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I immediately thought: “This place is just like Mordor.” The dry bushes, the coldness, the yellow grass, the rocks and jagged mountain ridges. It all fit. But as I didn’t want to come across as the massive nerd that I am in this cool company, I kept the thought to myself. Only to have Sven remark moments later: “This place looks like something from Lord of the Rings.” Bless him.

As we went on the track we followed was increasingly cluttered with animal droppings, of the ‘koeien vlaai’ variety. Our pace slowed, the happy chatter diminished, for not only did we have to watch our feet carefully with all the loose stones, but we also had to dodge the livestock’s little smelling presents. Pretty soon I became convinced I’d be the one who’d make the inevitable stumble and do a shitstep.

These fears kept me pretty occupied (that, and the magnificence of the scenery and the views) until we encountered what I can only describe as a Rock. One that jutted vertically from the ground. Naturally we all climbed on it.

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Then Sven had a Lion King moment.

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As the mountain slope became ever steeper and more demanding we struggled for breath and our dignity. Femke became redder then the inside of a grenade apple. Salar cursed his shoes with their thin soles. With running noses and sore calves we moved on. I felt an inspirational speech was in order, but fortunately for my fellow climbers I, too, was running short of breath.

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But on we struggled. The last part was, of course, the steepest. But as we reached the top… Elation! Sven looked about triumphantly. Jantine lighted up a smoke. Salar admired the view. I did a little dance that I think no one saw. There was a splendid view.

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Femke instantly decided to celebrate by devouring an entire bag of Pepernoten.

Click to embiggen (though better not, she's shy)

Having fulfilled the ultimate goal of our quest it was time to muck about for a bit. We drank some water, ate some crisps. Enjoyed the cold wind on our cheeks.

Click to embiggen (I ain't shy)

Now as the earlier pictures suggest there are a number of caves near the top of the mountain. Local rumour has it that Peshmerga fighters hid there during the guerrilla wars. Some of the caves were said to run quite deep. To get to the real caves we had to follow another path that ran parallel to the mountain.

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After about ten minutes of climbing we found the entrance to the cave proper. I unfortunately can’t read Arabic, but I’m pretty sure the graffiti said things like ‘Woe to all those who enter here’ and ‘Attention tourists! travel insurance does not always covers broken ankles’.

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Of course, being the Dutch tourists that we are, we neglected to bring proper torches and such. We did enter the cave, however, lighting our way with our mobile phones. As I didn’t have the good sense to download a light app for my iphone I was even more in the dark than usual, and after being repeatedly shat on by bats I decided to return to the daylight.

In and around the caves we unfortunately found no other traces of old remains, Peshmerga or otherwise (though Jantine was utterly convinced she found a pile of old bones at one point). Indeed, the ample collection of empty bottles, graffiti and traces of campfires indicated that we were not the only Fellowship to have attempted the journey.

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After a final look back we started on the return journey. It was much easier going and it wasn’t long until we found our way back to our starting point. The trusted Taxi’s were quick to return us to civilization, which we took full advantage of by going to Nali’s, the by now quite renowned coffee shop, where we ordered cappuccino’s and Panini’s, and complained quiet happily about our soreness and stiffness.

It was, all in all, quite a wonderful day.

Until later all,
-Jan

The circle shaped lights bare a striking similarity to those spotted over Mexico City and around Area 51. Many people stepped out of their cars to stare up at the hovering ships, which were clearly visible for over 40 minutes. The UFO’s presence caused massive amounts of electrical discharges in the air, sometimes striking the earth with great violence. This caused numerous blackouts throughout the city.

So far there has been no response from the authorities, but earlier attempts to upload this video to the web have been thwarted. This video needs to be spread! Don’t let the Man supress this! All believers, please share this video! The Truth is out there!

Anyway, my writer’s block. Having suffered through it for over two weeks I am heartily sick of it, so to break it I am going to do something completely different. Rather then a blog about a visit to Erbil I am going to write a blog about the weather. Kurdish weather, to be exact.

For starters, autumn is a confusing time in Kurdistan.

