The Royal Air Force of Oman was weirdly busy every night that week in February. Usually they had closed up shop and parked their brand new F-16 Falcon fighter jets under the sunshades by noon, maybe 1500 by the latest, and they were never active after dark. Yet here I was, on my third (or was it fourth?) and likely last trip to RAFO Thumrait, sitting in a sand-filled courtyard listening to the aforementioned fighter jets scream overhead in the dark.
Usually I would be sitting out with a glass of obscure whisky I had picked up at a duty free shop in Hamad International Airport before leaving Doha. This time I had made a promise to my brother that we would abstain together until he had taken his MCAT and I had taken my Physical Fitness Assessment in late March. So I sat out under the pergola covered courtyard with tea, soft music, and a cigar.
The cigar maybe seems incongruous with abstaining from drink, but it helped set the aesthetic of the Hemingway-esque persona I was striving for in that moment. Well maybe not Hemingway, as that might be a bit of an arrogant stretch. Ruark-esque then. That should work.
I sat there, smoking and listing to music that would get drowned out periodically by RAFO pilots practicing their nighttime maneuvers, jet engines screaming overhead and echoing off the surrounding jebel as the aircraft flew away.
I like this place. The villas we are staying in are spacious, roughly the same size as my first one-bedroom apartment, with a small patio area outside, and we each have our own. Our trips here always have challenges, and the work can often be sweaty, frustrating, or a combination of both, but the nights make it worth the trip.
We drink, smoke, and converse, the widely varied viewpoints of the team always coming out. Sometimes we have cookouts on the fifteen gallon drum converted into a makeshift grill. Other nights we go to the small restaurant on base and enjoy the classic dish of “Chicken 65,” a mixture of chicken pieces, french fries, onions, peppers, and tomatoes all pan-fried and seasoned together.
Or perhaps we would go into Thumrait village, just outside the front gate of the Air Base and visit Thumrait Palace for dinner. Here, we could get another version of Chicken 65, made slightly differently than the restaurant on base, which is slightly different than the dish of the same name in the restaurant down the road, which is different than the next, and the next.
After dinner, we would swing by the Lakeside Villa Golf Course. When I first saw the sign, I was absolutely sure that the name of the clubhouse was a tongue-in-cheek name for a bar where all the Western expatriates on RAFO Thumrait gathered. Further investigation during daylight hours would reveal that an actual eighteen hole golf course was scraped into the sand. It sometimes even had grass. There even is a series of small ponds towards the back of the course with a handful of fish swimming around.
Lakeside indeed.
The clubhouse is run by the expats who work under the various contracts performed on the base. Their primary bartender is a Kiwi who has an abhorrence for shoes and an affinity for the history of obscure islands in the South Pacific. Displayed proudly all around the bar, hanging from walls or set on shelves are mementos from RAFO Thumrait’s past. Posters of former Aircraft Squadrons, both British and American, diagrams of aircraft that had been stationed there at one time or another, and a series of photographs detailing the construction of the golf course adorn the walls. If you stare at one long enough, one of the old timers will lean in and explain the unofficial history of any given memento.
The British expats are still a bit miffed that the Omanis traded in their British built Tornado (pronounced torr-nah-doh) fighter jets for the American F-16. The Americans insist that RAFO upgraded. The Kiwis and the Aussies banter back and forth, and everyone bags on the British.
Americans are usually a minority in the bar, unless a group of them come through for a Military Exercise or an Audit, like we were there for. Occasionally we see some of our Omani hosts, but it was becoming increasingly rare as their own two bars on base loosened their restrictions on alcohol.
This night, however, the Golf Club is not open, so we remained in our respective villas. All of my team on this trip are married with kids. At the time, I was the only member of the whole unit who had never been married, and did not have any kids. So the married men retreated to their rooms after dinner to sip their drinks and video chat with their families.
With the Golf Club closed and my married teammates sequestered in their rooms, I sat by myself watching the running lights and afterburner glow from F-16s. I did not mind the solitude.
You can see the stars here. This is a rarity among the sites that we traveled to. Most of them were too close to cities and surrounded by far too much light pollution to see even the brightest stars. There are not many stars visible this night, but it is enough for now, and more than I have seen in months.
My mind rambles and rattles as I jot down my thoughts into a little black notebook. Is this what I wanted? I know that I volunteered for this assignment, but am I really getting what I want out of these trips?
What kind of Dog should I get when I get back home? Should I get a dog at all?
The thoughts wandered and wavered until my erratic thinking was interrupted by the door to the villa next door squeaking open. One of my team stuck his head out and saw me sitting at my patio table. He comes out to enjoy the night air. We exchanged pleasantries as he pulled out a chair and sits down at the table. Our conversation swung to workout and dietary strategies, and served as a sort of signal to the others.
One by one, they come out of their villas and join us at the table in my patio. Glasses clink, chairs scrape across the sandy floor as we all settled in to solve the world’s problems. Or at least debate them. Undoubtedly we touched on what is wrong with the political system, the Air Force’s many maladies, and how the first air-to-air kill in a quarter century being achieved by the Navy hurts our pride on an institutional level.
Without a shadow of a doubt, every conversation changed to every Senior Non-Commissioned Officer’s favorite topic when around young, malleable officers: “Professional” mentor-ship.
I closed the notebook and turn the music down to a conducive level as one last F-16 screamed overhead.
I love these lakeside villas.