Well I'll Be (it's fair food, y'all!)

It is simply amazing to me that I've spent 34 years on this planet and have never been introduced to the wonders of Fair Food! I blame this mostly on a combination of my California upbringing and the refusal of Midwesterners to share these secrets with me. I won't call these finds delicious, but I will admit they have left me in awe.

I took the boys to the 2008 Arkansas State Fair today. I bypassed the Tilt-O-Whirl completely and opted instead for the Tour de Hurl. I scoured the fairgrounds for foods not normally found in nature. I was supposed to visit California next month, but after today's samplings I think my state may revoke my citizenship and turn me away at the airport. Wait, never mind. It's California. They can't keep anyone out. What was I thinking?

I tasted fried Oreos today. They taste exactly like you'd expect. I can't say it was entirely unpleasant. It was just...a deep fried Oreo! They take the tasty sandwich cookie and dunk it in a goo the resembles corn dog batter. Then, the coated cookie gets tossed in the fryer, drained and dusted with powdered sugar. The cookie gets soggy, the filling melts and the dough gets crispy. Through it all, grease drips out and the smell of obesity hangs in the air. It's all a bit odd and off puttin' yet, at the same time, it's a bit decadent.

Here is a look at some of the foods I saw yet didn't try. Let's start with deep fried cheesecake. It's not the first time I've seen it. I've just never seen it outside of a Sonic, or north of the Mason Dixon line. There were four people in line and not one of them was taller than 5' 8" or thinner than 280 so I walked on. I figured it was a bit of foreshadowing.

I'd like to introduce you to "Pig Lickers." I have always said everything is better with cheese, bacon or butter. Leave it to the good ol' boys at the Arkansas fair to prove me wrong! I give to you deep fried, chocolate covered bacon on a stick. Covered in sprinkles. Sold in sets of three. Come on now! That's too far! If you want to fry pickles, be my guest. Dunk a Twinkie? I won't stop you. But you can't take two of the pure JOYS in life, combine them and then ruin it completely! I'm not even sure that's legal. I can't, for the life of me, figure out the need for the sprinkles, either. That's just overkill! The bacon should already be crispy, so you don't need the added crunch. And if you're tossing 'em on there just to make things festive, you've missed the point. You can't church up cocoa-covered swine!

Lastly, I present to you the winner of the 2008 "Kati Was Speechless Because of You" award winner. The trophy goes to....the HOT BEEF SUNDAE! Look to the right - there it is, in full color for your enjoyment. I got proof! I don't mean to be crass, but I think "Hot Beef Sundae" should have a "Ron Jeremy Productions" label on it. But alas, it's rated PG.

A "Hot Beef Sundae" is a slab of meat, topped with a scoop of mashed potatoes, covered in gravy and then topped with shredded cheese. It looks just like a hot fudge sundae, but it's really just Sunday dinner in a bowl. It seems harmless once you spell it out, yet I was still repulsed. As soon as you take a main course and slap a desert name on it, I'm out. Willy Wonka tried it once with his three-course meal gum and poor Violet Beauregarde is still in a juicing room somewhere! That is just documented proof that dinner is dinner and desert is desert. They are both great in their own way. There is no need to combine the two. But still, the line for THIS fabulous fair find was at least three times as long as the line for deep fried cheesecake!

I'm going to lace up my Nikes now and get in two miles before the sun sets. While it's true I only tried to Oreo, just writing about everything else has left me feeling bloated and a bit rounded in the rear. I'm going to hit the track just to fend off the deep fried nightmares sure to plague me tonight otherwise!

To be fair though, I am looking forward to the 2009 offerings. I can't wait to see what they'll think of next!

What the duece happened to television???

I was not gone THAT long. Two hundred days. That is is. Seven months. NOT THAT MUCH SHOULD HAVE CHANGED IN SEVEN MONTHS.

But then I turned on the television (which, from here forward, will no longer be refereed to as T.V., because "T.V." is a nickname and nicknames are for friends. It seems the television is no longer a friends of mine....)

Turning on the television depresses me. It's not the news about the global economic meltdown that has me down. It's not even the news about the housing market, unemployment and gas prices that make me sad. I can even tolerate all of the election news.

But someone, for the love of all that is right, please explain to me what in God's name Cloris Leachman is doing Dancing with the Stars? We'll ignore the obvious syntax errors there and ask the obvious...WHO is the "star" in that equation? Her Wiki has her listed as being 82 years old! Who thought THIS was a good idea? Misty May ruptured her Achilles tendon but should we NOT be more worried about Leachman's hip? I saw a clip of her dancing and I have to say, I've seen more excitement in AARP ads. I was scared. That was not dancing. This is a show that can make retired NFL linebackers look graceful and light on their feet. Yet Leachman's version of the "jig" was more reminescient of a long hallway shuffle in an orthopedic recovery ward.

That's not it though. There is more. Today, I am mindlessly flipping channels when I see a commercial I honestly believed was a mock ad. Imagine my abject horror when I realized that they were serious! Have you seen it? Let me set the scene.

A 16 year old girl who looks like she was recently rescued from a polygamous sect living on a Texas ranch says "You've played the Legend of Zelda games and have been haunted by the intoxicating music. Now you, too, can be transported to another world with your very own ocarina. Available at stlocarina.com. Learn to play just like Link in no time..."

Qwhhhhhhhhhat? Huh? Come again? I had to rewind that one twice just to ensure I hadn't fallen asleep on my couch and started dreaming. I was certain there was a low-grade gas leak in the house and I was having mild hallucinations. So I visited the site. Alas - you, too, CAN own your ocarina starting at the low, low introductory price of $79.99 plus s/h. Take a look. I can promise you it resembles a hand-crafted Father's Day gift presented by a second grader, just after they graduated from making clay hand-prints.

Lastly, and this might be the one that pushed me right over the edge, was the Interstate Batteries commercial I saw this weekend. Um....it's about God's love. (www.interstatebattery.com/godslove) Sure, who doesn't want more of God's love? Well, expect those people who don't believe in God, of course. Since when does it make sense to take an animated commercial for CAR BATTERIES and mix in a little religion? Have you seen it? I won't argue the message. I just do not understand how the two go together in any form of commercial advertising...aired during a football game...on a major television network! I have looked for God many places (like at the bottom of the Nile) but never did I think to look under the hood of a '67 Chevy.

This is really enough to make a sane person put down the remote and pick up a book. However, I can read while watching television so I'm covered in that regard. I thought about giving up my regular programing after the events of this week, but if I were to do that, I would miss the bliss that is House, the comedic horror of Family Guy and the education experience of E!'s 101 Biggest Celebrity Opps! and who really wants to miss out on THAT?

Fast Roping

The Bravo 2-18 JCSAR "Stupid Human Trick of the Day" for Aug. 19th? It was a little game called fast roping. I thought about writing a long and witty description of what fast roping entails, but I decided that sometimes, video proof is just so much better! So if you'd like, you can visit: http://s123.photobucket.com/albums/o289/iamkati/?action=view¤t=080819-F-0986R-001FastRopeClip.flv to watch the video.

Their goal is to "fast rope" (read - FALL WHILE HOLDING A ROPE) from 90 to 100 feet above ground level before too long. Hmmm...Really? Why? Did NO ONE here see Black Hawk Down? Just curious. I know it was just a movie and all but come on people. When does it stop?!?

Now, we talked about my fears (or perceived lack there of) back when I decided to do battle with the River Nile. That was the day I realized that while I think I'm fearless, I'm really not. I do have fears. I'm not afraid of heights. But I AM afraid of falling. So I think anytime I'm going to dangle above the ground I should be harnessed, tethered and secured. And I'd like someone roughly the size of Warren Sapp to sit on me just for good measure.

But fast roping doesn't afford one those luxuries. Instead, you sit in the "hell hole" of the CH-53 while grasping a rope roughly the diameter of a salad plate while willing your feet to gain traction on said rope. Then you go out of the bird. And by go, I mean you fall toward the earth from a hovering helicopter. Keep in mind though...Helicopters aren't stationary when they hover. There tends to be some...um...shall we say...movement. In all directions. Up and down. Left and right. Forward. Sometimes in a circle. You can't actually determine how close to the ground you are because it varies with each second. Doesn't this sound like FUN?

