SANDSTORM
By TED SIMMONS
Published by CyPress Publications
Tallahassee, Florida
Smashwords Edition
© 2006 by Ted Simmons
Cover art © 2006 by Mark Simmons
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher, except for brief quotations contained in critical articles and reviews.
Inquiries should be addressed to:
CyPress Publications
P.O. Box 2636
Tallahassee, Florida 32316-2636
http://cypresspublications.com
lraymond@nettally.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Simmons, Ted, 1937-
Sandstorm / Ted Simmons. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: Jeff Connors, a sixteen-year-old American boy living overseas in Kuwait, recounts his harrowing escape from that country after the 1990 Iraqi invasion.
ISBN-13: 978-0-9776958-4-3 (trade paper)
ISBN-10: 0-9776958-4-0 (trade paper)
1. Iraq-Kuwait Crisis, 1990-1991—Juvenile fiction. [1. Iraq-Kuwait Crisis, 1990-1991—Fiction. 2. Americans—Kuwait—Fiction. 3. Escapes—Fiction. 4. Kuwait—History—20th century—Fiction.]
I. Title.
PZ7.S59187San 2006
[Fic]—dc22
2006029200
ISBN: 978-1-935083-29-0
First Edition
* * * * *
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* * * * *
Dedication
For Steph and Kris
who have survived their teen years unscathed
For Chelsea and Trevor
destined to do the same
Mostly for Diane
who has endured my inner teen with patience and with love
* * * * *
Chapter 1
Thursday, August 9, 1990
Dhahran, Saudi Arabia
There were no bones in my legs. For days, the only things holding me upright had been fear and a constant rush of adrenaline. I was in a safe spot now, and the adrenaline was gone, but the need to keep going remained. Until I'd found my dad, the nightmare would continue.
The massive glass and bronze door thunked into my back, and I realized I'd come to a dead stop in the doorway. The hotel lobby was a huge atrium surrounded by floor after floor of white marble balconies reaching up to a multicolored skylight. Freestanding clear glass elevators zipped up and down. I only gave these things a quick glance, though. What really grabbed me was the mass of people crowding the hotel lobby. Whole families huddled together on the floor, holding each other close, brother clinging to brother, sister to sister. Mothers clasped their children tightly, as if they were still protecting them from the horrors they had just witnessed. All but the youngest children stared into space, seeing only the pictures in their minds. I knew what they were experiencing, because I'd seen the destruction and the cruelty firsthand. I'd seen families torn apart, and worse. Hard to believe that only eight days earlier, little more than a week, I'd been an ordinary American kid thinking the anger I carried around in my brain was somehow important in the scheme of things.
About half of the men in the hotel lobby had on dishdashas, the long robes worn by most Arab men in this part of the world. No one gave me a second glance, as I was wearing a dishdasha myself, the color of desert sand. I had discarded my American jeans and tee-shirt days before, hoping I would escape notice as I fled across the desert. It nearly worked.
Almost all the women wore black silk abayas, so that nothing was showing but their eyes. A few wore western clothes, but the dresses were wrist- and ankle-length. Silk scarves covered their heads. It was obvious I'd made it out of Kuwait and into Saudi Arabia where the dress code for women was super strict. What had been my home near Kuwait City was a bare hundred miles away, but it felt like a thousand—a thousand miles of the worst that both nature and man could dish up.
Here in safety, in this luxury hotel, the last week should start to become a fading nightmare. But it had been no dream. The evidence was in the crying babies and in the faces of the refugees huddled on the floor. I could see more evidence when I looked at my bruised and scratched arms and the desert filth that covered my body. And in the memory of new friends found and, all too quickly, lost. Oh, yes, it had been very real.
Toward the back of the lobby, the piles of people on the floor gave way to throngs of men milling around, jostling for space. I could barely move. How could I find Dad in all this mess, even if he really was here? Someone shoved a shoulder into my back, and I spun around to see a thin Arab man wearing a dishdasha and a red-and-white-checked cloth kuffiyeh fastened to his head with a black band. He backed into the crowd that had shoved him into me, bobbing his head and saying aasif, aasif, sorry, sorry. I gave him a little that's okay wave and pushed further into the swarming mass.
It didn't take long to realize some of these people hadn't bathed in days. They were probably wearing the same underwear they'd put on the morning the Iraqi troops rolled through the streets of Kuwait City with their guns aimed in every direction. They might have fled to this place and this hotel hoping to find beds and showers, but there were too many people and too few beds.
I finally figured out where the hotel's front desk was. Near one wall the crowd was especially dense, and they were all facing the same direction. Getting there seemed hopeless. I had to pass through another sea of people sitting cross-legged on the floor. I almost tripped over a small boy who was clinging to his mother's abaya. When I stumbled to avoid the little boy, I caught a glimpse of my shoes and almost laughed for a crazy second. The Nikes I obsessively washed every week and scrubbed to gleaming whiteness were covered in desert dirt. I couldn't even see the blue swoosh. At least I still had them. Shoes were the only items of my own clothing I had left. Even my underwear had been discarded along the way.
If Dad did manage to get a room here, maybe I can find a house phone and call him. By the elevators I discovered a small room with lots of telephones. It also had lots of people waiting in line trying to use one. About half of them were Arabs, and the rest looked like Americans or Europeans. I figured the phone lines between Saudi Arabia and the rest of the world were probably totally jammed.
One of the blue in-house telephones was miraculously free. When I picked it up a man answered, in both Arabic and English, "Sabaah al-Kheir. Good morning. May I help you?"
