Out of the Frying Pan, Into the Fire
(Note: Let me preface this post, for some of my confused readers, with an explanation. I did post, earlier, about my arrival in Baghdad. That was not propoganda. Much of what happened was a concentrated series of events of which I was unable to post right away, or was delayed due to internet access problems. Since then, I have been posting on a delay for those reasons specifically - and, generally, to mask my actual location from anyone who may be following this blog from Baghdad. I will offer an explanation for this latter point in a subsequent post.)
I was walking my way to the gate, ticket in hand, dejected about my temporary setback in being deported, but looking forward, actually, to a long-awaited shower and rest – and maybe some food and some real cash to pay for it with. As I approached the line to board, a man stepped in front of me, “John?” he asked in a heavy Arabic accent. He had on a Greg Brady shirt which he must have borrowed from Major Ali. “Yes” I responded. I was a little impatient, considering all the jockeying. He thrust a cell phone toward me, “For you.” Who the hell is calling me on someone else’s cell phone at the gate of my plane in Baghdad, right before I was deported?
“Hello, this is John Lesch.” “This is General Yashim Yassir, Director of Immigration and Citizenship.” “In Baghdad?” I was quite confused at this point. “For all of Iraq,” he replied curtly. “Oh,” was all I could muster. “What do you want?” He asked, “Do you want to enter Iraq?” “Well, yes,” I stammered, “I would love to enter Iraq.” “Then I grant you permission. I give you visa. Major Ali has been instructed to give you the necessary forms.” Clearly, one of my inquiries had been fruitful, but I wasn’t quite sure which one at that point, and I also wondered how he hit so close to the top of the totem pole in this land. I handed the phone back to Johnny Bravo and turned around in a nonplussed haze.
I made the necessary apologies to the helpful folks at RJA and they were able to cancel my ticket and the credit card transaction. I then went downstairs to have my visa processed. While I was waiting, I called another number that Chuck and Ethan had given me. “Mick” the Australian answered. He seemed suspect of me. Sheesh, who wouldn’t be? I was quickly learning that nobody in this place had ever met another person who was attempting to do what I did. “We are only authorized to provide secure transport to our contract clients,” he said. Okaaaaaay. Check that one off.
While I was waiting, I also made contact with a young British woman (Margaret) who was processing another crew which was ready to go through immigration. She worked for one of the contracting companies and it was her job to herd the cattle through the airport to their assignments. “You arranging rides?” I asked her. “No,” she said, “These folks are all going on the Rhino (armored bus transport which takes you to the Green Zone), but you’d have to get yourself to Camp Stryker to get on that.” Turrns out the Rhino idn't leave for awhile. There goes another day. Plus, I’d also have to find someone to get me over to Camp Stryker, which was within the BIAP checkpoint (a secure zone) but it still wasn’t walk-able. Argh. I asked her if I had any other options.
That’s when she told me that she’d seen some Xenophon guys outside the airport. “They’re waiting out there with a column of armored vehicles, waiting for their principal” she told me. I might check with them, see if they’d give me a lift. “I’d make an inquiry for you,” she said, “But I don’t talk to those Xenophon guys.” She said it with disgust in her voice. Hmmm. Do the hurdles never end? Well, I was in a war zone. I knew this was not going to be a walk in the park. Then my phone rang. It was Mick the Australian again. “I guess we are able to help out,” he said. “We can provide an armored convoy, full security detail, for transport to the Green Zone, for $8000 U.S.” A bargain, I thought. I asked him if he had anything in the economy range, something less than the full monty. He laughed. “Well,” he replied “there’s no one here who would drive Route Irish with anything less than that.” I told him I was still waiting for my visa to be processed, but that I would get back to him. He told me not to wait too long, because they only transport during daylight hours. This was already interesting. Some wont drive during the day. Some wont drive in the dark. What gives? One more mystery.
When I got off the phone, Margaret was joking around with Major Ali. “Do you know Ali?” she asked, “He’s a great guy.” “Great guy?” I said with a smile, “He just tried to deport me!” Major Ali took my passport/visa from me and jokingly made like he was going to tear it up in front of me for such an insult. He truly did try to take care of me. I am sure he did whatever was in his power – even beyond giving me his Gatorade.
