Tap Taps

1

I saw yesterday the true nature of poverty in this country. Outside the main ports and the towns I have visited so far, people live a wretched existence that seems not to have changed for decades. No aid has arrived nor does it seem to be coming, for this part of the country was ignored by the earthquake as it has been ignored by everyone else. All the aid has been earmarked for earthquake hit zones yet it is needed just as much elsewhere.

I was traveling across the Massif de la Hotte, an inhospitable range of mountains that cuts off the South Western tip from the rest of the country. It is a trip I would wish on nobody, for there are no roads, merely dirt paths and tap tap's have no suspension. They have been building a road to connect this part of the country to the rest, but it seems that little is getting done.

There is an old Haitian saying, 'Beyond mountains there lie mountains', for in this country having overcome one obstacle there are always countless more. This journey showed me the literal truth of these words as well as the endless problems facing the country.

2

I was waiting for my tap tap to arrive in Les Cayes knowing that it would pull over for only a minute. It was market day, and the sounds and smells of the stalls were overpowering. One second I could taste fruit in the air and there was a sweet smell of vegetation, but the next I was choking on the smell of meat in the midday sun, and being deafened by the cries of street sellers. Blood dripped off makeshift wooden tables standing below hanging carcasses, while children and dogs played in the street. The police were doing their rounds, and appeared to be helping themselves from the stalls as they pleased. When they saw me taking photos they leant against their car and eyed me suspiciously, beers in hand.

A group of us were jostling for the few spaces that would free up when the bus arrived. I knew full well that any overflow would end up on the roof and that bloody well wasn't going to be me. When the bus came into view the crowd started to get rowdy and I decided perhaps a bribe would serve me better than a fight. 

Luckily for me though the multi coloured bus named 'Redemption' ground to a halt 200 metres past us, and we all took off running. I could see the driver laughing as we dashed towards him; I suppose there can be few other amusements in his line of work. Everyone else was hauling huge bags of maize behind them, or were large women, and being completely unchivalrous I sprinted as fast as I could. I arrived first and for no extra price found a seat and jammed myself in. I was delighted, for although bribes only ever amount to a few dollars I am reluctant to pay them.

At the back door people were still scrambling, and as the bus started its engine a few people were not on. One man had been hauled off at the last minute and had his place taken, and he was not happy. The door was slammed in his face and he ran behind the bus screaming; his maize was on board but he was not. People in the street barely even noticed, and continued selling. This is the way of the tap tap, a couple of people smiled to themselves. He finally made it onto the back ladder and continued to pound at the door until we were travelling at about 30 miles an hour, at which point he gave in and climbed to the roof. Others were not so lucky though and ran hopelessly behind us in the dust.

Once again I was delighted it is the world cup, for if ever there was an ice breaker this is it. I have purchased a small brazilian flag and whenever talk turns to football I pull it out to a chorus of cheers. On this occasion my flag served me well and soon most of us were friends. There are always some people in Haiti though who will never crack a smile. They look at you with suspicion and distaste, and it is these people who intimidate me, it is these people who worry me, and it is these people who have machetes. I have therefore taken to making allegiances early on and sticking to the friendly people.

3

As we left the city we left the tarmac and the bus climbed quickly into the mountains. Outside I began to notice a change. Villages were now little more than a collection of shacks covered with banana leaves and most people were practically naked. Barely any of them had shoes and of those that did some were wearing pieces of tyre attached with string. Haitians are an ingenious people and reuse every bit of material they find. Old shoe soles are perfect for hinging doors, while old bicycle wheels can sharpen even the bluntest machete, be fashioned into rudimentary bellows, or used as a hula hoop.

At every village people run alongside passing buses, desperate to sell a small handful of corn or a couple of sweets. There are two kinds of people among them; those with  a look of desperation on their faces and those who appear resigned to their poverty. A dollar out of the window is the least I can do, and elicits cries of joy. The only things in abundance here are mangos and bananas and families often eat nothing else for days on end. As we continued to speed higher up, the ride got worse and the poverty more acute. By the middle of the trip, in the middle of nowhere, the only villages we passed were temporary housing for the men and boys building the new road. It was as close to slavery as I have ever seen.

In the scorching sun, boys in their mid teens were lifting large rocks with their bare hands and carrying them barefooted through thick red mud. Straining under the weight they would carry them to a cart that was pulled, not by oxen or donkeys, but by other men over to a larger pile of rocks. Here, more boys waited to smash them with hammers before laying the small pieces back on the road. I have never seen more tiring work or more inhospitable terrain, and I was reminded of an African diamond mine.

Every mile or so there were warning signs for explosions, and every now and then we heard a rumble. I felt as if I was a character in the Mexican film "The Wrath of God" (Wrath of Evil?) and each turn or bridge we crossed got tighter than the last. Wheels often slid and corners were close, however the bus wouldn't slow down, instead it sped it up. By this point the ride was so uncomfortable that I was beginning to bruise and we hurled along the mountain. Another tap tap pulled up behind us and tried to overtake. As it did so everybody began to lean out the windows and shout "Aller, aller" at our driver. It baffled me that they would want to go any faster, but assuming it was a race and wanting to join in I did the same. Head out of the window I got a good view down the cliff but nevertheless belted out encouragement. After my second "aller" people turned and stared. I was apparently not to be included in this fun and sat back down sheepishly.

I soon realized why they were urging the driver on though, because when we were finally overtaken we were engulfed in a thick dust that was put up by the other bus. It was miserable and everyone was soon caked in dirt, my hair turned to dreadlocks. People were coughing and urging the driver to get back in front, and so again we sped up. Someone then broke a bottle of petrol as the bus pounded up and down continuously so there was now also a strong smell of gas. 

