Fear and loving in the Middle-East

There are three things I really hate about traveling, tend to romanticize and subsequently forget, only to be reminded of again when faced. Right now, I'm in Iraq, in Iraqi Kurdistan, in Erbil. And yesterday, all those things crossed my path at the same day. So here they are.

The first one is the most important. Especially when backpacking, one is expecting to achieve that feeling of total independence and freedom. To some extent, this is true. The best example is to have, most of the time, the physical freedom to go wherever you want, without any justification or whatsoever: it's just what you feel like.
On the other hand, it's really nothing but make believe. When you find yourself in a country, there's hardly anything you can do by yourself,and you're totally dependent on all the people you choose to trust. And most of the time, this leads to great experiences and memories. Sometimes however, you find yourself stuck in a place and there's nothing you can possibly do to get away. Notably, most of the time these situations include taxi drivers.

The second thing I hate about traveling are squat toilets.Every single one of these situations include me.

The third thing is not so much hating as it is disliking, namely the misconceptions of myself versus the misconceptions of other people, leading to really difficult situations. Most of these situations include officials, policemen, soldiers or other people who don't know how to wield power.

So let's start.

ESFAHAN

Esfahan in Iran is a beautiful city. Blessed with nature, beautiful architecture and may be even more beautiful people. It's too bad that those people, whether male or female, find it neccesary to try and 'enhance' their beauty with nosejobs. I tried to count, but I lost track at ~20 people within 2 hours who had had nose corrections, walking around with tape over their noses... Anyway. I arrived early morning in Esfahan and hadn't got a clue where I was or where I should be going. I hopped into a taxi and told the driver the only thing I knew by name: Imam Khomeini Square (of course I would've saved 15 minutes of misunderstanding if I had just said Maidan Imam Khomeini). When I got there I witnessed one of the most tranquil and mystical dawns in a long time. The square is the biggest open square in the world, and is surrounded by mosques, a palace and bazaars, creating, in my opinion, the most stereotypical and true image of the romanticized Middle-East that Westerners often have. Yes, it exists.
After having walked around a bit, I put down my backpack and sat down on one of the benches and looked around, faintly smiling. It did not take long before I drew the attention of a merchant from the bazaar who was waiting for the bazaar to open. Enjoying the rising sun and looking at some flocks of tourists who were submissively guided to the must-see-buildings, we discussed anything subject he proposed, mostly involving girls, love and sex. I have found out that the things I was told in my first days in Iran ("in Iran, there are two kinds of men: horny and not-horny, often gay") were mostly true. It happened quite often that I found out that some Iranians (without exception men only), as do people in more non-western countries, perceive the West as one big limitless, lawless, sinful brothel, and are very eager to get as many details as possible.
When his interest in the carnal matters was slowly ceasing, I asked him what his profession was in the bazaar. Lucky me, I found myself a carpet merchant. After another hour or so, I sat on the ground in his little shop while he was explaining the stories behind the carpets: the colors, the nomads, the symbolics, the value, the uses etc. I ended up buying my first rug (it's really gonna tie the room together, man). A carpet bought in Esfahan, and I was happy.
When walking to what I hoped would be my hotel, I bumped into an elderly man who told me stories of the travels he did 60 years ago. My welcome was complete, and once more I felt home in Iran.

Upon arrival in the hotel, I found out that the strict sex-segregation does simply not apply to foreigners, as I was sharing a room with a 61-year old German-Australian lady who, now that she was retired, did not leave her chances unused to travel to every single corner of the world. With her, I went back to the Square at dusk, the place having a whole different atmosphere due to the lighting, maybe even more surreal or romantic than in the morning. We went to the famous Siosepol-bridge, where youngsters in love were searching for the limits of what was allowed within the strict Islamic laws-framework. Beautiful sights.

After some days, I wanted to move on to Erbil, in Iraqi Kurdistan. I heard and read that the border post I was planning to cross was off-limits due to annoying Iranian border guards and supposed unsafety, so I decided to reroute a bit and to stay for a night with a girl who I met in Esfahan, who lived with her mother and great-grandmother on the way there. After two days of more Iranian hospitality, food and trying-to-learn the language, I left Westbound, on to Erbil. Actually the bus went to Sulaymaniyah, the other main city in Iraqi Kurdistan, and it would be a two-hour drive from there to Erbil. I didn't really mind. Then.

The bus ride was supposed to take about 12 hours. After 12 hours though, we were still Iran, due to long interruptions, unnessecary stops and breaks of up to 2 hours.

CROSSING INTO IRAQ

And that's when the hate-list that I composed comes into appliance. I wasn't sure of what border crossing I was going to take but trusted the bus company's decision in that. After all, what do I know? It turned out we were heading for the exact same border crossing I was trying to avoid, but this time with a much longer route. Which, admittedly, was stupifyingly scenic. The west of Iran looks like one big garden, well-kept and wild at the same time, only interrupted by romantic Kurdish mountain villages, dotted with men wielding enormous mustaches, wearing turbans and big baggy pants. Nevertheless, I got a bit restless and wanted to cross the border badly. It took about 14 hours, and then we arrived there. I tend to be a bit nervous at border crossings, but never had any reason to actually justify that. Well, the reasons came by dozens when we got off the bus. This is the worst and scariest border crossing I've experienced so far. Thinking back at it (well yeah, after all it's the Iran-Iraq border, never used by any foreigner and Iraq is still heavily unstable and suffering from sectarian violence every day) it made some more sense, but it didn't really ease the process.

