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At first, I just barely noticed something soft on the roadway. Something out of the ordinary mix of commuting cars and pickups and occasional heavy vehicles that drone unceasingly across my view of the expressway outside my office.
In the days before elevators, I suppose the ninth floor would be a "high rise" structure, but now it's just another pile of bricks and glass that abut the highway leading downtown. As cube farms go, it could be worse. It's not one of those prairie dog communities, where just the heads of the curious can be seen popping up above the bland fabric walls. It's not a bull pen either, where the unmitigated click and clatter of modern business machines drowns out attempts at sustained critical thought. No, it's a long space, and the cubes are rarely more than three units away from the continuous bank of windows that line the north wall of the building.
The structure and organization is akin to a goat farm, where seniority and privilege gets you the best trash and a spot at the top of the heap, overlooking all the other goats, the kids relegated the safety of the interior. Cube farm livestock references aside, I gets me a window seat. From a transportation engineering perspective, it works out pretty well, as there are plenty of examples just outside that I can use when in search of a supporting illustration. There's the design and relationship of the freeway with adjacent ramps, frontage roads, railroad, local streets and parking lots. There's the use of bridges signage, signaling and lighting. There're utilities, landscaping, safety considerations and maintenance. There's wildlife crossing eight lanes of traffic.
The out of place soft thing is a goose, on the freeway, walking down the westbound HOV lane. A hood ornament in training. And I'm wondering - he can fly, so why bother with city traffic? As he waddled out of the rush of cars and leapt atop the median's concrete barrier, I noticed the top eight inches of so of a second goose, just on the other side of the barrier and just downstream of the first bird. Then a burst of pale yellow, as a gosling ran into the fast lane, had second thoughts, and ran back to the median, cheating death. The existence of non-flying youngsters could explain all the walking.
By this time, much of the department is at the window, watching the drama through binoculars. And at about this time, the first goose decides to hop off of the barrier, and complete his stroll across the freeway, something I'd be very hesitant to do myself without suitable traffic control devices in place. But, after a couple of false starts and heart stopping delays midstream, there was a live goose across the road, working his way up the Xenia Avenue off ramp.
The second goose had abandoned her brood in favor of following the drake and was looking for an opening in traffic when the first Golden Valley patrol car arrived on the scene. Then, with herding skill I only though possible by Australian bush pilots, he drove up real close and laid out a sqwaak on his siren, forcing the bird to flight - over the eastbound lanes to join her mate.
Then, in the company of another Golden Valley squad car and a State Trooper, the three public safety officers stopped all traffic in the westbound lanes while one of the cops waddled after the goslings, caught them both, and sequestered them in the caged rear seat of his car. The cops must have had some assistance from citizens in another of the neighbouring offices because the birds' release was in an open and partially flooded field just across the Interstate, where the parents had flown during the ruckus and where this wayward family had probably started their day.
Another job well done by Golden Valley's finest.
So it goes. What started as just a brief glance at something out of place resulted in about twenty minutes of misdirected effort. I must confess, though - the geese were not my first concern. No, Minneapolis drivers are predominantly idiots, and would more likely swerve into the side of an eighteen wheeler than whack a sky pig. I was just waiting for the pile up.
Read More......
2004-05-25
2004-03-03
03 March 2004
Baghdad
The problem with this place is that, no matter how fubar I think it is, they always come up with a way to make it more fu. This nonsense in Baghdad and Kerbala yesterday morning, especially. First off – I am absolutely an ignoramus in the ways of Islam, but…
Millions were gathering for the Ashura holy day, long since banned by Saddam. For one, it’s a Shi’a festival, and Saddam was Sunni. For two, one “colorful” aspect of this ritual is the self flagellation. In some groups, this involves the participant cutting the top of his own head, and then continuously beating himself with stick of sword to ensure continued bleeding.
Very messy.
As was traffic on the way to the Ministry for what will probably turn out to be my final coordination meeting with them. The drive that normally takes fifteen to twenty minutes took over ninety, as the entire city was disrupted by the parades and demonstrations of the devout. During one particularly interminable wait, I observed a group of easily five to ten thousand marchers, each tenth or so led by a bundle of banners and flags, then a group of elderly guys, then a hundred or two self flagellators, then a couple hundred supporters. Then the next tenth, then the next, literally as far as the eye could see.
