Thrown Under the Omnibus, page 31
I’d been trying to get a Saudi Arabia visa since Iraq invaded Kuwait last August, but when the name of your magazine means “a large rock that moves around” and its pages are filled with pictures of Madonna wearing cookie tins on her chest, you don’t get taken as seriously as the guys from Time. John Lyons, an old friend of mine at ABC radio, got me a slot as an emergency incompetent broadcast correspondent, and I’m left in the rear manning the phones and explaining the Gulf crisis to Blitzo Bob and Rocket Jaw Jim on the WONK Morning Drive-Time Zoo.
That’s all right. The rear is where the action’s been. We call it “Club Scud.” We’ve had missile attacks almost every night. When the first attack came, ABC-TV producer Derwin Johnson and I got in a car and began driving around Dhahran looking for missile damage. We heard sirens and saw flashing lights on one of the main roads. We rushed to the scene and discovered a car wreck. Then we heard more sirens and saw other flashing lights. We rushed to that scene and discovered another car wreck. We saw four or five smashups that night, including one involving a police car. When the air-raid sirens go off everybody starts looking at the sky instead of the road, and Saddam Hussein’s most fearsome weapon of the war’s first week was the unguided Chevrolet Caprice Classic sedan.
The first sign of a Scud attack is a deep, vibrant whoosh from the Patriot antimissile missile being fired. Then there’s a crack when the Patriot breaks the sound barrier, followed by a light in the sky and a huge boom from the Scud being destroyed. After that there’s a brief pause followed by an incredibly loud air-raid siren, which our hotel sets off to let us know that the Scud attack that has just happened is expected soon. This sends the Filipino waiters and Indian busboys into a panic. They go running down the stairs to the air-raid shelter, colliding, on the way, with journalists running up the stairs to see the Scud fireworks from the hotel roof. Getting out on the roof is the third most dangerous thing about the Scuds—after car wrecks and falls on the staircase. You have to go through the blacked-out kitchen of the Chinese restaurant on the top floor, and there’s considerable danger of falling into a big pot of stewed cat.
A Scud only carries about 250 pounds of explosives which—assuming the Patriots don’t get it first—would create a blast a hundred yards wide at the most. These missiles are being lobbed into an area of eastern Saudi Arabia that’s roughly fifty miles long and thirty miles wide. That’s 4,626,400,000 square yards. The actual chance of taking a direct Scud hit is two in a million. Don’t tell CNN this, however. Its nightly Scud watch—called the “Range-Finder Show” for its comments on where the missiles seem to be headed—is about all we have in the way of entertainment here.
Not only is this the first live televised war, it’s also the first war ever covered by sober journalists. There is nothing available in Saudi Arabia with more “command-and-control capability” than O’Doul’s. Which explains why a lot of the coverage from here seems a bit, well, sober. (Some of us journalists have discovered, by the way, that what we’d thought for years was the pain of genius was, in fact, a hangover.)
Coverage from here has been sober and—as sobriety often is—uninformative. After five months of the United States being about as involved with another country as it’s possible to get, most folks back home still don’t know what Saudi Arabia looks like. Sand and camels, they think. Sand and Marlboros and Pepsi would be more like it. Eastern Saudi Arabia looks like Arizona would if Arizona had beautiful beaches. There’s the same big sky, the same sparse vegetation, and the same modern architecture—most of it ugly, just like in Phoenix.
Local mores do not, however, allow for much in the way of beach blanket bingo or Sports Illustrated swimsuit-edition photo ops. And there are no movie theaters, nightclubs, discos, or rock concerts either. And no Victoria’s Secret catalogs or even lingerie ads from the New York Times Magazine. But there are superhighways, supermarkets, and malls. Most of the power shoppers are men. What few women you see are all in black, veiled up past the forehead and draped down to the ground. When the women want a better look at things in the market, they pull the hems of their veils out and over the merchandise like nineteenth-century photographers taking tintypes.
