The Gas Chamber


Part of my job, as you may have noticed, is that I’m “in the military.”
Well, marine billets get to do some awesome, and interesting activities while serving overseas/in deployable billets.
This isn’t one of them.

Third dental battalion lines up, bright and early at 0700, chattering like children anxious before a big exam.  Our gas masks are strapped to our legs, as we “march” in formation towards the forboding fun ahead (our march was the exact opposite of this).

We arrive, and line up in “sticks” of ten (the military just can’t call ten people in a row a line, can it?) with the lowest ranked going first and the highest ranked proverbially leading from the rear.
I see the gas veterans coming in and out, spewing from all sorts oforifices.  Fortunately, I don’t have a history of that …ever… happening…. Uh oh.

I quickly test my mask after throwing 20 lbs of clothing on in the 90 degreeheat (that’s about 33 degrees Celsius for the metric world, but who would put boiling water as 100 degrees when it could be 212 instead!)  The mask seems like it is suffocating me, kind of like this.  That’s good right? No bad air getting in?  I recall the quick tutorial on how not to breathe poisonous gas in this thing and am leading the way, first one in the chamber!

Now, this was not what I expected.  I expected ventilation, and like a yellow noxious gas like Pepe Le Pew coming, with my gas mask working to perfection.  WRONG.  Two marines, who clearly lost their olfactory nerves by accident or choice, I’m not sure which, stand over a grill dripping the noxious CS gas like some perverse cookout.  My gas mask is on, yet I cannot breathe.  I am the first one coughing.  Is my mask even working?  Panic sets in.  I am too stubborn to say anything and close my eyes and bear down.  It is like swimming in jalapenos while drowning in saltwater, and then rubbing salt into the open wounds – which in fact are the millions of pores on your exposed skin.
What I didn’t realize was that the first one in is also the last one out.

Recovery time takes about 10-15 minutes, of snot rockets, coughing, and hearing the same descriptions of pain and discomfort from everyone who wants to share feelings.  I like sharing feelings, but now is not the time. I have to go barf up a lung.
Disclaimer: (all in all it wasn’t that bad, a cool experience and another hurdle to get over)

Tokyo Part 1

Embarking to a new part of the world -- no obstacles at all-- except huge language barriers, sticking out like a sore (stylish!) thumb, and being in the most populated city in the world.  What could possibly go wrong?
Fortunately new places were mixed with old, familiar faces.

Upon landing our first barrier was using Tokyo's efficient labyrinth of a metro system.  Although the ticket machines were confusing, we were brave, and eventually were assisted by a brave citizen of this Emerald city.  Huzzah!

There we were, a cowardly lion, brainless scarecrow, and girl far from home -- you can guess who is who, but i'll have you know I'm Dirty, the brainless scarecrow, in this story.  Our road lay fraught with danger, mischief, hangovers, and people purposely ignoring how awesome my shirts truly are.

Our first stop, food.  I live and die by three things; my stomach, my sleep, and... annnnnd we'll say pokemon?  Restaurants exploded out of every nook, cranny, and alley.  We sidled up to a small sushi place where language barriers precluded choices... so we chose everything.  All of it was great. Well, almost all of it.  I would suggest staying away from sea urchin, which tastes like salted brine mixed with a bad day whilst oozing down your throat like a muddy slug.

After a few sakes (that doesn't rhyme with rakes, don't be uncultured savages!) we took to exploring the most populated square by pedestrians in the world.  Overwhelming is an understatement.
I thought of challenging the stampede by doing pushups in the center (if I only had a brain!) but I've learned better from certain disney films. Also, from certain drifting films....

Exploring Shibuya (a section of Tokyo) led to checking into our hotel.  A small, overpriced closet.  It's greatest amenity?  The toilet.  IF you are wondering, yes toilets there had seat heaters better than leather interior BMWs.  IF you were even more curious, yes they cheered you on when they sensed movement with cheers like "Excellent job!" and "Hurray for poop!"

The excitment was only beginning, with the much anticipated robot bar on the horizon...

23 AUG 2015

One Month In.

Time truly escapes us.  The old adage is that it takes 21 days to break a habit.  I'd make the comparison that it takes 21 days for something to lose its novelty.

That vacation feeling, where everything is exciting and an adventure is wearing off, and life seems less like a trip, as everyone can relate to, I have succumbed to the dreaded development of "routine."

