MWR FOB Union III

It's Hip-hop dancing in the Rec Center 18:00 - 20:00  followed by Karaoke from 20:00 - 23:00. 

I'm not much of a dancer, but I have, on occasion,  been overcome by an urge to shake a leg - particularly when urged on by a cocktail or two and for the general purpose of getting girls. 

In the flashing, intimate dance-space of a night club, compelled by the spell of a proper beat, when groove and gregarious moods merge I have known my conscious-self to become seduced and recede and for a moment my unconscious self is allowed its escape - the flesh fades to reveal unchained soul - then every so often, and suddenly in the midst of this magical moment, my thoughts ever-overcast by the self-conscious cloud - I imagine in my mind's eye that suddenly the music mutes, bright lights glare on, the walls are whisked away and I grin to myself on these awkward imagined moments at the vision of the frenetic flesh bodies in noon's naked light writhing together in silly silence. 

That fleeting moment of self-consciousness is the closest I can come to explaining to you what Hip-hop dancing looks like at the MWR this Friday night. Fifteen days no cigarettes or alcohol. A mere two weeks have never felt so long. Of the original 14 contractors that arrived 14 days ago at Ft. Benning like newborns the morning after Thanksgiving, the final six of us language specialists who survived received permanent placement today. The final exodus. Rendezvous tomorrow at 15:00 - a pair of Black Hawks are taking 3 to the airforce academy in Taji and from there 2 more continue on to Sadaam's hometown of Tikrit. After tomorrow I alone will remain in the IZ - an army of one - something in my file had caught the Colonel's eye and I was selected for a special assignment - to shadow an Iraqi / US combined Special Ops, Anti-Terrorist Task Force and teach them the language of "taking out bad guys". Colonel's orders. I will be issued an armored escort through the red zone back and forth to where these guys are stationed.  

Hip- hop hour is over and the mood in the Rec Room is shifting now. From here in the basement of the former Ba'ath party headquarters a line of US soldiers in camouflage line up to sing Karaoke. Somehow, if only for tonight, this all makes perfect sense.

The Suits

It's been an incredible two days...while the rest of my crew got shipped off to parts unknown, I was assigned to the CTS (Counter Terrorist Service) under the protection of the Joint Iraqi / US Special Forces (SF)...basically the only guys out here who are still running missions, kicking down doors and arresting bad guys. So they are mentoring their Iraqi counterparts on Intelligence gathering techniques and how to piece together cases and kick ass and interrogate and whatnot. And my function (long awaited and long overdue) is get the Iraqi side where they can better communicate with the US counterparts. 

Yesterday was my first day out of the super protected Union III base - so my SF contact shows up to bring me out to where they are and this guy is a dead ringer for Nicolas Cage - kind of lethargic and dead-pan - and as we are leaving he turns back and asks my direct DynCorp (civilian contracting agency) manager - "oh yeah..what is his clearance?" "He has no clearance." He's going to need clearance." "Why does he need clearance?" (coming from my direct supervisor who has no clearance) "If he's coming to work with us in Special Forces, he needs clearance." "What level of clearance?" "SECRET clearance." (the second best after TOP SECRET). "OK listen, we are going to need some authorization for that." "Fine, I'll have Colonel Makey call that in." "OK" - then the guy tosses in - "Oh yeah, and he needs a permit for a weapon too" "As per our policy, our teachers don't carry weapons" Ignoring the last comment the guy says "What does it say on his LOA (Letter of Authorization from the Department of Defense)?" "Well, his LOA authorizes him to carry a weapon..but..." "Then we're going to need you to start processing that right away as well. Thanks."

On the way to the up-armored suburban...
"Ever use an M-4?" "Seen one. I'm familiar with the M-16 and the AK. (check my facebook BABY!!!)" "Ok it's simple - if something happens to me, rock this back, flick this lever to the FIRE position and squeeze down on this thing - try to make sure you are pointing this end toward the bad guy. OK?" "seems clear enough" "Good, let's roll."

Outside of the claustrophobic FOB Union III for the first time - and on a scenic tour of Baghdad...more of that later. 

