Khat-Man-Don't

The final show in Djibouti was fun and rewarding — and continued to help me appreciate the sacrifices these young men and women make (and I’m not just referring to their unfortunate, military-mandated haircuts). But nothing happened that I haven’t already discussed.

For this final entry, let’s take a fun look at the role of government in a person’s life.

First of all, never let it be said that the Djiboution government isn’t a good provider. Much the way we rely on our government to maintain our infrastructure (filling in potholes and sending Martha Stewart to prison), the Djubutions rely on their government to make sure the Khat shipment arrives at noon every day from Ethiopia. Khat is a plant that, when chewed, has methamphetamine-like properties (such as the desire to wear “wife-beater” T-shirts and listen to Kid Rock — if you’ve ever seen an African with a mullet, you know how destructive drugs can be). I suppose the bright side is that Ethiopia has recovered from its 1980s famine and now has a cash crop — unfortunately it’s a cross between spinach and speed. And from the air (we had a stopover), Ethiopia looks just like Riverside, Calif. — a city well-known for its meth problem. There must be something about places with rolling brown hills and an arid climate that inspires drug production. If southern Italy has a spike in bathtub sales, please let me know.

The entire nation of Djibouti is hooked on Khat, so much so that when a Middle Eastern businessman built a five-star hotel, he had to stop using Djibution labor and import Pakistani labor. You’d think a meth-like substance actually would increase productivity. But apparently all the locals want to do is sit around in open-air markets, dreaming up new ways to convince Americans that, despite living in a shanty, they’ve somehow acquired a suitcase full of real Ray-Bans. Today, only for you, my friend — five dollars.

That’s not to say the Djiboutions aren’t industrious. They actually train their goats and camels to fetch sticks. Then when an American drives by, they chuck the stick into the road, hoping the driver will hit the animal — thereby owing the camel trainer several thousand dollars in compensation. If you visit, make sure your insurance covers camel collisions.

China also is investing in Djibouti (and in most of Africa) and it’s reported that they also are going to bring their own labor. So thanks to the Djiboutian government’s desire to be one of the cool kids, their entire population can look forward to becoming a nice, downwardly-mobile underclass. Party on, dude!

When I hear about situations like this, it makes me realize how great we have it in America. No matter what opinions are out there regarding our government or its policies, at least we aren’t being placated with Khat (though reruns of "That 70’s Show" are another story).

Thanks for joining me on my trip. Happy holidays, God bless and see you soon.

If you camouflage camouflage, it just looks like regular old clothes

If I’ve learned anything during my time performing on military bases, it’s that everything must be camouflaged. At Camp Lemonaire-Djibouti there are these giant box-shaped generators that erupt from the ground in and around the tents. And cleverly, they’re painted in green forest-camouflage, so as not to be noticed in this desert landscape. Most people might think that it makes more sense to give them a desert camo- appearance, but that’d be too obvious. Combat is all about the element of surprise. By painting them green in a brown desert, the enemy won’t believe that the mightiest military on earth would try to hide something in a desert by painting it to look like a Douglas-fir. Sure, they may still try to cut the power, but all that will happen is they’ll think, “Gee. I hear a noise that’s obviously a power generator...but I can’t see anything other than these rectangular metal trees? Oh well, I’m sick of jihading anyway. I think I’ll go home and start a construction business with my family.”

But the one thing on base that definitely should be camouflaged isn’t -- British soldiers’ legs. Several members of Her Royal Majesty’s Navy are here as part of Operation Enduring Freedom. However, catch a glimpse of them in the awkward shorts they sport around base and you’d think that they’re here as part of Operation Enduring Veal-Legs.

While I have immense respect for our U.K. friends, and I know they’ve blessed the world with such things as the Industrial Revolution and Shakespeare, how has it managed to slip past them that, as people who are perhaps the most pigment-challenged on the face of the earth, it may not be suitable to show your legs? Maybe that’s their weapon. The insurgence see a blinding, bright light, and are paralyzed by the glare from the opaque, pasty British calves.

