Road trippin' with Bart

The road from Tikrit to Forward Operating Base Speicher begins with a bullet-marked concrete sign adorned with flowers and a message: “Wellcome to Tikrit.” The misspelling surprises no one who has attempted to communicate with most of Iraq's English-Arabic interpreters.

This stretch is relatively free of IEDs, otherwise known as roadside bombs. Part of the reason is that the highway is well-paved and girdered. It’s a lot harder to hide a bomb with nothing to camouflage it. Oh sure, the occasional dead sheep with wires sticking out of it shows up on the highway, but show me an American town where that doesn’t happen.

The journey to Speicher was led by the intrepid Major “Bart,” who everyone agreed should not drive. Bart wears fairly thick glasses and does not recognize any difference between pavement and sidewalk. In fact, any hard surface is considered fair game.

We would be riding in a five-vehicle convoy. Since we were the only vehicle without a gunner, we rode in the middle. We were in the only vehicle without a lot of other things, including uncracked glass, seatbelts and, naturally, any more than a few centimeters of cushioning against the bare metal under our bottoms.

The vehicle, a Humvee of sorts, sounds like it drags something under its tires wherever it went. I nicknamed it “Old Yeller,” thinking the term resembled both the paint job and its state of existence.

If you know anything about Army logic, then by now you also know that Major Bart wound up driving.
“We’ll be there in no time, guys!” said Major Bart, each of us hoping to avoid crashing into any sand dunes on the way.

We drove beyond the base barricades and rode through the “downtown” district. Shops made of wood, concrete and any other scavengable material lined each side. Some were stacked on top of each other. They sold lots of random items, with one display cart outside featuring a vacuum cleaner, a carving block and what appeared to be a stack of doilies. Whenever I see a doily, I’ll think of Iraq.

We were about five minutes outside of town when Major Rob, in the backseat, shouted “Bump!”
Major Bart sped along happily.
“BUMP!” Rob shouted.
Major Bart kept moving along. I saw the speed bump sign coming in 5, 4, 3….
“BUMP!” I shouted, and Major Bart slammed on the brakes. I could feel Old Yeller straining to keep it together.
Major Rob looked pained. It turned out his seat was completely devoid of cushioning, and a bit jagged. He may need a hemorrhoid pillow from now on.

Old Yeller took a slight scrape from the concrete barrier leading to FOB Speicher, but Major Bart kept his promise: he got us there fast. When I arrived, I was shown to a shower so clean, I scrubbed up without wearing flip-flops for the first time since arriving in country. Little luxuries like that are worth a lot around here.

Tomorrow I’ll be headed somewhere you’ve all heard of; need a clue? Close your eyes and think of England.

Stories:
Draft Iraqi constitution an issue for Sunnis
Iraqi general gives public an ear, officials an earful
Army teaching Iraqis to handle administrative task
Army lieutenant sees husband’s boxing win turn sorrowful

Sticking with the fruit

I stood at a lunchroom table in a room designated for generals and a provincial governor today. I never sat down.

The Iraqi custom is that if there aren’t enough chairs for everyone to sit, then everyone eats standing up.
I didn’t mind this too much, since we would be eating “finger food.” No, we were not eating hors d’oeuvres. We were eating large chunks of lamb on a bed of rice from communal plates. We were given a thin tissue, a spoon and no dish. Sensing my trepidation, an Iraqi translator asked if it was OK with me if he used his hands. I smiled politely. He got the message and used a combination of the spoon and some flatbread to pick at the lamb.

An Iraqi policeman jumped between us and began eating the old fashioned way. He dug half of his hand into the rice and went to town. I think he polished off two or three lambs on his own, picking and pulling until the bones fell apart in a heaping mass.
I had a light lunch. The figs were really good.

The occasion for the lunch was a visit to the Provincial Joint Communication Center, or PJCC. The center is sort of a roll-your-own 911 hotline, army base, security center and elections commission rolled into one. Today, they simulated the upcoming Oct. 15 referendum, complete with response to riots all over Salah-ad-Din province.