So, look at the photos on your left. This is what it looks like when it's done right. (I'm pretty sure the second photo is of Ray Mackey, using great form.) Hand on the rope, feet on the rope, body in almost an "L" shape to help slow you down. This is what it looks like. Sure, you can get by with the form in the photo above (holding on for dear life and once again making deals with God....) because either way, just like on the Nile, what goes up MUST come down. But Ray's form is so much better because he has some modicum of control. To his credit though, he also has more upperbody strength than I do. Okay, Cory is 13 and HE has more upperbody strength than I do. But that really isn't the point. Ray's just good at this crap. However, not every fast roping experience works out quite like that. There are times when you might slip, or not make full contact with the rope.

Evidence? Well, look to the right. That is Duff - my favorite little Soldier. Duff is the one I want to adopt and claim on my taxes. He's just so young and...clueless. Having Duff is like having a puppy - fun and playful and adorable yet not always apt to break something. But you can't get mad at him - he's a puppy; he doesn't know better! So look at Duff's form. Duff's feet never actually made contact with the rope on the way down, so he's flying down that rope, legs akimbo, and although I couldn't HEAR him, I'm pretty sure he too was making deals with God.

That's it for this week's installment of "Kati Plays with the Army..." For the entire Channel 4 news team, I'm Veronica Corningstone. Thanks for stopping by, San Diego.

P.S. - In TOTALLY unrelated news (ha, all kinds of puns intended), I did my first AFN news piece last week. It was a 90 second "Daily News Update" and was the first time I officially got to say the words "For the Combined Joint Task Force - Horn of Africa, this is Air Force Tech. Sgt. Katherine Garcia." I'll send out the link as soon as it airs. I'm sure it's just more proof that print journalism was my calling and that I have no future in television. But it will at least give you something to entertain yourselves with while I languish in the sweltering heat of Earth's armpit, contemplating all of the wrong turns I must have made in life to end up HERE! But until next time...keep the cards and letters coming.

I eloped..........(okay, not really)

We've all heard stories of people who've been dating for years that just wake up one day and decided to get married, right? Maybe they're IN Vegas already. Maybe they juant off to the courthouse and get 'er done. No fanfare, no pomp or pretense. They just slip away to tie the knot and come back with a story to tell.

Well....on Aug. 7th I made a life-altering vow that is, in some ways, akin to eloping. The Air Force and I have been in a "relationship" for more than 14 years. We've had our ups and downs. I have almost walked away more than once. At times, ours has not been a match made in heaven. My time in blue started almost on a whim and there have been almost as many low points as there have been highs. But I came on this deployment with the realization that I was nearing the end of my contact. I was free to walk away once I got home and never look back - no harm, no foul. And I won't lie - in the past five months, that has been a tempting proposition. But 14 years into a 20 year stint is a big investment. To walk away now would be an incredibly difficult decision and one that would likely have ramifications for many, many years to come.

I had been dragging my feet about raising my right hand one last time. We had been mulling it over since late June, thinking of ways to make this last one count. If you know you'll never do something again, you might as well make sure you're doing it the way you want. But, knowing I had some time to make it happen, I figured I would get to it when I got to it....

And then it happened. Sam (who has been described as the "big sexy black man" who's a magician with a Nikon) and I were going flying with a few of my very favorite guys from Bravo 2-18...You remember them? They're the (HOOAH) grenade tossing, 50-cal shooting, hook things up to a helicopter friends I've made out here. The thought was that a small group of us would board the CH-53 for some helicopter aerial refueling and then a flight over Lake Assal.

HAR is when our helicopter flies close enough to the ass-end of a C-130 that I could probably play a decent game of patty-cake with anyone on their plane while they extend a basket and hose for fuel. We then fly into position so we can attach the basket to our probe and they pass us gas - at 6,000 feet in the air. Hmmmmm...sounds SO good in theory. In reality, it's like sitting in a dilapidated Tilt-o-Whirl at your local county fair without a lap belt and no assurance that the ride won't break apart at any second and send you plummeting to your death. A C-130’s propellers spin on the vertical; a helicopter’s spin on the horizontal. That means there are two different aircraft beating the air into submission while trying to mate in the air. This lends itself to something THEY call turbulence. I just like to call it a chance to revisit any meal I might have eaten in this fiscal year. But we all know I'm not fond of flying so I need not describe this process any further.

Lake Assal is the hottest place on Earth (really) and has the saltiest body of water anywhere (really). It looks pretty...it smells like death. So while it's 138 in Djibouti, it's going to be a good 20 degrees hotter at the lake. For those of you who've ever heard the phrase "Anything over 110 and you don't feel it..." I'd like to call shenanigans! You feel every single solitary increase in temperature. It's just that it gets too hot to care. You're no longer able to muster the strength to whine about it, for fear that if you open your mouth your tongue will catch on fire and you'll die a slow, hot, thirsty death.

Soooooooo anyway.... I get an e-mail at like 1 in the afternoon from Lt. Richards that says "Hey Kati, wanna reup TODAY?" Huh? What? Me? Kati who? And then I realized it couldn't be more perfect. It would be JUST what I wanted. I, an Air Force NCO, would be on a U.S. Marine Corp helicopter, being reenlisted by an Army officer while flying over the Gulf of Aden - in a "combat zone." It really doesn't get more "joint force" than that! So, Sgt. Drew Miller procured a flag. Sam had his camera. And we had our kick ass platoon sergeant, SFC Joe Taylor, and my favorite (sarcastic) squad leader, SSG Ray Mackey, on hand to hold the flag. 1st Lt. Richards was there to administer the oath. Nothing extra. No BS. No strap hangers. No hurt feelings because someone was or wasn't invited. Just us, a helicopter and a sunset.

Up until the very second I raised my right hand, I was pretty sure I didn't want to do this again. I have had hesitations every day for the past two years. I am tired of being away from home. I am tired of moving. But the second I stood tall, looked Lt. Richards in the eye and stated my name I knew -without a doubt - that I was doing the best thing possible for myself, my family and our future.

As far as WOW moments go, for me this was right up there. Yes, I have done some really cool things in my life, but the pure feeling of pride and the incredible sense of belonging were amazing. I was blessed to have some very good people with me to share that moment. I wasn't with my family, but I was with people who've made every effort to make me a part of theirs!

Because I can't leave well enough alone...

Today, I'd like to start by polling the audience. By a show of hands, who knows that I just can't leave well enough alone? Very good! I try. I really do. But there are just so many targets of opportunity in my day-to-day dealings that sometimes, my cup runneth over and I feel the need to act.

Case in point? The black flag! A refresher for my military friends; a primer for my civilian readers. The military has never been an organization fond of "free thinking" on the part of its urchins. To be honest, they like to inform of us everything. I'm fairly certain this "information" comes only from committees formed for the sole purpose of holding meetings to establish the need for meetings where they then hold a meeting to discuss the results of the meeting.

When it comes to the ambient temperature, we're not trusted to simply "feel" whether it's warm or not. Someone, somewhere (surely with the help of a committee and contracted scientists who held studies) decided we needed a "system" in place to let us know just how hot it is. I know, I know... My techie friends like to take a more direct route and actually open a door or window and decide for themselves what it feels like outdoors. There is also the camp that likes to get crazy and switch over to the Weather Channel to decide how hot the day will be.

But not the military. The military has settled on FLAGS as the best means to announce the temperature. Before you scoot over to http://www.m-w.com/ to look up the word "flag" and any alternate meanings, let me stop you. By flag, I clearly mean a usually rectangular piece of fabric of distinctive design that is used as a symbol, as a signaling device or as a decoration.

Our flags are much like a color chart for five year olds. Green means good. The weather is nice, you're free to wreak havoc outdoors. Yellow means use caution; it's getting warmer. Red means it's rather hot and you should think before spending a prolonged amount of time in the sun. Then there's black. The black flag means (and this is a loose definition) good lawd it's hot out here. Get indoors. You have no business being out here. Stand in one place too long and you just might burst in to flames.

The problem with this system, for me at least, is that we are in "black flag" here by 8 a.m. - consistently. So as I walk to work in the morning, I see that 3' by 5' piece of nylon mocking me from its place atop the flag pole. It's right there on Main Street for all to see. It would proudly snap in the wind here, but there is NO wind and therefore it hangs there limply, like my spirits each morning when I see it. We're in a place where the LOW (as in l-o-w) was 102 the other day. That's not low - not in golf, not in age, and certainly NOT in tempature.

