Lazy Days

Well the reason I haven’t posted anything in the last few days is that there really isn’t much to tell.

Sunrise over my place
I have been in the base camp all the time, where nothing much happens at all.

I’ve been invited twice to dinners to celebrate a birthday and a departure. That I appreciate as it breaks the monotony of the time here and it was a moment when I could see some of the people unwind a little.

Other than that, I wander around the camp, feeling rather like a Russian dissident consigned to a none too rigorous exile in Siberia. The weather is different of course. But the warm sunny days are becoming cooler; a fresh wind blows from the north west. Dawns are beautiful. Some are a liquid indigo that azures as the sun rises, others are mixed with fine muslin clouds that tingle with a saffron-pink glow as the rays touch them.

The drivers and their workers start their shift at 05:45. Since I now know most of them, and since working hours are equally shifted to the early morning here, I’m often up to say good morning and wave them off. Then its breakfast by 06:15, clean up the room and hit the office by 7 am. When I’m in camp, most of what I need to do here I’ve done by 9 am, the rest of the time being taken up by wandering around and seeing what people are up to. In the evening I watch a movie I downloaded earlier. Tomorrow I’ll go out again to tour the base (thank goodness).

I’m sitting now under the covered patio by the cabin I’m staying in. To my left is a small garden with a green lawn, shaded by a simple cloth canopy. A couple of young palm trees frame my view over the parking lot.

I’ve missed taking fotos of two really beautiful dawns and one good sunset. Time to take out the camera and post a couple of pics!

Sunrise over the perimeter fence

Going shopping

Yesterday I rode with the guys who pick up the large dumpsters of trash, to see how they go about their work. Nothing much in it – drive up, reverse, hook up, haul up, shake it around a bit, dump it back down on the ground, unhook and off to the next.

The nice thing about the route is that it went by way of an annex where you could take a break for morning coffee and biscuits. Even better, the route also went to the PX and commissary area in the camp – ie the on-site shops – where I’ve been desperate to get to ever since I arrived but can’t yet as I don’t have a permanent security badge.

The commissary area is a large quadrangle of containers housing small shops that do everything from selling gold jewellery to tailoring your clothes and serving you pizza. It’s essentially the same as the one I saw in Kandahar last year. Same franchises too: Green Bean, Pizza Hut, Subway and also, if I remember right, the same general operator : Gulf Services.

Here the staff are either Iraqi, Indian or Filipino (in Afghanistan they are Afghans and Nepali). So, into every shop to see what’s on offer and out with my three words of Arabic and ten words of Tagalog. Smiles all around (and I’m sure, their thinking “oh boy, another smartass tourist”).

Bought some much desired beef and chicken jerky. Not anything like the biltong and machaca that I adore (American jerky is too sweet and conditioned for my taste – I like the raw wind dried stuff), but better than nothing. Also bought a large towel that wraps around me better than the one provided.

Now aren’t I getting settled in nicely?

Since I can’t take any fotos in secure areas yet, here’s one I shot in Kandahar last year that gives you the same feel.

Take-away at Pizza Hut

Saddam’s Lagoon

This base is infinitely bigger than I first thought. I still haven’t figured out its total extent.

Yesterday I rode aboard one of the trucks that delivers fresh drinking water to various locations. In order to get through the security controls early enough, that means leaving the camp at 05:30. It's dark and chilly.

The dawn is much cooler now than it was a week ago. For the first time, I see a light cover of clouds. Some people look up and scowl. They fear the coming of the rains, when everything will turn to thick sloughs of mud. Here it seems the ground is some form of clay. It certainly isn’t earth or sand - the dust is too fine. I hate mud.

The circuit the water truck takes goes by way of a large, artificial lake, built by the famous former leader. The lake is fed by a canal system coming from the Tigris, and itself feeds many canals and inlets throughout the airport complex.

Whether by design or neglect I do not know, but many of these waterways are fringed by tall reeds and bullrushes. Images of Moses in the Nile. Strangely enough, there is a similar story from nearby here. The birth legend of Sargon, first king of Akkadia, also has him set in a basket of reeds, set afloat and recovered from the water - but by a water carrier, not a princess.

