Taxi

I hear what could be a singer down the hall and through the paper-thin walls of my room at the Sheraton. I think he brought his ukulele. I need thicker walls.

This story begins at the airport, where I arrived via Addis Ababa with nine others on a mission that only required four. Be that as it may, there were ten of us at this rinky dink third world airfield, thoroughly jet lagged before noon, and with the uniform thought of finding our hotel. Rental cars would have been an annoyance to manage, so we’re spending this week at the merci of hapless Djiboutian cabbies and their haplesser Djiboutian cabs.


We started a simple game early on, rating the cabs on the newly minted Djiboutian Taxi Scale. It’s the usual one to ten thing, but based on the notion that the best of all possible Djiboutian cabs is worse than the most beat up wreck you’ve ever driver. We didn’t really know what would be up or down limit on this scale, but we tried to be fair in our rating.

The average cab, a four point five, is a green over white Toyota Mark II. [They look to be seventh generation, which would make them between 16 and 20 years old.] Typically, the average cab has a manual transmission, three out of four cylinders in constant operation, no less than two windows uncracked and operational, peeled vinyl seats, and mostly working interior door handles. This is average, and average gets you anywhere in town for 1,000 – 2,000 Djiboutian Francs (six to twelve bucks), depending on the distance and regardless of the number of passengers you can cram into the thing.

The best thing about them is that they can’t go very fast on less than all cylinders, so any crash would be at a survivable rate of speed. The worst thing about them (and this is true around the world) is that if the radio/stereo works, the driver will crank American Pop/Country tunes through broken and tinny speakers, hoping to make us feel at home. Fortunately, working sound systems only occur on cabs rated five or better.

The variations of the bottom half of the class seem endless, depending on how battered the particular machine happens to be, and includes an assortment of these:

• Cracked windshield - where the crack grows during the ride
• Smashed windshields - with the apparent impact point directly in front of the front seat passenger’s head
• Inoperable window controls - nice when it’s 110^ outside
• Nonexistent windows - improves the overall dust to passenger ratio
• Lack of window trim at the door frame - leaving exposed and jagged metal right where your arm wants to rest
• Worn, cracked, and sagging seats - for added comfort
• Seat covers, dash covers, and package shelf covers in a variety of artificial and authentic animal skins - perhaps it’s roadkill
• Air conditioning (not hardly, just checking to see if you were still with me)
• Trash - it’s ubiquitous
• Generally decrepit bodywork - it’s expected
• Brush applied paint - it’s obvious
• Left or right drive - gives the left front seated passenger the added responsibility for checking traffic during passing
• Bald tires - but they don’t need wet traction
• Wobbly wheels - might fall off
• Rattling and inconsistent brakes - scary
• Spoilers with LED effects - tres cool
• Bad stereos, blown speakers, and amplified ululation - for appropriate theme music

In general, an automatic transmission is worth an extra point, although power windows are typically worth one less point, due to the fact that they never work. Most of the front seat belts seem to latch, but if they hold up in a crash is still a mystery I don’t need to solve.

Operator condition is another factor relating to the overall quality of the ride. Our ability to communicate in their mix of Somali, Patois, French, and a smattering of English (mix and match) is a hurdle, although we have usually made it to our various destinations on the first attempt.

In the afternoon, most of our drivers have a mouth full of green teeth brought on by the khat chewing they’ve been doing since their lunchtime siesta. Mid afternoon seems a good time to catch them, as they are well past the manic needy stage they’d feel before they start using and are on the mellow, downward side of their daily high. Those hopped up on khat are a little less attentive than in the morning, but still try to pass everything else on the road, which is sort of funny if they’re driving a cab rated two or three, foot to the floor, and riding the clutch so they don’t overburden the motor.

Once I’ve taken the same cab twice. Once I’ve taken the same cab thrice. In each case, I’m sure the condition got worse between trips.

