Imported Blog from www.natehoward.com
Everything is a haze now. Not my mind, but my vision. ----- EXTENDED BODY:
March 30, 2005
The haze of war
Everything is a haze now.
Not my mind, but my vision.
35-mph winds have sent dust into this office where I type. The dust dims the intensity of the office lights.
The dust parches my eyes and makes my lips stick to my teeth. Chapstick can only do so much.
This is where civilization began?
I don't know how anything lives here.
(Cutline for photo) Spc. Jamie Hagen, 21, of Mankato clears dust from the windshield before leaving on a convoy with battle buddy Sgt. Danny Lowman, 33, of Albert Lea. "Somtimes I think, 'If my friends could see me know,'" she says sitting behind the wheel of the heavy equipment transporter rolling along the Tampa route near Tikrit.
"Well, I've slowed the infiltration in there," says First Sgt. Stan Sabin, walking into my part of the building with a fat roll of green military duct tape.
Now he is taping all the windows in my office.
A soldier walks in and offers me a dust mask, which helps with the dust but is hot on my face.
You just can't win sometimes.
At last, I did it. I napped. Three hours of sleep this afternoon, and I'm feeling charged.
I had hoped to sleep in today, but I needed to go to Tikrit for a press ID.
So again I woke early, 5 a.m., and hooked up with a convoy.
Seven hours later, I had my ID.
Hurry and wait, is how things go here. Patience is hard to maintain, but I've realized this is how things are here, and nobody is going to change it.
The soldiers seem to have adjusted to all the waiting. They cope with it by napping in the trucks, smoking and listening to music.
The iPod is popular. Most vehicles have a digital music player and some cheap computer speakers.
Tomorrow, I hope to visit with an Iraqi family, but I am told I will need a special forces team, and this could take some time to acquire.
Anyone leaving the base goes in a convoy, and no convoy will stop for me to interview an Iraqi family.
Typically, about 20 vehicles of all shapes, sizes and functions assist with the transportation of supplies in this conflict zone.
A CLP or Combat Logistic Patrol, which is yet another name for a convoy, can haul cargo ranging from beef jerky to an 80 RTCH, a Rough Terrain Cargo Handler.
Concrete barricades, SUV's, broken equipment, water, food, vehicle parts, and medical supplies are some of the more common loads.
Third Country Nationals, which are truck drivers from neighboring countries, line up at the gate before stopping at the holding area. They bring supplies from all over the world to the base where everything is loaded onto trailers.
Bravo Company hauls everything but ammo and fuel.
As Sabin tapes the window at my right, I ask where he works.
"I've been at Hormel since 1973," he says. "They've been very good to me. For every month I am here, they give me one week's pay."
"They are doing what the law requires, and then they are going above and beyond," he says.
Time for a smoke break.
As I step outside, I pass platoon commander Maj. Jeff Howe with his head down.
I ask how things went with his meeting where he made a request for my embed with a civilian patrol.
He tells me it's not good.
"We have a bad situation right now," he says.
A 9-year-old boy was shot and killed today as he approached the wire, the perimeter of our base.
Depressing news.
But my spirits lift just minutes later as Howe makes a phone call, trying to get me in the civilian patrol mission.
"He's not you're typical reporter in my book. He's pretty squared away," he says on the phone to the mission commander.
He hangs up. "You're good to go."
Now, I'm nervous.
I really need to watch what I ask for.
March 29, 2005
Combat at 100 mph
Coke tastes best when sitting inside the ‚ÄöWater Palace.‚Äö
The elaborate, gaudy Al Faw palace is surrounded by a manmade lake stocked with carp. Built for Saddam Hussein, the palace has 60 rooms and 29 bathrooms. Crystal chandeliers hang from gold-plated chains, which complement the gold-plated door handles.
The floors and walls are marble. Even the spiral staircase and massive columns are marble. It is surreal.
Inside the palace, Combined Joint Task Force-7 planned their next move in this conflict zone.
Waiting for my helicopter flight from Camp Victory, I was given a brief tour of the palace. I had 30 minutes to take photographs and write and check e-mail.
Leaving Baghdad in a Blackhawk helicopter, I see the stark contrast between the fancy palace and the shacks and mud homes just outside its walls.
The helicopter ride to Balad proved eventful.
Combat first presented itself to me at 100 mph as we passed over the town of Khalis, where a convoy was under attack. We veered away from the fracas as two Apache helicopters roared in to assist in the fight.
I was feeling secure in the heavily armed Blackhawk. We proceeded to Balad ‚Äöwithout incident‚Äö as they say here.
