Chapter 39: Five Days to Love - Day One

The long road trip to Amman from Erbil was always a day of excitement but also one filled with dread.

As early in the morning as could be arranged a UN vehicle would be dispatched to transfer internationals down to Baghdad to link up with the long haul taxis which would complete the remainder of the journey to Amman. It was an excruciatingly long day.

I would always hope upon hope that I was doing the trip alone as any delays in leaving Erbil would compound as the day wore on. And I quickly learnt that getting to the Iraqi/Jordanian border as early as possible was not simply one of convenience, but literally a matter of life and death. An uneasy and unnecessary tension would develop towards passengers who in anyway delayed the departure.

The five hour drive down to Baghdad was most usually uneventful. The ancient city would be reach around midday and a swift transfer of bags into the GMC would see travellers heading for the motorway which led to the border not many minutes later. The five hundred or so kilometres to the border would also be a routine drive and the arches denoting the presence of the crossing rising from out from the Syrian Desert became a most welcoming site. Even the border crossing with a regulatory bag search was a straight forward process.

Suddenly I would be standing on Jordanian soil but the jubilation of reaching the politically stable Arab state was shrouded by the intense fear of what the next three hours would bring. In the summer months and or when the border was reached early in the evening the nightmare was postponed somewhat but whatever the scenario a certain portion of the road trip to Amman had to be completed in darkness and that was when the terror began.

All factors contributed to a potential disaster. The taxi driver by that stage was tired and eager to complete the journey. The road was undulating with a single lane in each direction and the road was shared with a continuous procession of oil trucks notorious for not using headlights. Once darkness settled upon the land a game of Russian roulette really began. Our vehicle being one of the fastest on the road was continually passing other road users and the driver's determination of when this could be executed safely could only be gauged from the relative distance of oncoming traffic lights. But the trucks without headlights remained invisible. If a passing manoeuvre was undertaken at a time when one of these phantom trucks was present then the consequences were horrifying. The thought left me sickened and fearful to the core. The occasional encounter of burning wreckage on or beside the roadside was graphic testament to when things went horribly wrong. I was forced to accept death as a possible option. Then strangely the rhythmic motions of the powerful GMC alternating from one side of the road to the other became seductively hypnotic. With death so close I became intensely alive and became an integral component of the destiny of the vehicle. I would sense a special and unique bond forming between me and the unknown driver with whom I would share a similar fate. In glow of the dashboard lights the feeling was empowering and strangely thick with solidarity.   

Time after time, drenched with adrenalin, I would find myself witnessing the distance lights of Amman emerge and I would become aware that I had survived yet another journey out.

All the feelings from the past three hours would be replaced with an overwhelming exhaustion as the taxi roared into the entrance of the hotel. Suddenly I would find myself standing at a reception desk swaying to the cumulative movements of over twelve hours driving. Fumbling for a credit card which hadn’t seen daylight for three months I would have to rapidly bring myself into the 21st century all the while longing for sleep.

With all flights to Europe leaving early the following day the comfort of the room could not be fully utilised and a restful night sleep had to be always put on hold but whatever time I would spend in the room was enjoyment without bounds.

A hot shower would quickly put distance between me and the experiences of the past three months. Then after setting the alarm for a cringingly early hour, I would be asleep before my head rested on the pillow.

Chapter 38: The Great Internet Experiment

The work-to-recreation routine as stipulated by the UN for consultants engaged in Northern Iraq was 3 months on, and 1 month off. And it was a specific requirement that personnel leave Iraq for their time off to obtain adequate rest and rehabilitation. Not many people debated this regulation.

For me the month leave signalled a holiday in Europe. Being single and with no dependants meant there was no reason to fly the long haul back to Australia when the cultural diversity of Europe beckoned only 3 or 4 hours away.

Each journey I delved further east, well into the ex-soviet states experiencing the picturesque beauty of Budapest, the war torn charm of Dubrovnik with its magnificent city wall and the grandiose presence of Warsaw complete with tortured past. For my vacation in October 2002, the only country further east was Russia, so a journey was hatched to include Moscow and St Petersburg via the visa collection point - Helsinki.