Enough trees and palms have been left to create refuges of shadow, of which the soldiers have taken advantage to build small wooden pergolas that overlook the flowing water. One or two look almost like my own pergola at home. What lovely, tranquil places to spend the last moments of a day.

I’m told that there are fish in the lagoon – and sure enough in one corner or another I see some of the off-duty drivers casting with small rods or just hook-and-line. In one shallow canal I catch a glimpse of some trout-sized fish with vermillion tails.

A low-arched bridge spans one broader canal. In the reflected sunlight the water, the shadows and the river plants whose leaves brush the surface look almost as peaceful and gentle as a painting by Monet.

The hard lurch of the water truck as it turns right jostles me out of my memory.

On the way, we pass by the “coastline” of the larger lagoon. The concept is impressive, and I think may find its origins in some of the pleasure gardens of Persia, India or China.

Essentially, a number of small and not-so-small villas have been built, in the same style but at irregular intervals, along the shores of the lagoon. The irregular shape of the shoreline helps give each one an individual feel. With the road we are travelling on behind them, those on the left hand side are built down towards the water, often with a colonnaded terrace extending out far into the lagoon, and so low as to be almost at water’s level.

I can’t describe the architectural style – it’s a pastiche of old and new of course, but not inelegant. All are angles and niches, with large stone-framed windows. The façades are thick tiles of tawny sandstone, with decorative work carved in a rugged manner. War damage has blasted a couple of turrets so I can see the underlying structure is cement, but in pristine condition you could be fooled into thinking they were built of stone.

Now each villa is occupied by a regimental or divisional command. The windows are sandbagged and cemented so high almost no light can brighten the rooms. The doorways are flanked by ubiquitous T-bars. Ornamental hanging lamps are wrapped in fine netting to protect anyone from the glass should they break. Containers with generators are dumped on the terraces or on the open ground behind them. More T-bars and HESCOs huddle around them. Telecoms wires become garlands casually draped between the lamps of an entrance way. A camouflage net, hung over a small plaza between villas, shades some resting soldiers. Others lounge at rough wooden shelters, waiting for the bus to come by.

Oblivous to the rough tramp of history. the canal breaks into a small waterfall as its water crashes into the lagoon. Over on the other side, squats one Saddam’s great palaces, glowering at the villas from a distance, and to which all are turned, like the courtiers they surely once housed.

Who sits in that palace now?

The Lagoon as seen by Google Earth

Note: I don’t yet have a badge to enter this area without escort, so I can’t take any fotos. I suspect even when I do have a badge I probably won’t be allowed to take any either.

A little story about bread

In the canteen you can choose from three types of bread: local, square loaf and soft milk-bread buns. I’ve found the nicest to be the local variety, a hand sized diamond of bread that breaks and tastes a little bit like an Indian naan.

I asked two Iraqis that are working here whether they knew if the bread was made on site or baked in Baghdad and brought in. “Baked in Baghdad” they replied, “and the other Europeans here seem to like it too. But it was not always like what you see now.”

Of course, I asked for the story of this little bread.

"Samoun, the local name for it, was once four times the size, a veritable pizza-sized piece of bread. Thanks to the problems of supply, the size has gotten smaller and smaller. Once it was made of pure white flour, now the flour is less refined, so it looks the beige color of today." one of them recounted.

The little Samoun


"But," I said, "surely before the time wheat was imported into Iraq (before sanctions and during the infamously corrupt UN 'Oil-for-Food' program), the wheat would have been rougher, so what I see now is more original, no?"

“Very true, and now we convince ourselves that the rougher flour is more nutritious for us too, just like you do in Europe.”

"From when was it, then, that Iraq began importing wheat? Was this country not rich in natural produce thanks to the river systems and irrigation? Surely Iraq should be a wheat exporter, not importer?"

Two wry smiles were the response I received.

“Let me tell you about some history. In the 1950s Iraq produced a lot of wheat, mostly in the center and north of the country. After the revolution that overthrew the King, the new government set up a land reform program that transferred property rights from the large landowners to the villages that sat on the land.

"The smaller farmers of course grew principally what they needed for themselves. By the 1970s Iraq found it necessary to import wheat. Fortunately, down by the Gulf in the Shatt-al-Arab there were many silos built some years earlier.