Saudi Arabia is perhaps the richest country on earth, and there are some big houses here and some Mercedes-Benzes that aren’t much smaller. But it’s not an ostentatious nation. Saudi men all dress the same no matter their wealth or importance. They wear sandals and a long nightshirt of a dishdasha or thobe, in white cotton or brown wool according to the season. They wear white or red-checked gutra headdresses held in place by the igal headband, a cord that was once used by Bedouins to hobble their camels. Status is told by the details—a Rolex watch, a Mont Blanc pen, a gold Dunhill lighter.
Saudi mansions are built close to each other. The two- or three-story houses are always plastered white and usually roofed in red tile. The architecture is grand in scale but austere in form—a sort of large, dull cousin of the Spanish colonial style. Each home is enclosed in a small garden. You don’t see the slew of leisure toys with which rich Americans clutter their yards. There are no ski boats, ATVs, dirt bikes, camper vehicles, ultra-light airplanes, hang gliders, or whatnot. The desert comes right up to the garden walls.
Not that Saudi Arabia is all desert. There are large oases along the Persian Gulf coast. These contain thousands of date palms in a landscape so ripe, wet, and buggy that it could come out of central Florida. Except that these groves of palm trees have been occupied by the same clans of strict and pious Arabs for fourteen centuries. Imagine Disney World without the Disney and without the world.
Most native Saudi Arabians are adherents of the orthodox Sunni Muslim Wahabi sect. Wahabis are strict like old-fashioned American Baptists—no drinking, dating, mixed dancing, or movie going. But the Wahabis are not looney televangelist-with-a-gun fanatics of the Ayatollah Khomeini stripe. The religious practices and attitudes of Saudi Arabia are no more peculiar than those of Billy Graham. A churchgoing, small-town American from forty years ago would be perfectly familiar with the public morality here. Only the absolute segregation of the sexes would seem strange. And I’m not so sure about that. At O’Rourke family Thanksgiving dinners in the fifties all the men were in the living room watching bowl games and the women were in the kitchen washing dishes.
During the nine days that I’ve been here I have, of course, spent most of my time watching CNN to see what’s happening to me. But I’ve also managed to visit the markets, or suqs, in the various towns along the Gulf coast—Dammam, Al Khubar, Qatif, Tarout. It’s nice for an American to be someplace where people love the country they come from—a big change from being in America.
I’ve tried to get some “man in the suq” radio interviews but without much success. People are shy of the tape recorder. But they’re eager to shake hands, say Marhaba (“Hello”), buy me a cup of coffee, and ask about the war. “You are the journalist but now we will interview you,” said a wholesaler in the Dammam fruit and vegetable market. I asked why he wanted to do that. “Because you have talked to too many people”—an accurate solecism if ever I’ve heard one. The people in the market wanted to know how dangerous the Scuds were, how the air war was going, when the ground war would start. They said they didn’t trust the information they were getting. They wanted to talk to a newsman and hear the real story. I asked where they were getting this information that they didn’t trust. “From the news,” they said.
People in eastern Saudi Arabia are still worried about poison-gas attacks. Nobody here goes anyplace without a gas mask. The masks come in imitation leather shoulder bags. Every man on the street has one. Dhahran looks like it’s hosting an international convention of purse snatchers. Nothing could be further from the truth. There is virtually no crime in Saudi Arabia. You can leave the key in your car ignition here and leave your wallet and watch on the car roof. This is one of the most honest places on earth and for good reason. Under Shari’ah religious law murder is considered a mere civil matter, involving monetary compensation of some kind, but theft can be punished by amputation of a hand. There’s also no begging or importuning or wheedling of any kind. I don’t know what they amputate for this offense, but whatever it is, I suggest we start cutting it off in New York City.
The Dhahran area seems a bit empty and, at the same time, overpopulated with foreigners—sort of like Paris in August. Many local residents have decided that Scud month is a good time to visit relatives down around Yemen somewhere. But other than light traffic and ever-present gas masks, life is normal. Food prices have actually gone down and the only notable shortage is of AA batteries. This tells us that the U.S. troops are moving up to the front. As the troops leave, they empty the battery racks, stocking up to keep their Walkmans running. This is—one more first—the first war where everybody gets to pick his or her own theme music.
