“Really?” I asked, picturing an afternoon of tanning before I jetted off to a country where my shoulder blades would have to be covered.

“Back there is whatever you want it to be, honey—you’re never gonna see it,” he replied.

Going awol at Camp Mirage, I soon learned, was only possible online. In one portable, a computer’s web-browser history revealed a soldier’s loneliness (Casual Kiss: “dating shouldn’t suck”) and unrequited passion (McBride Cycle, a Toronto motorcycle dealership). In the air-conditioned mess hall nearby, an embarrassment of richness was on offer: every dessert you could imagine, as well as fresh fruit, salad, and a daily assortment of North American and Middle Eastern hot dishes. These had inspired one soldier to brag (in a letter quoted in the Globe article) that the mess was “among the top two dining facilities in terms of customer satisfaction in the Canadian Forces.”

Outside, picnic tables were inscribed with the names of men and women who had visited Camp Mirage. On one table, a penknife had scratched out the words, “We don’t care about you or your sacrifices.” But the gift shop told a different story, with its tributes to relationships sacrificed in the line of duty: stuffed camels to bring home to the kids, rows of engagement rings to win forgiveness and lifelong commitment from a long-suffering girlfriend. And a tiara for, well, no one seemed to know. Perhaps it was brought in for a bridal shower or worn on a dare after several dozen “near beers” (on sale for fifty cents each).

After twenty-four hours, I’d spent $2 on beer and 120 soldiers were ready to set off for Kashmir. The rest of Camp Mirage’s visitors were destined for Afghanistan, vacation cruises in the Mediterranean, or a much-needed sojourn home. As we took off from the tarmac, soaring above a miniature model of the world built from carefully constructed islands, the crown jewel of Canadian army bases glimmered below. A mysterious oasis in the desert. Something you had to see to believe.