I wrapped a t-shirt around my head but it didn't help and I soon began to feel nauseous. For some reason I have recently become an insomniac and have barely slept for the last couple of days, so when occasionally my head would be thrown against the metal side I cursed my decision to take this road. I have also been taking immodium and was praying that it would continue to do its job, at least until the journey was over, but the way this was going I had little hope. Sure enough having held on as long as I could I had to cry out, "pisser, pisser", it was near enough the truth. The cry was passed on to the driver and as we stopped everyone cried out "Blanc veut pisser, blanc veut pisser" and stared. They laughed at me as I scrambled off, and watched as I crouched in the dirt.

I had barely finished when I heard the engine roar into action. As I scrambled to do my trousers up the bus began pulling away and I sprinted to catch up. Whether it was a joke or if they would have left me I don't know, but I've played the same trick in the past and may finally have got my comeuppance. I jumped in the open back door and did my best to make light of the situation, but inside I was fuming. Everyone else had found it hilarious and they were still laughing. I laughed with them but my sense of adventure had long since gone and I was now being mocked by a busload of Hatians. I wanted only to sleep, but the constant, painful jolting and swaying made this impossible. I was holding on with both hands. I finally put on my ipod and withdrew. Caccini's Ave Maria was a suitably mournful song with which to watch the misery outside.

4

The last mountain town we passed must have been the site of an epidemic, for I have never seen so many handicaps. There were a number of people with bloated heads, and deformed faces. Many seemed crippled and appeared to creep in their doorways reminding me of Moreau's Island. For once nobody approached the bus and the other passengers remained silent. Despite asking where we were, I could not understand their creole responses and was happy to keep moving. I caught a glimpse of a white priest dressed in a cassock and wish I could have spoken to him. What brings missionaries to these inhospitable parts of the world bemuses me, yet I am also in awe. 

After 4 and a half hours we arrived. I have found that travelling from one town to another has taught me a lot more than stopping in them, and while I do not intend to take that route ever again I was glad I had. There was no fond farewell this time, i was in too fowl a mood, so I jumped straight onto a moto taxi and headed to the home where I was staying. In this town mopeds and people share the roads with donkeys, cows, pigs and chickens so it took a while to navigate. As with the rest of the country piles of rubbish lie in the streets and and nobody works. Blancs are even more of a rarity.

I had been given an introduction to stay with a Pasteur David and had been in touch only a few days before. But arriving at the compound I was told that everyone had left for the States and I could not come in. I don't know what went wrong in communication but standing there, with the metal gate closed in front of me, tired, stranded, hungry and alone I was at a loss. A crowd of curious locals; boys, men and girls came to look. They do it  everywhere and it's infuriating but if you ask what they want they just stare at you. I tried to shoo them away this time, but must have looked ridiculous for they just laughed. I felt at a loss.

I finally managed to find my own hotel, not easy in a town like this. It was expensive and dirty, and the most welcoming place I have known. The staff when I arrived were warm, kind, and the food was delicious. I slept soundly and I no longer feel ill. Today I am as optimistic as ever and excited about continuing. Tomorrow I explore what is left of the home of Alexandre Dumas, whose family had slaves at a nearby plantation.

Cat's Cradle

My body has finally given in and I'm bedridden. I'm pretty sure it was the dubious looking meal the rappers prepared for me, but they were so pleased to offer it I couldn't say no.

This post will therefore remain short.

I last left you in Jeremie, a quiet town where I found little to do. It was beautiful but uninspiring. Old colonial streets and a charming cathedral were the highlights but the french were so busy in Haiti that these are found everywhere. At least people didn't snarl at you there the way they do in Port au Prince, and the city felt a little safer.

Hoping for something more remote I set off into the surrounding mountains in search of the home of Alexandre Dumas. (Snr). The family's plantation, L'habitiacion Madere, was near a small village called La Tiboliere, and although I knew it no longer existed I was curious to see where the family were from, the landscape that inspired them, and the conditions under which their slaves once worked. The ruins were apparently still intact so I was optimistic.

La Tiboliere is perched high in the hills. It has a population of a few thousand, but as most homes are spread deep into forest and it has only one dirt road, you could easily mistake it for a village of 10 families. The one solid structure is a large pink church with turrets that rise from the trees, and tower above the thick vegetation. It seems that every hamlet in this country has a grandiose church and it often dwarfs all around it. I can't help but feel that every religious denomination has tried at one point to 'save' the haitians, and that they have all sought to out-do each other. Catholics and protestants in particular have gone to battle over haitian souls, and there is bad blood between them. Mormons, latter day saints, baptists and buddhists have also given it a go, but none have removed the prevalence of voodooism. 

My moped driver told me that he knew people who could put me up, and as anything would have been better than the moped ride down I spent the night in the hut of a lovely old woman. She hasn't seen many blancs before and did nothing but grin at me; we said barely  a word to one other. Amazingly I slept soundly on her floor, my holland and holland bag once again doubling up as bedding. The mosquitos ate better than I did that night and breakfast was leftovers. I set off the next day having washed out of the family's communal bucket and still never having spoken a word to my host.

Someone had said they could lead me to L'habitacion Madere, but as so often happens here we merely walked in circles until he demanded money. The Haitians can be real bastards sometimes, and I want to strangle half of them.

I was close to the plantation, I knew that, and must certainly have trod in the footsteps of at least one Dumas, but much to my disappointment and despite walking for 3 hours I never saw anything resembling a house, or a memorial. Apparently there had once been one, but it was stolen - everything here has been used to patch up homes.

The landscape in the region was inhospitable, the air heavy, the heat unbearable. I can imagine a plantation being only slightly miserable if there are people to fan you, no strenuous labour and plenty of rum. Yet shackles, servitude and whips in this environment are beyond my comprehension. I rushed down to the airfield in time to catch my plane to Port au Prince. I needed movement, I needed change.

I call it a plane but it was more like a metal box with wings. I thought about how many times I had read about flights full of missionaries going down in far away lands, and then I counted the number of missionaries sitting around me. 5 out of 7 passengers. I hoped they were praying.

