Musemaya
The sun is setting in the distance. It has that orangish, wavy glow that you only see in the desert. I'm sure it's the most calm I've felt since I came to Iraq. It's nice here. The contractors who run the ranges out here mill about, appearing to do something though I'm sure they're not... Looking out from the control tower it's obvious that no one is shooting. No one is moving really. These contractors are an odd mix. There's Bill, an old seafaring man he appears to be, with an overgrown mustache, speaking of the Colonel with respect... respect that wasn't earned. And then there's the Major. He has a different sort of air about him. For the last nine months while I have worked with Americans, he has worked with the Iraqis. He is the local Military Transition Team (MITT) Leader. And then there is Roman. A fellow CA guy who finished out his last tour, went to Arabic school and because of limited funding, decided to take up a contract in Iraq and conduct his own immersion course. He works the night shift out here, long nights I'm sure.
Bill is the one responsible for the milling. He walks to his computer and back to another room, occasionally cracking a joke about how little work he is really doing. Each moment he fights the urge to go out on the balcony and smoke a cigarette. He welcomes the visit of an Iraqi Officer who he can go smoke with and crack dirty jokes.
The MAJ says he is writing his wife about a conversation him and I had last night. He tells her he met someone else who understands. That's what it's come to, I guess. So few really understand why things are the way they are over here, it's almost a secret cult. You get a warm feeling and write home to mother when you meet one of the insiders. I do believe he is from somewhere in the North, whether it be Minnesota or Washington, I'm not sure.
Roman’s been here for 2 ½ months and he’s standing, leaning on the desk, telling me about all the burgers he used to go to Baghdad and buy. See, back then, Baghdad wasn’t what it is now. Back then, there was one Burger King, and that was it for the entire country. So they would scrounge up the money, three… four hundred dollars and go buy 'sacks and sacks of burgers you know.’ He’s recounting how he used to fight for a computer in Baghdad and now he calls his wife’s cell phone from a computer at Musemaya. The war was different back then. I got a little sense of that when I was heading out on leave.
I was at one of the local Logistic Supply Areas (LSA), about an hour from my home. It’s like Baghdad, with the sacks of burgers and the boxes of pizza. The PX is open 24 hours. The PX at Gabe opens when the guy feels like coming in and opening it up. I was on a bus (there’s about 10,000 people on this LSA) heading somewhere, I don’t recall where. Wherever I was going took me out by the perimeter. Outside, about a click out, I could see smoke, and as we went on, I caught a glimpse of a disabled HMMWV and choppers up in the air. Then I understood a little bit about the other side of life in Iraq. The folks on the bus perhaps gave it a glimpse, but they didn’t look interested. At Gabe we’d monitor our radios, check in at the TOC, see what was going on. The platoons would be spinning up their trucks, getting ready to head out. The Battle Captain would be on the radio, trying to find out what their status is. The transmissions would be hurried. What is your location. What is your status. Say again. The mechanics would be woken up or pulled out of the gym to spin up their wrecker. The medics would setup for incoming casualties. You are in the fight at Gabe. It’s the way things are. I looked around the bus and no one was concerned. They’re not going anywhere. They don’t have trucks to spin up. No one they know is outside the wire. Their faces are calm, not paying a moment of thought to the choppers flying overhead.
I come up here at night to check my email. I try to make it late so I don't get in the way of people that are milling about. Roman gets bored, though boredom is not really what it is anymore. He's used to it by now. It's more peace than boredom. He runs the ranges out here and they are rarely used. He makes good money and is able to improve his Arabic. From the tower he can see the nearest town, as well as the brick factories. They sit on the horizon, just close enough to remind him that the planet hasn't fully stopped spinning. I'm sure part of him wishes his job was out there, but even more so he enjoys the peace here. I like it too. The peace here makes me want to write. Allah Akbar. Ma Salaama.
Bill is the one responsible for the milling. He walks to his computer and back to another room, occasionally cracking a joke about how little work he is really doing. Each moment he fights the urge to go out on the balcony and smoke a cigarette. He welcomes the visit of an Iraqi Officer who he can go smoke with and crack dirty jokes.
The MAJ says he is writing his wife about a conversation him and I had last night. He tells her he met someone else who understands. That's what it's come to, I guess. So few really understand why things are the way they are over here, it's almost a secret cult. You get a warm feeling and write home to mother when you meet one of the insiders. I do believe he is from somewhere in the North, whether it be Minnesota or Washington, I'm not sure.
Roman’s been here for 2 ½ months and he’s standing, leaning on the desk, telling me about all the burgers he used to go to Baghdad and buy. See, back then, Baghdad wasn’t what it is now. Back then, there was one Burger King, and that was it for the entire country. So they would scrounge up the money, three… four hundred dollars and go buy 'sacks and sacks of burgers you know.’ He’s recounting how he used to fight for a computer in Baghdad and now he calls his wife’s cell phone from a computer at Musemaya. The war was different back then. I got a little sense of that when I was heading out on leave.
I was at one of the local Logistic Supply Areas (LSA), about an hour from my home. It’s like Baghdad, with the sacks of burgers and the boxes of pizza. The PX is open 24 hours. The PX at Gabe opens when the guy feels like coming in and opening it up. I was on a bus (there’s about 10,000 people on this LSA) heading somewhere, I don’t recall where. Wherever I was going took me out by the perimeter. Outside, about a click out, I could see smoke, and as we went on, I caught a glimpse of a disabled HMMWV and choppers up in the air. Then I understood a little bit about the other side of life in Iraq. The folks on the bus perhaps gave it a glimpse, but they didn’t look interested. At Gabe we’d monitor our radios, check in at the TOC, see what was going on. The platoons would be spinning up their trucks, getting ready to head out. The Battle Captain would be on the radio, trying to find out what their status is. The transmissions would be hurried. What is your location. What is your status. Say again. The mechanics would be woken up or pulled out of the gym to spin up their wrecker. The medics would setup for incoming casualties. You are in the fight at Gabe. It’s the way things are. I looked around the bus and no one was concerned. They’re not going anywhere. They don’t have trucks to spin up. No one they know is outside the wire. Their faces are calm, not paying a moment of thought to the choppers flying overhead.
I come up here at night to check my email. I try to make it late so I don't get in the way of people that are milling about. Roman gets bored, though boredom is not really what it is anymore. He's used to it by now. It's more peace than boredom. He runs the ranges out here and they are rarely used. He makes good money and is able to improve his Arabic. From the tower he can see the nearest town, as well as the brick factories. They sit on the horizon, just close enough to remind him that the planet hasn't fully stopped spinning. I'm sure part of him wishes his job was out there, but even more so he enjoys the peace here. I like it too. The peace here makes me want to write. Allah Akbar. Ma Salaama.
posted by BabyJesus | 1:09 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home