Baghdad Journal
Day Eleven
Once all our gear was stowed in Haidar's truck, we left the Al
Dar at dawn, and swept through the city. It was just after the
curfew lifted. There wasn't a soul to be seen, and if you can
give credit to the Baath Party regime for anything, you can congratulate
them for great city throughways. As the rose-colored light of
the morning caught all the dust and smoky haze over Baghdad, Haidar's
truck seemed to float through the city. Marc and I settled into
the first stage of our magic carpet ride home.
Right.
We drove for three hours; past the abandoned Iraqi troop carriers
with their back doors hanging open, past the tanks and trucks
destroyed by American air power in the early days of the war,
across the Euphrates and on into the desert. Without more than
a half second warning Haidar's front left tire hit a shell crater.
The truck bucked into the air, and Haidar carefully guided it
to the side of the road as it bounced and shuddered to a stop.
Uh oh.
The heavy bolt that holds the steering mechanism to the tire
had been sheared off clean. The tie rod was hanging loose. The
left front tire was turned to the left and the right tire was
pointed straight ahead. Now Haidar said it. Uh oh.
You might remember that one of the reasons we had hoped to have
our translator Ahmed come with us to Amman was so we'd be able
to communicate with Haidar. Now we were stuck, in the Iraqi desert
an hour from Jordan and there was no way to discuss anything.
In short order, a couple of cheery men in a beat-up vehicle happened
by and stopped. Working with Haidar they soon had the truck up
on its jack, the wheel off, and, with the help of a piece of steel
pipe they found in the ditch…the broken tie was removed and
examined. Then they left. We were able to determine that they
were taking the offending part back down the highway to the nearby
town of Rutba. They'd be back in an hour.
We weren't entirely convinced this was going to work. It was,
after all, Friday. The mechanic's shops were likely to be closed
for the weekly prayer day. On top of that, Rutba (I imagine) is
not the sort of place where you drive up to Mr. Goodwrench and
say;
"Right. Left front tire hub-bolt and tie-rod for a 1998
Chevy Suburban please…"
Our fears were somewhat accurate. An hour passed. Then two. Then
three. And in this time we had to decide if it was more comfortable
to stay in the only shade we had inside the truck, with the doors
open. That's where all the flies were. Or, outside the truck,
in the sun, and in what was building up to be quite a howler of
a sandstorm. Marc and I each went through about 4 liters of water.
It was numbingly hot. Those hours are a bit of blur.
Sometimes we'd get up and squash the little black scorpion-like
beetles that scuttled out of the ditch.
By now it was near two in the afternoon. Haidar was getting increasingly
agitated; wondering if the boys from Rutba had forgotten us. I
should mention that lots of passing cars and trucks stopped to
offer assistance. There were dozens of other Iraqi drivers who
paused to confer with Haidar about his dilemma…they all clucked
their tongues in dismay as our trouble. Along with them were doctors
from Greece, journalists from France and many Iraqis also heading
west….but none could offer what we needed. No one had the
parts, and there wasn't any room for us to catch a lift and leave
Haidar, which was not something we wanted to do anyway.
Our real concern though was getting stuck there for the night.
All the passer-bys warned us that that's when the bandits come
out. Two hacks with a sat phone and US dollars would be great
pickings.
Eventually Haidar flagged down a battered old Iraqi bus that
was all painted green and labeled "Green Oasis" on the
side. There were two men on board. We loaded all our gear underneath.
This was all done with gestures and still no English. Then we
drove away and left Haidar. I don't know whether he wanted us
off that unsafe piece of highway, or if he thought it was just
a better plan to keep us moving toward the border. We felt awful.
I'm not even sure as I write this, that it was the right thing
to do.
As we neared the border, the Green Oasis bus boys pulled into
an Iraqi gas station for diesel. Twenty minutes later, we were
pulling back onto the highway and like a vision in the orange
swirls of the still building sandstorm - there was Haidar, blocking
the exit…his truck repaired, and a great big grin on his
face. Hugs all around; and on to Jordan.
The border was utter chaos. We needed Jordanian dinars, and stamps
and visas, and more stamps. After another hour in line - we were
frisked - our truck was emptied and examined, and then we were
waved on to Amman. By this point, the sandstorm was in full fury.
There were moments on the road that Haidar had to stop. It was
like someone had draped a glowing orange blanket over the truck.
(And of course, when you stop like that, you're always hoping
those big-ass trucks, that thunder down the highway, have stopped
as well…)
We got to Amman 15 hours after we left Baghdad….sand and
dust and grit in our hair and eyes and walked into the lobby of
the Intercontinental just as a loud, splashy high society wedding
was making its way through the lobby. I wish one of us had had
the wit to take a picture of the contrast between our dirty unshaven
sand-crusted faces, and the shiny suits and party dresses of those
at the wedding. It didn't happen. All we wanted was a shower.
But it was a jolt of a return to life in this other word. Today
we unpack and wash down and repack the gear for the flight home.
Haidar, is off somewhere, getting his wheels aligned and a mirror
replaced before hunting down another pack of journalists for the
ride back to Baghdad. I wish him safe travels. His mad chase after
us down the highway was not a grab for cash. He'd already been
paid. He did it, out of sheer decency, and if I remember anything
about these past two weeks, it will be that. The goodwill and
the decency of the Iraqi people.
FIELD REPORTS
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