Let’s talk about pictures. I keep getting requests from people wanting to see more pictures. In fact, I’d say that’s what most of you are thinking.
Are you people nuts?! Why do you want me to die? The reason I’m writing a blog about cooking in a kitchen is that I can’t go outside! What? You want a blog about what I do in the bedroom? One of you, a Mr. Edward A. Horgan, already suggested that I write a blog about my bowel movements. I can do that one, and I can supply as many pictures as you want! And you might even think they’d be interesting, because my poo is different. I might get more people reading my blog then, maybe even establish a whole cult around my excremental godliness. But tomatoes? Come on people! If you want to know what cutting a tomato looks like go do it yourself! You’ll probably enjoy it much more than me! When I cut tomatoes, I’m in total fear of goring myself with a knife that has been sharpened on the street outside! Seriously! And you want me to hold a damn camera as I do it?? You’re crazy! No! You don’t get no fancy pictures of my pie crust, how I apply the salt, and my lentil sorting technique! You want more reasons? The lighting sucks! I might as well be cooking in a cardboard box! There is one crappy fluorescent light that works when the power is on. And it’s a good thing I’m cooking while its daylight outside, because that’s often the only way I can get light! I don’t have some fancy kitchen here like some guy with a show named “Wok & Roll”. I have a 6” ledge and a stinky trash can in the middle of the kitchen. My prep surface isn’t an island or some ergonomic whozawhatzy. Oh no, I cut my stuff on some flimsy plastic tables you might find on the roof of a frat house. My water sometimes comes out brown. The aircon (which, by the way, is much more fun to say than “AC”) turns off and on sporadically. I burn my fingers adjusting the stove burners. I have no hot pads. I light the oven using dirty paper towels. When I need to add water to a dish I have to go to the water cooler across the room and have it trickle out of the faucet. It is not pretty! It is not inspirational! You will not feel better about your life after seeing more pictures of my hands doing things in the kitchen!
Here is my day: I wake up in my bedroom. I go urinate in the WC (I think that stands for “water closet”). I then walk to the shower, where I shower. I walk to the sink where I shave or brush my teeth. I walk back to the bedroom and put clothes on. I walk downstairs, out the door, and 400 yards down the street to work. I enter the front door; I say my “good mornings” and wave then go up the stairs, into my office and sit down. At noon I walk downstairs, out the door, 300 yards down the street to the common house, into the kitchen, get some food, and then walk into the dining room. I eat, I get back up, and walk back to work. Sometime around 2:45 I walk downstairs to piss. I walk back upstairs to my desk, sit down, and work some more until around 3:15-4:15 and leave to go back to the common house and cook. I’m in the kitchen until around 8pm, and then I walk back to my house, sit down on the bed, and stay there until 11pm. I get up, go brush my teeth and the sink, and then pee again (in the WC, not the sink…usually). Then I walk back to the bedroom and go to sleep.
I do that everyday with no deviation (except for Fridays, and I spend most of that doing absolutely nothing). I am more regular than if I were on birth control.
The problem with all that is this: Iraq is not the same as France. I can’t take pictures of what is outside. If I did, there’s the likelihood of some “insurgent” seeing it, putting two and two together, and driving a nice big truck full of gasoline into the neighborhood and blowing my ass up! The picture of the albino kids? I should probably remove it. The only reason I put it up there was that the house they are on is being built, and today, one day later, it is nearly unrecognizable because more has been built already. It is still a security risk. You don’t get to see pictures of anything that would assist someone locating where we are. I’ve taken plenty of pictures, but you can’t see them until I leave here, and the operation is entirely closed down.
Not only can are my exterior pictures extremely limited, so are those that I take inside. We do a lot to pretend we are not here. We don’t know who works with us. We don’t meet them, they don’t meet us. Not only for our protection, but for theirs too. We’ve had contractors killed for their associations with us. We’ve had offices staked out by the people who lob mortars into markets. Our contractors already spend huge sums of money on increased security, and who hire big guys from South Africa who I’ve only seen twice with a large handgun. I see them much more regularly with at least three assault rifles (per person, plus extra ammo for each weapon). In our own office, we employ a fair number of local staff, wonderful people who live here. They live here with their families, and if the shit hits the fan, they don’t have the luxury the US Marines swooping out of the sky in gun ships and Blackhawk’s to evacuate them to safety. Our local staff and their families are as much targets, if not more than us foreigners. We have a few ex-pats in our office as well, Iraqi-Americans who grew up here. Their wives, sons, and daughters might be back in Reston or Chicago, but their parents, brothers, and nieces are still living here. They too are targets. Thus, they will not be in any pictures, even after we are all closed down and gone. It’s not like putting a picture up on Friendster or MySpace and worrying about someone calling them fat. It’s more like someone just getting shot at. Being shot at isn’t so funny.
On the lucky chance that I get to go outside and deviate from my normal schedule, it is in an armored SUV. The windows don’t roll down. They are thick and dirty. Even though it’s armored, we don’t want to attract attention or get shot at. Cameras attract attention, and here, it’s not like you’re a tourist who might get mugged: you’re a target for much worse. But hey, I haven’t had that pleasure in weeks. Three? Four? I don’t know, but I’ve lost count. Everyone here does.
I have taken pictures, those that don’t deal with cooking. Maybe they’ll appease you. It is not many. After all this, that’s when you can see some of those.
You may wonder if it’s blown out of proportion, this whole “got to be safe on the world wide web” thing. Proportions don’t exist here. Proportions don’t exist when you compare each rumble or bang or roar to the explosions and gunshots and artillery blasts you’ve heard on TV.
Besides, it takes a long ass time to upload them to this website.
Yeah, well anyways, there's now a link for photos back towards the top, on the right. Sandwiched between the sections for my profile and links. Or here ... photos.
