Monday, 16 February 2004

1830 – Baghdad. Tom sees bananas. Tom likes bananas. Tom wants bananas. Tom wants to stop in the middle of Baghdad for bananas. Tom is an idiot. Tom outranks me by lots.

We were a bunch at the Ministry that morning, our usual herd having been joined by a pod of Italians and a couple from my office who needed to meet the Minister before I go CONUS. Four vehicles total, and we were a little short on shooters, but well within policy. I was driving one of our Durangos in the second position – Sergeant Hill as my machine gun wielding passenger, Tom and Bill in the back seat.

We take a different route back to the CPA from the Ministry. It is generally faster than squeezing through the “tunnel of death” at noon, reducing our exposure somewhat, but it still not a drive to the mall. Out of the Ministry, it’s an eighty mile an hour sprint about a kilometer to the expressway, which ends shortly after we complete the on merge. We can usually get through this first traffic signal quickly, since there’s not much traffic yet to the adjacent Olympic Village, but the subsequent signal is usually backed up, and it’s not uncommon for us to hop the median and bypass the stopped traffic.

None of the signals in Baghdad are operational just yet, but sometimes the traffic cops can get a handle on ordering the cars and trucks and stinky busses through the major intersections. Sometimes, the system collapses and gridlock ensues. These are bad times indeed, if we ever have to stop moving. Worst is when this lack of forward motion causes the troops to dismount and force a hole. It’s way rude, and makes us very bare.

But not this day, we just putter along, keeping an eye on the citizens and the rooftops. And traffic slowed even more, barely inching towards a major intersection.

The rain/slop had obscured our view through the first convoyed vehicle but, moving left in what I had of a lane, I could see the flashing lights atop a couple of Iraqi Police cars. One was in the outside lane in the opposite direction, sixty meters forward. One was in my inside lane, forty meter ahead, and the uniformed driver had exited and was running away from me towards the intersection.

I radioed this fore and aft and heightened my awareness.

We were not about to wait at this intersection for any ineffectual traffic cop, and directed the convoy over the right curb and onto the sidewalk, passing the queued cars and muscling our way into and through the intersection. The explosion occurred just then, but we weren’t about to stop and investigate. We forced our way forward.

About this time, Tom notices that there are bananas for sale in the middle of Baghdad. Vendors with their wares. Little shacks. Store fronts. Tables by the curb. And yes, they have some bananas. Tom wants some of them. “They’re really good”, he explains. “Can we stop and get some?”

I emit a low growl.

Traffic is creeping along. The stern voice of our mission leader comes over the radio, “I just saw a guy notice us and make a phone call.” Heads further up. Eyes darting. Maximum paranoia.

“You know, these bananas are really good. I’ve had some before and they’re real sweet but I don’t have any more and they’re hard to get. Can we stop and get some bananas?” I have no intension of stopping for any fruit, but the Fates sometimes get out of hand, and they block Baghdad traffic, weirdly, right in front of a curbside stand selling, golly, bananas.

Before I can lock the windows, Tom’s is open, and he’s working on a banana deal, which goes off well enough, but a fifty meter gap has developed behind the lead vehicle by the time the fruit is backing the van, and it’s Go Real Fast Time, as I eliminate the gap.

Three blocks later, a right turn and two blocks to the river road, and left and eighty miles an hour again. Then a quick left down an alley, a right on the road we just left, and two hundred meters to the checkpoint at the Fourteenth of July Bridge, south entrance to the Green Zone.

Safely home with Tom’s bananas.