Now, by 2 p.m., when the mercury has climbed past Africa Hot and is working its way steadily toward 100 and stupid, a black flag just doesn't do justice. The flag has now been on the mast for more than 6 hours of the day. Birds have fallen from the sky simply because it's too hot to fly any farther. But there's the flag - taunting me.

So I decided we needed something that signifies how hot it really is here. Enter the Jolly Roger. And yes, ladies and gentlemen, that is me in the photo. I walked proudly down Main Street at 2:30 in the afternoon, lowered the understated and offensive plain black flag and replaced it with something I deemed much more fitting for the temperatures of mid-July in Djibouti.

Wait, wait... Before you think "Kati, won't you get in TROUBLE for this?" let me tell you. I did my research. It's not vandalism - I didn't actually willfully or maliciously destroy or deface public or private property. It's not theft - I returned the original flag to its rightful owner immediately. And it's not malicious - no one was harmed in the raising of the new flag. I even went so far as to research the regulations regarding the "flags" and read that it must be "black in color and made of nylon or cloth and be at least 3' by 5' in nature." No where did it specify that it must be "unadorned."

WILL I get in trouble for this? Possibly. I'm sure there is someone, somewhere on this camp who will not see the humor in this exercise. I may be accused of "making a mockery" of the flag system (valid) and I might be accused of being "insubordinate" (guilty) but I can tell you this... No one, in my entire life, has ever yelled louder than my father, and a little verbal dressing down never hurt anyone.

I promise you this: should I get reprimanded for my little stunt, I will certainly post the transcripts right here for all to see. And if it comes in the form of a written counseling, I will be sure to ask that they detail my actions. And then I will frame it and hang it for all to see.

Start collecting bail money please. There is a pool being conducting right now "aboard" Camp Lemonier and the smart money has me incarcerated before I actually get on a plane out of here. I don't think it's EVER smart to bet against Kati, but we'll see!

Until next time!

(Look at the random guy taking a pic of my flag as he walked by. HE thought it was funny!)

Am I crazy?

That's me on the far left of the photo, hook in hand, waiting for the CH-53 to drop low enough that we can attach to it.

(Before I start, let me mention that the LOW day before yesterday was 102. So maybe it's the heat getting to me...)

I think I'm crazy. It's official. Remember my "friends" from the Army's 2-18 FAR? The ones that left me in the middle of the Djiboutian desert in the middle of the night as "training"? The same ones who taught me to throw live grenades? Well... here we go again.

Bravo Platoon Sergeant - "Hey Kati...wanna come to sling loads with us?" (Grunt, hooah, grunt)

Kati - Sure, sounds GREAT... (Type, type, enter...Kati frantically looks up the definition of "sling load" on Google. God bless Google, right?)

So I'll save you the search on the world wide web and explain to you what I had no clue about... Here's how it works. You fly on a CH-53. Just so you know, the CH-53 is 88 and a half feet long. It can carry a crew of up to 55 (although that's a bit much and 37 is more standard). It's an inch shy of 25 feet tall. The rotor has a 72 foot diameter. And it weighs 33,500 pounds. So it's not small.

They fly you out to an "airfield" (in Djibouti that's a fancy word for some hard ground in the middle of NOWHERE!) in the desert and you get left (hmmmm...it's becoming a trend with these guys).

There, parked in the middle of the "airfield", is a humvee. This is what you're going to "sling load." You take some pretty churched up ropes and some chains and hook them to the humvee. Then (and this is the part even the Web fails to mention) the helicopter comes over you and hovers. And by "over you" I mean that while this Winnebago with wings is beating the air into submission, you can reach up and slap the belly. It's not like you're standing under the Channel 7 Eyewitness News 'Copter, right? No, it's more like Good Morning Vietnam has landed on your head.

Oh, and just so you know, slapping the belly isn't a wise move. Rumor has it (and I certainly wasn't going to try to disprove THIS theory) that as the helo hovers, it builds up static. So if you touch it before someone grounds it, it will send 75,000 volts through you. Doesn't seem like a fun party trick to me so I decided to avoid that part.

Well anyway, while you're under the helicopter, it's pretty calm. But as it comes in, it's pushing down 194 knots of rotor wash (that's like 220 mph winds for normal people) so you're getting blown around. To combat this, every "hooker" (yes, today I was a hooker - let's just choose to pass that one up please...) has a bracer. A "bracer" is someone who hunkers down, grabs your waist with both arms and braces you to the ground using your weight and theirs. The goal is to combine weights to obtain more than 350 pounds (not too difficult, considering we're all wearing 35 pounds of combat gear and these are grown men). The intent is that you don't want to get tossed around the desert like Raggedy Andy (or in my case, Raggedy Ann).

So there is a "front" man and his bracer, the ground guy and his bracer and the "leg" man (moi) and my bracer. Plus there's a spotter and a safety guy under there. All in all, we're throwing a little party under a machine that God never intended to fly. The intention is that the helicopter will come in, hover, you'll "ground" it and then the hookers (yes, yes, I'm a hooker) will attach their chains to giant hooks extending from the bird. Then you need to get out of there ASAP so they can take off without smacking you with the humvee as they lift it off the ground.

So here's how you get out...You run - backward - as fast as you can. And once you get to the point where the wind is too strong, you drop down to your knees. Then, you pull your feet up, push off with your hands and SLIDE backward on your kneepads as far back as you can, as fast as you can. Really...that's how it works. So now, close your eyes and picture ME, in a helmet and goggles, 35 pounds of body armor and gear, dressed in knee pads, getting tossed around by rotor wash and sliding backward on the hardpack. No, really, try hard. Come on... You can do it! Not so much? It's okay - I wouldn't have believed it either.

As we were under the helo for the first iteration, I looked up and realized that I had the WHEEL of a helicopter swaying at shoulder level and 15 some odd tons of steel bouncing inches from my dome. It was right then that I thought "Maybe this is it... Maybe this is the time I actually went too far and got in over my head..." But as quickly as I had the thought, it was over with, the hook was there, I was connecting the clevise to the hook and getting the heck out of dodge.

Once you're out of the way, the 53 takes off, humvee dangling beneath, flies around the desert and then comes back. It drops the humvee back to earth, shakes off the ropes and flies away. Then we get to reset the ropes and chains and get in position for it to come back and pick up the vehicle again. This, my friends, is sling load training.

Tomorrow, we'll talk about Kati and the joys of spy rigging, but really, I will only have so many "GI Kati" experiences in my life - I want to be able to milk them just a little.

I never thought I'd....

Hunter S. Thompson created a brand of journalism known as "Gonzo journalism." It's a style of journalism where reporters involve themselves in the action to a degree that they become the central figures of their own stories. I have never been a big fan of this style of writing - for my job at least. But I am a firm believer that if I want to write about something, I should at least experience it to some degree.

Now granted, you don't need to subject yourself to near death in a fiery building in order to describe it to your readers. They all know what "hot" feels like and can imagine, on their own, how miserable smoke inhalation may be. But in other cases, I think it's important to actually DO something before you tell anyone about it.

This is where the mission of 2-18 FAR's Combat Search and Rescue team comes in to play. This group of 30+ soldiers is deployed from Ft. Sill, Okla., to Djibouti for the better part of 15 months. And their mission, should it come down to it, is to pull Americans out of harm's way when things go wrong - terribly wrong.

I wanted to write a feature on these guys and what they train for. So I decided to join them on a few of their training missions. Little did I know that my version of "observer" was vastly different from theirs. They asked me to go with them on Sunday night to take part in a simulation (this is a KEY word - because to me, simulation means pretend; to them, it's a different beast all together). I met them on the flight line and geared up (flak vest, helmet, goggles, face protection, night vision goggles, and so on) and they start giving out assignments. The drill calls for four "injured personnel" to be recovered from an aircraft "accident" in the middle of the desert. And guess who one of the "victims" will be?

So I troop out to a running CH-53 helicopter with my three Army "friends" and off we go. We fly for 15 minutes and I realize it's getting awfully dark and I have no real idea where we are... And then we land - on what looks like the surface of the moon. There is nothing out there but lava rocks and powdery dirt. With the bird still running, we're sent out the back and told to start walking for about 100 meters and then lay down and act "injured" - and they take off.

