- George Bernard Shaw
Friends and Family,
This is the longest one yet but stay with it. It’s only because this has been the most action-packed day to date.
Everything was going fine this morning but little by little, it started to unravel.
The “fine part” was the fact that we took the day off. Why take a day off when we hardly do anything in the first place?
That’s a good question but I’ll kindly ask you to stop asking such logical questions, especially when the reason is paper-thin: every so often we take our Saudi security fellas to lunch to show them how much we appreciate them escorting us around and “engaging any threats” than might face us (terrorists, traffic … sorry to be repetitive)
More on that later.
But for now, all you need to know that since we are taking these guys to lunch and giving them some awards, we didn’t make the trip out to the bases today.
And anyway, safety = varying our routine, right? Hello? Bueller?
OK, so I was enjoying a lazy morning taking care of things around the house and the first bummer was minor. You’ll remember how I coveted the sweet goodness that is a Mars bar and I decided to put it to the taste test.
One bite told me my excitement was very much misplaced.
Mars bar my ass.
It was basically a Three Musketeers with a layer of caramel on top of the nugget.
Well, easy come, easy go. Yet another little happiness that fried away in the Saudi sun.
That was minor but what happened next was not. I decided to check my work email which required my military ID card. I opened my wallet and…whoa, wait a minute, where the hell is my ID? Not a good day in the neighborhood, folks but I remembered I had it out to show the Consulate guards yesterday so it should be in my vehicle.
All I need are my keys to check…
Where are my keys?
WHERE THE HELL ARE MY KEYS?!!
Calm down, Jason, you realized you left them in Mike's car last night and didn’t want to go back there last night to get them. So just go over there and get them, Spazoid.
OK, so I did. And to my mounting horror, I could not find them there no matter how many times I scoured every millimeter of Mike’s car.
“OK, Jason, NOW you can freak out.”
I was missing my ID which may or may not be in the car which I cannot get into because I can’t find my keys anywhere.
REALLY bad day in the neighborhood, boys and girls.
OK, they were in my lap along with my house keys and… and … and …I got out to help the Captain with his bags at the airport…
OMG, they fell out at the curb at the Saudi International Terminal!!!!!! No one speaks English there and the thought of searching for a “Lost and Found” or “Inshalla Box” at the airport made me want to scrape my forehead with a cheese grater to simulate less pain.
First things first, where do I get a spare set of keys? I called the Detachment Commander and tried to play it off…
“Yeah, good morning Sir, do you know about these Mars bars … anyway, hypothetically, do we have spare keys to the vehicles?”
A simple “yes” right here is what I was REALLY hoping for.
“Is there a problem with your keys?”
Just tell him you misplaced them temporarily…
Just tell him you misplaced them temporarily…
Just tell him you misplaced them temporarily…
Just tell him you misplaced them temporarily…
Just tell him you misplaced them temporarily…
“SIR, I HAD THEM IN MY LAP LAST NIGHT AND I MUST HAVE STOOD UP TO HELP YURI WITH HIS BAGS AND THEY MUST HAVE FALLEN OUT AT THE AIRPORT AND I CAN’T FIND THEM AND NOT ONLY THAT BUT I CAN’T FIND MY ID CARD…”
Smooth, Jason. Like glass.
“Uh, just get with Eunice and he will give you a spare set.”
“Yes, Sir, thanks.”
Well, that went well.
I called Eunice and sure enough, they had a spare set and when I opened the car, there was my ID. OK, things got a little better but I still had the lost set of keys to worry about. My idea was to drive to the airport in a vain attempt to see if anyone found them and were willing to help out a dopey-ass American.
Yeah.
Worse yet, I had to drag Mike with me since we can’t go alone.
When I went over to his house to get him, unsuccessfully searching his vehicle from top to bottom AGAIN, something struck me:
Last night when we went to the airport in Mike’s car, I used the small flashlight on my key ring to see where the off button was on the GPS because she was yacking away and we knew how to get back without her. It was driving us nuts and unlike true life, she had an “off” button we could push and she’d shut up.
I know I’ll hear from my female readers over that one but fellas, can I get some love?
Anyway, why I even HAD my vehicle keyring if we weren’t taking my car is a mystery but the fact is, I had them and this is the most important point I discovered, thankfully BEFORE we headed out to the airport to look for the keys: I was in the backseat on the way to the airport (the Captain was in the front seat, Mike driving) and I was in the front seat on the way home. So if I was using my little flashlight to turn off the GPS, I must have had them ON THE WAY HOME and were not dropped at the airport.
Additionally (stick with me, I was buoyed by these realizations), I remember using the little flashlight LED bulb to click the tiny off switch on the GPS and hoping I wasn’t going to bust the bulb.