I was sorry to say goodbye to Major Ali. When he had first arrived that morning in his ugly shirt, he let me sit in his office, with its cushioned couch, rather than have to relocate again to the fiberglass benches out in the immigration processing area. One of the first things he did was go to the back of the door and take his uniform shirt off its hook. He needed to change into his official scrubs. When he took of his shirt, what I saw was a webwork of foot-long scars across his torso, chest and abdomen. Major Ali’s jovial demeanor belied the hell he had seen in his life.
When my visa application was approved, I decided to go try to speak with the Xenophon guys. If I had to, I’d pay Mick the $8000, but only if my luck, wit and guile couldn’t get me through (of course, I’d again be relying primarily on the luck). I’d heard stories about $2000 cab fares from the airport across Route Irish, but I was truly unprepared for the $8000 quote. I walked out of the terminal doors, saw the armored column Margaret was speaking of, and approached them. “Someone mentioned you guys might be able to give me a ride to the Green Zone,” I said. “Sure,” said a man perched on the hood of the truck. He had an English accent, sunglasses, and a face that said ‘no bullshit.’ I’m calling him Humphrey. “You’ll have to wait around for awhile,” he said, “We’re waiting for our principal.” I assumed their “principal” was the guy who agreed to pay the $8000 for the ride. Probably some journalist or something. Hah, I just saved myself $8000. I struck up a conversation with one young man (Maximus) who had been in country for 4 years. He was stoic, but friendly. He seemed as curious as the rest of them about who the hell I was and what I was doing there. I told them I was a journalist. They all shifted in their seats uneasily.
From that point on, Humphrey, who really didn’t ever say much, found occasion to drop into conversations that I might get a ride directly to The Palestine directly via cab, instead of having to go by the Green Zone with them. “It might be tough for you to get transport from the Green Zone to The Palestine,” he kept repeating. So, I guess journalists made them nervous. What was I going to do? Tell him I lied for the sake of brevity? Explain for an hour of what I was really all about? I could tell they still wouldn’t believe me. Who on God’s green earth does something like that? Forget it. I crossed my fingers that they wouldn’t kick me off the transport. They told me to keep it quiet, because they’d be fired if their higher-ups in London (Xenophon is a British Company) got wind of them picking up a hitchhiker. I said no problem, but I could tell it didn’t ease their minds.
Maximus put me in the back of the 3rd armored truck and instructed me to don the body armor. Then he told me how to handle myself if we were hit. “Remember,” he said, “if we start taking fire, you get your ass out of this thing and take cover somewhere behind the trucks. “Let me get this straight,” I said calmly, “If we’re getting shot at, you want me to get out of the truck?” “Damn right,” he said, “They’ll repel AK-47 fire all day long, and a lot of .50 cal., but these things are an RPG [rocket-propelled grenade] magnet.” Um…OK. “I’ll try to remember,” I said. I asked him how often they come under fire. “Oh, every other day or so,” he sniffed. “You can follow me. You know how to shoot?” “Yeah,” I told him I was a crack shot. I didn’t know what that was, but it felt good to say it. Gnarley. I was set to go.
Not too much later, I saw Humphrey, Maximus, and what looked like a local approaching the back of the truck. Humphrey opened the door, “I think we found a cab to take you there direct. That ought to work out real well for you.” Go figure. This, of course, went counter to everything everyone had told me up to this point. Ethan, Chuck, Tom, Antoine, Margaret, Muntadar, Ali, they all said: do not, under any circumstances, go anywhere alone with a local, no matter who vouches for them. Your life is worthless.
“I don’t have any cash to pay him,” I said, “If he’ll take a credit card (I knew he wouldn’t) then I’d be OK with it.” “I can cover you,” said Maximus. “Wow, thanks,” I said. Maximus told me it was OK, that their translator guy, whom they all trust implicitly, vouched for the guy. I wasn’t that impressed, but then again I didn’t come to Iraq to avoid danger. I slung my bags into his back seat and sat in the front. The driver was a round-faced Iraqi who spoke some minimal English. I’ll call him Bernard. Bernard got in the drivers seat and looked at me, “Hat off! Glasses off! Look straight ahead! Never look to side!” He pushed the sun visor around to partially shield the side of my face. It was of minimal effect. “Do what he says,” Maximus said. Bernard looked at me again and smiled. “Thank you,” he said. But I could see real fear in his eyes. At that moment, I realized he wasn't giving me up, but if we were caught together he would certainly be killed too. I knew then that the road ahead of me would be the most dangerous ride of my life.
