#008 Fallujah-Iraq "Scorpions, Air Raids, and Mystery Meat: Adventures in a 1983 War Zone"

In 1983 Fallujah and Sa’ad 21 looked like any other sprawling desert construction site. A melting pot of nationalities—Austrians from Ilbau, East German painters, Yugoslav subcontractors, and a whole army of Thai workers laying down the concrete. Over a thousand people, I’d guess, each trying to do their job and, more importantly, trying to eat.

At our weekly meetings with the military, food was never a topic of discussion. But out here, with rationing in full effect, finding food was as much a mission as getting the job done. Typically, we’d receive a daily allowance and sort out meals ourselves. Simple system, unless you’re in Iraq during wartime—then it’s less "simple" and more "survival of the fittest."

The Great Catering Hunt

HQ had reassured us that catering was available on site. What they failed to mention was that it was only for individual companies. My first stop? Ilbau, the Austrian main contractor. I presented my case, they listened patiently, and then, in the politest way possible, they gave me the finger. "We do construction, not catering. Try elsewhere."

Next up, the Yugoslavian camp. Their manager, a friendly Croat, was sympathetic but equally helpless—he was already struggling to feed his own team. That was a polite "nope." Meanwhile, my East German brothers? Happily, catered by the Yugoslavians. Good socialists take care of their own, after all.

Desperate, I wandered into the Thai camp. Their camp manager was a nice guy, though his English was a challenge to decipher. What I do remember clearly was the massive jade stone ring on his hand, it was so big, lifting his arm seemed like a workout. Unlike my previous encounters, he was instantly willing to help. A quick deal was struck, money changed hands, and just like that, I had my first-ever Thai fried rice. Who knew that my first taste of Thai cuisine would come in the middle of a war zone? Even crazier, I would have never imagined that one day my life would lead me to their country.

Breakfast: A Daily Ritual of Garlic and Bread

With lunch and dinner sorted, breakfast became our DIY project. Fallujah’s market had a few key items in stock: green bell peppers, onions, garlic, eggs, and—since butter was nowhere to be found—mayonnaise. Every morning, we concocted some variation of these ingredients, heavy on the garlic. Let me tell you, eating garlic for breakfast every day does something to your body. That’s a story for another time.

The real morning highlight, though, was the daily drive into Fallujah and the tiny village along the way. There, an old man and his grandson ran a bakery with stone kilns filled with heated pebbles. They’d throw the dough onto the scorching stones, and within moments, fresh, warm bread emerged. The smell alone was enough to make you forget the chaos around you. We’d eat it right there, standing by the kiln, savoring the rare moment of peace and normalcy.

The Great Fuel Caper

Meanwhile, our Egyptian workforce arrived—seasoned veterans of Iraq’s construction scene. Abdullah, our foreman, spoke decent English and was a great guy to work with.

Next challenge: gasoline and diesel. With cars and generators running low, I had to source fuel, and the only gas station was on Fallujah’s outskirts. Early morning, armed with six 200-liter drums loaded onto my pickup, I pulled up to the station. The pump operator took one look and assumed I was delivering, not buying. When reality hit, he nearly fainted. After some intense bargaining, I managed to fill just one drum of diesel. That’s when I learned that fuel was heavily sanctioned—locals queued for hours just to get their rations. This was a serious problem.

Back to my Colonel project manager. I explained my misery, and soon, I held a letter in my hands—full Arabic script, many stamps, and an official army letterhead. "This should do the job," he said.

And it did.

Next morning, I was back at the gas station. Abdullah volunteered to go, but this had now become my personal mission. I took my place in the queue like a good citizen, watching the line rapidly fill up behind me. My turn came. The attendant smiled, shook his head, and prepared to refuse again—until I unveiled my magic letter. He examined it once, then twice, then bolted for the main station office.

Minutes later, he returned, shrugged, and said something in Arabic that I assume meant, "Well, if this is what you want, here you go…" One by one, 1200 liters of black gold flowed into the drums.