We arrive at the CTS headquarters and there are about 15 guys in a room no larger than the guest suite in the Delaney house. On the monitors are pictures and maps and arrows and people are printing up dossiers on bad guys with grids and addresses and records and known associates - clearly this is the shit that i am not supposed to see. - and at the end of the room is Col Makey - Full Col Makey looks like Dwayne "the Rock" Johnson. "Wells, we've been waiting for you. Where have you been?" "Just got in a few days ago." "Yes..he says, "so you did. Col Fiola promised us a teacher by Dec 01. I'm looking forward to discussing this issue at lunch tomorrow with Col Fiola."  Nicholas Cage leans in, "DynCorp needs a confirmation on clearance and weapon" - "Get them on the phone for me" "Nicholas patches in the call. Col Makey looks at me - where you from?" All over - born in West Virgina, lived in Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, Florida, New Mexico, Chile, Istanbul and I currently reside on FOB Union III." "Good deal...Hello? Colonel Mackey speaking. yes...got Mr. Rutland here - he's gonna need to be cleared at SECRET level...ok I'll be look for that. And he needs a weapon if he's going to work out here..." "Of course he can handle a weapon - he's a southern man. Do you not have his file?" (that's all in your file. right?) (I nod) "It's on file. I'll be waiting on that as well....OK...THANKS" Welcome on board Wells.... (more on that later)

My allotted internet time is limited - but today was ever more bazaar.  Met with the Iraqi-born English teachers that I am supposed to train - most of them former military - and I will be shadowing them and training them and collectively we will be training the Iraqi special forces. Our meeting runs over...so we had out a little late for lunch and I see all the American Special Forces pulling out of the parking lot in their Suburbans...and I'm thinking...oh fuck...and the Iraqi guys tell me...oh..were you going somewhere for lunch...and I said..well..i think I was supposed to go back to the Union III D-FAC (Dining Facility) for lunch. So these 3 ex-military shiny suitwearing, mustache sporting, cigarette puffing Iraqis tell me...come with us. We invite you for lunch. So I'm walking down the street with these guys thinking...now this isn't good...and we turn down one street and past some guys in a tank and then up another street and into an alley way and then past another guard and into a little courtyard where there is a diner with a 100% Iraqi clientele. So I'm thinking...this really isn't good now..." And these guys are greeting their friends there in Arabic and we go inside passed a lot of guys eating in military garb and then to the buffet and they serve up this plate of Arabic food stuff...and everyone is staring at me...and then we go into this other room where all of the guys are wearing shiny polyester suits...and we sit down. And they start eating with their hands and so I do the same. So I ask...who are these guys...and they tell me in English...this is the officers' room....and I ask..."so what is that over there?" and they say "that is the enlisted soldiers' dining room." So I ask my teachers - are you guys both officers...and one of them says..."Yes..we are both Lt. Colonels - but he is civilian." and then suddenly this guy walks into the Officer's room wearing a uniform but it looks different than the other guys...and immediately everyone in the officers' part restaurant stands up - so of course i also stand up...and this guy comes and sits at our table across from me...and everyone sits down and this guy takes off a burgundy colored beret and brushes his hair to the side and he sits down. This guy looked like a rounder version of Robert Voitier but with a heavy mustache and bright shining eyes like a school boy.  And he's smiling and eating and just listens as we talk. And I'm wondering who the fuck is this guy and he has some kind of eagle or a bird on his sleeve with 3 stars on it...and he has this bright smiling face and we are all eating baked chicken breast with our fingers and rice and lentils from off a metal tray with 7-up and a banana for dessert. And at the end of the conversation when everyone is done, this guy says something in Arabic to one of my entourage and the guy turns to me and says, "The General asks if you need anything for your apartment...TV? Coffee maker? Microwave?" I said..."Please tell the General that I am very humbled by his offer and that I would like to thank him very much for his generosity and great hospitality towards me...but I'm still in temporary housing at the moment and at the moment I have everything I need." So one of my teachers - one of the colonels translates this to the general...and the general is smiling like hell and then says something in Arabic and my teacher translates it for me and he says "The general says that anything you need - ANYTHING - only tell him and you will have it. So I said....You know there is something that i could use...um when I was packing to come here I didn't have much space, and I had room only for one good dress shirt. I'm afraid that my students will become tired of looking at the same shirt every day." The guy turns to the General and translates...and the general starts smiling like hell again and says IN ENGLISH..."OK...Don't worry, I will have ready for you tomorrow shirts, very nice." 

about an hour later I'm back at the CTS office going over paperwork with the teachers, and in walks the General's own, personal tailor with measuring tape in hand. 

The International Zone, Baghdad

The Green Zone / International Zone is a portion of Baghdad which previously housed Saddam's palaces and government headquarters - the IZ is all of the land area inside of that space that is bordered by the Tigris River on the East and south, and a series of concrete walls and baracades to the north and west. Now the IZ is not some large, free, happy protected area either. The space inside the IZ has been walled off even further into smaller compounds on either side of the road. There are checkpoints going into each compound (which they calls FOBs - (Forward Operating Bases) and there are also random checkpoints on the actual road. The compounds on the highway are manned by Iraqi police / military and the entrances to the FOBs and other compounds are private security - principally Peruvians and Ugandans - US military vehicles are expected to pause at the checkpoints on the highway but EVERYONE has to stop, show ID's and be scanned for bombs coming into the FOBs - particularly the one in which I live which is the main headquarters and houses all of the main Generals....The US embassy - the largest and most expensive one in the world is off limits to everyone that is not on the list...your US Passport is not sufficient to get you into the US Embassy in Baghdad...if you think that is overkill...there is currently a half-a-million dollar bounty on the head of any American - and kidnappings within the IZ occur with some regularity. You can not just go for a walk out of your FOB - and you should not go alone - preferably with an up-armored Suburban full of Green Beret Special Forces. 