For this trip I decided to try something new. Tired of walking past inviting restaurants in exotic cities brimming with happy diners as I searched for a MacDonald’s to eat alone, I thought a prearranged companion in each city could be beneficial. Not only would I have a dinner partner but I imagined many hours strolling the streets and plazas and increasing my cultural knowledge with each and every step.

So in the soft glow of my computer screen at the end of each working day after the local staff had retreated to their homes the search began.

What I quickly discovered was of immense interest. My entire search attempts to hone in on a singles site of virtual notice board where I could place an advertisement resulted in a prolific number of Russian marriage agencies. At first this was not what I thought I needed and I continued my search with boundless optimism, however the more I searched the more Russian marriage agencies appeared.  Then an unexpected transformation occurred. The rows and rows of meticulously manicured, delightfully presented glamorous young girls all photographed in seductive poses began to take effect. Even from my remote location in the north of Iraq all the girls appeared so enticingly available - well only a mouse-click away at least.

I began to revise my ideology. Maybe one of these girls may not be such a bad idea anyway. Maybe marriage was something I should consider especially at my age. I decided to investigate further and began browsing through each of the girl’s profiles. It was then I noticed something peculiar. Non English speaking nineteen and twenty year old girls were seeking husbands up to sixty years of age. Scepticism kicked in and I viewed the promises of instant “love” with a supermodel beauty with increasing dollops of suspicion. I could not see how a gorgeous young girl could obtain from a non-communicative life partner with an older man except for some devious plot which ultimately revolved around large sums of money and possibly not at the girl’s advantage.

With renewed caution I began screening the sites. All were based on the economic presumption of sending money via the website to obtain a postal and/or email address of the girl in question. Flowers could also be sent for extra booty. Whether the addresses were actual or fictitious I had no way of determining. It seemed a punt which the sender of the cash, who was presumably seated in a western country, had to take. As I was actually going to Russia in person I thought I could investigate the promises made by these sites for myself. The hint of an investigation only served to add more excitement to the trip.

I then looked through each site in search of an address both in Moscow and St Petersburg. A disclosure of such a tangible piece of evidence, I presumed, would only serve to strengthen the site’s authenticity as one could compare the profiles on the website with the catalogue in the office. If the photos matched then the prospect of fulfilled promises rose dramatically.     

Methodically sites were crossed off my list as geographic locations were found to be absent. As the list steadily shrunk my optimism faded as I came to consider the whole “Russian Marriage Agency” concept another internet scam.

Only one site remained on my list and as I was about to shut down my computer in defeat I suddenly spied what I was looking for - an actual physical address given for both Moscow and St Petersburg.

The name of the site was http://angelika.net

I quickly scribbled the two locations down on some paper and my heart raced. I now had plan. Their $10 fee in exchange for a contact would have to wait until I had secured an actual “date”

Over the remaining weeks before my leave commenced I regularly perused the Angelika site, carefully scrutinising photos and profiles. By the time all my chores were complete and I was busy packing in readiness for the taxi ride to Amman the following day, I had already finalised a list of a half dozen potential companions after careful analysis.

The quest for (internet) love had begun.

Chapter 37: Conversing with a Driver

Mr Swain (name changed to protect identity) became my driver for the entire duration of my time in Northern Iraq.

At a similar age to myself at the time, Mr Swain, or Kak Swain as the Kurdish people prefer to say, was small in stature but large in presence. He was a popular and respected figure amongst all the UN drivers. He approached his job with pride and with a methodical and meticulous precision.

Upon my arrival to Northern Iraq I was to learn that Mr Swain was the driver assigned to the Mini Hydro project and I quickly discovered that his cautious driving skills were a scarcity in the region so I quickly adopted him as my own.

Northern Iraq has not produced many world driver champions, and for very good reason. The wreckage along the roadside is testament to this sporting aberration so although Mr Swain was not a technically exacting driver he was my best chance of leaving the perilous roads of Northern Iraq alive. He also quickly became a very good friend and trusted colleague.

Over the course of two years we developed a very close relationship and our conversations within the privacy of the cabin of the car became a pleasantly anticipated time of knowledge and entertainment. I gained an unprecedented and privileged insight into the Kurdish and Iraqi cultures as a result of his unrestrained confessions. And his quietly droll sense of humour grew on me like a wonderfully comfortable pair of slippers.