The pilot did little to settle my nerves. He was a spanish man who looked about 70. He wore 4 different pairs of sunglasses during the 30 minute flight, he had a towel round his neck like a ww2 ace, and told us to use telephones - "No hay problem". I wanted to know how he had ended up flying for tortug air in haiti, but he was smoking before the plane had stopped and an elderly canadian missionary was pestering me as we got off. She was convinced I was a boy scout and wanted to know where we had met and what chapter I belonged to. After telling her I was trying to earn my last badge here, I rushed into the terminal and back to the comparative sanity of Port au Prince.

I headed straight to the home of my rapper friend, had another impromptu freestyle, was goaded into walking to the end of the road and back and finding rum, and finally was fed something foul that made every sinew wretch. The next day I checked back into the Olofson and collapsed. I was in a dire state.

I remained like that for a couple of days with no sympathy from any of the staff. In fact they found it amusing - again - bastards!

I finally headed back south to Jacmel for a couple of days to finish some interviews. I'm here now and have been commissioned to write a piece for the Sun. I am finally an auteur!

 Today I won money on a fighting rooster I have named Spartacus. I miss everything and everyone, though Kurt Vonnegut has kept me company.

Voodou

1

I could hear the cock fight before I could see it and as I was ushered up a small dirt path the sounds of roosters crowing and men shouting got louder. Having passed the guards and the women waiting patiently outside we entered the arena and found ourselves among a frenzied crowd of people filled with blood lust. 

Seated around the central ring, 5 meters in diameter were about 50 men in tiered seating, they were engrossed in the ensuing action; waving money, drinking rum and making strange clucking sounds. Their focus was on two badly mangled roosters circling each other in the ring, whose heads and necks were raw, and who were bleeding badly. The birds flung themselves at each other and took turns pecking at the other's eyes and tearing at their crowns. When occasionally they swiped with their razor sharp crampons a loud 'whoosh' came out from the crowd. This move in particular brought special pleasure, and did special damage.

The fight went on like this for about 15 minutes, and became rather boring. It was slow work and I couldn't see much difference in the blows. The crowd however remained engrossed and I can only assume that the finer and more technical points of cock fighting passed me by.

Finally the skinnier of the two wobbled on his feet and collapsed into the dust, at which point the other one jumped on him and began pecking indiscriminately. Soon one of his eyes was gone and I couldn't understand why nobody stopped the fight, but people seemed to be waiting for something and continued to coo with glee. All of a sudden the fallen rooster sprung up from a pool of blood and attacked. The crowd went wild and it was like Ali coming off the ropes against frasier. I have to say it was contagious. 

Would this be the greatest come back of cock fighting history? Would Red, as he was known come back from the brink of death to triumph.

The answer is no, for soon afterwards he was down again, and in worse shape. The initial excitement of his comeback was soon muted, as for the next 10 minutes the poor bird went up and down, unable to see. He fought on valiantly though and when the bell finally went (each fight lasts 30 minutes) Red was on his feet and the fight was amazingly called a draw.

Red's fat owner barely looked at him, and there not a hint of emotion in his eye. He picked him up, tied his legs and thrust him into the arms of a small boy waiting by his side, who ran off with him. This was clearly the local cock fighting tycoon and he sat back, licked his fat fingers then took another swig of rum while waiting for the next fight. I did the same, my own bird was next.

We had invested in a rooster of our own. I hadn't seen him but had been told he was well fed, regularly massaged and exercised. Perhaps If I'd known quite how cruel these fights were I would have abstained but I was here now and going to watch him win. I had named him Spartacus, (not a name that the Haitians adopted) and he was fighting a similar sized bird. I laid down 500 gourdes.

I wish I could say that this fight was as exciting as the last but it was not. For the first 15 minutes they exchanged blows, getting ever more battered and then much to my joy, the other bird just started running away. It was rather amusing to watch 2 chickens running round the ring, but it lasted only a few seconds at which point Spartacus was declared the winner. Cowards are the worst kind of losers.

I think I was duped into investing in him as he was whisked away before I was able to congratulate him and I never got my moment in the winners enclosure. "My bird" I said with pride to the man next to me, who looked back baffled then moved away.

On my way out I passed Red. He was tied to a post and lay crumpled in the dirt. I don't think he had much chance of surviving, and he would certainly never fight again. The english in me came out and like an idiot I tried to comfort him. First with some bad clucking and then with a stroke, and then he pecked me. I'm sure he was dinner that night.

The next day I returned to Port au Prince. I shared the bus with a few fighting cocks who must have been winners. Their owners sat at the back of the bus with a bird under each arm and drank all the way home. Their roosters crowed loudly and stuck their heads out proudly. Women recoiled from their bare necks.

2

I spent the night at the Oloffson and entertained myself with some people-watching.  There is a polish filmmaker here trying to make a documentary about haiti and she has decided to follow a man who claimed to know the country well. He was to form the basis of her film and lead her around the country to amazing places while talking intelligently. He had claimed to have written a couple of books / articles on Haiti and when I last met them she had just started filming and was full of excitement.

It is now 2 weeks later and she is at her wits end. Apparently he is camera shy, drinks all day, and doesn't speak creole. He makes crude jokes to the camera and is trying to sleep with her. So far they have barely left port au prince and she's got no footage. I watched as she tried yet another interview on the verranda and almost burst into laughter when he had to ask her what to say. "Say what you think, say what you think!" She cried at him. He looked on in panic.

The next day, I took a bus to Gonaive. This is a hotbed of voodoo activity and I have decided to spend my last few days in the country immersed in the culture. I had found someone who could introduce me to some Houngans (voodoo priests) and take me to some ceremonies. 

As I made my way to the station my taxi driver told me to hide all my belongings as the bus left from Cite Soleil. I had hoped never to return there, and wondering around the mass of busses with my bags, desperately trying to find the right one was awful. It smelt of death, disease and drugs and I had to climb through mountains of rubbish to find the right one. I have become strangely immune to all the rubbish and poverty -  other than the the thugs who line the streets and taunt you, it's all seems rather normal. When I finally got on board I was hugely relieved despite the fact there were no seats left. I crouched one the floor feet and had a large pot put on top of me.