My first night in Iraq, I stayed at Camp Victory on the edge of Baghdad.
At midnight, I went to the mess hall for some chow.
At 1 a.m., I wandered the camp lost, trying to find my tent.
By 1:30 a.m., I was asleep.
At 2 a.m., I awoke to the sound of mortars as they thumped in the distance. I was exhausted and fell back asleep.
I am pleased to inform you that my stay thus far has been without incident.
So much to tell
Photo caption: Grant VanRyswyk, 24, of Albert Lea, mans the gunner position on a Humvee while on a mission to Forward Operating Base Summerall Wednesday. The red bull is the sign of the Bravo Company.
No matter how many cups of coffee or cigarettes I have, I can only bring you so much before my eyes sting with exhaustion and I forget what I was writing.
There is so much more I wish I had time to share.
I want to tell you about where I shower — a latrine converted into a shower.
I want to tell you about the Blackhawk helicopter ride and the C-130 ride.
I want to tell you about
... what I saw on the streets of Tikrit.
... the cross-eyed Saddam Hussein mural at the entrance to camp.
... the Red Bull division's pride and how the Red Bull energy drink appears to be the unofficial drink of Bravo Company.
... all the candy at the ‚ÄöHunting Shack‚Äö sent from home.
... the friendship I see among the troops.
... how the air is dry and dust, not sand, blows everywhere.
... the scarce wildlife (I have seen 2 desert foxes and some birds).
And so to keep my mind at ease, I have to tell you this ...
Whatever I can’t present while I'm here, you are invited to the Austin Public Library (maybe the Paramount Theatre) when I get back so I can share with you the many experiences I wish I had time to write about.
I really need to pick and choose my battles, no pun intended.
The convoys are irresistible: Starting at 0400 and returning at various times of the afternoon or night, I can only get so much done.
Stay tuned ...
March 27, 2005
A travel day
Just arrived at Camp Striker outside of Baghdad International Airport. It has been a long day of travel.
I started out in Kuwait City with a taxi from my hotel to another hotel, the Hilton, about a 25-minute drive away. From the Hilton, I rode a bus for an hour to the Ali Al Salem Air Base.
The bus driver is our unofficial tour guide as we pass camels and sheep grazing on the sparse green grass in the desert. He talks of the Kuwaiti admiration for the Chevrolet Caprice.
‚It‚Äôs the premium car to own (in Kuwait), better than the Mercedes. The one they got here you can‚Äôt buy in the States.‚ he says.
‚They just love ‚Äòem," he continues. "It‚Äôs got the V8 and rear wheel drive. You can‚Äôt afford to drive those in the States, but it‚Äôs like a sports car. It‚Äôs like a Monte Carlo SS.‚
Arriving at the air base, we unload our bags and a take a seat outside in a big gravel parking lot with a trailer. A dog sniffs all the bags before they are strapped as cargo.
We then board a C-130 bound for Mosul, then Baghdad.
Inside the cargo plane, we sit on folding nylon bench seats. Nineteen troops are bound for Mosul, our first stop, then another 10 heading to Baghdad. Wearing their body armor and helmets, they all have the same calm, relaxed faces.
It is too loud to make conversation, and most everyone wears the ear plugs we were given as we boarded through the back of the plane.
The soldier sitting across from me is wearing headphones plugged into a CD player. He chews gum as he reads Popular Science magazine.
Others sit on their vests, using them for protection from shots taken by insurgents below during takeoff and landing. I was advised to sit on my vest, so I did.
I craved a view out one of the two small windows at the center of the plane. Two soldiers with the flight crew sit and gaze out the windows.
I know the sun is setting, and when we arrive in Baghdad it is dark. All I can see are artificial lights, powered by generators.
This is ‚Äöa bus stop‚Äö as one soldier tells me, a place where troops arrive and then move on to meet up with their companies.
I passed up an MRE (Meal, Ready to Eat) while waiting at the air base, and now I’m feeling hungry. So hungry, in fact, that as much as I would like to share more about today, I need to eat.
There is an ‚ÄöInternet Cafe‚Äö here. I am told I can use a computer for half an hour, so off I go to file this then eat.
Tomorrow, I board a helicopter for Camp Speicher, where the missions begin.
March 25, 2005
Newspaper and a taxi driver
Reading the Arab Times' Thursday-Friday edition while in Kuwait City ...
In the ‚ÄöLocal‚Äö section of the newspaper is this headline, ‚ÄöSaddam must pay for his deeds: Kuwait‚Äö
The article reveals the support the Kuwaiti government has for Operation Iraqi Freedom.