I think I’ve become fascinated with the camouflage thing because the more time I spend around those in the military, the more I try to pretend I’m one of them. For example, I went jogging on the base trail. This is a dirt road that runs adjacent to the airport -- nothing improves cardiovascular conditioning like inhaling 747 exhaust. The only difference between me and the military folks is that they know better than to try and wear sweats while jogging in Africa. When I finally stumbled back to the trailhead, the guards were doing all they could to contain their laughter at my apparent near death from heatstroke. If only they made camouflage for stupidity, I’d have been in full fatigues.
One more day, one more show…

Djibouti Show 1 — I laughed so hard I could hardly breathe

I never thought that Prohibition was a good idea, and obviously it failed in the U.S. But something magical happens when an audience is sober: they listen. In Djibouti, there’s a three beer per person, per day ration. There was also a three beer limit in Bahrain — meaning you must have at least three beers before going to the show. What I’m saying is that my first show in Djibouti has thus far been my favorite of the tour.

In fact, if anyone was out of line last night, it was me. While walking to the show, Taps played through the hundreds of stereo speakers they have on base (talk about surround sound). Not knowing that the protocol is to stop and face the flag, I kept walking in a cavalier, civilian idiot stroll while servicemen and women around me froze like they’d just looked back towards Sodom. I was thinking about the jokes I was going to do that night and was completely oblivious that the world had come to a complete stop. That is, until a soldier glared at me, then cleared his throat loud enough to make an ovulating tiger bring him a bouquet of flowers.

After we were able to move again, I ran up and asked that soldier why we just did that. He said, “When you hear that song, stop and face that way.” And this enlightened me a bit as to why the military’s effective: he didn’t tell me “why we do” — he told me “what we do.” I think I’m going to borrow this for my everyday civilian interactions. If I ever get pulled over by a cop for speeding, and he asks, “Do you know why I pulled you over?” I’m going to answer, “When your captain says that more revenue’s needed, you turn your siren on.” Either way, for the rest of my life when I hear Taps, I’ll stop and face Djibouti — it’ll be my military Mecca.

I also learned that Taps has more than one meaning. For the military it means that you should turn the lights out, and for the local Djiboutians it means you should start burning garbage to keep the mosquitoes (and malaria) away. Back in the states, if you burn your garbage, it’s either because the sanitation department’s on strike or the wind is blowing towards the house of that one neighbor you don’t get along with. But in Djibouti it’s a homemade recipe for Off.
Think for a moment how tough life must be in a place where burning garbage and sending plumes of carcinogenic smoke into the atmosphere is actually done to keep you healthy. The night’s sky was a thick cloud of burnt baby diapers, plastic water bottles, and old bicycle-tires. No word yet on if Djibouti plans on signing the Kyoto Treaty.
I finally got my first full night of sleep — two days before I fly home.

Question: Where's the only place in Africa where the sun don't shine? Answer: Djibouti

If you’ve ever seen a Terminator movie and thought there could come a time when machines could beat humans in a war, you should realize there’s one thing that will forever give humans an edge over machines: the ability to drink Red Bull. Camp Lemonaire in Djibouti is completely powered by these little silver-and blue-canned energy drinks. Sure, there are generators all over the place, but they’re for show. What’s really keeping the lights on is a magical mixture of sugar, B vitamins, and caffeine.

I would’ve thought the drink of choice at Camp Lemonaire would be lemonade. I’m sure that everyone who first hears of this base thinks they’re being told it’s called “Came Lemonade.” That’s what I thought. I just assumed it was slang like, “It’s so hot, everyone drinks lemonade” or, “When life stations you in Djibouti, make lemonade.” When I inquired about the name, I was told that we got the base and its name from the French (probably as some form of revenge for the Louisiana Purchase).

Also, while we’re on the subject of names, I’d really like to avoid the obvious booty-Djibouti jokes. Yes, the name of this African country sounds like a slang term for the derrière. But since most people here are sweating their asses off, that’s where the similarities end.

