(Part One of Three in my “Roni Goes to Iraq” series)
I wanted to go to Iraq for a while, but not being a fan of limitations, I wanted to see Baghdad and the whole country. I’ve been curious about war zones, but I still haven’t had the opportunity/guts/stupidity to go to one. As I have no intent on joining the military, I settled on going into Iraq from Turkey.
Where I was going is called “Iraqi Kurdistan”, “Northern Iraq” or “the north of Iraq”. Of course, each term offends a different group. The official long name is something along the lines of the “Kurdish Regional Government of the Republic of Iraq”.
The best way in is from the Turkish town of Silopi.
The night before, I stayed in Cizre, the town before Silopi.
From all online accounts, hitchhiking across the border was impossible. Everyone said that you need to pay for a shared taxi, but I was intent on trying. I had had a lot of luck hitchhiking in Turkey up until then and everything I read said that Iraqi Kurds had the same mideast views on hospitality as their Turkish brethren. This meant that you shouldn’t have much difficulty getting picked up and, from some stories I read, it was even possible to be taken back to their home as a guest.
First step: My CouchSurfing host, Vafi, dropped me off toward the edge of Cizre, where I hitched a ride to Silopi.
Cizre, Turkey - Vafi, my CS host
Second step: In Silopi, I amassed a crowd of schoolkids and locals.
Silopi, Turkey
Everyone tried to point me to the shared taxis, but I intently kept my thumb out. One guy wanted to buy my camera for $100 USD. I laughed and told him, “No, it’s my camera.” He didn’t seem amused, but didn’t persist. Another guy told me he could drive me to the border if I was around in an hour; I told him that I wasn’t moving until I got a ride, so if he came back before I got one, I’d be more than happy to go along with him.
Before he got back, yet another local offered to pay for my ride to the border, as he was going in the general direction. It seemed like the price he paid was significantly lower than anything I could have gotten them to agree to on my own (part of the reason was because he was only driving me to the border, not across).
Along the way, the minibus driver informed me (with almost no English) that Kurdistan could be found in Turkey, Iraq, Iran and Syria (not just Iraq). It was one of those cool moments of politics being an intrinsic part of local mentality.
Third step: I was dropped off at the Turkish side of the Turkey-Iraq border and walked to the barrier. The moustached guy therein seemed worn out, but willing to help. He gestured for me to wait. There were two poor preteen boys that seemed like all they did was hang out at the border. I told them my name. It took a bit for them to get what I was saying, but they eventually told me their names. The boys tried to get me to take a taxi, explaining “No para, no Irak.” (No money, no Iraq.) I ignored their protestations and waited for my worn-out border official.
Fourth step: Some borders, you can walk across. Some, you can’t. A lot of times, the latter are the politically sensitive ones, such as Turkey-Iraq. In those cases, you need to go in the car with someone and need to be officially listed as their passenger.
I was told to get into the van of a redheaded Turk. If he spoke one word of English, he kept it a solid secret.
The next stop was the real Turkish exit border, where the Turk explained to the official why I was in the car. The border official looked like he was a bit suspicious of me.
Border official: What city are you from?
Roni: Seattle.
(At first, it felt like I was getting grilled, but it became readily clear that I was an interesting anomaly.)
Border official: Ah! What’s from Seattle… What’s from Seattle… I know things from Seattle. Music?
Roni: Nirvana. Grunge…
Border official: Right!
Roni: Microsoft, Boeing…
Border official: OK, when you come back, make sure you come to me, OK? So we can talk.
Roni: OK then.
We went over a bridge, to the right was a building with Iraqi and Kurdish flags.
We parked. I started taking all of my bags. The redheaded Turk gestured that I could leave them in the van. As I didn’t know what was going to happen at the border, it seemed foolish to just leave my stuff with a stranger who I couldn’t communicate with. I took the bags with me.
We walked into the building which was decked out with multiple rows of nice chairs to wait in, with only a few people populating the chairs closest to the big panels of glass with officials behind. I’m not sure what everyone else was waiting for, because we didn’t have to wait for them to get served.
We handed our passports to the Iraqi official. They had me go over to the far left side to talk to a guy about how long I was going to stay in Iraq and what I was doing there. I made a big point about how I was going to be back in Istanbul by Nov. 7th, which was only a couple days away, so I wouldn’t be overstaying the 10-day visa that they were giving me.
Meanwhile, the Turk was getting antsy. I wasn’t sure if it would be a problem if he left without me, so I finally just asked the Iraqi officials if I could go, because the guy was waiting. They stamped my passport and I moved on.
Fifth step: I got back into the van with the Turk. For some reason, some teenager got in with us. We drove down a hill and I was let out by the next building.
Sixth step: I started walking, seeing some people, probably border employees, sitting around. Successfully having hitched, I happily waved. They confusedly waved back.
I went past one more guard before getting toward the main road. And there I was, in Iraq.
Continue on to Part Two: Roni in Iraq.
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