Oki-life has come with pros and cons.
The pros:  I've met welcoming, smart, hardworking people on the island with similar interests that really have good senses of humor and better hearts, and still haven't gotten tired of me (totally have infiltrated!).  I work with really good people, on people who have to agree with my opinion (yeah I said it, best patient population in the world.)

The cons are the longing for home. The wondering if people think of you anymore.  The missing out on key events (facebook is a blessing and a curse, mostly an ad-filled, opinion sharing, marriage/baby picture-filled curse that is like a malignant tumor I've accepted.)

Things that people take for granted that I've truly missed:
Being in the same time zone (I'm 13 hours ahead, TIME TRAVEL!)
Being able to read signs, restaurants, etc,
Not being able to blend in,
Not having a mailing address (mail used to piss me off soooo much too)
Being held accountable for professionalism 24/7 while on base,
Watching sporting events at normal people times,
And the ease of communication.

Not much event wise has gone on -- minus joining a volleyball team that reminds me of a certain movie in terms of our competitive nature...
And planning a trip to mainland, which happens to have a famous robot bar as well as A REAL LIFE POKEMON CENTER.

Will post more frequently, with less feelings.  All is well, and this part of the adventure is like Luke leaving Tatooine and gaining some serious skills.  Though I'm more like the annoying C3PO, if I were a character.

True friendship isn't about being inseparable, it is about being separated and nothing changes.

2 AUG 2015

Friendship and Unity.

I’ve found, no matter where I’ve been on earth, what matters most is the people around me, and whether they can tolerate my eccentricities and blunt, crass, humor.

A free weekend. The first weekend with a car on Okinawa, and so much to explore.  And explore we did.

New friends led me to the terrors and wonder that accompany Japanese arcades.  Arcades?  You mean the antiquated gathering places of 80s nerds (replaced today by children who can’t hold a conversation without holding a phone).  This was no “arcade” as you and I know it.   This was the perverse, twisted, hello kitty version of a casino for children… a strange world Dr. Seuss would have difficulty imagining.

The coolest people in this arcade were accompanied by a put out (hot?) girlfriend, dressed to the nines, awaiting them as they challenged what could only be considered the most ridiculous video game I’ve seen. (Ladies, keep track of your undergarments while watching this video, they may fly off at this prodigious savant!)
High school age groups giggled (only hanging out in peer groups of the same sex) after going into photobooths that turned their faces into doll-like monstrosities.

I had night terrors that evening.

Fast forward to a scenic beach day the next morning, to purge my memory of the garish arcade, with peers who were more than generous with ideas for fun and knowledge of the island. 

After enjoying what looked like scenes from The Beach (worth a watch, Leo Dicaprio’s finest work) we went to a magical sushi factory.  I expected the Japanese version of oompa loompas to be confined to the back of the building delivering sushi so efficiently via conveyor belt and spaceship delivery system (seen here).  After eating my fill (I was like a Sarlacc pit), I paid what amounted to two packs of Digimon cards for my stay.  What a deal.

And finally, what Sunday on the island wouldn’t be complete without a trip to Charaumi Aquarium.  Photos don’t do it justice, but checkout the album on my facebook page.

Until next time!

30 JUL 2015

Only the military could make things so drab.

Through the check-in process I have been sent back and forth, forwards and backwards.  Endless acronyms.  Endless paperwork.  Every minutia covered.  Inflexible and inefficient.

I am getting my “CIF” gear.  A laundry list of military supplies.  Hijame, a local who resembles Johnny Tsunami (everyone here sort of does) helps me fill my shopping cart, drawling out item after item.
“Assault pack… tactical hydration pack….laundry bag….”  Hijame I think you mean bookbag.  And Camelbak… and okay that IS a laundry bag, you got that one right.

An endless list of things, a microcosm of the time since I’ve been on island.  Checklists.  Lines. Nothing productive.

“…tactical helmet… trench tool…gas mask….” The shopping cart, which is Shrek sized, is almost filled to the brim.

“…grenade bags….m16 ammo…Kevlar vest.” Wait… WHAT?  No, Hijame still made those sound boring.  Like he was a grocery clerk and he just scanned my charmin and my lean pockets.
It reminded me of one of my favorite scenes of all time.

