Not quite a beach

It’s easy to tell people about Iraq’s politics or its military gains. But I doubt anyone who hasn’t been here has a sense for the feel of living in ever-present sand.

It is not the soft-white quartz you find on a coral beach. It’s not the dredged, crushed ocean bottom of a Miami Beach. Nor is it the brown dirt posing as sand at a northeastern shore or the mucky stuff I remember from an island near Seoul.

The top layer of sand here is chalky-tasting and it gets on everything. There is really no such thing as dark clothing, especially outside of the city. It is bright tan in color, if there is such a thing. It never really comes off hands, which is why everyone carries a bottle of hand sanitizer.

I drink water and Gatorade to wash the sand down. I brush off my shoes for no apparent reason. But after today, I’ll probably give up. My dark brown shoes will turn the color of Army desert combat boots for the remainder of my stay. However, they are still more comfortable.

I’m currently at COP Cahill, a speck of a base 20 miles or so outside Baghdad, where the walls are made of what else, but sandbags.


I spent much of the day at a Sunni Iraqi sheik’s house, listening to him talk with soldiers and even a few Shia Sheiks. That’s a good thing, since the two religious groups have had a tendency to hurl exploding objects at each other for the past few years.

I’ll have more on that in the next couple of days.

For now, I’ve got to get some work done and then get to my bed. I’m excited; last night I had a green stretcher with a mattress on top. Tonight I have a bed frame.

How much should it take to make a person materially happy? I wonder if anyone who hasn’t gone without luxuries like a real bed and hot showers for extended time can really appreciate them.