Camp Virginia

The Sun God must hate Kuwait.

I’m sure the people here are nice, but somewhere, back in the distant, shrouded mysts of time, someone here must have done something affronting to RA. Because our star is perpetually punishing this little country.

The average mid-day temperature in Northern Kuwait and Southern Iraq is around 120-140 degrees Fahrenheit. It is reputed to be among the hottest places on the earth, and I can vouch for that reputation. In the entire five days I’ve been here, I have yet to see a single cloud in the sky. Nor do I expect they get many.

Dawn at Camp Virginia

Dawn is actually fairly nice. It comes around 5 a.m. and is probably in the high 80s.
But before long, the temperature creep begins.
6 a.m. 85
9 a.m. 90
11 a.m. 100
Noon 110

After that, it becomes a lot like the speedometer in Spaceball One – ridiculous speed followed by ludicrous speed, etc.

The heat flows all around you. As you walk, you feel it burning your hands on both sides. It’s kind of like being surrounded by a handful of sadistic, invisible cosmetologists, each armed with hair dryers, set on max, pointed at every part of your body.
With no humidity, you never actually feel yourself sweating, but you are. It just evaporates that fast.

This is Camp Virginia, Kuwait. For many, like me, it’s the last stop before going into Iraq. For others, it’s the last stop out of Iraq. Some of the veterans say they’d much rather stay in Iraq than come here.

The area around the camp is desolate, a wasteland. Sand stretching for miles in every direction, with an occasional rock. It’s like the area around Jabba the Hut’s palace, only it’s flat. And it has port-a-johns.

And believe me, there’s nothing worse than the smell of an unclean port-a-john when the mercury hits the roof.

Tents at Camp Virginia

This base is about 85 percent American, but there are still plenty of folks from around the world. The British are here, of course. Their baggy desert cammo shirts make them look rather sloppy. Their land rovers look beat up too, and of all the flags flying at the main part of the base, theirs is the only one that is old, faded and tattered, as opposed to crisp and new. It’s too little on which to form a true judgment, but the first impression is not inspiring.

There is a large contingent of South Koreans, who almost never wear their uniforms, but are in PT gear (T-shirts and shorts) most of the time. They walk around in groups of no less than six at a time, and some of them drape their arms around their buddies in a way that is probably normal in their culture but looks a little gay to many of the Americans.

Other than the British, none of the other countries have women among their soldiers. Among the U.S. troops, probably one in six are women. British, perhaps the same. Women have their own showers, bathrooms and tents. They do everything the guys do with one exception – female soldiers are expressly prohibited from going anywhere alone. They must be with another soldier, either male or female. This is a general rule throughout the theatre, not just at this base.
There are a couple of El Salvadorans here, but you hardly see them often. At the Air Base where I spent one night, I saw a Georgian – as in the country from the former Soviet Union. His uniform was like mine, only it had the cool Georgian flag on the sleeve and he had an AK-47, not an M-16, on his back.

And then, last but not least, there are the Tongans.

The Island of Tonga is a relatively little place in the South Pacific - about one-sixth the size of Austin - but their presence here is relatively large. They easily outnumber the Brits at this base. Probably outnumber the Koreans as well. One suspects they must have every single member of their military here at Camp Virginia. Tongans are everywhere: Tongans in the chow hall, Tongans in the Gym, Tongans in the Internet Café.

Occasionally, they wear their uniforms, which are the identical desert cammo pattern that I wear, except they say “Tonga Royal Marines” or “Tonga Navy” on them. Otherwise, they’re usually dressed in their PT gear, which unlike the Koreans’ is uniform and matching – brown shirts that say “Tonga Defence Forces” (they use the British spelling).

Tongan Flag

Since my brother actually once had a rock band named “Tonga” I thought I’d try to trade one of these guys for one of his shirts, but I haven’t found one yet who wears a shirt below an XL. Every one of them, it seems, is built like a linebacker. Like Samoans, Tongans are a historically warlike people who eat well and grow big. The average Tongan probably weighs 1.2 times the Average American here, and probably counts for two of the average Koreans.