Onto pursuing my “FMF” – essentially a badge that says, “I’m actually in the military, I’ve shot a gun, and I have an inkling of what being a marine is all about even though I’m an idiot Navy dentist.”
Essentially, becoming John Cena.

22 JUL 2015

 A Not so Brief, Brief

8 hours have passed and so have my hot snakes.  I sit down for a brief at 0700, except this brief is not so brief… it goes until 1500, and is followed by a driver’s exam.  I note everyone around me is a marine with much more experience than I have.  I can tell by their aggressive haircuts, the language being used (80% acronyms) and the fact that it looks like they’re carrying toilet paper rolls underneath their armpits when they walk (aka the quarterback walk).  I am a “Gaijin” in more ways than one here.

Wait…Driver’s exam?  Should be easy, I don’t need to study…. right? I note everyone around me frantically studying.  I overhear a military spouse nervously muttering to her neighbor, “…this is my second time, only 5 people in the auditorium passed yesterday…”

Shit.

Japanese people drive on the left side of the rode.  Their rode signs are in Kanji.  You know Kanji, right? The funny symbols some crazy person puked out of their brain onto paper and said let’s read this right to left and develop two thousand characters that turn into sounds that confuse white people?
The test is all in metrics for distances.  There are strange laws and age restrictions.  A DUI is 0.03 BAC.  Everybody who drives is stereotypically terrible at it cause, you know, Asians.
I join the frantic studiers, who have made handwritten study guides after their previous failures.

After a magical lunch spent walking Camp Foster, and explaining my haircut to a 70 year old Japanese woman who keeps nodding and uttering “Hai….Hai….Hai!” every few seconds (best military haircut I have ever received, and 7 dollars), I return to my dreaded exam, feeling lethargic from my jetlag.

The examiner calls the names of those who didn’t achieve the 80% passing score, publically shaming them for all to see.  He calls off a lot of names.  Alot.
Mine isn’t called.

Arigato! Thanks to the Shinto, Buddhist, Catholic, Mormon, and Jewish Gods.

The day ends with maintenance problems in my grim, 750 sq foot apartment, and the classic signing of a phone contract where you feel like you’ve just sold your soul to the Japanese devil.

Still, the day could have been worse.

21 JUL 2015

Bubble guts and hot snakes.

I’m writhing on the final leg of a 22 hour journey – there’s a shooting pain in my lower right abdomen.  I’m diaphoretic.  My calm Okinawan neighbors are probably more than a little concerned… but let’s back up a bit.

Leaving for a 24 month deployment is like leaving for college for the first time… except nobody speaks the same language, you don’t have a working cell phone, you are 8000 miles from everyone you know, and there is no timeline on your return.

The flight to Tokyo, lasting all of fourteen hours was uneventful.  My row mates and I had an unspoken solidarity, getting up and using the restroom at the same time, gathering food and supplies when the others were asleep, and suggesting movies like “Ex Machina” or “Gone Girl” to freak eachother out while exchanging topical small talk that didn’t matter and won’t be remembered.

Fast forward 27 hours into the future (wha--?!? Oh yeah I’m now 13 hours into the future, due to the whole earth being round thing) and I’m on the ground.  Everyone is staring at the standing, walking, talking advertisement that is me, which screams “I don’t belong here!” I’m at least 8 inches taller than everyone around me (click hyperlinks in this blog to enhance experience!), and if skin color is 50 shades of grey, I’m in the lighter 5 shades. 
I gaze at all the poorly translated “clever” t-shirts of the Tokyo natives around me and realize that my shirt is the cleverest.  Good.

After a stressful transfer where I asked where to go and was answered in broken English by several helpful locals, I get on the final leg of my journey.  The plane is clean to the point of sterility.  The stewardesses are friendly and professional to the point where I’m wondering if they have on and off switches and are cyborgs developed from the first Rumbas.  Two hours left, 19 hours into my journey, and that’s when I feel it.  My body can’t take it.  Bubble guts and hotsnakes.  My GI system has finally rejected me and has gone on strike, and I need an old priest and a young priest.  I “expeditiously” get off the plane, and by that I mean I fucking ran, and find the nearest toilet which has more buttons on it than a Gameboy.  I “release the Kraken” so to speak.  After several moments, I hear a kindred spirit dealing with similar demons in the next stall.  I finish my business, and calmly say “We made it,” to my anonymous stallmate, and we laugh.

We had indeed made it.