Although I’m in Africa, I actually feel closer to Seattle than I have since I left. In Seattle we currently have a controversy over “tent cities.” Tent cities are government-sanctioned mobs of homeless people who set up temporary housing in the greenbelts of nice suburbs — because why should the city be the only place where streets smell like a latrine? For the price of a bus pass, they can share the wealth.

I used to wonder what it would take for me to live in tent. Now I know: a trip to Djibouti. Most everyone here ( myself included) stays in large tents that can hold up to 20 people. The difference between here and Seattle is that this tent city is the safest place to be on the horn of Africa.

However, there are a few lucky folks on base who don’t live in tents. These charmed individuals live in shipping containers. I find the fact that people live in shipping containers — and that it’s actually the preferred housing — to be amusing and ironic. In Seattle, when you find someone in a shipping container, he usually has family back in China waiting for postcards.

But the stay here’s been pleasant. Tonight’s the first show, and I’m looking forward to meeting the tent people.

Hussein in the membrane

This entry isn’t trying to tarnish the stellar reputation of Yemen or their airline. I know that when most of us plan our vacations, it’s usually a toss-up between taking a moped tour of Yemen or visiting the soap factories of Khartoum. No, this entry isn’t about the most backwards place on earth. This entry’s about angels.

You’ll recall that Hussein is the Bahraini MWR employee who picked us up at the airport. He also was responsible for getting us back. But rather than dropping us off curbside, he decided to come in. I’ve done three of these tours and have always been let out curbside. So initially this seemed unnecessary — until I heard a tall, swarthy Yemenite say, “I’m sorry, we don’t have a reservation for a Mr. Greenberg.” For whatever reason, I wasn’t in the system (the other comedian was). They said the flight was oversold, that there’s only one flight a week to Djibouti, but if I’ll kindly have a seat, they’ll see if they can get me on next Friday’s flight. Basically, I was screwed.

Then, a little stardust appeared, and a twinkle rang in the air. Hussein started wheeling and dealing with the swarthy Yemenite, travel agents, and a woman in a sari who seemed to run everything. Fifteen minutes later I hear, “Okay. I get him ticket.” If it weren’t for Hussein, who knows where the hell I’d be. Good thing he came in.

Our flight to Djibouti had a layover in Yemen. I was told that when you arrive in Yemen, you’ll see a counter where no one is standing, and without any signs — and that’s where you want to go. I never want to hear anyone complain about a U.S. road sign ever again. Can you imagine? “What freeway exit do I take to get to your house?” “It’s the one that isn’t marked. It’s just a ramp surprisingly leading off the road. You’ll know it when you don’t see it.”

Somehow we managed to get our boarding passes without a problem. While waiting for our connection, a man walked up to me. He asked in broken English that screamed of someone who watches hours of pirated DVDs, “Do you have analgesic? My friend--head--bad.” The guy wanted Advil. I handed him some tablets, and he gave them to a poor soul lying doubled over on the floor. You’ve really got to hurt to lie on the floor of the Yemen airport. It makes a Greyhound station seem like the streets of Singapore.

Twenty minutes later, he rose from the dead and approached me. He had a Saddam mustache, but the eyes of that one really helpful guy who works at Best Buy. He pointed to his head, then shook my hand. His friend was next to him, and I inquired as to why he asked me for the pills. He said, “Foreigners--have.” Good thing I made my flight.

Mrs. Fayed's Cookies and Bahrain show #2

While I don’t condone profiling or prejudging people, I would boldly like to  present a newly formed stereotype: Big, scary-looking soldiers often will buy you cookies. 