"I'm looking for someone who might be staying here."
"The name please?"
"Connors. Alan Connors."
After a pause, "I'm sorry. We have no one by that name registered."
"Maybe under his company name. It's Peterson Construction."
"Ahh. It is possible. I believe that company reserved a block of rooms, but they are all assigned to individuals. I have no way of knowing . . ."
"Hey, thanks anyway." I slammed the phone down, then felt bad about it. It wasn't the operator's fault.
Back out in the human cattle-pen, I decided to collar someone, anyone who was speaking English. Maybe he could help or at least suggest what I should do next. I settled on an older man wearing a maroon windbreaker and a Houston Astros baseball cap. He looked puzzled when I talked to him. I guess he was wondering why a boy dressed like I was sounded so American. I was just starting to explain my predicament when I saw a familiar figure inside one of the down glass elevators. Short military haircut. Shoulders thrown back rigidly. Dark brown-framed glasses. No doubt about who it was. Dad!
I left Mr. Astros in mid-sentence and shoved my way across the room. I shouted at my father when he came out of the elevator, but in all the noise, he didn't recognize my voice until I was almost on top of him. Even then he didn't seem to know me in my Arab clothing. When he did, he didn't say a word. Instead, he did something he hadn't done in years. He just grabbed me and hugged me tightly. He hung on like he was afraid I was going to get whisked away again. Like I was going to disappear just like I'd done eight days before. A woman nearby cocked her head at the sight of a grown man hugging a sixteen-year-old boy with such feeling. Then she nodded and smiled. She might not have known exactly what was happening, but she could see the tears on my father's cheeks. She could never know just how rare, how unprecedented, those tears were. I hadn't seen any emotion but frustration and anger on Dad's face since the winter day my brother died.
"How did you get here?" Dad asked finally, pushing me back so he could look at my face. He barked out the question like an accusation. His tears had lasted about as long as water on a hot plate. Then, as he kept on studying me, his face softened again. It was like his emotions were waging their own war inside him. I gave him a sad smile and held his arm, hoping to hang on to this new Dad and keep the old, cold one at bay. Besides, I was shaking and really did feel like I might end up on the floor. "I was so scared. I've seen things . . ."
Dad's grip got even tighter. "Pull it together. You're here now . . . but how?" His eyes wandered over me, and he fingered the sleeve of my dishdasha. "How?" he asked again.
"There were some people who . . ." I pulled myself up straight. "First tell me why you left Kuwait without finding me."
He took his glasses off and wiped his hand across his face, like he does when he gets emotional. "I didn't think I did. I thought you were already on your way out. A stupid, goddam mix-up."
"I don't understand."
"The minute we realized the Iraqis had invaded, Peterson decided we oughta get all the company Americans and their families out of Kuwait. We got together some busses and started hauling people down here. It was just supposed to be till the whole mess blew over. We figured Saddam'd wise up and pull back within a few days."
"Yeah, right."
"Everybody thought they would. Even the American Embassy people." Dad shook his head, looking disgusted. "I was out at the site and helped shut down some equipment. Then home to get you. Getting there was hair-raising, 'cause the roads were already full of Iraqi soldiers." He gave me a dark look. "But then, you weren't there. I waited almost three friggin' hours, and you still didn't show."
"You knew I'd gone to Brian's."
"There was no answer at his house, either. I called the company to tell 'em you were missing, and I couldn't leave. Then someone checked a list and said you'd been picked up early in the day and were already on the first bus heading south. Heading here. I was so damn relieved. I was mad as hell, though."
"I'll bet."
Dad wiped his face again, and turned away to look out into the crowd. "After three hours, there was no reason . . . no reason to think what they'd told me about your being on that bus wasn't true. Of course, when I got here . . . when I got here to Dhahran, I found out it was some other kid on their goddam list. You can't imagine how I felt. But I was screwed. There was no way to go back. I would have walked—I would have crawled if I had to—but by then the border was sealed."
I stared at Dad. Sure, he'd want to go back for me out of a sense of duty. But he was talking like he really had been desperate. For me.
I said, "I couldn't figure out why you'd leave without me. Everything I thought didn't make sense."
"The phones into Kuwait were still working for two days. I finally managed to reach the Barthelmys. Brian said they were holed up in their apartment because the street was crawling with soldiers who seemed to be grabbing all kinds of people and shoving them into vans. He said they had friends out of town and might try to make a run for it. But he said he hadn't seen you since the night before the invasion."
"That's right."
"For two days I called our house. For those two whole days, no answer . . . . We were sure you were captured or lying in a hospital somewhere . . . or dead." Dad was quiet for a moment, then swung back to me and said, "So now, tell me how—no, wait. There's time for that. First we've gotta call your mother."
Dad dragged me onto the elevator and up to a room on the eighth floor. When we went in, two men jumped up from where they were sitting by the window. I'd met both of them before at some Peterson Construction picnic.
Dad said, "Lookie here what I found."
"Jeff!" said one of the men, rushing over to shake my hand. The other one threw his arm around me, even though I didn't know him very well. Being caught in an invasion and missing for a week behind enemy lines will do that, I guess.
Dad said, "Listen, guys. I need to make me a phone call. You suppose . . ."
One man said, "Suddenly, I need a bite to eat. What do you say, Bill?"
Bill, who still had me in a bear hug, said, "Absolutely. I'm starved. The room's all yours, Alan. You and Jeff take all the time you need, hey?"
It took Dad maybe ten minutes to get through to Danbury, Connecticut, where my mom and sister were visiting my grandparents. When he finally got Mom on the line, he just said, "I got him."
