Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: FRIDAY, February 1, 1991 TAG: 9102010353
SECTION: NATIONAL/INTERNATIONAL PAGE: A-1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: MORT ROSENBLUM/ ASSOCIATED PRESS
DATELINE: HAFR-AL-BATIN, SAUDI ARABIA LENGTH: Medium
Across the desert in any direction, troops under a half-dozen flags gird for battle, their bravado tinged with fear. At Mohammed's Place, down the road from this crossroads town, they let off steam.
The bustling little store is a microcosm of a Saudi desert world turned on its ear, a former placid emptiness now filled with alien forces. The atmosphere ranges from ominously lethal to just plain wacky.
On any night, when the convoys roll and regulars come in to stock up on Snickers bars, al-Aamer presides like a pasha, grinning like a young Omar Sharif having trumped the table at bridge.
"Have tea," he commands from his post at the cash drawer, offering his most potent brew and most elaborate compliment to a customer who stirs his interest. He pours it from a battered thermos.
One recent evening, an ear-rending crash brought everyone to the doorway. A truck's brakes had failed and it careered into a long transport parked at the fuel pumps.
"Oh, Jesus!" muttered a U.S. Army man, looking at the oblong wooden crates teetering on the transport, "That's an ammo carrier!"
The incident was nothing unusual to drivers who hurtle up the two-lane blacktop known as Death Row. Convoys start at dark and roll until dawn, when Iraqi gunners might decide to make a point.
At Hafr-al-Batin, where only months ago desultory traffic stopped for camels, MPs in orange vests direct nighttime traffic with long red flashlights.
One night this week, convoys stood idle after a lowboy transport ran off the road, spilling its tank onto the shoulder.
Vehicles scurry across the surrounding desert, weaving among perimeters delineated by razorwire coils and dirt walls. Many head for Mohammed's.
Al-Aamer rakes it in with the aid of several Saudi associates, his courtly father and a Thai helper with thin Arabic and English that runs to, "No like here." At night, all are hard at work.
"How much is that in American money?" an Alabama voice drawled over a small mound of cigarettes, cookies and a sticky-sweet soft drink.
"Five dollars," Al-Aamer replied, coming at least within sight of the exchange rate.
A moment later, a soldier from New York peeled off Saudi riyals for his purchase and asked for change.
"Do you take American money?" Al-Aamer asked, rummaging around in his drawer in a vain search for a 10-riyal note.
For 15 minutes, business stopped while two Cockney tank drivers bargained like camel traders for a 25-cent reduction on a box of candy bars. Al-Aamer's toothy smile never faded.
An American, on the way out, boomed: "Masalaama!" That means, "Goin peace," and normally is spoken by the person staying. It was close enough; Mohammed revealed new expanses of white teeth.
His store serves no food, but stocks towering piles of cigarettes, crates of tangerines, canned goods, a wide range of soft drinks and toiletries.
A narrow show window displays bottles in Arabian Nights shapes. Some say only, "Hair Oil." Others have colorful labels showing a dark-haired Indian woman with what may be the only decolletage in Saudi Arabia.
Outside, under Arabian skies, the scene is surreal. Young men joke with a woman, passing around Pringle's Cheez Ums, drinking Diet Pepsi and arguing over whether Wendy's is cheaper than Arby's.
Anyone not wearing a red-checked Saudi headscarf or a camouflage helmet stands out. The rare journalist is eyed with curiosity.
"You from the press, man?" someone asked a passing reporter. Some conversations stopped. Mostly, soldiers jostled around to talk.
"You want a story, man?" an American corporal asked, sidling up to the reporter as he prepared to go. "Write about how the reserves are getting screwed."
He spoke of reservists who suddenly found themselves committed to long-term service, faced with bills and mortgages they could not pay without the civilian salaries they lose.
Others, Mohammed's regulars or passersby, moved in to get things off their chests. A soldier who gave his name only as Tim worried aloud about what might lie up the road.
"We're all ready for a year," he said. "It's those congressmen and Wall Street traders back home who whip up fever. Every time some dummy opens his mouth, we're here for another two months."
by CNB