So, let me tell you about some vehicles and other things I traveled in coming here. (Also, a little note: all the photos on the post are off the internet, not my own. I didn’t have my camera handy during any of this traveling about.)
We left Fort Benning, Georgia, to travel to Kuwait on a military-chartered commercial jet, with a 2-hour stop in a small German city. During the stopover in Germany, I found some comfortable chairs I could stretch out on, and, along with a lot of other people who stretched out similarly, both contractors (like me) and military, I dozed off. I thought ours was the only military flight stopped there at that time, so I figured that as long as I could see the woman in uniform across from me, when I occasionally surfaced from sleep, I was fine; no doubt we must be on the same plane. I drifted in and out of dreams, dead tired. At some point, I heard them call for a flight, but assumed it wasn’t mine because I thought everyone in this holding area was on the same plane and my woman in army wear was still there.
And then, a little while later, I was shaken awake by someone, and asked, “Ma’am? Are you on that other world flight?” And for just a moment, a second or two, I was completely bewildered. I sat up and stared at him. Other world? Well, I HAD been dreaming, that’s otherworldly, and I have entered into a completely new world to me – that of the American military. And then my common sense woke up too, and I registered: I had seen a World logo on the wingtip of the plane, and on the safety procedures card. I said, “um, maybe; yes, yes, that could be,” and got up and followed the man to an exit. Sure enough, there was the tarmac bus all full of familiar faces, waiting. Luckily, there were three of us (all contractors, of course) who pulled this stunt, and I was the first one they hustled back, so my guilty embarrassment was mitigated somewhat by that.
Sleeping quarter tents in Ali Al Salem Air Base in Kuwait.
Between my arrival in Kuwait, and my arrival in Union III, which is one of the bases in Baghdad, I was on my own. This stretch was where the helpful, chivalrous tendencies of American men (and women too, actually) saved the day. I have never received so much unasked for, but very much appreciated and welcome, assistance in carrying stuff, as from these people throughout the entire journey. Two duffel bags, one with a lot of armour and helmet, and two carry-ons, each with a laptop, proved well beyond the puny muscles I carry on these sticks I call arms. (I have made and broken several promises to myself to start attending the gym here to rectify that before I head back.) I could only manage my own stuff if I did it in three trips, thereby necessarily abandoning some two-thirds of it during most of the procedure.
We arrived in Kuwait in the evening, were bused to a military airfield, and there in the dark hot night, we formed chain lines to unload our bags from the trucks. In my line, there were three of us women contractors, all kind of weak and sissyish, next to each other. So the guys arranged the line so that we stood as our own little parallel, offshoot line of three, and when a light bag would come along, they’d give it to us, but any heavy bags, they would pass along their own side. It was very sweet, because I think it was actually more work to include us, but they were trying to make us feel we were doing something useful.
Living large at Ali Al Salem! I don't know where these people got pillows. They must have brought them. I just laid my little fleece blanket on the bed to separate me from some of the sand it was coated in, and used a sweater for a pillow. I slept soundly though, so I can't complain really.
That Kuwait airfield was a funny place. I was only there for about 18 hours, and that was quite enough for me, thanks very much. It’s a very transient place. Everyone’s waiting to go somewhere else, sleeping in tents, (which always have to have the fluorescent lights on – day and night, because people come and go day and night) with no bedding provided, walking across the hot gravel and sand out to the bathroom buildings or to the food area. To leave this little patch of heaven, you go to the big flight-scheduling/waiting building, and get yourself placed on a list for your destination. After that, you’re responsible for checking the schedule, and then, for every time which is posted for your destination, you just have to show up, 3 hours early and hope to get a seat. My first flight option was for 7:00 a.m., so I dragged myself and my bags over to the building for the 4:00 a.m. show time and waited, hoping to make that flight. No such luck. Dragged all my stuff back to temporary baggage storage (with help from my new friend Terrance), went to have a shower and a nap until my next show time – noon. Woke up at 11:30 and ran back to the flight manifest building. This time, thank God, I was high enough on the list to get called! If you miss one of the show times and your name is called, but you’re not there to answer, it goes down to the bottom of the list. But, after my lapse in Germany, I had turned over a new, responsible leaf!
So, I was now manifested to fly on a C-130, which meant nothing to me, until we arrived at the airplane. I don’t know if many other people are familiar with this kind of aircraft, but it’s no commercial jetliner. It’s a big open plane inside, with a lot of the mechanics visible around you. You’re not tucked inside a cozy little shell with overhead compartments and movie screens and soft, reclinable seats with trays, perhaps a window, and a tidily coiffed flight attendant to bring you food and drink. No, no, no. The seating is all lined up vertically in four rows, facing the sides of the plane. Everyone’s carry-on is piled up at your collective feet. There are two rows, one each along the inside walls of the plane, facing each other, and two, back to back along the center line. Ear plugs are handed out before take off – very necessary! – and we had to wear our armour. There was no AC, that is NO air-conditioning. And it’s very, very hot in Kuwait. Everyone’s face was covered in a sheen of sweat, sometimes rivers of sweat. It was not a comfortable ride. We were jam packed in there, I tell you. When one of the crew had to go past us, he literally had to climb over us. See photo below, that I found on the web, which illustrates this exactly.
