It is sweet, though. The ground. At last I've arrived in country. Much else is not sweet, though, in particular the heat.
Actually, this is no worse than the heat at Al Udeid air base in Qatar, to which I've made more than enough visits for one lifetime. Possibly this is because the wind—and there is quite a stiff breeze here most of the time—is blowing down from the mountains, and not in from the sea. When the wind turns—and it most certainly will, as it does frequently and without warning—the humidity rises by seventy percent or more and the not-unbearable 110 dry degrees become 110 very humid ones.
Vech. It will grow cooler as I am here. There's that to look forward to.
The last leg of the journey here, from Jomo Kenyatta Int'l, was instructive, as was the drive to base from the commercial side of the airport. As, indeed, was the airport itself. I would guess this was constructed in the early 1960s and has not been maintained. I could be wrong, as this climate may make things degrade faster than I'd expect. Tough to say. There are no gates, as such. Instead the jet simply parks on the ramp and disgorges its cargo. You walk into the customs area, are processed with dispatch (not a lot of illegal immigrants try to sneak into this country), and then walk about ten feet to await your luggage, if it comes. ¾ of mine actually made it, which was a pleasant surprise, although the bag that didn't make it contained all my bedding and towels, my lamp, and several other items I'd quite like to have. It also had most of my brown boot socks, of which I'm wearing my last pair right now.
I filed a lost luggage claim, and the gentleman there assured me the luggage would arrive, no question. He was high on qat, though, and probably would have assured me my luggage would arrive eventually even if he himself had personally stolen it.
The baggage handlers were also high on qat. As, I suspect, were the customs agents. It was after two p.m. when we drove to the base from the airport; every male we saw on the way was high on qat. Many of them had leaves sticking out of the sides of their mouths. Others had brown stains. I don't know whether the women are permitted to chew qat; it being a muslim country I wouldn't be surprised to find women are banned from the practice (one of the benefits of Islam's conservative posture toward the fairer sex); still, several of the old women at the plywood stands set up by the roadside to sell… well, presumably they were selling something. At any rate, several of the women were asleep.
This is a poor country. I say that not to belittle the place, but rather as a comparison against other places I've been, poor and not-so-poor. I've related the story of the acquaintance of mine in the 2000 campaign season who insisted Spain was a dreadfully poor country. Spain is nothing of the sort. The poor parts of Spain are not poor. Kyrgyzstan, for example, is poorer. It's not poor, not like this country, but it isn't economically all well, either. There is public transportation. There are, in fact, public services. Trash does not litter the ground and cover every available surface. Although many people have roadside stands, they are actually selling something (usually motor oil and other things the decrepit Kyrgyz vehicle fleet might need at a moment's notice), and the people staffing them are well turned-out. Certainly not asleep or dead. Children buzz around with standard childish energy, rather than lying slack on the ground in the middle of the day (of course this might a result of the climate).
No, Kyrgyzstan is relatively well off compared to this place. Yet this place is somewhat reminiscent of places I've been before—specifically, Del Rio, Texas. Although Del Rio is clean and well-off, the landscape is very similar—hard white rock in sandy brown soil, dusted with mesquite and sagebrush. There's no sage here, and no mesquite, but there is an acacia of some sort that looks just like mesquite, and also something that I have to guess is a eucalyptus of some sort. How any tree can live in this climate I don't know, but it lends this country a much more pleasing aspect than Qatar or the UAE, which are devoid of natural vegetation.
I live in a tent. Not a surprise, really. The tent is far away from the showers and bathrooms. It's also far away from most other things, except the chow hall. The chow hall is called a DFAC, although I don't know what that means. At least they don't call it the galley; they do, however, say "Welcome Aboard" on friendly signs all over the base, which amuses me because last time I checked we were very definitely on solid ground and not aboard a ship at all. The Navy runs this place, more or less, and the Navy is very special.
I haven't actually been to work yet. I've been to the office, but I haven't been to work. I don't have to go to work until Monday morning, and don't plan to. I do plan to go to the office on Sunday, though, to see if my lost luggage has been found. I'm quite keen to get it back, not least because I want to see if the power adapter I plugged in in my tent space is working or not. My small bedside fan won't turn on, and I want to check the lamp to see whether it's the fan itself that's dead or whether I just burned up the motor because the adapter isn't working. For obvious reasons I'd rather check this out with a four buck shop light than with my computer charger.
But apart from those few inconveniences—all of which are, of course, highly regretted—this is not a bad place.
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