A weekend in Iraq

I am so close to the border with Iraq it would seem rude not to rack up another Rogue State on my Grand Tour of the axis of evil. There is a fine line between intrepid and foolish, I know, but Kurdistan in the north of Iraq is said to be safe, having had its own semi autonomy for the last 20 years. I have no intention of going for a picnic in Basra but it is never-the-less the sort of place you tell your mother you've gone after you get back.

Incidentally, I was even a little concerned about telling my parents I was going to Iran – there had been a lot in the press about American and British tourists being detained and accused of being spies. But I needn't have been. I remember the three way conversation with my mother and father on the phone when I realized my mother doesn't know where Iran is and I could hear my father still turning the pages of the Racing Post, no doubt checking the results of the 4.45 at Doncaster. He replied automatically, with 'Ah very good, Well then. Come and see us soon.' But he clearly hadn't registered.

I jump on a bus heading for the Iraqi border with my usual mix of intrigue and excitement for the unknown - plus a smidgen of trepidation – for although I have been told the place it safe, I haven't talked to anyone who's actually been there. I check into a modest looking hotel in the centre of Dohuk where a Kojak look-a-like points me towards my undistinguished room. Outside, a shabby band of shoe shine boys are plying their trade. They tease me in good humour, as I try to take their photo, obscuring their faces with their rags - artfully combining shining and just managing to bring their rags up to their faces before my camera is poised for the click.

I wander around town, an oddly appealing mix of new and old – ramshackled buildings and brand new developments, traditional tea shops and a gleaming university, old men resplendent in their baggy trousers, ruched belts, and carefully crafted headdresses, and the young in football shirts declaring 'Samsung', 'LG', and 'Fly Emirates'. Along the way I get chatting to Farzaad and Hashmand, English literature students who end up showing me around town, and taking me to their favourite spots. In a park we meet two of their course mates adding the finishing touches to their openly plagiarized English theses. An unspellchecked draft is sitting on the grass in front of me. 'Machiavellian theem in Shakespeare's Homlit'.

'Bullshit', the owner of the document declares, 'no one's going to read it anyway'. Eighteen year old Farzad assures me that he however loves the English language as much as his own. He has written eight novels which he knows are excellent though he hasn't so far found anyone able to read them.

We walk to a pretty tea garden in the centre of town where seemingly the whole male population is playing dominos or cards, and I borrow some cards to show them a few tricks. The shoeshine boys come to see what is going on and before long I have a crowd of people watching a medley of magic. They laugh and clap and urge me to repeat, shoe cleaning equipment strewn and abandoned on the grass around us.

Later, the students take me to their hostel to meet more friends.

'I have a brother in England, living in Wakefield', one of them declares in perfect English.

What is he doing there? I ask. I want to stress 'there' but don't.

'Waiting for asylum. I am considering following him. I can easily fake proof of living in a more dangerous area to help my cause, but it's a thousand dollars, a week in the back of a lorry, and a 50/50 chance of being found. So I'm not totally convinced'.

Back in my room, I settle in for the night. I have specifically chosen a 'quiet' room away from the street and overlooking some innocuous looking wasteland. It turns out however that the wasteland is actually a construction site alive and kicking in the cooler hours of the night. All night a pneumatic drill battles for supremacy with a hammer, until finally in the early hours of the morning the work stops.

Only to be replaced by the dulcet tones of the mosque caller, luring those, who I take it have had more sleep than me, to prayer. I pray for silence. And eventually get it – along with the streaming bright light of the rising sun, flooding into my pokey room through the curtainless window, reflecting off my polyester sheet and straight into my twisted, angry face. Peace in Iraq? Forget it.

I get up and decide that I might as well get on with the day since I am now too frustrated to sleep and anyway, I have only a short time to explore. I walk to the bus station to get a shared taxi to the village of Amadiya. Taxis going virtually everywhere else line up expectantly but the Amadiya rank is conspicuously bare.

I am invited to join a group of serious looking domino players in a tea shop next to the bus station. 'Is there any transport to Amadiya today?' I ask them. 'Yes, insallah. Waiting here'. And a burly man gestures me to the chair beside him. I wait, and watch the game of dominos being hastily played out in front of me. The burly man barely fits into the plastic chair he is occupying – he is throwing down dominos smartly before his pint-sized opponent. His bulging muscles ripple with every play. With each domino thrown he grunts and a moment later his opponent reciprocates. The pace picks up. He is now standing over the table territorially, with the gait of a bulldog, slapping his pieces down aggressively.