Each mass of self flagellators strode to the rhythm of a truck full of speakers projecting the (to western ears) strange wailings of a priest, accompanied by a couple of large drums. The wailing ended in a THUMP every three or four seconds, and the devout would advance just one more step – simultaneously whacking themselves on the back with small cats-o-nine-tails. Left side. Right side. Thump. Thump.
This slow procession took up one side (three lanes) of the six lane road, naturally expanding it to four or five lanes on my side, as vehicles tried to cram their way forward (there’s hardly any pavement marking anyway, so who’s to say it wasn’t a five lane slab to start). We weren’t moving at all for way too long, the marchers seemed to have brought their own informally armed security, and Captain Barnhart had her hand on the safety of her pistol the entire time, ready to discharge the chambered cartridge and send some wayward Iraqi elsewhere.
While we were in this traffic jam from Allah, simultaneously in Baghdad and Kerbala, bad guys lobbed mortars into the million Muslim marches, killing at least a hundred and a half.
For three, this festival is the most important on the Shi’a calendar, and is almost always disrupted by violence. Coincidentally, the holiday is to remember the death of the Prophet’s grandson, who was martyred by bad guys hundred and hundreds of years ago.
As a result, three days of mourning was declared and all public offices are closed. By the time it’s done, my necessary contact in the Ministry will be on a money begging mission in Qatar, and my Sector Chief will be in the States, so my intended handover meetings between them will not occur, and (like I care much any more) the continuation of the process will falter.
Well, and on that cheerful note, the bastards are lobbing mortars and/or rockets at the palace again, and the Giant Voice has been activated.
I am so done here. Read More......
The problem with this place is that, no matter how fubar I think it is, they always come up with a way to make it more fu. This nonsense in Baghdad and Kerbala yesterday morning, especially. First off – I am absolutely an ignoramus in the ways of Islam, but…
Millions were gathering for the Ashura holy day, long since banned by Saddam. For one, it’s a Shi’a festival, and Saddam was Sunni. For two, one “colorful” aspect of this ritual is the self flagellation. In some groups, this involves the participant cutting the top of his own head, and then continuously beating himself with stick of sword to ensure continued bleeding.
Very messy.
As was traffic on the way to the Ministry for what will probably turn out to be my final coordination meeting with them. The drive that normally takes fifteen to twenty minutes took over ninety, as the entire city was disrupted by the parades and demonstrations of the devout. During one particularly interminable wait, I observed a group of easily five to ten thousand marchers, each tenth or so led by a bundle of banners and flags, then a group of elderly guys, then a hundred or two self flagellators, then a couple hundred supporters. Then the next tenth, then the next, literally as far as the eye could see.
Each mass of self flagellators strode to the rhythm of a truck full of speakers projecting the (to western ears) strange wailings of a priest, accompanied by a couple of large drums. The wailing ended in a THUMP every three or four seconds, and the devout would advance just one more step – simultaneously whacking themselves on the back with small cats-o-nine-tails. Left side. Right side. Thump. Thump.
This slow procession took up one side (three lanes) of the six lane road, naturally expanding it to four or five lanes on my side, as vehicles tried to cram their way forward (there’s hardly any pavement marking anyway, so who’s to say it wasn’t a five lane slab to start). We weren’t moving at all for way too long, the marchers seemed to have brought their own informally armed security, and Captain Barnhart had her hand on the safety of her pistol the entire time, ready to discharge the chambered cartridge and send some wayward Iraqi elsewhere.
While we were in this traffic jam from Allah, simultaneously in Baghdad and Kerbala, bad guys lobbed mortars into the million Muslim marches, killing at least a hundred and a half.
For three, this festival is the most important on the Shi’a calendar, and is almost always disrupted by violence. Coincidentally, the holiday is to remember the death of the Prophet’s grandson, who was martyred by bad guys hundred and hundreds of years ago.
As a result, three days of mourning was declared and all public offices are closed. By the time it’s done, my necessary contact in the Ministry will be on a money begging mission in Qatar, and my Sector Chief will be in the States, so my intended handover meetings between them will not occur, and (like I care much any more) the continuation of the process will falter.