I tuned out the next part of the conversation because I was all choked up thinking about how it must have been for Mom half a world away, not knowing if her son was alive or dead. Of course, if she hadn't left Kuwait on vacation a week before Dad could get off work . . . if she'd stayed so we could all go together, I would never have gotten into the mess I did. Attaway, Jeff. Spread the blame. I banged the palm of my hand against my head.
Dad was saying, "I've got a couple more days here in Dhahran 'fore I can join you. We've got about fifty families that still need transportation somewhere. A bunch of them are stretched out all over the lobby with nowhere else to go . . . . Yeah. Pretty damn fancy for a refugee camp, but that's what it is." He listened for a long time and looked over at me. "Sure, I was worried sick, too. Yeah, I know. But he's alive. He's standin' right here, and he's very much alive." His voice got hard then. "Of course, whether he stays that way or not depends on the story he has to tell." He looked me straight in the eye and said, "He probably thinks he's going to talk his way out of this one. It's gonna be interesting just how good he does in the next few minutes."
I had no idea of how good I'd do, but my mind was clear on what I'd say. Out in the desert, I'd wrestled with the question of whether I should give him a short and sanitized version, one that would make me look like I floated through the week. Or should I hang it all out for him? The things I did? The things that were done to me?
My resolve faltered for a second, but then I straightened up as he came over to me, still speaking into the phone. "Here, Marie, have a word or two with him. After that, he's all mine."
* * * * *
Chapter 2
Eight days earlier. Wednesday, August 1, 1990
Near Kuwait City, Kuwait
Not a trace of cloud cluttered up the blue of the morning sky outside our kitchen window. A little heat-haze hung over the small strip of ocean I could see between the buildings across the street, but that was all.
Dad was drinking coffee and eating toast as I stumbled in, still half asleep. He glared at me and then turned his attention back to something he was reading. I poured myself some juice, spilling a little on the counter and deciding I didn't have the energy or the inclination to wipe it up. After a while he said, "They say it's gonna be hot today."
I thought, No shit. August in the Kuwaiti desert, and it's gonna be hot. What a surprise. What I actually said was, "It's summer."
"I mean really hot. They think maybe fifty degrees down in Ahmadi."
I cleared enough of the fog out of my head for some quick math. Fifty Celsius times 2 is 100, less 10 percent is 90, then add 32—it came out 122 degrees Fahrenheit. I had to admit that was hot.
"Of course, along the coast it'll be a little cooler," Dad added, "what with the breeze off the Gulf. Maybe 45 degrees."
Right, a nice cool sea-breeze will keep it down to a comfortable 113 Fahrenheit. Again I kept any temptation for smart-ass comments in check. With my dad, it just doesn't pay.
He took his glasses off and wiped his face with his hand. "You shoulda gone with your ma and Sarah. There's a problem come up at work that'll keep me down at the plant full time for a couple days."
"You mean at night, too?"
"Yup. We've got startup problems on the new catalytic cracking tower. I gotta be on the spot till they're solved. Two days, three tops. I still think we can join your mom next week, but it's a pain your being here." Right, that's me, your son. A real pain.
Except for being alone with Dad, I was happy enough not to go to Danbury, Connecticut, with my mom and sister. It was in Danbury that my world had come crashing down around me. It was in Danbury that the defensive shell I'd always hidden behind was hardened into steel, like prison bars.
Besides, I wasn't looking forward to spending extra time with some of my cousins. Mom is from a big Italian–American family. Every one of her siblings married other Italians and had big families of their own. I've got tons of cousins, some of whom I barely know. Not surprising since they all live in New York and Connecticut, and I lived half a continent away in Houston, Texas. Mom separated herself from the rest of the family not only by distance, but by marrying a man who wasn't Italian, wasn't Catholic and, worst sin of all, would sit in a corner at family gatherings and refuse to contribute to all the noise.
The truth is, I'm more like Dad than I want to admit. When we do get to Connecticut to visit my grandparents, a couple of female cousins have a habit of hanging all over me, I guess because I'm this exotic relative from Texas, yee-haw! Don't get me wrong, I've had a couple of semi-girlfriends, but whenever things seem to be getting serious, I tend to pull away. I know it's weird, but that's the way I am. If I keep it up, I know it's going to throw a monkey wrench into my love life. If I ever have one. As for my female cousins, it's not that they come on to me, or anything like that. They're just annoying.
Of course, my mom had other reasons for having me stay in Kuwait an extra week. For one thing, it would be a quiet time for me to get my summer reading assignment done. Yuck. I wouldn't mind reading so much if it wasn't for all those words. Language Arts, as they've started calling English these days, was my brother's thing. Tony would even study the backs of cereal boxes. He read the morning newspaper, for crissakes, after he'd come back from his morning run. I'm kind of a math guy. Maybe because it was the one thing Tony wasn't a whiz at.
The other reason Mom wanted me to stay was it would give Dad and me time for some father-and-son male bonding. Right. Like that was suddenly gonna start happening after all these years. Before Tony died, Dad never failed to let me know how second-rate I was compared to my brother. Since Tony's death, Dad hasn't even given me the time of day, except to yell at me for one thing or another. This morning's little exchange about the weather was a rare thing. I was pretty sure that was going to be the full extent of our bonding. And now, with him heading off to work and leaving me alone all day and all night . . . whoa! It was hard to keep from letting a little excitement show in my voice. "I'll get by. Don't worry. I'll be fine."
