Eleven other mechanics and I walked in a sloppy line down the sidewalk, a busy road on one side and a barbed wire-topped fence on the other. We had just passed through the armed front gate of Incirlik, a military air base in south-central Turkey, and were headed to the Alley, a shabby shopping area seemingly just for American troops temporarily assigned to the base. It's 1998 and we were at Incirlik for a 3-month TDY putting air pressure on Iraq's Saddam Hussein.
Adams, a crew chief who apparently had done the tour before led the line. "Let's go, you fucks. If we're late, the bus will take off without us," he hollered after he'd spun around to address the group. He spun again and picked up his own pace, forcing the rest of us to almost jog to keep up.
"We're going on a tour of a town and into a fucking cave," another crew chief, Gonzales, muttered to me as we trailed at the end. "What's the hurry?"
"Because you already paid your $30, and it's gone if we show or not. Just be glad you're off the base for a change. Maybe you'll learn something about this country instead of just drinking its beer," I said.
The group crossed a set of railroad tracks and entered the main part of the Alley. We passed several jewelry and clothing stores before stopping at a popular carpet store named Ali's Magic Carpets. A dirty and dented 13-passenger bus sat at the curb with its doors open.
Adams disappeared inside the store. He emerged a minute later with a beer in his hand from the store's owner. 'How can these guys drink so early?' I wondered. The owner looked to his right at a man sitting at a small cafe table drinking cup of tea. The man acknowledged the owner, took a last drink, and walked to the driver's side of the bus.
"This is Ohmed," the owner explained to our group. "He will take you on your tour. If you are nice to him, perhaps he will make a special last stop. Enjoy!" He smiled, waved, and reentered his store.
All twelve of us piled into the bus. Just before the last door closed, another local man slid in four cases of Turkish beer. It was common knowledge that the alcohol content of the country's beer apparently wasn't well regulated. Sometimes you could drink a six-pack and just have to piss a lot, and other times just two bottles knocked you out.
The van started up and careened down the Alley's main drag and onto some local roads, and I grimaced that one case of beer was emptied before we hit the first stop in the nearby town of Adana. After filling up on breakfast food at a little café we got back in the bus and headed west.
The route took us through the biblical town of Tarsus with all its white apartment buildings that reminded me of the pictures I had seen of Beirut on TV. We continued west, passing through Mersin before the road ran right next to the coast of the Med.
The beer kept flowing and the guys became more rambunctious and louder. Over the three hours after leaving the Alley we had stopped at a cave in a canyon called, "Heaven and Hell," and at an offshore castle ruin called, "Castle by the Sea."
At this next to last stop, we ate dinner at a cafe on the beach, downing shots with lamb gyros. Just when I thought they had drank enough for the day, half the group ordered more, then suddenly leaped up from the table and bolted in a screaming mob towards the water. Some jumped in canoes, others in paddle boats, and a few dove into the waves to swim the quarter mile out to the castle.
I groaned at the sight from my spot on a nearby fishing jetty. As the ranking member on the tour, and at 35 the oldest, I had decided I better stay behind on land for any damage control. Twenty minutes later several guys were precariously perched on the tops of the castle's exterior walls and I dreaded the worst and hoped this would be the last concern of the day.
Soon we were in the van and on the road heading back to the base. Finally relaxed, I enjoyed the scenery and welcomed the drunken quietness of the group. Suddenly I perked up and watched as we detoured off the highway and into the parking lot of a nondescript one-story brick building. No sooner had we parked than did everyone dash out the door, including the driver with the van's keys, and jog thirty yards to the building's front door. They had left their wallets and other valuables on the bus and decided that it was my duty to watch them while the guys played in what I soon learned was a brothel.
I sat sideways on one of the rear benches of the minibus, alone, alternately staring at the brothel's front doors through the back window and then at the interior. A few bottles lay sideways on seats amidst the jackets left behind by the dozen or so mechanics, all guys, and all currently inside the nearby building. I knew their wallets, and, more importantly, their military IDs, lay beneath the jackets, less the small wad of U.S. twenties they would need for their time inside.
Outside it had grown dark and the property was poorly lit. I could see the outline of the building as a regular stream of cars entered or left the large dirt parking lot, their headlights illuminating the one-story windowless structure. It reminded me of a laundromat back in the States, or a dumpy thrift store. No signs, no landscaping, and trash strewn everywhere.
For the clientele of this fine establishment, none of that was needed. Men for miles around, and their wives, knew exactly what business transpired within the walls of the nondescript building.
When the first hour had passed, I grew concerned. Were they OK? How safe was the place? How much longer would they be?
After another 30 minutes, I stood up and stuffed my wallet into my backpack after removing $60. I had no intent to buy what was being sold but did not want to go in empty-handed if I was challenged.
I locked the bus's side door from the inside and closed it tightly and checked the others before walking to the entrance. I had to speed up to avoid a moving car, then stopped to look at the double glass entry doors. It looked like an old K-Mart or something.
I moved closer and looked through the dirty smudgy glass. I couldn't see much, so after a deep breath I opened the door and stepped inside. The entrance opened into a long hallway, much like a hotel corridor, with doorways on each side. The carpet was well worn from the thousands of men who had trudged up and down it over the years, looking for the right woman, or at least an open room. It was a dump: barren walls, solitary bulbs dangling from the ceiling. Every door handle was dimpled, the brass wore off from oily hands.
I smelled the stale air and picked up traces of wine, perfume, sweat, and sex. By the number of doors, and what I knew was another wing going off to the right at the end of the hall, there must have been a hundred rooms. So much sex, so much money, and so much danger.
I looked at the dozen or so men plying the halls. As expected, they represented the locals well. Some in dirty jeans and wool shirts, others in more urban dress, and a few in nice suits. None made eye contact with the American still standing at the door.
A second class of people were obviously bouncers - more aptly, guards. They wore holsters at their side and looked like someone you didn't want a run-in with. One looked me over, considered me non-threatening, and moved back down the hall.
Finally, I spotted a few of my guys, and grabbed the nearest one. "Hey, Gonzo, what are you doing? Are you guys almost done?"
"Hell no! I'm looking for my third bitch. At least another hour," Sergeant Gonzales replied.