Don’t get me wrong. Autumn is great. And I dare say the Kurds appreciate autumn way more than most other people because they spend half the year under a scorching hot sun with temperatures between 40 and 50 degrees. So when they get a sunny autumn day that hits, say, 25 degrees, Kurds are all leaving their air conditioned houses and start playing Frisbee. The main problem with autumn in Kurdistan is that Mother Nature is tuning down after producing the heat of summer. But old habits die hard. That means in September, October and November Mother Nature is the equivalent of a thirteen year old girl. Which is to say she is insane.

So on October 5^th she can be sunny, happy, and sweet. She can wear a pretty sundress and hug kittens. Then, twelve hours later, she’s weeping inconsolably in her room. By October 8th she’s listening to Cannibal Corpse, wearing black lipstick, and burning herself with cigarettes.

That’s what a Kurdish autumn is like: Sun. Warm breeze. Torrential rains. Tulips. Birds singing. Hail. Sand storm.

But even in her less extreme mood swings, a Kurdish autumn can be troublesome. I often walk home at night. I live in the centre of Sulaimani and most places I frequent are within walking distance, and I prefer a bit of fresh air to a taxi fee. But lately walking home at night has become chilly, if not chilly and damp.

Not too long ago I spend an enjoyable evening with some Kurdish and Canadian friends. As I was planning to make the fifteen minute walk home it suddenly struck me how cold it was outside, and that I was only wearing a shirt. As I already felt a cold coming up I asked one of my hosts if I could borrow a coat or some such. My hosts, who all happened to be of the female variety, looked a little bit blank. After some rapid Kurdish discussion I got handed a beautiful embroidered Kurdish cloak. It was nice, comfortable and warm, but very showy. It was definitely a lady’s cloak. I didn’t want to appear ungrateful, however, so I took the cloak, though in hindsight I am pretty sure they were making game of me. As I put on the cloak it was comfortable and warm and it made me feel like an early 1900’s London police officer. Yet when I looked down the effect was quite ruined by the pearls and glitters of the fabric.

Now I have never considered myself to be a particularly vain man, but as I was hurrying trough the streets I couldn’t stop wondering, why am I so uncomfortable with the thought of someone seeing me in this cloak? I think my worry was that someone would recognize me as “That Dutch journalist guy,” (particularly all the guards I always greet when I pass them, which is often) and then that they’d assume I dressed up in a glittery cloak because I was desperately trying to… I don’t know… go native? Tried and failed to blend in? All whys aside, I was trying to stay out of sight. But it quickly occurred to me that trying to be inconspicuous while wearing a flamboyant Kurdish cloak looks really, really suspicious. And if there is one thing worse than being identified as “that Dutch journalist who dresses up in a Kurdish cloak,” It would be people thinking of me as, “That Dutch journalist who dresses up in a Kurdish cloak and hides in the bushes outside your house.”

Plus, there are some places you simply can’t hide. I have to cross a couple of streets and parking lots to get where I’m going. So, of course, when I’m crossing a busy street, that’s when the traffic cop car drives by. He’s trolling along Salim Street, looking for I don’t know what for they never seen to be doing anything. I’m the middle of the busy street, wearing my cloak.

I knew the cop was going to circle back and come talk to me. He would drive up and say, “Um, choni?”

And then I would get my ass in trouble because when I’m put in a situation like that, I just can’t take it seriously. The urge to flap around like Batman would be overwhelming. Or when he asked “Who are you?” I’d say something like, “I am the servant of a secret fire! Wielder of the flame or Arnor!” and then my stupid, sarcastic ass would get tazered and put in jail for the night.

But the thing is, as soon as I saw the traffic cop, I wasn’t nervous any more. If one person sees you doing something kinda weird, it’s really embarrassing. But getting thrown in an Iraqi jail because you wore a glittery cloak and then quoted Gandalf? That’s awesome.

Unfortunately, the traffic cop didn’t circle around. It would have been the perfect ending to this little adventure, but real life rarely gives us that sort of satisfying closure. Last week I had a discussion on Facebook with a Kurdish friend about stories, and fantasy stories in particular. She is no very great fan of them, and at the time I couldn’t quite find the right words to explain why I do love them so much. It is because they give events the pleasing shape the real world so seldom provides.