Let me explain: I was in the food court, grabbing a bite before our next show. I walked over to an Arab-operated cookie and coffee kiosk called Mrs. Fayed’s Cookies. (It’s actually called Cinnamon Street, but that’s so derivative of Cinnabun that I had to rename it. It’s located right next to Basra King.) I gazed into the case, drooling over the cookies, eagerly awaiting the cashier to ask me which I’d like. Quickly approaching was a basketball player-sized soldier in civilian clothing wearing a gold necklace with a medallion in the shape of Dubai (and it couldn’t have been much smaller than the actual country). Normally, you’d think there’d be very little exchange between a person dressed like him and a person dressed like me. Well, you’d think wrong.  

Just as I asked for a white chocolate macadamia nut cookie, I hear a Tupac-ish voice say, “And two more of those for me." Then he looked over and said, “I got yours.” The dude bought me a cookie! It was both heartwarming and a bit weird.  I think the last time another man bought me a cookie was when I was five years old and my dad took me to Newport Beach. Since I didn’t know how to respond, I thanked him, complimented him on his choice of nation-themed jewelry, and then walked away.

What’s the right etiquette when a grown man buys another grown man a cookie? Should I talk to him for a while? Do I owe him a dance? What’s the deal?  Then my paranoid mind began to wonder what might have inspired this soldier’s generosity. Here are the possibilities I came up with:  1) He’s a genuinely nice guy and was in one of those “pay it forward” kind of moods. 2) He was in a hurry, and considered buying me my cookie a small price to pay for not having to wait through a second transaction. 3) Don’t ask, don’t tell.  

After obsessing about it for a few hours, I’ve determined it was possibility #1.  He was just a cool, generous dude who unknowingly renewed my faith in humanity.    

Two hours later, we did a show for what was perhaps the rowdiest audience I’ve ever performed for. They were wild. Did they have a good time? Yes. Did they hear a world I said? Probably not. And just as one of the well-lubed young dudes stood up and suggested an activity I could go do with myself, I remembered that for every comment like that, there’s a person who’ll buy you a cookie. 

Bahrain Show 1 — When will my ship come in?

The shows in Bahrain are performed in the Desert Dome. I had no idea the definition of “dome” included four rows of metal picnic benches under a metal patio cover. The shows in the Dome are fun, and it’s a good venue, but calling it a dome is like referring to your housecat as a lion. Though, who am I to dicker with the exact descriptions of things? How do I know the Montreal Biodome is anything more than a bench in a greenhouse?

The size of the audience in Bahrain depends on whether or not the boats are in. Judging by the 60 or so folks at this show, my guess is a booze cruise must have docked. The audience was mostly younger guys, plus a few brave women. But everyone was well-behaved and having fun. They achieved that magical balance of drinking and blowing off steam while not being obnoxious — which either is a testament to their self-control or their tolerance for alcohol.

The other comedian went up first, which I always like because I can get a read on the crowd before I go on. Most of the audience was enjoying the actual show (that is the jokes, our material). And then a few audience members just wanted to yell and try to tag our jokes with sexual innuendo. Have you ever seen that TV show "The Office," where Michael tops almost every comment with, “That’s what she said!” in an ill-fated attempt to be funny? It’s just like that, except that they’re yelling phrases which could make a convict blush. However, it was all in good fun and didn’t interrupt the show.

I went on stage to a happy, warm, and slightly pickled audience, and took the show home. Following my performance, I had some brief chitchat with a few of the troops, including a lecture from a fellow Seattle-ite as to why I’m a San Francisco 49ers fan (I grew up in California). It’s at these moments when you realize what an honor it is to do these shows. While my father was in the Air Force, the closest I’ve come to defending our country is arguing with an Italian guy about why hamburgers are yummier than pasta. What these young men and women do is amazing. In some small way, when a rowdy soldier curses so much that if he were televised, it would warrant enough bleeps to sound like a test of the Emergency Broadcasting System, I feel like I’m doing my duty.

I found my way back through the maze of stucco buildings to my room. Exhausted, I went to bed hoping to sleep the entire seven hours until I had to wake up and go do radio interviews. Instead, I woke up two hours later, went to the MWR, and watched people play a trash talk-filled game of pingpong.