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Scrambled Laundry
The language barrier is becoming more of an issue as time goes on here. Most of the supporting infrastructure of the base is staffed by locals. The chow hall, PX, barber shop, and laundry service all apply. Now I have recently studied Arabic for four semesters, which gives you approximately the proficiency of two semesters of Spanish, but my vocabulary just isn’t extensive enough for me to communicate my exact wishes. That being the case, I am doomed to endless exploits such as those described below. I certainly don’t think the locals are bad people for not knowing English very well, as I don’t know how fast I’d pick up Tagalog if the Phillipines liberated and occupied my country. However, it does make for some frustrating and entertaining circumstances.
There is no such thing as “a little eggs.” You will receive 18 ounces of scrambled eggs or you will receive none at all. This is not up for discussion. Trying to usurp this principle of the chow hall by further expounding on your request will yield an additional 18 ounces of eggs. I have not tested the system further, but I believe even more protest past that might net you the entire vat of eggs. Adjectives like “little”, “small”, “tiny”, and modifiers like “just” all seem to have no effect. I have full confidence that if I ask for a garguantuan pile of eggs I will receive the standard 18 ounces that comes with the utterance of “just a little eggs.” Don’t screw with the chow hall workers. They might just fill your rack with eggs.
Dropping off laundry is a strange animal. First, the service is free, so I don’t have a lot of room to complain. However, the process seems to go just a little differently each time. Upon my most recent visit I completed the necessary papers and went to hand my laundry to the attendant. He then told me, “No, in the bag.” OK, so I put it in the bag and try to hand it to him. “Over there,” he says, pointing to a bin about four feet behind him. OK, so he’s going to put it over there…that’s fine…why isn’t he taking my laundry? An uncomfortable pause ensues. The gears are turning in my head as fast as I can go when it dawns on me that he wants me to throw the laundry bag over his head and across the room into the bin. I say “You want me to throw it?” thinking of the mass chaos that would ensue if every Marine in the room suddenly hossed his laundry bag (in true hook-shot fashion, of course) over the counter, over the heads of the workers, and into the bin. Just as I’ve realized what he wants he takes the bag from me with a huff, obviously frustrated that I didn’t throw it into the bin. You know, maybe I’m just not as educated on cultural customs as I should be, but excuse the hell out of me if I don’t just walk into a place of business and start throwing stuff over people’s heads. The next time I drop off laundry I’m coming back for him. He wants some projectile laundry? He shall have it. He’d better borrow a flak jacket, because next week my dirty drawers are coming over his head at 35 miles/hour.
I typed this on a Spanish keyboard. The commas, colons, and parentheses are all misplaced. It is exceedingly difficult. That is all.
Great. They train you in Arabic, ship you to Iraq, and make you type on a spanish keyboard.
Wait a minute. What the heck is a spanish keyboard? They use the same letters as us.
Around here the laundry is free too. The only catch is that I have to be real nice to the person doing it. If I throw my dirty underwear at her head, it’s on.
Monica caught your pic on the front of THX last night and urged me to urge you to be safe.