So now I'm in the middle of a desert, in the dark, with three people I have known for a whopping 45 minutes. I think my dad might have warned me about this at some point in my adolescence, but it's all a little vague now. So we start walking - okay, they're "walking" and I'm half running to keep up. We walk for what to ME seems like a few miles but they assure me they have been counting and we're where we're supposed to be.

Out of nowhere I hear the sound of a helicopter coming over the mountain - and then I see gun fire! Yes, SEE. Because the 50 cal in the helo is shooting tracer rounds - about 25 meters from where we are.

I have one "IR" chem light on me. This is a glow stick (like the ones kids have on Halloween) that allows the guys in the air to see you on the ground through their night vision. At this point, I broke open several more, cracked them and starting sticking them anywhere I could find space - just to be SURE the boys in the air could see me.

After 20 minutes of laying down fire, with dust flying everywhere, 15 people came out of NOWHERE to rescue us. It was like a scene from a bad movie - guys in black carrying weapons advancing out of the smoke and dust. They did their "thing" to make sure we were who we said we were, picked us up (literally) and threw us back into a helicopter (the same one that dropped them off, but not the one that was still flying over shooting 50 caliber rounds uncomfortably close to where I was).

After what seemed like a LONG flight back to base, they said "hey, we're going to the range on Tuesday. Want to come blow things up with us?" I guess I was still shell shocked because before I knew it, my head was nodding "yes" even as my mind was screaming "YOU IDIOT - THEY TRIED TO KILL YOU ONCE.... GET AWAY...."

So Tuesday morning, at the crack of dawn (these boys like the dark I guess), I head out to the middle of the desert (yet again) with these guys. This time, we're going to throw grenades (by we, I mean me too, but I took photos so you can all see the proof - I really DO throw like a girl!), fire the AT-4 (the AT part stands for Anti Tank) and the 9mm.

Grenades make a MUCH bigger boom than I ever thought. And the whole John Wayne pull with your teeth and throw shtick? NOT SO MUCH!!! It's funny how your bravado tends to wane just a little when there is a threat of blowing yourself up!

The AT-4 has an amazing concussion...it jammed not one but two of my cameras (and these are GOOD cameras). But when they'd fired the 12th of 18 of these shoulder-mounted rockets, we had a dud. This means it fired but didn't go "boom." So now the nice (yet totally crazy) boys from EOD got to walk out to the middle of the desert, find this 84 caliber round of unexploded KABOOM and drop some C4 on it.

It was at about this point in the day that I realized the people I was writing about are straight crazy... All of them... and that just as I don't need to light myself on fire to image that it would hurt, I also don't need to follow the boys from CSAR around anymore to know that their job is SCARY!!!! So I will sit down in the next day or two and finish the feature on them. But I will complete it without anymore "hands on" experiences. Because I don't need to include myself in their story to the point that I become one of the central figures in some painful "training" accident!

In all honesty though... If it does go wrong one day and someone has to come get me, I hope like hell it's the boys of the 2-18's Charlie battery. I have never met a group of people more dedicated to what they do or more willing to put it all on the line to make sure we all get home safely. So may hats off to them. They're better men than me!

Stop the madness!

It is with glee, gratitude and gladness in my heart that I plead with you to STOP THE MADNESS! After today's mail call, the Triscuit Total (just the unopened boxes, not the ones we've already plowed through) stands at 12. There are officially 14 cans of Easy Cheese still waiting to be consumed. I have Goober in grape AND strawberry. And I have lost count of the vast number of Hostess products that have past through my hands (and lips!). There are cookies and candies, cakes and cards. There are lotions and potions and even an inflatable beach ball!

The contributions to SAIA have come from far and wide. Leigh in Italy tracked down Chewy Runts and endured looks of disdain from a Shoppette cashier (you work at the SHOPPETTE - are you REALLY in a position to look down on someone?) when she bought out their stock. Michelle, who is in the middle of a PCS move, bought out the commissary's pastry aisle just to have her "badass kids" (her words, not mine) eat the cache before she could mail it. She found a Conoco and a CVS and was able to pull it together, though!

I have gotten contributions from people I've never met - Cindy's Aunt Cindy in Pa., for example, made sure my diet NEVER gets back on track. Ian's wonderful girlfriend, Aubrey, has included a little something in each of her care packages that makes me smile. And there have been contributions FOR people you've never met (Cindy is stocked up on Swedish Fish for life - and she says thanks mom!) My parents sent (among other things) bacon cheese to add to the Tricuit goodness. Michele's mom (who has enough to worry about, as her own daughter is serving in Iraq right now) made sure I have what it takes to pamper myself (smell good lotions and pedicure stuff to last for months!). Scott's mom found a way to get homemade cookies here fresh and almost in one piece. Aaron sent Mother's Day cards and roasted garlic goodness with letters from my boys. Rick sent his own Mother's Day love in the form of more calories than I have a right to eat this year... And the list goes on. So, to all those I've mentioned (and those of you I haven't) - THANK YOU!!!!!

My entire office loves you and you have made sure I am smiling during each and every mail call (which are not many, but I ALWAYS have something to look forward to). But we're out of space (both in the office and in our pants!). I no longer need to walk to the chow hall for meals because I have enough packaged, processed, preserved foods to endure a large nuclear holocaust. I honestly laugh with each and every box that comes in. I feel more loved and thought about than I ever thought possible.

Many of you have told me I'm in your prayers. For that, thank you! Just knowing that helps me to sleep much better at night. Honestly!

We're halfway there! I'm five days away from hitting double digits. I am trying not to count days, so I'm counting more manageable milestones. Right now I have seven rotators, eight paydays and 16 Malaria Meds left until I can have REAL Mexican food (chips and salsa here I come!!!).

Thank you again for all your love and support. I really appreciate all you've done to make me smile day in and day out. Please keep the e-mails coming and I'll post new photos as soon as SOMETHING happens that is worth blogging about. And please keep me in your thoughts as I head to the gym to undo the damage of the past six weeks. And if you're looking to send love in the form of tangible gifts, I can always send you the link to my Vickie's wish list!

Queens of da Nile

I can say with full conviction that white water rafting on the Nile is a once in lifetime experience. I mean this quite literally, because never…ever..again in my life will I do something that completely freakin’ stupid!

I have flow in a T-38, twice in an F-16 and once on Fat Albert during an airshow. I have jumped from an airplane at 12,500 feet with 250 pounds of big country strapped to my back. I watched a man I consider my friend eject from an airplane 8/10ths of a second before his Viper hit the ground. I have been on a KC-135 at 8,000 as we took AAA fire. And I have never been this terrified in my entire life. Never!

Two weeks ago, when we knew we were coming to Uganda, Cindy says “Hey, wanna raft on the Nile?” Sounds like a good idea to me – when will I ever get a chance like that again? We have to come out for military to military training. But we will arrive Friday night and our mission won’t start until Sunday. The Global War on Terrorism is funding our airfare and lodging which means we only have to pay the $125 to raft. So I jump all over it and off we go. We take a bus up to Jinga to the headquarters of the Adrift Company. They’re the largest rafting company on the White Nile and have been in business for 12 years. They start their tours about two kilometers from the source of the Nile. The one day tour offers 31 kilometers of rapids, with a stop for lunch halfway through. On the bus, on our way to Jinga, one of the guides tells us a little about the river. He named off rapids (Buogo, Big Brother, The Dead Dutchman, the Bad Thing) and talked about class sizes. I’m not a subscribing member of the International Rapids Rating Association (if such a thing exists) so when you tell me we’ll hit Class II through Class V rapids, I have no frame of reference. This means nothing to me. But it sounds fun, so why not? And once at the site, they told us we had two options. We could be on the “mild” team or the “wild” team. Cindy and I didn’t hesitate when we said “Oh oh… we want WILD!”

Now, this decision would hit me with full force later in the day when I realized two things. First, I fancy myself as being adrenaline junky. But “fancy” is the key word. Because I’m not. Hindsight is always 20/20 and I almost always realize after the fact that some things sound much better in theory. Shooting rapids on the Nile is defiantly one of those things. My second realization was one borne of common sense – and borne just a little too late. I realized that if we’re starting at the top of the river, there is really only one way down. Mild or Wild – those are just terms to make people feel better about themselves. The river is what it is and while I’m not physics major, I do know that what goes up, must come down.

