I’m sitting on a gilded chair, writing on a gilded table. The floors beneath me are marble, and the chandeliers above are sparkly and crystal. The only reminder that I’m in a war zone is the pair of man-high concrete barriers I can see out my window. “It’s Sunday, man, you’re working too hard,” a national guardsmen just told me.
Welcome to Baghdad.
Not all that far away, Marine grunts are going weeks without showers or toilets, chomping on rations – and generally maintaining a positive outlook on life. I got my laundry done by a Philippino maid. Yesterday, I listened to a salsa band play in the chow hall, while I supped on alu gobi and navratan vegetable curry.
Technically, I probably shouldn’t be here, in this “Joint Visitors Bureau” hotel, across a man-made lake from the American military headquarters. The JVB is for generals and dignitaries and Congressional delegations. “We don’t approve media,” one guardsman spat inside the vaulted-ceilinged lobby. But a combination of dumb luck and decent connections got me a place to stay on the compound. Sure, it’s a bunk bed, in a trailer with seven other guys. But there are worse ways to spend a war.
Not that you can call time at the JVB combat. Sure, you’ll hear the occasional mortar. You’ll see the Blackhawk helicopters fire off chaff, to confuse insurgent racketeers. But you’ll also catch guys fishing in the gray-green lake, using this morning’s sausages for chum. And, all day, you run into people you know across the Camp Victory compound, of which the JVB is just a tiny part. I’ve run into DANGER ROOM contributors. Big name journalists. E-mail buddies. Sources. Friends. Friends of friends. This isn’t a war. It’s a war convention. Too bad I didn't bring my bathing suit; maybe I would have taken a dip in the big, outdoor pool a few hundred yards away.
Of course, every campaign needs a headquarters. And there are large swaths of Camp Victory that aren’t nearly as cushy as the JVB, or the generals’ Al-Faw Palace, across the lake. Still, the luxury here is downright creepy – even when the amenities are absolutely appreciated. “We should’ve given this place back to the people,” one high-level Pentagon consultant mutters, taking a drag off of a cigarette. “We should’ve torn this place down,” another answers. Me, I’m just glad I’m scheduled to get on a helicopter this afternoon, heading north.
UPDATE AND LAME HYPOCRITE ALERT: So my flight plans got screwed up, which means I've got another 24 hours in Baghdad. The public affairs folks dragged me to the ice-cold, insecure, sardine-can-esque tents on the other side of the base. I squealed. And now I'm back in luxury. For today.
Of course, this is a tong-in-cheek look at life in Baghdad, just to remind us not to fully believe the spin of the Bush Administration.
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