This bus ride went quickly, I've had many worse. We were not crossing many mountains this time and instead drove across the central plateau which almost resembles the african Savannah. We also had entertainment - a live infomercial. A man stood at the front and pulled a dazzling array of items out of his bag. Ginseng, Tiger balm, soap, toothpaste, hats, belts, sunglasses, and flavoured condoms. The crowd heckled him about every item and bartered and shouted and waved money, it was quite a scene, and I observed it all from beneath my pot.

The flavoured condoms sold particularly well and were greeted with whoops of laughter. His sales pitch involved much smacking and licking of the lips, and he mentioned AIDs every second word. I almost bought some myself. When at one point he suggested they were could be for "him for him, or him for her" the bus went quiet. That is not a topic of conversation here, and he quickly moved on. Wanting to participate myself I did by 2 little bottles of roll-on aftershave called "Yes Boss". They're wonderfully anglicized Haitian bottles, and while I will never let the contents burn my skin again, I will treasure them. 

3

Gonaive has been called 'the ugliest place in the Antilles" and is famous for 4 things; Mosquitos, matches, hurricanes and dust (although the match company has long since moved to the dominican republic). It is one of the most awful and dirty places I have been. Thousands of mopeds battle each other through the haze for poll position and it is hard to see more than 20 metres ahead of you. It was hit by a huge storm 2 year ago and the town was devastated. Hundreds died, roads were wiped away and buildings collapsed. You can see the roofs of cars peeking out from the ground, buried under the silt that was carried from the mountains. 2 story houses are now bungalows, and no repairs have been carried out. It is a sad place, it is horrible it is mean, it is filthy and like the rest of this country it is hopeless. 

It is here that all the revolutions start and it is also called La Cite de L'Independence. There are 2 main squares, both containing bizarre modernist memorials. One of them is called Place Bouteille and in the middle a large statue of a bottle towers over everything. The story goes that Dessalines wanted Haitian independence to begin on 1st January 1804, however this gave his secretary Boisrond Tonnerre only 1 night to write the constitution. He worked throughout the night but when everyone gathered to hear it read out the next day he did not arrive. People rushed to his house and there they found him passed out on top of the constitution, an empty bottle of rum beside him. The statue sits on the sight of his house and commemorates the drunken creation of their nation.

That night I attended my first voodoo ceremony. It was a celebration of St Pierre, and the Houngan would be summoning his spirit into somebody. As we drove to the outskirts of town I began to get worried. I did not believe in the power of Voodoo, but intended to respect it and be wary of it. I had read that I should bring a gift for the Mambo (the queen) and had brought the finest bottle of rum I could find. 

As we approached the compound the drums could be heard beating and when we entered the courtyard I saw an area that had been draped and covered in the red and green of St.Pierre. About 30 women and a few men, dressed in silk costumes of the same colours were sashaying round and round an altar. At the altar stood the Houngan, raising bottles and cups of rum to the sky then throwing and spitting it on the ground and waving candles in a circular motion. There were machetes buried in the earth up to their hilts and large cakes sat between the bottles and the incense. Every now and then the machetes were torn from the ground and brandished at the dancers. The look of fury and anger was such that I expected them to be used. I was  praying there would be no sacrifices though had seen some goats bound outside.

The Queen was singing loudly in what sounded like an african language and this was then echoed by the rest. Round and round the altar they danced, moving perfectly in sync and shuffling their feet in perfect tempo. They waved their hands slowly, their eyes closed and they looked to the sky. A man played a conch and the sound echoed out like a clarinet. It was an eery sound but beautiful and amazingly played. It was mesmeric and lulled me into a strange trance.

The entrance had been blessed by Mambo, and a line of candles prevented bad spirits from entering. I had been allowed to take photos, but most people were unhappy about my presence, many spat in my direction and pushed me away. I sat quietly for a long time and waited for them to get used to me but was never really welcome. Luckily a generous gift to the mambo had secured me entry and I had also paid my respects at the altar. I was told that I could not use a flash until after the possession, though when 'accidently' went off i was set upon. There is a very dark side to this country and in particular the rural areas and I believe firmly that you are always a moment away from being in danger.

The ritual went on for a few hours. Whenever someone got tired and sat down the mambo would scream at them to continue and force them to their feet. It seemed to me that anybody might start to convulse under such pressure and sure enough someone finally collapsed to the ground and started writhing. She dragged herself through the dirt clutching a burning handful of twigs. She looked exhausted and out of it, her eyes were glazed, she vomited a white foam and she grasped at the people around her. She held her stomach and rolled over and over, her eyes were tightly closed one moment and wide open the next and finally after about 5 minutes she slowly sat up.

The spirit was now inside her and she was carried to a chair in the centre of the group. Acting on behalf of St. Pierre she was given a bottle of dark green liquid (some kind of rum) with which to feed people. One by one she lifted the bottle to their lips as they approached her, and every time they drank they embraced her and thanked the spirit inside. She continued to gargle and drool and contort her mouth. On one occasion she refused a man the drink, she held the bottle close to her bosom and spat at him. She shouted something at him and he was pulled away. He begged St.Pierre at the altar and then tried again but she would not give. The man looked devastated and sat quietly in the corner for the rest of the night, his head in his hands. He had been cursed.

When everyone had had their fill, the mambo and the houngan gathered round her and placed a silk scarf over her face and head. They intoned some more chants and when the scarf was removed the lady sat there looking bemused. I genuinely believe she was unaware of what had happened, and was confused. She looked searchingly into people's eyes then began slowly to cry and then wail. Everyone gathered round and held her.

I believe that the power of the mind can make people believe almost anything, and if you believe firmly enough in the power of voodoo then it does hold power. However i believe that it is the person that gives it its power and I am unconvinced it comes from elsewhere. I could not help but think that this may be true of all religions.

