On my birthday

If I'm totally honest, my time in Kurdistan has not been the joyous journey of self-discovery that I experienced in New Zealand, in my tent-dwelling days in Nottingham, or that in my brief time spent stateside. For the most part, mostly through my own faults, it's been one of the least eventful and most melancholic times of my life. That is not to say that the people are not amazing (they are), nor is it to say that there are not enriching things to do and experience. Quite the opposite.

I had recognised that I was not making the most of my time here almost since the beginning. I had spent far too many weekends indoors watching Netflix and feeling sorry for myself. Not really living it. Thus, I decided that it was of utmost importance that on my birthday, I would not wake up in my house in Ankawa, drink one cup of coffee, nap and waste another day. But, what to do? A friend of mine's display picture on Whatsapp exhibits a quote, "If you find yourself lost, just try to remember when you felt most at home." Or something to that effect. Interpreting this very loosely, I decided that travel I would, and hitchhike I must.

Thursday, 26th of April 

I chose Shaqlawe as my destination, as it is relatively close, reportedly beautiful, and a few of my students are actually from there. I finished out the school week and walked home that Thursday afternoon, where I had left my pack ready to go. Of course, it started to rain. For far too long, I contemplated giving up the whole adventure. Fortunately, the dreary mental images of the potential birthday morning to come were unsettling enough that I forced myself to leave.

My house is about a fifteen-minute walk from the highway that leads to Shaqlawe. In a show of Shakespearean pathetic fallacy, the sun came out as soon as I stepped out of my front door. I'll be honest, I was scared. I was, after all about to hitchhike in Iraq with no real plan in mind, and limited ability to communicate. I was equipped with a few important Kurdish phrases*, like "Mn dachm bo Shaqlawe" (I'm going to Shaqlawe), "Mn te nagm" (I don't understand), "Dawai le berdunet dakam" (I'm sorry). The most important tool in my arsenal was of course "Gosht nachom" (I don't eat meat). The existence of such hurriedly memorised stock-phrases exhibits my lack of effort in learning Kurdish, which is a damned shame. Repeating these to myself, I stood at what looked like a suitable spot on the side of the highway heading north. Thumb out, smile on. And for probably a total of 60 seconds! I opened my mouth to stutter, "Mn da--ach--m..." but no need. "Where you headed mate?" the friendly Kurdish driver asked. And off we went.

He wasn't able to take me that far, but dropped me off in a good spot for my onward journey. I waited for just a few seconds for the next lift. This motorist was just as friendly, and had a good command of English too. He was a tad suspicious of me, asking if I had come here to join Pershmerga or Daesh - probably on account of my military-issue boots. He took me as far as a checkpoint, and asked the police to stop cars for me if they were heading in the right direction. Again, 30 seconds later I was in another car - a mustard-yellow Dodge Charger of all things. The man driving (we'll call him Ali) drove in the usual Middle Eastern style, using every ounce of power that his muscle car offered. This was my first opportunity to use my broken Kurdish and muddled Arabic. We actually discussed Kurdish politics, well as much as we could in the scraps of each others' languages we could muster.

Shaqlawe under the Safeen mountain

Ali drove me right to the center of town, and tried to take me to a hotel, but I had my sights on the mountains in the distance as a place to hole up for the night. Besides - money. It was early evening, so I found a good spot to drink tea and people watch - or actually be watched more like it. Kurdish men in traditional suits sipped tea, smoked, and played with their wooden beads around me. Two cups was enough and the flies were getting a bit much so I wandered north in what I thought was the direction of the mountains.

