Robyn Kriel

“I smelled you from across the camp the moment you got out of the vehicle.”

I resisted the urge to ask the handsome young United States Marine, who was helping me put on my 15-pound Kevlar bulletproof vest, whether it was a good smell or a bad smell. I was on day eight of no shower or bath, and figured I should spare myself the pain of the truth.

I was the only woman in a United States Marines Combat Outpost in Helmand Province, Afghanistan. I was surrounded by more than a hundred muscle-bound American males who hadn’t seen a woman (or at least one not covered up from head to toe in a traditional Afghan burka) in six months. And I was on the verge of losing my mind.

“The shitters are over there.”

I stared in horror at another young man who was pointing out, well, the shitters.

They were tented off ‘areas’ the size of telephone booths, containing a wooden box toilet seat and lid, one that was bedazzled with the name “WARLORD THRONE” on it. The tents had holes in them and nothing at the bottom, which meant everyone knew exactly who was in there and what they were doing, the entire time.

“Um, thanks,” I mumbled. He then took me to a pile of ‘Wag Bags’ and began to explain what they were used for when I politely cut him off, and pointed out the bags came with directions. (A wag bag is a plastic bag the troops use when they go to the toilet.) I really didn’t need someone younger than me telling me how to use the bathroom, although later that day I did still have to read the directions.

This was my life for the next month. Caked with sand, covered in sand flea bites, surrounded by men who were too shy even to look at me, never mind strike up a conversation, and trying to avoid getting my legs blown off by stepping on a humongous bomb.

War and journalism aside, I needed to talk to a woman. I was having problems that only another woman would understand. I am a girls’ girl. I wanted to gossip, to laugh, and to talk about how much my boobs hurt under the Kevlar.

My boyfriend back home had picked a huge fight with me and told me I was being a diva, and I needed someone to tell me that I wasn’t a diva, I was just experiencing battle fatigue, or something. My whole life I had been surrounded by a plethora of women. I had had a mother, a grandmother, a big sister and then hundreds of friends at my girls-only high school. In Afghanistan I learnt a lot about myself, and one thing I really need in my life is other women.

I needed to talk about the fact that cleansing down every night using baby wipes is not an acceptable way to live. I needed someone to ask if they were also horribly constipated from the barely edible, over-processed Meals Ready to Eat we had to eat. My cameraman and dear friend, Meshack Dube, was trying to look after me, and to be that person for me, but there are some things that even dear male friends just do not want or need to know.

I guess I could have gone to the (male and slightly cute) camp medic and begged for laxatives, but there was one other thing I knew that even a trained doctor, who could sew people’s arms back on while bullets were flying around, could not help me with.

I was desperate, I mean to the point that I would have bribed, begged or stolen, for a tampon.

My doctor had advised me to skip my period while I went into battle, since there were no showers or really any basic necessities other than guns, ammunition and food. So I took the pill, followed her instructions, and it was all peachy until we got woken up in the middle of the night to go on a raid.

“Bring your flak jackets, your water bottles, sleeping bags and camera gear,” said the six-foot-eight giant of a Gunnery Sergeant. “Don’t bring any crap you don’t need.”

So I figured I would leave the baby wipes, extra underwear, deodorant, mirror to apply my make-up, moisturizer etc. What I forgot, though, was my box of birth control tablets. We were due to be gone for about 24 hours and we ended up being stuck in the middle of nowhere for close to three days. I smelled even worse than usual, and had gotten my period. I had no tampons and, well, no one to ask if I could borrow any and Helmand Province isn’t the type of place you can go and pick some up at your local pharmacy.

I began to need to share my dilemma with someone. I considered emailing good friends, but I didn’t have the heart or the strength to put my personal problems into words. It was blazing hot out there, desert heat, we were walking up to 20 kms per day with full gear and the fear of being gunned down. And I was cramping and miserable. Great. How am I supposed to tell some tough Marine that? I tried calling my Mom to tell her, but every time she heard that it was me over the satellite phone she started crying in relief that I was alive, and passed the phone to my Dad.

After one month, when I stumbled out of Combat Outpost Rankel and into the semi-civilized world of

Forward Operating Base Deli, I saw the first woman I had seen in a month, and all bravado left me. I walked up to Sergeant Sanchez and said, fighting tears, “Hello.

I’m Robyn and I’m a journalist. I need a tampon and my boyfriend is being really mean to me.” She looked at me in a wizened way, and helped me out. And then she listened. That’s what I really needed. Normality had returned.

I’m giving you the lowlights of my trip and, to be honest, they were few and far between. By the time I got back to South Africa, I was 5kgs lighter, my hair was green and falling out, and I was a different colour to when I left, but my life was changed forever. Both Meshack and I had been bitten by the battle bug. The troops we had covered were brave and gentlemanly, not once was anyone rude or mildly sexual towards me. They saved lives, both each others’ and members of the local Afghan population. We had witnessed some of the most amazing scenes that will stay with me forever, and the harsh living conditions became completely and utterly worth it and addictive.

However, my first time in a warzone taught me two things: that I need to toughen my Mom up so we can talk on the phone next time, and as women our ‘essential’ items differ to those of men. No matter who is barking at you telling you to cut down your gear, always take with you a change of underwear, tampons, laxatives and more baby wipes than you think you could ever need. It might not save your life, but it will save your sanity.

Robyn Kriel is the East Africa Bureau Chief and senior correspondent for eNews Channel Africa, based in Nairobi, Kenya. She covers 11 countries including the always eventful South Sudan, Somalia and the Democratic Republic of Congo. Robyn was born and raised in Bulawayo, Zimbabwe. She has been blessed with a wonderful family and friends on several continents.