Well, and on that cheerful note, the bastards are lobbing mortars and/or rockets at the palace again, and the Giant Voice has been activated.
I am so done here. Read More......
2004-02-27
27 February 2004
PART IV - WHO WOULD JESUS BOMB?
=====
Baghdad
My focus has changed inexorably.
I’m down to my last few weeks.
Last weekend saw the departure of the combat engineers who have been my friends and escorts since I arrived. They had been here about twice as long as originally ordered. This is a common hazard with overseas work, it seems, no matter the employer. They won’t be going straight back to Arkansas, but they’ll get there eventually, once they serve four to six weeks in Falluja pulling ordnance disposal duties (fairly light work, unless there’s an accidental discharge).
They asked me to join them at their going away drunk at the Al Rashid. And we did, for they bypassed the long and sobering lines at the bar in favor of bringing their own bottles, which seemed magically without bottom. These guys I will miss. Mostly lads, early twenties. The oldest was thirty-one. Reservist enlisted men. As quick to bitch as they were to laugh. Skillful and accomplished professionals. And really, how could I not like them – they were all buying motorcycles when they got stateside. Granted, the unanimous plan was for chromed out bar hoppers, but who was I to tell them the error of their ways.
I rarely have the same feeling about the officers. Too many of them are only so much management – large, bureaucratic, top heavy management.
Chuck left Baghdad this week as well. Pressure from home was more than his assignment here could bear, so he bugged out a few weeks early. Chuck’s departure marked the beginning of the end of we Ungrateful Whiners. Although three of us had left prior to Chuck, they were all replaced in due course. Chuck will not, nor will I, or anyone of the rest of us. The end of the Fellowship, if you’d like to think of it that way.
A rare fellowship, to be sure. This will be my twentieth season doing this work, and I have never been a part of such a group, with little prior contact or knowledge of one another, thrown into a bizarre and high pressure situation, and yet work so well together. The Whiners I’ll miss. Not enough to get me to re-up, but enough to compare all future alliances against. Well, there’s a little part of me that would re-up, but they would never meet my price of triple what they pay me now – plus weapons.
Many from our group will return. Both bachelors are eyeing the tremendous tax advantages of working overseas for 330 days in a year. Many more will return for just a couple of weeks about a month after we leave. Despite the best efforts of the scores of planners and bureaucrats walking the halls of the PMO, the contractors who will replace us won’t be announced until the week after we leave. As such, it will be another month before they get here. They’ll need some help in deciphering what we’ve done for the past five months. Good luck to them!
On this end, I've got fourteen days and a wakeup (as they say, but it’s not like I’m counting), and then fly back via Amman and Amsterdam to enjoy what's left of the Minnesota winter. I won't miss Baghdad.
I was at a going away bashment for the Senior Advisor for the Ministry of Water Resources two nights ago, hosted by the Minister of Water Resources, who asked me, "What is your favorite part of Iraq?" At this time, I'm not sure exactly where I went with the answer. I'm just glad I was sober enough to make up something in short order. Something like, “…blah, blah,.. people.. resource,… blah, blah,… opportunities,…”
How could I tell him that I’m still searching for a rhyme for “shithole”.
The appeal to this place is not what Iraq is, but what she was thirty years ago, and could become again – her potential. But today, the climate is unsuitable, there’s no rain, the predominant color is dirt, there’s little industry, the infrastructure is in tatters, let alone the fact that the CPA lifestyle is wholly unnatural, and there’s people trying to kill us.
What’s there not to like?
This limerick, for one. The meters way off, as well as the rhyme.
The palace sits beside the Tigris.
The mortars? Some day they may not miss.
If I weren’t in this shithole
I’d be eating fresh cannoli
And from afar the Mid-east I would dis. Read More......
=====
Baghdad
My focus has changed inexorably.
I’m down to my last few weeks.
Last weekend saw the departure of the combat engineers who have been my friends and escorts since I arrived. They had been here about twice as long as originally ordered. This is a common hazard with overseas work, it seems, no matter the employer. They won’t be going straight back to Arkansas, but they’ll get there eventually, once they serve four to six weeks in Falluja pulling ordnance disposal duties (fairly light work, unless there’s an accidental discharge).
