Sands of the Sahara

With Libya in the news so much recently, this seems like an appropriate time for this story. 

Adventures and remarkable tales were the norm for me from the very beginning with my birth in Tripoli, Libya. I was an Air Force brat and born at the post hospital of Wheelus Air Force Base. My father was a sentry at the base. For this duty he was equipped with a submachine gun, a .45 automatic pistol and a German Shepard guard dog. A fellow sentry, Don Head, became one of his best friends and later, my Godfather. My fourth book, Haunted Hotels of the West, is dedicated to Uncle Don.

We lived off-post in civilian housing in the City of Tripoli. A little war called the Suez Crisis was going on at the time. Angry mobs were frequently rioting in the city. To reach the post hospital my mother had to pass through one of these rioting armed mobs while traversing the crowded streets of Tripoli in a VW bug. Recently when certain events brought Tripoli into the evening TV news, my mother would often point out various landmarks, including ones she rode past that very day. 

Life here was hard. When you combine living in a third world economy with a third world infrastructure, set it in a harsh desert and lace it with land mines and unexploded ordnance left over from World War II, you get to say life was hard. Sand was everywhere and got into everything. The weather forecast could be printed a month in advance: hot and windy. I experienced this same sunny weather yet again when I returned to the Middle East for duty in the first Gulf War.

Family picnics presented a unique list of challenges. Instead of ants or rain, you worried about heat stroke, land mines and scorpions. And we did do picnics in the desert. This usually included a trip to some exotic site like a World War II era Italian fort or some ancient Roman ruins.

When Dad’s tour was up, we returned to the states aboard a TWA four engine, three tailed, Lockheed Constellation. We returned via Morocco and the Azores. Think about it: Indiana Jones just started in Indiana.

Having such an unusual birthplace leads to certain paperwork challenges in life. One is job or placement applications that ask for place of birth, usually followed by the obligatory words, City, State.  Here I would respond honestly, Tripoli, Tripolitania. Adding to the challenge was the fact that my father neglected to obtain me a birth certificate. He already had a document for a “Consulate Report of Birth”. He figured this was good enough and besides, a Birth Certificate would cost $3.00.  I accepted these challenges and while having no urge to visit Tripoli again, learned to embrace my birthplace with a sense of humor.

I used to check the box next to ‘African American’ on government forms, and I found out the U.S. Army does not have a sense of humor. When the subject of birthplace came up in a conversation, my answer would frequently lead to a look of confusion on the face of the recipient. To which I would add, “Go to Sicily and hang a right, you can’t miss it”.

As always, check out my website: www.theghosttownhunter.com

Next Time: Early Water Adventures