Fridays here are like Sundays in the States, if the States were desolate, trashed out desert cities. Our driver that morning seemed to enjoy the totally empty streets and put his particular Mark II (a solid 7) through its paces, pedal to metal on the straights and using the entire roadway for the corners. Now, long ago, Dad told me that the first thing I need to do when travelling to a foreign place is to learn the phrase “you’re going too fast” in the local language. Sometime, though, the thrill is just what I need to set me up for the day, so we let him drive on unencumbered reaching speeds of 30, 35, and even 40 miles per hour.

It was intense.

The other night, we took cabs rated 2 to 6 downtown to find a locally renown Lebanese place. We found it next to the darkened windows of a snooty looking French place and hustled our group upstairs and into the dining room. After some chaos, we found that it was in fact the French place after all, and that it was the Lebanese place that closed, only to be occupied by the French place.

Dang.

And the food was horrible, by the way, and not just because it was French, but because it was horrible French. We drank them out of Tuskers, too, and the lack of additional bottles didn’t add to the experience.

It was dark when we left the place, and worked our way from the side street back to the square, past the ranks of higglers, beggers, and con artists. With ten of us, we needed three cabs, so I started scanning the square as we approached. Then, just to the right, I saw a pale green glow that seemed to both soften and brighten as I started to focus. Once within ten meters, I knew it was a very special taxi.

Typically this week, I’ve taken on the role of Team Logistics, which includes goat roping, security coordination, cat wrangling, schedule conflict resolution, nose counting and the development of cab assignments. In the latter-est, I first ascertain who has local currency, and then place people into taxis. It’s not real hard, but (I swear) these engineers are idiots sometimes and can’t figure out how to enter a taxi without someone telling them to get into a taxi (sheesh).

Usually, I’m in the last cab, because I want to be sure that everyone is accommodated, but not this time. I quickly arranged for the others, gave seating and payment assignments and practically ran to this extraordinary machine.

As I ran my hand lightly over the highly polished quarter panel, I was drawn to the pristine white vinyl seat covers. The underbody had LED effects, as did the spoiler, with a LED ring around the end of the tailpipe. The wheel had stark white wheel covers and matching mud flaps. The rear door opened without a creak, and clicked shut solidly. It was tidy, it was clean, it had a battery operated closet light mounted on the headliner. It had dingleballs and a little stuffed cherub glued to the dash. With automatic transmission and four working cylinders, I was sure that this was it, the elusive Ten, and the Brandi he played had never been so loudly (or most distortedly) amplified.

Minutes later, we were back at our hotel and the ride had ended, with only the memory of his illuminated ornamental hood bird to sustain me.
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Once more into the fray

Exciting travel opportunity is a pretty common problem these days, but one not altogether unexpected, unwarranted or unwanted. Once you get on the Company’s “List”, it’s tough to get off of it so, as projects develop, and a particular skill set is required, the call is received. For most jobs, the skill set enlarges during the tour, so there’s more to sell the next time. This is the natural progression of professional experience, and a requirement for any type of corporate advancement. For me, it’s a personal requirement – work had better get more interesting all of the time or [Robocop Voice] there will be trouble.

Of course, I could always say, “no”. And I do, on probably two out of three requests. Sometimes the timing is completely wrong, there could actually be something going on in my assigned office, or the compensation doesn’t align with the perceived risk. Sometimes it’s just the wrong time and place to go somewhere.


But, considering all of the above, Pakistan for a few weeks in January doesn’t sound all that bad. By and large, the new pieces are the location and the client, although Pakistan is next door to Afghanistan (just another I-stan), and I’m currently working for the Navy, with plenty of Army experience, so how much different can the Air Force be? We’ll see.

For now, I’m just a little bored here.

Since we (you,,.. us,… them) aren’t leaving this patch of desert any time soon, there is a call to transition this camp from Expeditionary to Enduring. Essentially, this will change the focus of construction from less expensive, austere, relatively temporary methodologies (stick built, plywood sided buildings, tents and containerized housing units) to more costly, harder, and permanent facilities (concrete and block buildings, paved streets, and more landscaping).