It had been an amazing experience and I am reluctant to say much more. We ate food from a large communal pot that had been an offering to St.Pierre. That it didn't give me the runs was magic indeed.

4

My opinions about voodoo would be reinforced the next day. I had arranged an appointment with a houngan, and for a price he would read my spirits and offer me protection.

I arrived early in the morning and walked down a little alley to his chapel. My head was hurting from the night before and I was feeling ill. It was filthy and covered in little trinkets that were left over from spells he had cast. There were countless voodoo dolls, some tightly bound in string, others squashed under a large rock. There were paintings on the wall of different spirits, most taken directly from the bible. There were many knives, candles, small coffins and empty bottles of rum. There was a world cup fixture list on the wall.

Women's knickers were tied up in a big ball of string with twigs and wax and suspended from the cieling. When I asked what for I was told that he specialized in helping men win the women they wanted, and then tying them down. How romantic I thought.

The houngan asked me what I wanted. I told him that I was just curious about voodoo and had heard he could tell me what spirit I was aligned with. I didn't know what to expect, but knew that I was in deed. He is well known and casts many spells for the town. He sacrifices a many animals and outside there was a table covered in blood. He put on his red robe and hat, lit some candles and closed the door. He draped a red silk scarf round my neck and sat directly opposite me before taking a long pull from the bottle. He then made me do the same, and after spilling some on the ground as an offering to St. Michael I almost wretched. This was 90% alcohol and a traditional offering.

He placed a candle and a cup of something in my hands. He began to chant and shake a maracas, as he did so cockroaches began to climb the walls. It was eery and I was not comfortable. About 20 of them rose to the ceiling and covered the murals on the walls.  He waved the candle around me and then drank some more. All of a sudden his head dropped forward and he started to choke and dribble from his toothless mouth. His helper mopped his lips from behind though he continued to spew a white mucus for a good minute. When he finished I was told that he was now possessed and would 'heal' me. I muttered something about not needing to be healed but the houngan leant forward and screamed. It was in a strange language that I couldn't understand, and the end of each sentence got louder and high pitched as he spat more mucus in my face. 

He told me that the spirit of Apostol Santiago was inside me and was now inside him as well. He showed me a picture of a white man riding into battle on a white horse. He is the splitting image of St. George, and I felt rather pleased. 

Then he began to 'heal' me. There was a lot more screaming and a lot more flying spittle. He began by telling me what was wrong in my life. 

"You have recently lost a close family member" he screamed. Sheepishly I said no

"Then you have bad health" he cried. "Not really" I had to admit

"You have no money and need to live" he continued - "Well I could do with some more" I uttered hoping to appease him

"You are having nightmares" - "I'm afraid I'm not" 

"You have recently had a big fight with a best friend". "Not that I can remember"

"Well did you once have a fight with someone you knew?" . "YES", I cried at last. "YES YES". He was delighted. 

"I told you, I told you", he said with joy. 

"That's exactly what he told you!! He knows you, he knows you!!"  His helper cried out

"Incredible" I screamed with mock credulity "how did he know!?"

"Because he is inside you and knows everything" was the sincere answer

He spent the next 20 minutes telling me more. Apparently I have 3 sisters and 2 brothers. I am the oldest. I'm going to be famous, and happy, and live happily ever after. I thanked him and got out quickly. What a fraud!

There was more the next day, but now I must run. I will say that what follows made me ever more concerned that I am dabbling with something serious.

Political campaigns

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mxa7eQ1JgPI&feature=player_embedded

On the Road

Flying into Kurdistan and out of Dubai highlights perfectly the extremes of the Middle East. I won’t really go into it here, but leaving one for the other is a wake-up call, a reminder of how neighbouring countries can change so much and grow apart in so many different ways and also how the region has become such a paradox. My story isn’t about Dubai however nor should it be; Dubai offers little in the way of self-expression and little adventure. I hope that what follows will.

Our adventure began just after transferring from one terminal in Dubai to the next. From the new, gilded Emirates hub to the provincial rundown building across the road, that services passengers travelling to those ‘other’ countries.

I was curious about something as we entered. Who else was travelling to Iraq? Who else was choosing this way. It looked to me like a motley group of contractors, soldiers, spies, budding filmmakers and intrepid explorers (ourselves). At first we all exchanged only the occasional polite smile or covert glance, but when a few hours later we were being thrown around in a cramped plane, united by a sense of trepidation and excitement we had become best of friends.

Two hours after leaving Dubai and soon after passing over Baghdad we began our descent into Erbil. The turbulence was atrocious; the plane was rickety, loud and old. The pilot kept dropping altitude rapidly every time we turned, and he thundered down at a hell of a pace. Whether or not this would confuse an insurgent I don't know, but it certainly had the passengers holding on for dear life.

From far above, the Iraqi landscape looked scorched. Black lines streaked across the brown earth and through the haze all we could make out were fires that peppered the landscape. We’re not sure what these were: rubbish dumps or oil wells. Suddenly in the distance two bright flashes erupted upwards, again we don’t know for sure what they were.
To be honest the whole scene from above was somewhat haunting: this was the land ravaged by Saddam, the land which had ignited some of the worst conflicts and atrocities of recent times, and a land also in which we were about to arrive.

Armed however with an invitation from the First Lady of Iraq, a bag of Imodium, and a bottle of whisky (which we smuggled across the continent on the advice of John Simpson) I was sure we were equipped to handle what lay ahead. As I sit here now at the end of our first 8 hours, in a room with a gaping hole where the balcony should be, having chased bats around, having narrowly avoided death on the roads, and having being ripped off - I believe we still are. This is on its way to becoming everything I had dreamed of, everything I hoped for. AK47s, check points, angry soldiers and a feeling of the unknown are proving me right. These are people who are warm, welcoming and proud. I cannot wait to continue. Benji.

Feetfty Cents, big idol

Children’s centre for incurable diseases, torture cells, rap palace and Bach recital. It has been quite a day, and one which again has shown me the resilience and kindness of the Kurds, but also the dark side of this country.