This image is off the internet, but it was just like this, possibly even more crowded with all the rucksacks.
But it was quite interesting. I mean, when they move the wing flaps, you can see the mechanism moving on the ceiling, like a big axle (at least I think that’s what it was for). When the landing gear was lowered, I could see a bit of it from my seat. Duffel bags were on a pallet in the back, at the end of the seat rows. We entered and exited through the back of the plane where the pallet was placed once we were all on board. Upon approaching Baghdad, I guess they don’t like to take it too slow and shallow on the descent, because that would make the plane more vulnerable for longer, so we quite suddenly began dropping, and I think, spiraling, down. Oooooh, not a nice feeling. I was eyeing up those puke bags on the wall of the plane with some keen interest. At one point I felt like we briefly flirted with zero gravity, though that’s probably an exaggeration… maybe it was half gravity though? Like when a fast elevator suddenly starts its descent. Not helpful for nausea, I can report. Constant yawning, nose holding, and swallowing activities for ear-clearing purposes were the order of the day. We landed with no puking, thank God. Upon arrival, we all filed out the back, and out a ways down from the plane before turning and looping back up towards the entrance to the airport. I guess the circuitous route was to keep us away from the propellers, but they were still blowing a strong, hot wind; it was kind of like standing downwind of a giant hair dryer. 
To move around between bases — and I needed to first go to a base which was two bases along from where we landed — people are transported in different kinds of armoured vehicles called Rhinos (big and grey) and Ice-cream trucks (boxy and white) whose names, of course, are based on how they look. And that’s how I got to Union III in Baghdad, where I settled in for a few days of in-processing and an unsuccessful attempt at jet-lag recovering.
A Rhino, only ours was dark grey.
Ice cream truck - only no actual ice cream is be had from this one.
However, it wasn’t to be long stay, and 2 and half days after arriving, I was quite suddenly told to go pack back up, and bustled off to catch a Blackhawk helicopter as night fell. Things aren’t generally publicly scheduled, and routes always change, for security reasons, so you often don’t know when you might be suddenly making a trip, nor how long it might take. I was extraordinarily tired, but it was exciting, because it was new to me, and I am so enamoured of helicopters that you could practically say I have a crush on them, so I perked up. The ride is another, like the C-130, where you feel distinctly uninsulated from the discomforts and realities of the travel experience. No glass in the side windows, so there was much warm, noisy wind rushing around the cabin(or whatever you call the inside of a helicopter). The left side gunner was right in front of me, and the other Blackhawk with us (everyone must have a battle buddy – even helicopters), with all its lights out, was just a black silhouette against the city lights in the sky ahead or sometimes to the side of us. The ride was almost two hours, with about 6 stops. For some of it we were over the city, and for some, just over dark, empty looking land, an occasional small fire, an occasional small building with lights.
The man organizing us at the helipad wrote, in black marker, my destination stop on the back of my hand. As though I was five, or mentally challenged. How it happened was, I was the only one getting off at Taji, and he asked me, “Do you want me to write your destination on your hand?” I was all indignant, “No, I’m fine. Why?” And he says, “Okay, just make sure you don’t get off at the wrong stop – I told you that it would be the third stop en route, but it may or may not be. It can be difficult to hear, and it has happened before that people get off at the wrong place.” I stood there for about 5 seconds mulling that over, envisioning getting confused and off at the wrong base or missing my stop and being stuck, god knows where… So I swallowed my pride, stuck out my hand, and said, “okay, actually, do write it on my hand, please.” This turned out to have been a very good thing. Having your destination written on the back of your hand sends a message: this person is of marginal competence. I think the gunner, when he saw that, decided I was verging on special needs, and took particular care of me, moved me from my original spot in the back, to right beside him up near the front, made sure I stayed put when I started unbuckling at the wrong stops, twice(!), got me out when we had to refuel, and arranged for a guy to come out with a wheeled cart to carry my stuff from the landing site into the heliport when we at last arrived at Taji sometime around midnight. And that is how I got from Fort Benning, Georgia, to my new home in Iraq!
Our Blackhawk was like this, and I was just a couple of feet towards the back from the gunner. See the glass in the windows in back? Ours didn't have that, at least in the front one. I stuck my hand out the frontmost edge of the forward one once, just to feel the air, but the gunner glanced at me, and I thought perhaps I shouldn't be doing that and withdrew it.
