đdays 306-403: the frantic desert adventure (jordan, iraq, kurdistan, tĂźrkiye & georgia)
Trigger warning: this post mentions child abuse. Youâll get another warning (in the âIraqâ section) so you can safely read until then.
welcome back, dear reader.
Before you start, Iâd like to invite you to brew, and then drink, a cup of tea (or coffee, but Iâm developing a love for tea as Iâve quit coffee a few weeks back to astounding positive results). I urge you to undertake this activity so that, for the next 10-15 minutes that youâll spend reading this, you can smell and then taste your steaming cup of warm tea. I selected a Nils Frahm piece you can play as well, in case you wish for him.
roads, roads, roads
my journey through Jordan, Iraq, Kurdistan, TĂźrkiye & Georgia (this was somewhere in TĂźrkish Kurdistan)
I đđdropped you off in Damascus, Syria. You watched the sun set over that dizzying arrangement of millennia-old rooftops, and watched me tear up over it. You marvelled in the resilience of Palestinian Abu Saeed who set up a souvenir shop in the mostly-destroyed-but-now-being-rebuilt quarter of Yarmouk. While reading the last piece, you listened to the sweet voice of the late Fairouz. And at the very end of the Damascus piece, I asked you a question: (how) can we ethically travel in places with complicated regimes, such as Syria? Do you remember?
Iâd like to highlight one particularly thoughtful response I got: (highlights are mine)
As a German citizen who was born in Pakistan (I'm ethnically Pakistani) and resident in the United States...I grapple with this question a lot! The short answer is "I don't know"...but until I do, I don't refrain from traveling extensively, but I'll be very careful about how to portray a place I visit (I feel you do this part very well; part of the reason I love keeping up with your travels!). The role of a traveler in my view is to be a listener and observer first -- I try to be careful about how I spend my money while traveling to ensure that my travel dollars don't perpetuate greater state-sanctioned harm, but barring that, we can't understand the full depth of the human experience, of human joy, of human resistance without engaging with places in all their imperfections and so I continue to travel.
Maybe the answer to your specific conundrum is being thoughtful about how one portrays the places they visit? You're correct in noting that public traveler personas invariably turn into propagandists -- maybe the right way about this is to witness and reflect while in an ethically murky place, leaving the posting with a balance of kindness and painfully honest moral fortitude for when you're out of the place?
Itâs certainly a question that my travel project grapples with, as Iâm precisely drawn to those places grossly disdained in Western media that often have âmurkyâ regimes. Yet itâs tricky business, as asking this question risks whitewashing the unimaginable scale of violence inflicted by the U.S. (and allies) on most of the world, while mostly no-one questions the morals of traveling there (Iâd need some stern convincing). 2 reminders: in the last 20 years the U.S. dropped 337,000 bombs onto 9 countries, which is, on average, đ°đ46 bombs per day. The 2017 bombing of Mosul, the 2nd biggest city of Iraq where I almost cycled past, killed at least đ°đ40,000 civilians. No government has inflicted so much terror onto the world as the U.S. As Noam Chomsky frequently notes: the US is worldâs leading terrorist state (đĽđfun clip to watch)
the need to frenzy
click to make larger
Let me set the stage for you. When I was there, there were only 2 ways to enter & exit Syria (now there are 3, since another one opened up between Iraq and Syria). It means I need to leave south, to Jordan, cycle across the desert to Iraq, and brace the Iraq heat until I finally reach the cooling mountains of Turkish Kurdistan.
Now, itâs early June, and Iâm still in Damascus, being in awe with Damascene society. Iâm like a crumply dry kitchen rag soaking up water - I take up all that I can. But thereâs 2 things constantly on my mind:
My friends Pietro & Ole land in Tbilisi, Georgia, on July 2nd.
The desert that I need to cross gets hotter every day that passes.