Despite our troubles yesterday, today ran smoothly. This morning, we were met as promised by Rizghar, our rather quiet translator, and our driver (who bizarrely has spent time in Banbury, Oxfordshire), they will both be with us all week. We are lucky because Rizghar has been subcontracted from outside the PUK, therefore does not mind talking openly about politics and issues that plague this country. When someone talks for a minute though he translates for 15 seconds. I will be keeping my eye on him.

(p.s - Looking back at this, Rizghar has turned out to be wonderful. A great person, who I hope to work with again)

The Children’s centre this morning was the first harrowing event of the day, and brought to focus many things that are missing here. I have been wary of disabled children ever since being attacked by one at a French monastery as a child, so this, I was nervous about.

It is the only centre in Iraq that helps spastic children (their terminology), autism, cerebral palsy, polio victims and many other horrors. I wish I could accurately describe how far behind they are in understanding these diseases but the list is too long. They have blacksmiths, carpenters and leather smiths making toilets, wheelchairs, casts and special shoes for the children, on site. They literally hammer metal into shape for the children to wear and sow shoes by hand using pieces they can scrounge. They get no support from the central government, or from the red cross who have ignored their letters. They can barely afford to stay open and at one point while talking to the director (who doubles up as a paediatrician a cleaner and a nurse) there was a power cut. He didn't even skip a beat and just kept talking until the lights came on again – a regular occurrence throughout the country.

The centre has 15 – 20 staff who take care of 7/8000 patients around the country. They have 19000 on record. The problem is that the wider community does not fully understand these diseases and they are considered taboos. The saddest thing is that these children laugh, they play, they want affection but are treated as outcasts. I cannot really say any more as I do not know where to begin. It was not easy being there.

Next we visited the Amnasuraka security building – Saddam’s regional torture facility. The building itself, a grim communist style square is in ruins; pot marked by bullets from the outside and blackened on the in. When it was finally overthrown and everyone inside had been kicked or stamped to death there was still such anger among the people that they took it out on the building. When in use nobody would walk near it for fear both of random cruelty and to avoid the screams. Next door the torture chambers survived and have been left as they were. Blood marks the floors everywhere; the weapons used for torture are still there. Glass bottles for insertion, nails for driving into skulls, metal rods, electricity – the list is limited only by imagination.

For every person found guilty of being a peshmerga the whole family was raped and killed, their house bulldozed, and anyone left alive forced to pay for the bullets. The centre has life-sized sculptures recreating the horrors. Usually recordings of genuine torture are played at full volume (courtesy of Saddam’s extensiv archives) but today, thank God, the system was broken.

Our driver, our translator and our guide had all lost family members there – they were in tears. While interviewing someone about the chemical atrocities my battery ran out. I didn’t have it in me to ask him to stop and just held the camera till he finished. In a weird way it felt like that scene from true lies. I have been to Auschwitz, I have been to Rwanda, I have been to S.E Asia, I have seen or heard little like this.

After more meat, rice and beans we drove outside the city to meet up with our budding rap artists. This centre is for any and all forms of music and dance. The diversity was amazing. From traditional Kurdish music (we met the classical finalist of Iraqi idol) to western stlye rappers, Persian rappers, flamenco guitarists, Bach pianists and break dancers. There was of course a varying degree of talent among them, but I thought it wise not to tell Iraqi gangsta rappers they didn’t have it in them. Some of them however are the funniest little people I have met; bandanas, bling and bass. “Feeefty sense big idol”

What I saw here was a microcosm of Iraq itself: the new against the old, the east against the west. There was a longing to express oneself and to be recognized. I was curious about the difference between the artists and their respective genres and was told that each group tolerated one another, but did not really interact.

The whole scene was both surreal and incredibly entertaining, yet had amazing undertones of the country as a whole. Like in domestic government there was a lack of leadership among the kids; everyone wanted control so nobody had it; everybody wanted to talk but they didn’t want to listen. At some points it descended into chaos; at others they got on with their own business. Once again we got mobbed, once again we survived. I could get used to this.

Contacting our Contacts

I can’t help but feel that today I became part of the propaganda machine. I had been warned before leaving England of a tendency here to show visitors only success stories, and today I became one of their tools. I had also been warned of the Kurdish affinity with making people wait, and putting obstacles (advertently or otherwise) in their way – this too was no fallacy.

After a sleepless night of thunderstorms and Adhan I spent the morning hunting down our contacts who as yet had not appeared. It seems almost a right of passage to go through 10 people before finally arriving where you want to go. I must say though that in general when you finally meet someone they are the epitome of politeness. This is inherent throughout the middle east.

We had one particularly uncomfortable meeting with the head of a government program. He sat in silence at one end of his room while we battled through half an hour of awkward silences and desperate monologues. Finally we were served tea by his decrepit mother and ushered away without a word of help. On we went.

Finally we worked our way up the ladder and now seem to have sorted out the rest of the trip. Refugee camps, settlement villages, battle zones and mass graves – with a mountain picnic thrown in. A very nice man helped us arrange everything, and having checked our credentials he sat us down in front of youtube to watch Susan Boyle – his favourite Britain’s got Talent entry. It doesn’t really get more surreal than talking about death camps and murder one minute, followed by a 60 year old iraqi giving a rendition of Les Miserables. He then insisted on taking us to lunch where again we were mobbed by children.

Amazingly it turns out that these were the young founders of the Sulemaniyah gangster rap palace and break dancing troupe. Tomorrow we are off to impart with some british hiphop in exchange for which we have been promised the best robot dance in the world. Certainly not what I had been expecting but perhaps somewhere in this is a great documentary.

We spent the rest of the day visiting schools. It's rather awkward being ushered from room to room, surrounded by people tugging you and then waiting for you to say something groundbreaking. Through translator - back again – nods of approval – back again and on and on. I found myself my repeating simple questions just for a lack of anything else to ask 8 year olds. One of the centres took young children off the streets to prevent them being molested by under sexed adults at the bazaar - a problem that is not as bad as it used to be.