As I settled the payment, the station manager emerged, dramatically placing a sign in the middle of the station. I did not need to read Arabic to know what it said: OUT OF GASOLINE.

The angry murmurs behind me quickly turned into an enraged mob. The realization hit fast—thanks to the foreign idiot in front of them, their fuel for the day was gone.

The first stone bounced harmlessly off one of the fuel drums. The second one, however, shattered my pickup’s rear window. I jumped in, fired up the engine, and sped off just in time to escape an impromptu ransacking.

Needless to say, for the next fuel run, I happily delegated the task to Abdullah.

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Scorpions and the Art of Gambling

With some of these daily inconveniences out of the way, work moved along as well. Our Egyptian workers, like us, found solace in the Thai canteen—though they did struggle with the spices. Iraq also left me with a habit that has stuck with me to this day: every time I put on my boots; I shake them out first. Why? Scorpions.

Fridays were our day off, which meant staying in camp. I often spent time with my East German brothers, discussing the glories of socialism. Back in 1985, none of us could have imagined that four years later, the Berlin Wall would come down.

One morning, as I sat in front of my container, Abdullah witnessed me kick a large scorpion out of my boot and watched as it scurried under a rock. He looked at me, confused, before telling me I had just wasted a valuable resource. For a moment, I thought he meant food. But no—he explained that the Thai camp held scorpion fights every Friday for gambling, and he knew exactly where to find the best scorpions. However, due to his religious beliefs, he could not gamble himself. Thus, a partnership was born.

That Friday, we arrived at the Thai camp armed with three carefully selected scorpions. What I saw there shocked me—rows of small tables, each with a wooden frame and a glass plate on top, looking like an innocent chess game from afar. But no, these were scorpion fighting arenas. It was then that I learned an important life lesson: if there is one thing Thais are unbeatable at, it is gambling. Years later, I would come to fully understand that they will bet on absolutely anything.

The Great Scorpion Showdown: A Friday Afternoon in the Desert

The Thais had a system—one that had been running for quite a while. It was simple: three weight classes—Heavy, Middle, and Flyweight. You either fought your way into the good spots or, as with most things in life, let money do the talking.

Abdullah, ever the resourceful foreman, seemed to know the guys. With communication being a bit of an issue, he went straight to the Heavyweight section, which, in hindsight, should have been a red flag. A quick conversation later, the odds were set: 200:1 for the newcomer. A mere $1 bet could win us $200. Abdullah confidently agreed before I even had the chance to protest. That is when I saw the look of mild panic in our opponent’s eyes—after all, losing a month’s salary was no joke. Not that I was thrilled either, considering I was the one financing this questionable venture. "Trust me, boss," Abdullah said with that signature grin. And just like that, we were all in.

Our opponent, not one to take risks lightly, quickly roped in three other guys to split the wager. The entire thing was suddenly looking a lot more organized, with a betting floor tracking the action, run by none other than our ever-smiling Thai camp manager. When the moment came to enter our scorpion’s name, Abdullah was ready. “Fa’iz,” he declared, which means "winner" in Arabic. Confidence was key, right? Meanwhile, our opponent was a veteran fighter named “Ch??mp Maeng Pong”—roughly translating to "Scorpion Champion."

Word spread like wildfire. Half the camp turned up, all eager to see the clash of titans—or, in our case, the battle between David and Goliath, but with more legs and venom.

Then came the decisive moment. The scorpions were placed in the tiny glass-covered arena. I took one look at the Thai champion and immediately began mourning my $200. The thing was a monster, practically the Schwarzenegger of the scorpion world. Then, Abdullah unveiled our hopeful contender, and—well, let’s just say our little guy had the body of a long-distance runner in a heavyweight showdown. A third of the size, at best. At that moment, I was ready for a drink. Unfortunately, this was the desert, and luck wasn’t serving beverages.

The fight began. Death was the only way out.

Fa’iz, our little warrior, wasted no time retreating into a corner. The Thai champion, seemingly unimpressed, barely moved. Three minutes in, neither had made a move. So, the referee—aka a Thai with a stick—nudged them toward each other.

