The snorer of war

War is often portrayed as drawn-out stretches of boredom punctuated by pounding intensity.

I am now experiencing that first part while watching Pirates of the Caribbean 2 for the third time in the Baghdad International Zone Combined Press Information Center lounge/gulag. This time around, I'm rooting for the giant squid to win.

The Baghdad CPIC is a tad less glamorous than it might sound. There are three sets of bunk beds for journalists in transit, a couple of computers, a TV and a DVD player. The whole thing is set in a small bunker-like maze of portable buildings, porta-pottys, porta-showers and whatever else the contractors had for sale with that porta- prefix.

The larger Baghdad International Zone, or "Green Zone" as its popularly known, has checkpoints manned everywhere by Peruvian guards with machine guns (red-tipped with blanks in most cases) every 300 yards or so, making walking anywhere time-consuming. And since I didn't have my CPIC ID yet, a young soldier said, there was a chance if I left that I wouldn't be able to get back in. Fortunately, he was wrong, but I wouldn't know this until a Sunday afternoon and Monday morning of marinating at the lounge.

In between, a very large "journalist" showed up Sunday night dressed vaguely like a soldier and carrying three standard issue camouflage bags.

"That's good thinking. Play soldier and make himself an even bigger target than he already is," said Jon, a Kiwi television producer who, like most of us, is waiting for his embed in another area.

Neither Jon nor I could imagine this paunchy guy going "outside the wire," out on patrol with soldiers for eight hours. I can't believe a doctor cleared him.

He probably never got a checkup. Which is unfortunate, since a doctor might have been able to help him with his tendency to snore louder than a jet engine.

I put my earplugs in from my earlier helicopter ride, but the plugs that comforted me in an open-door Army Blackhawk helicopter were no match for this man's respiratory system. He finally calmed down around 2 a.m. This made for great sleep until 3 a.m., when another large man in a crew cut and wearing an Operation Iraqi Freedom theme T-shirt showed up.

It seems the military isn't too picky about handing out press credentials these days, which is probably a good thing. But they're not too picky about the whole torture thing either, since I do believe being subjected to a chorus of snoring men who don't use sheets to cover their sparsely clothed bodies is expressly forbidden under the Geneva Convention.

I thought about applying for asylum in the morning, when a group of Yemeni journalists showed up and began the Pirates of the Caribbean 2 marathon. Apparently, Johnny Depp is huge in Yemen.

Instead of petitioning the UN, Jon and I make a break for it. We casually walked out of our bunker and past a few checkpoints, smiling and greeting the guards with "Que tal?" and "Hola, amigo." I always knew high school Spanish would come in handy for that one day I'd be in a fortified Middle East war compound.

Jon and I kept walking and made it to the Al-Rashid hotel, a 12-story building that doesn't do a whole lot of business, being that most Iraqis can't get into the Green Zone and insurgents aren't big fans of anyone working or staying there.

It cost $13 for a large plate of fries, two milk teas and a bottle of water. Guess when business is slow, you've got to make up for it with higher prices. That or the dollar is so weak it's even making the Iraqi dinar look good. Probably both.

The Al-Rashid had a few shops, mostly specializing in Afghan (Iraqi?) rugs and haircuts from the 1980s. I always wondered what happened to Jheri curls. Now I know.

I should be off to somewhere a bit more interesting in a few days. By then I'll have my audition tape ready for the next Pirates of the Caribbean movie, should it ever come to nearby Yemen. And I can't think of a reason why it shouldn't.