Are you people nuts?! Why do you want me to die? The reason I’m writing a blog about cooking in a kitchen is that I can’t go outside! What? You want a blog about what I do in the bedroom? One of you, a Mr. Edward A. Horgan, already suggested that I write a blog about my bowel movements. I can do that one, and I can supply as many pictures as you want! And you might even think they’d be interesting, because my poo is different. I might get more people reading my blog then, maybe even establish a whole cult around my excremental godliness. But tomatoes? Come on people! If you want to know what cutting a tomato looks like go do it yourself! You’ll probably enjoy it much more than me! When I cut tomatoes, I’m in total fear of goring myself with a knife that has been sharpened on the street outside! Seriously! And you want me to hold a damn camera as I do it?? You’re crazy! No! You don’t get no fancy pictures of my pie crust, how I apply the salt, and my lentil sorting technique! You want more reasons? The lighting sucks! I might as well be cooking in a cardboard box! There is one crappy fluorescent light that works when the power is on. And it’s a good thing I’m cooking while its daylight outside, because that’s often the only way I can get light! I don’t have some fancy kitchen here like some guy with a show named “Wok & Roll”. I have a 6” ledge and a stinky trash can in the middle of the kitchen. My prep surface isn’t an island or some ergonomic whozawhatzy. Oh no, I cut my stuff on some flimsy plastic tables you might find on the roof of a frat house. My water sometimes comes out brown. The aircon (which, by the way, is much more fun to say than “AC”) turns off and on sporadically. I burn my fingers adjusting the stove burners. I have no hot pads. I light the oven using dirty paper towels. When I need to add water to a dish I have to go to the water cooler across the room and have it trickle out of the faucet. It is not pretty! It is not inspirational! You will not feel better about your life after seeing more pictures of my hands doing things in the kitchen!
Here is my day: I wake up in my bedroom. I go urinate in the WC (I think that stands for “water closet”). I then walk to the shower, where I shower. I walk to the sink where I shave or brush my teeth. I walk back to the bedroom and put clothes on. I walk downstairs, out the door, and 400 yards down the street to work. I enter the front door; I say my “good mornings” and wave then go up the stairs, into my office and sit down. At noon I walk downstairs, out the door, 300 yards down the street to the common house, into the kitchen, get some food, and then walk into the dining room. I eat, I get back up, and walk back to work. Sometime around 2:45 I walk downstairs to piss. I walk back upstairs to my desk, sit down, and work some more until around 3:15-4:15 and leave to go back to the common house and cook. I’m in the kitchen until around 8pm, and then I walk back to my house, sit down on the bed, and stay there until 11pm. I get up, go brush my teeth and the sink, and then pee again (in the WC, not the sink…usually). Then I walk back to the bedroom and go to sleep.
I do that everyday with no deviation (except for Fridays, and I spend most of that doing absolutely nothing). I am more regular than if I were on birth control.
The problem with all that is this: Iraq is not the same as France. I can’t take pictures of what is outside. If I did, there’s the likelihood of some “insurgent” seeing it, putting two and two together, and driving a nice big truck full of gasoline into the neighborhood and blowing my ass up! The picture of the albino kids? I should probably remove it. The only reason I put it up there was that the house they are on is being built, and today, one day later, it is nearly unrecognizable because more has been built already. It is still a security risk. You don’t get to see pictures of anything that would assist someone locating where we are. I’ve taken plenty of pictures, but you can’t see them until I leave here, and the operation is entirely closed down.
Not only can are my exterior pictures extremely limited, so are those that I take inside. We do a lot to pretend we are not here. We don’t know who works with us. We don’t meet them, they don’t meet us. Not only for our protection, but for theirs too. We’ve had contractors killed for their associations with us. We’ve had offices staked out by the people who lob mortars into markets. Our contractors already spend huge sums of money on increased security, and who hire big guys from South Africa who I’ve only seen twice with a large handgun. I see them much more regularly with at least three assault rifles (per person, plus extra ammo for each weapon). In our own office, we employ a fair number of local staff, wonderful people who live here. They live here with their families, and if the shit hits the fan, they don’t have the luxury the US Marines swooping out of the sky in gun ships and Blackhawk’s to evacuate them to safety. Our local staff and their families are as much targets, if not more than us foreigners. We have a few ex-pats in our office as well, Iraqi-Americans who grew up here. Their wives, sons, and daughters might be back in Reston or Chicago, but their parents, brothers, and nieces are still living here. They too are targets. Thus, they will not be in any pictures, even after we are all closed down and gone. It’s not like putting a picture up on Friendster or MySpace and worrying about someone calling them fat. It’s more like someone just getting shot at. Being shot at isn’t so funny.
On the lucky chance that I get to go outside and deviate from my normal schedule, it is in an armored SUV. The windows don’t roll down. They are thick and dirty. Even though it’s armored, we don’t want to attract attention or get shot at. Cameras attract attention, and here, it’s not like you’re a tourist who might get mugged: you’re a target for much worse. But hey, I haven’t had that pleasure in weeks. Three? Four? I don’t know, but I’ve lost count. Everyone here does.
I have taken pictures, those that don’t deal with cooking. Maybe they’ll appease you. It is not many. After all this, that’s when you can see some of those.
You may wonder if it’s blown out of proportion, this whole “got to be safe on the world wide web” thing. Proportions don’t exist here. Proportions don’t exist when you compare each rumble or bang or roar to the explosions and gunshots and artillery blasts you’ve heard on TV.
Besides, it takes a long ass time to upload them to this website.
Yeah, well anyways, there's now a link for photos back towards the top, on the right. Sandwiched between the sections for my profile and links. Or here ... photos.
posted by B at 10:55 AM
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