Anyway, a couple of army brigadier generals decide to walk in, which never does anything to an exercise but delay it while someone explains to the generals in simplistic terms what is happening. They smile, give everyone an “attaboy” and move on. The provincial governor and assorted high falutin’ Iraqis were there to receive them as well, since they had all participated in a mock press conference earlier. I, of course, caught wind of the mock conference and turned it into a very real press conference, but that’s a story for another day.

The dignitaries gathered in the ranking Iraqi general’s office, although the governor claimed the general’s chair. The office was about as tasteful as, well, the guy who stuck his hands in the rice.

A picture of something vaguely resembling a Chinese dragon hung in the corner. Crimson and gold baroque chairs lined the far side wall, with several more and two 70s romper room couches on the other side. Above the couches was some sort of tropical beach scene wallpaper, warped in the middle and at the edges. The desk and an Iraqi flag sat facing the audience as well as a television with a picture on top of, who else – himself.

“This is what a governor’s office should look like!” remarked one American general, who either has equally bad taste or subscribes to the “always say the opposite of what you’re thinking” school of diplomacy.

No one said anything of consequence. One general recommended that the governor begin building golf courses to bring in tourists. Sure, I can see that going over well with the average local.

“I have an idea!”
“What is it, Habib?”
“You know how we live in a mud hut?”
“Yes, Habib.”
“And you know how we own nothing but livestock and dirt?
“Yes, Habib.”
“You know, thousand of acres of scorched, barren dirt?”
“I know, Habib, lots of dirt.”
“Well, why don’t we take our limited resources and plant grass, so rich people can get sunburns while walking around in hideous orange shirts and baggy pants!”
“This is a great idea, Habib.”
“Yes! That way, all of the dirty water we use to sustain our meager existence will be used on greenskeeping! It is perfect!”

I'm thinking Iraq has a ways to go before it becomes the next world golf resort destination.

Spc. Soto del Puerto Rico, keeping the Humvee secure. Try telling her women don't belong on the front lines.

I passed on the $5 rolex

You wouldn’t expect to find a Michael Moore book lying around a forward operating base in Iraq.

Moore has gone after George W. Bush with such venom that even people who have opposed the war from the start wish he’d tone it down a bit. The sergeant who was reading, “Dude, Where’s My Country?” is on his third tour, and is counting the days until he can get back to his base in Germany.

“I think we should get out of here,” he says, flatly.

He is justifiably sick of his current lifestyle. Of course, everyone who has been deployed for almost a year is tired of being in this country. But despite the endless expanses of dirt and lack of beer (except for this non-alcoholic “Becker’s” swill), not everyone thinks the U.S. should pull out.

I haven’t met anyone yet who believes that Iraq is going to be a "model of democracy and beacon of hope for the Middle East." Well, except for one guy, whose head is the exact shape of his helmet, right down to the raised browridge in front.

The feeling I get is that most soldiers want the Iraqis to be able to secure the country on their own. Even if by “securing,” they mean occassionally, “arresting that guy because he bought a N.Y. Yankees hat from a guy who once looked at my sister's ankle with longing desire.” Given another year of army building, some believe the Iraqis will passably succeed. They're not saying that the Iraqi army will rise to U.S. standards. There is a quote attributed to Lawrence of Arabia clipped to the makeshift wall next to a U.S. intelligence adviser’s desk here that sums up their philosophy:
“Better the Arabs do it tolerably than you do it perfectly.”

They know they’re not creating the 82^nd Airborne here. They’re just trying to create something that will stick before they leave.

I went over to this base’s version of a Base Exchange today. It’s a trailer featuring the best that a couple of fortunate Iraqi merchants have to offer. You can get several first-run DVDs here in mass quantity, for about $6 apiece. This price actually has some people steamed, since at some other bases you can get them for $2. In Iraq, you could buy a few thousand acres of land for what you make of a day of $6 DVD sales. That’s an awful lot of baked dirt.