It was a cool evening and I was happy for the exercise, but I could see no clear route to the mountains. My tummy grumbled and I realised how far away I was from the falafel shops already. There were a group of around ten men and boys (who I soon found out were all related) sat on the step outside a shop. They began to talk to me, so I decided to sit down with them. "Where are you going? Do you need help? Hotel?" My responses were less than satisfactory, so they called someone who spoke better English - their brother who lived in Ireland. Although I seemed to have quieted their fears, the man on the other side of the phone soon appeared in the flesh. They invited me to dinner, giving me an opportunity to use my stock phrase "Gosht nachom." Unfortunately this seemed to cause some distress with Hogr, but I quieted this by explaining that it was to do with my beliefs (I may have used the word religion). Over dinner, Hogr's brother from Ireland was keen to explain to me that Kurds are friendly people and that he doesn't see why Muslims and Christians can't get along. He expressed his great sadness at the representation of Muslims in the media, and wanted to ensure that I had a good impression of his people. After dinner, they took me to their family's house. There I met his father, mother and too many family members to count. They piled a plate for me with fruit and of course gave me even more tea!

Kurdish father

As the evening wound down, the boys took me to another house. All the cousins and brothers piled in to say hello. We discussed differences in Kurdish and British culture, and some of them even wanted to set up NGOs with me! As it got later, the lads could see that I was getting sleepy and went on their way, leaving me the house to sleep in. Quite the birthday present.

Friday, 27th of April

Marian Shrine

The rain came that morning, so I felt right at home. Hogr and co came and dropped me off at the famous church on the western side of the town. I wandered around a bit, but I'm no good at the tourist thing to be honest. My stomach grumbled again so I decided to head into town. Not 200 m away from the church, a Chaldean man invited me into his shop and gave me water. "Enta Messihi?" he asked while crossing himself. I replied in the affirmative. Out of what seemed like nowhere, children piled into the small shop to meet the foreigner. There was again a translator, which was good because my Assyrian is also not exactly top-notch. It was a little disheartening to hear the store's proprietor claim that all Muslims are Daesh, a sentiment that I find to be quite common among the older generation of Christians here. I patiently tried to express my views to the contrary, and my translator at least seemed to agree with me.

Upon bidding them farewell, I walked into a liquor store to by myself a beer. Yes, it wasn't even noon yet - but it's my birthday, right? The store owner immediately opened it for me and instructed me to sit down behind the counter. He was Christian, but his friend who looked like he'd been drinking since the early hours was Muslim. "Birra la harram!" the septuagenaraian enthused. In stark contrast to the store before, both men called each other brother, and expressed the fact that to them religion did not matter (at least in matters of friendship). I finished my beer and wandered off down the road again.

A short distance later, another man stood outside of his liquor store, and again inquired as to my religion. Again, I was invited for a beer. There was again a display of brotherhood between Muslims and Christians, this time with some friendly ribbing. "This man Daesh - he want kill you!", as well as jokingly trying to coerce him into drinking (apparently, "Birra harram" for this Muslim). The two men seemed like they had known each other since they were kids. I hope the views of those in the latter two stores are more common than those in the first. Maybe alcohol is just serves as a lubricant for tolerance.

Birra la harram!

A friend of theirs who worked across the street at the hotel offered me a room to stay in (did I mention that Kurds are ridiculously hospitable?), then invited me to his home to eat. I had to use my stock phrase, "Gosht nachom."
     "Dijaj?" he asked. 
     "La." 
     "Falafel?"
     "Bashi, tamam."
So, off we went. It was interesting having a "tour guide" who didn't speak English. We walked in silence for the most part, until, I guess he got bored? I walked out of the city with a gaggle of Kurdish children trying to hide the fact that they were following me.

I got my ride within about two minutes. The car was filled with smoke as the three of them burned butt after butt. I was featured in their skype call with some family members in Sweden as they drove Kurdish style through the winding passes (that is, to say 140 kmph and lurching left and right). At one point, when English seemed to fail them and my Kurdish/Arabic was long overstretched they handed me a phone with an equally bewildered English speaker on the other end.


Despite the erratic driving, and being close to an asthma attack I made it home to Ankawa in one piece. I crashed on the couch, feeling much more myself than I had for the last half a year or so.


* I apologise for my terrible attempts at transliteration, which may in part be due to my poor pronunciation.