In the article is a quote from Kuwaiti's head of missions in Geneva, Ambassador Dharar Abdul-Razzak Razzooqi.
‚ÄöIraq is no more a place for killing fields," Razzooqi says. "Two years have elapsed since the fall of the most vicious regime, and we witness the birth of new Iraq where millions of Iraqi men and women, cast the vote in free and democratic elections.‚Äö
I am beginning to understand why my stay in Kuwait City has been a pleasant one.
I have never experienced such hospitality. I don’t think I have had a request denied yet.
Whatever I need, they bring it to my door with a smile, even a bit out of breath, as if they hurried to deliver it.
I realize I am in a fine hotel here in Kuwait, and I don’t claim to have a perspective on what Kuwait's working class thinks of Americans, but I can tell you about what I have experienced here.
It started when a man working the hotel office at the airport sent for a car to pick me up at the airport.
They carried my luggage to the curb, and a man waited outside with me for the car. He and the driver loaded my bags.
Driving to the hotel, I was pleased that the driver spoke some English.
He is from Egypt and came to Kuwait to make more money than what he
could earn at home. But this comes at a cost. He visits his family back
in Egypt only two times a year.
I explain to him that many Mexicans come to the part of the United States where I live for the same reason he is in Kuwait. He does not know where Minnesota is.
He appears happy, smiling, driving fast and telling me about Kuwait City and how much he likes it.
He tells me that the guests at this hotel claim it is not just a four-star hotel but a six or seven, then laughs.
‚ÄöThis is my hotel.‚Äö he says, as we approach.
He is proud.
Arriving at the hotel, waiting for a man waving a bomb detector under the car, he tells me again, ‚ÄöThis is my hotel‚Äö with a big smile and eyes gazing upward at the hotel with decorative exterior lighting.
He showed that same sense of pride we Americans have when bringing home visitors from the airport. ‚ÄöThis is my home,‚Äö we say as we pull into the driveway.
And all the while he's beaming about "his" hotel, I am thinking, four weeks a year he sees his family.
My two weeks away from home have suddenly become very short.
What is all this?
Dusk in Kuwait City, seen from the 20th floor of my hotel.
I just realized you might want to know who this is and what I'm doing in Iraq?
For almost six years I have worked in the Austin bureau of the Post-Bulletin as a photographer.
Now, I am half a world away.
It is my privilege to bring to you stories from Company B of the 434th Main Support Battalion stationed in Iraq. The company in based in St.Cloud and Austin, Minn., and is composed of troops from across southeastern Minnesota and beyond.
Today, I write to you from Kuwait. But tomorrow, March 26, I board a plane for Baghdad. From Baghdad, I'll take a helicopter to Tikrit to be embedded with Company B at Camp Speicher.
There, I hope to meet with your neighbors, brothers, spouses or friends serving in the Minnesota National Guard. And I look forward to sharing their stories.
Stay tuned ...
Jelly Bellies over Iraq
I am flying from Amsterdam to Kuwait.
Ahead of me is a monitor displaying "Bridget Jones's Diary." I watch the movie but don't plug in the headphones.
Here I am on a flight to the edge of a war zone and this is the best they can do for entertainment?
It's not long before I turn my attention the small bag of colorful Jelly Bellies on my folding table.
My daughter, Jannel, 7, gave them to me just before I left. We were standing in the kitchen when she handed me the bag, saying, "If you get one that has two stuck together you have double good luck."
So, of course there was one that was really two stuck together.
I figured I need double good luck now, at the beginning of this odyssey. Now, as I fly over Iraq, about 15 Jelly Bellies remain in the bag.
Every now and then I pop one in my mouth and think of the hug and kiss we shared after she gave me the bag in the kitchen.
It was an emotional moment. She had tears in her eyes, which led to tears in my eyes.
But I couldn’t be more proud of my big girl. She always shares.
And then there is my boy, Lukas, 3.
The night before I left, he was asleep in his bed, curled up with his matted puppy close to his face.
His lips were just slightly open, and I leaned over and listened to him breathe. I ran my fingers through his fine, blond hair, admiring every detail of his face.
Then, I went downstairs and laid beside my wife, cramped on our couch. We just held each other in silence.
Now in Kuwait, the Jelly Bellies have so far proven to be good luck, even double good luck.
The cook, a '92 Golf,' talks
On a 6-hour flight from Amsterdam to Kuwait, I sit beside a cook.