With this change to Enduring, there will also be a change in the way service-people are assigned here, from the four to six month rotations common throughout this side of the world to the two and three year postings that you’d experience while serving in Western Europe, Korea, or in CONUS. Considering the present Spartan facilities here, most everyone would be hard pressed to survive two or three years on this site without some major changes in the way the camp is configured.

One of the first steps is to develop a comprehensive master plan, outlining the progression from metal CHU’s to large bachelor dormitories, from the stick and plywood DFAC to a steel and glass dining hall (with reusable trays and silverware and everything), from a gym in a foam covered tensile fabric structure to an air conditioned pre-engineered metal building. The master plan was approved last week, which makes me think that Congress will approve AFRICOM’s request to endure this Camp.

The next step will be to change the name of this place to something less French.

The third process is to develop what they call an Installation Appearance Plan, which will govern the look and feel of future improvements. On any well defined campus, you might note that the architecture is complementary. Colors and styles work together. Landscaping is comprehensive and well thought out. Signage is consistent and useful. The overall look and feel and the arrangement of things are coordinated. Long and short term visitors can navigate without undue heartburn and easily arrive at a harmonized sense of place.

This is the report that we’re writing. It will provide a template for future improvements here with regards to styles, colors, materials, shapes, plants, signage, and what have yous.

Unfortunately, there’s not a huge Civil/Transportation/Hydraulics component to this effort, so the bulk of my input has been merely kibitzing with the landscape and regular architects. It’s not completely wasted time, just not full time. Worse though, is that there will be little follow on effort to take home with me so, instead of spending the next month at the office completing my portion of this assignment, I’ll be instead scrounging for chargeable tasks – not my favorite of circumstances.

And it’s in this light that I’ve agreed to head back out in a month or two. Of course, I’m hoping that each time I do one of these, I get closer to another extended assignment on some pleasant tropical island.

It’s a nice thought, regardless.

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Djiboutitown

Driving down the streets and thoroughfares of Djibouti City, and my primary thought was, “I’ve seen all of this before”. I’ve never been in this particular filthy municipality before, but I have been to markedly similar places. Drive down a dusty track in the Third World, and you’ll see bare footed men and women. Some working, some walking, some just hanging out in whatever shade is available. Nobody’s moving too quickly. Along the road, enterprising people vend their wares from carts or ramshackle shacks located against the tall, concrete, broken glass topped walls of the more land-rich locals.

Aging whitewash is the dominant color, with accents of sky blue paint on the walls or doors. Peeling, hand painted signs advertise each small business. The men are in t-shirts – some with slacks, others in sarongs. The women are the most colorful things on the street, wrapped top to ankle in bright prints of all colors – huge flowers, manic patterns – almost a strain on the eyes.


We turn briefly towards and adjacent to the local market. Greg supposes it’s the flea market. I suppose that there’re plenty of fleas, but that it’s just a market. We pass by big piles of various fruits in crates and pyramidal displays under the ubiquitous blue tarps. From the perimeter, you can smell the rest of the market, a mix of humanity, their waste, and rotting food. This place looks much nicer than it smells.

Most of the streets are paved, and main streets are in much better shape than side roads and backroads. Downtown, building construction is mostly concrete framed with block infill, plastered and painted. Large arches are common, as are shaded, inset balconies. Otherwise, there’s little architectural consistency, unless Colonial/French/Mediterranean/Arabic/African is a consistent architectural style. It looks like maintenance activities stopped upon building occupation, and I can only imagine the broken tiles and fixtures within.

Mature and chaotic street trees line some of the roads downtown, providing more vital shade. Downtown is deserted at this time of day, the siesta period between noon and two or three or so, so we don’t struggle too much with the traffic.