And so, Iâm forced to depart. June 4th is the day. During that time (and now even more intensely) the area around Damascus isnât stable. Israeli forces are bombing and expanding into Syrian territory, Syrian government soldiers clash with the Druze minority. I figured it would be good to make the stretch in one day, so as not to sleep somewhere, and wake up potentially without knowing if the security situation had changed.
I woke up at 6:00am, and saw that on this fateful day, Iâd have strong headwinds on the 100+km stretch to the Jordanian border. A challenge! This is where I took those photos of the dilapidated theme park of the previous post, the roller coaster cart riddled with bullet holes. After pushing through, exhausted, I arrived at the Jordan border post.
how entering Jordan was a sudden change in atmosphere: yet another ode to the Syrian people
I tell the following story because it confirmed my immense fascination with and admiration of the Syrian people. My time in and exposure to Jordanian society was limited, so this is by no means a definitive verdict of Jordanese society. For that, Iâd need to spend a lot more time there. I just thought it was particularly striking: see it as an ode to the Syrian people.
desert horizon
endless yellow hills dotted with stones
Leaving Syria was, just like entering, a breeze. They wished me farewell and hoped I came back soon. A quick cycle through no manâs land brought me to the Jordanian border, where out of their little house walked two guards with big moustaches (a common display of fashion sense in Jordan & Iraq, Iâd later learn). They mockingly look me up and down as I approached on my bike, Iâm guessing they donât see many of us. Even though there werenât any cars behind me, they usher me into their little border guard house with a sense of urgency. The man with more stars on his uniform than the other man tells me flatly âyou canât cross by bikeâ.
Now thatâs interesting, I think. âOkayâ, I say. It isnât like I can try another border crossing, since, as youâve seen, there isnât any. âSo, what now?â I ask. At this point, Iâve persevered through the terrible headwinds for the whole day, I will sleep here if need be, and admittedly, Iâm slightly amused by the slightly absurd situation. They make some phone calls and tell me that I need a car to pass. I donât understand what they expect me to do, since itâs clear I cannot pull out a car from one of my bike bags: this is all I have.
I tried to see if this was the set-up for a bribe, asking the magical question that tends to unlock the door of possibilities: âis there any other way to solve this issue?â But no, there really wasnât. He turned the opening move towards a bribe down. The only way to cross was by taxi, and the taxi fee would be at least $50USD, for a section that was 1km in length. The border guards wouldnât help me, and they asked me to leave their airconditioned border guard hut. So, I did what any sensible traveler would do: ask the drivers that approached if I could cross the border with them.
What hurt me a little bit, was what happened next. When I approached a car, most of them with Jordanian drivers, one of two things would happen. Either the driver would look at me, and then pretend I didnât exist, not opening the window, or opening the window but ignoring me. Either that, or theyâd open the window, reluctantly hear me out (and listen to my Google Translated Arabic text), and either refuse me even though their car was completely empty, or ask for anywhere between $50 and $200 dollars. This was so profoundly strange. I suddenly felt âdirtyâ, âotherâ, and âweirdâ. To be ignored, to be made to feel invisible, is a very humiliating experience.
After many painful turndowns, a car approached with 3 young people who spoke basic English. Full of enthusiasm they spoke to me (yay!), heard me out, and said âof course! let us ask if it is OK for the guardâ. The young woman who drove spoke to the guard who collected more stars on his uniform, who then looked angrily at me, and told her no. I needed to cross by taxi. I said goodbye to the young people and they drove off. I talked to the next taxi that approached, negotiated the price down to $30 and stepped inside. 2 hours later, waiting in a different border room to get my stamp, I ran into the 3 young people again. âOhhh, hamdullilah (thank god), youâve made it!â they said. I explained I paid for a taxi, but told them how grateful I was that they were the only ones who wanted to speak to me, and help me out!
âOh, by the way, where are you from?â I asked.
âSyriaâ, they said.
