The Universe

I am convinced that what I’m doing now is cliché, popular amidst a certain tribe convinced of their originality and the fact that they are living on the edge: I am blogging from Baghdad. I was not forced to do this, neither have I gone voluntarily insane. Rather, this is in response to ‘popular demand’. The cliché infiltrated the mainstream world of which we’re all a part of to such an extent that asking you to blog from Baghdad is an automatic reaction similar to the expectation that you will visit a cultivated spot when you go to some attractive location.

Like this: Peru = Machu Picchu; Paris = Eiffel Tower; Baghdad = blog.

And for a good reason: if a typical bourgeois traveler goes to Peru to hike the crazy Incan path, the same typical civilian western person who is unfortunate enough to find himself in Iraq is forced to spend most of his time sitting on his ass, and the only creative activity here is to blog.

So, here I am, blogging. My first entry is about the Universe I live in. Immediately, I have to say that my description will be vague, with lack of detail, lest the bad guys reading my blog will use it to lay out their sinister plans to undermine my work of bringing democracy and economic prosperity into the Mesopotamia.

The Universe is a street block, 400 meters in length and cordoned off by (censured). As one has no other way of forming an opinion within moments of acquaintance, I’m introduced to the Universe through my 5 senses: sight, hearing, touch, smell, taste.

The airport greets you warmly. Immediately, it is apparent that great deal of money went into creating this modern structure whose baggage claim area is adorned with copper reliefs revoking Babylon times: bearded slanted-eyed men hunting lions and riding chariots. “Was it built by Americans?” I ask “It’s very modern”. “No, Saddam”. That pleasant-looking airport contrasts sharply with everything outside. And the reason is: dust.

The English word ‘khaki’ comes from the Persian work ‘khak’ meaning dust and was coined by British soldiers who fought in Pakistan, which in some parts also has plenty of that similar annoying fine-grain substance. The dust is pervasive; it colors everything – streets, trees, buildings, air – and is so fine that it infiltrates even the most carefully sealed areas. Leaves are always covered with a film of khak, and if something disturbs the motionless vegetation the dust rises up in small clouds like smoke from a chimney – pufffffff.

The Universe has two constant sounds - these of the generator and the air conditioner. The generator is unfortunately located next to the building I live in and is loud as fuck. It is so loud that the entrance to my building resonates with a sound of its own reminiscent of the horrific song of a very large dental machine – with its frequency tuned down about a hundred hertz. You get used to it and stop noticing it after a while, but the idea that it still might be psychologically affecting your subconscious is always in the back of your mind.

The air conditioners are as pervasive as dust and are of a small cheap variety. They have some sort of a perverted relationship with the generator. Whenever the generator shuts down, which is a couple of times per hour, everything blacks out and the air conditioner makes this intermittent beeping sound manifesting that it’s resting. Two-three seconds later it goes back to humming. Several weeks of hearing this pattern and you start thinking that the air conditioner does it on purpose, just to fuck with you.

Other sounds, which you hear fairly often, are helicopters patrolling Baghdad. You learn that the heavy fighter Apache makes the least noise and is therefore more effective in fighting the bad guys who usually rely on hearing in their primitive cowardly terrorist techniques. The black hawks make a lot of noise and therefore caused lots of casualties to the good guys (us). Chinooks are heavy elephants, and make a low-pitch loud sound. I haven’t figured out other helicopters but the experienced civilians here take certain pride in being able to tell one from another. I don’t know how they got to that point, though, because we mostly spend time indoors working on bringing economic prosperity to the Mesopotamia.

The Universe is hot to the touch, at least this time of year. It is around 45 degrees centigrade in May and gets progressively worse by mid-summer. In fact, it gets so disgusting that even ancient Abbasid poets writing shortly after Baghdad was founded in the 8th century described the city’s “dust is shit, and its heat is appalling”. Pretty accurate, in my opinion. It is said that when it gets in the hottest months, some people skip lunch just not to having to go to the cafeteria. Also, leaving books outside is not good because the glue that holds them together melts causing frustration in a form of dismembered books to many a reader.

There is a particular section of the street where the heat is the worst. Two gigantic concrete walls line that section creating sort of a valley of death where the walls bounce the heat off of each other and the radiated effect is multiplied. The walls stand jeering at unfortunate humans who have to pass this section. In fact, the valley leads to the cafeteria, which might explain why lunch food gets hardly ever touched in the peak summer weeks.

The smell of the Universe ranges from unpleasant to nauseating. Unpleasant is the dust that smells like, well, dust, and there is nothing else to be said. The worst, though, is the ashtray smell. Many of the inhabitants of the Universe smoke, which is understandable: not all are interested in creative blogging commiserating their pitiful existence in Baghdad. Some take it like men and turn to drinking and smoking incessantly. The location that is most foul is a small security building. The building is populated by nice and friendly security folk who unfortunately always smoke inside. Due to the fact that the building is so small, the smell permeated its walls so much that its molecular structure has likely been altered by including heavy CO2 doses to the whatever minerals make bricks. To a bystander, it is enough to simply touch the handle of the door leading to the brick-CO2 building: his hand will stink of ashtray all day long.

The taste of the Universe is actually quite good. It is the taste of our cafeteria, for reasons unknown called DFAC – which probably means the dining facility. The brave cook brigade has a menu that does not change week to week but is quite diverse nonetheless. The main cook is from Sri Lanka and he likes making vegetable curry dishes that I enjoy. The menu is dominated by meats and stews, which I really don’t mind but people who live here long enough bitch and moan about.

I look forward to becoming a chain smoking alcoholic unhappy with my diet!