YES! They are not at the airport and we don’t have to go all the way back there but it kind of makes these cheese grater marks silly in retrospect.
So where the hell are the keys?
I.
Really.
Don’t.
Know.
I didn’t get out of the car at all until we got back to the camp and we searched the parking lot multiple times today. I re-searched the car and nothing.
I searched the house.
Nothing.
I asked the main office if anyone had turned in any keys.
Nada.
Like Jack Handy once said “If you ever drop your keys into a river of molten lava, forget them because man, they’re gone.”
Next up on this auspicious day: taking the Saudi security guards to lunch.
Actually, we took Mike to get a haircut because we have a party at the Consulate tonight and I didn’t want him looking like he was in the Navy. Or worse yet, the Army!
We had no choice but to take him to the only place I knew of besides the Compound barber who was booked.
Yes, I had to take him to Achmed the Butcher (ATB from now on) who, as you recall, practically scraped every hair off my head like I was planning on remaking Sinead O’Conner’s “Nothing Compares 2 U” video.
When we got there, there was a Saudi in the chair and one waiting. This was bad because we only had a little over an hour to get to the meeting place for the luncheon.
And these guys were not getting haircuts. They were getting shaves. With a straight razor, and not all Italian mob style, either. The had those faggoty racing pinstripes of hair down the sideburns and little goatees.
I think ATB was cutting one hair at a time with his straight razor.
When he got done, the next guy got the same. It was painful to wait and watch the TV blaring in Arabic. You think America has annoying commercials!!! These were like the producer was new to whatever editing software he used to produce commercials and went hog wild with all the bells and whistles.
It was finally Mike’s turn and it seems that ATB understood when Mike said “Zero at bottom, faded up, one on the sides and four on top.”
He was referring to the standard razor attachments that cut to different lengths.
ATB nodded, repeated the directions in broken English, and then proceeded to shave his head.
I think this is his modus operendi to Infidel Americans no matter what you tell him.
Even worse than mine (if that’s possible), after shaving the sides, back, and top, he left the bangs at full length, making Mike look like some New Wave punk rock Goth mutant.
Mike was not happy and pointed out to ATB that he wanted the bangs fixed.
So ATB shaved them too.
Such is life here.
We made our way back and actually made it on time to hitch a ride with some of the others that were going and although we had offered up Fudruckers, Chilis, or Gambini’s, the DetCo had agreed to take them somewhere different. Something THEY wanted.
This would soon come to bite us right square in the ass.
This blog could have been titled: Jason eats, yes, folks, say it with me: GOAT for the second time in his life.
Lucky me. Can I get that Three MuskaMars bar back…..?
We arrived like we always do, by the gracious will of Allah by the skin of our teeth, cheating death at every turn in the traffic. When we got to the restaurant, it was on a busy, crowded street and we, of course, were the only Western people in sight.
Not a great feeling but there is safety in numbers here.
We were escorted up some stairs and led through a maze of corridors before being let out on the roof where there was a tent set up.
Now if you are thinking a camping tent, let me assure you, this was ALMOST up to “permanent structure” quality. I’ll give them this: these people know how to make a tent.
It had chandeliers and air conditioning. But it was wide open inside, about the size of a large ballroom. The floor was carpeted but the only thing other than that was a plastic blanket with place settings. No silverware or plastic wear, just little servings of onions and a cup of some liquid I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to touch.
But no chairs.
Welcome back to kindergarten, folks. Please take your seats around the plastic, Indian-style.
We took off our shoes before entering and because I had sandals, I had to expose my ravaged toes (thanks, marathoning) to include a still-missing toenail.
You people want to be primitive, I counter with disgusting.
Our guests showed up and we all shook hands but because of their limited English and our more-limited Arabian, we pretty much broke up upon clique lines and waited patiently, talking among ourselves.
It wasn’t long until the guest of dishonor showed up: a big roasted goat on a bed of white rice.
The thought floated to my mind which has been the most frequent thought I’ve had (yet suppressed) since I’ve been here:
“What the f&*& is wrong with these people?”
I’m thinking of getting it put on a shirt.
To their credit, they provided a chicken also in deference to the Det Commander who had expressed his opinion about goat. But he’s a black guy and I doubt if they realized how that could be interpreted as a stereotype. This made me laugh.
They explained how the rice was supposed to work. There WAS a plastic spoon stuck in the rice but for some reason, using it was akin to stuffing a alcohol-drenched pork chop into the mouth of a naked Saudi woman.
You were supposed to grab a handful, squeeze it into a ball, and then scoop it into your mouth using your thumb like a Tonka Toy dirt mover.