Of course, I thought. Of course they are Syrian. Of course. How could they have been anything else? The other drivers that I spoke to were (presumably) Jordanian. Either they wore typical Jordanian attire (the white robe and/or very large, breezy and well-kept moustaches), or they were visibly much wealthier than Syrians (watches, accessories or clothes). As youâd have learned by now: my love for the Syrian people is expanding.
This was my very first encounter with Jordanian culture, and sadly the themes of this story kept recurring during my time there. For example, when cycling on the long Jordanian desert road, cars would stop, ask if I needed help (like a place to stay, or food), but upon learning I didnât have money to give, drove off. This hadnât happened before on my journey. I felt mocked when entering town squares when men (and sometimes women) clearly talked about and laughed at me. It all added to the sense that I needed to yallah yallah (go go), and get myself across that desert to the Iraqi border!
the big desert-crossing frenzy
To add to the sense of frenzy, please play the song âHammersâ by, of course, Frahm.
Okay. While Jordanian culture was different than Syrian, it mattered not. I didnât have time to indulge in a new culture anyway. I needed to get to Georgia (2000kms away) quick (less than a month). It was summer, and the environments I needed to cross were hostile. Hot. Empty. Specifically I saw two major challenges:
The âSyrian Desertâ in the north of Jordan
The Iraqi desert between Baghdad and the border to TĂźrkiye
To start with the Syrian Desert. Empty. Long. Barren. I still thank the mother of creation that she quietened the wind in most days I was there. Quiet wind made life slightly easier. Still. Temperatures were around 42C during daytime, 28C at night. Hot. Scorching. In one stretch, stores were more than 100kms apart. Nothing expect rocks, the sun and police checkpoints. I carried 12L of water. Oats & instant noodles. Lots of both. Barely any cars, a loud truck whizzed by from time to time.
A town. Tiny mosque: with air conditioning machine. Hamdulilah. Thankful to Allah.
2 villagers. Home, tea with sweets. Smiles, kindness. Google Translate, weird homophobia. OK.
Departure time. My kufiyeh was wrapped around my head. Sun protection. Long sleeves, long pants. Still. Hot. Scorching. Realisation. Too hot during day. Too exhausting; not good for a human body. And for a human soul. Need to cycle at night. New sleep cycle, no matter. Cycled more. Village, 1 hotel. room $50. FUCK. monopoly, fucking hell. Room with air conditioning machine. No alternative. OK. Lied in bed. Starfish. Wondered what I was doing. Realised I had no choice.
19:00pm. Time to leave. 40C. Boys, group, cars. Enthusiastic shouting. Pulled off the road. Dancing, singing, joy. Pot of dead pigeons. For eating. Vegetarian, what excuse?. Pigeons boiling. More homophobia. 23:00pm. Left. Felt unsafe. No pigeons for me. Cycled through the night. Saw all the stars a human could see. And more. Screamed. For joy? For fear? For exhilaration?
4am. Border zone close by, time to sleep. Suddenly: lights. What the hell? Bright, on my tent. White lights coming from a tower. Far away. Fuck. Didnât care, so tired. Rested, half-sleep. No soldiers. 6am, scorching sun on the tent. Weird mental state - frantic. Packed up: border time. Memory a blur, took hours. Didnât matter. A form here, new desk, another form, another desk. Stamp here, stamp there. Smiles, nods. Flash! Photo.
Dissociated Iraqi visa photo
didnât realise it was photo time, so this is now forever marked in this passport. hhahahahaha.
If Nils Frahm is still playing, wait until it finishes. You can look at the photos/videos, or close your eyes and imagine yourself in that desert. Song finished? Go on.
Iraq.
view from one of the military escort cars, on the way to Baghdad
First, breathe. That music was intense, and so was the story. But weâve made it through. Out on the other side, I was in Iraq. Now a vast, even emptier desert stretched out before me. From the few reports I managed to gather, the Iraqi army escorted cyclists through the desert. Since the U.S. and its allies are exceptionally good in creating instability, ISIS was still active in the desert, deeming the road leading to Baghdad unsafe for cycling. Regardless, who am I kidding, even if the desert was controlled by polyamorous fairies I wouldnât have managed to cross it myself. Iâd have needed to cycle hundreds of kilometers of utter emptiness in more than 45C temperatures. No shot.
