BIAP

This is pretty cool. I have been stymied at passport control here in Baghdad. I shouldn’t think it’s cool, considering what I’ve gone through to get here. The off chance that I could be deported after the blood, sweat and tears of my arduous voyage should make me cry. But I guess it’s just another, bigger puzzle. We’ll knock this one out too.

Major Ali (I discovered his name later), asked what I was doing in Iraq. Did I work for the army? Did I work for a contractor? Was I with the government? No to all of the above, I told him. “You a civilian?” he yelped. “Uh-huh.” “Well if you have no invitation from the government and no travel papers, I deport you.” See-ya-bye.

I don’t think I flinched, blanched or gasped – despite never having been threatened with deportation before. “I’ll tell you what. I can call my people who have authorized my travel and they can get a letter out for me. That OK?” “Yes. Go use your phone.” Well, of course, my Irridium phone was sans satellite signal in the terminal. And do you think he was letting me out of this terminal? Does Osama bin Laden floss after brushing?

So, on a lark, I decided to try my cell phone. Of course, I hadn’t activated international coverage on the account (the Cingular guy quoted me 3.49/min. for Syria, 2.49/min. for Iraq – and that’s with the plan). I knew I was getting Irridium satellite voice for 1.89/min. I figured I’d be fine with that and promptly dismissed the idea of extra, overlapping coverage. The attempt to dial my Treo in this moment was mandated by the crisis nature of things. I was being deported! But the seed was probably planted when Halad was zipping through Damascus, trying to find a money exchange dealer. I was very preoccupied with the time because our flight was 30 minutes away from departure. I turned my phone on to see if I could access local network time. (Even if the other services don’t work, you can almost always get local network time) And what showed up but a text message from the Mayor of Saint Paul. “Where U @ boy?” Interesting. I get text messages in Damascus. This could be useful. I wondered if I could still get voice service. Then I thought I vaguely remembered about the Cingular guy saying I’d still get a network signal without the added service, but the air charges would be much more. Well, charges-schmarges. I was being deported unless I could cook something up pronto. I phoned the individual I’ll refer to from here on out as Pocahontas. I cleverly though to dial the country code first, as was required on the Irridium. Oh, so clever. It was ringing! I felt like Clark Griswold when he got the little twinkling Christmas lights to work. Pocahontas answered, even at 7:45 a.m.

I relied on two other individuals to do the research on this piece (you know who you are and you’ll get what’s coming to you), and they both swore to me that “citizens of coalition force nations did not need a visa for Iraq. Further, the documents I had indicated that the embassy was not currently issuing passports – which was I was really hoping did not meant they weren’t letting anyone in. I mean, since when does anybody but the host country issue a visa? (Live and learn, I guess) There have been over 70,000 foreign civilian contractors come through here, and countless members of the press who have “credentials” from neither the army nor the government. It was not until much later that these press contacts almost always got their permission to enter from the Iraqi Mission in D.C. The State Department would prefer that the press stay out as well. Hmmm.

It is 8:27 a.m. in Saint Paul. This means I’ve now gone two nights without sleep. Also, 10 hours since I brushed my teeth, 13 hours since I’ve eaten, 3 days since I have bathed and 7 weeks since I’ve shaved. Even if I made it to a hotel room now, it would take a couple of days to dribble out of the jetlag. I have been sitting on my little bench, here. And I’ve been instructed to speak with “Major Ali” – or the Great and Powerful Oz, whomever gets here first. I’ve been told three times that he is on his way.

Major Ali showed up first. I asked for his fax number so I could send the “credentials.” “We have no fax machine,” he shot back, “You blew it up in the war.” Ooooooh. Sore spot. Step away ever so slowly. “He has it in a pdf,” I said, “is there an e-mail he could send it to?” “Yes – oooooh no. All the e-mail people have gone home. You would have to send it to my home e-mail.” Huh? Yep. Major Ali has a yahoo mail account. No hard line phones around here, no fax machine, no

He was kind of gruff and unaccommodating until he saw my Treo 650 smartphone. I showed it to him to make sure I got his e-mail address correct before I texted it to my stateside contact. “Ooooh, what’s this?” he grinned. I gave him the nickel tour. He explained that his e-mail address was composed of the first names of his daughters. I then showed him pictures of Alice which I have on the Treo. Then he said, “I’ll check the e-mail in two hours and then we’ll let you go.” Hooh. That sounded promising.

I must say, sitting here is very peaceful – much better than Damascus. At that airport there were people milling about all over the place. It felt very unfriendly. Here, Major Ali (even though he was trying to deport me) is better to deal with. When a plane arrives and everyone shuffles through immigration, the place is abuzz with life: people all on their cell phones making arrangements with contacts and security. But when they’re gone the whole area suddenly empties, and it is so quiet. I was due for some quiet. I think I am in the eye of the storm. Then again, maybe it’s just that I am succumbing to physical and mental fatigue.

Not being sure of whether I would get in, I went out on the tarmac and took some pictures of the only Iraq I may see this year.