Our boat was an interesting mix of people. Our tour guide was a local Ugandan named Tutu. Tutu is a straight up crazy bastard with a face that resembled one of Michael Vicks’ pit bulls – full of scars, broken teeth and a deranged look in his eyes. We had U.S. Navy Lt. Anthony Seifert (a rescue swimmer who earned his keep), Cindy (all 5’ 3” and a half and 105 pounds soaking wet), an Egyptian in his mid-20s who works for Oracle and isn’t all too comfortable swimming, and a group of four Brits. Toby and Ben are in their early 20s and seemed to be in good shape. The two little pop tarts they brought with them left something to be desired. Emily wouldn’t have actually put forth effort to paddle if her life depended on it and Harriet was even tinier than Cindy and prone to histrionics even before we cleared the first Class II rapid. It took every ounce of self control I had not to bounce her skinny butt overboard in the first 30 minutes. She never used her oar to row – only to gesture wildly while emphasizing points and inadvertently smacking Cindy in the face on several occasions. Lastly was a 54 year old adventure seeker from Alaska named Kathy.

There were five teams plus a safety boat and maybe a dozen rescue swimmers in kayaks in our group. Our team was the first on the river and the first to complete the necessary drills required before the boats can head down. The goal was to complete 16 kilometers and five Class III or higher rapids before we hit the island for lunch. This seemed easy… what did I know? I had never seen a rapid, so again, it meant nothing to me! We started off slowly; a few Class II drops to get our blood pumping and to practice our skills. Then we hit the first real challenge of the day and I learned quickly that I was well out of my element. As we approached the first of the large rapids we would encounter, Harriet starts her horror film soundtrack – screaming, screeching and basically raising my blood pressure and anxiety level before I even know what was coming. We hit a Class IV rapid and we flipped. Now, here’s what flipping entails: there are 10 people in a 10 man raft. Cindy and I are on the left side and our boat flipped left over right. This means that everyone on the left side came over us and then raft ended up on our heads. You’re still getting tossed around in the rinse and spin cycle of the Nile Maytag as this happens, making breathing impossible. There is no way to tell which way is up and now a slight sense of panic has permeated my disorientation. I’m scared and feel like I’ve been under for several minutes when in all reality it couldn’t have been more than 15 seconds. I popped back up, got slapped by another large wave, tumbled again and then spit out toward one of the safety kayaks. He was able to grab me and take me back to the (relative) safety of our raft.

Cindy didn’t fare as well on the first toss (I say first because there were more to follow and they only got progressively worse). Cindy got tossed but managed to surface fairly close to the boat, and even closer to Kathy. Kathy, in a panic, grabbed Cindy for support and drug her under several times. Kathy had Cindy outweighed by a good 50 pounds and had an extra 6 inches or so on her reach, meaning there was no way Cindy was going to be able to fight back. As Kathy was trying to climb Cindy to reach safety, Cindy showed her might by kicking off and swimming away. But the experience left her a little shaken.

Back in the boat, we had a little time to relax as we drifted toward what would become my unintended attempt at suicide. Big Brother was to be our last large rapid before lunch. Tutu warned us that we “might” get tossed and even took us through several drills. He told us that no matter what happened, we needed to hold on to the boat. He stressed several times that this was a dangerous section of the river and that it was imperative we not let go. When we’re talking about matters of life or death, I tend to take instructions quite literally. Thinking that I would add an extra ounce of protection into my day, I placed my left hand in the grab rope on the side of the raft and twisted, almost like I was a bull rider getting ready to leave the chutes at the PBR finals. This was possibly the worst decision I have ever made. We hit the top of Big Brother and I realized it was a seven wave series of rapids that stretched for close to 400 yards. I had a moment of panic as we hit the top and it went downhill from there. Again I was on the left and again we capsized left over right. But this time, I was caught in the rope on with my left hand. This meant that when I hit the water, I had no way to break free. I was at the mercy of the river and our raft. And when our raft righted itself, I was trapped underneath with no way to break free.

Many people talk about “finding God,” as if he were lost and you needed to search for him. I can tell you where he’s NOT. He’s not under a raft 15 kilometers down the Nile. I know this because I called for him many, many times…. It sounded a little like this: “Oh God, oh God, please, sweet Jesus, Lord have mercy…” And I realized that even while panicked, I have the ability to negotiate. That sounds a little like this: “God, please get me out of here. If you let me surface, I promise to be a better person. I’ll stop making fun of people as much, I’ll try to be more patient with the stupid people I encounter, I’ll stop offering unsolicited fashion advice to the ill dressed… You name it God, I’m in…”

I finally twisted free of our raft and surfaced, only to be smacked with our boat once more. I went under and when I came back up, after getting spit out of the center of this cyclone, I was more than 100 yards from our raft and completely alone. I could see Anthony back in our righted raft and searching for me and then I was snagged once again by an angel in a kayak. Cindy was scanning the water frantically trying to see where I was and I was hanging on to Henry (the rescue swimmer) while vomiting the several liters of water I had inhaled thus far. I was shell shocked at this point and not sure I had any desire to get back into anyone’s boat. I was thrown into another team’s raft and their guide did his best to soothe my nerves and I sat wide eyed and speechless, giving thanks while hatching an escape plan.

I was sent back to my boat and we had a chance again to relax before lunch. At lunch I was trying to figure out why I didn’t choose the half-day rafting adventure, knowing that I would be done by now and not preparing to face another 17 kilometers of rapids. But I didn’t have long to dwell before we were strapping the helmets back on and heading out again. And I couldn’t figure out, exactly, how so many teams were still dry when our team spent more time in the water than in our raft. It seems that with enough money, you CAN pay your guide to keep your boat righted. Hmmmm…. I have no problem paying for good services. Why didn’t I think of that? But it was too late now – we were back in the boats and out again.

The first hour after lunch was nothing but flat pools and a lot of chances to jump from the boat, swim and relax. This gave me time to talk myself out of my marathon anxiety attack. And just when I thought it wasn’t so bad, Tutu starts taking about a waterfall and throwing out options. First, we have to navigate around a Class VI rapid called “The Dead Dutchman.” I’m sorry – dead? You don’t name a rapid “The Dead Dutchman” unless there was a Dutchman who went over it and is now DEAD. I wasn’t finding comfort in this statement but I didn’t have time to ponder because it was decision time. We could go AROUND the waterfall, or we could go OVER it. Wow. I don’t see that as being a choice. Why godf over? But we did pay good money for this adventure and I didn't want to be the spoil sport here. Cindy shot me a look, told me (and I quote) to “cowboy up, find my balls and put on my game face” and I knew we were going over. But we couldn’t just go. We had to sit AT THE TOP, tied to some reeds, and wait for the safety boat to catch up. Then we even got to watch one or two rafts go over ahead of us, providing ample time for my anxiety to reproduce faster rabbits in the spring. But I managed to talk myself through it – until we were cresting the waterfall and got stuck. Yes, the other boats went over nose first. But we were special. We got to hit the falls right side (still my side) first and hang there at the apex for an indeterminable amount of time before crashing over and hitting the bottom. Somehow, oddly enough, we stayed rightside up and I was pumped. For about 30 seconds. Then we sat at the bottom and watched the last of the boats come over. And on the very last raft, someone got tossed. And he got caught in the waterfall. (By the way - he was on the mild raft. Mild my ass!)

Now if you’ve never seen an object hit the bottom of a waterfall and get caught in the tumble, I have to tell you, it’s a breathtaking sight. But when it’s a person and they can’t flush free, it’s a different story. As the rescue boats were trying their damnedest to pull him out, I was desperately looking for ways to step off our boat and on to the safety of land. I figured that at this point, I could walk down to the final landing, meet the group there and still have a great story to tell. But there was no way for me to bail so instead I got to watch in horror as they freed the guy. They pulled him to safety in the amount of time it took me to work on a whole new panic attack and then we were off once again.

