Wind, mortars and dust

November 17, 2004

Some days here are a whirlwind of activity, others are as still as the air before a spring thunderstorm.

Well, today was a whirlwind in more ways than one.

There’s a lot going on here, of course. Violence has heated up since the offensive in Fallujah. The weather is changing. And, calendars with countdowns speculating on the day we’ll leave this country are beginning to pop up in soldiers’ rooms.

No, we don’t have a date for our departure yet, but everyone has a theory.

Today almost felt like an October day in Arkansas.

The sun had that fall tinge of orange, the breeze was crisp and strong.

And, as we sat in a meeting at Camp Gunslinger, the breeze turned into a full-blown wind.

It almost whistled.

Then the booms came. Seven of them, to be precise.

Mortar rounds.

Whooom! One after the other, clearly outside the camp’s perimeter. Even though we felt the concussion roll through our bodies, the building didn’t shake.

The shooters didn’t compensate for the wind, which blew the rounds over their mark.

The meeting continued with little more than a pause while people counted the explosions as they happened.

That’s how it is around here. Booms happen and when they do, we count them. Why?

Well, what else are you supposed to do while someone’s trying to blow you up?

And after it’s done, everyone gives their analysis of how close they think the rounds landed based on how much the blast rattled their spleen and hurt their ears, or how much the walls shook.

It’s not science, but it’s entertaining.

As we drove back to Camp Taji a few hours later, the wind picked up even more. The Tigris River valley had become a wind tunnel of sorts.

And when the wind blows, dust flies.

The wind became infused with dirt as we crossed the river, creating a brown wall that seemed to stretch from the road to the sky.

As we drove into it, the wind rattled the humvees and literally sandblasted every gunner sitting in a turret of our convoy.

Then, on the shoulder, a figure appeared in the dust. A billowing black figure that seemed to push forward like a linebacker against the wind.

It was a woman.

She was wrapped up in the traditional layered black cloak that provides cover from head to toe, leaving only her face and hands exposed.

Atop her head was what appeared to be a 50-pound bag of rice.

That’s how many women carry their loads here, balanced on their noggins. Yeah, it sounds painful to me, too.

You’ll see them with a bushel of hay strapped to their backs and a huge platter of pastries or bread or laundry balanced on their heads as they run their daily errands. It’s amazing.

This woman carried that bag of rice on her head amid the dust storm with just her left hand grasping the edge of the bag for stability. Her right arm swung at her side as she walked.

Then, just as quickly as it started, the dust storm died down.

I suppose she knew how these crazy weather patterns work around here, so she just marched on, waiting for it to end.

It’s kind of like the saying in Arkansas, “If you don’t like the weather, wait a minute and it’ll change.”

Usually that refers to the rain.

Here, I think it applies to the dust — and mortars.

The dust will always die down and the mortar rounds will eventually stop as long as you just keep counting.

Posted by Amy at November 17, 2004 02:30 PM