Towards the end of my stay in the North as the American and Allied military build-up took place around us and uncertainty, disinformation and nervousness prevailed Mr Swain was to fulfil an unexpected role. Each morning he would provide valuable translations of the Iraqi nightly newsreels from the previous evening which enabled me to gain an insight into the Iraqi President’s thoughts and motivations as the political and military noose tightened on the country. Mr Swain also kept our vehicle continually topped up with fuel and kept a careful vidual on the daily chatter on the radio listening for any sudden deterioration in the political situation. With my passport continually on my person a quick dash to the Turkish border to escape was always an option.

Although extremely patriotic, from his somewhat privileged position as a UN driver he viewed his compatriots with an air of objectivity as though he was not one of them. This sense of detachment was of course heightened from our position of air conditioned comfort in a late model Nissan Patrol looking out at the Kurdish people sweating or freezing, depending on the season, in their batted Toyota pickups. His humour regularly was at their expense.

On one occasion when a car struggled past I was shocked to see a sheep sitting in the front seat and the man’s wife relegated to the back. Mr Swain simply turned to me to acknowledge my disbelief with a grin saying, “the sheep is more valuable.” Whether this snippet of information was accurate or not still remains a mystery as my senses were too overwhelmed to enter into a debate.

Another moment of detached observation came when we took a rest stop in the northern Iraqi city of Mosul on a return journey from Dohuk. We sat eating greasy portions of chicken and chips in a restaurant with a view out onto the street. At a moment of emotional vulnerability and the continual sight of dust, decay and deterioration was causing me irritation I asked what would happen if the whole city was replaced with new buildings, paved roads, footpaths, manicured lawns and gardens together with a functioning system of curb and channelling. He carefully wiped his moustache with his napkin, leaned towards me before stating with his trademark preamble, “I say to you Mr Peter…after a week it will be like this again.”

I never had cause to question Mr Swain’s Muslim faith. As with every aspect of his life he approached his belief with a quiet devoted commitment. Regularly our conversations would turn to religion and an informed, inspiring discussion would follow. However, a passing mosque in a rural and isolated setting almost gave me cause to wonder. Mr Swain waved a hand at the little mosque and said with conviction, “a mosque without a mullah…” He paused and I waited with apprehension. Was his objective humour to also encompass his unwavering Islamic faith? It was unthinkable and I waited with a certain amount of disappointment for the “is like a…” to conclude the popular comical statement. But my brief moment of concern was unfounded as he ended his observation with simply, “is useless.”

Fluent in several languages including Arabic, Kurdish and English Mr Swain always retained the communication upper hand. One of the radio channels used by the UN was reserved for conversations in languages other than English and the drivers adopted this channel as their gossip line. The drivers would unashamedly use this facility to discuss international staff without any remorse or discretion. I was also constantly suspicious at the translated information that I was receiving. I suspected it was geared towards the convenience of the drivers whenever the need arose. The information regarding the time of checkpoint closures was a continuing subject of contention. A fictitious early checkpoint closure, particularly in the winter months, meant a convenient return from Dohuk and Sulaymaniyah to the benefit of the drivers. This digression from the truth was confirmed when I discussed the exact closure times with a Jordanian colleague well out of earshot of Mr Swain over lunch in Dohuk. The Jordanian happened to accompany us on our return journey to Erbil and as we approached the checkpoint I suspected the conversation, conducted in Arabic, between my driver and the Jordanian had turned to this subject. I seized the moment and turned to my driver and said with tongue in cheek, “you lying bastard.” Mr Swain, of course, was so startled we almost left the road, not at my expletive but at how I understood the content of their conversation. From that moment forth Mr Swain remained continually suspicious at the depth of my knowledge of the languages being spoken around me and I managed, psychologically at least, to claw back some of the communication upper hand.     

Mr Swain would come to my aid on many occasions sometimes in the most unexpected ways. Stopping for a drink in a town high in the mountains behind Erbil a beggar approached me on the sidewalk. Instinctively I put my hand in my pocket to pull out some loose change. Mr Swain placed his hand on my arm to stop my action. “No Mr Peter. Don’t give money.” Seeing the confusion on my face he continued to explain. “The man has more money than you.” And then he proceeded to explain that the beggars, having nothing else to do, beg for recreation. It’s what they do. I then learnt from Mr Swain that one had died recently and when they searched his house they found astonishing amounts of the local currency. This extraordinary confession simply added to the complex and bewildering tapestry of that part of the world.