The final hurdle of the day was a rapid called “The Bad Thing.” A picture may be worth 1,000 words, but sometimes a name says it all. It really was a BAD THING. In order to get to the Bad Thing, we had to beach our raft and walk about 100 meters through the jungle to get around another Class VI rapid too strong to navigate by boat. Once on the other side, we were given our last option of the day. We were told we could split our team and take another boat. You could do the Bad Thing, with a 50/50 chance of flipping, or you could take the safety boat, float around it and be done for the day. Harriet was long gone by now, having opted some time ago for the safety boat. I was already in our boat when this option was presented, and feeling like I had nothing to prove, was quite ready to jump to the safety boat. But by now, a crowd had formed on the banks and in order to get to the safety boat, I would have had to step off our boat and walk through them. And I couldn’t do it. I realized I would rather swallow more Nile than swallow my pride and before I knew it, I heard the words “Screw it – let’s do it” coming out of my mouth and we were off one last time.

I knew before we were even at the top of the Bad Thing that we were going over one last time. There was no doubt in my mind that we were flipping. So I picked the left side of the boat and started talking myself through it. Sure enough, we went under the first wave, through the second and over the third – and we were airborne. As soon as I realized we were flying, I planted my feet on the side of the boat and kicked with all I had. I managed to clear the people on the right – by quite a bit – before hitting the water. And then it was game on. I grabbed my vest with both hands, shut my eyes and held on for dear life. I flipped and tumbled a few times, I inhaled more water than is recommended by the USDA, but I was okay. And never, ever so happy in my entire life.

We came to the end of our adventure - which includes beaching your raft, climbing some 500 meters up a cliff covered in wet mud while carrying your gear - and were done. For the 30 minutes after, the 90 minutes on the bus back to Kampala, the hour in the car back to the hotel and the two hours it took me to fall asleep, I still felt like I was on a boat. At night, sometimes as I drift off to sleep I feel like I'm falling. Last night, I felt like my bed was about to capsize. I may very well have PTSD from this adventure. And given the amount of water I swallowed, I'm pretty sure that there is a case of dysentery in my near future. Every drop of water I had had since yesterday evening still tastes like the river. I'm black and blue from toe to torso, I think I have whiplash and I'm pretty sure that the sunburn on the tops of my legs has reached an epic level. But I have a tee shirt, tons of photos and a great story to tell - a story that I'm sure will only get better with time.

On a final note, we were on the White Nile in Uganda. The portion of river that we were on will cease to exist after about 2010 as they are creating a new damn in the area and diverting the water. Knowing that I conquered a portion of water that will soon no longer be traversable by man gives me a slight feeling of pride and awe. But that still doesn't mean you could pay me to ever put myself through that again!

Lord only knows what Cindy will come up with next. And I can almost promise you that no matter what her next suggestion is, I'll say "Sure, let's do it" and then once find myself wondering what the hell I'm doing in whatever situation we find ourselves in!

It's hotter than Hell

The high yesterday in Hell, Mich., was 62 degrees. The high on Camp Lemonier yesterday was 123 on the wet bulb. That means, by my math, it is almost twice as hot in Africa than it is in Hell. And it's only early May. My friend Ian fondly tells us every day "It's only going to get hotter..." Because THAT goes far is making me feel better about this plight, right?

We've run out of fun little euphuisms for hot. I used to say "It's Africa hot..." but now I know it was never THAT hot. And we used to say "Wow, who turned the thermostat to Africa..." but I realize now that no thermostat in the U.S. has a setting close to what you'll find here. When I said "It's 100 and stupid out" I couldn't have know at the time that nothing has ever been this stupid.

A lesser known fact - Djibouti, Africa has the highest recorded temperature of any inhabited place in the world (there are hotter places, but no one is retarded enough to LIVE there.) It's already a level of hot that defies comprehension. I can't explain what it feels like to walk to lunch when there is 86 percent humidity and the asphalt has caught fire around you. There are some clouds that look to threaten rain but those aren't actually clouds. They are actually an accumulation of smoke from all of the places on camp that just spontaneously combusted throughout the day.

I'm escaping the misery for a little over a week as Cindy and I hit the road. They're unleashing us on the continent again without adult supervision. And this time, we get a day off. So, not ones to waste a chance to make this war count, we're going to white water raft on the Nile. We have found a company (http://www.blogger.com/www.adrift.ug) that will allow us to spend a day shooting the Nile, provides lunch and will even pick us up at a hotel and drop us back off. The Global War on Terror is funding our airfare to and from and even covering our hotel. So all we have to pay is the $125 for the day trip. I pray that I will never have to come back to this Godforsaken land so I'm going to enjoy it while I can.

The company also provided us an option for "Nile High Bungee" jumping. You jump from a bridge, your head dips into the water and then you snap back up. For about a day I thought this was a stellar idea. Cindy tried to talk me out of it by saying "Do you REALLY trust someone in Africa to ensure the bungee is safe?" But I didn't find it any different than trusting some 19 year old on meth at Fiesta Village to secure my bungee. But she won on Logic - Round Two. She pointed out that Karma is a bitch and that bitch doesn't like me. Therefore, as Cindy pointed out, the odds are fairly good that I would be "THAT" girl - the one who popped back out of the water just in time to have a large Nile croc jump out and eat my head. I'm sure it would make for great photo and video, I don't think I want to risk it. So instead I'll just stand on the bridge and make fun of everyone else who may or may not get eaten. I was going to open up the "jump or no jump" poll to American voters and let you be the judge. The column with the most responses would have won. But I don't trust all of my friends enough to vote with my best interests at heart. So we won't be jumping off of any bridges (real or proverbial) any time soon.

On a separate note, the good people at Armed Forces Entertainment brought the Edwin McCain Band out to perform for us last night. If you just said "Who?", don't feel badly. He released the 1997 hit (I mean that so loosely) "I'll Be" and the 1999 radio pop gem "I Could Not Ask For More." After that, I think he might have written some television theme songs for the WB but I don't think he was selling out any amphitheaters anywhere. So where do you go when you're a fallen pop star looking to resurrect your career? I guess the answer to that is "Djibouti." Because there is nothing that will invigorate record sales faster than crooning ballads to semi-intoxicated sailors serving shore duty on the surface of the sun. But it was free, so I really shouldn't bitch. (I WILL, I just shouldn't... There's a big difference!)

That's all the news that's fit to report. Since I will be out of communication for a while, I'd like to take this renta-space to wish all of the mothers in my life (and two very special mommies to be - Jessica and Amy) a very happy Mother's Day. I hope your Sunday brings everything you could wish for - sleep, a clean kitchen, positive numbers in your bank accounts, positive control of the TiVo remote and no trips to the emergency room! I love you all!

Caught with my pants down

In case you've ever wondered what you would do if you got caught with your pants down... let me give you the answer. But first, there is some background required, so bear with me a second.

We live in what are called "Containerized Living Units." The CLUs are sea/land shipping containers sightly retrofitted to be livable. By sea/land container, I mean the Corrugated tin Maersk rectangular boxes you see at ports, on ships and passing by on trains. They're 32 feet long and 7 feet wide, divided in half. There are two people living in each side. This means that Nikki and I share a 17 by 7 space filled with two beds, four wall lockers, a small desk and two chairs. Essentially, I have about 11 inches of personal space in my CLU when all is said and done. I have less room than my cousin's ex-husband had when he was serving time in the Tehachapi State Prison - and HE got time off for good behavior!

Now, I'm blessed to have Nikki as my CLU-mate. She is my age, my rank, a single mom, she's clean, she's polite. It's great! And we have a system... whoever gets home second knocks before we open the door just to alert the other - just a little courtesy right?

So last week, I get back from work first. I walk to the back of the CLU to get out of my uniform. I have my clothes in my hand, I have set my things on my bed. I'm very obviously in MY CLU. So there I am, left hand on the wall, right foot on the floor, left foot raised, pants around my ankles half bent over trying to pull my pant leg off. And WHAM - my door swings WIDE open. I freeze. I can't move... I'm stunned and confused. There, standing at my door is Pat from SNL - I wasn't sure if it was a man or a woman. He/she looks at me, swings the door closed to look at the "address" and then swings it back open. I'm still frozen... Again, he/she swings the door closed to look at the number and make sure it's MY CLU. And now I'm starting to doubt myself. Sure, it's my pink sheets on the bed and my fluffy towel on the hook. It's even my clothes in my hand. But I'm seriously starting to think that maybe I am in someone else's CLU. That's how surreal this is.

