No, it gets windier every day

It's Wednesday, and I'm back at Liberty and back in my old Internet cafe. I'm staying on base today, finishing a couple of stories and resting a little. I'll probably be on several patrols in the next few days, so I'm glad for the down time. It's a good time to rest, too, because the wind is just awful. It stirs up so much dust and sand it's hard to breathe, to the point where I almost skipped lunch because it's too nasty to walk. In the end, I decided to brave it. After three days at Independence, I was too hungry to skip another meal. Now I feel like there's enough sand in my lungs to build half a pyramid.

When I said it gets hotter every day, that's not exactly true, I suppose. Mentally, it feels that way, and it's going to be much hotter a month from now when my tour here is winding down. Some days actually feel better than others, especially when there's less humidity and a gentle breeze. I know it sounds crazy, but on those days, 105 doesn't feel so bad. Today isn't one of those days.

Staying at Independence was a nice break, in its own way. Because it's so small, I got to know the soldiers I ate and shared a barracks with pretty well. We watched arena football and women's softball together, and shared the belief that the relief pitcher for the University of Michigan looked like Paris Hilton's twin. The guys came to find me to offer their story ideas (and complaints, of course) for Stripes, and it was easy for me to roam the base and do interviews with anyone I needed.

I also got to spend more time with the Iraqi interpreters. As best I can tell so far, the interpreters work for Titan, a contractor with the military. I'm told they make a little over $1,000 a month, nearly three times the amount the Iraqi soldiers make. At Independence, the interpreters practically live on base and eat in the U.S. dining hall, both huge no-no's at Liberty. They are, however, kept from the inside of the U.S. offices, and they aren't told the purpose or place of American missions until they get into the convoy.

Some of the soldiers treat them really well, sharing cigarettes and movies and stories about girlfriends. Some treat them like shit, and practically tell that to their faces. It's actually pretty startling to see, especially in a community that's so small. I asked a U.S. officer last week about racism, about getting along with the Iraqi people. He said he felt his soldiers acted the same way they would at home. If they were prejudiced at home, they pretty much could be expected to behave the same way here. If they had a little more tolerance, or at least better manners to keep their thoughts to themselves, then they'd behave the same in Iraq. I suppose it's true, but the intolerance is more raw here, I think, because the U.S. soldiers hate being here and, whether they'll admit it or not, are afraid of dying here.

The interpreters were as polite as they could be to me, calling me "Miss Teri" and offering to help even before I asked. The U.S. soldiers say most of the interpreters they've met have never left Iraq; they learned English at school. One interpreter I met, a young guy named A.K. who looks like Ralph Machio from the Karate Kid, said he learned his English for movies. I told him I didn't believe him. He had no accent and was the best interpreter I've worked with since I've been here. He said it was true. "It's a gift from the gods," he said. He's never left Iraq and has an unusually small family. His dad went missing in action in 1988, and he has no brothers and sisters, just his mother and her five cats. He wants to learn French next.

A.K. went with me Tuesday morning to the Haifa Street neighborhood, my second walking patrol with Iraqi soldiers. That's right, walking. We all parked our trucks at a military headquarters in "predator's palace," the Americans' nickname for what once was a home to one of Saddam's daughters. Then we started walking, in full gear, to a neighborhood that has transformed from a war zone into a peaceful sanctuary in just a few weeks. It was my second walking patrol in two days, and I never saw or heard anything frightening.

Instead, the streets were stuffed with chaotic traffic. Buses, donkeys, cars, even a clean, white Mercedes. Where do you get a clean Mercedes, I kept saying out loud. The streets are incredibly dirty, as are the people. There are two smells on the street: baking bread, and sewage. When I stopped to talk to a couple of local men about the violence, they brushed that aside. They wanted to complain about the utilities. I couldn't blame them and let them rattle on.

The constant filth is hard to bear. It's everywhere: dirty clothes, faces, hands and feet. The kids run and splash through puddles in the alleys, puddles that serve as drains for each home's chamber pot. Some of the kid's teeth have holes in them. They wear clothes that haven't been washed for a long time. Many of the U.S. soldiers wear gloves, so that they can touch the kids without worrying about washing their hands. It's awfully impersonal, and incredibly necessary. I'd wear them too, as horrible as that is, except then I wouldn't be able to write. I just try not to gvie high fives or shake hands, something that hurts the kids' feelings.

The kids themselves are both entertaining and annoying. It's a huge thrill for them to see soldiers. It's even more unique to see reporters, especially ones with cameras. They've learned the routine: ask for candy and toys from the soldiers, ask for pictures from the reporters. They all want their picture taken, over and over again, and clicking a few frames only inspires them to beg for more. They're not dangerous in any way, just pushy. And they can't be blamed. They've learned to beg for such treats in the last two years, and now they expect them. Plus, when the Americans aren't around, life must be pretty dull.

As for Haifa Street, for the few hours I was there, it was safe. Both armies say it's because the Iraqi soldiers that patrol the streets live in the area, and because they made some key arrests that dealt the insurgents a blow. Maybe, but there should be more explanation. If more patrols and more arrests are the answer, then why aren't there other peacful havens scattered throughout the city. U.S. and Iraqi forces are patrolling and arresting nearly everywhere, as far as I can tell.

No one could really answer this. Some of the U.S. soldiers brave enough to speak their suspicions outloud and off-the-record wonder the same thing I do: either the insurgents were paid to leave, or, worse, the insurgents also have a safe haven to live and work in by promising to avoid violence as long as the patrols avoid them. They're just theories, and who knows what is true. Living and working in a place where the next car that passes might explode makes everyone, including me, sadly enough, suspicious.

I'm not sure exactly what my next assignment entails, but it will probably be more house raids and more Iraqi patrols, perhaps on what western journalists call "Airport Road." I hear the Americans are trying to turn over the patrols on the route to the Iraqis. Maybe they'll have the same luck as the Haifa Street soldiers, but somehow, I doubt it.