The irony of Australia’s commitment the Alliance was not lost on Mr Swain either. Arriving at work one morning with a broad grin on his face he exclaimed, “Your stupid “President” is sending two thousand troops to Iraq.” He burst into a mocking laughter before continuing. “What difference is that going to make?” With America’s military build up in the region reaching suffocating proportions I had to agree.

Mr Swain also possessed a sense of theatre. Passing a group of people huddled together on the outskirts of Kirkuk I queried their purpose. Mr Swain turned and leaned towards me as if conveying a well-guarded secret. In a quiet carefully contrived voice, which sent shivers down my spine, he divulged, “it is for the death.”

Local politics didn’t escape Mr Swain’s wit either. Elite members of the governing party mostly lived in a town just to the north of Erbil high in the hills to enjoy breathtaking views and cooling breezes in the hot summer months. To enable the daily commute into parliament to be more comfortable they decided, at considerable expense, to upgrade the road linking the two centres. This meant new bridges, considerable earthworks to straighten the road, extra lanes and, bizarrely, a flyover within Erbil to negotiate a particularly busy, and disruptive - as seen through the eyes of the ruling elite, intersection. The flyover, which was the first of its kind in the North, provided Mr Swain with a constant source of mirth. He considered the term flyover to be particularly apt as this is what he felt the Kurdish drivers, inexperienced with such an engineering structure, would be doing upon completion; flying off the flyover.  

On the day of my evacuation I specifically requested Mr Swain to drive me down to Baghdad. Not only did I want a safe and uncomplicated final drive to the country’s capital but I wanted to spend a few more hours in the company of this extraordinary individual. As the GMC taxi pulled out of the garage compound for the long haul run through to Amman I looked back to give Mr Swain a final wave but he was already consumed by the company of his fellow Kurdish drivers. I was left wondering if I had already been relegated to the ranks of just another international he had driven through his country.

Chapter 36: The Du Kakas

The scarcity of entertainment in Northern Iraq gave rise to some unexpected and unusual surprises. Members of the small international community would often come forward to offer whatever talent or knowledge they had to inject some form of normality into the daily lives of each individual. Karate lessons became available, weekly aerobic sessions and even Thai cooking classes for the gastronomic enthusiasts amongst the populace.

My forte was music having played piano for pleasure for most of my life. I was aware that my manager had an acoustic guitar in his possession so I put the idea to him about forming a band.

Upon receipt of his enthusiasm towards the idea I instructed my driver to take me into the markets of Erbil to search out a keyboard. It wasn’t long before we pulled up outside a dusty shopfront which looked no different from its neighbours. My concerned look was greeted with a reassuring nod from my driver and we ventured inside to be greeted by a cluttered collection of worn, broken instruments. My heart sank although buoyed on by my driver’s limitless optimism we went in search of the shopkeeper.

In a side room we found a young, overweight shop attendant hunched over the most respectable keyboard I had seen in the shop thus far, skilfully belting out elaborate Arabic music with massive doses of enthusiasm and energy.

My interest suddenly waned at the limited supply of quality instruments on offer and I moved towards the door to retreat but my driver persisted and conveyed my request. The music stopped abruptly and within a few brief moments a tired looking keyboard with an unfamiliar brand name, Alesis, appeared and was presented to me for inspection.

The shabbiness concealed an instrument which I soon discovered retained its full functionality intact and after learning it had journeyed from Iran under dubious circumstances I decided to give the little keyboard a go.

And so the rehearsals began. Every Friday afternoon following the marathon walk I would carry my new found companion the short distance to my manager’s house and we practiced ten popular songs whose chords were downloaded off the internet. We continued until the songs were completely memorised. As well, in the privacy of my bedroom, I composed a solo instrumental piece to lead into the first song.

After several weeks we thought we were ready for an initial gig at the UN club in Ankawa. The club’s management was consulted and our half hour performance was booked into a slot before the commencement of recorded dance music on the ever popular Thursday night.