There were some people on the bus I got acquainted to, and I feel very much in debt to especially one of them.
When standing in line for the Iran-exit-passport control, after an hour or so in the blazing sun, it was my turn. Upon seeing my passport, the guard handed it away to some guy in a military uniform who came walking to me and gestured to follow him. The guy from the bus ran after me and declared being my friend. Since none of the officials spoke any language I could understand, this was pretty welcome. I was taken to an office where a big guy was sitting at a desk. I had to unpack my entire backpack and empty my pockets, and about everything got checked, shaken, opened and inspected while I was answering questions of what it was that I was doing in Iran, why, where I stayed, whether I knew anything about the laws concerning cocaine and heroine, how the Dutch government looked upon the Iranian people and why, what I thought of those matters myself, what these books were about, why I bought the carpets, for how much, why would they believe I wouldn't sell them at home, and whether it was true that Holland was filled up almost exclusively with water, cows and flowers (yes, that is true).

The process took about an hour or so. When we left the office, the bus was nowhere to be seen. I still didn't have an exit stamp, let alone an entry stamp for Iraq. After angering the people still in line for the Iranian exit by pushing them away for me to get the exit stamp, we did the exact same at the Iraqi side. I was expecting the worse, but instead the Iraqi official grinned widely when I saw I was from Holland, stood up and shook my hand, welcoming me in a language I couldn't understand but assumed to be Kurdish. Only when we got out, we figured out that the bus itself had somehow been delayed even worse and we waited for another hour in the sun before we could enter again.

When the bus left originally, I was hoping that we would get to the border while it was light and night would be over. I did not thought it possible however, that it was getting dark already.

IRAQI KURDISTAN

So there we were. We made it. I made it with the help of those guys in the bus who in turn offered to watch my bags while I was standing in line, translating for me, pleading for my non-terrorist nature and at the same time doing nothing but smiling and 'no problem'.

How mistaken I was, however, to think that the remaining drive to Sulaymaniyah would be a piece-of-cake. This is Iraq baby, and yes, Kurdistan is a (relatively?) safe place, but that's not simply because of a lack of evil intentions, it's probably also because of the intense amount of checkpoints on the road. I flashed my passport another 5 to 10 times or so, unpacked my bag once more, and then the 100 kilometres to Sulaymaniyah were finally behind us. I decided to go with the helping guy, directly to Erbil, so I could just stay there for two days, instead of having to travel again the next day.

I assumed it would be possible to get cash out of the wall in Iraq. Nope. I changed my left-over Iranian rials into Iraqi dinars, an equivalent of some 15 euros, and that did not get me as far as I hoped. The guy offered to pay the remaining amount, to which I had no real alternative but accept, and some checkpoints and an hour later I found myself cruising the outskirts of Kirkuk, another place I had planned to not attend but had no choice because our insane taxi driver, while conference calling (two phones and one hands free set) recklessly set route without reducing speed unless immediate death would be the only other option, at the same time not really giving notice to some pleas of the passengers to please be a little bit more careful with our lives.

Whatever. I made it to Erbil. The gnawing feeling that I had no more than 40 euros cash left and there was no possibility of adding some more to that didn't bring much peace of mind however. I just hoped I could arrange a discount and pay in euros, but that hope slowly faded when every single cheap-looking hotel I entered was full, and I resided back to the streets. And then I got some divine help. At the fringe of the Erbil bazaar, I saw some people walking, speaking English, so I decided to walk up to them (while carrying my backpack and other big bag) and asked them if they were aware of any ATM or anything. They weren't, and it seemed that I had to spend the night on the streets. Thinking of the adventurous story that would be in a year or so, I didn't really mind, but after half an hour or so, talking to the people who appeared to be American, they offered me some cash to survive. I felt like I had somehow planned this and was scamming them, which I told them, but they insisted and I needed it so it was hard to decline and hard to accept at the same time. I accepted. I asked them what they were doing in Iraq, and I did not expect the answer I got. According to them, the Kurds were now physically free (from war and genocide), but were still spiritually bound and locked. They were there to pray for the Kurds and try to give them an eternal life in heaven, through the Forgiveness of God who had offered His only son, Jesus Christ. This made for a hefty conversation that lasted for over another hour (we grabbed chairs which are used during daytime by the bazaari merchants). At the end of the talks, I was still a sinner without redemption, but they prayed for me and when I thanked them again for the money, they told me it was the grace and mercy of God, extended to me through them.

Right now, I've been sitting in an internet cafe for some two hours, writing this. The hotel I eventually found is as disgusting as it is cheap, but I will not elaborate too much on the second topic on my list, the squat toilets. It should be sufficient to say that it ain't easy being in Iraq.

Tomorrow evening, I will take a taxi to the airport (money already put aside for that) and I'll be back in Utrecht in two days. These last two weeks have been wonderful and I have (believe it or not) much more to tell, wonder, discover and find out about Iran, the Kurds, Iraq, this whole region. As I might have mentioned before, I plan to go back to Iran later this year, and I hope that won't be the last time either. I fell in love with the countries, their people, the baggy Kurdish pants, the languages, the food, the unforgiving sun, and even with the things which I said I hate (with the possible exception of the squat toilets, I have not really fallen in love with those).

That's about it.