Dreaming of insomnia

I like wine. I also like gin. In fact, those who know me will be aware of my fondness for a wide range of alcoholic beverages (and to any parent reading this - all in moderation, in fact, I don't even like it that much, I just do it to be sociable). But in the absence of these fine and delicious libations there is one thing I cannot do without.

Coffee.

Quick question, have you seen me in the morning before I've had my coffee? Yes? That's nothing. Try 3 weeks. Yes, 3 solid weeks without a sup of anything resembling a decently caffeinated cup of joe. Am feeling queasy just remembering it.

For although I was prepared for the dry spell I'd be experiencing while in Iraq, I had no idea that I would be denied access to the glorious black gold. And I'm not exaggerating when I say denied access - coffee is traditionally a man’s drink, to be drunk in the company of other men, while smoking a few cigarettes and talking politics. Women can be found drinking tea to their hearts content, but coffee? Nope, that stuff is too strong for our weak constitutions.

When we arrived, jetlagged and still reeling from the consumerist paradise of Istanbul duty-free, I was offered a drink. Of course, my first instinct is to call out for my old friend, but I was not prepared for what was handed to me. Watery, and bitter yet sweet, the abomination they dared give the name of 'coffee' was in fact a single serving sachet of the sweepings from the Nescafé floor, which included powdered milk and sweetener. Now I'm polite and everything, but there's no way in hell I'm sticking that stuff in my mouth (yeah, yeah, I know, ‘that’s what she said’).

When we reached Baghdad, we went on a bit of a walkabout, which I will describe more in a future post, but one of the highlights of the trip was my dad showing us his favourite coffee house from when he was at university in the city (still standing, still serving caffeine-y goodness).  He told us about how he’d come here with his friends, play backgammon or chess, drink coffee and have a good chat (according to him it was about sport and politics, but I just know it was all about girls), and my brother opened the door to go in.  Now, I was about to follow him, but was swiftly informed “No.  Women don’t go in there”. Seriously? Seriously? I could smell it through the open door, and think I may have drooled a little…

Baghdad Starbucks

So, to summarise.  No coffee at home.  No coffee outside. The fact that you didn’t hear of a one-woman killing spree on the streets of Baghdad on the news back home was a fricking miracle. To this day I have no idea how I made it through.

But the worst is yet to come. As we sat in Najaf airport, awaiting our flight back home, I mentioned to my dad and brother that I would disembowel a puppy for a decent cup of coffee.  To which they replied, “What do you mean? We had lovely coffee at your aunt’s house.”

Eh?

What?!

Turns out those treacherous (ahem) so-and-so’s had left me with the other ladies, snuck up the stairs with my uncle and had been guzzling proper Arabic coffee without even thinking of poor, decaffeinated me, sitting downstairs, dreaming of espresso.

It may be some time before I can bring myself to forgive either of them.  But like a good cup of coffee – I’m not bitter.

Karbala - A tale of two shrines

Before I start, I’d like to say that there is so much history attached to Karbala that it is beyond my ability to contain it in a measly blog post.  So, where possible I’ve put in links to other sources, should you wish to read more.  Anyways, on with the snark…

As I may have mentioned before, Karbala is seriously holy.  These guys take religion and turn it all the way up to 11.  I suppose you could describe it as a Disneyland for religious fervour, not that I would you know, what with being totally sensitive to all religious sentiment (I don’t like fatwas, they don’t suit my skin tone).

So it stands to reason that the main tourist attraction in Karbala would be not one, but two (yes TWO ladies and gentlemen) shrines.  These impressive displays of Islamic architecture are the heart of the city, and all life revolves around them (especially at the time of year I visited – see Muharram and Ashura).  Have a look here to see how large these structures really are; just make sure your map is set to Satellite.  They are joined by a large boulevard, lined with trees, which is populated by devout tourists and tourist photographers.  You pay these men with impressive digital cameras slung around their necks to take your photograph in front of the shrines then pick up your photograph (or mug, or mousemat, or wall clock or any other printable surface) a few hours later, freshly printed and ready to be mounted on the nearest fridge.

Just before we got on Splash Mountain

You’d be forgiven for developing a serious case of shrine fatigue after spending just a few days in Iraq; they’re dotted all over the place and can be easily spotted by the shiny gold EVERTHING – domes, doors, pillars, the works, but before you give up on all the holiness and disappear, here’s a bit more detail on why one of these shrines in particular inspires millions to visit throughout the year, but especially at the time of Ashura.

So, from the beginning  - Imam Ali, who according to Shia Muslims was the first Islamic leader after the Prophet Mohammed. (The Sunni’s disagree.  And this, my friends is the huge and insurmountable difference between these two branches of the same faith.), had a son who was known as Imam Hussain.  This man was martyred at the Battle of Karbala and was buried at the site of the Imam Hussain shrine.  Makes sense right?  And every year, millions of Shia pilgrims come to celebrate the life (but mostly mourn the death) of Imam Hussain (they’re a miserable lot).