"No longer used, the government sent down engineers to see if they could be restored. 'Yes,' came the reply, 'but there is a problem: the screws go the other way.'"

"‘What do you mean?’ asked the minister. ‘The screws push wheat out of the silos, not in.’ replied the engineers."

"And that is the story of Iraq and its little piece of bread”.

The Green Zone

I have to register with the Embassy and since someone was going into the International Zone (still called the Green Zone by everyone) I hitched a ride. The Green Zone lies in the bulge the River Tigris takes as it winds its way through Baghdad and is the site of several palaces and monuments.

To get there we had to go in a convoy of armored cars with security guards, wearing full bullet-proof vests and helmets as we travelled.

The pre-boarding briefing went something like this:

“What is your blood type? If we are hit, stay here until I say what to do. If you are hit, tell me. If we are killed or disabled and you can move, hit this button first to unlock the tailgate.”

First I think I am trusting my life with them. Then I realize I am putting their lives in danger by wanting to go to the Embassy. At that point you learn maximum mutual respect.

Traveling on the most dangerous road in the world is surreal.

On the way to the Green Zone
The roadsides for the most part are walled off with T-bars. It’s Friday so the traffic is light. I am in the lead car. We are travelling quite fast but every time we pass a local car, taxi or truck the driver switches on the siren and speeds up.

The co-driver is talking constantly into the secure radio-phone, relaying information to the convoy about what he sees ahead. On the seat ahead of me lies a jammer, designed to knock out cellphone coverage in a 200 meter radius so they can't be used set off IEDs. Through the last checkpoint out of the airport and its switched on.

We come in behind another convoy, keeping our distance. We don’t know them, they don’t know us. How do they know we aren’t about to attack? Keep the distance.

Through the last control (there are many) and we are in the super-secure Green Zone. Pulling over to the left side of the road we can stop and take off our body armor.

There, just to the left of me, is the large sloping rotunda that Saddam built to celebrate his non-victory over Iran in the 1980-1989 war. I turn around. Before my eyes, the great arching swords under which Saddam’s all vanquished army once marched in celebration of being able to live one more day.

Saddam's Swords
The swords are dulled, the bronzed hands greened by negligence these last four years. One hand blasted into pieces, a man-sized thumb lying by the sword’s pedestal like a remnant of Nero’s colossal statue. Another vainglorious imperator lies broken on the ground, leaving a more timid mortal to record the moment.

One day the hand will be repaired and remounted on the pedestal. Maybe the mounds of Iranian helmets piled up by the swords will be discretely removed, and the road studs made from other helmets cemented into the ground below them levelled.

Can you believe there is already one stall selling tourist souvenirs under the swords’ great arc?

That, unfortunately, was the only natural activity visible. All around, in this large open area that was once the ministerial district and where those connected to the regime lived, are high concrete walls, barbed wire, roadblocks and checkpoints.

Roll up! Roll up!
Traffic is strictly military and private security. No street is cleaned. A few people walk by, a couple even jog. But there are no women, no children, no animals, no birds.

But for the rapid-fire whir of tank tracks and angry buzz of a humvee, no sound.

I wonder what will become of this area when the country stabilizes one day?

In my lifetime will the people of this city ever be able to stroll down these boulevards and see their children run ahead, laughing as they buy a cool drink from a street stall?

I am standing in the midst of the still warm wreck of a regime.

So it must have felt to those witnessing the end of Babylon, of Rome, of Tenochtitlan. Yet I know that the people are there, breath stopped in their throats, ready for the moment to cry “live!” and truly live again. I know, for I have met a few already.

Body armor back on, I clamber into the back of the lead car and the convoy moves off, heading back to the camp. We travel faster, covering the 12km stretch of highway in just under five minutes. The siren switches gear as we approach a slow moving van, no longer the normal wap-wap but a high pitched growl. I can’t deny a sense of muscular power in it all.

A few minutes later, we sweep back through the main entrance. Tension shreds like a dawn mist caught by the morning sun. Off with the armor, and a deep breath of air. The thank yous are more truly meant than the words themselves can express.


Your correspondent.

The Base

I know you are all reading my blog daily :-) so I’m sure you are all disappointed in the three day break. What I’ve been doing these days is meeting with many people and following them on the many tasks and jobs they do.

