When I learned I would be stuck in a dirty urban desert for a year, restricted to wearing nothing but Army issue garb 24/7, the haute couture junkie in me groaned in despair. How would I be able to keep up with the latest Ann Taylor wraps, model the chicest of Jimmy Choo kitten heels about town, or feel the flow of Roberto Cavalli washed silk over my legs when I was limited to tan, tan, or tan. The choicest accessory allowed here is a leather shoulder holster, sold for exorbitant prices by LNs at the camp junk store. I have been fortunate to get a bit of my monthly fashion fix when my mother forwards the bible of all Fifth Avenue Bergdorf Blondes, Vogue Magazine. I devour the hundred or so pages of photos, gossip and ads, and drink in the color which my life so desperately lacks here in sandy country.

(Vogue was the cause of a hilarious verbal gaff last year which I have yet to live down. My legal team was armed, packed up, geared up and mounted up in our humvees ready to convoy out to a 14 day field exercise when my paralegal/driver mentioned that he had forgotten to bring magazines. Being a bit new to the whole going to the field thing, I reassured him that I have got Vogue and would (jokingly) be happy to share it with him. He looked at me like I had just sprouted aliens from my nose and said politely, Maam, I meant ammunition magazines for the M9 pistols. Well, needless to say, the legal office slogan for the rest of the field exercise was I have Vogue! which the team also felt obligated to inscribe on the JAG announcement board in our corner of the field office.)

Part of my job as a lawyer in the sandy place takes me to the different company offices around our encampment. Each company office, or orderly room has a different atmosphere, depending on the temperament of the company commander and the mission of the company. Some bustle with constant activity, some are a bit quieter with the TV being the main source of stimulation.

It was one of these orderly rooms that gave me the laugh of the week. The company (or battery as they are sometimes called) was one of my all male, testosterone filled artillery units. The slogan for certain of these units is Big Guns Go Deep so you can imagine how my interactions usually go, generally filled with lots of grunting and gems of questions such as what do you mean we can not flog the soldier naked in front of his entire team for being late to PT?

As I entered into the office, I noticed all the soldiers working in the office were seated at their desks, quiet as mice, eyes glued to the television. Broadcasting is perfect color and cable clarity was none other than the Orbit Fashion Channel. A European-accented, most definitely effeminate male voice was extolling the latest delightful creations strolling down the runway during Paris Haute Couture Week. Phrases I have never heard anywhere close to an Army office such as Delicious Lavin hammer sequins, Bold and fresh Zac Posen tribal prints and Daring Michael Kors ruffled sea chiffon skirt rolled off the silky tongue of the announcer and fell upon my amusedly shocked ears. Forgetting whatever legal action I had come to consult the commander about, I plopped myself down in the nearest chair and installed myself in the office for the next half hour while models flounced their way down the runway, air kissed designers and squealed with delight at the latest Chanel beaded metallic strappy heeled sandals. I sighed with contentment at the sight of gorgeous wispy Prada tops and patterned Marc by Marc Jacobs skirts.

After the segment on the Paris Fashion Week, I came to understand exactly why the Fashion Channel was playing in this all male dominion of big guns. Now flashing across the screen in all of its 32 inches of color and vive was the Victorias Secret Tour Across America Show. Models in Vickys finest bounced through public appearances, hugging, giggling and bursting forth with such pearls of wisdom as I am studying to be a veterinarian because I just LOVE children! I learned that the favorite fashion segments involved Brazilian clothes, not because of the plucky cleverness of bias cut satin, but because when the models present the latest in wide-legged military style button trousers, frequently, all they wear is, well, trousers.

Honestly, I could care less about motive. I was just delighted to learn about a refuge from tan, tan, tan. The commander offered me my own desk in the orderly room, so in exchange for my personal attention to all battery legal actions, I get to watch the fashion channel to my hearts content. Even my husband will not let me have such a generous offer; at home he keeps hiding the remote whenever the TV finds its way to the Style Channel.

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There are many things in the Sandy Place that have not changed since this hallowed ground gave birth thousands of years ago to the religious faiths that shape our modern existence. For example, the hot dusty climate that kept Moses and the Israelites warm as they wandered the desert for 40 years in nomadic search for the answers to life which still puzzle us; the mud and stone huts which the most destitute of the world call home just minutes down the street from our encampment; and, of course, the lack of any type of drainage system still plague this modern sandy society.

I expected many things when I came here, heat, flies, dirt, dust and a year away from hearth and home. I did not expect to have to ford my way through a raging flood in order to eat lunch. It has been raining here steadily for only a day or two and the lack of those pesky holes in the street we call a drainage system and take completely for granted has suddenly reared its ugly head.
After only a few hours of rain, our little corner of the world has disappeared blanket of muddy water. My first hint that something was amiss was yesterday, after being absorbed in work at my computer for an hour or two; I stood up and realized I was standing on a soaking wet floor. We set to work pulling up power cords, rearranging furniture away from the door and sweeping water out of the office and down the front steps. Much to our surprise and delight, we discovered that our brown tile floor was not really brown, but a lovely pink and yellow pattern.

This morning, the deluge had only worsened. After mucking out the water that had crept in overnight, we all stood in the front door looking out on the main road in our encampment, taking in the transformation to our little corner of the world. I felt as if I had been transported back in time to Genesis 7. My first hint was the parade of pairs of rats, mice, donkeys, and bedraggled cats and dogs that paddled by, headed down the road toward a destination unknown. The next hint was the complete absence of local nationals which usually hang out around the back corner of the building. Curious, I looked down the end of the road and saw them furiously engaged in building a boat like structure, with the pairs of animals crowded around in eager anticipation. Hmmm. Apparently Americans are not as good as the local folks at taking a hint.

Getting to lunch was a dampening experience. I never would have thought I would say thank goodness for speed bumps, but they are now the only way to cross the road without wading through knee deep water. For those of you who can recall the hazy 60s might remember a favorite Beatles album cover where the Fab 5, in full regalia, cross a British street exactly in stride. The sight of soldiers, all in uniform and a perfectly straight file line, carefully marking their way across black and white hashed speed bumps could have been a slightly more dusty version of that famous pic.

The rain has continued throughout this afternoon. While I have felt quite safe in our hardened buildings, just a minute ago I thought I saw a humvee float by, and the little donkey cart the laundry workers ride into the camp in the morning has sprouted fins and a webbed tail. Tonight is lobster night at the chow hall, I now understand how we get lobster in the sandy place.

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