In case you’re wondering, a gallon of premium gasoline costs 58 cents, and, no, you don’t get your windshield washed. The gas stations are just like ours, including the bathrooms. Most bathrooms in this part of the world are Turkish style—you put a foot on either side of a hole in the floor and hunker down. But Saudi Arabian gas stations are equipped with American facilities. Some of the local people are unaccustomed to using these, however, which leads to footprints on the toilet seats.
U.S. troop morale seems to be ridiculously good. I ran into some members of the 101st Airborne Division buying art supplies in downtown Al Khubar. I’d say that indicates confidence (not to mention a previously little-suspected creative bent among our nation’s paratroopers). The soldiers, sailors, marines, airmen, coast guarders, and whatever in Dhahran are cheerful. Maybe they’re cheerful because they’re not off in hell’s outhouse somewhere sleeping in sand holes and eating MREs (Meals Ready to Eat or, as they’re called, “Meals Refused by Ethiopians”). But from what we’ve been seeing in the “pool” reports and hearing from the reporters who’ve been to forward positions, the troops up there are in a pretty good mood, too.
It’s important to remember that the 1991 U.S. military is not made up of Oliver Stone and his hootch-torching platoon of hopheads. These young men and women were barely born then. They’re the Reagan Kids. They took one look at the sixties leftovers which littered their childhoods and said, “Give me a haircut and a job.” They’ve got skills, training, education, and if they’d just quit calling me “sir” and telling me, “You’re the same age as my mom,” they’d be the salt of the earth.
One more thing about this generation of soldiers—they grew up in video arcades. It’s no coincidence that watching the Gulf War’s high-tech weapons on our TV screens is so much like watching computer games. This war is the daddy of all Mario Brothers, the Gog and Magog of hacker networks, the devil’s own personal core dump. And our soldiers have an absolutely intuitive, Donkey Kong–honed, gut-level understanding of the technology behind it. Thank God they do. It’s why we’re winning. So here’s what you folks back home can do to help with the war effort. If you happen to have any kids and they’re outdoors exercising in the fresh air and sunshine, give them hell: “YOU GET IN HERE RIGHT NOW AND PLAY NINTENDO!” The future of our nation may depend on it.
Gulf Diary
January 28 through February 8, 1991
Monday, January 28, Dammam Suq
It’s supposed to be a male-dominated society in Saudi Arabia, but I’m not so sure. There are amazing dresses for sale in the stores here—loud-colored silks and violently patterned satins with gold embroidery and gem-stone trimmings. Under those black abayas Saudi women are wearing important fashion statements. There are also a lot of jewelry stores with big gold necklaces and big ruby bracelets and diamond rings so large that you’d practically have to wear them on both hands at once just to lift them. I’m a married man. If this were really a male-dominated society, the jewelry stores would be stocked with plastic pop beads and the only thing the dress shops would sell is aprons. Plus the prices would be easier to read.
Since the time of the Crusades we in the West have been using “Arabic numerals.” But the numerals actually used in Arabia are different. The 1 is the same, but an Arabic 2 looks like a backward 7. A 4 is a backward 3. A 7 is a 6. A zero is a 5. And a little dot is a zero. I don’t know why the numbers are different, but I can guess. I’ll bet if we went back and examined the Crusaders’ expense-accounts, we’d find out that Richard the Lionheart got skinned.
Tuesday, January 29, Half Moon Bay
Oil is so important in Saudi Arabia that thoughts of “Liquid MasterCard” seem to pervade everything. The U.S. Consulate in Dhahran hands out a pamphlet to visiting Americans. The pamphlet gives tips on tourism and recreational activities. A suggested picnic outing: “The beaches nearby are open to the general public and afford a good view of the oil terminal.”
Wednesday, January 30, Al Khubar
One of the pleasures of going someplace where people don’t speak English is making fun of the English the people don’t speak. Many of the commercial signs in Saudi Arabia are printed in English—more or less. I’ve seen the “Decent Barber Shop” and the “Meat Cow Fresh Butcher Shop,” also “Wow” brand toilet paper, a fast-food restaurant advertising “humburgers” (ham being illegal), and a fancy model of running shoe called, in all innocence, “Crack.”
Of course, when it comes to truly not speaking English, it’s impossible to top the U.S. Department of Defense. The DOD calls a metal nut—the metal nut that goes on a bolt—I’m not kidding about this—a “hexaform rotatable surface compression unit.”