I have jumped up into a truck with the waste disposal guys, the trash collection guys, the toilet cleaners and, in the next few days I’ll do the same with the several other services that comprise the management of camps. As an exercise in learning process and man management, very interesting. But enough of work. What else have I seen?

The Baghdad International Airport (called BIAP for short) is enormous. The roads go on for miles and miles and miles. I haven’t figured out how many camps there are inside the complex but it feels like hundreds. There’s military and civilian, US, Iraqi and sub-contractors from several countries. The civilian people I see working here are mostly from central and eastern Europe, south Asia and Africa – principally Uganda.

From what I hear, the workers stay for 6-12 months then go home, while managers stay for about two years. They all come for the money of course, which by comparison to their countries of origin is high.

Most of the work they do is manual – from construction to maintenance to cleaning. The hours they work are relatively long – up very early in the morning through to mid afternoon. That is so they can get most of their work done in the cooler part of the day, but also because the security controls take such a long time. I think that out of nine hours work time, the actual work is five hours, with two hours spent driving around and two hours spent in security checks.

Nearly everything is surrounded by great T-bars of cement (imagine a T upside down) anything up to 3,5 meters tall and walls of HESCOs – one meter cubes of earth packed into containers made of heavy paper and wire mesh. In the living quarters there are often double rows of T-bars. All of this of course to protect people from bombs and missiles.

In one area where the soldiers live in tents they have put up a netting over the tents to shade them from strong sunlight, fixing the netting to the T-bars. The end result looks like a bedouin family has settled in a souk built next to the walls of a castle. Some have built wooden porches on the front of their container-cabins, others have planted some bushes, yet others have a barbecue.

Scattered around are the usual concrete bunkers, long upturned Us of cement with a T-bar protecting the ends. Pallets of plastic water bottles stacked everywhere for anyone who wants fresh water to avoid de-hydrating.

I have met some Iraqis here, of course to talk to them of many things. Thanks to the situation there seems to be many fewer local hires than would be in more stable circumstances (I compare with the local hires in Afghanistan) and that was indeed the case earlier in the occupation. Highly qualified, educated men doing jobs no one with the same skills would even dream of doing in other countries.

Such is the result of dictatorship, tyranny and war. Dreams are overthrown, ambitions smashed, lives shattered.

The helicopters keep flying in at night. This camp is on their flight path so the cabin shakes as it would in an earthquake. This last night either not many came in or I’ve learned to sleep with their sound.

I can hear, in the far distance, the occasional sound of explosions. From what I am told, these are controlled explosions by the US Army. But when the helicopters take off, they do throw out the anti-missile flares – so danger isnt so far away.

The weather is cooling – its chillier at night than it used to be and there is a fine veil of clouds in the sky now.

I haven’t taken any photographs of real interest because the security rules for temporary personnel absolutely prohibit it, and in the military camp areas you just can’t take cameras or cellphones of anything inside. Anyway it looks like the base in Kandahar, and you can see those fotos here.

The First Full Day

The bed is definitely comfortable. The temperatre at night is fresh enough to sleep easy, not so cold that you have to hide under the blankets. But you can’t sleep much.

The entire US Air Force takes off and lands, twice, every night. Or that’s how it seems. Try sleeping on the edge of a runway. I dare you. Try. I asked someone later in the morning and sure enough, I’m right. Well, not the entire force. But enough to outgun most everyone else’s. All the provisioning and transports are done in the dark, to make it just that little bit more safe. And I thought sleeping on a farm was bad news. Or in a train carriage with two guys snoring. Or on a plane with a screaming baby. This is right up there with them.

Up bright as a button for 6am, because that’s when operations start, everyone working in the ancient style – dawn to dusk. Saw the dawn rise, downed a coffee and checked out the store. Nothing much on sale that I need, and that which I would like – mango juice, papaya juice, guava juice, doritos – they say they can order in.

Throughout the day the Black Hawks clatter through the air, heading north over the lagoons where Saddam Hussein build some palatial follies (you can see them on Google Earth).

Anyway the day went in processing things, meeting people, asking all the dumb questions all new arrivals ask. Most everyone is out, as they should be. I’ll start in-field observation tomorrow. Was given my army green in-field work gear and finished up the day with half a pizza (and not bad either!) and a couple of episodes of a TV series about a medieval monk who acts as a proto-detective. A “Name of the Rose” spin-off with Derek Jacobi, an excellent actor.