They asked me to join them at their going away drunk at the Al Rashid. And we did, for they bypassed the long and sobering lines at the bar in favor of bringing their own bottles, which seemed magically without bottom. These guys I will miss. Mostly lads, early twenties. The oldest was thirty-one. Reservist enlisted men. As quick to bitch as they were to laugh. Skillful and accomplished professionals. And really, how could I not like them – they were all buying motorcycles when they got stateside. Granted, the unanimous plan was for chromed out bar hoppers, but who was I to tell them the error of their ways.
I rarely have the same feeling about the officers. Too many of them are only so much management – large, bureaucratic, top heavy management.
Chuck left Baghdad this week as well. Pressure from home was more than his assignment here could bear, so he bugged out a few weeks early. Chuck’s departure marked the beginning of the end of we Ungrateful Whiners. Although three of us had left prior to Chuck, they were all replaced in due course. Chuck will not, nor will I, or anyone of the rest of us. The end of the Fellowship, if you’d like to think of it that way.
A rare fellowship, to be sure. This will be my twentieth season doing this work, and I have never been a part of such a group, with little prior contact or knowledge of one another, thrown into a bizarre and high pressure situation, and yet work so well together. The Whiners I’ll miss. Not enough to get me to re-up, but enough to compare all future alliances against. Well, there’s a little part of me that would re-up, but they would never meet my price of triple what they pay me now – plus weapons.
Many from our group will return. Both bachelors are eyeing the tremendous tax advantages of working overseas for 330 days in a year. Many more will return for just a couple of weeks about a month after we leave. Despite the best efforts of the scores of planners and bureaucrats walking the halls of the PMO, the contractors who will replace us won’t be announced until the week after we leave. As such, it will be another month before they get here. They’ll need some help in deciphering what we’ve done for the past five months. Good luck to them!
On this end, I've got fourteen days and a wakeup (as they say, but it’s not like I’m counting), and then fly back via Amman and Amsterdam to enjoy what's left of the Minnesota winter. I won't miss Baghdad.
I was at a going away bashment for the Senior Advisor for the Ministry of Water Resources two nights ago, hosted by the Minister of Water Resources, who asked me, "What is your favorite part of Iraq?" At this time, I'm not sure exactly where I went with the answer. I'm just glad I was sober enough to make up something in short order. Something like, “…blah, blah,.. people.. resource,… blah, blah,… opportunities,…”
How could I tell him that I’m still searching for a rhyme for “shithole”.
The appeal to this place is not what Iraq is, but what she was thirty years ago, and could become again – her potential. But today, the climate is unsuitable, there’s no rain, the predominant color is dirt, there’s little industry, the infrastructure is in tatters, let alone the fact that the CPA lifestyle is wholly unnatural, and there’s people trying to kill us.
What’s there not to like?
This limerick, for one. The meters way off, as well as the rhyme.
The palace sits beside the Tigris.
The mortars? Some day they may not miss.
If I weren’t in this shithole
I’d be eating fresh cannoli
And from afar the Mid-east I would dis. Read More......
2004-02-16
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. Read More......
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. Read More......
2004-02-06
Friday, February 06, 2004
09:30 – Baghdad. Tonight was a fete at the Green Zone Café.
As the only place in the Green Zone where you can get a pizza, it does a brisk business. The pie is adequate as pies go. The crust is well textured and not too doughy, with a strong taste of yeast. The sauce is subtle, but not especially interesting. The toppings vary as much as do local conditions. You get what’s available and like it. The cheese pizza is a good bet.
The raison d’etre of this event is Charles, who has had enough, and is leaving Baghdad tomorrow. [It’s a bit more complex than that, but,…] This struck me as a mildly disturbing development, as Charles was one of the true believers. He told me shortly after his arrival at the end of November, and on multiple occasions since, that the success of our work in reconstructing Iraq affects the fate of the Western World.
To paraphrase my recollection, his belief is that terrorist elements (the proverbial “Evil”) would do what they could to disrupt the reconstruction process, primarily through maintaining an unsafe (ok, dangerous) atmosphere throughout Iraq. As a result, the CPA (and the contractors to follow) would have a difficult if not impossible time retaining qualified personnel. If the cost of good people increased markedly as the available quantity dropped precipitously, the process would falter.
