Iraq (The Movie) Part III: “This time its personal”

Why is it such a hassle to go on deployment? Every time it’s the same shit but it never stops being a pain in the ass. I mean I’m used to all the issues. Preparing, packing, getting bills in order, saying goodbye to friends and family, dealing with the airport bullshit – hey look, going new places rocks but a lot of travel really fucking sucks. I think maybe it’s the hardships and complications that gives you an opportunity to either experience ordeal or adventure (depending on your attitude) but when you’re leaving for a long time to uncertain and dangerous places it can be a little bit draining.

God.. Another squat in the sandbox. I prepared myself as much as I could. Went to the beach almost every day this summer, pushed ahead on my hobbies, drank and partied more often and harder than I prefer but I still don’t feel quite ready. I walk into the airport with my bags under my arms and my reservations in my pocket. No strip search this time. Strange. Usually the airport people see final destination = middle east and its like “send in the proctologist”. Last time I had to suffer through this super anal beetle-dude swabbing all of my shit, every single solitary piece of stuff I packed, with these little cotton swabs using this big metal set of tongs then sending the used swabs away up this vacuum tube while wearing latex gloves and a white labcoat. At least I’m not drunk-over like last time, but I do have one piece of advice:

Do not eat Indian food the night before flying.

Let me tell you that this new rule is a no-shitter and can now take its place among the old favorites

Never dial drunk.
and
Don’t drink a bottle of tequila and then eat Chinese food.

These are lessons written in blood.

I go through my travel gear list one last time to make sure nothing is forgotten:

Ear plugs – check
Sunglasses/sleep mask – check
Tylenol PM – Checkity check
Immodium AD – check
Wad-o-Cash – check
Book – check check
Gum – and check

Alright, lets do this shit.

San Diego – Minneapolis – Amsterdam
(Imagine those cool Indiana Jones red arrows moving me through these points)
4 hours from San Diego to Minneapolis, 3 hour layover, 8 hours from Minneapolis to Amsterdam, 9 hour layover.

Amsterdam, the dirty sweaty erection of Western Europe. Damn, Amster-damn. Hookers in glass boxes, the holy city of all pot heads, dubious museum tours, smoke shops and “coffee shops”, cafes and stink. Shaggy granola eating Americans with backpacks and smelly destitute Europeans in tight fitting 80’s fashion buzz through the crowded streets. 5 Euros will get you a pot brownie or a blowjob (depending where you look). With my eyes peeled for pickpockets and other such scavengers I enter the city like a gladiator. Nothing would ease the angst of travel like smashing the face of some dirtbag who tries to mess. Why? Because I’m an asshole. Any more questions?

I hit the airport like a robot. Recover luggage, re-check luggage, exchange money, rent locker, throw all excess stuff in locker, buy train ticket, ride to city center. Fuck.. I had already hit the sex museum and got lost down the winding streets before I finally snapped out of it with the first drink of coffee outside some diminutive café deep in the cobblestone labrynth. One of the waitresses sat and talked with me while I drank in the pre-rain overcast breeze. I must look like a total train wreck. Dirty, traveled, unshaven, unkempt, and I think I’m starting to get an eye infection. Bricks, bicycles, graffiti, and a thousand weathering layers of posters line the narrow streets. Bells and horse hooves echo around me as I sit and unwind. I watch the ruffles on the café umbrellas catch the passing breeze, I watch the pages of my book turn softly, unread, as people ride by on bikes and scooters. By the time I finish my coffee it has gone cold in its small cup. I chew on the bitter grounds from the final swig a few moments before moving on.

The place is charming and cosmopolitan but it still has the feel of something dirty and ominous. Not threatening but unsettling and laying in wait just around the corner. I guess you can say that everyone here is “normal” but its like a bizarro “normal”, the mix of mostly European cultures and mannerisms are different and do not follow in what I would call recognizably logical patterns. A contorted gesture to point something out, a twisted position to wipe ones eyes or scratch an itch, alien facial expressions that are intended to imply some unknown thought or feeling. Hey listen, I’m no idiot, I can see what they are doing and their intentions but its just weird. Like when Kevin Costner was standing on dry land in that movie Waterworld.. “it doesn’t move right”.

I hit up a couple of museums. I know they are expensive, touristy, and lame but I’m a robo-zombie en route to Iraq so it doesn’t seem to matter.

SEX MUSEUM
TORTURE MUSEUM

I get lost a few more times wandering through the city. I don’t even care, I just keep slogging through the intermittent smells of weed and tobacco and sweat. I drop into a little pub and have a pint of stout and a strange tasting salami and pickle sandwich. It feels good for a minute to just sit in a warm pub on thick wooden furniture and exhale very slowly. I sat there for a while just staring out the window into nothingness. Listening to the opera singer playing on the radio I totally zoned out until the accidental crash of dropped dishes by the waitress pulls me back into my body. I get up and wander some more through the streets, passing street vendors and panhandlers, between pale skinny people wearing dire looks and tight dark clothing as they gnaw away at the future. I’m starting to really feel tired just as the rain starts to fall. I quickly cross a busy street and hold up under the awning of a cheese shop. I stand there in a daze while the city seduces me with the quiet rhythmic patter of drizzling raindrops and the warm sultry aroma of fresh cheese. After the rain passes I realize its time for me to abandon this city for a trip back to the churning madness of the airport. After recovering my stored belongings and snaking my way through security I find an empty seat near my gate and stare into the pale world outside the window as my face starts to feel warm and eyelids get heavier and heavier. Only 37 minutes until boarding and its taking all my effort to hold out and not fall asleep. God knows the last thing I need is to wake up on a bench in some foreign city with all my shit stolen and having missed my flight. In all, Amsterdam is a nice place but I would not want to live here. It would all be just a bit much for me. But hey, at least there’s no fat people.

