4/02/2003

My blogging almost gets me captured

Like I mentioned previously, I am now in the syrian desert. I’ve got my laptop and some lesser equipment with me (which were in the humvee I drove to the british camp), and I’m living off some ready made meals, and hope to get to some life sometime soon. But how did I get here, and why am I not in Iraq? Well, it is this damned blogging that I do.

Everybody wants to leave their mark on the world. I go off to fight in places that I probably will never come back from, and I want my story to be written down somewhere. It is more than a journal, my very thoughts are represented by each one of my comments, and were I to get eaten by a bunch of vultures tommorow, my words will stay forever on this ol web. Well, at least till the blogspot server crashes.

And that is why I try to post my stories daily. If I do not have internet access, I send emails to my bodyguards in france, Yusuf, Jose or Jamal. Those are all pseudonyms.

I blog of things that are past, and only when I am out of danger. But Yusuf made a mistake in posting an article while I was still with the British, and some reader of the blog decided to contact the authorities, and they ran a routine test and discovered that I indeed existed. But let me start from the beginning.

The day after I arrived, I stood up, and went out looking for nurse Jasmine. I am a charming sort of chap, and it had been a while since I had female company, so it was only natural. I detected her shortly, sitting in a trench and drinking tea. I joined her, and we spoke a bit. She was from Kuwait, and had volunteered to join the British squad as a nurse because they were short of medical personel. It soon turned out that she had been to Tunisia, and even visited the area where I spent my childhood days several times. It was an nice distracting conversation in arabic.

I soon turned on the charm, and got a promise for a date later that night, supposing nothing came up like a bunch of dead and dying soldiers, or a rain of falling bombs. I wondered where I would take her off to, but there is always the date at a ridge where one can see the stars. And we would see a lot of shooting stars that night, yes, shot from Iraqi guns.

But alas, missfortune struck me a heavy blow. As I walked back to the camp, a commanding officer summoned me and demanded to see my papers, having apparently been contacted by some people from london. I told him they were missing. He immediately ordered my arrest. I was grapled, and didn’t resist, and my hands were tied. All my gear was stuffed into a rucksack, and I was thrown into the back of a van, and the van started driving off towards the south.

My guard was Private Tom from london city, with whom I had just the night before had the long entertaining conversation. We continued the conversation, and while just as entertaining, it was about other things, like me being a traitor, and him wanting to shoot me like the dog he claimed I was.

I waited till we were at a location roughly halfway between Basrah and Um Qasr, then I displayed what several years of fighting with South Africans teaches you. I hopped to my feet, implanted my boot between his teeth (afterwards, I had to remove a tooth from the sole), and then knocked him out with a head butt. The driver did not notice, because the window between the back and front of the truck was small, dirty, and grilled.

I then looked for a sufficiently sharp corner in the truck, which wasn’t all too hard, and 5 minutes of friction caused the rubber holding my hands to snap. I slung on my rucksack, took Toms' gun, gathered up Toms’ teeth and placed them in a strategic location where he could locate them easily, and dropped off the back of the truck.

I lay still for a while, till the truck disappeared over the next dune. Then I started trecking towards the Syrian desert. I purchased a camel at the next village, and 2 days later I arrived at the edge of the desert.