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tricked by middlemen into becoming indentured for their travel costs and finishing their year in Iraq in a downward spiral of debt. KBR Brown people were mysterious. Almost none of them spoke more than a handful of English phrases (“closed now cleaning time, you wait, no use toilet broken”) and I never encountered them except behind the serving counter or cleaning things.
    The servant assigned to the bank of latrines behind our office was there from morning until late at night. He had a small folding campstool that he sat on, sliding it leftward over the course of the day to keep within the shadow of the latrine bank as the sun moved. Seemingly from the near-constant scrubbing, his right arm was muscled while his left was thin. He was so thorough that our latrines were closed for cleaning a good part of the working day. He smiled at everyone but said nothing. I do not know where he used the latrine himself or if he was subjected to some sort of Dickensian regime where he had to use substandard facilities whilst laboring in ours. One day he was gone, replaced by a younger man who spoke so little English that we never knew if the replacement was a punishment or a promotion for our old guy. It all gave the place a last-days-of-the-Raj feel, when it did not give it a we-are-slave-owners feel.
    KBR Green
    The members of KBR Green were also white but they carried weapons and did security things on the FOB. Most were Americans, with a few exotic Brits and shady South Africans thrown in. Many used to work for Blackwater, which escaped accountability for its alleged evil actions by cleverly changing its name to Xe. Not to their face, most people would call these guys mercs, not contractors, in that they carried weapons on behalf of the US government, sometimes shot at Iraqis, but were not soldiers. This is what the military would look like without its senior NCOs—a frat house with guns. This tribe differentiated itself from the soldiers. They especially favored fingerless leather gloves—think biker gang or Insane Clown Posse fanboys. Popular was a clean-shaven head, no mustache, but a spiky goatee about four inches long teased straight out. You know the look from late-night convenience-store beer runs.
    They walked around like Yosemite Sam, with their arms out as if their very biceps prevented them from standing straight. They were bullies, of course, flirting inappropriately with the women and posturing around the men. Count on them to wear the most expensive Oakley sunglasses and the most unnecessary gear (gold man bracelets, tactical hair gel), a bit like Jersey Shore rejects.
    The tribe worked out in the gym a lot, as did the soldiers. The KBR Green guys, however, ended up huge, ripped, and strong while the soldiers just ended up strong, leading to whispered discussions about large-scale steroid use. Aggressive tattoos on all exposed skin seemed a condition of membership, especially wavy inked patterns around the biceps and on the neck. They all let on that they were former SEALs, Green Berets, SAS men, Legion of Doom members, but they could not talk about it. Nor did they disclose their last names (soldiers, however, only had last names, as in “Tell Smith to get on that”). Instead they tended to go by nicknames like Bulldog, Spider, Red Bull, Wolverine, Smitty, or Sully. Extra credit if you caught one using a nickname left over from Top Gun . If arrogance was contagious they’d all be sneezing. All Aryan, all dudely.
    Other Contractors
    This might have been the most distant, opaque, and self-enclosed tribe of all. There was a group of young Filipino men and women who ran the concessions on the FOB. No one knew how they got there or how they supported themselves with something like an embroidery shop on a military base. They did not engage in conversation for any reason, though all spoke English, perhaps because the women were hit on by the soldiers and contractors approximately ten million