Up next: Route Irish
I was walking my way to the gate, ticket in hand, dejected about my temporary setback in being deported, but looking forward, actually, to a long-awaited shower and rest – and maybe some food and some real cash to pay for it with. As I approached the line to board, a man stepped in front of me, “John?” he asked in a heavy Arabic accent. He had on a Greg Brady shirt which he must have borrowed from Major Ali. “Yes” I responded. I was a little impatient, considering all the jockeying. He thrust a cell phone toward me, “For you.” Who the hell is calling me on someone else’s cell phone at the gate of my plane in Baghdad, right before I was deported?
“Hello, this is John Lesch.” “This is General Yashim Yassir, Director of Immigration and Citizenship.” “In Baghdad?” I was quite confused at this point. “For all of Iraq,” he replied curtly. “Oh,” was all I could muster. “What do you want?” He asked, “Do you want to enter Iraq?” “Well, yes,” I stammered, “I would love to enter Iraq.” “Then I grant you permission. I give you visa. Major Ali has been instructed to give you the necessary forms.” Clearly, one of my inquiries had been fruitful, but I wasn’t quite sure which one at that point, and I also wondered how he hit so close to the top of the totem pole in this land. I handed the phone back to Johnny Bravo and turned around in a nonplussed haze.
I made the necessary apologies to the helpful folks at RJA and they were able to cancel my ticket and the credit card transaction. I then went downstairs to have my visa processed. While I was waiting, I called another number that Chuck and Ethan had given me. “Mick” the Australian answered. He seemed suspect of me. Sheesh, who wouldn’t be? I was quickly learning that nobody in this place had ever met another person who was attempting to do what I did. “We are only authorized to provide secure transport to our contract clients,” he said. Okaaaaaay. Check that one off.
While I was waiting, I also made contact with a young British woman (Margaret) who was processing another crew which was ready to go through immigration. She worked for one of the contracting companies and it was her job to herd the cattle through the airport to their assignments. “You arranging rides?” I asked her. “No,” she said, “These folks are all going on the Rhino (armored bus transport which takes you to the Green Zone), but you’d have to get yourself to Camp Stryker to get on that.” Turrns out the Rhino idn't leave for awhile. There goes another day. Plus, I’d also have to find someone to get me over to Camp Stryker, which was within the BIAP checkpoint (a secure zone) but it still wasn’t walk-able. Argh. I asked her if I had any other options.
That’s when she told me that she’d seen some Xenophon guys outside the airport. “They’re waiting out there with a column of armored vehicles, waiting for their principal” she told me. I might check with them, see if they’d give me a lift. “I’d make an inquiry for you,” she said, “But I don’t talk to those Xenophon guys.” She said it with disgust in her voice. Hmmm. Do the hurdles never end? Well, I was in a war zone. I knew this was not going to be a walk in the park. Then my phone rang. It was Mick the Australian again. “I guess we are able to help out,” he said. “We can provide an armored convoy, full security detail, for transport to the Green Zone, for $8000 U.S.” A bargain, I thought. I asked him if he had anything in the economy range, something less than the full monty. He laughed. “Well,” he replied “there’s no one here who would drive Route Irish with anything less than that.” I told him I was still waiting for my visa to be processed, but that I would get back to him. He told me not to wait too long, because they only transport during daylight hours. This was already interesting. Some wont drive during the day. Some wont drive in the dark. What gives? One more mystery.
When I got off the phone, Margaret was joking around with Major Ali. “Do you know Ali?” she asked, “He’s a great guy.” “Great guy?” I said with a smile, “He just tried to deport me!” Major Ali took my passport/visa from me and jokingly made like he was going to tear it up in front of me for such an insult. He truly did try to take care of me. I am sure he did whatever was in his power – even beyond giving me his Gatorade.
I was sorry to say goodbye to Major Ali. When he had first arrived that morning in his ugly shirt, he let me sit in his office, with its cushioned couch, rather than have to relocate again to the fiberglass benches out in the immigration processing area. One of the first things he did was go to the back of the door and take his uniform shirt off its hook. He needed to change into his official scrubs. When he took of his shirt, what I saw was a webwork of foot-long scars across his torso, chest and abdomen. Major Ali’s jovial demeanor belied the hell he had seen in his life.
