BIAP: Terminal
There is so much to write and so little time. I came here to collect some stories, and my God, am I getting a stomach-full. Every time I shut down my notebook a new set of strange and foreign circumstances crops up. I can’t keep up with them.
I am still in the BIAP, both generally and precisely. BIAP (Baghdad International Airport) is both the airport itself and a designated security zone surrounding the airport, which includes Camp Stryker and Camp Victory. No one gets in or our without going through a checkpoint. And since it is dark outside, no one travels outside the checkpoints unless he’s an insurgent doing dark deeds.
My passport has been missing since 5 p.m. when Major Ali supposedly approved the “contract” and his man took it for safekeeping until the visa was signed. I had understood the ETA to be 9 or 10 p.m. But now I am realizing that my host probably meant in the a.m.
After spending an arduous 4 hours on the hard fiberglass seats in passport control, I was summoned upstairs. The immigration officer told me to get something from the café if I needed to (I still didn’t have any money and there was no method of exchange at the terminal), and to relax on the benches.
I sat on one of the benches and happened to hear the three guys across from me speaking English – two with American accents, one with a Norwegian. After 10 minutes of conversation, I popped in,
“Mind if I ask you guys a question?”
“Sure, mate.”
“What’s the safest way for me to get into Baghdad?”
“Well, who are you with?”
“I’m with me.”
The two Americans, Ethan Hansen and “Chuck” (both pseudonyms) are two former U.S. Army guys who now contract for Global, a British Security Company here in Baghdad. Global also has the contract to run BIAP. Ethan and Chuck were incredulous that I had no contact here, no security arranged, no contract with a translator, no plan on how to get into Baghdad. I told them I was a reporter, of sorts, but that my angle on the story was to come here specifically without all that, to peer under the tablecloth, so-to-speak. They said that all the reporters they know have full PSDs (personal security details) and armored transport contracted with some agency. I told them I’m not that kind of reporter. Chuck smiled a wide grin, “They grow ‘em all like you in Minnesota? God damn, boy.”
But Ethan, though still smiling, wagged his finger at me, “You don’t flash Iraq, dude. You flash Iceland, Algeria, China – hell, even parts of Columbia. But you don’t go cold into this place.”
I know in my first post to this blog I said I’d mix with the locals and “sleep where they sleep,” etc. Well, I’ve been off U.S. soil for 3 days, and after my conversations with Ethan and Chuck, I have slightly modified my plans.
Some of the highlights of their talk:
On checkpoints:
- You act funny at one you get shot
- You approach too fast, you get shot.
On traveling:
- DO NOT go anywhere with just a local. Have a gringo (westerner) with you at all times. The people here make $30/week. I don’t care how much they like you, they’ll sell you out in a heartbeat. Just information on your whereabouts is worth enough to feed their family for a month.
- Do not go ANYWHERE alone.
On the Iraqi police:
- Half of them are insurgents. Do not trust them.
- Do not go anywhere with them. They take you somewhere, you’re gone forever. Allahu Akbar.
Their whole talk reminded me of Ernest Borgnine’s speech to the new privates in All Quiet on the Western Front. They didn’t pull any punches. Here I am, indeed, on a battlefield. There may be no shells flying overhead, and I may not type by candlelight and tracer fire, but the tension of war is palpable all around me. This place has attracted soldiers of fortune from all over the globe – to both sides of the fight. They’re all around you here. And it feels like a combat zone, even if you don’t hear bullets whizzing by your ear in the airport terminal. Everyone is on edge. Everyone is paranoid.
I asked them about getting a hotel. “I’d like a nice hotel,” I said, “just for one night so I can clean up and regroup after 3 days of travel with so sleep and no shower – something to un-jetlag me.” “There are no nice hotels in Baghdad,” Chuck said, “You probably want The Palestine or The Sheraton – that’s where a lot of the reporters stay. They’re both in the Red Zone. There’s only one hotel in the Green Zone – the Al Rasheed.” So now I had a destination. And based on their descriptions, the Red Zone sounded a lot more fun than the Green Zone. I was headed for The Palestine…provided, of course, that I could get my visa, and find secure transport, etc. etc.