This afternoon Rick and I set off alone through the bazaar, we needed our own impressions and we needed to be rid of official eyes. My first advice has to do with cameras and soldiers which do not go well together: you should expect some shouting and gun waving. Faining ignorence however has so far extricated us nicely from this, so we will continue to do so with caution.
Again, it can be claustrophobic when surrounded by so many people. Most of them have only seen westerners on television or in camoflage so we certainly attract a crowd. At one point we were trailed by an enormous and vicious looking soldier hiding his uniform under Kurdish robes. We did the old double back and then in exchange followed him. Our evening's entertainment.

Everyone wants to talk, everyone wants to shake hands everyone wants to glare. One old peshmerga got rather agitated, storming towards us, his hands flailing and shouting loudly. We’re not sure whether he was mad at the American invasion ("americanski, americanski") or as one man said “just donkey mad”. Either way we didn’t stick around to find out.

It is nice to have sanctuary at the hotel for a few hours in the evening, however every day is a new excitement.
Until tomorrow.

Love and Honour Killings

I can think of no place where I feel more vulnerable, no place where I feel more at ease, no place where I would rather be. There is something about the unknown that is thrilling.
I have spent the afternoon with a young Iraqi soldier who speaks not a word of English and can barely write. Yet like myself and like so many other people here, he just wants to learn about that which is new and foreign to him. So this afternoon we sent away our entourage and set off with Soran Ali Raza to explore the city. Heading into the unknown we eventually wondered if perhaps he was taking us to sell (westerners are worth a lot of money here). Suddenly though we turned into a park and realised that all he wanted was to take pictures among the flowerbeds. Never before have I been more surprised, never before have I been so relieved.

On Soran’s left forearm was a large heart shaped tattoo bearing his initial and the initial of the girl he once loved – she has left him recently. In this culture that is punishable by death. Coming from the countryside both of them risk having their throats slit by protective fathers or brothers: honour killings are very much a way of life here, though barely talked about.

This highlights a theme that I have been watching closely. Earlier in the day I spoke to a young Iraqi from Kirkuk. We were sitting in a ruined 12th century fort overlooking Dukan lake, and I asked him what his dreams were and what his fears were. His answer to both questions was “love”. This is no exaggeration – it is for them a matter of life or death.

Yesterday we spoke to a local friend who we met a few days ago, Juuan. He also spoke to us about honour killings and the need to respect women; the extent to which couples must honour their families and above all how they must abide by strict Islamic law. He then went on to talk happily about tits, sex and alcohol.

Just 10 minutes ago we were speaking to a Swedish / Iranian mercenary who had come from Baghdad to see his very beautiful Kurdish wife. The commander of the local unit, an old peshmerga, drooled openly over her then gave some pelvic thrusts as she left. I guarantee he looks down on sex before marriage however has adopted such crass western behaviour. (Prison Break and 24 among others, are both big over here- Jack Bauer is spoken of as a real person)

All of these cases point to one of the many paradoxes within in the country. Society in many ways is at odds with itself. Many people we have met (excluding the old guard) lives one way, yet dreams another. I would say western influence is forcing a restoration on this country that it is not ready for. The cities are moving at a pace that the rural areas cannot, and do not want to keep up with.

I have been looking closely at western influences here and can see both positives and negatives – people struggling between the two to find their new identity. It is not a new story; in many ways it is like post war Japan and their struggle to cope with occupation.


Today was very laid back. We went to Dukan Lake to see how families spent their days together. We sat and talked to them surrounded by landscapes the likes of which I have rarely seen. It is stunning - this country is stunning. High on a mountaintop was Talabani’s new palace and this brought our conversation round to his accumulated wealth. Rumours of multi billion dollar corruption, of private oil wells and of a move away from the values that made him great, abound. Most think he is no longer in touch with the people and that their needs come second to his. I was told by one person that you can judge corruption here by the size of an entourage; I didn't see Talabani but I have heard his entourage is regal.


Corruption in the country is rife and most new buildings in the city remain unfinished. The government does not even have plans for many of them; they have simply been built and left empty as statements of modernization and westernisation. It seems to be a case of, if you build it, they will come.

Qua-hafis

Ups and Downs

The lift in our hotel has a mind of its own. Arriving on the floor you want is more of a lottery than anything else. Just a few minutes ago I was about to get out when the doors opened half way then suddenly slammed closed. They then opened again, but only an inch and I was forced to pry them open myself. Yesterday I got in only for the whole thing to turn itself off. The funny thing is, bearing in mind what’s going on outside, I use it without concern.

The roads are equally treacherous. There really is no such thing as lanes, and drivers are forced to fight for their own space. We have had a few near misses and seen countless people driving the wrong way down motorways. And never overtake an American convoy, you are liable to be shot. Again though compared with what we saw today this just seems like an occupational hazard, and there’s not much we can do about it anyway.

We spent the day in Halabjah, the scene of Saddam’s chemical attacks. On the way we drove through Arbat which Rizgar told us proudly was famous for its scorpions. The road we took was the same followed by hundreds of thousands of Kurds during the exodus of ‘91, when they were forced to flee Saddam’s reprisals. To this day the town and the people are scarred.

First though we went to another community centre. To be honest I have now seen my fair share, and while they are all very impressive as examples of progression, they are also all alike. But how can you say no when the children have been practicing for months hoping that one day a westerner will visit. Once again we smiled and nodded our appreciation. “What’s your name? How old are you? how nice”

Next we were taken to the mass graves to see row upon row of tombstones. Everyone we spoke to recounted stories and broke down in tears, and as we arrived as if on cue, the imams began calling from the mosques. It was touching and it shows just how deeply these people are still affected. From there we went to the Halabjah chemical memorial. Looking at pictures of skin peeling from blackened faces, bloated babies and calves suckling from their dead mothers (which happened also in human cases) I couldn’t help but feel detached. I wanted to feel more, I wanted to understand what they had gone through; yet all I felt was numb. It’s strange.