Now, after take two of the door check I realize it's a woman who needs to either fire her hair dresser or purchase a mirror from Drugstore.com and I'm starting to think about what "high maintenance female" tips I might be able to lend her to transition her from the "Pat" look into something a little less 1980 and a little more 2008. But then she COMES IN and shuts the door! She stands in the doorway of my house (yes, I'm still half naked, white hiney in the air, hand on the wall) and says "Wow, I guess I'm in the wrong unit..." and then, as abruptly as she appeared, she left. Just like that - gone.

I now know the answer to what I'd ever say if I got caught with my pants down... Not a damn thing people; not a damn thing!

This kind of stuff doesn't happen to other people, does it?

For less than $1, you can feed...ME!

Did you know there are currently people starving in Africa? Okay, maybe not starving, but there are (white) people in Africa who just aren't gettin the good stuff folks. I know, I know, sad but true.

But YOU can help. From right there in your own town. You can choose to sponsor today's featured "Starving American in Africa" with our "Send the Junk Food" program. Yes, for less than $1 a day, you can make all our junk food dreams come true.

Here's how "Send the Junk Food" program works... One trip to your local Piggly Wiggly is all you need (for those of you in Calif., a PW is a grocery store, but I'd prefer you go to Smiths....). Once there, hit up the cookie/cake/cracker aisle. It's just that simple...

Here's what Starving Americans in Africa need. Hostess! Not Little Debbies
(although Entamins might work...) Hostess - namely Ding Dongs and cupcakes but SAIA will eat anything short of those horrid pink SnoBall disasters that should have been banned shortly after Red Dye No. 7 was banished. And, if you're in the Northeasten U.S., the BEST choice would be Tastee Kakes with their Coffee Cake goodness. Mmmmm.... Tastee Kakes!

The next is a tricky one - ROASTED GARLIC Triscuits and EZ Cheese. (EX Cheese is spray cheese in a can....) Regular SAIA Gold Star donors have run into a supply shortage. It seems that Roasted Garlic Triscuits aren't as easy to come by as they once were. So if you happen to see a box, grab it now while supplies last.

And last, but this one isn't easy either, there is an urgent need for Chewy Runts. Not regular Runts, which are easy to find and honestly a disgusting candy, but the illusive yet coveted Chewy Runts. The SAIA safe house is at a zero balance and the clock is ticking!

If you would like to help a Starving American in Africa but participating in the "Send the Junk Food" program, please send your donations (food product only, no cash) to:

Tech Sgt Katherine Garcia
CJTF-HOA/PAO
FPO AE 09363

The Americans in Africa love you for it!

What the H#LL am I doing???

Have you ever had a moment in your life where you stopped, considered your surroundings and had to ask yourself "What the H#LL am I doing here?!?" Well, I did!!!!

We just took a trip to Uganda and Ethiopia and had an incredible time. We started out in southern Uganda at military to military training. There was a Uganda People's Defence Force soldier who ran the U.S. Army PT test (two miles) in 10:39 - BAREFOOT! And the guy who came in second ran it in 11 minutes flat - in FLIP FLOPS! These people can run!

Once we left there, we took a seven hour car ride on the highway of death to northern Uganda. We were roughly 30 km from the Sudan border, which I thought was pretty cool. We were up there for a veterinary civil action program. I will post the stories from the VetCap soon so you can read about some of the pretty cool things we're doing out here. This is actually a project I believe in.

I'm too ADHD to just sit and watch ANYTHING in life, so on day 1, I told the Army vets that I wanted to get involved. Thank God for Maj. Nina DiPinto - she told me to grab a needle and jump right in. By mid-morning, Cindy and I had learned how to age calves and goats, give shots (some on the rump, some in the neck), how to give the deworming "drench" and how to soak the skin to get rid of ticks. We treated cows, goats, sheep, pigs, dogs (and Cindy got a monkey on a leash too!)

At some point in the middle of the second afternoon, I realized that I was in a field in the middle of Uganda, wading through cow patties to wrestle a calf to the ground when it hit me - What The H#LL Am I Doing Here?!? Don't get me wrong - I had a BLAST! Fourteen years ago when I joined the Air Force, no one could have convinced me that this is where I'd be today. Even as I was there, I really couldn't believe it was happening.

But in typical Kati fashion, I did manage to elicit smiles from the locals - again at my own expense! So here we are, halfway through day 2 and a farmer tells the vets one of his cows is sick. Turns out this poor animal has a softball sized cyst on his rear flank. They need to drain it. This is the point where we all need to remember that I'm the southern California blonde girl. I didn't grow up on a farm and I believe that happy cheese comes from happy cows that I see while driving down the 60 to my grandparents' house. I had no idea what "draining a cyst" might entail. Yeah... I won't scar your mind's eye with the details. I will just fast forward to the part of the story where the smell hits me. It was a stench that I can't even being to describe (be thankful for that!)

Next thing I know, I'm on my knees in the grass giving back to the Earth the meager breakfast I had consumed hours before. This doesn't bother me so much... I've always had a weak stomach and I'm not new to the regurgitation game. What DID bother me was what comes next.

I look over to my right and see a cluster of local village women. And they're LAUGHING. Yes, they're pointing, laughing and mocking me. These are women who have never thought to don a bra, keep their babies strapped to their backs and gaily walk barefoot through cow sh!t all day long and THEY'RE LAUGHING AT ME!!!!

So I did the only thing I could do at that point... I rinsed my mouth, smiled, waved for the crowd and went back to work... once again wondering "What The H#LL Am I Doing Here?!?"

3 (stupid) white people and some monkeys

Cliches are cliches for a reason... They're trite, but they usually express a popular or common thought or one that as lost it's originality.

So... Cindy, JT and I became a cliche in Uganda. In every scary movie from the 1990s, the stupid white people were the cliche. You know the scene - two couples pull up to a house in the woods. There is no power. Couple one sneaks off for a quick romp, boy two heads outside (alone) to get wood for a fire and the girl (always a blonde) heads up to take shower. And everyone is yelling at the screen - "NO white people... don't do it. You'll die!!!!" Well, we weren't THAT bad, but we were close.

Now, one of our hotels in Uganda was on the shores of Lake Victoria (we'll get to that later) and they have monkeys all over the grounds. The signs are large - red and white, albeit misspelled - and clearly state "Do Not Feed or Play With The Monkies." We saw the signs... we even photographed one. But they're MONKEYS!!! And how can you resist?

So we head for the bar, grab a beer and walk down to "watch" the monkeys. But we're not close enough. We have to get closer (cue the Stupid White People music). So we sit and watch the monkeys for a while and then walk through them to a get a better view of the lake. No problems. And then we head back, and have to walk straight through them to get back to the building. This is where the problems start... Monkeys on the left, monkeys on the right. And then they start to hiss and charge. Cindy and I run away from each other, cross back in front of each other, and then STOP and literally cling to each other (maybe if we're BIGGER, the monkeys will be scared!) and freeze. JT takes off in the other direction and gets surrounded. Now we're panicked and at least two of us (I'll let you guess which two) are screaming like little girls.

This is where the locals (who have been watching the Stupid White People from afar) come to our rescue. A janitor of sorts simply steps in, hollers one word at the monkeys and off they go. Seems they were much more scared of him than we were of them!

As we scurried off to our table for dinner, we turned around to see a group of hotel employees having quite a laugh at our expense. And that's when it hit me - we became their walking, talking white people cliche!

That's typical Kati - bringing smiles to people all around the world... even when it's at my own expense!

Oh oh... Lake Victoria. It's gorgeous! It's huge and looks like an ocean. It has small waves, an island - - - and it's toxic. We were warned by 100 different sources to stay off the shores. It seems that around 1972, Idi Amin launched a campaign of persecution, murdering between 100,000 and 500,000 (most sources say 300,000) people. He ordered their bodies dumped into Lake Victoria and the Nile. These bodies turned the underwater graveyard into a freshwater source of such yummy diseases as Hep C and the Marburgvirus. As depressing as this was to hear, it was still incredible to be at a place that has such a profound history for an entire continent.

Pimpin ain't easy...

It's true... No matter where you are, no matter what the conditions - pimpin AIN'T easy. Haha!

This picture was taken yesterday in Dammerjog, Djibouti. The trains here are used for people-transport. This is like the Amtrak of Djibouti. People jump on moving trains, they sit on the top, they hang off the back, they pile in the box cars. It's insane. But I've learned something in my travels - - - in EVERY community in the world, there is one person who chose buying a pimp hat over buying a mirror.