Later, Ethan and Chuck ran back from their gate to each get a photo taken with me. I got the sense they thought it would be worth something someday – and not in a good way. They wouldn’t let me take one with them. Smiling, Chuck said, “No offense, John, we just don’t trust reporters.” They wished me luck and told me I had “Bigger balls than most of the folks around here.” It was meant as a compliment, so I took it as one. They hopped on their outbound flight with a, “Stay safe, friend.” Those words are common parting salutations in Baghdad. A little ironic, considering who is usually mouthing them: soldiers, hostage investigators, private security contractors, diplomats and even many of the locals. Very few of them are here in Baghdad because they chose the quiet life.
After Ethan and Chuck left I was alone again. Their flight was the only one that was boarding, so the terminal became mostly empty. They had told me to ask for the shift leader for Global. “It’ll be a Gringo,” they said. And, in fact, it was. Tom & Antoine, both Australian (I’m pretty sure), swung by as it was getting late. They looked to be very curious about me. I was a novelty – waltzing into a gunfight and waving a pen and notepad. They asked why I didn’t buy any food before the little café closed. “I have travelers’ checks and credit cards,” I said. They didn’t even laugh. Well, mate, get some rest here. You’re not going anywhere tonight. Nobody would drive you down Route Irish after dark even if you flew in with the Mona Lisa.” Later, another Global employee named Emir brought me a bag of pita bread, some beef-a-roni looking thing and two bottles of water. I devoured it all. I couldn’t believe it. Here was Lesch, relying on the charity of strangers. And I was so grateful.
I hung out on the couches in the terminal for awhile. They were actually very comfortable, but the terminal thermostat was set at about 80 degrees. I am not exaggerating this. It was tropical temperature in there. As I was trying to get comfortable, there was a shift change for Global. Two young Iraqi men, Muntadar and Ali, reported to the guard desk to start their shift. They had a lot of questions for me.
I am still in the BIAP, both generally and precisely. BIAP (Baghdad International Airport) is both the airport itself and a designated security zone surrounding the airport, which includes Camp Stryker and Camp Victory. No one gets in or our without going through a checkpoint. And since it is dark outside, no one travels outside the checkpoints unless he’s an insurgent doing dark deeds.
My passport has been missing since 5 p.m. when Major Ali supposedly approved the “contract” and his man took it for safekeeping until the visa was signed. I had understood the ETA to be 9 or 10 p.m. But now I am realizing that my host probably meant in the a.m.
After spending an arduous 4 hours on the hard fiberglass seats in passport control, I was summoned upstairs. The immigration officer told me to get something from the café if I needed to (I still didn’t have any money and there was no method of exchange at the terminal), and to relax on the benches.
I sat on one of the benches and happened to hear the three guys across from me speaking English – two with American accents, one with a Norwegian. After 10 minutes of conversation, I popped in,
“Mind if I ask you guys a question?”
“Sure, mate.”
“What’s the safest way for me to get into Baghdad?”
“Well, who are you with?”
“I’m with me.”
The two Americans, Ethan Hansen and “Chuck” (both pseudonyms) are two former U.S. Army guys who now contract for Global, a British Security Company here in Baghdad. Global also has the contract to run BIAP. Ethan and Chuck were incredulous that I had no contact here, no security arranged, no contract with a translator, no plan on how to get into Baghdad. I told them I was a reporter, of sorts, but that my angle on the story was to come here specifically without all that, to peer under the tablecloth, so-to-speak. They said that all the reporters they know have full PSDs (personal security details) and armored transport contracted with some agency. I told them I’m not that kind of reporter. Chuck smiled a wide grin, “They grow ‘em all like you in Minnesota? God damn, boy.”
But Ethan, though still smiling, wagged his finger at me, “You don’t flash Iraq, dude. You flash Iceland, Algeria, China – hell, even parts of Columbia. But you don’t go cold into this place.”