And since there were no plates, everyone just grabbed off the tray. Rice by the handful and tearing off pieces of chicken and goat from the communal offering.
“What the f&*& is wrong with these people?”
So there I am, mashing up rice balls in my hand and tearing off chunks of chicken and goat… (never thought I’d be typing THAT sentence in my entire life)… while sitting on the floor of an enormous empty tent.
I thought, OK, I can handle this. These guys literally guard my life every day so if they want goat, then bring on the effing goat and let’s get stupid.
I now know it’s damn near retarded to challenge God like this.
From the other setting, the goat head was passed to our setting. They set it in the middle of the platter.
There it was. A goat’s cooked head.
See “The Shirt.”
One of them pulled down on the jaw and for a moment, the goat had a big open mouth laughing look to it.
Before the hinge broke and the jaw fell to the platter.
They passed it around and I knew what was coming. I had read of a similar situation in General Schwarzkopf’s autobiography where he was offered the eyeballs and he ate it to endear himself to them and their culture.
I was not offered the eyeballs. They were already gone.
No, my friends, I was given the high honor of tearing of a piece of … wait for it….
Tongue.
I was supposed to taste something that could taste me back.
The other Americans at the table (about 5 of us) tore off pieces and as I popped it into my mouth, I wondered what my life had come to.
It tasted like roast beef. Not bad if you can get past the fact that you were EATING EFFING GOAT TONGUE!!!!
Shirt.
What was next, having the honor of goat anus?
Just as I was recovering from this little melodrama, one of the Saudis grabbed the jawless, tongueless goat skull and with it in front of him, he raised his clasped fists above his head and came down on the top of the goat skull.
CRACK!
He tore open the fissure to expose a little slice of what I can only describe as ….
Uggggglabuggggla (verbal representation of uncontrolled willies combined with full-body dry heaves….)
Then they started passing it around like they were handing me the friggin Queen of England’s Royal Crown.
In a moment of sheer horror, I realized they wanted me to eat something that made the tongue seem like the fillet mignone.
Goat brain.
Uggggglabuggggla
Shirt
Uggggglabuggggla
Shirt
Uggggglabuggggla!
SHIRT!!!!!
I passed, figuring there was a limit to how far I will go in the name of Saudi relations but when everyone else took some, I had a wild moment of obligation and sank two fingers into what can only be described as gritty paste.
But at least it had the consistency on my palette as someone’s lung cookie spit into my mouth.
I followed it closely with a full bottle of water much like I eat oatmeal when I have to. But oatmeal is not semi-raw goat brain but you already knew that, I assume. Oatmeal does not spend its existence in a stupid goat skull making him ram anything he can get his horns on.
I was pretty sure this was the end of the lunch line for the old Grosester. We made our presentations, had some gawa (coffee that tastes like hot water someone washed their socks in), and went back to the compound.
On the way home, I uttered another one of those things I never thought I’d say in my lifetime: “Can’t wait to get back to my villa and floss this goat tongue and brain out of my teeth!”
Sh………..irt!
So, after washing my mouth out with bleach, it was time to start getting ready for my first Consulate party.
These are monthly get-togethers that, I am told, are the biggest of the big deal social events over here. It’s very sought after to get invited but as a Marine, I have card blanche to attend.
We were going to leave at 6:30 but I was told to go over to my British friend’s house at 6:00 to get primed. As I walked in his house, I was holding my hand up as though it was hurt, flexing the fingers open and shut.
“Hurt your hand, did ya?”
“Something’s wrong….”
“Did you slam it smartly?”
“No, it’s….it’s ….. EMPTY.”
He got the idea and with a big smile, handed me a bottle of tea he happened to be opening at the moment.
We all piled into his big van that seated seven and Ali the Indian drove.
Being Muslim, he does not partake in tea so he was the designated driver. I am constantly amazed at how much good-natured crap they sling his way about being Indian and Muslim. It’s absolutely hilarious but very non-PC. He slings it back at them just as brutally and no one takes offense.
It’s like theater every time these people get together which is A LOT!
The next thing that shocked me was Ali’s driving. It was obvious he had been here many years and could flow in and out of traffic like a true Saudi, except he knew what he was doing. For a guy who doesn’t drink, he drove like he was tanked.
We got to the consulate and it was like the opening to the Oscars: people everywhere and the spirit of what was going on inside seemed to be in the air.
We walked up to the gate and I was in the lead which was stupid because I had never gone through this process. I had my passport and military ID but when the guard looked on the list, I was not on there and there was a tense moment. I was told they had called me in and that I would be “on the list” but then it turned out that was the civilian list and once my British friends pointed out to the guard I was an active duty Marine Corps Major, they stepped right aside.