He’s classified as a "92 Golf." No, that is not a pre-owned Volkswagen but a cook, a sergeant in food service at Camp Anaconda.
He enlisted in the Marines in 1989 with something to prove.
His father had told 92 Golf that he doubted his son would be able to graduate from the Marines. 92 Golf, who asked his name be withheld, proved his father wrong.
"When I showed up for church after graduation in my ‚Äöpressed blues‚Äö (Marines uniform) they just lit up.‚Äö
Naturally, I ask, ‚ÄöHow is the food?‚Äö
‚It‚Äôs OK‚, replies 92 Golf.
There is more variety and better quality then at the beginning of the war, he says. He even prepares special meals for vegetarians, diabetics, and troops with high blood pressure.
‚ÄöAnd how many do you feed at Camp Anaconda?‚Äö I ask.
‚I don‚Äôt even know the number, but it is a lot‚ he says with his hands spread wide as if holding a beach ball.
92 Golf also spent time in the first Gulf war. ‚ÄöHistory repeats itself‚Äö he says.
92 Golf is a history buff. A Christian who says he copes with the stress through prayer and ‚Äökeeping a good relationship with the Lord‚Äö.
Holding a Bible, he explains how he is ‚Äöseeing their (Shiites and Turks) ancestors, and it is amazing.
‚ÄöThis (Mesopotamia) is where it all began.‚Äö
He says he hears mortar fire every day with Camp Anaconda in the ‚Äöhot zone‚Äö.
How do you deal with the stress I ask?
Call home a lot, play games, sing, tell jokes, anything to keep morale up, he says. He has a wife and two children in South Carolina.
‚ÄöAs long as you get it off your chest and talk to somebody‚Äö he says about the stress and emotions, adding that, "Rank doesn't matter when you are hurting."
92 Golf says the Chaplain has one of the hardest jobs in the war.
He continues explaining the mind of the soldier.
‚ÄöIt is like an on/off switch. A mortar round comes in, and game's over. You get serious.‚Äö
As for relationships with Iraqis, as often is told, he says the enemy is all around.
‚ÄöWe do our best to win the confidence of civilians here. We are here to help them," he says.
I am amazed at how relaxed he is.
He simply closes his eyes and falls asleep siting upright, like a horse at rest. He talks slow. He is confident.
I tell him this is my first time to a war zone.
Like all the others, he says, "Just keep your head down." I'm beginning to think they are serious when they say this.
I give him my business card, and he tucks it into his Bible.
An Alaskan soldier at the airport
Waiting for my flight to Kuwait, I sit find an American dressed in desert camo:
Sitting at Gate 43 at the Amsterdam airport, Private First Class Jason Freyler sits relaxed in a chair passing time with an occasional Marlboro Light.
Freyler, 26, is returning from emergency leave for his father‚Äös funeral back home in Washington.
Around his neck he carries his father in the form of ashes in a silver cross. ‚ÄöHe is with me everywhere I go‚Äö says Freyler holding the cross between his thumb and index finger.
For Freyler, enlisting in the Army was for one reason; his father, a decorated World War II veteran. Freyler is proud to list the awards his father earned in WW II: a Distinguished Service Medal, the Silver Star and Purple Heart.
‚ÄöHe was very proud of me. He told me he respected me for serving our country.‚Äö
I joined to follow in his footsteps. That was the whole reason.‚Äö
What Freyler did not tell his dad was that he is ‚Äöstill trying to figure out what we are doing over there.‚Äö
Freyler and his company are a ‚ÄöChem‚Äö (chemical) unit. Trained for Recon, searching for Nuclear Biological Chemical, or Decon, cleaning up the mess. ‚ÄöIt‚Äös scary stuff,‚Äö says Freyler.
He questions why he is on border patrol on the Kuwait-Iraq border when he is with a chemical unit.
‚ÄöThe Iraqis need to carry their own weight.‚Äö he says.
‚ÄöWe need to focus more on the border in our own country rather than being over here,‚Äö he says.
‚ÄöThis goes into Homeland Security. What did they do... forget that part?‚Äö rolling his eyes and shaking his head.
He expresses his dislike for the politics in the Army however, he is a firm believer in the values learned from serving.
Freyler says all high school graduates should enlist in the military adding that violence and drug use would be down and respect and discipline up.
Traveling in uniform back home for the funeral, he says he was disappointed by the lack of support he received.
‚ÄöI don‚Äöt think they (American public) get what we are doing for them.‚Äö he says, ‚ÄöLook, we‚Äöre doing you a service, protecting our country and you don‚Äöt want to show respect?‚Äö
At home and among family he finds support.