I know in my first post to this blog I said I’d mix with the locals and “sleep where they sleep,” etc. Well, I’ve been off U.S. soil for 3 days, and after my conversations with Ethan and Chuck, I have slightly modified my plans.
Some of the highlights of their talk:
On checkpoints:
- You act funny at one you get shot
- You approach too fast, you get shot.
On traveling:
- DO NOT go anywhere with just a local. Have a gringo (westerner) with you at all times. The people here make $30/week. I don’t care how much they like you, they’ll sell you out in a heartbeat. Just information on your whereabouts is worth enough to feed their family for a month.
- Do not go ANYWHERE alone.
On the Iraqi police:
- Half of them are insurgents. Do not trust them.
- Do not go anywhere with them. They take you somewhere, you’re gone forever. Allahu Akbar.
Their whole talk reminded me of Ernest Borgnine’s speech to the new privates in All Quiet on the Western Front. They didn’t pull any punches. Here I am, indeed, on a battlefield. There may be no shells flying overhead, and I may not type by candlelight and tracer fire, but the tension of war is palpable all around me. This place has attracted soldiers of fortune from all over the globe – to both sides of the fight. They’re all around you here. And it feels like a combat zone, even if you don’t hear bullets whizzing by your ear in the airport terminal. Everyone is on edge. Everyone is paranoid.
I asked them about getting a hotel. “I’d like a nice hotel,” I said, “just for one night so I can clean up and regroup after 3 days of travel with so sleep and no shower – something to un-jetlag me.” “There are no nice hotels in Baghdad,” Chuck said, “You probably want The Palestine or The Sheraton – that’s where a lot of the reporters stay. They’re both in the Red Zone. There’s only one hotel in the Green Zone – the Al Rasheed.” So now I had a destination. And based on their descriptions, the Red Zone sounded a lot more fun than the Green Zone. I was headed for The Palestine…provided, of course, that I could get my visa, and find secure transport, etc. etc.
Later, Ethan and Chuck ran back from their gate to each get a photo taken with me. I got the sense they thought it would be worth something someday – and not in a good way. They wouldn’t let me take one with them. Smiling, Chuck said, “No offense, John, we just don’t trust reporters.” They wished me luck and told me I had “Bigger balls than most of the folks around here.” It was meant as a compliment, so I took it as one. They hopped on their outbound flight with a, “Stay safe, friend.” Those words are common parting salutations in Baghdad. A little ironic, considering who is usually mouthing them: soldiers, hostage investigators, private security contractors, diplomats and even many of the locals. Very few of them are here in Baghdad because they chose the quiet life.
After Ethan and Chuck left I was alone again. Their flight was the only one that was boarding, so the terminal became mostly empty. They had told me to ask for the shift leader for Global. “It’ll be a Gringo,” they said. And, in fact, it was. Tom & Antoine, both Australian (I’m pretty sure), swung by as it was getting late. They looked to be very curious about me. I was a novelty – waltzing into a gunfight and waving a pen and notepad. They asked why I didn’t buy any food before the little café closed. “I have travelers’ checks and credit cards,” I said. They didn’t even laugh. Well, mate, get some rest here. You’re not going anywhere tonight. Nobody would drive you down Route Irish after dark even if you flew in with the Mona Lisa.” Later, another Global employee named Emir brought me a bag of pita bread, some beef-a-roni looking thing and two bottles of water. I devoured it all. I couldn’t believe it. Here was Lesch, relying on the charity of strangers. And I was so grateful.
I hung out on the couches in the terminal for awhile. They were actually very comfortable, but the terminal thermostat was set at about 80 degrees. I am not exaggerating this. It was tropical temperature in there. As I was trying to get comfortable, there was a shift change for Global. Two young Iraqi men, Muntadar and Ali, reported to the guard desk to start their shift. They had a lot of questions for me.
posted by John Lesch at 12:14 AM
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