The giant finally lunged. Our guy dodged. The giant tried again. Another dodge. And then, in a moment of pure madness, Fa’iz went all in! He charged from the side, latched on, and the two were locked in what I can only describe as an eight-legged wrestling match.

I started mentally handing over my $200.

Abdullah, however, still looked disturbingly confident. Then something shifted—the Thai champion was struggling. Our tiny underdog had done something clever—he had flipped himself underneath, locking the big guy’s claws while avoiding the deadly stinger. The Thais, once smug and grinning, were now looking increasingly concerned. Three minutes later, neither scorpion moved. Just as I was about to accept that we had a draw, Fa’iz wriggled free and crawled out—very much alive.

We had won.

The Thais were silent. Not a single word. We had just ruined their Friday entertainment, and they were taking it about as well as expected.

I handed Abdullah his share of the winnings, but he refused, citing that it was gambling money. Well, that was an unexpected twist. Now what? "Use it for food," he suggested. And so, with poetic justice, we marched back to the Thai camp and used their lost bet to buy food and water—redistributing the funds back into their ecosystem. I didn’t keep my share either; instead, I used it to buy food for the Egyptian workers.

Needless to say, I was the hero of the day. Among the Egyptians, I became known as "Aqrab Almani"—the German Scorpion. As for the Thais, I probably had a nickname too, but I suspect it was far less flattering.

And that, my friends, is how I spent a Friday afternoon in the desert. Where else?

Desert Diplomacy

The days rolled on, the sun blazed as usual, and the work continued at its relentless pace. Then, one morning, an Egyptian worker stormed into my office, out of breath, rattling off something about "Abdullah… hospital… Fallujah!" My first thought? Workplace accident. But no—turns out, it was an old-fashioned brawl.

From the bits and pieces I could gather, there had been an argument at the site between the Thais and the Egyptians. Heated words were exchanged, hands got involved, and suddenly, one of the Austrian supervisors decided to raise the stakes—by raising a plank of wood and smashing it over Abdullah’s head.

That escalated quickly.

Initially, I didn’t make much of it—this was a construction site, after all, not a Sunday tea party. But after lunch, when Abdullah returned from the hospital flanked by two police jeeps, I realized things had taken a turn for the worse. Within minutes, our Austrian lumberjack was whisked away to the local jail in Fallujah. And just like that, we had ourselves a crisis.

Cue emergency meeting at the Colonel’s office. The Ilbau Project Manager, looking distinctly uncomfortable, sat across from me as the Colonel laid it out: Assaulting a fellow Muslim, on a military project, during wartime? Not a great look. The Colonel was concerned our Austrian friend would not see the sun for the next five years unless we sorted this out.

“Only one way,” he said. “Abdullah must drop the charges.”

The Austrian project manager, being the charming individual that he was, turned to me and snapped, “Fix it. Your worker started the problem.”

Ah yes, the classic "not my problem" approach to management.

Talking to Abdullah wasn’t easy—he was well within his rights, and frankly, the Egyptians were still furious. The Thais, while contractually obligated to listen to their Austrian bosses, were definitely siding with their Egyptian comrades. The tension was thick.

A few days passed, and during one of our discussions, Abdullah asked how a situation like this would be managed in my country if jail wasn’t the option.

“Well,” I said, “for pain and suffering, you could claim monetary compensation.”

His eyes lit up. “How much?”

“Fifteen hundred dollars.”

He leaned back, stroking his chin. “I would drop the charges for that.”

Great. Now all I had to do was tell the Austrian Project Manager the good news.

I walked into his office, delivered the proposal, and was rewarded with the sight of him nearly choking on his cigarette. For a moment, I thought he was about to lob an ashtray at me, but he just exhaled sharply and said, “Fine. You pay it.”

Excuse me?

I looked him dead in the eye. “Okay, let your guy rot in jail. I have other things to do.”

Three days of silence followed. Then, finally, the mighty Austrian descended from his managerial throne and begrudgingly agreed to the payment.

