There are many things in the Sandy Place that have not changed since this hallowed ground gave birth thousands of years ago to the religious faiths that shape our modern existence. For example, the hot dusty climate that kept Moses and the Israelites warm as they wandered the desert for 40 years in nomadic search for the answers to life which still puzzle us; the mud and stone huts which the most destitute of the world call home just minutes down the street from our encampment; and, of course, the lack of any type of drainage system still plague this modern sandy society.

I expected many things when I came here, heat, flies, dirt, dust and a year away from hearth and home. I did not expect to have to ford my way through a raging flood in order to eat lunch. It has been raining here steadily for only a day or two and the lack of those pesky holes in the street we call a drainage system and take completely for granted has suddenly reared its ugly head.
After only a few hours of rain, our little corner of the world has disappeared blanket of muddy water. My first hint that something was amiss was yesterday, after being absorbed in work at my computer for an hour or two; I stood up and realized I was standing on a soaking wet floor. We set to work pulling up power cords, rearranging furniture away from the door and sweeping water out of the office and down the front steps. Much to our surprise and delight, we discovered that our brown tile floor was not really brown, but a lovely pink and yellow pattern.

This morning, the deluge had only worsened. After mucking out the water that had crept in overnight, we all stood in the front door looking out on the main road in our encampment, taking in the transformation to our little corner of the world. I felt as if I had been transported back in time to Genesis 7. My first hint was the parade of pairs of rats, mice, donkeys, and bedraggled cats and dogs that paddled by, headed down the road toward a destination unknown. The next hint was the complete absence of local nationals which usually hang out around the back corner of the building. Curious, I looked down the end of the road and saw them furiously engaged in building a boat like structure, with the pairs of animals crowded around in eager anticipation. Hmmm. Apparently Americans are not as good as the local folks at taking a hint.

Getting to lunch was a dampening experience. I never would have thought I would say thank goodness for speed bumps, but they are now the only way to cross the road without wading through knee deep water. For those of you who can recall the hazy 60s might remember a favorite Beatles album cover where the Fab 5, in full regalia, cross a British street exactly in stride. The sight of soldiers, all in uniform and a perfectly straight file line, carefully marking their way across black and white hashed speed bumps could have been a slightly more dusty version of that famous pic.

The rain has continued throughout this afternoon. While I have felt quite safe in our hardened buildings, just a minute ago I thought I saw a humvee float by, and the little donkey cart the laundry workers ride into the camp in the morning has sprouted fins and a webbed tail. Tonight is lobster night at the chow hall, I now understand how we get lobster in the sandy place.

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Cultural differences are often fodder for confusion, puzzlement and unintended disrespect. Fortunately for me and my never ending quest for humor in an otherwise rather humorless place, they can be comic as well.

For example, in America the thumbs up sign usually means, ok, great, good to go. In fact, soldiers use it frequently as one of the many hand signals and gestures required to communicate without words in a silent, tactical situation, such as out on patrol or searching a building. Yet, in what I believe to be a completely futile attempt to make soldiers culturally sensitive, the Army has announced that the thumbs up gesture should not be used here. Why you ask? Well, in our sandy world, a thumbs up gesture does mean up, but up a part of your body not frequently discussed on TLRG’s politically correct website!

Unfortunately for me, thumbs up is a habitual gesture which, despite my best efforts, I have not quite been able to shed from by gesturial vocabulary. This morning, I went in to pick up my laundry and drop off my uniform to be pressed. The Iraqi gentleman was quite courteous and efficient as usual, took my top and pants and told me when it would be ready for pickup. Since it was quicker than I had anticipated, I was delighted and began raising my right thumb to show my appreciation. Midway through, with elbow poised at hip level, I remembered exactly what sentiment I would be expressing, hid my hand behind by back and ran out of the shop as soon as humanly possible. One can only hope that I get my uniform back in one piece.

Yesterday was the holy day of Ashura. In the sandy place, Muslims mourn the death of an ancient holy man by marching through the streets in white, beating themselves until they draw blood to express their piety and grief. For those of us not assigned to the more riskier Army jobs that take us outside our encampment, we are able watch these activity on CNN, which is constantly on in the chow hall. As I lined up for lunch at the sandwich counter, I overheard two soldiers discussing the activities outside. As Jimmy Buffet says, You just might wind up in my song; little did these budding leaders know that they just might wind up in my column. Following is the enlightened exchange I was privileged to eavesdrop into;

Man, did you see all those dudes beating themselves?

Yeah, I think they were hitting themselves with clubs or whips or something

Why?

I think it has to do with some holy holiday - I think its called Shaquira or Ashanti or something.

Dude, I am glad I’m not part of that religion, it would suck to have to self-flatulence yourself like that.

Don’t you mean flagellation?

Yeah man, that’s what I said!

Gentle readers, fortunately, I had not gotten my lunch yet, or peas could have shot out my nose I was laughing so hard.

The possibility for misunderstanding, perplexity, confusion, bewilderment, mix-ups and mystification extends beyond cultural differences. While I freely admit to taking liberal license with the truth in the sandy place, the following is completely verbatim, a quote from a hearing transcript. The investigating officer (Q) is questioning a medic (A) about how severe a wound was by getting him to classify it in (hopefully) understandable layperson terms.
Q. —-For example, how would you describe beheading?
A. Beheading?
Q. Right.
A. Chopping off of someone’s head.
Q. Right, well–let me put it this way. Is that considered a- -an obvious, nonsurvivable injury?
A. Yes, sir.
Q. Okay, was there an obvious, nonsurvivable injury here, just by looking at it?
A. Just by first glance, no, sir, but when you combine the fact that he wasn’t breathing, had no pulse, pupils were fixed and dilated, and he had exposed brain matter, I would call that nonsurvivable, sir.

One can only hope that the investigating officer does not choose a second career as a doctor.

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