In comparison, Iraqi soldiers used to make about $4 every month (it’s about $400 now). Along with the DVDs, they sold nothing but the finest "Havena" cigars and a wide variety of Rolex watches.
"It sounds good, yes? Ticks loud, like time bomb."
I think I'll pass, thanks. The only item I saw of real interest was some Saddam money.

Not much doing around here otherwise. Tomorrow should be more interesting. The Iraqi Army will be taking instruction from a female sergeant first class. I guarantee they’ve never seen anything like her in their lives. I’ll bring the camera.

Story: http://www.stripes.com/article.asp?article=31762&section=104

Everybody gets a cut

Hello all,

I watched six dishdasha-clad sheiks, a political operative and a guy named Habib rat out two Iraqi Army officers today.
I didn’t understand much of the conversation, since unlike in the movies, people of the world don’t distinguish their ethnicity by speaking English with a foreign accent. However, the word “mafia” came up several times.
I was interviewing a Kurdish general in Saddam’s hometown when the sheiks showed up outside. Through my interpreter, the general explained that the local sheiks like to just show up outside without an appointment and expect a prompt audience. The general always says yes, since it was these guys who kept the Baathists from whacking him when he got to town. You see, the general made some sharp comments about Arabs gassing his people once upon a time, and the locals -- including a few hundred of Saddam’s cousins -- though he might take revenge (he didn’t).
The sheiks come in to complain about the mafia stealing gasoline, which doesn’t leave enough for poor little farmers with 45 wives like the honest, hardworking sheiks. They blamed it all on a captain and a colonel in the Iraqi Army. Noting my presence, along with a U.S. colonel, they let it slip that the captain in question was once Saddam’s house servant. The colonel was his uncle, they said.
The general thanked them, and the sheiks all looked like they felt better. Then came two more guys dressed in modern clothing – the label on one guy’s shirt said “Middle Eastern Man” in English. Apparently, it’s the Kenneth Cole of Iraq. One introduced himself as a teacher, and the other introduced himself as “Habib” but said nothing throughout the ensuing conversation. Maybe Habib came for moral support.
Once the door closed, the teacher called all of the sheiks thieves, according to my interpreter. He explained how he had been arrested by the same captain the sheiks were complaining about for no reason. He said it might have something to do with him being active in a political party.
“But I am an honest, peaceful man. I am a teacher, and I’m not someone who resorts to violence.” He thanked the general for his time. While walking out the door, he asks if, by the way, “Can I have a weapons license?”
I later asked the American officer who sat in on the meeting for his take. The officer has been in country since November dealing with the general and his problems.
“I’ll tell you what probably happened,” he said. “The captain made a deal with the gas station to let most of the tankers in, but let one of the trucks ‘disappear’ from time to time.
“Once the captain hooked up with the colonel, he stopped giving the sheiks their cut of the action, which made them upset. The political party the teacher works for was probably getting a cut too.”
I imagine Tikrit is what 1920s prohibition-era Chicago would have been like if nobody drank alcohol and gasoline were considered taboo.

One more story

http://www.stripes.com/article.asp?section=104&article=30873&archive=true

New Story

This one is about Iraqi Army basic training:
http://www.stripes.com/article.asp?article=31708&section=104

Uday's bombed Tikrit palace from afar.

This is the where the U.S. thought Saddam was staying at Uday's Palace in Tikrit. They say around here he was probably not too far away.

Oh look -- more dirt

We have a civilian guy here at the base named Nick, who as far as I can tell, has no native language.

That hasn’t stopped Nick, an Iraqi-born American, from parlaying his fascinating blend of English and Arabic into a well-compensated job as an interpreter. Nick translates for a transition team assigned to help organize the Iraqi Army 4^th Division.

Nick, a guy well into his 40s or 50s, also has a mad crush on Jennifer Anniston. Today, he found her agent’s address on the Internet and decided to write her a letter.