The final act played out in the Colonel’s office. Abdullah dropped the charges, the police escorted our Austrian slugger back to the site, and the payment was made under official supervision. Just when I thought it was all over, Abdullah had one last request.

He wanted an apology.

Reluctantly, the Austrian extended his hand. But Abdullah wasn’t interested in a handshake.

“I want it the Egyptian way,” he said with a smirk. “A kiss. On my wounded head.”

Oh, the outrage! The Austrian turned every shade of red imaginable, but after some encouragement from his colleagues (read: peer pressure and the risk of further consequences), he leaned in and planted the most begrudging, humiliating kiss in history on Abdullah’s bandaged head.

Problem solved.

That same evening, our Austrian combatant was on the first flight out of the country. My relationship with the Austrian project manager went into a nosedive, while the Egyptians and Thais grew closer in their newfound solidarity.

Later that night, Abdullah visited my office. He placed a bundle of cash—one thousand dollars—on my desk. “Your share for negotiating,” he said.

I shook my head. “I can’t accept it.”

He frowned, visibly disappointed. “Why?”

“My religion forbids me from taking money from an injured man.”

Abdullah sat quietly, absorbing this. Then I added, “But I will accept it symbolically, on one condition—you spend it on the education of your children.”

Tears welled up in his eyes. He reached over, shook my hand, and whispered, “You are a good man, Aqrab Almani.”

War, Air Raids, and Unexpected Cuisine

Some days, we almost forgot we were in a war zone. Life on site continued as usual, and the two rings of air defense felt more like decoration than an actual necessity. That illusion shattered one night at around 3 a.m. when the sirens went off, screaming their warning: incoming aircraft.

Half-asleep, I stumbled out of my container, only to realize I had no idea where to go. No bunker, no shelter, nothing—just a vast open space with no cover. Interesting concept. As I looked around, it became clear I wasn’t the only one wondering if we were supposed to just squat behind a pickup truck and hope for the best. The sky lit up as planes roared overhead, and for a brief moment, I braced for impact. But nothing happened. The sirens went silent, and the only thing that crashed was my adrenaline rush.

It turned out the excitement was all for nothing—just friendly Iraqi planes returning from a raid near Basrah against the Iranians. No shots fired, no explosions, just a whole lot of unnecessary panic. That was the first and last time I bothered getting out of my container for an air raid.

The Mystery of the Thai Meat Supply

Now, speaking of survival, food was becoming a bit of an issue. Supplies were rationed, and meat was particularly scarce. Yet, mysteriously, the Thai canteen always seemed to have plenty of it. While the other canteens were scrounging around for scraps, the Thais were serving up delicious, meaty dishes every day.

Curiosity got the better of me, so I asked the Thai camp manager about it. He just smiled and told me to meet him the next morning for a drive. This should be interesting.

At sunrise, we hopped into the pickup and drove about five kilometers away from the site, heading toward the Euphrates River. When we arrived, I was expecting a farm, maybe a secret supplier, or some well-hidden livestock operation.

What I found instead was… a hunting camp.

Around the riverbanks, a group of Thai workers had set up a whole operation dedicated to catching giant black water rats. These things were massive—bigger than some of the stray dogs I’d seen. It was an efficient system: traps, nets, even some of the guys hunting with sticks like some kind of jungle expedition. And they were fast, too! I stood there, watching in silent horror as one man proudly held up his prize by the tail, grinning like he had just won the lottery.

The realization hit me like a truck. This was our meat. The delicious, stir-fried dishes, the flavorful curries, the "chicken" in the fried rice… all of it had a vastly different origin than I had assumed. I took a deep breath and nodded, trying to keep a straight face. The Thai manager beamed, proud to have shown me their secret to a steady protein supply.

I drove back in silence, processing what I had just witnessed. That was the day I made a weighty decision for the rest of the project: I became vegetarian.

War zones aren’t supposed to be about food adventures and underground gambling rings, but sometimes, survival brings out the best stories. And in Fallujah, between military meetings, construction deadlines, and unexpected new hobbies, life was never dull.