Basra. Or rather the airport complex, which is seemingly in the middle of nowhere. I did glimpse some canals and perhaps tributaries of the Tigris or Euphrates as the C-130 came in for a landing, but they seem miles from this parched patch of desert (actually I spotted a line of trees on the horizon, which must be the outer edge of the Shatt al Arab, the river that flows past Basra and Um Qasr to the sea. The city of Basra itself is a mere glow on the horizon, and at the moment I’m not sure if that is even it – there are many patches of lights, hangers, landing beacons, camps, warehouses, the entire machinery to support an armored brigade and all the rest.
I move off the cargo plane, clumsy in my armor and helmet, rifle and computer case. The heat is different here, perhaps more damp than Baghdad or simply 15-20 degrees hotter. In any case the sweat pours from my skin, I can feel the prickle as beads form on the top of my skull and then trickle in rivulets down my face and neck. I will not have clogged pores here, I suspect.
The sky is dimmed by haze, and the reflection of landing lights, so that the stars are faint. I see the familiar constellations of the big dipper and Orion and strangely feel at home. It is at least one familiar thing in this strange place.
Luckily (as the flight was four hours late), I am met at the terminal by SSG Cunningham, who delivers me to the tent city here for temporary housing. The base is full up at the moment and I have to wait a few weeks to get permanent housing. So still one more sea bag move to go… (sigh).
The atmosphere is different from Baghdad, the lilt of English voices, veggie drink mixes in the DFAC and no saluting marking this as a UK base. One of the things I do appreciate it is constantly bubbling pots of hot water available 24/7 for tea or coffee. When the brain is still going through culture shock (as I seem to experience every day), it is the small things one notices and retains, where the big picture is an unknown void.
Which is an interesting theme to this experience. Every time I arrive someplace new, my sense of space collapses into a bubble of all just within my sight. All else is unknown, blank spaces on the map, that building in the distance might as well just say “here be monsters…” That sense of the unknown is what makes this sort of travel somewhat stressful for the uninitiated, though somehow it always seems to work out in the end. The known areas get bigger, as one discovers where “your” cot will be, where the phones are, where the galley is hiding (in its typically non-descript “find me if you want to eat, ha ha ha!” fashion), etc., until gradually the universe approaches normal size. Well, it is never normal, given the prevalence of barbed wire fortifications and mysterious off-limits areas, but it becomes liveable at least.
And even here, as I settle in to this barren camp, parts of it seem like home already. Not home as in “HOME!” of course, but they become familiar, comforting, even trustworthy.
And I should say that all is not lost on the food front. Despite this being a British base, there is often an unusual meal (like cod this evening, I think I ate a pound of fish…) and even peach cobbler for dessert.
Like I said, it is the little things.
I have enclosed a picture of my “tent”, which are my current luxury accommodations.