Border Patrol, Roadside Bombing and Memoirs of a Hero

“The rules have changed!” A corpulent Jordanian guardian bellowed at us. At the moment it seemed as though we would not be allowed to pass through the first checkpoint. Mundep rechecks our papers and tries to tell the guard otherwise, but the guard insists that our vehicle’s papers are good for transit to Saudi Arabia, but not Baghdad.

The rules changed today.

Obviously we dropped the ball. The guard goes on to tell us that numerous people have already arrived at the border without a clue and without the correct papers. Now I’m not trying to be a smartass, but I never read anything about a paperwork change for the Baghdad border.

I watch as he gesticulates angrily; each movement is swift and jolting, causing his entire body to move. His bright green eyes flash, switching between anger and frustration. Mundep gets out of the vehicle and tries to get the safeguard to follow him around it, showing that we are of no danger. But all the guard sees is a bunch of foreigners in Mundep’s car. Scotty and I are in the back, sitting wide-eyed and slightly frightened. Scotty has good reason, but I have an even better one. Especially when the man asks for our passports.

Gee-fucking-great.

“A Russian?” This does not make him any happier. In fact I think I see him smirk before he storms backs to his kiosk. I can just imagine what is going to come next. In a moment a swarm of soldiers will flood our car and I will be taken prisoner, subject to whatever they feel is befit for a dirty Russian.

Scotty, on the other hand, believes that we will have to go back to Amman. He doesn’t even think about the fact that Russia and Iraq have their own little inner war going on. He is just afraid that he will not get his story; that he will once again be left in the lurch, without anything to bring back to America. Surprisingly I understand his predicament. After all, he has invested quite a bit of his own money into this project.

Luckily Mundep has an idea. He gets on his cell phone to make a call, which I am amazed even works, cause let me tell ya Verizon Guy, I can’t hear ya now!

Supposedly the papers arrived earlier this morning, after we left, so it was too late. However Mundep has another idea. Mundep once again leaves the confines of the car and approaches the soldiers, whom are huddled together. After a moment of discussion, the guard and Mundep and about five other border men march back to the car. Not a moment later the guard hands us back out passports, but not without a good tongue-lashing. He spews out one Arabic word after another; I only end up catching about half of what he has to say. Luckily we are recording the entire ordeal and I will be able to translate it all later. All the while Scotty and I nod and say our Shokrans, though I can tell that the man is mainly talking to me. I even pick up a few words where he directly is talking about “the Russian” and giving specific instructions that I am to follow.

In the end we are granted permission to travel into Baghdad.

But first they want a picture with me.

Say what?!

I turn and stare at Mundep, but he is merely smiling and holding three different cameras. I quickly get out of the car and saddle up beside the men, wrapping my arms around their waists. I don’t know what Mundep told them, but whatever it was, it worked… though I’m not sure I like the implications of what he might have done.

After our photo session we return to the car and start the remainder of our journey.

Apparently Mundep told the guards about my uncle, whom is a semi-famous activists/actor, who recently did a number of advertisements in the country for the hungry children. To those soldiers, meeting me was like meeting a link to Sally Struthers. Or so Mundep tells me.

He also tells us that apparently the guard told him that it was the drivers’ fault and not the Jordanian government’s that there was any type of delay. He also insisted that I personally (as well as my uncle) needed to write to the Jordanian Government and let them know that it was wonderful that they were able to solve the problem for us, as normally they would simply make us turn around.

When I later asked Mundep what he told the soldiers, he turned and smiled at me. He said that he did tell them about my uncle, but also, that while I was Russian, I was also American, and thus I was an ally to the Kingdom of Jordan. He also told them that, like my uncle, I was an important sahifien, journalist, who would hate to report that the Jordanian government obstructed me from doing my very own critical work in Iraq.

I laugh at all of this. I never once believed that my uncle’s Christian Children’s Fund commercials would get me anywhere in the world, obviously I am underestimating the powers of being like Sally Struthers.

And to think, a Jew is famous for being a fake Christian… wonders never cease.

As we continue our journey I can’t help but think how the laws of man are flawed, especially when thinking from a Muslim point of view. If you think about it, there is really only one man who makes the laws and thus injects his personality and character into said laws. Then, twenty years down the line another man comes and does the same thing again, and again, and again. This happened all the way from the days of the Hammurabi. For this reason, in this sense of thinking, it is best to follow the laws of god. They never change because unlike man, the personality of god is perfection.

We have barely even passed into Iraq when we see a burned bus on the side of the road. I would call it a highway, but that would be an understatement. Even calling it a road is a long stretch.

The bus had been carrying Syrian workers whom were returning from Iraq at the end of May. Coalition forces randomly decided to bomb it. In the process they killed five people and injured ten. We saw the destroyed bridge before we slowed down to avoid the crater that was left in the road from the bombing of the bus. And people say that manmade creations are a monstrosity.

Bull hockey.

In it’s own sick way, this is gorgeous.

This is the epitome of why we are here.

The next morning I wake up early. The sun hasn’t even come up, the sky isn’t even starting to lighten.

I sit out on the patio looking out over the city. Porch lights flutter on and off, sputtering for life, providing just a bit of light for the city. Next door, the colossal generator from the Australian embassy is constantly roaring, keeping the building from slowly fading, giving it some semblance of life.

We are staying at the Mosafer, which is just south of the Tigris River and around the corner from Al Hamra. It is a ten-story muddy colored building; an orange-colored hive of journalistic types buzzing about. There are no vacancies even though it comes with the steep price of $130 a night. But that is only the walk in price. Because I spoke Arabic the manager gave us a discount. We only pay $55 a night.