News of the gig spread quickly and whilst sitting in my office on the Thursday afternoon prior to our debut performance a colleague stopped by to ask if I was going to the concert at the club that night. After he left I crossed the corridor to my manager’s office with weakened knees and informed him that I was going home to practice.

The gig proved a disaster. My keyboard could not be heard over the din of the club and we barely drew anyone’s attention. It was clear we lacked one vital piece of equipment - an amp.

Another trip to the music store in Erbil produced one together with some leads and we booked another gig for the following Thursday evening. By now word had spread throughout the entertainment deprived expat community of our revamped band and anticipation rose exponentially throughout the week.

On the night, the club filled to capacity with expectant patrons eager to experience what was probably the first ever concert by a western band in the north, as we set up our equipment. A quick sound check adequately confirmed our presence and the atmosphere tightened. I noticed people who would normally retreat to the quiet privacy of their houses on a Thursday night were amongst the revellers and seated directly in front of our stand was the Programme Director - a highly unusual and rare visitor to the club. All this expectation and we didn’t even have a name.

Just as I was about to put nervous fingers to keys to perform my introductory composition an audience member seized the moment and stood in front of us to provide an impromptu introduction to our band. He finished by referring to us as the Du Kakas (Kurdish for Two Men). We finally had a name and the band was born.

For half an hour the club rocked liked never before. Our faithful amp pumped song after song out to a grateful audience eager to sing and dance to the music. We captured their hearts and their passion. For half an hour live western music burst forth from the club and rang out through the streets of Ankawa. For half an hour we were rock stars.

By the time the gig ended we had become Ankawa’s first celebrities. Drinks appeared in our hands, accolades flowed from each and every direction and “high fives” were executed at every turn in the crowded club. A young local boy working at the club volunteered to be our “roadie” and dutifully packed away our equipment.

As the night turned into the early hours of the morning the club gradually emptied. Finally I walked home with our “roadie” and as he retreated back into the night I was left standing alone in the kitchen pumped full of adrenalin and wondering when I had ever been more awake at 3 o’clock in the morning. The feeling was euphoric and indescribable. We had pulled off a unique event in spectacular fashion. The Du Kakas had become an integral part of the community.

In the months that followed, the Du Kakas became a regular fixture at the UN Club in Ankawa performing a live show every Thursday night to a packed house. During the week when our work called us away to Sulaymaniyah we took our show on the road there also. We even attracted a small gathering at each rehearsal.

As word of the band spread across the Kurdistan governorates, Dohuk was also added to our touring schedule.

The band was set to expand. We were approached by a drummer who began scouring Erbil for anything that resembled a drum kit and an avid electric guitarist promised to bring an instrument in with him when he next returned from leave.

But the fate of the Du Kakas slowly fell into the hands of George W Bush as the darks clouds of war loomed on the horizon.

Inevitably the evacuation order came and we were withdrawn from the region with heavy hearts. I left my precious keyboard and amp with my driver - maybe we would return. And the highly anticipated tour to Dohuk was cancelled. The future of the Du Kakas looked uncertain.

The Du Kakas played a final gig in Amman, Jordan, to a dwindling group of Kurdistan veterans. A venue was selected and I was lent a keyboard by a fellow expat. But the vibrancy was gone. The audience was subdued and the songs didn’t quite sound the same.

At the close of our set a taxi was waiting to take me to the airport for my final flight to Moscow. As we negotiated the darkened streets with the feeling of rock stardom slowly retreating I sat quietly and reflected on the Du Kakas. We would probably never play again but in the short space of the band’s existence I found comfort in the thought that the Du Kakas achieved something not even the Beatles had. We toured Northern Iraq.

Chapter 35: The Walk to a "Village-too-Far"

Erbil

Finding something to do on the Friday (weekend) always remained a challenge. In a world completely devoid of cinemas, shopping malls, bars, fine dining, cafes, bookshops, sporting facilities, franchises and live entertainment the emphasis was on the individual to create ways to pass the hours on those quiet, dreamy afternoons.

The task was much simpler during the hot summer months when the pool attracted an easy patronage of water revellers. But that source of entertainment abruptly ceased with the advent of winter. The only other sources of entertainment, apart from returning to work, were the UN club or joining a group of predominately my co-patriots on long walks into the surrounding countryside.