Check out that hat! And look at his stance. NO ONE here stands up straight. But this guy? He's ALL over it. Pimp hat. Pimp stance. If I had to caption this photo, I'd just assume that Mr. P-I-M-P was getting ready to shake down the man in white. But hey, that's just me!

(Photo courtesy of Air Force photographer extraordinaire J.T. Lock - proof that one pimp will ALWAYS recognize another!)

Musings from the front

Things here have been hectic but good. I will be traveling to Uganda and then Kenya and will be out of touch for the first three weeks of April... But remember the rule - no news is good news.

Last night was my first English Discussion Group. It was an amazing experience and one I plan to take part in often! We went to a one-room school house (literally) that was packed with people.

This group was mostly males between 16 and 24, but there were a handful of women as well. The students pick the topics (last night was health and how their country can develop) and then we talk conversationally, writing key words on a board in the front and letting them (kindly) correct each other.

I was moved by how passionate they are about life. They see the situation they're in and know they want better. And they are working so hard to better their lives. They listen to Voice of America radio just to learn more conversational English and enjoy the weekly exchanges they get with actual Americans.

I received my first care package on Sunday! It was, and I quote, "enough pesticides to conduct a bug holocaust on all my areas..." but it was wonderful to receive mail (thank you Scotty!) from home. Now I just need someone willing to send me a Swiffer Wet Jet to clean my CLU (it is NOT an apartment!) so that maybe I don't be afraid to take my shoes off at the end of the day. I tried to order one on drugstore.com but they won't ship to an FPO for that item. Hmmmm... Go figure. I have the Wet Jet liquid and plenty of pads here. They shipped THOSE. But they won't ship the actual apparatus.

On to much more somber news... We lost a Marine on Easter Sunday. LCpl Dustin Canham was 22 years old and he and his wife were married just 5 months ago. I can not imagine the agony his family must feel knowing that they will never see their loved one again. And somehow, it seems to me that receiving the news on Easter is a double blow. So I ask that tonight and every night you keep the Canhams and all of America's service members and their families in your prayers.

Snorkeling off the coast of Africa

Well, the powers that be at Camp Lemonier* decided the perfect way for 1,800 adults to celebrate Easter was to have the Easter Bunny make an appearance. Because, really, what better way is there to remind us all that we're away from our children for yet another holiday? But really, that's not the point of today's blog...

If there is a way to turn a deployment supporting the Global War on Terror into a sightseeing trip, you all know I'll find it. I did not fly all this way (and survive a rather rough cop-and-feel session with TSA) to not SEE Africa while I was in Africa.

Yesterday was my first day off since before leaving Little Rock. A group of five of us jumped on an MWR-sponsored trip to Moucha Island (a small island off the coast of Djibouti). And it was amazing. On the boat-ride out, we even saw dolphins (yes Amanda, even the dolphins are black in Africa).

We stole some ice from the chow hall, brought a cooler and some music, packed a few towels and we were set. Amanda (our legal council), Cindy (the resident videographer), JT (combat camera and the 2007 Air Force photographer of the year!), Ian (my photojournalist) and myself made up the motley crew. And a perfect crew it was. There was no drama - no bickering, no fights, no temper tantrums. Just sun, sand, and smiles. If I didn't look too closely at my surroundings, I could have been on a beach anywhere - Cabo, Tahiti, Pensacola.

I learned to swim when I was 5 and I don't think I was much older than 7 when my dad first taught me to snorkel. That is something I am very grateful for. We spent $6 a piece to rent rather new snorkel equipment and off we went. As the tide went out, we were no more than 5 feet above the reefs at points. We saw a baby stingray, a giant clam, eels, and every fish you can imagine. It was like swimming through the saltwater tank in your dentist's office. (Not MY dentist's office though, because my dentist currently operates out of a tent just down the gravel path from my office.) There were schools of silverfish and angel fish of every size.

Being that this island is located on the surface of the sun, sunblock was a necessity. I wouldn't describe my skin as translucent, but I will say that I might have glowed under a black light before yesterday's adventure. I applied the SPF 30 diligently - every 30 minutes. I used one full bottle. And it was new. But still.... I got color. I'm tan in most places now, but there are some spots (like the tops of my feet!!!!) that didn't fare as well. But I'll take it - because I can now say I snorkeled off the coast of Eastern Africa. And really, how many people do we know that can say that?

My goal while I'm here is to work hard and play hard. I focus on the mission, but given the chance, I am going to see every thing that there is to see. I refuse to turn down an opportunity to leave this camp - even if it's to visit the Somalia Refugee Camps that border our base. I figure (and hope) that I will never been back to Africa, so I plan to see it all this time around.

Next stop - Uganda. I will be sure to take a lot of photos while we're down there (It's me, Cindy and JT for that trip) and I hope to be able to post some of the articles I'll be doing on our missions out there. Next month I'll be in Kenya as well. So there is a lot of travel ahead. I'll keep you all posted as the time goes on.

* Camp Lemonier is my home for these 6 months. It's pronounced "Lemonade" but without the D and with an obnoxious French accent.

AND MIDGETS* TOO

STOP! If you haven't read the monkey blog, please scroll down and read the blog entry just below this one. It will help you, trust me. Now, let's carry on...

I CAN COME HOME NOW!!!! My life is almost complete! Yesterday, at 9:30 a.m. I saw monkeys. And then.... wait for it... at 9:30 last night - I SAW A MIDGET. Not only did I SEE a midget, I took my photo with her.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. In this case, that picture was worth a thousand Djiboutian francs. We went out to Djibouti City as an office last night for Jen and Wes's going away dinner. If you have ever been to a Mexican boarder town, that is a lot like what Djibouti City is. But worse. There are people hawking things on every corner. And in the middle of the streets. Lots of panhandling and lots of crap trinkets for more money than they're worth. Lots of kids yelling something that I think is the Somalia equivalent of "Chicklet...chicklet..." but I don't speak the language yet, so I don't know.

The little African midget woman was selling cigarettes and necklaces, neither of which I wanted. But she WAS more than willing to pose for a photo with me - for a price. And hey, I'm not above paying for what I consider an experience of a lifetime. I've waited 33 years for midgets and monkeys. And to be able to have both, in one day, in AFRICA was really the highlight of my trip thus far. What can I say, I set my sights low (hehe, no pun intended.)

Dinner was bad pizza at an expensive price. And we got ripped off - twice. And had to pay someone to "watch" our vehicle before we could get back into it. And I think we almost died twice on the road. Um... 4 lanes and no traffic laws. I'm not lying. No traffic laws at all. It's like the bumper cars at Knot's Berry Farm mixed in a little with 13 year boys on Go Karts - driving blindfolded. We had to avoid Djiboutians on bikes. And men in skirts and flip-flops. And goats. And dogs. And a truck full of camels (man I wish I had my eyes open and camera ready for THAT picture. But I was knee deep in my 14th round of Our Fathers at that point and just praying we made it there safely. I DID not fly all this way to die in a van versus camel accident 10 clicks from the front gate!)

On a side note, I get a 96 hour liberty pass while I'm here and there is a group of us thinking of taking a safari in Tanzania in late May as a "happy birthday to me" and a happy birthday to Cindy too. Her birthday is a month after mine, but we're afraid if we split the difference and try to go in late June, we both might just catch fire. She's as fair and blonde as I am and we both might spontaneously combust if we get THAT close to the sun. Rumor has it that it's still a bit cool (hahahahahaha - as compared to the surface of the sun maybe) in May and therefore more bearable. I know the thought of four girls on safari in Tanzania might be a scary thought for some people. But don't worry - I'm planning accordingly. We are looking for a fifth person now. And we're auditioning based on body composition and physical fitness scores - we need a cubby girl who can't run. You know that if we're being chased, they'll always pick off the slowest, so as long as we have someone to bait them with, we'll be fine. SEE - I AM practicing operational risk management even in my off time.

* Yes yes, Michele. I know there is a difference between "midgets" and "little people" and "dwarves." I do. But somehow, I just don't think saying "There's nothing in life funnier than achondroplasia disproportionate dwarfism and monkeys" has the same ring to it. So... for the purpose of this blog, we'll stick with "midgets and monkeys." The journalist in me feels it necessary to explain that I know the difference. But the ADHD 12 year old hiding in my brain loves the alliteration too much to stop saying it. Hehe