Most of the guys from school were on vacation in the States or wherever they came from. It was called the Kuwait American School, but lots of kids were from other countries, too. There were even a few Kuwaitis whose parents were willing to shell out the bucks. Kuwaiti public schools were free all the way through college.
One or two of my buddies were still in town. I asked Dad, "Will you give me a ride into the city?"
"The city? What for?"
"I just wanna visit one of my friends. You're not going to be here."
Dad said, "Hmmph," and went back to his reading. I pumped a little two-fisted celebration in my head. With Dad, a hmmph is equivalent to a yes.
I decided to visit Brian Barthelmy. Brian is Australian, very cool. Very cool, even though he's tall and skinny and has an Adam's apple that sticks out a mile. Nobody minds his geeky looks because he keeps us laughing with his Crocodile Dundee accent and his Down Under jokes.
We lived south of Kuwait City in one of the string of suburbs that cling to the coastline of the Arabian Gulf. Practically everyone in Kuwait lives in a narrow strip along the coast. When you live in a desert, even the sight of water is precious. Inland, there's nothing but scorpions and desert rats and sand—a thousand miles of sand stretching clear across the Arabian Peninsula.
Most Americans, including my dad, are here because of jobs connected with oil and gas production or refining. And most of the work is south of the city. Dad works ten kilometers, about six miles, even further south of our house, in an industrial area of oil refineries and factories. He had to drive the opposite direction in order to bring me into Kuwait City before backtracking to work. He grumbled the whole way into town.
Because they're so expensive, very few Americans and other foreigners in Kuwait have cars, just a few company cars used for work. Except for the guys who live close to me, I don't get around to their houses much. Social life for an American kid in Kuwait is conducted almost entirely on school property. It sucks, but what can you do? I hadn't been to Brian's place since the previous summer, so I had Dad driving back and forth, looking for landmarks. In Kuwait, few streets seem to have signs, and those are in Arabic. In the year-and-a-half I've been here, I've learned to recognize the letters, but most of the words still escape me. There's a fairly regular grid of major roads, but within neighborhood "districts," the streets go every which way.
I finally found the Barthelmys' building, and we pulled up to the door. Dad looked around and said, "I know this place. This is that what's-his-name, the wisecracking Australian kid."
"Brian."
"He's a smart ass."
"He's funny, but he's really . . ."
"A punk."
"He's not."
"A no good punk."
"He's my friend."
Dad snorted. "That figures."
I sat for a long time with my head down and my eyes closed. Finally my father said, "So, are you getting out or what? I gotta get to work."
I yanked on the door handle and jumped out without lifting my head. The car was already moving when the door slammed shut.
Yeah, Dad. Go to work, like always.
Somebody'd dropped a small can on the sidewalk, and I launched a vicious kick at it, aiming at Dad's retreating vehicle. I missed, just grazing the can with the swoosh on my shoes. It skittered sideways into the gutter, where it lay with the other trash. My eyes broke away from the gutter just in time to see my dad disappearing around the corner.
Like you say, Dad, it figures. If I was stuck with a guy like you say I am, I'd be in a hurry to dump him and go to work, too.
* * * * *
Chapter 3
The Barthelmys lived in an apartment (they called it a flat) on the top floor of the building. I was grateful the tiny elevator was slow because I needed time to pull myself together. Still, I was glad it was Brian I was going to see. I couldn't think of anyone more likely to drag me out of my funk than him. He never seems to have a negative thought and won't permit it in anyone else.
Before I even got to Brian's door, I could hear the base from Dire Straits pulsing down the hallway.
Money for nothing and the chicks for free . . .
I pounded on the door without results. Probably thinks I'm part of the music. I tried knocking louder, but still no luck. Finally, I decided to shout and pound at the same time. The music shouted back.
I was about to attack the door with both hands when it swung open, and I was confronted by the sight of Brian's little brother Corey, naked from the waist up and head-banging like crazy. Little is a relative term, of course. Corey was thirteen and already as tall as me. As soon as he saw who it was, he turned away without saying a word. Still bouncing his head to the beat, he started adding shoulder rotations and hip thrusts as he disappeared into the kitchen.
Brian pushed past him, drying his face with a towel. When he saw me, he turned off the music. There was an anguished cry from the kitchen.
Brian yelled, "Stuff it, Corey. I got me some company here." He threw his arm around my shoulder. "How's it hangin', Bonzo?" Brian gets around to calling everyone Bonzo sooner or later. I can't remember him calling me anything else.
"Long and loose, Kook." I'd started calling him Kookaburra because the name of that Australian bird just sounded cool. "I like the music, but don't you have neighbors?"
"They're all gone during the day. Besides, who gives a shit about them limey bastards, anyway?"
"Jeez, Kook, do you call all Englishmen limey bastards?"
" 'Course not. I call some of 'em pommy bastards."
"So what do they call you?"
"Worst they can come up with is digger. Hell, they couldn't invent a name bad enough to insult an Aussie. We'd just adopt it and be proud of it."
"I guess so—Kookaburra."
Corey came out of the kitchen with something disgusting hanging half out of his mouth. He mumbled words I couldn't make out and disappeared down the hall to the bedrooms.
I said, "So what do we do today? I got the whole day."
"Beach, heh?"
"Sure, why not?"
"I wouldn't mind getting an eyeful of some of them Arab girls in their skimpy bathing costumes."
"Yeah, right! In your dreams, if you've got a good enough imagination."
"I don't suppose you thought to bring a bathing costume, did you, Bonzo?"
"Oh, yeah, I got a little string thing here in my pocket."