If the process were to waver, support from the voters of the United States would also wane, and the result would be increased calls to pull out the military, which would lead to increased attacks against those who remained, be they troops or civilians, American or others. This would dump Iraq in a downward spiral. No. Not a spiral. That would imply a constant rate of fall. What if you took half a parabola and rotated the thing so you got a three dimensional shape, then traced a line down the interior of this shape, sort of spiralesque, but accelerating towards the narrow and infinite end of this shape. From the top, this line would be seen spinning and spinning at a faster rate, while from the side, the line would be falling faster and faster, bashing violently back and forth across the inside wall of the shape.
That’s what would happen to Iraq. And the money and effort we’re spending here would be like the eighteen billion coins you drop into one of those sort of conic charity boxes. It rotates near the top for a time, seemingly in a stable orbit, then it just spins out of control as it falls into the black box beneath the visible portion of the collection system to be spent on who knows what.
If this situation were to happen here, Charles surmises (and this is the big, important part), it would destabilize the rest of the globe, and Evil and his buddy, Terror, would gain a free hand to be naughty all over the “civilized” powers. If naught else, America’s failure to rebuild Iraq into a functional democracy would play a big role in the Evil recruitment videos for the next decade. Ultimately, this would mark the next great step in the inevitable fall of America as Superpower.
Of course, it could be that Charles is nuts. It could be that terrorism is just another scourge to be dealt with, like lite beer and reality television. This well could be the case, but he is our storied and infamous head of Public Affairs, and if he thinks his individual task is hopeless, that of convincing the public that what we’re doing is effective, and hopeless enough to leave two months into a six month stint, he might also think the greater task is hopeless.
I don’t yet know the results of what we’re doing here, but this geopolitical, demise of the Empire thing is a quandary, and I asked myself this question as I walked the deserted Green Zone streets back to my hooch:
What happens if we fail here – is that the end of civilization as we know it?
Does a dog have the Buddha nature? Read More......
As the only place in the Green Zone where you can get a pizza, it does a brisk business. The pie is adequate as pies go. The crust is well textured and not too doughy, with a strong taste of yeast. The sauce is subtle, but not especially interesting. The toppings vary as much as do local conditions. You get what’s available and like it. The cheese pizza is a good bet.
The raison d’etre of this event is Charles, who has had enough, and is leaving Baghdad tomorrow. [It’s a bit more complex than that, but,…] This struck me as a mildly disturbing development, as Charles was one of the true believers. He told me shortly after his arrival at the end of November, and on multiple occasions since, that the success of our work in reconstructing Iraq affects the fate of the Western World.
To paraphrase my recollection, his belief is that terrorist elements (the proverbial “Evil”) would do what they could to disrupt the reconstruction process, primarily through maintaining an unsafe (ok, dangerous) atmosphere throughout Iraq. As a result, the CPA (and the contractors to follow) would have a difficult if not impossible time retaining qualified personnel. If the cost of good people increased markedly as the available quantity dropped precipitously, the process would falter.
If the process were to waver, support from the voters of the United States would also wane, and the result would be increased calls to pull out the military, which would lead to increased attacks against those who remained, be they troops or civilians, American or others. This would dump Iraq in a downward spiral. No. Not a spiral. That would imply a constant rate of fall. What if you took half a parabola and rotated the thing so you got a three dimensional shape, then traced a line down the interior of this shape, sort of spiralesque, but accelerating towards the narrow and infinite end of this shape. From the top, this line would be seen spinning and spinning at a faster rate, while from the side, the line would be falling faster and faster, bashing violently back and forth across the inside wall of the shape.
That’s what would happen to Iraq. And the money and effort we’re spending here would be like the eighteen billion coins you drop into one of those sort of conic charity boxes. It rotates near the top for a time, seemingly in a stable orbit, then it just spins out of control as it falls into the black box beneath the visible portion of the collection system to be spent on who knows what.
If this situation were to happen here, Charles surmises (and this is the big, important part), it would destabilize the rest of the globe, and Evil and his buddy, Terror, would gain a free hand to be naughty all over the “civilized” powers. If naught else, America’s failure to rebuild Iraq into a functional democracy would play a big role in the Evil recruitment videos for the next decade. Ultimately, this would mark the next great step in the inevitable fall of America as Superpower.
