell this is the last one, knowing it isn’t. If only that were the worst of it. Later that night the vomiting started (and the other stuff had not finished either). I scared some of the Kiwis who were unfortunate enough to be in the ablutions when I was making sounds like California was falling off the San Andreas Fault. I won’t say much more about the many incidents that night. I could probably get plenty of eye-popping descriptions of the entire sordid affair, but do you really want to read about that? Frankly, I don’t even want to write about it -- makes me a little green just thinking about the entire day. I will simply note that after the events of that long, long night, I now cut my food into smaller pieces. Ewww.

After that, it seemed to be merely a battle with dehydration. That first Gatorade (or in this case, the Kiwis had something called “Squinchers,” a mix-it-yourself Gatorade-esque drink), is amazing. If you have not had anything in over a couple of days, the first re-introduction of any flavor to your system is always powerful. I could not believe how wonderfully sweet and yet tangy lime green isotonic liquid could be. Alas, that sensation did not last long. After 3 days of non-stop Squinchers, your brain begins to fantasize about other tastes. Eventually, the cravings began, cravings for something, anything other than lime green isotonic drink, can’t we find anything other than . . . oh, great, another lime green isotonic drink, it sure would be wonderful to have something different, . . . right you are, another lime green isotonic drink, dear god, please no, not another lime green isotonic drink, make it stop, make it stop, PLEASE, oh ok, another lime green isotonic drink, and it just goes on.

Timing was definitely my enemy. Every time I thought I had turned the corner, I would put a toe back into the waters, testing real food again (nothing fancy -- bread, crackers, rice), but the results were, er, discouraging, so it would be back to the self-imposed exile, halfway house of lime green Squinchers again.

I left for Kabul on Thursday, with a 30 minute flight in PRT Air (or, as we call it, “in shallah” air, “in shallah” means “God willing.”0, a plane about the size your 11 year old nephew might hang from the ceiling with all his other models of Mustangs from WWII, Hornets from the current fighting fleet, etc. The plane is SMALL. A line Bob Hope once used sticks in my head: “we had to go outside to change our minds.” So THIS is the plane which will tackle the fierce winds (the winds have not let up, btw) which signify the change in seasons from Spring (we had a good 4 or 5 days of spring, after the winter, which I have already complained about) to Summer. Buffeted, I think that is the right word. I managed to keep everything in place on the flight, notwithstanding us rising and falling 1000 feet at a pop (it is a real disadvantage when you can see into the pilot’s “cockpit” and can read the altimeter), zigging when zagging was called for, etc. In short, NOT a fun 30 minutes.

We arrived at the Embassy, I dropped my bags (what a relief -- a hooch, with an attached bathroom, ALL TO MYSELF! This is real luxury), and what little of my system had recharged decided it was time to CTRL-ALT-DEL and start the process over again. It was not as bad this time around as the first lovely experience, but I was still holed up in my little trailer of misery for the better part of a week, and unlike back at the Base, I had to pay for my own Gatorade (the real thing this time) myself. $3 a bottle!!! I understand what Americans feel when they fill up at the pump. When you need something, you are going to pay whatever it costs, but you don’t have to like it. I certainly did not.

In the end, 2 weeks after the whole ordeal started, I got back to something approaching normal, 4 kg lighter, and no wiser for the experience. Bottom line, I hope when I get to Seoul in a year and a half that the developing country diet plan is not part of my itinerary.