We got to the second checkpoint where we had to go through a metal detector manned by another set of local security guards. One of the south African women with our group handed me her PDA and I was confused.
It seems these Saudi guards sometimes “confiscate” them from people but they would not dare take one from a military officer so she had me bring it in.
We kind of went through the same procedure and I followed the lead of one of the Brits: emptied my pockets into a basket and took off my belt. The guard saw my phone and the PDA and gruffly told me to turn them off before they went through the X-Ray.
I turned off my phone but I had no idea how to turn off the PDA. Remember, it was not mine but it wasn’t like I could turn around and ask her how to turn the damn thing off.
I started pushing buttons but it wouldn’t turn off. The guard got distracted so I put it in the basket face down.
The distraction ended being one of the Brits telling the guard I was a Marine Major and once the guard knew that, his whole tune changed. His gruffness was instantly replaced with deference. He handed me the basket without running it through the machine and barked at the other guards to let me through without searching.
Wow.
It took a few minutes while the others were processed through.
When we got into the Consulate, we had to pay 60 SAR cover ($16) which got us one free drink. Then we could buy a ticket worth 5 drinks for 50 SAR ($13.33 which is $2.67 per drink). I bought two of them but never used either of them the entire night.
That doesn’t mean I didn’t partake, it just means I spent the evening being introduced to hundreds of people and as the “new Marine Major,” I couldn’t even think about buying a drink.
It did my heart good to talk to the other Marines there (I won’t say how many but very very few) and I realized how Marine-lonely I had already become.
Funny thing was that I didn’t even have to ask who the Marines were. One look told me and I asked Mike at one point if he saw any of them. Without discussing it, we both knew that the other could pick them out in civilian gear with one look.
And we were not alone in this ability. I saw one young Marine and decided to mess with him. I wanted to get him to talk to me like I was some average Joe and then drop it on him that I was the new Major.
I was a bit altered at the time or I would have realized this was not going to work. If I could pick them out, I guess I was even more obvious.
It didn’t help that I was wearing a black Under Armour golf shirt with the Eagle, Globe, and Anchor on it or that I had practically a “high and tight” haircut.
As I walked up to him, he said “Hello, Sir, you must be the new Major!”
So much for messing with the Corporal.
At one point, I was sitting at a table and was introduced to a gruff-looking Brit I didn’t know. He took one look at me, kind of gave me a curt head nod and grunt, and I detected a hint of unimpressed attitude as he turned away.
Then someone told him I was the new Marine Major and his head snapped around and said “you’re an American Marine?”
“Yes.”
“Bligh me, I didn’t know” and reached his hand out with a big, warm smile. He introduced himself and talked excitedly at me for the next half hour.
God I love being a Marine over here.
At no point did I NOT have a drink in each hand. When I would “lose” one (I couldn’t drink that much), someone else would put a cold one in my hand.
At the end of the night, I had not bought a drink and I probably had about 30 somewhat-sipped drinks in my possession at one point or another.
When it was all over, I was exhausted. I had met way too many people to even remember and the night went by like a flash. We all piled into the van and Ali was once again racing through the streets like a Dukes of Hazard show.
“Stop at the McDonalds!!!” yelled a few of the occupants and Ali made a hard banking turn into the parking lot where we all piled out; a half dozen somewhat pickled Westerners stumbling into a Saudi McDonalds at about midnight.
No one was out of control but it was a surreal experience. I felt safe (big numbers like that are safe) and I was hungry since the only thing I had for dinner was two bites of a burger at the Consulate that, only after the second bite did I realize it was practically raw in the middle.
With the goat, tongue, and brain already in me, raw hamburger just made the day complete.
I had my standard two hamburgers, fries, and shake (all they have is vanilla over here) and I found myself eating Micky D’s with friends all around me.
The culture comes alive here at night and there were families everywhere. It was midnight and people were ordering meals for the kids like it was lunchtime. Can’t be good for their health but that’s the way it is over here.
As we drove home, the parks along the shore of the Red Sea was full of picnicking families!!
I asked how long they would be there and the answer was, probably until sunrise. They think nothing of going out by the sea at midnight and staying up all night like we would on a warm summer’s day.
This is how this truly bizarre day ended. Thank you for sticking with me this long at this pace, I’m never going to get bored over here like everyone says I will, eventually.
What is my reaction to their assertion?
BULLOCKS!!!
FMLe for Today: “Today, I woke up to find my brand new truck's windshield smashed and a note that said, "DON'T PARK IN MY SPOT!" It was my husband that busted the windshield. He didn't realize that truck was a surprise for him for our anniversary. FML.”
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