Of course, it could be that Charles is nuts. It could be that terrorism is just another scourge to be dealt with, like lite beer and reality television. This well could be the case, but he is our storied and infamous head of Public Affairs, and if he thinks his individual task is hopeless, that of convincing the public that what we’re doing is effective, and hopeless enough to leave two months into a six month stint, he might also think the greater task is hopeless.
I don’t yet know the results of what we’re doing here, but this geopolitical, demise of the Empire thing is a quandary, and I asked myself this question as I walked the deserted Green Zone streets back to my hooch:
What happens if we fail here – is that the end of civilization as we know it?
Does a dog have the Buddha nature? Read More......
Friday, February 06, 2004
08:30 – Baghdad. Friday mornings are supposed to be our weekends here, but they rarely work out that way. Given a free weekend morning in the States, I might find myself at the home improvement center working on a solution to something or another, or at the range making noise, or slack on the couch watching cartoons. Those aren’t options in Baghdad. My free time here is generally spent reading, or writing, or working, or drinking. This Friday morning, I found myself at the office, having slept in as long as I could, or about an hour longer than usual. I read last night. I’ll write some today – some for work, some not. Tonight, some drinking.
Some Americans here aren’t so fortunate as I in this regard, as all duty personnel assigned to the Coalition Joint Task Force Number Seven (CJTF7) are prohibited from consuming alcoholic beverages (as well as fornication, but I think that one’s a health issue more than anything). The CJTF7 is most of the active military here. As such, soldiers can’t drink. Most soldiers that is. Those assigned directly to the CPA are not under the command of General Sanchez, and can get a snoot full whenever they’re off duty.
Civilians as well are immune from this policy. There’s a duty free shop at BIAP where one can purchase assorted spirits. There’re the bars at the Al Rashid for beers. Bechtel has a nice recreation center with a bar and pool table (you can play dart there, as well, until someone finds the others). Iraqi workers are more than happy to bring something back for you from one of the many Baghdad liquor stores. The really big wheels have access to the Hussains’ cache of really rare wines, but those wheels travel outside and far above my circle here. My circle is drawn in the dirt.
On Groundhog’s Night, we strayed to the local Chinese restaurant named, ever-appropriately, “Chinese Restaurant”. Despite making reservations (stopping by earlier and telling them, in broken English, to expect a crowd) for our Whiny dozen and a half, the crew there was overwhelmed. Out of a sense of disbelief, I’d guess. Eighteen dinners is probably a few days of business for them, an Iraqi and Chinese as partners, with four or five Chinese cooks. The economics may seem weird here at first, but not so much when you figure that each of us would pay twelve bucks for supper and sundries and a cook earns three for the day.
It’s not bad food at all, and a welcome respite from KBR’s Chicken Kiev. They serve a nice tomato-based hot and sour soup, good appetizers, and make their own egg noodles. Supper included a case each of Turkish Corona’s and Egyptian Heineken’s. And, because they like us (you be the judge), the manager bought us a bottle of whiskey. Last time he did this, it was a bottle of scotch. Scott’s Brand Scotch. Pure grain scotch, if I’m any judge of bad scotch.
This time, it was whiskey. Nancy Brand. “Fine Old Whiskey.” In a three quarter liter container intentionally reminiscent of a fifth of Black Label, was served fine old whiskey “from concentrate”. Nancy, if that was her real name, was pictured on the label – a skank Asian girl sitting, leather skirt, knees apart, black brassiere, drink hither look on her over made up eyes.
I switched to tea. Read More......
Some Americans here aren’t so fortunate as I in this regard, as all duty personnel assigned to the Coalition Joint Task Force Number Seven (CJTF7) are prohibited from consuming alcoholic beverages (as well as fornication, but I think that one’s a health issue more than anything). The CJTF7 is most of the active military here. As such, soldiers can’t drink. Most soldiers that is. Those assigned directly to the CPA are not under the command of General Sanchez, and can get a snoot full whenever they’re off duty.