If taken in isolation, the building looks as if it belongs in a very prosperous nation.  But when you expand your field of vision, it’s hard not to notice the patches that cover the devastation of 1991 – when Saddam’s Republican Guard besieged the town.  So while I found it architecturally and aesthetically pleasing, and it is a testament to faith that will allow structures like this to exist, I found the display of wealth to be overwhelming and a little distasteful.

Now, having mentioned 1991, I have to go into a very brief overview of the history.  Apologies, but this bit isn’t going to be funny or sarcastic – I shall attempt to remedy this later.
From 5 to 19 March 1991, Karbala was the site of a rebellion against Saddam Hussain.  As you can imagine, he didn’t take kindly to this, and so, sent his national army – the infamous Republican Guard to quiet down the population.

The achieved this by shooting anyone they saw on the streets.  By arresting every male over the age of 15.  By killing any medical professional that was found to be helping injured citizens.  And once the Al Hussaini hospital was taken by the Republican Guard, they killed the remainder of the doctors and nurses and threw the patients out of the windows.

Bear in mind, that at this time, there were repeated calls for external help – specifically from America and Iran.  And despite the extreme interest these countries have since shown in Iraq, they left a city of 150 thousand people to defend itself against its own government.

The scars are still visible as every house is strafed with bullet holes and entire streets disappear under rubble. 

Mass graves are still being discovered as the city is redeveloped.

The shell of my dad’s old house still remains, down a street of cracked but beautiful traditional buildings.  On the day it was bombed, the Republican Guard gave all residents in that area 30 minutes to evacuate.  Which was nice of them right?  Only it means that the place that 3 generations of my family lived in at the same time has now gone.  I can’t go into my dad’s old bedroom, as all that remains is a wall and a shattered window.  I can’t see the photographs that weren’t rescued, the heirlooms passed down through the generations.  If you had 30 minutes to leave your home – what would you take?  And where would you go?

Tales of High Adventure UPDATE!

You don't have to tell me.  I'm rubbish.  I decide to do something, people enjoy it, I enjoy it and then for no reason other than the fact that I get distracted easily (oooh - squirrel!) I stop.

But I would like to thank those who have been gently encouraging me (read: banging me over the head with blunt objects) to start this blog up again.  I have many stories to tell, and hopefully in the coming months - a new, fabulous, and extremely exciting adventure.

Until then, please accept my apologies for the unexpected break in the most comprehensive Iraq tourist guide in existence.  More is coming.

And finally - welcome to the new, improved and shiny blog format!  This one can include pictures!  See?!

I had a slight issue with the old blog (it disappeared), and so have been migrating the most recent posts over.  Unfortunately my Euro-trip has been lost to the ether, so let us just take a minute, bow our heads and remember the good times.

Rest in Peace old blog.

A Visitors Guide to Iraq - Part 5

Security

One of the major concerns voiced when I told people I was going to Iraq was "Is it safe?" (the second being  "Do you think you’ll get married off while you’re over there?").  When your entire notion of a country is based on images of weeping mothers and bullet scarred buildings, it’s easy to see why some people expressed a concern.

I have to admit, I had the same expectations, a place full of downtrodden, listless and war-fatigued people, where saying "I’ll be right back" might be as portentious as the horror movie cliche.  But what the 24 hour rolling news chanels, and the newspapers, and the embedded reporters don’t show you are the people getting up, eating breakfast and going to work.  The children going to school.  People nipping out to the shops for some bread.  So in that respect, life in Iraq is perfectly normal.  Yes, the buildings are a little run down, and if you look closely you can see the bullet holes.  Yes, you will find a line of houses with a toothy gap in the middle where a bomb has been dropped.  But you will also find new buildings, new roads and lots of new shiny things to buy.

And the price you pay for this normality?  Enough checkpoints and security guards and guns and frisking to make even airport security blush. 

It’s hard to get used to seeing guns everywhere.  And I mean everywhere.  Driving along any stretch of road will see you stopped every few miles so that armed soldiers can peer in the window, occasionally ask you for your ID, look surprised when they discover you are tourists, and wave their car ariel attached to a plastic box, sorry, extremely technologically advanced British made bomb detector, all around the car.  In the centre of Karbala (and indeed near any of the shrines I visited), no cars are allowed, so you must submit to a thorough frisking whenever you attempt to move around the town (male and female separate of course).