"That'll get the Kuwaiti girls out of the water for sure. I'll loan you one of mine if you promise not to pee in it."
The Barthelmys' flat was maybe two miles from the beach. It would have been an easy walk in winter, but this was August. By the time we heard seagulls, the sun was high in the sky, and the air was really heating up.
I don't know if they named it Green Island as a joke, or as some sort of psychological ploy to make people think of it that way. It was a man-made island connected to the mainland by a pedestrian causeway and a toll-gate where you had to pay a half-dinar, a little over a buck, to get onto it. It was made entirely of huge blocks of stone they'd hauled in from who-knows-where. There wasn't a piece of natural rock in all of Kuwait bigger than a grain of sand, though there were a lot of those! The island had a few bushes and spindly trees, not nearly enough to make it "green."
Once we got onto the island, Corey raced ahead of us with a whoop. It was the first sound out of his throat since we'd left the flat. He'd been pouting because Brian told him he couldn't bring his boom box and disturb the whole city. Corey was out of sight in a flash.
In school, I'd learned about some of the strange buildings they'd constructed in ancient Mesopotamia, which was where the country of Iraq is today, just a few miles north of us. One of the things the old guys built was called a ziggurat. It was kind of like a pyramid, but it had a pathway spiraling up to the top. That's what the Kuwaitis had built in the middle of their Green Island, a ziggurat.
Corey was standing on top when we got there, with his arms spread wide and his face to the sky.
"Shhh," I said. "He's communing with his ancestors."
"I doubt they're communing back, if they can see what a doofus he is."
Without moving, Corey said, "I'm collecting energy."
"It talks."
"The top of a pyramid channels energy from the universe, and I'm collecting my share."
"Don't drain off too much. Hate for the earth to stop turning."
"It has plenty of momentum. Inertia will keep it going. Not to worry." Corey was smarter than he seemed.
Brian was looking to the seaward side of the island, where they'd built a large swimming lagoon. I didn't see any men swimming, but lots of women and children. The children, girls as well as boys, were dressed in the same kind of skimpy bathing suits kids wear anywhere. The women and older girls, though, were completely covered in loose-fitting dark robes that went from their necks to their ankles and billowed out around them as they waded into deeper water.
"I wonder how old a girl has to be when they make her wear a tent to go swimming."
Brian said, "I suppose about the time she goes on the rag, heh?"
"Can you imagine? Yes, my girl, you'll be a woman soon. Here's a nice box of Kotex and a lovely black tent so no one can tell if you have any boobs." I gestured toward the women in the lagoon. They seemed to be having a good time, though. Like a flock of blackbirds splashing in a mud puddle.
"So let's get wet ourselves, heh? That's what we came for."
"I'm ready to expose my abdominal muscles. Let's do it."
"Don't think we'd be too welcome down there in the birdbath, no matter how gorgeous you are. Let's head down the beach." Brian gave his brother a mock punch in the stomach. "Come on, Buddo. Too much energy could stunt your growth."
"Too late," said Corey, collapsing his arms dramatically. "In case you haven't noticed, I've done a lot of growing."
"Not all of you, Buddo. Not all of you."
* * * * *
Chapter 4
Kuwait's beachfront was some kind of engineering marvel. For miles, they'd built a long paved walkway, snaking down the coastline. Where there had once been nothing but sand fleas, they'd built fancy rock planters with palm trees and bushes and flowers. Every few hundred yards, rock jetties thrust out into the ocean, some plain and some with sidewalks and fountains. Between the jetties were crescent moon-shaped beaches of brilliant white sand sloping into blue-green water.
Already the temperature of the sand was brutal. We found a spot that didn't have too many people and stripped down to our bathing suits. It seemed like a good idea to get into the water right next to one of the jetties so we could toss our flip-flops on a rock and retrieve them without barbecuing the bottoms of our feet.
"Crikey," Brian said, "What I wouldn't give to be surfing the big ones at Narrabeen Beach."
"Hawaii, maybe. Or California."
"Shit, no, Bonzo. Narrabeen Beach north of Sydney, Australia. Best waves in the world, and the hottest birds, too." He grinned at me and nodded toward some women at the other end of the beach. "I don't mean no blackbirds neither, mate."
By noon, we'd gotten ourselves really toasted, and Corey had been griping about lack of food for hours. "I'm wasting away, right before your eyes."
"Don't we wish," said his brother.
After we'd dressed and started up onto the boardwalk, Brian took off toward the end of the jetty.
"Where you going, Kook?"
"Be right back. Gotta take a massive piss."
"There's a toilet right down there."
"Too far."
"Someone will see you."
"Not if I go down the end of the jetty a ways. Besides, who cares?" Typical Barthelmy.
Corey and I waited on top while Brian climbed down onto a rock ledge. I was trying to decide where we should go eat when we heard a loud "Aiyeee" from below. I rushed to the edge just in time to see Brian tripping backwards and sprawling against the rocks. A yellow fountain was now landing squarely on top of one leg of his jeans.
It was hard to stop laughing, but I finally managed to ask, "What happened? What's the yelling about?"
"Wasn't me."
"What do you mean, wasn't me?"
"I mean, it wasn't me." He pointed down. "It was him."
In a crack between two large rocks I could see a shock of black hair being smoothed back by a thin brown hand. A minute later, the hand and the hair were joined by a whole body, which eased its way through the crack in the rock and climbed up beside us. It was a boy who might have been older than me or as young as Corey. Hard to tell, because it looked like he'd always be on the small side, no matter how old he got. He looked like the kind of kid who got sick a lot.
