Deported!

What a long, strange trip it’s been. I slept very poorly that night. The terminal was blazing hot, I had a chair to sleep in, I was paranoid of being burgled (I slept with one arm through the strap of each backpack), I was jet-lagged, my teeth needed to be brushed, I had no money (that was worth anything) and I needed a shower – badly.

I woke up with what felt like a #5 on the worst hangovers of my life. And I hadn’t even had a sip of the Dalwhinnie yet. I felt pretty sure I was going to vomit if I moved around too much. I looked at the trash-can-sized ash tray next to me (the one I had been smelling all night) and wondered if that would hold what I had to give. I figured I must have been dehydrated. But I had no money to buy any water so I was SOL on that front too. An immigration officer came to fetch me. “Did you sleep well?” he asked. I said, “If I tell you ‘yes’ will you give me a visa?” He laughed. “Come with me,” he said with a smile.

I went back down to immigration where I had been all day yesterday. The smiling agent (I will call him Rob – short for Rob Lowe, because he was kind of a pretty-boy Iraqi) asked me to sit in Major Ali’s office. photo “Major Ali will be here shortly,” he said. “How long?” “10 minutes,” was the answer, And so I waited. One hour, several more inquiries, and my patience, had passed. My contact in the states had sent the pdf “credentials,” which I was sure Major Ali had already received on account of last night’s agent telling me “the contract” had been approved. Eventually, Major Ali showed up. He was wearing a black leather jacket, khaki pants, and a very tacky orange disco shirt. [note: I would have loved to have gotten pictures of some of these characters, but NOBODY let’s you take pictures of them in this country; there’s a war on, everyone’s paranoid, security precautions, basic suspicion of me, etc.] Before I could say hello, Major Ali said, “I checked my e-mail when I got home last night and there was nothing.”

I could actually feel my heart shrink inside my chest. The only sliver of hope that had kept me going throughout the last 20 hours in this hellish airport was my knowledge that the “contract” had already been approved and that I would receive my visa in the morning. I stammered. I was sure my contact was reliable, “Would you check it again from here?” “Yes, I will check,” he said. Another hour of waiting.

I sat in the little office with nothing to do. I tried to write, but I still felt sick. I wondered what I would do if I got deported. I had told everyone I was going to Iraq. Somehow, 24 hours in the airport wasn’t going to cut it. It’s probably equivalent to saying major combat operations are over or “Mission Accomplished.” I was pacing in Major Ali’s office when I saw him walking WITH A PIECE OF PAPER IN HIS HAND! I was on edge. It was like watching the Prize Patrol come to the door of some unsuspecting retired couple who probably didn’t need the money anyway. He walked in and said, “This is not good enough, you need an official letter from the U.S. Embassy in Baghdad.” “Please,” I told him, “cut me some slack, here. I’m not exactly in tip top shape. I haven’t had anything to drink since last night, and it’s really hot in here. I also really need to clean up. He handed me the half-empty grape Gatorade he was drinking, “For you.” I don’t remember ever being so grateful for a gift.

Ali’s hospitality or not, I was ska-rooed. I’m sure the State Department is all about private U.S. citizens waltzing around Baghdad. The options poured through my head. I asked Major Ali, “If you deport me, where do you send me?” He said, “Back where you came from, Damascus.” Ugh. That wasn’t going to be pretty. But at least I had a contact there now. “What if I wanted to fly somewhere else, like Amman or Kuwait, could I go there?” “Sure,” he said, “anywhere you can buy a ticket that isn’t Iraq.” I got back on the horn to my state-side contact. It was 2 a.m. there now, but I wasn’t in a good mood. “I need the phone number for the U.S. Embassy in Baghdad,” I told him. “Huh?” He was still waking up. “I’m serious, check the web, they’re deporting my ass.” I thought they guy over there approved everything.” “Yeah, me too, but now he said it’s not good enough and he won’t let me in without a letter from the Embassy.” My contact said, “I’ll call you back.” I waited a short while, and he came through. There were two numbers for the Consular Office at the U.S. Embassy in Baghdad. I called the first number he gave me and went through to an extension.

“Hello?” “Hello, this is John Lesch. I am at the Baghdad airport and I need an approval letter from the Embassy to be let in the country.” “Mr. Lesch!” “Yes?” “All of us down here have heard of you!” Great. I was such a genius for giving the interview before I left. “How in the world did you get a flight into Baghdad?” I told him I just bought a charter ticket from Damascus. “So, ah, great,” I said, “Do I get the letter?” “Mr. Lesch, hang on a second while I talk with someone.” OK. Dum de dum de dum. I still had no idea what I was paying per minute for this phone call. “Mr. Lesch?” He was back on. “Yeah.” “Sorry to keep you waiting…unfortunately, we are unable to help you at this time. We do not let private American citizens into Iraq…” He said a bunch of other stuff too, but I wasn’t listening anymore.

The embassy official (I shall dub him “Scooter” from here on out) seemed like a nice enough guy, but I already hated him for tanking my plans – even though I was sure it wasn’t his call. “So how about journalists?” I asked him. They always get in. Scooter said that journalists who enter Iraq do not do so at the invitation of the U.S. government, they receive permission through the Iraqi Mission in Washington D.C. and that they, of course, go through “all the proper channels” to obtain them. “Uh huh.” (another thumbs-up to my crack researchers) But there was my angle! I decided right then that I would fly to Amman, Jordan where I could make some calls and find a way to get permission from the Iraqi Mission. It was probably going to cost me at least another $1200 in airfare and hotel, but it would be worth it.

My other option was to stall Major Ali with some bullshit the-check-is-in-the-mail story and wait in immigration while I made the calls. But I was miserable beyond belief. I so needed some food, some rest and to clean up. It would definitely be worth the $1200 - $1700 just for that. Besides that, these phone calls back to the states were always such a pain, because when I called there during the day everyone was sleeping, and if they tried to call someone back here, business hours were over (or not open yet). On account of this and other things, including language barriers, the arrangements would likely take several days.

Scooter was still talking. He asked if Major Ali was there and if he could talk with him. “Hell, no,” I thought. He’s probably going to make sure Ali closes off any potential wiggling angles for me. Forget it. I told him I would call him when I saw Major Ali come around again. Of course, I had no intention of doing so.

I had been dejected, but now I had a new focus. All a part of the game, baby. Let’s reshuffle and ante-up. I went and told Major Ali I wanted to book a flight to Jordan. “OK OK OK,” he said, “give me moment. I get someone to take you upstairs for tickets.” After some initial wrangling (and another hour or so – nothing happens pronto in this place), I was brought to the counter of Royal Jordanian Airlines (RJA). Now remember, no one in this land takes anything but cash, so I told Major Ali that he had to deport me with someone who took credit cards. The RJA people were incredibly friendly. They were able to take my credit card. $475 U.S. for a one-way to Amman. Done. Let’s roll.