His two brothers and mother are proud of him. His younger brother is eager to join the military and follow in big brother‚Äös footsteps.
And when his five years in the service are up, Freyler wants to apply his experience with nuclear biological chemicals and join a hazardous materials team.
April 06, 2005
The pet scorpion and toy trucks
What will I remember most?‚ÄöI wonder sitting in a restaurant waiting for my flight.
The oddities and moments at Camp Speicher have made for a journey I will cherish for years to come.
The latrine converted into a shower with hot water at my barrack certainly will not be forgotten.
The company mayor, Wade Olson, 30, of Speicher MN, smearing KY jelly on doorknobs, head sets and steering wheels made for a good laugh seeing the reaction of his fellow troops.
A female soldier with a pet scorpion in a plastic bottle.
The amazing abundance of candy on the shelves of the hunting cabin and luxuries inside including a TV, stereo, microwave, refrigerator, washer, dryer and Play Station video game to name a few.
A clear full moon and the stars shining bright made for beautiful nights.
The laughter and friendship among troops. Evidence of the brother and sister relationships made at the base.
The thud of mortars in the distance.
The ability of a soldier to switch from laughter to a soldier ready to fight.
The list goes on and on.
The camera was an ideal tool to capture my experience here.
I wanted to stay, I wanted to shoot more pictures. There is more to tell. There are more characters I would have liked to present to you.
Many that made me laugh, many that shared their feelings.
The hospitality toward me was sincere and kind.
The troops in Company B truly went above and beyond the call of duty to see that I was well taken care of.
In the end, I am convinced my fondest memory was the sight of Iraqi children running to the troops as we approach their homes in the rural farm communities of Iraq.
Their dress, food, homes and farming methods are all so different than ours.
Seeing an Iraqi mother holding her baby in her arms while her son played in the dirt with his new trucks, in the same manner my boy plays with his trucks, I realized, for those things which matter most in life, we are no different.
April 04, 2005
Farewell Kuwait
With my final hour of daylight in the Middle East, I walk along the shore of Kuwait Bay.
I visit a fishing pier that takes me back to time spent in San Francisco.
This is the Fisherman‚Äö Wharf of Kuwait.
Fresh fish are brought from the boats to the neighboring market.
Standing at the dock I watch fisherman loading their boats with nets before leaving for the night, sleeping on an island in the bay, then bringing in the nets and fish in the morning.
I have the fortune of meeting a man who graduated from a college in England and his English is clear.
He owns two of the fishing ships being loaded with nets.
He explains how the fishing industry works in Kuwait.
He escorts me down the pier to the boats.
Would you like to go out tonight and stay on a boat?‚Äöhe asks.
My mind raced with photographic opportunities but I had to turn him down.
I told him I have a flight back to the States tonight.
(Cutline for photo at right)
A man fishes without a pole. He uses his hands to cast a piece of shrimp and lead sinker into the sea. He has a bag of about 15 fish.
He gave me his business card and told me to call him the next time I am in Kuwait.
I quickly shoot photos from the pier and hurry off to meet Ramani, the taxi driver who is waiting for me.
I climb into the taxi feeling down.
We are bound for the hotel and I realize that my stay in Kuwait has come to a sudden end.
From the gate
Yet another taxi driver makes the blog.
Again, an Egyptian man named Ramani who came to Kuwait to earn money driving a taxi for the past 20 years.
He has a wife and three children in Alexandria, Egypt. He goes home for two months of the year.
He tells me that Kuwaitis love Americans because of their help in the first Gulf War when we sent Saddam‚Äö troops back into Iraq.
I see construction all along the highway as we make our way to Camp Arifjan to visit with more Minnesota troops.
Business no good before war‚he says in rough English. Now, business up 200 percent.‚Äù
He curses Saddam and oil in the same sentence.
We stop at a gas station.
He fills up the Crown Victoria with 50 liters for 3 Kuwait Dinars or 13 U.S gallons for $10.20 U.S. dollars. The price of gas is U.S.$1.27 a gallon.
Ramani buys me a pop, and every time he has a cigarette he offers me one as well.
We arrive at the base and I begin the process of getting into the base.
Nothing is easy in the military.
Lt. Staples of Company A, based in Little Falls, Minn., guides me around from one trailer outpost to another trying to get my ID card.
We are turned down everywhere we go for a lack of paperwork and not being on the list.
I contacted the commander 48 hours before my arrival and yet all I can do is stand at the gate.