He was muttering and still trying to brush parts of Brian's "massive piss" off his hair and shoulders.
Brian decided to attack instead of apologize. "What in the name of Aunt Dinah's dingo were you doing down there? Jeez!"
The boy just shook his head and held his hands out, palms up.
"I don't think he speaks English, Kook."
"I do speak English, a little. It is just I do not know this Dinah."
I laughed. "Don't worry. And don't pay any attention to Brian here. He's an Australian, and nobody knows what he's saying half the time."
"Heh. I still want to know why you were hiding in the rocks."
"I come here sometime. To think."
"Can't you think at home?"
"I have five brothers and four sisters."
"Ah."
His name was Hammed, and he was fifteen years old. He was Filistini, he said, which I gather is the Arabic word for Palestinian. I asked him if he'd been born in Palestine.
"Oh, no. I was born here. My father was born in Kuwait, too. My grandfather came from Palestine. He was an engineer and helped build some of the big roads here."
I said, "We're just going to go get something to eat. Wanta come with us?"
"I have no money." Hammed stared at the ground and scuffed it with his shoe. "I mean I have no money today."
"Not to worry. I've got enough to buy us both something. Come on."
We found an open-air stall and bought some shawarma, meat stacked on a spindle and grilled by an open fire. With some Iranian flat bread and an orange soda, you're talking one of the primo lunches of the world. Corey ate twice as much as the rest of us, of course, to make up for his earlier wasting away.
After lunch, we decided to go exploring in the heart of the city.
Since I lived way out of town and all the stores we shopped at were in the suburbs, downtown was still something of a mystery to me. Hammed agreed to come with us and be our tour guide, even though it would seriously interrupt his "thinking."
"How do we get there?" I asked. "We'll probably die of heat stroke on the way. If we don't get run over by one of the crazy drivers they got here."
Hammed said, "Someone will give us a ride."
"Sure," added Brian. "What do you think thumbs are for?"
I'd always been taught that hitchhiking was super dangerous, and I'd never in my life considered doing it. Kuwait seemed to be different, though. Wherever you traveled, you'd see groups of Kuwaiti kids standing at the curb, flagging down motorists. They didn't use their thumbs but waved their whole hands, palm down.
"This still makes me nervous," I said, as we stood on Gulf Road, doing our own hand-flapping.
"Relax," said Brian. "There's practically no crime here. My mum says she'd feel safe going out by herself in the middle of the night."
We were picked up almost immediately by a guy driving a Mercedes and wearing the usual white dishdasha. His kuffiyeh scarf was fastened to his head by a black headband. The kuffiyeh was white, so I knew he probably lived in the city. Men from the country usually wore red-and-white-checked ones. Brian, Corey, and I sat in the back seat while Hammed sat in front. He and the driver chatted in Arabic for a while, then got quiet.
The driver adjusted his rear view mirror, and I soon realized he'd fixed it so he could look at me. I gave him a weak little smile, and he lifted his chin and smiled back. For the next ten minutes he kept doing that—turning his face up so I could see him grinning at me in the mirror. A couple of years ago I'd come to realize I was eyeballed by gay men once in a while, as well as women of all sorts. People keep telling me I'm good looking, but I don't see it. Tony had muscles in all the right places, and he moved like an athlete just walking down the hall. But me—I'm too tall and way too skinny. Still, our driver had his eyes glued to me all the way downtown. I had no idea if he was just being friendly in some weird way, or if he had more in mind. Either way, I was feeling uncomfortable. I tried to scrunch down, but since I was sandwiched between the Barthelmy brothers, it was near impossible.
"We are almost there," said Hammed. All five of us were quiet for the next few blocks, until Hammed motioned to the curb, my good friend the driver pulled over, and we bailed out. Hammed leaned in the window and said, "Shukran," thanks.
On the sidewalk I pulled Brian aside and told him what had gone down. In a dramatic stage whisper, he said, "What do you expect, heh, with women off limits?"
* * * * *
Chapter 5
Our overly friendly driver had dropped us off in front of the Gold Souk.
"Blimey," said Corey.
"Hogan's ghost," said Brian.
I didn't say anything. I just stared.
It was hard to believe what we were seeing. The souk, or market-place, took up an entire city block, and the only thing sold in the whole place was gold jewelry. I don't mean dinky little wedding bands and stud earrings, either. I mean huge, gleaming necklaces and dangly earrings as big as the ears they were supposed to dangle from. The really amazing thing was that these treasures were hanging right in the windows—racks of them so full you could barely see the rooms behind. What I could see were more racks and mounds of gold heaped on counters.
"What a paradise this'd be for a smash-and-grab man," I said.
"Thieves get their right hands cut off," said Brian.
Corey said, "That's in Saudi Arabia, not here."
"So what do they cut off here?"
"Anyway, where would you go in a country this small? Someone'd turn you in for sure."
"With enough of this stuff, you could head for Argentina."
"Heh. There's only one airport and three roads outta Kuwait. One goes to Iraq and two to Saudi Arabia, where they do cut off hands."
I asked Hammed, "Who buys all this stuff? I never see people wearing much jewelry at all."
"The women, they wear for weddings or big parties. Most of time it is hidden away. They get much jewelry so they have something they keep if they get divorce."
"You mean the men automatically get everything else?"
"Yes, of course."
After wandering around the Gold Souk for a while, I started to get numb. All that dazzling gold was crammed into my head so tight, nothing else could get in. Hard to believe, but I was starting to get bored.
"This is too much. My brain's on overload."