When my visa application was approved, I decided to go try to speak with the Xenophon guys. If I had to, I’d pay Mick the $8000, but only if my luck, wit and guile couldn’t get me through (of course, I’d again be relying primarily on the luck). I’d heard stories about $2000 cab fares from the airport across Route Irish, but I was truly unprepared for the $8000 quote. I walked out of the terminal doors, saw the armored column Margaret was speaking of, and approached them. “Someone mentioned you guys might be able to give me a ride to the Green Zone,” I said. “Sure,” said a man perched on the hood of the truck. He had an English accent, sunglasses, and a face that said ‘no bullshit.’ I’m calling him Humphrey. “You’ll have to wait around for awhile,” he said, “We’re waiting for our principal.” I assumed their “principal” was the guy who agreed to pay the $8000 for the ride. Probably some journalist or something. Hah, I just saved myself $8000. I struck up a conversation with one young man (Maximus) who had been in country for 4 years. He was stoic, but friendly. He seemed as curious as the rest of them about who the hell I was and what I was doing there. I told them I was a journalist. They all shifted in their seats uneasily.
From that point on, Humphrey, who really didn’t ever say much, found occasion to drop into conversations that I might get a ride directly to The Palestine directly via cab, instead of having to go by the Green Zone with them. “It might be tough for you to get transport from the Green Zone to The Palestine,” he kept repeating. So, I guess journalists made them nervous. What was I going to do? Tell him I lied for the sake of brevity? Explain for an hour of what I was really all about? I could tell they still wouldn’t believe me. Who on God’s green earth does something like that? Forget it. I crossed my fingers that they wouldn’t kick me off the transport. They told me to keep it quiet, because they’d be fired if their higher-ups in London (Xenophon is a British Company) got wind of them picking up a hitchhiker. I said no problem, but I could tell it didn’t ease their minds.
Maximus put me in the back of the 3rd armored truck and instructed me to don the body armor. Then he told me how to handle myself if we were hit. “Remember,” he said, “if we start taking fire, you get your ass out of this thing and take cover somewhere behind the trucks. “Let me get this straight,” I said calmly, “If we’re getting shot at, you want me to get out of the truck?” “Damn right,” he said, “They’ll repel AK-47 fire all day long, and a lot of .50 cal., but these things are an RPG [rocket-propelled grenade] magnet.” Um…OK. “I’ll try to remember,” I said. I asked him how often they come under fire. “Oh, every other day or so,” he sniffed. “You can follow me. You know how to shoot?” “Yeah,” I told him I was a crack shot. I didn’t know what that was, but it felt good to say it. Gnarley. I was set to go.
Not too much later, I saw Humphrey, Maximus, and what looked like a local approaching the back of the truck. Humphrey opened the door, “I think we found a cab to take you there direct. That ought to work out real well for you.” Go figure. This, of course, went counter to everything everyone had told me up to this point. Ethan, Chuck, Tom, Antoine, Margaret, Muntadar, Ali, they all said: do not, under any circumstances, go anywhere alone with a local, no matter who vouches for them. Your life is worthless.
“I don’t have any cash to pay him,” I said, “If he’ll take a credit card (I knew he wouldn’t) then I’d be OK with it.” “I can cover you,” said Maximus. “Wow, thanks,” I said. Maximus told me it was OK, that their translator guy, whom they all trust implicitly, vouched for the guy. I wasn’t that impressed, but then again I didn’t come to Iraq to avoid danger. I slung my bags into his back seat and sat in the front. The driver was a round-faced Iraqi who spoke some minimal English. I’ll call him Bernard. Bernard got in the drivers seat and looked at me, “Hat off! Glasses off! Look straight ahead! Never look to side!” He pushed the sun visor around to partially shield the side of my face. It was of minimal effect. “Do what he says,” Maximus said. Bernard looked at me again and smiled. “Thank you,” he said. But I could see real fear in his eyes. At that moment, I realized he wasn't giving me up, but if we were caught together he would certainly be killed too. I knew then that the road ahead of me would be the most dangerous ride of my life.
Up next: Route Irish
posted by John Lesch at 10:11 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home