Three dashed white lines, spaced at three or four meters, run the length of most of the major roads. Under light traffic, opposing traffic straddles the outside lines (like 1:1 scale slot cars), saving the inside line for overtaking. When traffic picks up, all bets are off, and you drive anywhere you want.

So we wanted to drive to the Kempinski Hotel, ostensibly to check out their superior landscaping, but mostly to have a cold beer. Even though I’d never been there before, I’d been there before, as the Kempinski is that secure, luxurious Western hotel that locals cannot near afford that exists in most every backwater capital city. Uniformed staff met us at the gate, then later at the door to guide us through their security procedures and we soon found some shaded seats near their infinity pool to suck down a couple of well cold, eight dollar Heinekens.

What’s not to love about this place?

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Liberty is Secured

The base Commanding Officer yelled at us yesterday.

We’ve been drinking to excess. We’ve been going to neighborhoods where the bad guys hang out. We’ve been visiting brothels, and tattoo parlors and nightclubs that have been specified as off limits. We’ve been violating curfew, exceeding our three beers a day drinking limit, and not maintaining a designated driver.

Liberty has been secured.


Honest, it wasn’t me, and most of these problems occurred before we even landed in Africa. However, these several lapses in situational awareness and operational security caused a mandatory training response for all personnel from the camp command element. It opened with the skipper giving a rather stern lecture, then another fifty minutes of slides and further lecture by a collection of chiefs and lieutenants.

Typically, I don’t listen too hard to lieutenants, but this is a Navy facility, so their lieutenants look a lot like captains everywhere else. In fact, the captain looked a lot like a Colonel, so most folks sat up straight when addressed, even if it was for a dressing down. The trouble is that, in the Navy, they have their own set of ranks, but for some reason use the same insignia as the rest of our armed forces. So when you see two bars, you’d think to call him, “Captain”, but that would only be unnecessarily promoting a Lieutenant. Majors are really Lieutenant Commanders. Second Lieutenants are really Ensigns. Brigadier Generals are Rear Admirals, Bottom Half. Of course, when they’re in their dress whites, the insignia change. As a result, they’re all “sir”.

Moving right along.

The bulk of the lecture was an AntiTerrorism refresher. While there’re not active hostilities against the United States in Djibouti, there are plenty of folks here who would prefer that we’d be somewhere else. As such, every excursion off base must be performed with a heightened situational awareness (like driving through Topeka at night). The lecture outlined what current local risks could be expected and how to position oneself to avoid, mitigate, or survive the encounter. Once everyone sits through the training, Liberty may be unsecured.

However, since we were now thoroughly trained, and on Camp business, we commandeered an SUV and interpreter and headed into town on a data collection mission. Although it progressed without incident, there was a great deal of trepidation from one of ours as to the likelihood of us coming back unscathed.

I knew he’d be a sketchy component of the team from the start, having never traveled outside of the States and constantly referring to all the guys with guns. Sure, there are weapons at the gate, but (essentially) no one within the camp is armed, just a bunch of folks, some in civilian clothes, some in camouflage. I suppose it is a matter of exposure, exposure of which I seem to be gathering more and more of in recent years. If you’re not used to seeing them, they stand out. If you’re used to seeing them, the lack can be interesting, but only as a reference point as to the day’s security posture. And here, it’s not that intense, as evidenced by the fact that there’s Liberty at all, even if it’s been recently curtailed.

To most, deepest darkest Africa is still a total unknown. Obviously, the unknown is scary and should be avoided. But what do we know? If you glance at a world map, you’d find this place a mere seventeen miles from Yemen, which is right next to Saudia Arabia, the country (not famous enough as) home to the WTC bombers. That means the Middle East, which means continual car bombs and ululating madmen. Less than ten miles south is Somalia, haven for pirates, training center for terrorist groups, and home of few things really pleasant.

