Arrival in Baghdad

Descent, the Airport Road, the Lobby

         When a plane lands in Baghdad International Airport, it can't land the way that planes usually do.   Instead of descending in a straight line toward the runway, it has to start circling directly above the airport at a high altitude, and gradually make its way down.   This is because the chances of being shot down are too great when flying over the areas surrounding the airport.

         Much of Iraq is like this: small, heavily fortified areas of very tight security, surrounded by huge expanses of frightening terrain where anything can happen.   It is true on a small scale ("secure" buildings within a city that armed convoys rush between), but it is also true of Iraq as a whole.   There used to be certain cities one tried to stay clear of, now there's a very small list of cities that might be considered stable.

         On my first trip to Iraq, I hired a vehicle to take me from Amman, Jordan to Baghdad.   It seems quaint now that the trip was nerve-racking because bandits might rob us as we drove past Ramadi and Falluja.   Beheadings never even entered my mind, but that was 2003, when lightly-armed US soldiers patrolled the streets of Baghdad on foot, and British soldiers in Basra didn't even wear helmets.  

         Now things are very different.   The Amman to Jordan route is unthinkable.   So is the Kirkuk to Baghdad taxi ride I used to take.   It was considered crazy then, but even I know not to try it now, and would never find someone to take me anyway.   A few years ago, my taxi driver had to take out-of the-way routes to avoid places like Tikrit.   Then it was Baqouba, then Samara, and others, until there was no route left that offered even a chance of making it.   Getting to Baghdad had become impossible by land.   That is why I flew there from the north.

         After our circling descent, the Iraqi Airways plane made a sharp turn to approach the runway, and touched down.   Nervous-looking passengers made their way through the terminal, and out the other side.   We all knew what lay ahead of us; the infamous Airport Road, often called "The most dangerous road in the world".

         US and Iraqi forces have never really been able to secure this one stretch of highway between the airport and downtown Baghdad.   IEDs, gunfire, mortars, and everything else imaginable can be found on the Airport Road, and it's often just a matter of chance.    Though the flight from Arbil cost me only $60, I've heard prices for armed transport into town ranging from $250 to $6000.   I would try the unarmed version.

         It took me about fifteen minutes of haggling to find a driver who would take someone as Western-looking as I to the hotel I asked for, but a nice fellow named Hassan eventually agreed to do it for $50.   He handed me his sunglasses as we passed some outer checkpoints, and we drove very fast.   In the beginning, high concrete walls surrounded us, but as we got further away from the airport, fields with tall palm trees or small neighborhoods zoomed by on either side.

         I phoned a "fixer" (an Iraqi who works out transportation, interpreters, etc. for journalists) who was expecting my call.   We exchanged greetings, then I handed the mobile phone to the Hassan, and they discussed a meeting point, near the hotel I was heading to.   About ten minutes later, we pulled over and picked him up.   We turned a few corners and stopped at a checkpoint outside the entrance of a few small hotels.   For being outside of the Green Zone, they were relatively safe.   

         Most of the entrances had been blocked, and at the remaining road into the small complex, several armed guards stood among concrete barriers, and looked through all my belongings before allowing me to walk down the path.   The metal balcony railings of nearby hotel that had been bombed spread like outstretched arms over the pile of rubble in front of the building.

         I arrived at my chosen hotel which was almost empty, checked in, and went to my room.   "Well, I'm here." I thought.   "Now what?"

         Every time I'd been to Baghdad, it had always been much worse than the time before, but the city had spiraled so far below what it had been at each previous point, that it had become useless to try to form any reasonable idea of what one's chances of surviving were.

         I went downstairs, and shared a soda with a security guard who was watching television in the lobby, who told me about being shot in the forehead in traffic by mercenary guards for an American company.   His young son had seen this happen, and a few years later, the eight-year-old hates Americans in his city, and aggressively yells at soldiers as they pass him on the street.