I am thousands of miles away from home. The troops are about a quarter mile from where I stand. I can see their barracks. A chain link fence with razor sharp wire stands between me and them.
After repeated attempts, we realize that the robot-like staff, contracted workers, are not about to deviate from the rules for this journalist. What makes me angry is that they seem to be enjoying shutting the door in our face.
No sympathy. No, I am sorry, I wish I could do more.‚ÄöJust a short and harsh refusal. I‚Äöve met kinder ATM machines.
So I am back on the phone to my Egyptian friend Ramani, who has by now made the hour trip back to Kuwait City.
He picks me up in one hour at the base and we return to Kuwait City.
Riding home, I tell him about my problems with the military.
He tells me about a beautiful park by the sea in Kuwait City and we make plans to visit this park in the afternoon.
I am done. I tried for one more story on our Minnesota troops in Kuwait but only got to the gate.
Bureaucracy won, this time.
Romanian shock and awe
Stories are everywhere you turn when in a foreign land.
I‚Äöve been confined to my hotel for security reasons today.
I wanted to go out, but did not have anyone to guide the way.
So I found a shopping center attached to this hotel and wandered the marble floors looking at store fronts.
Topnotch, first class clothing stores.
I walk on until I find a restaurant that overlooks the mall traffic.
I order my steak sandwich from a courteous waiter.
I ask for medium rare on the steak.
The water comes to my table as I wait with coffee.
Catalin is his name, he is 25 years old.
He tells me he will check on the steak to make sure it is not well done.
He explains that steaks here are almost always cooked well done.
I ask why.
Something about the blood and Islam”, he tells me.
He also tells me that he likes his steaks rare.
Where are you from I ask?
Romania he replies.
Why are you here?, my next question.
Like the Egyptian taxi driver I spoke to earlier, he is here seeking a better job opportunity than what is available in Romania.
Catalin has a mechanical engineering degree from the University of Transalvania in Romania
He hopes to find work as an engineer in Kuwait.
How do you like Kuwait?‚ÄöI ask.
I do not like it here”, he replies.
My personal life... zero. My social life... zero. There is nothing here for me.
I can‚t even look at the women.‚Äù
But he does.
He explains an incident where two men were taken into custody of the police at the mall where he works for trying to make conversation with two women wearing veils.
While at work, he remains professional.
He greets the women with, Hello, how are you?‚Äöor You have beautiful children.
There are nontraditional women dressed no different than women in the states.
I ask about approaching these women.
You never make the first move‚Äö he tells me.
He tells me about a time when a mother and daughter came to his restaurant.
He was able to talk with the daughter. And the daughter gave Catalin her phone number.
He called her that night and her father answered.
That was the last time he dialed that number.
He keeps an eye out, pointing out women he finds beautiful.
They are very beautiful here. Their eyes are mysterious,‚Äöhe says.
He tells me that his concentration is on his job right now but continues to looking for and finding beautiful women.
He says he has heard there are private parties with alcohol but has never been invited.
A bottle of whiskey on the black market sells for over $100 US and he says he can not afford this.
He then goes into the economy of Kuwait.
The Sheik is the boss‚ÄöCatalin says.
"They (Kuwaitis) are the kings and you are the slave" he says being an outsider.
He also tells me that you can never become a Kuwaiti citizen and if you want to marry a Kuwait woman, you need to go before a judge for approval with the family.
So why don‚Äöt you come to the States?‚ÄöI ask.
The procedure and the paper work... they kill you.‚Äöhe replies.
He also says the odds are too great, but he has a plan.
Gain three years experience with an engineering job in Kuwait and then try for a visa to the States.
He asks what I think about the war in Iraq.
I play the politician and tell him at first I was skeptical about our reason for being there and mention oil.
I also tell him that the Sunni I visited were truly happy to see the troops.
He tells me about the revolution in Romania in 1989 and how they ousted their dictator.
Ukraine did not wait for help.‚he says,‚ÄùWe did this, we made the revolution.‚implying that Iraqis should have taken care of business on their own.
He remembers the communist years in Romania.
When he was six, he began waiting in lines for bread and butter.
His father made a special trip to Bulgaria for salami which the kids took for school lunch.
At home, his family ate soup and cabbage. And on Sunday they ate meat.
He goes off to check on my steak.
It‚ going to be another five or ten minutes,‚he says. It is too dark.‚Äù
At ten years old, the revolution occurred and communism fell.
Who is it not their dream to go to the States”? he asks.
I assume correctly, being from Romania, that he is an avid chess player.