Thanks for reading all,
-Jan

P.S. Yes, my next blog will be with pictures again.

Kirkuk is an ancient, large-ish city with a population of around 900.000 (estimates vary), a couple of hours driving to the south of the safe region of Kurdistan. Kirkuk lies in the Arabic part of Iraq, but as the majority of its inhabitants are Kurdish there is a strong movement in the city to join the Kurdistan Regional Government (KRG) to the north, citing that the city is both culturally and historically Kurdish. The KRG thinks this is a wonderful idea, for the ground under Kirkuk holds one of the largest oil reserves in the world. Yet for this same reason the Iraqi-Arabs don’t want to give up their claim to the city. Add to that a significant Turkmen minority that also doesn’t like to sit idly by while the Arabs and Kurds battle it out and you’ve got quite the little powder keg. Elections get postponed again and again, and this situation has dragged on for years as neither group is all that willing to compromise, making peace and stability in Kirkuk elusive at best. Heathed rhetoric from many politicians and a complete lack of unbiased free press has led to numerous violent outbursts between the differed ethnical and religious groups. Journalists with little or no training and protection are being used by politicians and interest groups to broadcast their messages, which often call for a violent solution to the impasse.

This is where my news site, Kirkuk Now, steps in. By providing factual and unbiased information to all the Kirkuki in their own languages (and English) we hope to calm things down a bit and create ground for an improved mutual understanding between the various groups. We aim to create an atmosphere in which dialogue and diplomacy have a greater chance of success. Unfortunately most politicians seem much fonder of the blame game (though there are exceptions) and many of the various factions have begun to arm themselves in preparation of the withdrawal of the Unites States forces. It is believed by many that if a civil war is to break out in Iraq, it will likely start at Kirkuk.

So off I went, trusting that my colleague Nwener would see me safely trough the many checkpoints between Sulaimani and Kirkuk (which he did, bless him). The third member of our team was our charming, gentle driver, a very friendly and smiling Kurd who took a particular pleasure in pushing his car to 180 downhill, preferably with a sharp corner at the end to keep things interesting. Add to this that the road to Kirkuk could, at times, be pretty bad (think holes, rocks and broken tires covering the asphalt at random) and that many fellow drivers often made sudden swerving movements just before you overtake them to avoid said objects, and I really don’t think you can blame me for looking out of the side window for most of the way. Not that there was all that much to see, as the road between Sulaimani and Kirkuk is mostly desert.

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Yet the gently sloping dunes (I had to think of Frank Herbert quite often – even thought I glimpsed a sandworm at one point) had a distinct beauty and charm of their own. The first time I spotted the seemingly endless row of sandy hills I had quite the ‘Lawrence of Arabia’ vibe and felt very thankful I got to cross them in an air-conditioned car rather then a grumpy camel.

I was told that Kirkuk lays on ‘blessed ground’, because of all its history and, of course, the oil. I was very curious as we approached the city. I had read of so much happening there, the destruction of the war and the bombings, the kidnappings and the violence, but also of the nature projects, the new schools and how Kirkuk usually takes the top honours in many sport events.

One final checkpoint and there it was: Kirkuk.

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The first thing I noticed was how low the city was – no high-rise of any kind. The second thing I noticed was how grey the houses were. In Sulaimani, where I live, most houses are either sandy coloured or white, yet here most houses had the colour of raw concrete, baking in the sun.

As I entered the city centre by way of one of the main roads I told myself: this isn’t so bad. All the old images of a destroyed city that nobody fixes because those in politics can’t agree on a system to do so flashed trough my head, but the palm trees in the bank between the roads looked positively gentle. The buildings next to the road looked neat and organised.

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But the moment we got off the main road I saw the other side of Kirkuk.

This is the Kirkuk I was warned I would find. Because of the political impasse there are almost no public works going on. The streets are hardly being repaired or cleaned and many houses haven’t hadn’t been renovated in a decade. An enormous sense of neglect hung over the streets. Things have improved of late (hence the respectable looking main street) but many if not most streets are still little more then stretches of broken asphalt.

