I write this last entry from the comfort of home. It has been a few days since I arrived from Kurdistan, and I havenít thought about it during this time. But now I must.
Kurdistan remains a mystery to me. Due to all the security concerns we had while in the area I canít say that I got to know it. We were locked in a bit too much, so what I end up with is not what I knew, but rather what I felt.
Hardship can make you stronger, if you make it through it. I say may because I am not a
The day to start returning arrives. The lads celebrate that two of us will be free soon by simply drowning any last sense of civility and culture in pints and pints of lager (ďlohg'rĒ, as my Scot buddy says). That means that next morning I wake up, slightly hung over but ready to begin my journey.
We travel back to Suly, on the same potholed, two lane road, which guarantees that we will see our death close up on a few occasions. The driver does not disappoint in that aspect, and two hours
I get fed up with life in camp and I get an excuse to leave for one day. Destination: Kalar, the city where the whole visa issue was done.
We travel early in the morning and get there in time to do what we have come for, and then have some time off. So we decide to hit the market.
You have never been shopping unless you have been in an Arabic Souq (market). The one in Kalar does not disappoint. It is small, crowded, with waters from who- knows- where flowing through it. It is, like
The clouds arrive.
We wake up one morning to a steady drizzle which gently banged overnight on the metal roofs of the containers where we live. The camp is beginning to flood and we can tell that the roads are going to be dangerous and slippery. We wait until sunrise and then decide to call it a day. We canít risk an accident and all of our work is done off road, where the conditions will be more treacherous. We canít risk it.
We know this means that any projected End of Job date is
The visa issue is not over yet, I find out. Although I have my shiny ID visa card, I still have to go to the Aishaish (the police) and give a declaration.
Actually, two of them.
We arrive to the police station and again wait for a little while before we are brought forth to the office where they will take our data. I am struck by the man about to do so: he is a living copy of Saddam Hussein with two exceptions: one addition, his face is marked with the unmistakable scars of smallpox,