We make plans to meet in the morning to play a game of chess by the sea.
Chess has been in his family for generations.
I tell him he is going to crush me.
He tells me about different openings and attacks as if anyone can win, trying to build my confidence.
I suspect his openings and attacks will leave me with a sense of shock and awe”.
April 03, 2005
All quiet on the bunker front
My stay in Iraq would not have been complete with a trip to the bunker.
On my last night in Iraq, waiting for my flight at Camp Anacanda to Kuwait, the warning siren whales.
There is no panic in this holding tent.
Slowly, casually, the soldiers put on their body armor and kevlar helmet.
They take their time. A contract worker at the tent reminds the 50 soldiers that they must leave the tent and go to the bunker.
(Cutline for photo at right) One of many soldiers leaves the concrete bunker after the all clear siren sounds.
The bunker is 20 yards from the entrance to our holding tent where troops wait for a flight.
They slowly walk to the bunker and wait for the second siren which has a pattern rather than the monotone initial warning.
Somewhere on this massive base a mortar came in.
From where I stand, I could not hear nor see any threat.
A soldier from West Virginia cites a few reasons for the leisurely approach to the bunker:
1) This camp is huge and the mortars are not.
2) They can‚Äöt aim.
3) You can hear them coming in and if need be, that is the time to jump in the bunker.
Only once did this soldier hear the whistle of a mortar overhead
He was based at Camp Summerall which just before the elections, was taking a lot of mortar fire.
The round that whistled over his head exploded about 100 yards from him causing no injuries.
Insurgents are firing less mortars at bases and instead using them for IED‚Äö, improvised explosive devices, the bombs on the roads intended for convoys.
After ten minutes the all clear siren sounds and the soldiers return back the tent and continue watching a movie.
Some eat MRE‚Äö, meals ready to eat, some sleep, some read.
It is all quiet on this front.
I sit back, and continue watching Anger Management‚Äöin the wide screen T.V.. with a vegetarian MRE. And no, I am not a vegetarian. The MRE is better than the movie.
So there you have it. A first hand account from a base in Iraq which took mortar fire.
I am not suggesting that the mortars are not a threat but I think soldiers actions speak louder than CNN‚Äö words.
April 01, 2005
Traveler's note
Traveler's note:
For those of you planning your next vacation in sunny Iraq, stay away from the dogs.
Stopping at house number one on the medic visit, I thought I would shoot photos of all the dogs sitting along the side of the home. One caught my eye at the back end of the home. I wandered down slowly. They did not move as I walked along.
I settled in to get my shot when this dog showed his teeth. I did not take this as a serious threat -- until he began running toward me and his buddies set out after me, too.
Running with all the weight of my interceptor body armor and cameras was not an option, so I tried to stay calm and backtrack, but these canines were making ground on me real quick.
My eyes were fixed on their teeth as they approached about 10 yards away when the man of the house stepped between me and the dogs with his arms up and the dogs stopped instantly and returned to the shade of the home.
Before we set out on this mission, we were advised to be aware of dogs, and if we're threatened, then shoot the dog.
Lesson learned. Insurgents are not the only threat here -- beware of the dogs.
And I walk all along Fremont Street. It was lame. They have a light show called the "Main Street Experience". It all seems like a desperate attempt to be what they were before the new trendy strip grew. The structure for the light show hangs over a couple blocks of the street like scaffolding. The metal mess is just as gaudy as the town itself. You could say it is Vegas-like. So I walked on down, kept walking looking for the cowboy dude we all see when we think of old Las Vegas. I never found it, but instead found a rundown town the farther I walk down the street. Many building were abandoned. The weather was pleasant but who really cares. About seventy degrees, sunny and a bright blue sky. Enough on that. I was shooting the pictures I wanted, another face of Vegas. So then the walk back. And how I was robbed in sunny Las Vegas.
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I must have walked a few miles by now (about 10:30 a.m.), opting not to take a taxi back to the hotel. I wanted to take in the sites, of which were dirty and fabricated. A lot like Wall Drug in South Dakota but much worse.
A few blocks from my hotel, smoking a cigarette, I was asked for a smoke by one of two young men outside of Carl's Jr. fast food joint. I said sure. And began to hand roll a smoke. I said, "I hope you are not in a big hurry." I finished one smoke, they asked for another. With my hands occupied rolling a smoke, one man walked behind me and unclipped my hip sack. In an instant we were both sprinting through Carl's Jr. and off the beaten path. I was on his tail, it was a good run for a couple hundred yards before he neared an apartment complex that looked like trouble. I stopped and approached a few housekeepers working at a nearby motel. They saw the chase.