The letter is written in Arabic, but I think he wants someone to translate it so she doesn’t think she is the subject of a terrorist plot. Nick says she has this “special…..special...I don’t know” he finds in no other woman.

“I think maybe she will read this because it is from Iraq,” Nick said.

“I want to tell her that even though she has heavy heart, you know, because she divorced, I want to tell her that people she doesn’t even know are thinking about her and have her in their heart every second.”

After walking around for five minutes, he changes his mind:

“You see, I need to clear my head, I don’t want to say that. It will upset her to remind her of these things. I should take time to think about this. Sometimes when I go to sleep, I have a thought and I must wake up and write the thought. You know, I was a writer too, you know?”

“Yeah? Who did you write for?” I asked.

“For love,” he replied.

“Love. Oh. Love’s good.”

“I will think more about the letter writing,” he said.

I’ve spent the last few days with Nick and several soldiers at a “lights-out” base not far from Tikrit, meaning all you’ve got at night is the moonlight for a guide when you’re outside. This isn’t all that bad, since it’s not like anyone is going for a pub crawl out in town. If the lights were on, all you’d see is beige dirt, large rocks, concrete barriers and tents. The tents are about 60 feet long and supported by an inside metal frame. They have portable air conditioners and can fit 20 or so double bunks comfortably. The walls and ceiling look like the top of a flowery mattress without sheets.

If you walk a few minutes from the tents, you’ll find a warehouse-sized tent known as the DFAC, also known as the chow hall. This may blow my image as the intrepid reporter roughing in the desert, but, um, we had crab legs tonight. Not just crab legs. We had T-bone steak, shrimp, scallops, pasta, a salad bar, dessert and your choice of beverages. It’s pretty much like this every night at select bases, and all the food is all-you-can-eat. Leave it to the good ol’ U.S. of A to put people in the sweltering, barren desert and bring them back fatter than when they came. I should say though that the crab legs were horrendously overdone. I don’t think anyone will be opening up a chain of Tigris River Seafood restaurants anytime soon.

“Welcome to Tigris River Seafood, where 5,000 years of accumulated muck is the secret behind our tasty original recipe. Come for the food, stay for the sweltering atmosphere -- but not too long, please. And don’t look at anyone funny, or they may declare a lobster jihad on your family.”

Yeah, I don’t see it happening.

A view of the Tigris from Saddam's former compound in Iraq. It's actually quite nice when you don't think about the people on the other side who aren't so thrilled about you being here. (9/16/05)

My apologies to the vegetarians. I believe this was the Sabbath sacrifice to Allah. (9/16/05)

Basic training at "Iraqi Island." Note they're wearing U.S. 1991 Desert Storm uniforms. I don't know why they swing their arms while marching. They just do.

Read the Sept. 18 entry for an explanation. (9/18/05)

Vegas, football and Iraqi Chinese food

We were driving in an up-armored Humvee back to the 42^nd Infantry Division’s headquarters, located at the highest point on Forward Operating Base Danger. We stared over the ridge at the sandstone buildings and the Tigris River. During the day they looked dreary and baked; but shortly after sunrise, they glisten with the cloudless sky’s hazy pink light.

“This could be Nevada,” said Specialist Connolly, an upstate New York national guardsman working in the press office.

“You’ve got the sand, the sun and spots of green next to the water. You’ve got palaces. They could turn them into resorts.”

“You know the only thing it’s missing?”

“What?” I asked. I was thinking maybe Wayne Newton and those German guys with the white lions.

“The mob. And if you bring them in…”

Connolly rubbed his hands together, “if you bring them in, you know all this random violence stops, I guarantee you.”

Hmmm… could the John Gottis of the world spell the soldiers and take out the insurgents in the name of illegal business enterprises? I don’t know, but it might make for a fun reality TV show.