And then his phone rings to the theme tune from Titanic. He answers it – his shrill voice further uncovering the macho illusion - and then effetely lights a long, thin, menthol cigarette. They continue their play, slapping and grunting, slapping and grunting - I close my eyes and rest my head on the back of the chair. It sounds like a game of women's tennis. The burly man throws his last piece down in victory – and blows a raspberry towards his bemused opponent.

I give up waiting for a shared taxi and begrudgingly charter my own. The driver hurtles along the winding road, the worry beads attached to the mirror swaying worryingly. In the distance I see a verdant hilltop where the ancient village is somehow clinging. We are approaching Amadiya, a beautiful place with an identity crisis; on each of three road signs we pass it is spelt differently in English.

In the village I ask for directions to the mosque and feel rather embarrassed when I see it towering conspicuously in front of me, owning the village. But no problem; the guy who I asked will take me, and despite it being barely a stone's throw away to where we are standing, he drives me there. Karzand has an electrical business in Dohuk but has come to see his family in Armadiya/Armadi/Armady for a few days. Would I like to see some other places? Yes please. And he drives me from Mosque, to church, to tea shop to cave and to a nearby town with enchanting views over the village.

He wants to drive me back to Dohuk but his parents need the car and so he helps me charter a cab. Half way back the chain smoking driver spies an accident. He doesn't just slow and gawp as seems to be customary in The Middle East, but screeches to a halt at the scene. Not content in viewing from his car, he gets out to survey the crash more closely - and takes photos of the mangled carcasses of the two cars.

Back in Dohuk, after a quick night cap of tea, I meander back to the hotel to try and get a better night's sleep than the previous one. But the door is locked and it seems that no amount of knocking can produce anyone to open it. During my battering and shouting, several random passers-by stop to investigate what is going on. My situation seems the next best thing to rubber necking and they watch me beating the door and calling in vain with great interest.

They then get stuck in. One calls the number of the hotel – nothing. Another tries to break in through a side window, but impossible. Finally another throws a stone at a semi-lit window which induces the only other hotel guest to a startled reverie. He dons his clothes and peers at me from the other side of the glass door – he is the only one in the hotel and there is no key in the lock. He seems just as unhappy at being locked in as I am at being locked out. There are no other hotels in the area and I really don’t want to wake my new student friends, though they did offer repeatedly to have me to stay in their hostel. I stand around wondering what to do and smoke a chain of unrevelatory cigarettes.

Eventually the guilty looking proprietor returns, an hour later. 'No problem', he assures, I have key. Yeh, no problem for you mate, I think…but I am too tired to make a scene and fall in to bed and thank Allah it is Friday, the construction workers' day off.

The border crossing back is painfully slow – I read myself to immigration, via two bag inspections, three passport checks and four car examinations. Men with metal instruments are inspecting the bodies of every car, inserting their instuments into every conceivable space and cavity. They poke and prod and scrape like overzealous dentists. The wheels of some cars are even being extracted. Inside our car the air is hot, as are temperaments and a fight breaks out between the driver and a fellow passenger as the driver wants to charge more to put the air con on.

On the bus back to Mardin, I meet an engineer from Mosul, on his way for a break in Ankara. I ask him what it's like living in Mosul. He says he and his family go out once a month into the mountains not knowing if they will return or not – otherwise they stay cocooned and prisoned in their own house.

And what about the Americans? I ask.

He laughs. 'At first we thought they would help. We welcomed them into our homes. We gave them food. We had our pictures taken with them. And then we realized they were useless'. His laughter increases in intensity, his big jowly cheeks shuddering. 'They are imbeciles. They haven't got a clue about Iraq or Iraqis. Every week they come to my house and ask, Where are the terrorists? And I tell them, they've just nipped out to get ice cream, they'll be back soon'. He is laughing loudly; big animated guffaws, his moustache reverberating.

'But the Americans have done nothing for us. They are here solely for themselves. They come here all gung ho and arrogantly tell us what to do – some of them think they are Iraqi – but they've been working in sandwich shops in Michigan most of their lives and then are given jobs here they have no clue about. It’s a joke'. He laughs heartily again to prove it.

'We only have electricity four or five hours a day', he continues. 'In the summer my family and I have to sleep on the roof. It's scandalous. But what to do. It will get better. It has to…'

That evening I am on a high terrace overlooking the beautiful village of Savur in Turkey revisiting the last whirlwind 48 hours in my mind. As the bloodied sun is setting over the honeyed village below I get talking to a 77 year old German and her 88 year old Pakistani husband who are travelling independently, with rucksacks, round Turkey. They are the first non-local tourists I've spoken to in a month. What's the secret of fulfilling travelling? I ask.

'Travel with an open heart and an open mind, and do it now, she urges. But don't do anything too stupid', he adds with a wink.