Thus, after cycling some 10 kilometers I stumbled into the first military checkpoint. The three men with impressive moustaches and even more impressive guns needed some convincing, but they took me in their car, and drove to their colleagues down the road. For your pleasure Iâve made a video about it.
Upon entering Iraq, my mood shifted. I searched long for a piece of music that reflected it. Iâve found it, once again, with Nils Frahm, in one of his most gorgeous and reflective pieces: Our Own Roof. Once again, I invite you to play it.
Trigger warning: mentions of child abuse.
The military chucked me out on the outskirts of Bagdad at 15:00. Peak of day, the heat here was different, more oppressive. I felt so weak, dizzy, nauseous. I tried cycling, but quickly realised I simply couldnât. Put up my thumb, a truck picked me up. He invited me to stay with him, I accepted. The driver needed to see many people, I didnât understand why or who they were. Too tired to ask. Hours of waiting, we arrived at his home. A small cube far outside the city, in a neighbourhood with many cubes. When there was power, the air conditioner was on full blast. I had a mattress on the floor, laying on it felt nice.
The family was tense. The younger brother, perhaps 13 years old, was at the mercy of the older brothers, fulfilling their every request. Often theyâd shout at him. I felt bad for him. But the older brothers also shouted at each other. The brothers also shouted at their sisters. Not that I actually saw the women of the house, they were relegated to the kitchen where I wasnât supposed to come. Food arrived, cooked by their invisible hands, brought in by the younger brother, to be eaten by the men of the house. I only saw men. I missed the women. The father came home. The man clearly carried weight in âhisâ family. The brothers quietened and conversation stopped. We ate in silence. Such a dynamic was utterly new to me. They served me chicken burgers, I obediently and gratefully ate it. Not the time to bring up my vegetarian diet preferences.
Then, somewhere in the evening I heard a loud smacking, and, consequently, a boy crying. From movies I had imagined that child abuse would involve a shouting adult: verbal anger and insults to go along with the physical pain. Inflicting a verbal wound as well as a physical one. But there was no shouting. It was just the child, and the slaps. I imagined the scene, the adult quietly smacking away. I laid, on my mattress, the air conditioner blasting. It lasted about a minute, which I thought was very long. I donât know which child it was.
That night, I imagine everyone in the house slept restlessly. Or maybe it was just the kid and I. Or maybe even the kid slept well, and it was just me. Regardless, I stayed for the morning and afternoon, escaping into my laptop to edit videos, knowing full well it was now 48C outside, realistically trapping me until temperatures dropped. So I stayed, in a headspace that was becoming increasingly dissociated, delirious, troubled.
TW over!
a sunrise after yet another night of nighttime cycling. Kurdish Iraq..
I will not write about the exact sequence of events that happened in the 600kms between Baghdad and the Turkish Kurdish mountains. In broad strokes: it was still 45C, so I kept cycling during night time, and tried to find a spot to rest during the day. My body, mind and spirit were deteriorating. At one point, some 250kms north of Baghdad, I started vomiting from exhaustion. I was cared for by a few gracious hosts. I thank those people deeply: Abbas, Hakeem, Mohammed, and Dler.
I donât enter into detail because of a few reasons. I partially donât remember it all, the 10 days that I needed to traverse. I also wasnât feeling well on basically every level. Physically my body was increasingly strained, but emotionally and spiritually I wasnât well either. Writing this, I flinch. Itâs why I talk about a âfrenzyâ, as the dictionary definition is frenzy: temporary madness or delirium. By the end, I had lost touch with myself.
i want to write about
loneliness
iraq war
missing women
homophobia
losing touch with myself