At precisely 1pm a half dozen or so people gathered outside the UNDP headquarters, and armed with bottles of water promptly set foot through the streets towards the outskirts of Ankawa. The pace was brisk and I knew from the outset that these guys meant business. I silently assessed my physical condition to gauge my preparedness for such an endurance episode. I drew some reassurance from the fact that some members of the walking party were a little older although I was wary of false hope.

Once away from the streets of the town we emerged onto dirt tracks weaving through open fields and past solitary farm houses. The bare earth laid cold and dormant in readiness for next season’s wheat crop.

As we marched in a steady rhythm across the fields I became aware of the peace and tranquillity of the space, away from honking horns and belching exhaust pipes. Some of the group walked in clusters talking and sharing jokes and others moved ahead or behind preferring to walk in solitary thought. At the much slower pace than in a vehicle I found I could absorb and enjoy the spectacular vistas of the distant mountains, the hills and the far off metropolis of Erbil.

Erbil

Occasionally we would pass through a small village and the children, with scampering chickens afoot, would swoop out to greet us. One member of our group would take their digital pictures and (as I found out the following week) distribute hard copies to each of them next time we passed.

Ankawa

Suddenly after about one hour at no particular location it was announced that we turn and head back. I noted at this point a large village far off in the distance but relieved that the trek had reached its half way mark I made no comment.

Arriving back in Ankawa I was already looking forward to the following Friday even though the rigours of the first walk were still very much apparent. I had inadvertently stumbled upon desirable companionship and good country exercise encompassing all the therapeutic benefits of placidity.

This Friday activity for me quickly turned into a ritual. The number of participants would swell and ebb as word of this alternate activity spread throughout the community and people joined and left our procession for whatever their reason but I noticed a core group of hardened walkers remained.

As the weeks past I discovered another enjoyable source of entertainment. With each week that transpired the fields across which we walked gradually transformed as the wheat crop was sown and finally the brown/grey earth became tinged with green as the succulent shoots poked through the clods of soil and reached for the sky. As the weather warmed the wheat grew higher until we were walking through a lush ocean of green. Then as the heat intensified the fields turned golden until finally we witnessed the harvesters combing the land to collect the precious yield.

With the coming of the hot summer months the walk became more and more gruelling. Water became a critical component of the endeavour. The number of bottles of the precious liquid each had to carry increased dramatically. However as our collective fitness increased the distance we could cover in the two hours grew and I noticed our reach towards the village was extending further before we turned around.

Our pace, the distance travelled and the heat soon reached levels unacceptable to the social walker who was seeking a stroll and a chat. It was serious walking and not for the faint hearted. The pool culture was a much more attractive recreational option.

On the extremities of one walk I suggested we push ourselves further and try one day to reach the village that shimmered in the heat at the end of the road. I was greeted with a luke-warm exhausted response but in the company of die-hard expats the challenge was upheld.      

And so became the “village-too-far”; and so each week our dedicated troupe of walkers trod across scorching earth, armed with a measured amount of water, in search of our “Everest”.

Each week we would push ourselves closer to our goal before exhaustion and heat turned us around. Some would collapse and break down on the journey home, the pace too quick for their tired bodies. The drawn, sweaty faces of the company sitting on the curb outside the corner store back in Ankawa drinking cold soda reflected the defeat of the day as each withdrew into one’s own thoughts.            

Then just as we thought the challenge impossible and unattainable the weather cooled slightly as the summer months drew to a close and with the weight of water reduced and the threat of heat exhaustion eased a memorable day finally arrived when our quest was resolved. In the individual search for activity and entertainment a small band of hot and tired Friday afternoon walkers, hugging each other with jubilation, finally reached the “village-too-far”.

Chapter 34: Wintering in Kurdistan

I slipped through the border on the 30^th November 2001. I had made it back in with just one day to spare. My visa could now be renewed.

A wintering Erbil could not have been in more stark contrast to the hot, sun-baked city which I had left. The faultlessly blue sky was now concealed behind a heavy layer of low sullen clouds stretching to each horizon. The sharp chill in the air suggested snow on the mountain ranges to the north. By the time I arrived in the late afternoon the city looked gloomy, muddy and depressing.