A more peculiar feature of Saudi Arabia is intersection art. There are lots of traffic circles, and in the middle of each traffic circle is … something. Devout Muslims don’t approve of statues of people, so there aren’t any of those. But, just in the Al Khubar area alone, there is a giant cement Arab coffeepot (a symbol of hospitality), a scale model of the Space Shuttle (because a Saudi prince was a crew member on one mission), a real twenty-foot-long fishing boat mounted on a concrete plinth, a large jet airplane engine in a glass case, and an entire mosque, utterly isolated and unreachable on its island in the highway. There’s also a lot of abstract stuff, such as a huge metal spiral (representing oil prices?) and two immense stucco triangles flanking what appears to be the robot vacuum cleaner from The Jetsons. What I have not seen in a traffic circle—and don’t think I will see—is a monument to the first Saudi Arabian who learns how to signal a turn.
Thursday, January 31, International Press Headquarters, Dhahran
There don’t seem to be a lot of celebrities protesting against this war. New Kid on the Block Donnie Wahlberg did wear a “War Sucks” T-shirt at the Grammy awards, but that’s about it. In fact, I’ve heard that Jane Fonda has decided to maintain public silence on the subject of Desert Storm. Getting Jane Fonda to be quiet—this alone makes fighting Iraq worthwhile.
The Saudi Arabian beach resort of Khafji has been retaken. Which leaves us with the question: What do Saudi Arabians do at a beach resort? The women are dressed in tents, you can’t get a beer to save your life, and it’s hard to play beach volleyball when you trip over your dishdasha every time you serve. As much as I can figure, the only amusement that’s available in Khafji is the one we’ve just witnessed—shooting Iraqis.
You may wonder what the job of being a Gulf War journalist is like. Well, we spend all day broadcasting on the radio and TV telling people back home what’s happening over here. And we learn what’s happening over here by spending all day monitoring the radio and TV broadcasts from back home. You may also wonder how any actual information ever gets into this loop. If you find out, please call.
Friday, February 1, International Press Headquarters, Dhahran
Dogs are considered “unclean” in Saudi Arabia. Which, if you think about it, is true so far as it goes. Sport does like to get mud on the bedspread and roll in stuff on the lawn. But camels are not considered unclean in Saudi Arabia. This leads me to believe that the Saudi Arabians know something about house training animals that we do not.
Members of the press corps have been trying to figure out what the U.S. military means when it talks about “air supremacy.” We think it means that American air force pilots bombing Iraq are the only people in the world who can take a long trip by air and not have to change planes in Atlanta.
The so-called pool system of reporting the war is causing a lot of frustration. The U.S. military puts together groups, or pools, of reporters—one reporter from each kind of media. Then the military takes these pools on little trips to see things. This is like not being able to go to a football game unless Joe Montana invites you personally. If the pool system were used in dating, two hundred people would … well, it would be the 1960s all over again. If we got our news at home the way we’re getting it here, the only time you’d know about a fire would be when kids playing with matches phoned the local newspaper before they lit the living room drapes.
Sunday, February 3, Dhahran Air Base
I was interviewing some British Tornado pilots who’ve been flying missions deep into Iraq—missions that sometimes take four or five hours. And I asked them the question that was foremost in my mind: “Isn’t that a long time to go without taking a leak?”
It turns out the pilots do have “relief sacs.” But they’re wearing so much clothing—flight suits, G-suits, chemical-weapon-protection suits—that it takes them ten minutes just to get ready to use these aerial bedpans. So they avoid liquids for a couple of hours before they fly, and, so far, only one Tornado pilot has actually relieved himself over Iraq. And, no, he did not target civilian areas.
Monday, February 4, the Road to Abqaiq
Out in the Saudi desert I came across one of the strangest road-hazard signs I’ve ever seen. I was driving through a region of huge sand dunes, and every mile or so there would be a triangular sign—the kind that says SLOW, CHILDREN or DEER CROSSING in the States. But these signs said SAND DUNES. Sand dunes drift at a rate of about thirty feet a year. Saudi Arabians are fabulously bad drivers, but even they should be able to avoid something that’s moving at less than one millionth of a mile per hour.