Civilians as well are immune from this policy. There’s a duty free shop at BIAP where one can purchase assorted spirits. There’re the bars at the Al Rashid for beers. Bechtel has a nice recreation center with a bar and pool table (you can play dart there, as well, until someone finds the others). Iraqi workers are more than happy to bring something back for you from one of the many Baghdad liquor stores. The really big wheels have access to the Hussains’ cache of really rare wines, but those wheels travel outside and far above my circle here. My circle is drawn in the dirt.
On Groundhog’s Night, we strayed to the local Chinese restaurant named, ever-appropriately, “Chinese Restaurant”. Despite making reservations (stopping by earlier and telling them, in broken English, to expect a crowd) for our Whiny dozen and a half, the crew there was overwhelmed. Out of a sense of disbelief, I’d guess. Eighteen dinners is probably a few days of business for them, an Iraqi and Chinese as partners, with four or five Chinese cooks. The economics may seem weird here at first, but not so much when you figure that each of us would pay twelve bucks for supper and sundries and a cook earns three for the day.
It’s not bad food at all, and a welcome respite from KBR’s Chicken Kiev. They serve a nice tomato-based hot and sour soup, good appetizers, and make their own egg noodles. Supper included a case each of Turkish Corona’s and Egyptian Heineken’s. And, because they like us (you be the judge), the manager bought us a bottle of whiskey. Last time he did this, it was a bottle of scotch. Scott’s Brand Scotch. Pure grain scotch, if I’m any judge of bad scotch.
This time, it was whiskey. Nancy Brand. “Fine Old Whiskey.” In a three quarter liter container intentionally reminiscent of a fifth of Black Label, was served fine old whiskey “from concentrate”. Nancy, if that was her real name, was pictured on the label – a skank Asian girl sitting, leather skirt, knees apart, black brassiere, drink hither look on her over made up eyes.
I switched to tea. Read More......
2004-01-27
Tuesday, January 27, 2004
09:35 – Baghdad. A number of days back, my mission to see the pump stations at Razzaza was scrubbed by the detonation of an IED. We turned and fled.
A couple of days later, I was driving the return route from BIAP with Chuck, we came upon an intractable traffic jam, caused when an EOD (Explosive Ordinance Disposal) team shut down the highway to deal with an IED they found on a bridge. After about twenty minutes of going seriously nowhere, the Iraqi’s started to turn their vehicles and bug out. First the small cars, then the larger and larger vehicles until there was enough room cleared on the slab to turn the articulated rigs one hundred eighty degrees and west, to head back down the eastbound lanes of the Qadisiya Expressway. There would be an on ramp just down the road that they could go the wrong way off and seek out an alternate route to wherever.
This left a mostly empty highway, populated by primarily Coalition vehicles. However, as much as I appreciated the opportunity to be out of doors, the disappearance of the Iraqi vehicles changed our security profile, leaving us rather exposed. After a quick confabulation, I four wheel drove our Durango through a break in the guardrail and followed a couple of Humvees through the severely rutted and brushy parkway, eventually losing our escort, getting just a little bit lost ourselves, and eventually finding the obscure truck entrance to the Green Zone downstream of the palace.
While still with our escort, we drove through one of the worst neighborhoods I’ve seen here. It was filled with crappy, cinderblock houses, seemingly dropped from the sky both in their randomness and condition. The rag clad residents stopped doing whatever little they may have been doing and stood to watch our small group drive by, find the road blocked, make a half dozen five point turns (even more turns for the Humvees, the pigs) and parade past them again. These hovel communities in Iraq piss me off to no end. This one in particular - just a mile from the palace and immediately adjacent to the expressway. There was no way that The Evil Puke could not have known the condition of his people.
What surprised me most was the ground clearance of these new Durangos. Mine handled the deep tank ruts and sharp edged irrigation ditches and spoil banks next to the highway with no problem. Then, when our makeshift escort went in a direction we weren’t prepared to follow, we ably hopped the twenty centimeter curb, did much of a u-turn on the median, then the down version of hopped off the curb and screeched back towards a piece of highway I knew, back end bouncing a little as the roar of the V-8 woke a couple of Iraqi cops napping under a shady tree. Maybe the performance capabilities will change after we get more than six hundred miles on the thing but, for a new truck with just a few visits by the dent fairy, it seems to perform like the adverts suggest.