My reception at UNDP was equally transformed. I learnt that during my absence the Iraqi government had turned against the Z70 project and wanted it disbanded. After all they did have the final diplomatic say over how their siphoned (legal) oil revenues were spent in the north.

Line of oil tankers waiting customs clearance into Turkey

Some didn't make It

I walked the short distance through darkening streets to our project’s headquarters. The local staff were preparing to leave for the night. The welcome which they offered was overshadowed by concerns for their own futures. Without making comment I could tell they were fully conversed with the government’s change of heart.

Their brief of the past two months told me that they persevered with data collection and drawing production as best they could  but without international leadership and the deteriorating support from Baghdad they had finally lost their way and solely turned up for work each day waiting for the return of an international to the project. Dealing with my own gathering demons I bid them goodnight.

The project house fell dark and silent as they left so I ventured upstairs. The sight of my hurriedly abandoned office dropped my spirits further. Standing in the dimly lit room looking at the deserted shambles of what once was the thriving hub of the project it became clear what my predicament had become.

For some unknown reason I retreated to the toilet. Possibly seeking comfort from the small space. The cold seeped through the non-insulated concrete walls making me feel vulnerable and exposed. The sounds coming from the street appeared strange and unfamiliar. I had to make a choice.

My decision was essentially simple as there were only two options available to me. One choice was easy. Simply go back home and resume my life there. A life filled with security, familiarity, comfort and support. The other was to stay; a terrifying prospect of uncertainty, insecurity, loneliness, isolation and now cold; a scenario which would place me completely outside my comfort zone.

Sitting on the porcelain bowl in the small upstairs toilet I pondered my position deliberately and thoroughly for some time. Then I drew in a deep breath and made my decision. I would stay.

***

Initially I moved back into the Chwa Cha hotel. The rooms were small and could be heated to an acceptable degree. I soon discovered that many of the internationals were heading out for Christmas so there were plenty of options for house sitting to be had.

My second task was to restore my office to a functioning state and to catch up on what the national staff had been doing in my absence. With no other international staff working on the project I appointed myself acting project manager.

It was suggested to me the possibility of the project continuing adopting different methods of small stream power generation. With the project reinvented somewhat to appease the Iraqi government I engaged the respective international consultants and the national staff happily busied themselves with their new tasks. The project regained its soul.    

Forays into the hills proved my suspicion regarding the snow. The mountains were spectacularly draped in a white mantle providing many splendid and spectacular vistas. Snowfalls in Sulaymaniyah were quite common and snow almost fell in Erbil on one occasion.

Winters morning - Soran

As Christmas approached and the international population dwindled I moved back to Ankawa into a house generously offered to me by a departing colleague. However, I soon realised that the quest to keep warm would become a continuous occupation. The concrete and stone houses were without any form of insulation. A meagre power supply discounted any form of substantial electrical heating so in the tradition fitting of an oil rich state the most common form of heating were portable oil heaters which were hopelessly inadequate against the intensity of the cold and really only successfully achieved filling the rooms with a nauseous smoky smell.

Showers I soon discovered were to became a minimalist endeavour as the copious amounts of hot water which gushed effortlessly from both the hot AND cold taps during the summer months was now reduced to total dependency on the temperamental whims of mangled and twisted gas bottles which would regularly run out as soon as shampoo lather was in the hair. This meant a freezing journey outside the house covered in just a towel to change the bottles and if no more filled bottles were to be found then the day ended right there and it was off to bed to sulk.

Following the leader through a mine-Field

Mines in there Somewhere

Christmas was spent with the remaining handful of internationals at the UN club and New Year’s Eve was spent with the same handful of people at the same location. Bonds were formed by circumstance. The best way to keep thinking of home over this period was to work.

Finally internationals trickled back in and life returned to the north. Once my house sittings duties were fulfilled I decided to return to the Chwa Cha for the remaining weeks of my three month term. When/if I returned after my break it would be spring and the weather would have warmed sufficiently to consider renting a house again.

   

Curiously, although nothing was ever said directly to me by the international staff I knew my plight since the 9/11 attacks had not gone unnoticed. People kept the knowledge of my transfer of employment to the UN respectively to themselves. But they all knew that as a result of the chaos which prevailed in the final months of 2001 I had successfully, although mostly unintentionally, eliminated the “middle man”. It was an accepted fact in the close-knit, isolated community that my finances had improved considerably if only for the short term.