The key is that we’re located at the strait separating the Red Sea from the Gulf of Aden, on the major sea route from the Suez Canal to our oil in the Middle East. Even though we may not have ships at this Navy facility (or even our own port), we’re here, for good or ill, which means anyone who wants to control this strait can only do so through us. We won’t be leaving any time soon.

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And for the curious. Hip Kitty was awful. Unless you like that sort of awful thing. Their sort of thing was pretty standard bar band cover fare. Overamped and sloppy. The drums overpowered most of the band. The rockstar pose the guitarist preferred was phallic – body at the crotch, neck mostly vertical, taken from the worst of heavy metal videos. The bassist hid at the edge of the drum kit for the two songs I sat through. Then there’s Kitty – not a great voice, but enthusiastic, although not enthusiastic enough to persuade anyone to thrash, slam, or get much further from furtive head bobbing (and you’d think opening with “Breaking the Law” would get the crowd rocking). I left as they massacred some Soundgarden.

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Hip Kitty

Briefly (since the connection here is just as good as Afghanistan), I'm back at Eleven Degrees North (close enough to the latitude), Tusker in hand, awaiting the start of the Armed Forces Entertainment sponsored band - Hip Kitty.

Can't wait. Arctic Monkeys' latest on the juke machine, so it's, like, musical mammal night at Camp Lemonnier.

Probably *can* wait, but can't be anywhere else on base with beer.
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All Hollow

It’s Halloween in Djibouti, and there’re a few costumes of note. Plenty of folks dressed as sailors and army men and marines, and quite a few dressed as the overseas deployment of some Japanese Defense Force. Of course, there’s the last minute a toga or two, an inspired six foot tall whoopee cushion and, being so close to Somalia, there’re a few pirate costumes. I came as a consultant – t-shirt, cargo pants, and combat boots – my usual desert attire.

I haven’t been in Africa for decades. [Egypt really doesn’t count – just ask any Egyptian.] The place hasn’t changed. Djibouti City is classically Third World, still using up what’s left of the colonial infrastructure while hundreds of thousands live in poverty. Although it looked like some money was spent on the airport after the declaration of the GWOT, the improvements have not been maintained. The reception hall is too small for a 220 person passenger complement, stiflingly hot, with little moving air, exposed electrical reconnections, and scores of missing ceiling tiles and doors that just won’t close.


As expected, what also remains from the French occupation is a bureaucratic entry system, with stacks of ledgers and (count ‘em) *five* individual rubber stamps and one of the adhesive types associated with my sixty dollar entry visa. Bags in hand, I had to work on keeping my bags in hand, as a half dozen “porters” attempted to grab it away from me and haul it the fifty meters to the camp shuttle. Others weren’t so lucky in the shakedown, although the lesson itself had some value. Other, still, were shook down on the bus itself, as a couple of the porters entered the bus and worked over the already seated passengers.

It’s poor here. The main city streets from airfield to camp are barely above dirt, and mostly empty shops compete for the limited pedestrian traffic. Turning off the main road closer to the camp, we drove down a rutted, once asphalt road lined for a time with the hardscrabble zinc and scrap lumber construction that defines this type of economy. A little further, and the verges were paved with discarded plastic bottles and lada bags.

It’s poor here, and I’m hoping that there’s some semblance of an economy somewhere else in town. It’s large, and we haven’t seen much yet. We will, as our work here, among other tasks, is to try and coordinate future projects at the camp with the local, traditional architecture in the area. That probably doesn’t mean that we’ll build the next AfriCom HQ out of pallets and plastic sheeting, but perhaps it will be more reflective of how the rich people live here.

Anyway, it’s Halloween, and at the all persons club, (Eleven Degrees North (which is about our latitude (I think))) was hosting a few games and social events. They also had beer, which was nice.

And the DFAC has bacon at every meal, which is also nice.

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Frogtown

Ambulating up the left bank of the Seine, I approached an elderly woman walking from the opposite direction. At about three or four meters distance, she stopped suddenly, stooped to the sidewalk, and arose with a shiny gold ring in her hand.