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One of the few eye catchers on the road was what I take to be a monument to the city of Kirkuk. A number of hands hold up what looks like an oilrig with, of all tings, a Kurdish flag on top.

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Because of our insane speeding taxi driver – I mean, because of the insane speeds of our taxi driver -  we arrived with some time to spare in Kirkuk, so Nwenar took me to his family’s house where I met his family. After a couple of hospitable rounds of tea at the kitchen table and many friendly nods and smiles (they did not speak English), Nwenar took me to one of his favourite hangouts and treated me to the best Narghila (water pipe) I’ve had so far.

Yes, you can click to embiggen on this one too.

After about an hour and my persistent attempts to blow smoke circles (attempts that made me look so ridiculous that Nwenar repeatedly dissolved in helpless mirth, falling sideways and clutching his belly on the couch in front of me) it was time to set out for the restaurant at which we would meet the reporters. We were the first there so we took a long table in the back of the restaurant. One by one the reporters started arriving and I got the chance to exchange a few words with most of them. They were a youngish crowd, mostly men but also some young women fresh out of university. When everybody had arrived it proved to be a difficult meeting. Some claimed they did not get paid for all the articles they had sent in (and worse, they were right) and one even pretended he got an empty envelope for half an hour. I felt hopelessly out of my league, but I listened to each of them in turn and made many, many notes, for apart from their complains they also had a lot of ideas on how to improve the website. I was warned beforehand that some of them would test me, see if they could make me promise something or make me pay them more, so I had to be pretty strict with one or two of  them, talking to them with an authority I really didn’t feel at the time. Nwener’s help in this, with both translating and giving advice at the same time, was invaluable. After about two hours they all had their say and they started leaving, fortunately with pleasant smiles and hearty handshakes. With a great sense of relief I left the restaurant and prepared to return to Sulaimani.

We did not travel by way of Baghdad, alas

We found our taxi driver again and as we were driving trough the city towards the road leading back north I could just catch a glimpse of the ancient citadel, a place I so long to visit I almost bolted from the car then and there. We had to drive on though, as it is too unsafe to drive back to Sulaimani in the dark.

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On the road leading out of Kirkuk I saw a stark reminder of Kirkuk’s wartime pas and all it has witnessed. Surrounded by massive concrete walls, there are several military bases in and near Kirkuk. There still are American troops deployed in and around Kirkuk and – as I said before – much fear of what will happen when they leave the city for good. Many factions have begun to arm themselves in preparation of the withdrawal, and it is any one’s guess how things will turn out.

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The return journey passed in much the same fashion as the way there, though our taxi driver could only push his car to 160 because most of the road was uphill. I was thankful for the respite, but told myself that I would work even harder when I got back to Sulaimani, for the people of Kirkuk – whether Kurdish, Arabic or Turkmen – all deserve a safer life. There isn’t much I can do, but I can help in giving them a voice and allowing them to make an informed decision. That’s a start.

For those interested in what is happening in Kirkuk, both good and bad, I advice you to have a look at the website I work for: Kirkuk Now.

Thanks for reading all,
-Jan

So when the Kurdish sisters announced that they wanted to visit their father’s grave I had mixed feelings about joining them. On the one side I felt that visiting your dead beloved ones is a deeply personal and private matter, something I would not easily share and would want to do in my own time without outsiders looking over my shoulder, impatiently tapping their feet on some ancient slab of marmer. On the other hand, I had seen some Iraqi graveyards from afar en they often seemed very ancient, remnants from a different time, so the historian in me was anxious to visit one. In the end my scholarly pursuit triumphed over my sense of propriety (and the girls said they really wouldn’t mind me coming along, indeed would welcome it) so off we went.

As we neared the graveyard the sisters told me some of the sites history. Sheikh Hamdin Graveyard is one of the most popular graveyards of Sulaymania as it is located right in the middle of the city on a small hill. It is said that the place has been without vacancies since the early sixties, but every now and again a spot is made / found. It remains many a Sulimani’s wish to be buried at Sheikh Hamdin Graveyard.