Through the evening the Hawks patrol the perimeter, searchlight beams stark white in the glooming dark as though out of some Spielberg movie.

The Camp

The camp is in the international airport complex, within the perimeter wall but outside the military section. Protected but not overwhelmed. Simple but Spartan, with no real facilities to speak of and, thanks to the fractured nature of the nationalities, from what I can see almost no socializing outside the ethnic groups and no entertainment area in which to mix. I’m going to have to get access to the Army PX and facilities ASAP.

Baghdad International Airport There are three basic areas – office and accommodation, maintenance and servicing, stocking and dumping. The camp is essentially self sufficient. It has its own canteen, work-out area, laundry, energy supply, water potabilization system, store. There’s cable TV (not that I can get it to work) and internet access (which I can and is why you can read what I’m writing – otherwise it’s a bottle down the Tigris).

After unpacking and having a quick lunch (food’s not bad) I wandered around to see who’s doing what. Then met up with the other arrivals and had a more focused tour. The objective of the next couple of weeks is to familiarize myself with the work at all levels – top down and bottom up. Starting Monday I’ll accompany the workers to see how they operate. Today and tomorrow it’s introductions and question time. I’m not going to talk about the work itself, or the company for that matter – this blog isn’t designed for that. Just my adventures and experiences.

Here I am!Managed to send “I’m here” messages to most everyone (well you all know that). Skipped dinner, not intentionally but because the canteen closes at 7pm and no-one told me. Went back to the cabin, wrote up yesterday and watched a Japanese movie I downloaded earlier called “Bird People” – a slightly off-the-wall story of hunting for jade and a mythical people in China.

Camp starts working at 6:30 am, so in bed early. Not that I could sleep much, as it turns out. But that’s a story for tomorrow.

Into the fire!

The flight to Baghdad was uneventful. Almost.

I managed to get emergency aisle agan, but landed up with the middle seat so couldn’t press my nose up against the window like I wanted to. Still, the window was almost totally opaque thanks to constant sun and sandblasting. Flying over Jordan I could see not a small number of farms, irrigated fields embossed upon the desert. Not really a desert like the tawny Sahara or the awesome Martian-red desert south of Kandahar; this desert is a blotchy patchwork of scabrous colors and, from what I could guess I was seeing, scrawny vegetation.

At one point I could see two widely spaced parallel lines carved into the desert and stretching away into the distance. The border between Jordan and Iraq. Fence and minefield.

The passengers either side of me turned out to be Jordanian agricultural engineers, engaged by the Iraqi government to train local farmers in agricultural techniques. Descendants of wandering pastoralists teaching the succesors of an ancient civilization based on irrigation how to farm again. Such is the wonder of the world.

We came in high over Baghdad, which I expected. Next would be a sharp direct dive like in Afghanistan, or so I thought. Here the plane circled twice to reduce height quickly and then weaved its approach sharply, not because of high winds but, in all likelihood, as a avoiding maneouver just in case someone should fire at it. Moments like these and you know you are out of the world of apparent security and certainty.

And then everything went back to normal again. The stewardess’ welcome was the standard one “Welcome to Baghdad, where the temperature is 34°C… if anyone needs assistance in disembarking, please let the plane staff know…. Thank you for flying .. Hope you enjoy your stay…”. The bright tones of her Australian accent made me feel like I had just landed in Brisbane, not Baghdad. The only thing missing was the joyous sound of clapping!

13h local time, November 3, 2007. I am in Iraq.

The airport – bright, clean, active. Baggage arrived quickly, passport and customs clearance were straightforward. The terminal building is a great curving arc – from the outside it resembles the terminal in Miami. I said as much to my pick-up – a Floridian originally from Puerto Rico. I won’t print his answer …

My cabinThe camp of the company I’m working with lies inside the airport perimeter, north of the air strip. I’m assigned one of the VIP cabins, to myself at least for the moment. Not bad at all. Two single beds, two wardrobes, table, TV with cable, bathroom with shower. Unpacked in 10 minutes, showered in 5 and off to explore the camp in 15.

In my next log I’ll tell you what I discover.