First Impressions
As far as I can tell, aesthetics don't count for much in Iraq. I've been looking hard to find beauty in what little I've seen of the country and come up short. The sunrises and sunsets have been by far the most beautiful thing I've found so far, caused by constant dust. The tile work is beautiful. The Ziggarat is beautiful. The scarves worn by the workers are beautiful. Granted my world has been restricted to construction sites, but even then, the trash is hauled out to just outside the facility entrances and dumped like an open landfill. That's your first impression.
An Iraqi laying tile wanted to practice his English today when I stopped to look at his work.
"My daughters study English, I also know English," he said. "Do you know Iraq 'istory?"
"Iraq's story?" I asked, "No, tell me."
"I know England 'istory; Columbus 'istory; America 'istory. I know. You like peace? You know Iraq 'istory?" he asked.
"I know Iraq history. You do good job here. I want peace too."
"Yes, peace we want," he said and shook my hand vigorously as though we'd just concluded talks on the SALT II treaty. The tile work was beautiful, all done with very few tools, the mortar mixed on the floor with a dam or dry mortar around it, the mud smoothed by hand, the tiles cut by hand. Working around and impossibly uneven wall he smoothed the surface by hand and set each piece by eye just so. His scarf looked silk, robin's egg blue and white. His blue coveralls were surprisingly clean of mortar. He is working in materials that are abundant here, sand, mortar, brick, tile. Forests that might long ago have covered this area are long since cut down. I make more in an hour here than my mason acquaintance will make all week.
It's dry, very dry. And that makes the nights colder than I expected for southern Iraq in winter. Still nothing compared to a New England winter night, but still chilly enough for a hat and gloves if you are outside for more than 20 minutes. The weather when the sun is up is very pleasant, like a warm autumn day. There is evidence everywhere of what the rain does to the silty soil, dried mud. It hasn't rained in the week I've been here, but they tell me when it does it is impressive and turns everything to mud.
Plastic scrap is the national bird of Iraq. Litter is everywhere and construction debris is just thrown to the wind. The nomadic people pick up the bigger pieces of plastic and carry off big balls of it on their heads, ten feet in diameter, four feet high. I don't know what they do with it. The trash blows like tumbleweed until it hits the inevitable concertina wire fencing and tangles up there until the sun breaks it down. Woodsy Owl would have a nervous breakdown here.
There are daily booms in the distance and towering plumes of black smoke follow. We take them to be car bombs. Tracers in the night sky mark fighting in the town nearby. The elections are coming later this month. Most Iraqis expected more from us than we can deliver. The nationals I talk to are anxious for peace. We are doing good things here, but it's not happening quick enough. I'll be happy to have the elections behind us.
An Iraqi laying tile wanted to practice his English today when I stopped to look at his work.
"My daughters study English, I also know English," he said. "Do you know Iraq 'istory?"
"Iraq's story?" I asked, "No, tell me."
"I know England 'istory; Columbus 'istory; America 'istory. I know. You like peace? You know Iraq 'istory?" he asked.
"I know Iraq history. You do good job here. I want peace too."
"Yes, peace we want," he said and shook my hand vigorously as though we'd just concluded talks on the SALT II treaty. The tile work was beautiful, all done with very few tools, the mortar mixed on the floor with a dam or dry mortar around it, the mud smoothed by hand, the tiles cut by hand. Working around and impossibly uneven wall he smoothed the surface by hand and set each piece by eye just so. His scarf looked silk, robin's egg blue and white. His blue coveralls were surprisingly clean of mortar. He is working in materials that are abundant here, sand, mortar, brick, tile. Forests that might long ago have covered this area are long since cut down. I make more in an hour here than my mason acquaintance will make all week.
It's dry, very dry. And that makes the nights colder than I expected for southern Iraq in winter. Still nothing compared to a New England winter night, but still chilly enough for a hat and gloves if you are outside for more than 20 minutes. The weather when the sun is up is very pleasant, like a warm autumn day. There is evidence everywhere of what the rain does to the silty soil, dried mud. It hasn't rained in the week I've been here, but they tell me when it does it is impressive and turns everything to mud.
Plastic scrap is the national bird of Iraq. Litter is everywhere and construction debris is just thrown to the wind. The nomadic people pick up the bigger pieces of plastic and carry off big balls of it on their heads, ten feet in diameter, four feet high. I don't know what they do with it. The trash blows like tumbleweed until it hits the inevitable concertina wire fencing and tangles up there until the sun breaks it down. Woodsy Owl would have a nervous breakdown here.
There are daily booms in the distance and towering plumes of black smoke follow. We take them to be car bombs. Tracers in the night sky mark fighting in the town nearby. The elections are coming later this month. Most Iraqis expected more from us than we can deliver. The nationals I talk to are anxious for peace. We are doing good things here, but it's not happening quick enough. I'll be happy to have the elections behind us.
posted by Bob at 7:47 AM
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