Rats

Special Forces headquarters had been infiltrated by a rat. A tell-tale hole was discovered in a package of coffee creamers and artificial sweeteners. Some time the night before the rodent had chewed its way through a full box of Splenda and its foot prints and little rat shits were left in the scattered grains the next morning. Likely it had sensed itself the luckiest little rat in Baghdad to have sniffed out such sweet treasure, but in truth it would seem the little rodent’s luck had just run out. Little did it realize that it had cut its ratty sweet-tooth on a gourmet Christmas care package from the wife back home, and henceforth for either side there was no turning back. Nothing to do with business, this was strictly personal. The hunt was on.

Lt. Col Ratburn took quick inventory of work space and soon fashioned a trap from a roll of chicken wire and a wooden cigar box. Let haters mock what they fail to comprehend. The Col was no stranger to prejudicial extermination of unwanted pests. We are counter-terrorism’s best and brightest after all. That night the trap was rigged up naughty with a packet of Spenda leaned lightly against the trip wire. What the trap lacked in sophistication it more than made up for in simplicity and overall effectiveness. Certainly all disparaging comments were put to rest when everyone showed up for work this morning. There was the rat trapped when we got to work this morning. It was missing an eye and had an unbelievable tail that was tangled up around the coiled spring wire. The Colonel drew water into a plastic waste bin and submerged the cage with its prisoner trapped inside. Special Forces team looked on sipping coffee and when the deal was done, we shared a moment of silence for our little rat brother.

CA$HING IN ON MISERY

I try to check in with CNN regularly to get an update on the outside world, and the last few days the website has been dedicated exclusively to the recent earthquake in Haiti. They estimate 200,000 dead and nearly 1.5 million homeless, which strikes me as one of life's typical tragedies. No one suffers more than the poor. You never hear of these death-toll figures coming out of Switzerland or the French Riviera.

One thing that catches my attention in particular is this Anderson Cooper, who seems mysteriously omnipresent for any global disaster - exceedingly manicured and empathetic, rendering the outrage of humanity in teary-eyed teasers that keep us tuned in through the next commercial break. The dead, dying, and dismembered bodies. Mass, unmarked graves. The starving, homeless survivers. Looting and riots. A tanned and well-toned Anderson Cooper sips at his venti caramel latte, name dropping catastrophies like a B-list actor at a Golden Globes after-party. A bit more than Katrina as I recall, not quite Indonisia 2004. Anderson Cooper, the sommelier of catastrophy. I recommend a pairing of Vin jaune with walnuts and Comte cheese. In all fairness I suppose homelessness and starvation are not necessarily the prerequisites for fair reporting on homelessness and starvation...

All this reminds me of when John and Marta came to Istanbul. We'd spent the last Saturday at the Grand Bazzar and in the evening caught the tram headed back through Sultanahmet and out of the Golden Horn to catch the ferry at Kabataş. So we jumped off the tram at the Blue Mosque to relax and enjoy a cocktail at the Sultan Pub. There we found this street kid, not more than 12 years old on the sidewalk selling tissues. So John sees this kid and pulls out his Canon. Marta buys a packet of tissues. John snaps off some quick shots from a distance and then the kid looks up. Happy kid, sees John and smiles. So John, having gotten the green light, comes in for a close up. I'm there standing off to the side watching the kid squatting on the sidewalk and John snapping pictures and people passing on the street staring at John Rutland the imperialist American, stealing the sorry soul of this poor lost street orphan. And before my very eyes my brother is transformed suddenly into bluejean Hitler. Indignant, the tourists pass the spectacle of John documenting the exploitation of adolescent labor- of John Rutland the perpetuator of child-hood slavery. John Rutland, a cloven-hooved Beezelbub in a burka tap dancing on the mutalated genital of female circumcision - for street ophans.

Waves of detatched pedestrians expressed their disgust, not by the dismissable banality of a street-kid peddling tissues, but by the spectacle of a tanned and well-toned westerner projecting said street urchin into the light of their undismissable consciousness. One couple in particular - a black man with short dreadlocks and his uber-albino, euro-trash girlfriend took a double-take, and later a triple-take at the scene, muttered and grimaced as they passed by. I was siezed by the impulse to defend my brother and tossed a quick comment into the path of their interrupted stroll "We are not in the earthquakes business - we are only here to document the aftermath."