What luck for her! She appeared amazed and immediately wanted to show it to me. Wow. Very shiny. I couldn’t understand the next part, even if part of it was sort of in French. She might have been smilingly deriding Amerika, or she might have been offering to give me the ring, just to share her good fortune.

I expressed that I already had a gold ring, and that she should keep the found object (she didn’t look particularly well off, at that). But she insisted, and wrapped my fingers around it as she appeared to bless both of our good fortunes.

Strange enough, I thought as I walked away.


Then I heard her again, calling me back, and asking, apparently, if I just might be able to spare a Euro or two for a cup of coffee. My luck was obviously with me, so it would be nice if I were to spread it around a bit. At that point, but probably a little before, I realized that the gold shiny thing was a bit too light to be gold, and that this was likely a scam. I thanked her again and returned the ring, certain now that she had the thing palmed when she first reached to the ground, and only pretended to pick it up off of the ground.

Ah, Paris in the late autumn. Cold. Dreary. Bleak. Complete with scamming gypsies. And cold. Did I say cold already? Maybe not that awfully cold. Not as bad as last time, but totally overcast, which doesn’t provide the best of light for image collection.

The Government wants me in Djibouti, and there’s few ways to get there. The non-preferred route runs through Chicago, Frankfort and Addis Ababa. Not that Ethiopia would be bad, but it is an extra leg (i.e. and extra take off and landing) and on the Ethiopian national airline, and it’s this last part that I would like to avoid. Hence, Route A, through Chicago, Paris, and straight in to the Djibouti International Airport, but with a large layover in Paris.

So, with about 16 hours in country, what to do? First, waste an hour on a delayed arrival, then find a dayroom at the Hilton to dump the bags, find a map and directions to the Metro, and hit the town about 1100. Since it was a *day* room, checkout is 1800, less about two hours on the train to and from downtown, doesn’t give much time for the whole grand tour thing, but let me tell you, five or six hours is an ample enough dose of France.

All I wanted to see was a Gauguin painting at the Musee D’Orsey. One of my associates wanted to see an arch at the Louvre. The other wanted to see a couple of the public gardens. The third was delayed leaving CONUS, and gets to fly through Addis Ababa.

As these were all downtown, we got off of the Metro at Notre Dame, took a few pictures, crossed off of the island and headed downstream. Sometime after we saw the requested arch, I found a cheap sandwich, then the gypsy.

Later, while approaching the Eiffel tower through that big park that’s there, I approached a tall black youth walking from the opposite direction. At about three or four meters distance, he stopped suddenly, stooped to the sidewalk, and arose with a shiny gold ring in his hand.

What luck for him! He appeared amazed and immediately wanted to show it to me. Wow. Very shiny,...

Wait a minute. I think I know this one. Sorry, I told the man, but I already know this scam. He smiled and continued on, thoroughly non-nonplussed.

Shortly thereafter, while assisting a newlywed couple with a photograph, they asked if I, too, had been “conned by the Gypsy” (that’s how I knew they were Gypsies). Sadly, no, but I couldn’t commiserate.

Shortly thereafter that, I assisted a young woman with her photograph, having seen her with a Polaroid held at arm’s length and trying to simultaneously focus and frame the shot. Holding the photograph, I was a bit surprised to see that it was of a poodle. She got the shot she wanted though, of the Eiffel Tower, the Polaroid poodle, and the helpful tourist who held the photograph for her. I would have taken the same shot.

Seemingly endless miles later, while returning to the Metro station, I approached an elderly woman walking from the opposite direction. At about three or four meters distance, she stopped suddenly, stooped to the sidewalk, and arose with a shiny gold ring in her hand.

What luck for her! She appeared amazed and immediately wanted to show it to me. Wow. Very shiny.

Hey, I laughed, you’re the same woman as on the other side of the river! She laughed, too, and continued on her gypsy way. We found our train and returned to the airport.

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