The following is a collection of writings i started several years ago, my goal was to try and document things from my life as a contractor.
Many people over the years have sugested i write a book about my life, i never considered it particulary interesting or remarkable.
When the driver arrives 1 hour late and seemingly uninterested, the death race for work begins.... I understand now why so many taxi drivers are middle eastern.
Laws of decency and courtesy seem light years beyond comprehension. Turn signals are fleeting ideas and are thoughts driven by people that have regard for fellow sojourners on the western roads that hold our love affair with the open roads, Route 66, pacific coast highway, interstates that traverse our nation as well as Autobahns and the endless peaceful drives we took through the French country side with large hedgerows and graceful branches overhanging the narrow roads are replaced with screaming shrieks of "HOLY SHIT Abdul you just clipped that guys bumper" and mere mico inches of death from Trucks and small cars and high performance autos that cut in front of you with no idea as to where they have sprung out from, because the mirrors are long since ripped off from a previous encounter with Death Race competitors on the highways of Saudi Arabia, thoughts of The horseman named Death of the apocalypse, as the blank stares of the drivers of their wheeled chariots of mayhem glare back because you dared defend yourself from certain death. Their only seemingly purpose in life is to aquiaint you with your own mortality and deep seated fear of dying a fiery death with shards of metal sticking out of your broken body, death by Mortar and small arms fire in Iraq and Afghanistan while defending your position and your squads seem more in line with a better death than Akbar's taxi and pizza delivery slamming into you at Mach 2 while trying to set the personal land speed record while blaring Justin Fucking Bieber......
As the driver pulls the hearse into the parking lot of the office that I in process at, I'm relieved that I have made it. Thought slowly turn to formal introductions and pleasantries with staff members and the process of putting names to faces from the seemingly endless sea of emails begins.
Our Human resource manager ask if I would like coffee and after the near death experience I just had and thought of "have you accepted Christ, Buddha, Allah, hell go ahead and insert chupacabria or big foot as your personal savior" I eagerly accept the coffee and wish to God I had a bottle of whiskey to calm the shaking of my hands.
Mountains of forms, contracts and release forms are presented for my signature and my thought shift gears from pleasantries to sheer hatred and disdain for the whole damned process. Saudi's from every department start showing up from every office and back street to gaze upon the tattooed circus that the hearse delivered and wondering why pictures were not provided to HR to warn the Kingdom as to what was about to invade their sacred ground. Deer in the headlight is the only phrase that can even compare to the blank stares I received.
After endless signatures and assurances that I would not eat their first born or rape their daughters, I finally was released to make my way through the Indiana Jones death maze of highways to my Villa in our compound.
I think back on my life as the endless screeches of brakes and acceleration fill the company vehicle and a memory of " Nearer My God To Thee" I once heard at a Pentecostal funeral in Arkansas when I was a child crosses my mind.
I quicky changed from human waste soiled kaki pants and collard shirt to familiar jeans and tee shirt and walked the 1 block to the 4 isles of supplies at the compound market, potatoes, onion, meat resembling hamburger and a package of tortillas would comprise my meal for the night. My mind wanders to the seemingly endless supply of spices in my wife's culinary arsenal and longing for her bright smile and short blond hair fill my thoughts. Evenings at home with hours spent in our garage working on some project occupy my thoughts, and her seemingly endless support of my addictive personality trait of never sitting still.
Morning comes and I awake with with a sense of hunger and longing of home and my family, I walk to the market on the compound and am amazed at the limited amount of anything that is familiar.
Scanning the 5 small isles I am reminded of a Hemingway story and can imagine earnest walking and looking for anything alcoholic for breakfast to start his day. I find some items that resemble ramen noodles and buy four packs, butter and a small package of eggs, hidden in a corner is coffee creamer that I look upon with relief, not able to recognize the writing for sugar I have some taste of familiarity that will have to suffice.... I am catapulted back to 24 hours earlier to the thought of cooking a light breakfast for my wife and son and get the feeling I had in Afghanistan and Iraq of so few things available and how we as westerners are spoiled to the amount of choices we have in our local markets.
After cooking the ramen and eggs, I mix them together and am satisfied that I have something that will fill the void In my stomach. I sit on the front stoop to my villa smoking a cigarette and drinking a cup of coffee made from gound beans that I had brought from the states wondering how long I could make this limited supply I brought stretch out.... As thoughts of home wonder though my head i notice birds in the palm trees across the street and notice two wild green parrots quietly walking up and down a branch and am filled with a feeling of calm just sitting and watching, drinking coffee and smoking and thinking of small birds I had had in years past. And wishing my wife could be here to enjoy this with me.... Half way around the world in an environment so foreign in concept to many just sitting and drinking coffee and waiting for my new job to begin.
After mixing the potatoes, onions and mystery burger together I save a small portion for morning, wishing I had some sausage to make the time here seem more like home. Sitting at the table I stare at the contents of my backpack that resemble a scene at a disaster with the remnants of someone's life opened for the world to see. Various electronic cords, a dictionary of Persian, small bits of paper all strewn in front of me and the idea wizzes in my head of how unorganized I REALY am. I silently eat the simple meal and wash the remnants of dishes and make a small pot of coffee.
When all is clean I walk to the pool recreation center in hopes of getting a wifi signal to call my wife, days and weeks spent traveling are eased by the simple. I facts of who I hold close and love. After 2 hours of trying every trick to log onto the local network I finally get through for a few min, the credits I have on Skype are good for a two min call to her phone.....
After the quick conversation I realize I have no cigarettes, I walk back to the villa get my smokes and walk back to try again... 2 more hours pass before I'm able to make a connection. she's in the process of driving and the conversation has to be quick, the words "I love you" leave our lips more times that I can count or remember but it's irrelevant. Small conversations of speech are better than memories of the last time we spoke...
10% battery message pops up and I silently scream "damnit" conversation ends and I walk back to the villa with thoughts of her and my son occupying my steps... This is the hardest part of the day