Let me try to describe what happens.  On approaching a checkpoint, please note the wide open space for the men to walk through, and the shrouded tent, with thick, heavy, dust sodden carpets draped over the entrance (at least 2 for safety) for the women.  I can’t speak for the male experience of being checked, but for the ladies - on entering the tent, join one of the queues forming in between the metal barriers, the kind you might pass through to enter a concert or sporting event.  Brace yourself as your cousin advises you not to speak English as this might confuse the security ladies.  Approach and hold the abaya open.  Wince as they get a little more familiar than I’m used to experiencing on those times I beep at Dublin airport.  Open your bag, smiling dumby all the while.  Get your cousin to explain why you’re holding a camera.  Ignore the puzzled looks when they learn you’re a tourist (this particular experience will be repeated several times during your visit).  Thank them for the very thorough medical check for unusual lumps that may be growing.  Pull yourself and your abaya together, and exit coughing through the second set of dust laden rugs.  Shake your head and sigh when your brother and dad ask why it took so long.  They’ll never understand.

A trip to Baghdad will see the decline of the pat down, but an increase in the number of soldiers lining the streets.  Car checkpoints are more frequent, causing the glorious experience of the Iraqi traffic jam, and there are tanks, and sniper towers, and guns pointed in your direction.  Soldiers wandering the streets, asking to see the photos you’ve taken (again, perplexed at the whole tourist thing), the worry being that would-be bombers might be doing a bit of recon - why else would someone be taking photos of buildings?

But quickly back to the tanks.  These fine vehicles are the absolute best bit of the wholly unnerving experience.  Because in order to make them look less intimidating, to make the soldier with the AK47 appear friendly, they have decorated them with ribbon.  And fake flowers.  Gun barrels bedecked with pink bows and fabric daffodils - I only wish I could have taken a photo to show you - but I kind of thought that if a photo of a building got me in trouble, then perhaps taking pictures of tanks might be frowned upon…  You’ll just have to take my word for it.  They look magnificent.

On a final note, I have to commend each of the Iraqi soldiers we encountered on our trip.  At all times we were treated with courtesy, respect and friendliness.  They may be tasked with keeping the peace in a country which has a long way to go before reaching stability, a place where the next car they are checking could blow up, but despite all of this pressure, they still manage to retain their humanity.

A Visitors Guide to Iraq - Part 4

Food

Imagine, if you will, Christmas Day.  Not too difficult I suppose as it should be lingering in recent memory.  Now, picture Christmas dinner.  The flavour, the variety and the massive quantities.  Got it?

Now remember how you felt after enjoying that feast.  Satisfied?  Maybe.  A little uncomfortable in those non-elasticated pants?  Probably.  Slightly sick after overindulging?  Almost definitely.

And finally, try to envision a world where this kind of meal is served to you three times a day.  Every day.  Even at breakfast. 

Welcome to Iraq.

At every mealtime I was treated to at least four different dishes.  This is not including the salads, the assortment of breads, or even dessert.  Of which there are also many types. 

It is the sheer scale of the operation that amazes me.  I struggle to put together a spaghetti bolognese without getting bored of cooking halfway through, and yet the women who cook in Iraq (for it is always the women who cook), manage to turn out these banquets on a daily basis.  Not to give them all the credit however, ordering food to be delivered is a regular occurence, but the take-away is only as a supplement to the food mountain they’ve been busy preparing.

And oh!  The flavour!  The tastes, the absolute unconditional deliciousness of it all!  The plates put in front of you are so divine, it would be impossible to resist just another small little mouthful of something or other.  Yes, I know your belt is straining and you can actually feel the last bite you took waiting in line to enter your stomach, but go on, just one more little tiny morsel…

A word of warning.  DO NOT CLEAR YOUR PLATE.  This signals that you enjoyed the meal, that you are clearly still hungry, and that more food should be placed in front of you.  Take this from one who has made this mistake repeatedly (and sometimes it wasn’t on purpose).

You’ve probably already tasted something very similar to the food I was eating, as most dishes in the Middle East are not unique to one single country.  If you’ve ever eaten at a Lebanese restaurant, or had the privilege of sampling my mothers (Iranian) cooking, then you’ll understand the flavours that are used in Iraqi dishes.  Beautifully spiced (but not hot spices like in Indian food) and aromatic, it all tastes like more.

If you fancy recreating a few of the delicacies I got to sample (several times - often over the course of the same meal), below are a few traditional Iraqi dishes with links to the recipes.  If, at any point you wish to try cooking any of these dishes, please give me a call and I would be more than happy to come and sample them, just to let you know if they’ve turned out the way they should have.  You know, because I’m nice like that.

Ouzi

Bamia

Masgouf

Maqluba

And for those with a stronger constitution than me - Pacheh

And with that, I think I might just have to go and get something to eat.

Bon Appetit!

