A 10-day journey through Iraqi Kurdistan: Part I
Day 1: Arrival
The Qatar Airlines A320 makes the usual rumbling and grinding noises as the landing gear and flaps extend for our final approach into Erbil International Airport.
My head is buzzing and my body, fidgety. Excitement and anxiousness compete for control of my emotions. I’ve dreamed of visiting this part of the world for a long time. And now, suddenly I’m here, at the culmination of 9 months of planning and fretting.
Excitement is gaining the upper hand.
Exiting the clouds, a checkerboard of lush greens unveils, stretching beyond the horizon. Hundreds of square miles of vast untilled grasslands wait patiently for the touch of a farmer’s hands to introduce the Spring planting. Much as they’ve been doing since before recorded time, I realise.
I am, after all, high overhead the ancient lands of the Sumerians, and later the Assyrians. And of a dozen more vast Empires, all of whom fought and bled for the pastures I see below me.
Thousands of white speckles also fill the landscape – what must be very fat and contented goats and sheep.
A few minutes later, we land without incident, taxi to the terminal, and disembark as you would typically from any other aircraft in any other airport in any other part of the world.
Passing through the airport is simple and straightforward if you belong to a country that’s issued a visa on entry. There are no other aircraft arrivals at this early hour, so processing is rapid. A glance at me, a glance at my passport, and the thump of a much-desired entry stamp with its 30-day visa saw me officially start my 10-day journey through Iraqi Kurdistan.
I am in my mid-fifties, and my childhood vision… had, at some point in the last forty years, surrendered to a life of mundane nine-to-fivery.
It was complacency that drew me to Iraqi Kurdistan.
While some kids dream of being pilots or astronauts, I was determined to follow in the footsteps of Magellan or Captain Cook – even Captain Kirk. I would be seeking adventure, charting the unexplored, meeting new civilisations and new cultures. The fact we had explored most of the planet by the time I hit my teens was of little deterrence. I was sure there were still adventures needing experiencing.
And then one day, sitting at my office desk contemplating the dozens of emails that awaited my attention, I had a sudden revelation.
I am in my mid-fifties, and my childhood vision of a future of Indiana Jones’ style adventures has, at some point in the last forty years, surrendered to a life of mundane nine-to-fivery.
The contented illusion of happiness I’d built around myself over the last couple of decades, shattered.
For the next few weeks, I was, at times, overwhelmed with a determination to change everything about my life. Then fear would surface of how much the change will upset the comfortable familiarity I had cultivated for so long.
Followed immediately by regret in how many times I’d thrown away life’s chances, because of that fear.
My research revealed a people who, despite their underdog status and suffering, display a tireless sense of joy and happiness
It took almost a month for my desire to pursue a new life of adventure, one closer to the dreams I’d had as a child, to win out. In doing so, my fears didn’t disappear. I focussed instead on using my profound dislike for regret to give me the necessary impetus.
The next logical question then, of course, was where to begin? Suddenly, doing the easy thing became anathema to me. If I was to start anew, I had to go big or not at all. I was no longer content just to visit a place, and my thirst was now to experience it completely. To embed with them. To learn firsthand and understand the people who live there.
One night I was doodling through adventure travel websites when I came across a company offering opportunities to journey to some of the more obscure and dangerous destinations in the world—countries like Afghanistan, Iran, Sudan, and Iraqi Kurdistan.
Iraqi Kurdistan grabbed my interest straight away. Here were a people, a culture, without a homeland, nor any friends for most of this century. Yet they had recently defeated one of the most dangerous and heinous groups of religious fanatics in the world. And they were thumbing their noses at all their neighbours while doing so.
My research revealed a people who, despite their underdog status and suffering, display a tireless sense of joy and happiness. The sacrifices they have made over the last 15 years filled me with admiration.
Here was my foothold. I wanted to know more, to learn more. Firsthand.
What better place to start?
And now, I am here. I hope I’ve made the right choice.
…many western businesses uprooted and fled in fear from Kurdistan because of the threat of ISIS. And they have not yet returned.
I’ve arranged to spend my first night at a higher-end hotel. A young man greets me as I exit, showing me to his clean white 4WD. He doesn’t seem to speak English well, so my ride into Erbil is quiet after the first few attempts at chatting end awkwardly. It’s okay; it allows me more time to look around and contemplate where I am.
I still feel I’m in a time warp, and not just because of the jet lag. Every image I’d seen of Iraqi Kurdistan before today has come via small TV screens or computer monitors. But now it’s here, before me, so vividly alive and filling my vision. We depart the airport and pass under overhead road signs with names that bring an involuntary chill. Baghdad and Mosul and Kirkuk. Each within easy driving distance from Erbil. I can’t help thinking of the last 15 years of fighting that’s occurred in those cities, a million miles from my suburban life. Of the lives lost. The destruction wrought.
But I’m not surrounded by crowds of shell-shocked locals, bombed-out buildings and streets full of homeless war refugees. Instead, I see thousands of people going about their daily lives. Today is Friday, the first day of the Muslim weekend, and the roads are full of families heading out to the countryside for picnics. The more devout are heading out to their local Mosques for a day of prayer. Shop vendors are heading out to man their spots in the markets. Taxis weave smoothly in and out of slow-moving traffic flows.
In other words. Just a typical day.
