[Welcome to continuing coverage of my recent trip to Istanbul, southeastern Turkey and northern Iraq. Link below for previous posts.]
The border zone between Turkey and Zakho, in northernmost Iraq, is a bleak expanse of concrete and mud. Major renovations are underway—“they’re making it more like Europe,” our driver, Haji, says in Turkish—but First World conditions are a long way off. We crawl through potholes and huge puddles in our Fiat Doblo minivan, trying to guess what sort of bureaucratic hoops lie ahead. Our previous driver, Husni (Haji’s younger brother), already advised my colleague and I not to tell the Turks that we’re journalists. But Yigal’s Turkish residence permit makes clear he’s not a businessman, so our choices are limited.
Haji holds our passports and all other documentation during this part of the trip. Apparently he needs to obtain a few different automobile clearances along the way. We make it past the first clerk and park next to a squat building with service windows where people are (sort of) lining up. While we wait our turn, a smiling, grey-haired man comes up and gives Haji a warm greeting. It doesn’t take long for the clerk inside to stamp our passports, with barely any questioning. (This is all just to get out of Turkey.) Haji then collects our passports and, to our astonishment, hands them to the grey-haired man, who takes off at a spirited jog across the plaza.
Yes, a strange man has just run away with our passports.
“What what what??!!” Yigal sputters.
“No problem, no problem,” says Haji (in English).
Yigal turns to me and says, “You hear those words a lot in this part of the world.” I have no clue what to think.
Haji coaxes us back into the Fiat and explains that his friend has gone to the duty-free shop to buy cigarettes. (This requires a foreign passport—any foreign passport.) We drive about 100 feet to another office, for another auto permit. Then we pull around and sure enough, there’s the grey-haired man, who graciously hands back our documents. “What do we get out of this?” Yigal mutters.
Off we go to the final Turkish checkpoint. It’s a small booth with three young soldiers. One is aiming his automatic rifle off to the side, probably checking his sights or something. Another approaches the car—he’s 21 at most, average height, olive skin with striking green eyes. “You speak English?” he asks, then presses us for some details.
Yigal tells the kid, “I’m a teacher.” This strategy is news to me, but I play along and say the same. We’re “just visiting” northern Iraq. Who in the world are we kidding?
Doesn’t matter. The soldier says something to Haji in Turkish. Yigal tilts his head back, frustrated. “I don’t believe this. We’re being sent on another errand.” Sure enough, Haji cuts the wheel and turns around. The soldier has told him to go back and buy some Parliament cigarettes. This is no border, it’s the theater of the absurd.
We return to the checkpoint and hand over the cigs. “Teşekkürler” (thank you), says the soldier, and we’re through.
—
We roll onto a two-lane bridge, cross a rushing river, and slow down as we approach a peshmerga sentry in crisp green camouflage and cap. Haji rolls down the window and hands him our paperwork.
“Salaam,” says the guard. We’re not in Turkey anymore.
A moment later he utters something we don’t understand. Then he barks “Come here!” in English. We get out of the car on the double and look back at him. He’s grinning. He points us toward a makeshift office shed, where we find a man in plainclothes sitting at a small desk. He tells us: “We’re asking people if they have any fever, headache, you know, bird flu.” We answer no. “Did you see a bird on your way here?” he asks, flapping his arms. We chuckle nervously as he writes us a doctor’s pass and says, “You are welcome here.”
So far, so good, but then we enter a bigger building across the way, where border officials give us a more substantial grilling. In hindsight we should have dropped the “teachers” routine with the Kurds and told them we were journalists, but live and learn. After a minute or two a young guy brings out a tray of tea, as if to tell us we’ll be there a while. A few minutes more and two men ask us to come with them out to the Fiat. They go through our bags and pepper us with more questions. “Where are you going?” “Zakho.” “This is Zakho. Where are you going?” “Someone is picking us up in the parking area.” “Who?” We thought it best not to name our Iraqi fixer. Thankfully, these guys stopped the hardball once they were satisfied with the bag inspection. They even apologized.
Haji was poker-faced, patient and solidly professional through this whole affair. He drove us into the border complex on the Iraqi side, a hotel/restaurant and large waiting area under heavy guard. More bag inspections, one or two more questions. We set our watches forward one hour and soon enough we were shaking hands with our Iraqi fixer, a 20-something translator and journalist from Halabja. We thanked Haji, changed cars and drove off once again, in the balmy midday sun. A big arch over the highway announced: “Welcome to Kurdistan of Iraq.”
[Go here to read the previous item in this series. Go here to read the next.]
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