The next day, a suicide bomber went to Allah via 500 kilograms of military explosives at the Green Zone gate that I was scheduled to use just an hour later. There was well over a hundred casualties, with over a score and a half of Iraqi’s dead. Our mission to the Ministry was scrubbed for the day.
One day later, we tried again for the Ministry, and were almost thwarted by a massive demonstration that caused us to pursue a tertiary route to our destination. We got there eventually, and even returned without incident.
The demonstration, it turns out, was attended by about 100,000 Iraqis (plus the tens of thousands attending by default, due to the lack of effective surface transportation and the tie up of the streets) in an estimated ten-mile (or two-mile, depending on the media) line of continuous protest. Theirs was a call for free and fair elections, as soon as possible. Soon come. What they fail to realize is that there will be elections when they will be in the best interests of the Coalition and no sooner.
Four missions in a row, though, redirected due to circumstances unanticipated and unavoidable. In this anarchic place and time, it’s best to keep flexible. In the words of the Infantry – improvise, adapt, overcome. Read More......
A couple of days later, I was driving the return route from BIAP with Chuck, we came upon an intractable traffic jam, caused when an EOD (Explosive Ordinance Disposal) team shut down the highway to deal with an IED they found on a bridge. After about twenty minutes of going seriously nowhere, the Iraqi’s started to turn their vehicles and bug out. First the small cars, then the larger and larger vehicles until there was enough room cleared on the slab to turn the articulated rigs one hundred eighty degrees and west, to head back down the eastbound lanes of the Qadisiya Expressway. There would be an on ramp just down the road that they could go the wrong way off and seek out an alternate route to wherever.
This left a mostly empty highway, populated by primarily Coalition vehicles. However, as much as I appreciated the opportunity to be out of doors, the disappearance of the Iraqi vehicles changed our security profile, leaving us rather exposed. After a quick confabulation, I four wheel drove our Durango through a break in the guardrail and followed a couple of Humvees through the severely rutted and brushy parkway, eventually losing our escort, getting just a little bit lost ourselves, and eventually finding the obscure truck entrance to the Green Zone downstream of the palace.
While still with our escort, we drove through one of the worst neighborhoods I’ve seen here. It was filled with crappy, cinderblock houses, seemingly dropped from the sky both in their randomness and condition. The rag clad residents stopped doing whatever little they may have been doing and stood to watch our small group drive by, find the road blocked, make a half dozen five point turns (even more turns for the Humvees, the pigs) and parade past them again. These hovel communities in Iraq piss me off to no end. This one in particular - just a mile from the palace and immediately adjacent to the expressway. There was no way that The Evil Puke could not have known the condition of his people.
What surprised me most was the ground clearance of these new Durangos. Mine handled the deep tank ruts and sharp edged irrigation ditches and spoil banks next to the highway with no problem. Then, when our makeshift escort went in a direction we weren’t prepared to follow, we ably hopped the twenty centimeter curb, did much of a u-turn on the median, then the down version of hopped off the curb and screeched back towards a piece of highway I knew, back end bouncing a little as the roar of the V-8 woke a couple of Iraqi cops napping under a shady tree. Maybe the performance capabilities will change after we get more than six hundred miles on the thing but, for a new truck with just a few visits by the dent fairy, it seems to perform like the adverts suggest.
The next day, a suicide bomber went to Allah via 500 kilograms of military explosives at the Green Zone gate that I was scheduled to use just an hour later. There was well over a hundred casualties, with over a score and a half of Iraqi’s dead. Our mission to the Ministry was scrubbed for the day.
One day later, we tried again for the Ministry, and were almost thwarted by a massive demonstration that caused us to pursue a tertiary route to our destination. We got there eventually, and even returned without incident.
The demonstration, it turns out, was attended by about 100,000 Iraqis (plus the tens of thousands attending by default, due to the lack of effective surface transportation and the tie up of the streets) in an estimated ten-mile (or two-mile, depending on the media) line of continuous protest. Theirs was a call for free and fair elections, as soon as possible. Soon come. What they fail to realize is that there will be elections when they will be in the best interests of the Coalition and no sooner.
Four missions in a row, though, redirected due to circumstances unanticipated and unavoidable. In this anarchic place and time, it’s best to keep flexible. In the words of the Infantry – improvise, adapt, overcome. Read More......
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