As we finally exited the taxi and walked up the hill the place did indeed seem very old and crowded. But what struck me was how unlike a graveyard it was, or at least the graveyards I was familiar with.  Where Western cemeteries are usually neat rows of tombstones, crosses and slabs of marmer, this Kurdish cemetery was a seemingly randomly placed collection of roughly the same looking graves. Graves that actually looked a little bit like stone 19^th century bathtubs.

One of the 'bath tubs'

There must have been hundreds of them, placed close to one another and all facing the same direction, making it difficult at times to find a path. In a dry and dusty sort of way it was also a very green place with lots of bushes, many growing from the graves, providing a lot of shadow and many sheltered corners. Some of the graves even had a sort of cage around them, roofed and all. These cages aren’t so much about locking in the dead as for locking out the living, as in the past the cages were beautifully decorated with aluminium in intricate designs, which all got stolen during the war. Now the cages, while still paying tribute to the influence and wealth of the deceased, have lost much of their former splendour.

The sister’s father was buried near the top in one of the larger cages. It had a single, unadorned ‘bathtub’ in it. It was explained to me that the empty space next to it is for their mother when the time comes. Now you may call me a fool, but I thought this terribly romantic.

As the sisters took a moment alone with their father I blundered about a bit, hoping against hope to maybe find a Hamlet skull. Only when I started hearing raised voices from the cage did it dawn on me that the sisters were there on a mission.

For political reasons it was not allowed to have their father’s name engraved on his grave when he was killed. Now, 23 years later, they sought to correct the matter. This had been agreed on earlier with the grave keeper, but as they arrived at the grave… no sign. This led the sisters to walk (well, storm) back down to inform him of what they thought of his laziness, dumbness, untruthfulness and -most hurtful- lack of respect. Even from the top of the hill their vocal indignation to the poor sod’s feeble defence of ‘but I am a man, you can’t talk to me like that’ was quite audible. A little later they returned with their father’s name in a frame, looking disgusted (with the grave keeper) yet pleased (with the name) and placed it on their father’s grave. Standing next to each other, they simultaneously took a step backwards to admire it with two exactly similar and content little smiles. It was a beautiful moment.

Then suddenly the rest of the day was spend in a hurry. The sisters had to fly back to Amsterdam at the end of the day and the logistics of travelling and getting their enormous suitcases from several apartments into a single taxi took a lot of planning. There was also some confusion about the actual flight time, which led alternatively to states of ‘we are so going to miss the flight!’ to ‘oh, we have plenty of time. Have another pistachio nut.’ After a flurry of farewells and goodbyes they somehow made it to the airport in time. I will miss them, for their presence changed Sulaymania from a beautiful and intimidating city to a wonderful and exciting one. And I will always be grateful to them for teaching me ‘left’ and ‘right’ in Kurdish. Without this knowledge I would have gotten lost every time I took a taxi, as the drivers usually don’t understand my increasingly desperate repetitions of the destination. These days I can take a taxi with at least some confidence that I will arrive within two blocks of my destination.

After the sisters left I spend some time travelling around Kurdistan, visiting Kirkuk and Erbil. I’ve made many pictures (some are already on Facebook) and I’ll blog about the trips soon.

Thanks for reading,
-Jan

There was, of course, the staring, much like I mentioned in my last blog. Yes, I did some of the staring as well (they really are the most charming of ladies, though I’d like to think I’m slightly more covert) but mostly by every male (and most women) between the age of 9 and death or blindness. As Kurdish girls raised and educated in Europe (two Dutch-Kurdish sisters and a Kurdish-Swede) my co-shoppers are rather more direct, show just a little bit more skin and tend to speak to men a lot more feisty then their Kurdish counterparts. I greatly admired their spirit.

