By Caelan McGee

Posted: November 19, 2009

It's difficult to describe a “typical” day in Iraq. The typicality depends partially on where I am in the country. For this piece, I'll describe a little about living conditions and moving around. In my next update, I'll discuss what its like to be in meetings and to work with our Iraqi counterparts.

Baghdad

Baghdad, in some ways, is my sanctuary. More specifically, the half of a trailer that is my CHU (Containerized Housing Unit) is the only place in Iraq where I can find a modicum of privacy. In my CHU I'm familiar with the recent history of the sheets and bed on which I'm sleeping. I have a small portable stereo system which can create a protective bubble of my favorite music which temporarily isolates me from the world outside. My clothes are hanging in a closet, dusty as it is, and I have a few things on the wall like a satellite photo/poster of my favorite ski resort in Colorado.  And perhaps most luxurious, I have a small private bathroom and shower.

I can carry on a conversation through the thin aluminum walls with Robin, who lives in the other half of the CHU if neither of us has music playing. If I pull back my garish gold curtain on my one window, I look right into the main building and group office space which is about 4 feet away. Every twenty minutes or so, helicopters buzz overhead: whether the high pitched buzz of the small helos which patrol the IZ, the even thumping of the medium-sized “bluebird” choppers which transport Department of State around the country or the wall-shaking Blackhawks and Chinooks that transport military personnel and equipment. For most of the day we can hear the POPPOPPOPPOPPOP of M4 rifles or the CHUNKCHUNKCHUNKCHUNK of the .50 calibers at the practice range across the street.

Nonetheless, for all the din and dust that leaks through the thin, leaky-seam walls, for a couple of hours each day, I have some privacy and some control over my immediate environment.

As mentioned, my commute is pretty short: just a few steps into the USIP villa and group office. There our 7 desks fill a bright room. While a productive space, it is hardly a quiet one. The air conditioners hum, inevitably someone's cell phone is ringing, singing or vibrating and the occasional chime from a computer notifying all of us that a message has arrived. There is almost constant activity in the office. Ali may be arriving with some SIM cards for our phones. Zainab may be meeting on the side couch with an Iraqi official. Robin is likely giving Khitam a hard time about something, or nothing at all, resulting in group laughter...except for those times when the joke is lost in translation and there is an awkward moment of silence.

When leaving the villa for meetings or to go to the gym at a compound down the street, one must travel by car, even for short distances. After rumbling down our pock marked, narrow, garbage strewn ally, you cross a rutted dirt field and then try your luck at merging into traffic on the main road.  Right of Way is automatically assumed by those driving heavily armored vehicles.  Iraqi drivers are most often moving very quickly no matter what type of vehicle they are operating and rather than slowing or changing course, they will do their part for traffic safety by giving a quick honk of the horn.

It is difficult to go more than one mile without being stopped at some sort of checkpoint. At most checkpoints old tank treads or welded metal speed bumps are extremely efficient at removing exhaust systems. While our light-skinned Peugeot has all the reliability you'd expect from an Iranian-made French car, it does at least have excellent clearance. Our little vehicle looks like a local's and does not command much respect from the Iraqi, Ugandan or Peruvian guards. So at the checkpoints we often we get a little extra attention.

The location of checkpoints are often in flux, and impromptu checkpoints can be unnerving, especially at night and especially when you are asked to open your car door. The maze that is created by the 20-foot-tall concrete T-walls also always in motion like some life-sized game of Tetris which change routes and lines-of-site as the giant pieces of concrete are linked together.

Diyala

All of the Iraq that I have seen is dusty, but Diyala is especially so.  The 4 year drought has hit this traditionally fertile valley particularly hard. In addition, the base I live on and operate from, Forward Operating Base Warhorse, feels just like what it is: a temporary outpost made of dirt and gravel. While the concrete T-walls feel stark and and bleak in Baghdad, when they are used on Warhorse it actually is a major improvement over the HESCO walls which are cardboard and wire boxes filled with dirt and and then stacked into barriers, all of which are in various stages of slumping entropy.

On base, I have had many different roommates. When in transient housing I share trailers with all sorts of contractors and military personnel and the sounds and smells which accompany them. I had a roommate for a while who kept collection of water bottles he filled when he was too lazy to walk at night to the latrines which are 20 yards away. Now, blessed be, I share a trailer with a friend and colleague, Ali, who is relatively clean, very quiet and who has rigged up a system of rope and blankets to give us both some privacy. Each day in the haze of early morning, just before dawn, I hear him quietly performing his ablutions and morning prayers.

My “commute” while in Diyala is a very different ordeal. Dressed in a suit, body armor and helmet, I wait with others under a camouflage net, next to a diesel generator, waiting for the convoy of MRAPs (Mine Resistant Armored Personnel carriers, I think) to arrive and take us in to downtown Baquba. I like traveling in the MRAPs much more than the Strikers (wheeled tanks, essentially), because you can see where you are going through the 2-inch-thick glass windows. Jackets and ties are kept in plastic bags until arrival, when 20 civilians hustle to get dressed and get to their meetings. The trip takes anywhere from 30 minutes to an hour, depending on the route and whether or not our Iraqi military counterparts have shown up to escort us—a requirement since the SOFA kicked in.

Inside the MRAP we are all packed in pretty tight. We are all sweaty and dust cascades down through the gunner's turret and into the cabin. The 37 ton vehicles have springs so strong and so pre-loaded that when you hit even small bumps, if you aren't buckled in, it can bounce you off the ceiling. You learn the little tricks in the MRAP that make the difference such as when to plug your ears when the gunner tests the .50 caliber or how to weave your legs and knees with the person sitting directly in front of you so that you can keep your legs from losing blood and feeling after sitting awkwardly in the weighty armor on hard seats.  Along the ride you can hear the soldiers tell nasty jokes or complain about how they don't get to shoot anyone anymore as you rumble through neighborhoods of rubble and sewage and burnt cars.

Travel

Most travel by helicopter and plane in Iraq is free, and in terms of customer service, you get what you pay for. Flights are frequently delayed or cancelled due to whether or whim. It is not uncommon to spend 2-8 hours in the “PAX terminal”, which is anything from a tent with plywood benches to a fairly nice building. Rarely is information or updates available, and you are likely to get stink-eye from the corporal manning the desk if you ask.  So, you sit. Often there is a tired television playing the same movie over and over. Not surprisingly, most movies are action flicks or war movies, but recently I had to chuckle at a room full of soldiers watching the Sisterhood of Traveling Pants.

Also, you can be re-routed in-flight and dropped off on a landing zone nowhere near your destination. When this happens, you can spend half a week hitching rides on different helos, bouncing from LZ to LZ, and occasionally spending the night in a 40 bed dorm. As one small preventative measure I've taken to carrying laminated cards with the names of Landing Zones on them so that when in-air the gunner or pilot screams inaudibly “where are you going?” I can flash the card, instead of relying on their lip-reading skills, and hope they care.

Nonetheless, I must say that the helicopter flights are some of the most exciting and enjoyable parts of being here. The bluebirds fly especially low at 40-100 feet off the ground, and when in urban areas the pilots bank wildly left and right to become a more difficult target.  As the bird dips to one side, you can look out the open window or door and see the sprawling city of Baghdad, and all the life that takes place on the rooftops of Iraqi houses.   From that height, you can see drivers in their cars, patterns on the rugs hanging over walls, and the kids that look up and wave at you...if only for just an instant.