"Me, too," said Brian. "I feel like I'm swimming in gold."
Corey raised his arms in his "communing with nature" pose, inhaled deeply, and said, "I'm getting rich just breathing the stuff."
"Careful, little brother, you'll be shitting gold tonight."
"Well, of course. Gold is a non-reactive metal that wouldn't be absorbed by the body very well." Corey is way, way smarter than he seems.
Hammed gave up trying to follow this conversation and said, "Would you like to go somewhere else?"
"Oh, yeah."
"Come. I will take you to the old market, the Old Souk."
"What's old about it?"
"You will see."
Actually, we could smell the Old Souk before we could see it. We had crossed a large parking lot and were halfway through a small wooded square when I caught the odor of coffee, mixed with tobacco smoke and incense. We crossed the street, entered a small alley, and the smells got stronger and more varied. We were suddenly in another world, a world of crowded alleyways, dark mysterious shops, and open stalls selling everything from food to tape players and headphones. It wouldn't have surprised me to see Indiana Jones come racing through the narrow streets pursued by villains, vaulting a pile of pots and pans only to crash through a vegetable stand to send tomatoes flying into the crowd.
At one electronics shop, a crowd was gathered around a table watching a small television screen. They were listening to what looked like a governmental official.
"What's he saying?" I whispered to Hammed.
"Something about a meeting of Arab countries. The man from Iraq walked out very angry."
"What was he mad about?"
"He said the people of Iraq are starving because they can't get enough money for their oil. They say it is the fault of Kuwait."
"I don't understand."
"They say Kuwait sells oil too cheap. And too much. No one wants Iraqi oil if they can get it cheap from Kuwait."
"Do you think they're right?"
"How can I know? My family is fighting about this. My father thinks Iraq wrong, but my uncle thinks they are right."
I said, "Adults sure get up tight about things. Glad we don't have to worry about stuff like that."
"We might have to, though," Corey said. "They say Iraq has got lots of army troops along the border."
"That's just for show," said Brian. "Our dad calls it saber rattling."
The people watching the television seemed interested, but not particularly worried, so we decided to get on with our exploration of the souk.
Walking past a small doorway, I heard someone saying, "Psst. Psst. Come, come. I give you good deal." A small, dark man in khaki pants and a bright pink shirt grabbed my arm and pulled me inside his shop. I wondered what kind of drugs he was going to try to sell me.
"Look, look," he said again. "Genuine Persian from Isfahan." He pointed with obvious pride to a carpet hanging over a rack. Oriental carpets? He's trying to sell me carpets?
"Sorry. I'm not buying carpets. Today. Not today."
"You Amerikiya?"
"Yes, I'm American." I patted my chest. "Aiwa, Amerikiya."
"No problem. I will give paper saying this beautiful carpet from Turkey, not Iran. That way, no problem with your government."
"My government won't care where the carpet's from, 'cause I'm not going to buy it."
He grabbed my arm again. "I give you two. Two for price of one."
I guess this guy thought all Americans were filthy rich, if he believed he could peddle Persian carpets to a sixteen-year-old. I sprinted for the door and escaped into the alley, laughing. I was still chuckling when I found Corey and Hammed in front of a shop selling coffee beans and tea. Different colored beans were piled on top of small barrels lined up in the window. Corey was counting the piles. I guess he thought it would be useful to know how many kinds of coffee there were. I'm not a coffee drinker, but I admit the smells coming out of that shop had me thinking I ought to give it a try.
"Where's Brian?"
"He was following some young women, last I saw," said Corey.
"Figures."
I heard a call from down a narrow side alley. "Hey, Bonzo. Come and check this out." Brian was motioning for me to join him at the end of the alley.
"Look in here. Whatdya think of that?"
Brian was facing a blank canvas wall near where the alley dead-ended against another building. He lifted up a flap of canvas that had come loose at the bottom. I stooped down to look. What I saw was a bunch of half-naked women laughing and giggling and trying on clothing. I dropped the flap.
"Jeez, Kook, you can't be spying on them."
"Why not?"
"I bet even in Australia, they don't go for that. But here? You're friggin' crazy."
"Cluck. Cluck. Cluck."
"C'mon, Kook. Let's get out of here, before . . ."
He waved me off and lifted the flap again. "Jesus!" He jumped back. "You're so right, matey. We gotta get going." He started to sprint and I followed, so close I crashed into his back when he came to an abrupt stop. The entrance to the alley was filled with men—three or four, maybe more. All I could tell was they were mad as hell. We started to back up, but pretty soon we were up against the wall at the end of the alley.
"Through here," I yelled, lifting the same flap of canvas that had gotten us into trouble. I tore into the hole and ripped it open wide enough for us to push our way through. Inside, women were screaming, running around in circles, and trying to cover themselves. I looked frantically for a doorway and decided it had to be behind a bead curtain. I charged the curtain, hoping I was right and wasn't throwing my body against a solid wall. It was another curtain, this time of cloth. It ripped off its hanger as I came barreling through into a crowd of excited men. Several of them jumped back to keep from getting creamed, and I made it through the crowd without touching a person. Behind me, though, I could hear Brian struggling, and I looked back to see him twisting in a crazy dance, trying to pull loose from the hands that were grasping at his clothes.
Going back to help him would be worse than useless. If I did, the crowd would have both of us. I had to do something, though. I yelled. I gave out the loudest Tarzan yell I could manufacture. Cheetah and Jane could have heard me in Africa.
