Our trip began at Boston's Logan airport where the customs people
showed an inordinate interest in two duffel bags filled with chemical
suits and flak jackets and helmets, but once we explained that
our final destination was Bagdad, they smiled and sent us through.
The Air France flight to Paris was packed. My producer Marc Allard
and I passed the transit time in Charles de Gaulle airport in
that all too familiar "airport daze": stiff, sticky, and disoriented
with the change in time. The espresso helped.
The flight on to Amman, Jordan was equally full. This time there
were many journalists heading to Baghdad as well, so there was
a bit of a tight-lipped push for overhead baggage space with people
trying to stuff camera gear, lap tops, and too much other reporting
equipment into too little space. We landed in Amman just after
dusk, and the strip of light along the horizon was that remarkable
mauve red color that I've only ever seen here in this part of
the world.
The baggage claim area in Amman brought us our first set back.
Of the seven checked bags (satellite phone, radio gear, flak jackets,
and clothes) only one bag made the trip -- the flak jackets made
it. The rest (we were to learn later) was still in Paris. Funny
thing, you spend hours planning and anticipating and speculating
and wondering what's ahead and then you fall prey to the all too
humdrum traveler's curse of "lost luggage." Of course it was too
late in Jordan and Paris to start a proper trace, so we grabbed
what we had and took a taxi into the city. We are staying at the
Intercontinental Hotel (a favorite hack's haunt) but the taxi
driver got lost and we spent half an hour swinging through the
steep hills of downtown Amman before we figured that out. We quickly
realized just what a rush is here to get into Baghdad, when Marc
and I met three reporters we have worked with in other such places,
all loading trucks and checking gear.
FIELD REPORTS
;)
