At least we didn't leave empty handed. We went for cucumbers and with the vegetables we returned. And with tomatoes, chicken and Moorish tea, to settle the stick in the stomach.
It all started with the advice of Abdel Karim. He was waiting for us sitting under a tree next to his son. "I can take you to a silo where the Republican Guard hides hundreds of missiles."
The alleged farmer, a member of the Baath party in this agricultural region bordering the big city, has just changed his flag without scruples.
With the imposing presence of US tanks throughout this area, the loyalties begin to turn 180 degrees quickly.
In Halid, the change of jacket is evident. "No problem. Everything OK... Anything Mr. Bowen wants. We will keep you safe in the area," insisted the supposed bricklayer - such smooth hands were never seen - to the overwhelmed person responsible for keeping the civil community happy.
"Another from the Baath party." The Iraqi-American translator claims to catch them on the fly. Of the Baathist militants in pectore, not a trace.
But the American command assures that it does not want reprisals and desperately seeks this type of "collaborative environment" to prevent civil chaos from ruining the brand new military conquest of the country.
That is why Abdel Karim's tip was welcome. "The Ba'athists come at night and gather the population in the countryside to organize sabotage," he told stunned members of an artillery company.
"Give me a vehicle and full access to these highways and I'll drive you everywhere," he promised.
To test the reliability of the farmer we start with the "cucumber silo".
With four armed Humvees we moved swiftly between dirt roads and canals.
The first objective, surprisingly immaculate facilities.
The frightened manager received us trembling, but with the usual Arab hospitality. "I don't know anything about weapons. This is a chicken shop."
Poor Ali took the opportunity to ask us not to shoot him if they heard the hum of the electricity generators. "The chickens are going to spoil me."
"If they see me putting boxes in the trucks on the satellite, tell them they are for chickens," he insisted.
After a couple of teas, which overcame the North American fear of consuming local products, we left frustrated and with 20 chickens.
The next goal: three greenhouses.
We walked through suspicious terrain between cornfields planted for the ambush. Absolute puncture, except for a uniform abandoned by a republican guard. Pure tomatoes, and greens...
The last opportunity was in a large house a couple of kilometers away.
"Weapons. Never sir. By Allah. No military here. Vegetables only." And there they were: our juicy green cucumbers. A couple of kilos as a gift.
Abdel left upset for not having ingratiated himself with the new rulers of these parts. The Americans, frustrated at the loss of time, went off to fry... lots of chicken.
According to the criteria of The Trust Project