Somewhere, you get the feeling that the terrorists are in fear of their lives. Little did they know that when they messed with America, they also messed with Tonga. Had they had any idea, they may not have done so. I definitely will re-appraise what I think of some of these nations out there, when I realize who is standing by America - even though their resources may be modest - and who isn't standing by America - even though their resources may be large.

The other day, I was standing outside the chow hall, waiting for it to open. I was with a group of Marines, but I was somewhat apart.
A Korean walks up. I can see it. He’s zeroing in on me, smiling from 50 meters.
I think for a moment that I can duck back into the herd of Marines and be safe. But I don’t move fast enough, and in a moment, it’s too late. My fate is certain.

I am to become an English-language test dummy.

“Harro!”
“Howdy!”
“It very hot today.”
No crap, dude. This is Kuwait.
“Yeah,” I say. “Very hot.”
The guy, in typical Asian fashion, cannot have a conversation without being one foot from me. I’ve been through this routine before, and I know that if you back up, they just keep moving towards you until you run out of space, and you’re cornered.
Surrendering to my fate, I decide to engage in conversation. Turns out, his English isn’t bad at all. He’s a South Korean Corporal who is actually coming off his deployment on his way home, but his unit was stationed in Irbil, in the Kurdish northern part of Iraq, which has relatively mild weather, and in some places, gets snow.
“Ah, Kurdistan,” I say. “Pretty peaceful up there, right?”
“Yes,” he says, almost with a touch of disappointment. “All the time I was there (six months), only one bomb go off.”

As I’m talking to this guy, I realize how ironic it is that Korean troops are here in the Middle East guarding security in Iraq, while their own homeland has a vast, militarized border – which is guarded by their army, as well as U.S. troops. I mention something to this effect.
“Yes, but now we have ‘Sunshine policy,’” he said. “So we give to North everything – food, electricity…and they build atomic bombs. I am in military, so I cannot say things political, but this does not make sense.”

Some of the countries represented at Camp Virginia. In the background, an Apache attack helicopter.

Of course, not everybody here is in the military, not even all the Americans. There are a variety of contractors on the job. And a lot of them are locals. The folks cooking the food in the chow hall are often locals, and I'm sure it surprises them just how much Americans can eat - and the odd food that we consume. I'm sure that none of these guys has ever had a burrito, but they know how to reheat frozen ones very well.

If America has done nothing else to promote freedom, justice and truth around the world, at least we’ve taught the Kuwaitis how to make grits. This, in my estimation, is just as worthy as spreading democracy, and far more useful for me on a personal level.

The actual server folks in the chow hall all seem to be Pakistanis or Bangladeshis. They average about 5’4” and look like they could be beaten up by the average American sixth-grader. The outdoor folks are more often Arabs. They take out the trash, vacuum out the port-a-johns.

The other day, I had an eye opening experience. I was sitting in my tent, minding my own business when there’s a knock on the door and a guy comes inside. It’s been blowing dust like crazy, and the guy has his head and face covered. In short, he looks like the average stereotypical terrorist. For a second, my heart skipped a beat.

In fact, he was the A/C repairman.

It’s a good thing too, because without ammo, the best I could have done to a terrorist was club him with my M-16. But the point this illustrates is that you can’t be too quick to judge on appearances. To the average Kuwaiti, he’s just dressed appropriately for a sandstorm. To the average American, he looks like a terrorist. I suppose that when I’m back home and dress like the typical redneck, how I myself am judged differs dramatically based on whether the person seeing me is or isn’t an African-American. Me simply being who I am can sometimes be intimidating.


Perception, of course, becomes its own reality, and we have to deal with that, both good and bad, in how we treat others and are treated by them. Especially when it comes to this war, perception can go a long way. That’s why we, as American servicemen, go to extra lengths not to step on local customs, to minimize the use of force to the least necessary to get the job done, and generally portray a good portrait of America.

That’s it for today from the desert. Hope things are well with you. See you at the next update.

James