A man gave me his cell phone to call the cops. I dialed 911 and gave my address and explained what happened before I was disconnected. Just as I was calling back, I saw a squad car arrive. It had now been about ten minutes since the crime. I was impressed with the response time.
While talking with the cops, a man came up on his bike and so did a security officer. They both helped explain in detail what the men were wearing. The man on the bike apologized for not helping but I was grateful for a detailed description, and the confirmation of my description.
While talking with the cops, the custodians from the motel began shouting and waving their arms. They saw the men come out from the apartment area I chased Afro Man too. I never knew what happened to corn roll man. The cops took off down the ally, denied me access to ride with so I took off running again. I caught up to a maintenance man and a couple that saw the two men. The maintenance man explained that he saw the men enter the apartment and told them to leave. The couple saw the men in a car parked outside the shady complex. The descriptions matched. The couple then showed me my hip sack lying beside a dumpster, opened and scattered. I took a a picture of my hip sack. I was relieved to see my wallet and didn't care about the missing $50. I was ready to say, drop it.
The cops arrived after driving around the area asking if anyone had seen... (well I don't know what, two black men? Well of course.) They entered the apartment complex, told me to wait outside the gate. About ten minutes later an officer arrived with a man for me to identify. I said, no, I don't think that is him. Another officer showed with another man. I said no, I don't think so.
Both had warrants and so they remained in cuffs. Again I took some more photos.
Meanwhile, back at the hall of justice, a sergeant looked at surveillance video from a pawn shop. The sergeant called an officer and handed me the phone. He said he was on his way down and wanted to talk to me. He arrived, pulled me aside and asked if I was worried about some repercussions or if they made any threat to me. I said no. He asked if I was trying to buy drugs, again I said no. He explained that he has a clear shot of the men on video at a pawn shop across the street from Carl's Jr. where I was robbed. The pawn shop called the cop on these same two criminals for reasons I couldn't get from the cops.
On another front, I gave my cell phone number to an officer and said I had yet to find it. It was clipped onto my hip sack. I asked if he could call the number near the apartment room they had taken the men from. I was not able to enter the apartment complex but he came out and told his fellow officers, "we got his phone". While I could not identify these men, of which both had changed their clothes, I was now certain that these were in fact the two men.
It was now about 1:30 p.m. I was tired and had my share of sun and adventure.
Here's the update:
I waited to post this until after court. I decided to appear in court, with expenses paid. But the defendants did not appear. 
I've scoured the internet to find some local flavor but so much is about the fine cuisine, the hotels... I hope to dig up some more authentic Mexico, maybe even native culture and share this with pictures. And if I can't find the pictures I want, I will strip naked except for a swath wrapped around my crotch, and ride bareback on a black stallion along the breaking waves of the Sea of Cortes.
As for the town square, Mexican life is strong. It is in Cabo San Lucas, thirty miles away where the Americans have conquered the culture and land but the development is well underway in San Jose Del Cabo as well.
Coming in the summer of 2007...
Nate shoots Sweden, Iceland and Russia. Stay tuned!
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These photos were shot in December 2005 on Kodak CN black and white film with a Leica M6 and 35mm lens.
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AUTHOR: Nate
TITLE: Sweden, Finland and Russia are Posted
STATUS: Publish
ALLOW COMMENTS: 1
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DATE: 07/23/2007 02:25:19 PM
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Visit Nate's home page 
These photos were taken in July 2007. Most of the pictures come from Stockholm, Sweden, Helsink, Finland and Saint Petersburg Russia.
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Photography from Russia, Finland and Sweden by Nate Howard.
These photos were taken on the Olympus C-7070 digital camera.
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AUTHOR: Nate
TITLE: The Bakery and Coffee Bar of Flandreau, South Dakota
STATUS: Publish
ALLOW COMMENTS: 1
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DATE: 07/23/2007 05:17:46 PM
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One of those places you just happen across and without knowing it somehow changes your life forever. That is the Bakery and Coffee Bar of Flandreau, South Dakota.
To be experienced...
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AUTHOR: Nate
TITLE: Photography Trumps Reality
STATUS: Publish
ALLOW COMMENTS: 1
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DATE: 12/14/2007 07:59:16 AM
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It seems the sandwich artists are increasingly hasty in their art. I would appreciate quality over quantity (or speed) and a reasonable amount of vegetables on my sandwich.
Thank you for your attention to this matter.
Happy Holiday's
Nate Howard
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