The Kurdish sisters

All three of the girls were flying to Amsterdam at the end of the day, so they were in fine flow, buying souvenirs (mostly in the form of kilo’s of nuts) and taking many pictures of flattered and surprised fruit sellers. They really stood out in their colourful and gay (old meaning) clothes amongst the mostly brown and black clad Kurdish crowd. Most of the people at the bazaar unconsciously made way for them as they moved trough the throngs. I felt very good about myself that moment, walking along the bazaar in such company, thinking it would do wonders for my street cred.

I also saw a lot more of the bazaar this time. We walked past a courtyard, for example, where they keep the little busses that are Sulaymaniya’s public transport system. The busses are small, white-light blue-ish vans that look a bit like a hippy’s Volkswagen minivan with an inflated ego. All these little busses grouped together gave the parking space a very Cuban 50’s air in a way I can’t quite explain. Unfortunately I couldn’t make a picture of it, as I was carrying several kilos of nuts at the time in a plastic bag that looked like giving way at any second.

Proof that I did, indeed, carry a bag of nuts at some point.

I did take a picture of a proud pillow seller (or is there a special name for this occupation?) and his stall. I was actually just walking past his shop with my camera in my hand when he started waving at me. I waved back stupidly, but the guy kept pointing at the camera, then at me, and finally at himself. As I’m quite sharp he only had to repeat the motions several times before I gathered his meaning, so I held up my camera to take his picture. Immediately he sprang in position, and after I lowered the camera he gave me a very wide smile and wished me a good day, a very good day, as if I just did him a huge favour.

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I find this so unspeakably charming. Yet it also makes me wonder wistfully how much longer this charm will last. Tourism in Kurdistan is fledgling; so far mostly Iranians and Iraqi from the south are visiting. But international travel agencies are beginning to pick up on this beautiful place, so it won’t be long before western people become a common sight on the streets. When this inevitably happens, will there still be people like this guy waving to you with nothing else but a picture in their mind?

These contemplations kept me occupied as we took a taxi away from the bazaar. Having exhausted the bazaar’s supply of nuts, we went on to visit a graveyard on a small hill right in the middle of the city. The sister’s father, a very prominent Kurdish politician in his day, lies buried there and the girls wanted to check up on the grave and pay their respects. It was quite a special place, worthy of a blog entry of its own, so that’s what I’ll post next time. Next time soon.

Thanks for reading all,
-Jan

Now this may not seem like a very big thing to some of you, but I am from the Netherlands, a country so flat that a particular large molehill is considered an object of wonder. People actually spend hours in a car to visit the Vaalserberg, a modest hill in the very south of the Netherlands that has the dubious honour of being the country’s highest point at a mere 323 meter above sea level. For most Dutch a trip to Vaalserberg, while not quite like a quest to find Timbuktu, is at least a trip worthy of many pictures and fond anecdotes, to be told over a cup of strong spirits after getting back home, relieved to have survived the ardour.

So to put things in perspective, the proper mountain I visited in Kurdistan with my collegues Judit and Sam, and our driver Ibrahim, is 1040 meter high. It has to be said though that it seems considerably taller because it is very steep and rather close to the city. There is even snow on the tops in winter. Azmar Dagh (for that is its name, dagh = mountain) is, like the Vaalserberg in the Netherlands, a popular destination for picnics, young romantics and depressed poets. The difference is, of course, that Azmar is an actual mountain that offers a stunning view of Sulaymaniya and that you actually have to risk your life getting up there.

It hadn’t occurred to me that there might be a very good reason that the road up Azmar is one of the very few that has working street lights. To see the kind yellow lights of the road snaking up the mountain is quite a quaint sight, somehow reminding me of ski slopes.

But they are there to take some of the sting out of the extreme terror of the ascent and decent and to dissuade drivers from taking involuntary shortcuts downhill. The way up is very, very steep. Worst of all, the road slopes horizontally -ever so gently- away from the mountain, giving you the inexplicable yet continuous fear of sliding off the road, particularly in corners. It was quite exciting. And so we slowly meandered up. Soon the few trees that dotted the mountain began to disappear entirely, leaving only the sandy yellow slopes and occasional garbage left by the brave fools that came before us. But when we finally reached the top…

… we saw smog. Lots of it. There are thousands of generators in Sulaymaniya -power is far from a sure thing troughout the day- powering ten thousands of air-conditioning systems and such. But even so it was quite a stunning sight. Here are a few pics, and pay particular attention to the look of joyous relief on my face in the last picture. I felt like I had made it. These shots were taken just before I realised I had to face the way back down as well…

As per usual, a reminder that I love comments: I love comments. Thank you.