A Visitors Guide to Iraq - Part 3

Religion

Although Iraq is still predominantly Muslim, historically, there have been significant Jewish and Christian areas of the country, most notably in Mosul, where there is a large Catholic contingent (for all of my friends in Ireland thinking of relocating).  And while, like in most capital cities, Baghdad is liberal and relaxed about the outward displays of piety, there are other regions that are very prescriptive about whether you look religious or not.

Karbala is a shrine town, a very holy city in the Muslim world, and for Shia Muslims, a place of pilgrimage for many as it is the location where the Imam Hussain was martyred.  It's also the place where most of my family live.  And at this time of year, Muharram, hundreds of thousands of people wearing only black, walk the 60 miles from Najaf to Karbala to celebrate and mourn Imam Hussain's sacrifice.  It is an awe inspiring sight, with people of all ages walking the route which is lined with massive tents, forming a linear campsite, with shelter, food, water and foot massages provided for free to all those who march.  However, on a purely selfish note, all this religion means I have to wear the most revoltingly restrictive piece of clothing ever. 

And by this I mean the abaya.  The bane of my life.  Hatred, loathing and sheer bile-dripping, stomach-turning, vomit-inducing abhorrence does not even come close to describing my feelings towards this garment.  To explain, an abaya is the long black cape worn on top of a long black dress-type thing, and a chokingly tight elasticated headdress to ensure no part of a woman is exposed to any man, who, upon seeing the hair or body of a woman would be driven wild with passion and could not in all reasonableness be expected to control their lustful urges.

In practice, the abaya is unwieldy and heavy.  On my first day wearing it, I came back home with a pounding headache and sore neck from the weight of the fecking thing.

In the shrines however, it is compulsory to wear the thing at all times.  There are signs at the security checkpoints you have to pass through (where they frisk you with frightening thoroughness) that display exactly the correct type of dress you must wear to be allowed entry. And to add another layer of difficulty, as with all mosques, shoes have to be removed before entering.  Have you ever tried to lace up a pair of converse while trying to hold together a long black cloak, ensuring that no part of your body is exposed or emphasised (no bending over ladies!), all while trying to stop the weight of the abaya from dragging your headscarf back so your lustrous locks are not revealed?  No?  Well I suggest you give it a try and let me know just how easy you found it.

But the most frustrating thing about the whole enterprise, other than it making it very difficult for me to move anywhere (life in Iraq is very sedentary), is that the menfolk (my dad and brother in particular) seem to regard it as not much of a hardship at all.  It's just something I have to do, and I should stop complaining about it.  But my internal feminist is raging at the unfairness of it all.  Not only is it extremely sexist to impose these rules on women, it is also  extremely patronising to believe that men cannot control themselves.  It's an extreme form of the philosophy that if a woman dresses in a way that is considered provocative, she's 'asking for it'.  And that I cannot stand.

For all those women who wish to wear the abaya, I wish them luck, heath and happiness.  and to some extent, I can understand the desire for modesty when entering a holy place.  But to impose it on  all women, regardless of belief - no.

Rant over. For now. 

A Visitors Guide to Iraq - Part 2

Getting Around

In Iraq, driving is not so much a means of transportation as an extreme sport.  To put things in context, the Iraqi driving test goes as follows:

1. Drive in a figure eight. 
2. Do it again, only backwards.
3. CONGRATULATIONS!

No, I'm not joking.

And you don't even have to turn up yourself, one of my aunts sat the test on behalf of my other aunt. And despite the fact that the instructor recognised her, and knew she'd been driving for over 16 years, she passed, or rather, her sister passed.  True story.

Driving rules and ettiquette

• It is only polite to squeeze as many cars as possible in the space available on the road.  No matter how wide (or narrow) the road, remember that wing mirrors are optional, and go ahead and squish yourself in there.
• The speed limit is set by the capabilities of your engine.  In other words, as fast as your fricking car will go.
• Overtaking and undertaking are considered perfectly valid means of getting exactly where you need to be.
• The car horn is not a means of expressing anger, merely a way of letting the guy pulling out in front of you know that you wish to be in the same place he is.
• When at a junction, pull out into fast moving traffic.  No indication of your intentions is required or desired.
• Manouvering in a traffic jam is a slow moving game of chicken.  Keep moving into the space you wish to occupy.  If another car (or cars) also have the same idea, keep going, only the strongest will survive.
• Driving the wrong way down a one way street is just fine (see also reversing on a motorway because you've missed your exit).
• It's just rude for any motorcycle or scooter to carry just one person.  At a minimum there should be a driver and one passenger.  For the most efficient use of this mode of transport, add at least two more passengers, including a child in the basket at the back.

In other words, the Stig has NOTHING on these guys.

And the roads are still better than those in Ireland.