Delal bridge - Zakho in Winter

The nearest I had to having this pointed out to me was at a private dinner party held in Sulaymaniyah shortly before I headed out on leave. A co-patriot leant towards me and uttered drolly. “You’d be sending Osama Bin Laden Christmas cards wouldn’t you?”

I smiled as I grasped the meaning of this unexpected quip. “If I had his address,” I replied whimsically, “I most certainly would.”

Chapter 33: The Day America's Virginity was Lost

I stood in an internet café in Krakow (Poland) watching the computer screens while I waited for a terminal to become vacant. It seemed as if everyone in the room were playing a game together. Planes were flying into tall buildings on each and every one. The room was silent except for occasional gasps. I studied the images more closely over someone’s shoulder. I was absolutely dumbfounded when I realized that it wasn’t a game but was real life footage. The world had suddenly changed.

It almost appeared significant that I should learn about such a horrific act in a town with such a horrific past.

I wandered the streets of Krakow that night watching the town’s folk milling around bars and huddled outside electrical stores watching as the aftermath of the horrendous events unfolded; like everyone around the globe that night, united in their endeavour to come to terms with something that defied comprehension.

Checking my emails back in Berlin I read that my company wanted me to return home and abandon all thought of returning to Northern Iraq. I was to return as soon as possible by the safest and most direct of means.

I had in my possession return tickets to Australia via Amman so I decided to use them. Even though the world was in shock and the people responsible identified I could see no reason for purchasing new tickets.

I continually monitored the situation in Iraq and it appeared it was business as usual. I began to feel very downcast about having my return taken from me.

This was reinforced when I happened to catch a hazy glimpse the road leading to the village of Trebil on the Jordan/Iraq border from the window of the plane on approach into Amman. My heart was un-expectantly tugged.

I was told back in Australia that no one from the company would be returning to Iraq due the sensitive new world order. My colleague was returning home and we were to get back on with our lives.

But I couldn’t. My Iraqi visa was valid for another two months, until the end of November, and while that remained valid my desire to return remained as strong as ever.

I learnt from the continuing flurry of emails to Northern Iraq that my position with the UNDP was still open but only up until my visa expired and this could only be extended from within Iraq. Once the visa expired I would be of no value and the dream would be over.

With all prospects of returning with my Australian company vanishing quickly I realised that a significant decision was looming. My only hope of returning to Northern Iraq was if I resigned my position and worked direct for the UN. This had its tempting financial advantages but no longevity security particularly with the American government talking about retaliation.

One night I saw a documentary on television about Kurdistan. (I had heard there was a television crew in the region when I was there so I was extremely interested in watching. In one scene a black shopping bag blew across the road in front of the camera. I never properly knew how much I missed the place until I saw this article of discarded rubbish.

As the deadline loomed I spoke one night with my late Father on the phone. My Dad lived his life in a very safe and secure manner, erring on the side of financial security and avoiding risks. But as I briefed him on my predicament I braced myself for an inevitable lecture on why I should remain in the comfort of my present employer. I was surprised to hear him say just one word. “Go.”

With the decision made I went and bought a plane ticket. My visa expired on the 1^st December 2001. The ticket was dated Tuesday the 27^th, November giving me just enough time to slip inside the border.

I still needed to receive final confirmation before travelling commenced. It came midmorning on Monday the 26^th, November. The phone on my desk rang and I heard what I needed to hear.

After replacing the receiver I sat at my desk contemplating my next move. I was truly in an awkward position. I had tried to give the impression over recent weeks that I had given up on my quest to return and was falling happily back into my work but everyone around me could see I had the temperament of a caged animal. My body had returned but my mind and heart was still in Iraq. But now I was in the predicament of securing a job in Iraq and I was to leave the following day. I figured the only option I had was to throw myself at the mercy of my manager.

My manager, a veteran of overseas assignments, listened to my plea and something stirred in his soul. What he suggested that day was uniquely brilliant.

I was certain I was the only person in the world, at that time, who was taking leave to holiday in Iraq.