Doin' Time

After our two-stop in the Afghan sandbox, we flew westbound toward our final stop of the day, an American air base in the Persian Gulf region. Thirty-four thousand feet beneath us, the city of Dubai unfolded from the sun-baked desert like a mirage, a rich tapestry of skyscrapers and man-made islands as out of place as a monkey driving a car. I immediately thought of another desert city half a world away, Las Vegas, yet the contrast couldn’t be more startling. While Dubai is known for its opulence, there is a noticeable lack of greenery in the city on the shore of the Persian Gulf compared to landlocked Las Vegas. Dubai is marked by its uniform shade of brown, at least from my vantage point in the sky.

Dubai’s man-made islands, two palm tree shaped island chains and a third collection of blobs vaguely resembling the earth’s continents, seem like the excesses of a society trying to mold the natural environment into an unnatural one. The islands are to be sold to the wealthy seeking beachfront villas, yet only a few of them seem to have been fully developed. It seems that erosion is a process that the builders cannot fully tame, requiring continual dredging and relocation of the dirt and sand to shore up the islands’ foundations. Experts have said that in the case of an earthquake along a nearby fault line, the islands would liquefy like sand in a sifter and sink into the depths of the gulf.

Sometime later, we were cleared for our final descent toward another Persian Gulf nation. There was an indistinct haze marring the horizon, enveloping the line between sea and sky in a choking layer of suspended dust. Soon, the coastline vaguely appeared, muted by the dust, and as I looked down, I had a hard time pinpointing exactly where the water and the land met, even from a few thousand feet directly overhead. Beyond the beaches lay a dry, dusty, brown world, unadorned by a single tree or blade of grass. Just a vast sunburned terrain stretching for miles; how anybody ever chose to call such a place home is beyond me.

Yet as we flew on, signs of life arose from the desert: highways connecting scattered villages, pipelines and power transmission lines, a vast refinery in the distance. A line of hundreds of gravel trucks snaked their way off-road through the desert like ants seeking out a picnic feast. At the terminus of the motorized ant path, a pack of earth movers chewed into a massive sand dune, emptying its remains one bucketful at a time into the waiting trucks. Nearby, an island of greenery appeared in the sea of sand, a desert estate with actual grass and a garden of trees and shrubs, perhaps the home of some wealthy desert nomad who hit the big time selling sand.

As we flew farther into the desert, the American airbase emerged from the ocher haze, far from any other sign of civilization. After landing, we taxied among rows of air force and navy airplanes, a collection of aircraft larger than many nations’ entire aerial forces. We shut down the engines and exited the aircraft into a blast furnace; it was only ten in the morning, yet a 95 F temperature was magnified by a 17 knot steady breeze. Welcome to fall in the Persian Gulf.

A bus eventually arrived and took us to the host nation’s immigration and customs, where signs advised us to treat the officials with the utmost respect; it is quite common for an unwary glance, foul temper, or some other perceived insult to result in deportation from the nation. Knowing the purgatory awaiting us beyond them in the American base, it was tempting to cast a disparaging look in order to be expelled onto the next airplane leaving for Germany. However, we were soon approved for entry and we were on our way.

The base is a work in progress, as it has been for years. Rows of motley temporary buildings with window air conditioning units like a trailer park on steroids are home for most of the base’s inhabitants; they are temporary housing in name only, since they have been used since at least 2003. Overflow housing consists of a handful of quonset hut tents; our crew of five was given a small tent with four bunk beds, a refrigerator, and two dim lights hanging from the canvas ceiling. A canvas air conditioning duct ran along the spine of our dusty quarters, complete with Velcro tabs to adjust the amount of air desired. New permanent buildings are slowly being constructed nearby, but since we are considered transient personnel, we merely rated a forgotten tent at the edge of the base. The latrines were a short walk away, across a white gravel landscape, entirely devoid of any sign of organic life. Nothing grows here, not even weeds. During the day, the entire scene is blindingly bright, making me squint even behind my sunglasses.

The perimeter was marked by an earthen mound stretching from horizon to horizon. Guard towers, razor sharp barbwire fences, light stanchions, and electronic intrusion devices further ensured our safety. The chow hall was a 15 minute walk to the other side of the base. The central part of the base is affectionately called The Bra; a double white tarp, shaped like a brassiere, covers an open air pavilion around which the Base Exchange, laundry facility, movie theater, fitness center, coffee shop, and, most importantly, the bar are located. We are authorized three drinks a day and few people let their allotment go unused.

Military protocol and regulations cover every aspect of life here to a suffocating degree. Only the duty uniform and a PT uniform are authorized for wear – no personal clothing is allowed, even caps. The PT uniform consists of a gray polyester T-shirt with a subdued but reflective air force emblem, a pair of ill-fitting blue shorts known for riding up the leg inappropriately, white socks, and athletic shoes. In a cruel twist of irony, the uniform is manufactured with low-bid federal convict labor instead of a high-quality athletic apparel manufacturer like Nike or Under Armour. The shirt must be tucked into the shorts, even while exercising. At night, we must wear a reflective belt, and if a backpack is worn, it too must wear a reflective belt, even in areas where vehicles are not allowed.

Offenders of any aspect of uniform wear have been yelled at across crowded dining halls by self-appointed uniform police, usually colonels and master sergeants. God forbid that you don’t tuck your shirt into your shorts while running; some do-gooder will literally chase you down and admonish you for single-handedly causing defeat in the war. They have lost sight of the big picture here by focusing on the minute details; the spit and polish military is dying a slow death. Sometimes it is amazing that we still have the most powerful military in the world.

Burdened by cradle to grave regulations, airmen are beaten down to submission. Perhaps one out of ten people can be seen smiling at a given time, but I am probably being overly generous with that percentage. Most of the happier people are civilian contractors, who are immune from byzantine clothing restrictions and who are paid far more than the airmen who form the backbone of the base workforce. The 1,000 yard stare is the common emotion displayed among military personnel. People here count the days until they can leave; ask anyone and they will usually know down to the exact hour. This place can really suck the joy out of serving the nation.

Sleep is the best way to pass time in this white-collar prison. It is the ultimate time machine; you wake up and it is time to leave. I have slept more than 12 hours at a stretch in the past. When I do get out, I do so at night, when it is considerably cooler. Night time is the right time here; the base is more crowded after sundown than a shopping mall full of teenagers on a Friday night. If you venture out during daylight hours, the base resembles a ghost town. Searing heat is common well into the fall.

At least our time here is limited; as a transient aircrew, we will leave as soon as our number is called and we are given a jet to fly. Until then, here we’ll sit, biding our time until our parole is approved. Maybe I’ll get some more sleep.