[This is the penultimate post in my Iraqi Kurdistan series. Visit my April 2006 archives for the complete list of entries. Thanks very much for your interest!]
On Friday, March 24 it was time to leave Suleimaniya, in Iraqi Kurdistan, and head back to the Turkish border. In normal circumstances it’s a four-hour drive, but it takes six to bypass the war zones of Kirkuk and Mosul. Our fixer hooked us up with a cab driver named Hadi. Against our better judgment, we offered to share the ride with a Turk we’d met at our hotel, a man I’ll call Suley K.
We departed at 7 a.m. and were on the road only an hour when Hadi and Suley began arguing about the fare. Hadi pulled over, got out of the car and called our fixer, then handed the phone to Yigal. “The man is being very rude,” our fixer said. Yigal apologized for the mess and said he’d take care of it. We drove off again. Hadi directed some harsh-sounding words at Suley in Kurdish. They were quiet for about an hour, but before long the two were making small talk and laughing. Problem solved.
We made it to Zakho and the border plaza by around 12 noon, where we met back up with our man Haji, who we began referring to as Haji Bear. (Go here for an account of our initial border crossing.) After securing the necessary auto permits, we took our place in a line of cars that did not appear to be moving anytime soon. Trucks were in a different lane, in a line that stretched for miles. Finally we began crawling across a small bridge over rushing rapids, with the Turkish border in plain sight. But we sat on that bridge for nearly four hours in the hot and hazy sun, with trucks belching exhaust in our faces and Suley K complaining all the while. (To be fair, he bought us water and Pepsi.)
Turkish troops were checking cars three at a time; they had a table full of tools, ready to dismantle parts, slice into upholstery, whatever was necessary. When we finally pulled up, a young soldier flipped through our passports and said, “USA, Man!!” He spoke English excitedly, in a thick Australian accent. Another soldier, when he heard that I live in Manhattan, asked if I’d ever been to Port Jefferson, Long Island (he’d lived there for two years). We told the first guy we were journalists and he replied, “You shouldn’t have said that, because now I’ve gotta get your details. But that’s OK, it’ll give me something to do.”
He took us to a side office and began jotting things about our backgrounds on a sheet of paper. When we explained we were freelancers and didn’t work for a specific publication, he crumpled up the sheet and tossed it in the garbage. Then he let us go.
We set our watches back one hour and headed to Silopi, the first city in Turkey. There we reunited with Husni, Haji’s younger brother, the one who first picked us up in Diyarbakir. He looked like he was ready to go to a club—sharp clothes, gelled hair. We put our bags in the trunk and Suley K followed suit. Husni looked at Suley as if to say, “Who the hell are you?” Another argument ensued. Haji Bear, ever the silent type, had agreed to take Suley across the border without comment. But Husni had more of an edge; we could tell he wouldn’t get along with Suley at all. The argument heated up. Yigal and I thought it best to just get in the car. We were completely exhausted, and Suley had caused enough trouble. He could sort this out for himself—we were parked right in front of a taxi stand. Thirty seconds more shouting, as street children knocked on the car windows and asked for handouts. Then Husni got in the car and we drove off.
I was relieved to be back in Turkey—although as Michael Totten reports here, southeast Anatolia is no wonderland. Judging from his account, the situation has deteriorated considerably in the short time since we passed through. Two Turkish soldiers were killed by a mine on April 8, and bombs have exploded in Ordu and Diyarbakir. Two more Turkish soldiers and 12 PKK guerrillas died in an April 10 firefight. I was aware of PKK-related tensions in the area, and like Totten, I found the town of Cizre vaguely scary, but I did not encounter the stomach-churning atmosphere that he describes. Not that we lingered long enough to get a true sense of the place (although we passed a big formation of Turkish tanks on a hill just outside Cizre). It also helped that we were with a Turkish driver. The Jandarma were much more aggressive at night than during the day (which is when we first came through). But the soldiers only questioned Husni; they seemed uninterested in his two passengers. The Turkish checkpoints were decidedly more lax than in northern Iraq. Maybe that’s no longer the case.
To me, sitting in the front passenger seat, the most dangerous thing seemed to be the speed demon behind the wheel. Bless his heart, Husni is a Turkish driver—not reckless, but not safe in any way I’m used to. In Turkey, extreme tailgating appears to be a national sport. Winding roads in the dark at 80 mph or more? No problem. Passing on the left, despite the presence of oncoming cars? No problem. By the time we pulled up to the airport in Diyarbakir, I was thinking, “Get me out of this car and into a plane.” And I’m a nervous flyer.
We landed in Istanbul just after 1 a.m. and I was in bed by 2:30. The trip from Suleimaniya had taken the better part of 24 hours. We drove to avoid paying the expensive airfare from Istanbul to Erbil. Now we wondered whether we should have spent the money. But every hitch made the overland trip more interesting.
I slept until 11 a.m. the next day and then met up with Yigal and his daughter for lunch. I had penne arrabiata. I think it was one of the best meals of my life. Suddenly Istanbul felt like the lap of luxury.
[Go here to read the previous item in this series. Go here to read the next.]
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