Chai

Chai. It appears to be a staple of the Iraqi diet. I know they drink other things, but that's all they ever have when we're around. Chai is always served hot, too hot to drink at first in my opinion, and puts Southern sweet tea to shame when it comes to sugar. The classy way to serve it is in little tea cups with a tiny spoon, similar to the ones you find as souvenirs in tourist stores. The higher ranking police generally serve us in tea cups, but the other "shurta" or lower ranking police just use whatever cup is lying around. The quality of cup goes unnoticed after the first several times because dishes aren't generally washed, just rinsed. The first time I had chai, it was a little unsettling because the guy got water from who knows where, boiled it in a pot you'd expect to find on the side of a road, served in a broken glass which had brown and green stains on both the inside and out. If that wasn't enough the guy brought me a tea spoon that looked like a piece of cafeteria flatware bent too many times and nearly at the breaking point. I smiled, said "shukran," which means thank-you and looked at what could be the beginning of a few days in bed with medicine. It wasn't going to disappear on its own, so I took a sip, only hoping to not get Iraq's version of Montezuma's revenge. After finishing the cup, he dipped the glass in a pot of water, not once, but twice to make it extra clean, filled the cup with tea and gave it to the next person. Again, the thought of getting sick flashed by, but passed since it was too late and the water was boiled. Now, I thought nobody washed dishes, but I made it to a general's office one day. He rang his buzzer, and the shurta came in a few minutes later with a platter of tea cups of chai. This looked better than the last cup of chai I had, so I took a sip, and to my surprise, behind the sugar and tea, was the everpresent taste of soap. Apparently the general's personnel wash dishes, but don't have the whole double-dip rinse routine down yet.

Chai is a huge part of the Arabic culture. It is rare to interact with an Iraqi in their home or office without them offering to make tea. "Southern hospitality" is anything but negotiable to these people. No matter how little they have, they will always share everything with visitors, as I saw with the shurta. We like to drink coffee and socialize, but they prefer chai. They do have espresso, but I'll share that story another time since I have one page dedicated to two cups of chai.

Anyways, everything is going well here. Life is boring, but busy. I suppose boring might be a good thing, at least to those reading this. Anyways, days fly by and it seems there is never enough time to accomplish anything. What might take a day or two to do in the States, takes a few days here. E-mail and phones are luxuries that are only slightly enjoyed here. The best way to do business is to get on the leather express and walk to the different offices around the base. It hasn't been bad the last month, but as of late, the temperature is in the 80's, and the ground is either sand or gravel, so walking anywhere isn't just a leisurely stroll. Needless to say, sweating is the norm, which means drinking gallons of water. Not 8oz glasses, but liters at a time. Which causes a whole different problem, I'm not terribly familiar with, finding a bathroom nearly every 30 minutes. There are plenty of porta-johns, which can get a little ripe in the sun, but waking up multiple times a night to walk to the bathroom gets old after the first time.

I found a piece of paper blowing across the ground one day. Being the hippy I am, I picked it up thinking I'd put this piece of litter in it's propper place (even though we drive through acres of garbage when we leave one of the gates of base). Turns out it was a baptism certificate for a Christian church. I know this because the church's address was in english, as was the baptism portion, but the rest was in Arabic. I didn't throw it away, just kept it. Kind of weird to find that in a Muslim country, I think.

Last little anecdote for the night. A group of us were walking through an Iraqi neighborhood one day when we came across a group of boys playing soccer. They didn't say anything, just passed the ball to one of the guys with the expectation he would juggle it. Didn't happen. Instead in an uncoordinated kick the ball flew across the street and bounced off someone's gate. The boys got the ball and brought it back to us, and juggled it to the next person. A circle of people grew and we juggled the ball around to each other as well as the Iraqi boys, just like I did with guys from the soccer team a few years ago. There's really no point to the story, other than it bringing back memories of my "younger" years, and the passing thought, "we're playing soccer in the streets of Baghdad."

I guess we're doing all right here in Iraq.