It did the trick. The crowd of men froze in astonishment just long enough for Brian to pull free. Then we were both running again, back into the main alley where we'd left Corey and Hammed. "Quick," I shouted to them. "We've gotta move it. Now!"
Apparently, the message got through, because all four of us were sprinting through the narrow streets like mad. We didn't leap over any pots and pans or send any tomatoes flying, but Indiana Jones had nothing on us. I knocked a robed, fat man in the elbow and spun him into a costume jewelry stand. I bounced off a pole and into a woman who shrieked and tried to hit me with her shopping bag. One of us, Hammed I think, knocked over the cart of a guy selling snow cones. As we turned the corner, the last I could see were people slipping around in ice and syrup, waving their arms wildly, trying to stay upright.
"Let's split up," Brian panted, as he veered left into another alley.
"Wait up," said Corey, following his brother.
I hesitated a second, then took off the opposite way, with Hammed hard on my heels. It seemed like forever, but it was probably only a few seconds before we were out of the souk and into busy traffic. We dodged our way across the street and turned left on the sidewalk so I could look back over my shoulder at where we'd come from. Sure enough, an excited crowd was pouring out of the souk. They stood, surveying the busy street until someone spotted us running, and I could see hands pointing and hear renewed shouting.
"Down here, Hammed." I turned at the corner and along a side street flanked by huge, modern buildings. Even though the buildings were impressive, the sidewalk was not. It was cracked and warped, and sections had broken off completely. I successfully dodged some wicked potholes when I heard Hammed go down—hard.
I ran back to help him up. He was breathing heavily and moving slowly.
"My knee," he said. It seemed to me his lungs were giving him more trouble than his knee.
"Here, let me help." I tried to haul him to his feet, but he was doubled over, trying to get a breath. I glanced back at the corner to see if an angry crowd was bearing down on us. Not yet. To our right, up a short flight of steps, was a revolving door. "Can you make it to the door?"
He grunted and I half-pulled, half-carried Hammed up the steps. I grabbed him in a bear hug and backed inside, losing my balance as the door spilled us into the building. Hammed and I lay on the floor. I was too exhausted to move. I couldn't run anymore. I didn't care anymore. Everything was a blur, including the circle of puzzled faces looking down at us from all sides.
* * * * *
Chapter 6
The running, the angry shouts, and fear had gotten me up the steps and through the revolving door. Now, flat on my back on a hard tile floor, it was like someone had pulled the plug and energy was draining away. I could feel my mind emptying, too, and I was content to let it go. The circle of faces above me seemed unreal, like an abstract painting hanging over my head. Maybe I even blacked out for a bit because I suddenly realized that Hammed was sitting up next to me and one of the faces was down close, peering into mine. It seemed more worried than angry.
He looked to be about twenty, Kuwaiti, and dressed in a suit and tie. "Are you all right?" he asked, in what seemed like perfect British English.
I nodded and tried to sit up, but collapsed before I got very far. I could feel the heat pouring off my face, and I couldn't swallow. I opened my mouth and grabbed my throat.
"Water," the young man said. "We shall get water for you." He turned to someone in the crowd and pointed behind me, "Itneen mai. Bisorei!" I didn't know what he was saying, but he was definitely taking charge.
It seemed only seconds before an older man came running up with two bottles of Dasani spring water, gave one to Hammed, and thrust one into my hand. The young man took the bottle from me and unscrewed the cap, scowling his displeasure at the older man as he did. He helped me sit up and held the bottle to my lips until he was sure I could handle it on my own.
When I'd cooled down and gotten some strength back, I stood up with the young man's help. While he told me his name was Aziz and I introduced Hammed and me, I looked around the building. We were in an indoor mall with shops like Pierre Cardin, Cartier, and Gucci. Except for a Saks Fifth Avenue, every store seemed to have a French or Italian name. They looked expensive as hell. This place was about as opposite the Old Souk as you could get.
Aziz led us to the back of a camera store and let us sit while we got our strength back. He and Hammed chatted in Arabic, and every once in a while Aziz would look over at me with a slight smile. When he left to help a customer, I whispered to Hammed, "What are you telling him? You didn't say why we were running, did you?"
"How can I? I do not know why we were running,"
I stared at him. Of course he doesn't. Brian and I just yelled at him and Corey as we flew past. No way they could know.
"So what did you say?"
"I said you were a crazy American who was training to be a runner."
"Training in this weather?"
"That's why I said you were crazy."
"How about you? You were running, too."
"About me, I said nothing."
"And he didn't ask?"
"He is an Arab. It would not be polite. Why would he ask?"
We left the mall at the far end, as far as possible from where the Old Souk crowd had last seen us.
"Come," said Hammed. "I know a place where we can rest."
He led me across another busy street. It's a good thing I had my strength back, because dodging cars in Kuwait City was no mean feat. We walked along a chain-link fence that bordered a construction site. The fence jogged in to a locked gate. Hammed led me to a spot just to the right of the gate where the fence had come loose from the post.
"Here is good place."
We slipped through the crack in the fence and down a slope into the middle of the construction area.
I asked, "What are they building here?"
"It is new road around city—and park for trees. I do not know why they have stopped."
Sure enough, there wasn't a workman in sight. Maybe they took a vacation in August, like any sane person would in this climate. And like I would have done if I'd gone with Mom and my sister. Hammed led me to a row of huge prefabricated concrete pipes, the kind they use for storm drains. Even though we were in the middle of the desert, every once in a while it rained so hard everything flooded. We pushed into one of the pipes and sat propped up against the curving wall. It wasn't exactly cool, but at least we were out of the afternoon sun.