–Judith

*snip*

To: yossarian@usa.com
CC:
Subject: [Bulletins from Pianosa Air Base] Comment: “Manifesto”
Date: Mon, 3 Apr 2006 20:59:48 +0000 (UTC)
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New comment on your post #3 “Manifesto”
Author : Seaspook (IP: 70.234.251.103 ,
adsl-70-234-251-103.dsl.rcsntx.sbcglobal.net)
E-mail : txseaspook@yahoo.com
URI : http://seaspook.blogspot.com
Whois : http://ws.arin.net/cgi-bin/whois.pl?queryinput=70.234.251.103
Comment:
Yossarian,

For a good belly laugh, go here:

http://peacemoonbeam.typepad.com/the_peace_moonbeam_chroni/

*snip*

Man… I could use a good belly-laugh. I wish I COULD go there! I’m
sorry to say, SeaSpook, but your website has been BANNED by the Pianosa
AB Big Brother! The official message I get:

<i>Access to this site is restricted or unavailable because the site is
categorized as: Message Boards and Clubs; Productivity PG. Your system
policy has denied access to the requested URL.</i>

Wow. That’s pretty bad. I guess if I were to view the site it would be
counter to my productivity. That is truly insidious. I feared that it
was just communist propaganda or perhaps Islamic-extremist writ, but
it’s far worse!! Imagine the disaster that was averted by protecting
brave Americans on the front line from being exposed to belly-laughs.
In the flurry of anti-productivity that followed, Al Qaida would surely
have slunk past our defenses an knifed us all in our sleep!

Sigh.

Censorship is one of the basic features of life here. Our access to the
internet, the books in the library, the magazines and books sold in our
little shoppette… all of it is reviewed and approved or disapproved
for content. In general, two reasons are cited: insidious web sites
are more likely to carry viruses, and thereby pollute the purity of the
Pianosa Unclassified LAN, and the Muslim modesty of our hosts demands a
ban on pornography. Both ring hollow; anyone who’s gotten a virus on
their compuer knows they come from POPULAR sites, and those don’t
necessarily have to be blogs or porn. As for the ban on internet
pornography… well, I can stop by the shoppette and leave with an
armload full of Maxim, Playboy, Biker Chick, Tattoos, or whatever else
skin mag I want. Strangely, no soft porn for women… I could complain
to the Equal Opportunity Office.

All blogs are blocked wholesale. When a user visits a banned URL, they
get a blue splash screen that reminds you that all our internet usage is
monitored, and that the site you’ve requested is on the no-no list.
Sometimes, it will give you a reason. Sometimes, it won’t. The oddest
things are banned. You can shop Victoria’s Secret until your heart’s
content, but the lingerie section of J.C. Penny’s is blocked. Most
foreign media is blocked.

This is why I have to relay my bulletins to my friend, Judith. Hello
world!! I miss you!

–Yossarian

I mean, I really, really love coffee. My worship of the bean has really more to do with what it represents in my life right now than the actual enjoyment of the bittersweet liquor it yields. It’s a sort of touchstone to my old life, to the “outside world”. It’s my one Pianosa luxury. There are no indoor toilets here, only elaborate outhouses called “cadillacs.” There’s limited fresh food, only three beers a day, and you can’t wear your own clothes, only uniforms. But there is still coffee.

Back in 2003, when I first began deploying here, Pianosa was little more than a runway in the middle of the desert sand. The benevolent Royal Family had just leased these godforsaken arid acres to the US government for 99 years, and all that there’d been time to build was the runway, a row of aluminum quonset huts baking in the sun, and some shaded, guarded parking for the F-15s. But I gotta hand it to the USAF – they have their priorities straight. One of the first semi-permanent (there are very few permanent buildings here – mostly prefab shacks of aluminum and plastic) buildings to go in was the Green Beans Coffee Shop. Just walking distance from the flightline, this blissful caffeinated oasis dispenses lattes, macchiatos, frappes, and double-grande-half-caf-cap-with-sprinkles to legions of zipper-suited flyers on their way to a mission. At first, it was really just the trailer, but eventually they added a concrete pad in front, bought some teak tables and chairs, and then erected a sun shelter. Now there are patio plants and the tinkling grooves of Bhudda Bar playing over the outdoor speakers. It’s a little bit of home.

I visit the “Crack House” as the crew calls it pretty much daily. Most days, I stop by just before I fly. We come to the office, we get our pre-mission briefing, we pack up our mission materials, and then, JUST before we drive out to the plane, I stop off for my double macchiato. I know it destroys the whole Top Gun image to climb the plane’s ladder with a little paper cup in my hand, but damn it all, it makes me feel HUMAN.

It’s a joke on the crew now – Chief doesn’t fly without her coffee!! It’s become the high point of my day for reasons that I never would have expected. For that tiny amnesty of time, I stop being my rank and my skill qualification… and I’m a person again.

Raymond and Prem run the Crack House during the days. Every day. They’re from Nepal, here on a three-year job contract to sling coffee for G.I.’s. They get paid a fortune by Nepalese standards to steam my milk every day, most of which they send home. Prem’s wife is sick – she has cancer, and they can’t afford her regular treatments without his salary coming back. So until she’s in remission, he will work overseas. Raymond has four daughters. “I’ve been over-blessed!” he cries, beaming, when he shows of their photo. But he can’t afford to support four daughters through college on what he made in Nepal, so he peddles Chai Lattes. They’re amazing.

Whenever I think that I’ve been damned by the gods and the fates to an un-survivable spell at Pianosa, I think of them… and the perspective comes back. But the real treat is the amazing people that they are. They learned my name inside of a week, and every day they greet me with a smile and we make small talk. I tell them how my Dad is, and Raymond tells me the latest on his daughters, and Prem says his wife is well, thank you. They show me their newest pictures, we gossip about what the general likes for his coffee (skim double latte), and talk about the weather. I admire their carefully trained jasmine vines, and they complement me on how well I look that day.

For just a few moments, I get to feel like a normal person. The sailors who work for me only ever address me by my last name. Protocol demands that the Officers address me by my rank, as do I them. Raymond and Prem only know me by my first name. They have no idea what my rank is, nor do they care. To them, I’m just me. I love macchiatos, and sometimes when I want a treat, I adore a double espresso chai latte. I always walk away, not just with a cup of hot coffee, but with my belief in who I am independent of what I do intact.