Shri brought us to Mosafer once we entered Baghdad as Mundep had to get on his way and finish business. Brandon, Mickel and Jay joined us soon after. They did not have the same trouble crossing the border; Jay convinced the guards that the boys were there to solve their problems, not add to them. Shri is a wild eyed, hairy browed Sunni man who insists that he can be our translator. He told me this while I spoke to him in nothing but Arabic. Most of his time is spent on the front steps of the Hamra, a close by hotel, telling passersby’s about the merits of the Mosafer.

“Much cheaper place. $45. Safe. Large area. Kitchen. AC! Very nice.”

He targets the forgeiners. Lures them in with the $45 hotel price, forgetting to tell them about the incredible fees that are attached.

As I continue to stare out over the city my mind drifts back to my time in Afghanistan. Despite the conditions, it was one of the few times that I felt truly happy. I enjoyed working with the people and completing something that I knew was an asset to the people of the country. I missed it. I also thought of my old friend Marla Ruzicka. I had met her when I went with Moshgan to Afghanistan with CIVIC. Marla was the founder of CIVIC. Marla had been heading to Iraq. That was the last time anyone would see her again. She was killed in a suicide bomb attack in Baghdad on April 16, 2005 at the age of 28.

Since then many of my friends who have continued in that direction have tried to get me to switch majors and join them in the fight for humanity. And as I sat on our balcony I couldn’t help but wonder if maybe that was exactly what I should do. I never understood why I had gone into Mechanical Engineering. Sure it was a great area to pursue, but there really was no reason to do so. Maybe I was only trying to regain my parents’ approval, to make them see that I had gone to college for a good, worthwhile reason. A humanities study is nothing to brag about.

But as I stared out at the city I realized that an aide worker was a very noble and courageous job, one that not very many people could achieve, especially when concerning world friendship. Maybe the Friends World Program and LIU was exactly what I should have been studying all along.

Suddenly I hear a noise below, effectively disrupting my thoughts. I watch the scene unfold before me. Australian guards in camouflage wave their M16’s and usher some VIPs—men who look more like middle aged golfers in their sunglasses and shorts—out of a BMW with a self made orange square duct taped to the hood. They make their way up to the embassy, warding off anyone who even so much as looks at them.

Moments later I watch a young Iraqi on a cart carrying what appears to be a bed of reeds. The cart rolls by as the boy whips and curses at his donkey. He is angry at the situation, angry at his donkey, angry at the world. In the Islamic world the donkey is the lowest of all accursed beasts in the hierarchy next to dogs and pigs.

Unlike my trip mates, I cannot sleep. The generator doesn’t help the situation. But they are so exhausted and sleep through it, not even phased by its rattling.

An hour later and the sun is starting to come up. More and more people started heading out and beginning their day. An hour after that and its an oven. The electricity went out hours ago and it took the AC with it. Hunger takes over as pangs cause my stomach to gurgle and rumble. I clamber out of the chair and stumble toward the living room of our shabby shaghq. I feel around for the bag of digestive biscuits that we bought at the Safeway in Amman. I grumble as it falls to the floor causing the contents to tumble to the floor in the process; that’s what you get when you stay with a bunch of guys. Of course they would leave it open and not worry about someone causing it to fall on the disgusting floor below.

I pick the biscuits up, replace them in the bag and make sure it is closed before placing a few that I had left out on a small paper plate. I return to the balcony. Without even looking, I take a satisfying bite of the biscuit. My stomach grouses at the gastro-nostalgia it congers as I swallow a small bit, and I smirk; it already knows what I am putting into it.

My chewing slows as suddenly I become hyper aware. In my mouth and on my fingers and down my arm and on the biscuit itself I notice that it has all come alive. My eyes focus in on the tiny, overexcited life forms that have brought my food to life. That is when I realize what I just ate, or rather, what has been eating our food. They are ants. Hundred of them. They are panicking, trying to flee the great gaping maw that swallowed their comrades.

I dash to the bathroom.

So much for being a vegetarian.

After several tries I cough up enough to fill an ant farm and feel I have gotten the majority out of my system. I try to flush the toilet. The chain, which is more of a knotted string, on top of the toilet tank breaks off in my hand. I take off the faux porcelain lid off the tank and lean it against the wall.

No water inside.

As I walk back into the bedroom where Scotty, Mickel and Brandon are sleeping twisted uncomfortably in bed, there is a thundering crash behind me. Scotty jumps up, certain that our shaghq has been hit by a SCUD. But it is only the toilet lid sliding to the floor and breaking in umpteen pieces.

Around 10AM that morning I call down to the reception. “Vern” is there and offers to come up and take a look at our mooshkila, my problem. He looks at the broken tank lid.

"No problem. Maybe $5 to fix," he shrugs.

Maybe $5? Um, does the $5 include some water and a new chain?

What he wants to tell me really is that he canceled all his appointments to be with us today. He offers to set up an interview with one of the resistance fighters.

Through hand gestures, he pantomimes an angry bearded fanatic holding a bazooka and chuckles. We tell him thanks but we have a friend of a friend who has offered to help us with our stories. I give him a Ben Franklin and tell him to keep $10 for his trouble along with the $55 for the room and the $5 for the toilet. After we tell him that we are not staying another night, he disappears and returns, his brow deeply furrowed.

"I talked to the management. They say they need to replace the whole tank. Maybe $20."

He counts back my change -- it's a couple dollars short. We look at Vern, perplexed.

"I keep $12 for me, yes?"

We don't argue. Just pick up our bags and head out of the Mosafer.