• 
• CLASS
• JOBS
• AUTO
• HOMES

Leaving Iraq

Considering I lived in Germany when it was still two countries and Europe was prone to border crossings, I figured I could weather a few checkpoints again. Once in 1975 while driving to Spain, French soldiers dismantled my 400 dollar Volkswagen Beetle, left the parts on the road by the guard shack, then lit up cigarettes and laughed. So much for being on the same team. It was like that scene in the Wizard of Oz where the flying monkeys tear apart the Scarecrow. Nothing close to that has happened on either of my trips to Iraq. Yet here there is an affect of small-event accumulation.

Today while heading for the Iraqi border my Assyrian driver suddenly veers toward -- Syria. "Syria better," he said and smiled. I had been through the mountain route enough to know he had made some kind of deviation. Of course my heart sank. Here we go again, another in a long line of lunatic drivers. I thought for a couple miles and then tried to figure out his madness with the couple of Kurdish words I now know. In the mean time cars disappeared off the lonely road and we went though some unfamiliar checkpoints.

As it turns out, he was trying to tell me it was an easier drive along the Syrian border rather than going through the mountains. We passed some conical Yazidi roofs, some Kurdish flags, and busted out into the plain beneath Zakho, Iraq. He was right, it was a better ride -albeit longer. Good thing I did not jump out some where before I figured out what he was up to.

I was moved to three different cars and two drivers before the Taxi Mafia decided which was the right combination to take the American across the border. You have to make sure all your stuff follows you to the next car when they pull that stunt. Remember who has grabbed your passport. It's not that they will steal your stuff - they are all just so distracted with cigarettes, cell phone calls, cutting some deal, and horse play. Let them herd you at your own peril.

The wait on the bridge in the no-mans-land between Iraq and Turkey was four and a half hours. We inched forward. A cold rain began. All the drivers periodically ran back and forth bartering up impatient passengers to cars closer to the Turkish crossing. You can not walk across by the way. You must ride. That is good business for the taxi guys. My diver kept getting wet during his deal-making and would come back to the car to blast the heater - all afternoon. I was already irritated with him because I was required to carry the per-person allowed number of cigarette cartons across for him.

I have been asked at least 100 times by checkpoint guards, "Mister, what your job in America?" Each time I respond that I am a chauffeur and point to the steering wheel. What could possibly be is a better answer when surrounded by the culture-of-taxi-diver? Think about it, what would you say in the same situation? Everyone knows what a chauffeur is, because everyone here is one. Brothers in arms. Besides, I really have been a driver off and on during my life.

"Do you want to ever go back to Iraq?" the Turkish guard dutifully asked me.

"It's hard to travel in Iraq," I loyally answered. Then I added, "There ain't no electricity." So pleased with the answer, the guard told the other guards and they all laughed approvingly.

"Safe travels, Mister," the guard said and sent our car on the way. Then he added, "We usually have electricity here."

My driver took me all the way to Cizre, Turkey. Between Turkish checkpoints along the journey, he performed a feat I have only read about. He passed two eighteen wheelers, on a curve, on a knoll, in the dark, in the rain. It was a sight to behold. He insisted I had to buy him dinner because everyone else in the car dropped off along the way (they ran for their lives).

Escaping from Iraq which included my driver's dinner cost me around 80 Bucks. Of course he dropped me off in front of the nice hotel. The desk man realized what happened and suggested it was too late to go to the cheap place. He let me have a room for half price - still three times what I usually pay.

Tonight I finally surrender - but not to any standing army of an enemy state. Here's to: crazy taxi drivers; checkpoint guards that can't read in any language; police who seem obsessed with my job in America; to a general culture of checkpoints only George Orwell could appreciate; and, finally getting a hotel with hot water and towels. Good night everybody.

Bob Keith
Cizre, Turkey