I am not looking forward to a long flight with a bunch of stinking jabbering arabs and their screaming unrestrained maggot children running around like little monkeys on speed. Hey, I’m gonna be neck deep in this shit soon enough, better just start getting used to it. I know I should abandon my juvenile prejudices but they just feel so right sometimes. I board my flight to Amman just as my lower back starts to ache. Five hours and I’m back in the sandbox. The engines start up and the lights go dim. My seat begins to vibrate and my body feels heavy as we take off. I’m asleep before the plane reaches 30,000 feet.

Queen Alia Airport. I’ve had more hard times here than a prison inmate that’s the spitting image of a some Baywatch star. No contact present, no problem – I’ve fought my way through this place before tooth and nail and I learned a few lessons in the process.

Show passport to customs
Ignore jabbering security man
Exchange Euros for Dinar
Pay 10 dinar to visa agent
Ignore jabbering security man
Take paperwork to customs agent
A stamp on my passport
A stamp on my visa
I’m through.. sounds simple but when you’re jetlagged and speak no Arabic it can be a real fucked up experience.

On my way down the escalator I pass by a dude going up the escalator holding a sign with my name on it. A call out to my contact and we hook up in baggage claim. All my luggage came through, it’s a fucking miracle. What the hell is going on around here? This is almost too easy. Somebody is really looking out for me on this trip, I just hope I don’t use up all my luck in transit (knock on wood). Oh yeah, there it is, the superstitions have already kicked in. Just for the record I actually did knock on wood when I thought that, signs that my brain is transforming back into operator mode from its rest state of California mode. Tomorrow if I’m not en route to Baghdad then I promise myself to go see the ruins of Petra. My contact tells me that we have to wait for a few hours to pick up 4 more dudes flying in from Frankfurt. I’m so happy that I got all my luggage that I don’t even mind waiting.

I grab a taxi while the other guys try to see how many contractors can fit into a pickup truck. I walk into the hotel like a lawnmower headwound. I am exhausted beyond belief as the doorman smiles and greets me.

Little doorman with a strange smile “Welcoom back sir.”

Me “ta down.”

By the time I get to the hotel and checked in its already 4:00 in the morning. As I stumble toward the elevator that will whisk me away to dreamland the deskman calls to me.

Well groomed deskman with very punctual ‘engrish’, “To be reminder sir, you have 5:00 wake up call.”

Me “Of fucking course I do.”

The doorman blushes

Well groomed deskman with very punctual ‘engrish’, “To be reminder to you sir, we have room service available to you at the expenses paid to be by your company.”

Me “Groovy.”

Petra would have to wait. I go up to my room and try to order room service but a rat has chewed through the wire that sticks out in a nasty little fray from the ass of the phone. I start peeling off my dirty clothes that cling to me like mummy wrap as the doorman comes in with my baggage. He sees my tired worthless ass stripping down and giggles to himself.

Me “Hey dude, come over here I need you to do something for me.”

He prances over with a little too much excitement.

Me “Here” I hand him a written food order.

Room Service List 5000:

1 cheeseburger with everything on it
everything
yes, including what you are about to ask me
everything
1 turkish coffee
1 perrier

He prances away looking disappointed.

If I was gonna have a one hour turnaround with no sleep then I was gonna need some serious fuel. I jump into the shower and work myself over for 30 minutes with every soap and oil and conditioner and setting on the showerhead in the place. This was my last good shower for 4 long dusty months and I was gonna make the most of it. I cover myself in a bathrobe and emerge from my steam chamber to find my meal sitting on the table and the doorman waiting for my signature with a big grin. I sign his shit and he prances out the door. I sit down and pick up the remote. The only thing on TV is Golden Girls in Arabic so I smash mute and dig in.

More airport madness but not at Queen Alia this time, we’re flying on the company plane out of the military base. The new plane is a definite step up from the old one they had. That thing would take off and screws would rattle free and roll out the back. It was like flying in a banged up trashcan with wings. We take off over Amman at sunrise (actually quite stunning as a giant red ball rises over the square white buildings that bask in a swirling cloud of yellow and purple dust) and the city appears as thousands of homogeneous tan cardboard boxes covering the tan hills and valleys. We make a tight right turn then soar high across the dusty barrens below. I read my book for the entire 2 hour flight until a dramatic diving turn brings my brain back into the moment. Landing in Baghdad is about the equivalent of riding a twisting waterslide from the top of a ten story building that shoots you into a small Jacuzzi. Here’s the deal: Everything outside of direct US control in Iraq is essentially enemy territory. Therefore the only area that you can safely descend into the airport from is directly over the airport itself. If you try to take a normal/gradual approach to land then you’ll be shot down by rockets or small arms fire. That means that the only way in is a series of extreme dives and very sharp turns that combine into the gut wrenching downward spiral into Baghdad. We hit the ground with a squeal of tires and through my delirious mind the idea slowly penetrates.

I’m back in Iraq

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