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The
other night I got off work at about 0200. I
presented my magnetic badge to the two locked doors
that secure my building, and passed from the
timeless, windowless vault, into cold night air,
thick with fog. The lights in our compound lit the
swirling banks of fog, but only dimly. It was so
thick it seemed to swallow up the light, and mute
the sound of my footsteps. Fog has always filled me
with a sense of anticipation, as if, no matter how
familiar the ground it covers, there is something
new there, waiting to reveal itself. Nothing did,
but I enjoyed the illusion as I found my way to the
bus stop.
Bus
rides here defy the conventions that normally apply
to mass transit. Here, everybody says hello to the
drivers, and thanks them for the ride. I try to
carry a coke with me from the chow hall and hand it
to the driver when I climb on board. At first
drivers weren't sure what to make of that, but word
has gotten around and now, if they don't exactly
expect it, they're at least not taken aback by
it.
The
drivers are a pretty pleasant bunch. If you're
walking along the road when they go by, chances are
they'll slow down and try to catch your eye, to see
if you need a ride. They'll stop and pick you up
even if you're not at one of the approved bus
stops. They're not supposed to do that, but they
like to help people out.
I
usually sit in the front seat, when it's available.
That way, if the driver's feeling talkative, we can
have a bit of a chat. I've covered just about every
topic imaginable with bus drivers. Not all of them
are such conversationalists. Sometimes I just watch
the scenery or read a book instead of chatting.
Even the taciturn ones are pleasant though. I asked
one guy why drivers all seem so pleasant. "Doesn't
it get boring, driving around in circles all
day?"
"Boring
can be good," he explained. "When I first got
deployed, they told me I'd be driving convoys in
Iraq. When the alternative is dangerous," he said,
"I'll opt for boredom."
Drivers
aren't the only folks who make riding the bus here
different from back home. We're a small community,
so even if you don't know everybody, you've seen
most everyone once or twice. That, and the
circumstances we all share, make people more
willing to talk to each other. If you strike up a
conversation with the driver, or a friend in a
neighboring seat, don't be surprised if a stranger
joins in.
Of
course that can be taken to extremes. I had to
laugh at the guy who addressed the entire bus two
nights ago. He waited until he'd taken his seat and
the bus had started to roll. Then, pointing at his
friend, who sat in front of him, he said in a loud
voice with a pronounced southern accent, "Ladies
and gentlemen, I ask you; have you ever in your
life seen such a small head on a full-grown man?"
A
popular pass-time here is zapping - plastering your
unit's sticker on the most prominent place
available. I guess it's like graffiti artists and
tagging. You see the stickers everywhere, but you
never see anyone applying them. The most frequently
seen sticker has to be the roundel of the Royal
Australian Air Force. It's a blue circle with a
white center, superimposed over which is a red
kangaroo. Very distinctive and classy, I think. My
favorite sticker, although you don't see many of
them, is black with white lettering. It says, "I
love my Al Udeid Chow Hall." I just want to know
where those came from. Who spent money on having
them printed?
Not
that there isn't plenty to love about the chow
halls. Most notably, they now have real ice cream.
For my first couple months here the chow hall
nearest to where I work featured a little ice cream
counter in the front corner. Every day at lunch and
dinner one of the chow hall workers occupied a
stool behind the counter, but I never once saw him
dip his scoop. I thought that was kind of strange.
I'm not exactly surrounded by health nuts here, in
fact, although you see lots of people running and
using the weight rooms, you also see a fair number
who appear to eat for recreation. So why weren't
they eating the ice cream? I gave it a try and
understood immediately. I don't know in what third
world country that stuff passed for ice cream, but
in our little corner of America, it just didn't cut
it. The poor little guy with the ice cream scoop,
having thought he'd at last found himself a
customer, had to return to his semi retirement, his
scoop standing ready in a cup of water.
Within
the last week or so though, the ice cream man has
been getting a workout. Now he's the most popular
man on base. I wondered about the change, so I got
in line (Yes, there was actually a line.) and to my
amazement, when I approached the counter, I noted
the name on the buckets in the cooler. Breyers. I
got myself a bowl and, when I got to the head of
the line, held it out Oliver Twist-like, and my new
hero filled it with some of the finest ice cream
known to man. It's hard to complain when you have a
belly full of premium ice cream or even, as was the
case last night - root beer float.
Things
at the chow hall are now so good that one of our
own was almost reluctant to go home. Maj Thomas L.
departed this outpost last night, headed back to
the world, but not before a second helping of rocky
road. He'll be missed. He was a fixture in our
little office and he seemed to enjoy my calling him
"Major Tom," calling me, in response "ground
control." He was also one of our finest
contributors to the thrice-weekly video
teleconferences, which are the bane of our
existence. When our microphone is closed, we make
great sport of whomever is talking at the time, and
Major Tom was especially good at that. VTCs will be
slow without him. Safe trip Major Tom.
Steven
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Soviet
Tank
Steven astride an Iraqi tank provided by the former
Soviet Union
Saddam's
Victory Palace
Never finished, and probably never will
be
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