I woke up at 5 a.m. today, voluntarily. Very few things in life can make that happen, but being here in Iraq motivates you to do things you wouldn’t normally do, especially when it’s something that reminds you of normality. I got a ride to the Morale, Welfare and Recreation center at halftime for the University of Florida/Tennessee football game in the Swamp. It wasn’t showing in the main rooms with the big TVs and the cushy couches, and the guys working the overnight shift don’t get paid $5 a day for their English-speaking skills.

After roaming the building for additional TVs, I wandered into the weight room, where two TVs tuned into American Forces Network Sports were showing the game. Since there were no chairs in the weight room – I guess exercising is the point – I plopped down on an inclined weight bench in front of a TV in the corner. I thought, “This is good. I can lift weights while I watch the game. If I keep doing this, I’ll be able to haul my backpack-of-bricks with ease.”

Well, anyway, I thought about it.

The game was pretty sloppy, with Florida stumbling to a field goal in the third quarter primarily because Tennessee played like they went across University Avenue at halftime for 99 cent kamikaze shooters.

It got interesting at the beginning of the fourth quarter. The heralded Florida “spread offense” converted on 3^rd and 29 and looked like it actually might pull away from the Vols. I was getting into it when the music began playing.

Laissez-moi secouer votre grille-pain, LalalalalalLA, la la

Vous buvez du lait comme un cheval, LalalalalalLA, la la

The speaker was mounted on the wall right next to the TV. The music had some sort of quasi-African rhythm to it. At any rate, I would have had to turn the TV up several decibel levels to hear anything, so it was video-only from that point. Eventually, the gym employee of indeterminate origin began playing a mix CD that led off the Nirvana’s Smells Like Teen Spirit. Didn’t see that one coming.

For those who don’t know, Florida won 16-7. I celebrated by taking the long way back to my work area and walking by Uday Hussein’s bombed out palace. I also walked by the Chinese restaurant Saddam had built next door. I tried to imagine him sitting there, eating with chopsticks in his military uniform. I wondered if we could have averted this whole mess with a little more MSG in Saddam’s kung pao chicken.

Tikrit -- family fun for everyone

Hello all,

I slept in one of 68 of Saddam Hussein's former palaces last night. Most of them are very imposing, but very tacky. Stucco is fine for Florida houses, but who ever heard of a stucco palace?

I've been moved since last night to accomodate for all the judicial types coming to home sweet home, AKA Forward Operating Base Danger. I don't know why they had to name it that. Do they just want to scare the bejeezus out of every soldier who comes here? They could name it something else, like Forward Operating Base Mildly Precarious. Or possibly FOB Candyland. I'm just thinking of morale here.

Anyhow, things are fine here. It really is a dry heat. I'll be posting frequent updates to my Web site soon, assuing I figure out how to use this internet satellite doohickey that I lug around with my Kevlar, helmet, clothing, laptop, camera and the rest of the gear in my backpack. I think someone may have stuck some office furniture in there while I wasn't looking, but I'm too afraid of what might be lurking at the bottom of said backpack to completely empty the thing.

Got a good look at basic traiining for the new Iraqi Army today. The verdict: it's gonna take some time, maybe more than public opinion will allow. It sounds like the officers are the ones that need the most help. The sunnis don't like the kurds, the shiites don't like the sunnis, and there are a few people who appear to be wondering around in circles who don't like themselves and want to let everybody know it in loud Arabic.

There are some units that the Americans actually trust to go out and take care of business on their own, so there is a little hope in North Central Iraq for that. Baghdad is a whole other story from what I hear. The reporters coming in from there say they can't walk outside without 16-year-olds threatening them. They're a lot like the precocious 16-year-olds we have in the states -- bored, looking to get into trouble, ready for wacky escapades. Unfortunately, their 16-year-olds have grenades.

Tomorrow is Saturday and I'll be working. What else would I do here? I'll be looking into what the Iraqi governors are doing with the money the U.S. gives them. Personally, I think they're blowing it all at Greenwich Village thrift stores judging by the furnishings, but we'll see.

Cheers,

Erik

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