Parks are overgrown; roads are pockmarked, not with potholes, but with small craters that restrict road travel to just one lane.
There are however dozens and dozens of abandoned, empty, buildings along the highway into town. I suspect it has something to do with the recent fight against ISIS (here they are called the Daesh). They came within about 50 kilometres of the city before finally being stopped by the Peshmerga, the Kurdish fighting force.
My silent companion becomes quite animated when I ask about them. He waves his hands at the ghostly shells as we drive past them to punctuate his point. In passionate broken English, he confirms that yes, many western businesses uprooted and fled in fear from Kurdistan because of the threat of ISIS. And they have not yet returned.
I see the evidence of this in the state of the roads too, and other rural infrastructure. Parks are overgrown; roads are pockmarked, not with potholes, but with small craters that restrict road travel to just one lane. The city, the entire Autonomous Region of Kurdistan, is in bad need of an injection of foreign investment.
The Citadel
I’ve chosen a hotel that sits only a kilometre south of The Citadel, Erbil’s major tourist attraction. After dropping off my gear, I head there with camera in hand. I’m tired, but I want to fill my senses with as much of this land as possible before sleep overtakes me.
The Citadel, or Qalat, doesn’t sit on a small hill or a rock as some would assume at first sight.
Street vendors line the road, selling everything from old and used shoes to complete car engine blocks. One thing I notice straight away is just how quiet everyone is—nothing like the noisier and more obnoxious crowds in Asia and South America I’ve experienced.
It’s a squeeze-through crowd, but no one is in your face haggling to sell their wares. Or pleading that they’re on death’s doorstep if you don’t buy their goods. Just polite and quiet conversation intermingled with music blaring from various models of boombox radios I’ve not seen in 20 or more years.
Pull-carts of colourful exotic looking spices and candies line the footpath. Each manned by serious-faced vendors intently focussed on getting the arrangements just right.
The smell of roasting meat wafts gently to my nose every few meters. I wasn’t hungry when I left the hotel. But there’s something about the smell of barbequing chicken and lamb that gets the taste buds going. I buy a bread wrap, called shawarma, for 1000 Dinar (about $1 US) filled with grilled chicken, fried onions and a spicy sauce. I wolf it down.
The Citadel, or Qalat, doesn’t sit on a small hill or a rock as some would assume at first sight. Its walls rest upon dozens of layers of previous towns and villages going back over five thousand years. I spend more than an hour here just trying to fathom the history that has passed through this place.
These days most of it is closed for repair and reconstruction, which doesn’t stop it being a major hang out for local Kurdish lads and young ladies. The girls dress in jeans, brightly coloured blouses and long flowing silk scarfs wrapped lightly around their heads. Striving, it seems, to meet at least the minimum of Muslim female protocols. I love their air of taunting independence.
I soon realise the staring is often just a prelude to young men shyly introducing themselves in broken English.
Pulled by the flow of people, I find myself waiting patiently on the southern wall for a break in the crowd so that I can get a selfie overlooking the Jalil Khayat Mosque and Kayseri Markets. Task accomplished, I head down to the markets and the crush of the Friday night shopping enthusiasts.
As I walk the market, I feel the stares. I must stand out like a sore thumb, with my blonde-grey hair, grey beard and blue eyes. Oh, and the camera around my neck. But I don’t feel uncomfortable. I sometimes stare at strangers in my hometown too.
I soon realise that the staring is often just a prelude to young men shyly introducing themselves in broken English. They are eager to practice the language and are curious about what brings a westerner to their city. To their country, as they like to think of it.
It astonishes me how friendly and happy these people are. They are always smiling or laughing, always ready to pose for a photo. Their 50s style haircuts make them seem out of place with their conservative traditions. I understand in a land with so much sameness, so much western influence, they’re keen to create an individual identity.
Clothing and hairstyles will always speak to that no matter where you are.
Some want to share their entire life story, which I am reluctant to do. I fear being stuck here for hours. My energy levels are waning as my jetlag starts to kick in.
Teenage angst, it would seem, is universal.
A young Iraqi Arab draws me into a conversation. He moved here from Baghdad due to the better standard of education, graduating with a degree in International Relations and Politics. He deals with the difficulty of finding a job by making money as a Personal Trainer in a local gym.
His dreams are of moving to Canada, or the US, but I tell him the West will be back in Kurdistan. When they do, they will be screaming to have people with his skill sets helping them. He smiles with joy at this and pumps my hand with excitement before disappearing back into the crowd.
I learn about Kurdish lads going to University and meeting girls. Something their fathers and mothers would never have done a generation ago. While deeply conservative, modernism is transforming the culture into something a little more relaxed. Though in saying that, I watch ‘couples’ trying hard to demonstrate their connection while avoiding any public displays of affection. Overt tenderness is something still very much discouraged in public.
Teenage angst, it would seem, is universal.
And I learn about Kurds that have come from places like Australia and Sweden to reconnect with their cultural roots. Returning to Iraqi Kurdistan is almost like a pilgrimage for them. They spend a few months breathing in the sense of family and belonging exuded by all who live here, then return to their foreign homes refreshed and purposeful.
I finally succumb to my jet lag and return to the hotel to dive into a deep sleep. My first day’s introduction to Iraqi Kurdistan has left me content.
The first day of my new life of adventure was all I could have hoped for and more.