Later all,
-Jan

A taxi dropped me off in the old part of town at a busy crossroad that led up to the bazaar. I set out with a spring in my step, expecting to be mesmerized by the exotic experiences that were sure to lay ahead. I felt quite the intrepid explorer as I entered the bazaar armed with nothing but my camera, my wits, a limited understanding of haggling and a vague, Disney inspired idea of buying an oil lamp (you never know, right?)

Boy, was I out of my league.

Within moments I got lost, though it took me a little bit longer to realise it. The bazaar is a maze of alleys and narrow streets with no apparent logic to them, all packed with stalls and shops of every size. Goods are displayed everywhere (and I really do mean everywhere; a crack between two houses is a perfectly acceptable place to have a microwave store) and wherever I looked people were browsing, buying and selling things. The smell was both terrible and thrilling at the same time. Taking a couple of corners at random I really felt my Amsterdam trained sense of direction would guide me to where I wanted to be, even though I had no clear idea where this was. But when I started walking along the butchers section (most stalls of the same nature are clustered together) and only saw dead cows and cackling chickens that gave me truly desperate looks, I decided to retrace my steps to find a way out of the ‘fresh’ section.

That’s when the reality sank in that I really didn’t have a clue where I was. So I resorted to the age old trick of just following a road that seemed somewhat busier then most, in the expectation that I would eventually hit a wider road. By following this road downhill I would then eventually get back to the main street, which in turn would lead to the intersection where I started. I clearly recall this made a lot of sense at the time I set out. Yet after an hour and several variations of this technique I ended up near a mosque with a large groupe of old, frowning and staring men.

Now in Iraq, and most other Middle Eastern countries I imagine, it is nothing unusual to stare at people openly. And I probably stand out a little bit more then most here with my light skin, oblivious look and bright blue shirt and kaki trousers. So being observed is not really something I mind, but when I’m being stared at I do tend to react to it. Usually in some harmless way, like by giving a little wave of the hand or a smile/raised eyebrow. In doing this, however, I am apparently breaking some sort of social rule, as the staring person then suddenly become embarrassed and looks away. This went the same way everywhere, which I thought so hilarious that it broke my spell of insecurity and renewed my confidence. I took a daring left turn past the mosque and suddenly found myself in a wide open road where they sold harmless nuts, fruits and realistically looking toy guns. Feelilng relieved (no desperate chickens and cut up carcases in sight) I browsed for a while, but couldn’t really find anything that took my fancy.

Feeling I’ve had enough excitement I took a picture (the only one that day), bought some pistachio nuts and took a taxi back to the apartment where I promptly agreed to visit the bazaar again the next day with some newfound friends. With their permission I’ll tell you all about the second visit later.

Like I said before, bloggers love comments. And even though my mother always told me I was special, I am no exception.

Until next time,

-Jan

This left me with little more to do but to stare at the airport pavement, which was new and admittedly quite pretty. Yet even discovering shapes in slaps of concrete eventually gets dull, so it was with a sense of relief when we continued our journey to Sulaimaniyah after an hour or two. Apart from some turbulence and the little kid sitting in the seat before me celebrating his near homecoming with some serious bowel movements, it was a smooth flight and I got to have some pleasant chats with Judit Neurink, director of the Independent Media Centre Kurdistan and my new boss, who was on the same flight.

It was already dark when I arrived so I didn’t make any pictures, but the following day I braved the 40+ degree temperatures to take a few shots of the neighbourhood. I’ve uploaded a few below to give you a sense of my surroundings. More have been made with stories to tell, which I’ll upload later. Enjoy the pics, and if you have anything to say please don’t hesitate to leave a comment. Indeed, leave a comment anyway. I love comments. All bloggers do.

Until later,
-Jan

Untill then,
-Jan