Mood:  mischievious
Topic: The Places
Although I've never seen anything in writing, I've been told that the soldiers stationed in Iraq are prohibited from drinking alcohol. While enforcing that rule probably sends a good message to the Iraqi people and helps prevent the troops from getting ripped in a country where the bad guys are always looking for easy targets to pick off. Still, in moderation it is probably a good this. Thus, I only have one thing to say about the troops - those poor bastards! Alcohol isn't prohibited on my compound. Getting it is a slightly different matter. We are only supposed to travel inside the International Zone (IZ) on official business. Even under the most liberal of interpretations of this rule, making a beer run is not official business. To make it even shadier, we are not allowed to visit any restaurants in the IZ, which leads me to believe that any stops at the local beer shack probably fit into the "don't do it" rule. All the same, these are rules that don't seem to stop most people. I've been to parties when the booze flowed as freely as any house party in DC. Thus, after living in the IZ for one month, I finally felt the need to make my first beer run. It started with an "official" trip to the al Rasheed, which took about an hour to complete. When my driver came back to pick me up, I asked him to make a little side trip over to our local liquor store - the White House. The White House isn't very big. It is a small 20 by 50 foot white concrete block house nestled in a small little neighborhood. I was a little hesitant when I first jumped into the store. Inside the bare concrete building, two Iraqis in their mid-twenties tossed an indifferent glance my way. They were too busy talking on their cell phones to provide any direct customer service, which did not to reassure me and forced me to quickly shift through the collection of alcohol on my own. The selection was fairly impressive considering that we were living inside the IZ, in the middle of an Arab country, in the middle of a war. They had gin, rum, scotch, vodka, and a host of other hard liquors on the 15 long, 6 foot high metal shelving. In the small back room they had stacks of Heineken, Amstel, MGD, and a few other beers. The prices weren't too excessive. A 24 pack of Amstel cost $20, and a bottle of Captain Morgan cost $15. When I made my selections, the proprietor of this nice little establishment didn't seem interested in taking my money. He was too busy with his heated cell phone conversation. Thankfully his assistant was more attune to the standards of customer service that I have grown accustom to over the years. The assistant took my money and even helped me carry the case of beer to my van. I gave him with a small one dollar tip as a reward for his services. As I rode back to the compound with my new supply of alcohol, which I hope to share with some of coworkers sometime soon, I wondered why someone was willing to risk his life to transport or sell me beer. (However, please note that the White House is fairly safe nestled inside the IZ). It seems like businessmen are always looking for a way to make a buck. Sadly, I have to report that I still haven't found any place that sells kegs, but I remain eternally optimistic that I will throw the first kegger on my compound.