You see the scars on people in the streets and you hear horrible stories. Many new babies are still born with horrible illnesses or just still born, and yet this town has been largely ignored by the Kurdish government. Everybody spoke of their anger: They wanted to know why more has not been done for them? Why they still live like before, and why no one listens. Last year in a desperate cry for attention they razed to the ground the very memorial that had been built in their name. Today, it is the only thing to have been rebuilt. Something here is wrong and again corruption is playing its part.

I’ve got a bloody big welt in my mouth and it hurts. But who cares, I’m alive.

"Welcome to Hell"

Kirkuk sits on one of the largest oil reserves in the Middle East. Because of this it is one of the most disputed cities in the country – it is also one of the most dangerous and sadly one of the poorest. This meant that today we had to increase our security and travelled in convoy with six new guards who fanned out around us. Kidnappings are common and so we had to keep moving. Yesterday a young Syrian suicide bomber was caught nearby and they were expecting another. Again we moved quickly.

We were there to visit the football stadium, which has been transformed into a refugee camp. I say refugee camp, but that implies they fled from somewhere worse. The truth is these people moved back after the liberation hoping to reclaim old homes. This has not happened and now 16,000 families have nowhere to live. They are encouraged to be here in an attempt to change the demography of the city, which would lead to an election victory for the Kurds and in turn win them control of the oil below. Every side is sending its people back in for the same reason and so the election has now been postponed indefinitely. This happened even under Saddam.

The city is split in three: the Arab part, the Kurdish part and the Turcamen part. All three lay claim to the area and all three are at each others throats. Nobody has anywhere else to go, nobody can afford to move or buy a house and everyone is getting angrier. It is a catch 22 – even if they wanted to leave now, they can’t. The worst off seem to be the Kurds but then I wasn't allowed to talk to people in the other sectors, merely drive through - quickly.

Like everywhere else in the country people here are not happy with their leaders, they blame them for many of the problems. However neighbouring countries are also to blame and the vast wealth within the city means that Saudi Arabia, Iran, Syria and Turkey are all sponsoring terrorism in the region. They want either to prevent others from gaining oil, prevent the creation of a larger Kurdish state or simply want to exact revenge. Until security can be improved (which for many reasons seems impossible) no investment will go in, no aid will arrive.


We made it to the Stadium. Never before have I seen such abject poverty and such sadness. The people here live in squalid dark hovels, with no running water and barely any electricity, they often survive off what scraps they can find. They are surrounded everywhere by putrid rubbish and their own waste covers the floor. Everyone here is dying and the stench is unbearable. Almost everyone we spoke to has a terminal disease, is blind or is disfigured. A retarded child huddled in the corner.

Most people wouldn’t talk to us: they are fed up of being promised help yet receiving none. Last week they pelted journalists with rocks because they were sick of people visiting them and nothing happening. It was not easy to film today – in so many ways it felt disrespectful. I felt like a voyeur poking my head in to other peoples misery. Knowing that I would run away and type it up on my shiny laptop only made it worse. However I believe some good can come from this so I continued and spoke to anyone willing to talk back.

One man had an open sewage trench running through his hut, he regularly cements it over, but about every month or so it burst through leaving the whole family knee high in shit. I am not exaggerating – as our translator said when we drew near “Welcome to Hell” - he was right. The city is surrounded by oil wells and black smoke drifts across from all directions. Even as I write this I can only shake my head.

How does one interview people in this situation, what does one ask them? “What needs to change? Is anything being done? How do you feel? Who is to blame? What do you need? Is there any hope?” Such obvious questions, such obvious answers but I asked them anyway. I have a lot to learn.

In another part of the city we were suddenly confronted by police. It’s not unusual for extremists to wear official uniforms and our own guards immediately jumped between us. In the end it turned to be only a matter of jurisdiction but the atmosphere was tense and we were ushered away. Soon after we were stopped at a checkpoint and Rick and I again taken inside for questioning. We were let go in due time but everyone here is nervous, everyone expects the worse.

Sticking with the day’s theme of depression, we moved on to the Shoraz collective town, one of many vast areas built by Saddam to house victims of his Anfall campaigns. In contrast to Kirkuk Stadium this was like paradise but still a long way from civilization, and still decrepid.

There is so much money in this country - you can see it in some of the cities – but in Kirkuk, the richest of them all no aid is arriving and no one is listening.

Days like today are tiring.

Medieval

We spent the morning back with the autistic children again - as the director of the centre says "We are trying to de-spastify them". They were being forced to take part in music therapy which meant being shouted at and forced to bang drums. Most of them didn’t know what they were doing and looked rather scared, some just sat there drooling. The noise could not have been helping but they believed the vibrations would reverberate in the body.

Next we watched some physiotherapy – this involved taking children who couldn’t move their limbs and forcibly bending and unbending them. The children wailed and screamed in agony– it was uncomfortable and in many way rather medieval. The centre is trying its best and I applaud it in many ways. But it lacks expertise and none is arriving.

We then drove to the mountains where I am now. Too tired to write more . See tomorrow.

Tribal Regions

I thought that we were getting closer, and I thought we were getting beneath the surface here, but it’s going to take longer - there is no black or white, there is even no grey. For every truth there is a counter truth and then another and another; you have to fight through the layers and create your own larger picture. People switch sides, form alliances, spread rumours and exaggerate facts. There are improvements, but there is also deterioration.

We have come to the mountains for a few days. To the minefields and the battlefields of the Peshmerga fighters, and for the first time I believe the things I hear. These are humble, honest people and kind people. They are also battled hardened in a ferocious way – so it is amazing to see how warm they are. They are tight knit, and were I not here with someone they respect – well I couldn’t be here at all. We are staying with a Scottish friend who lives here part of each year working on an amazing community project. He is Ex French foreign legion, and a great war photographer. There are 5 of use in the bedroom sleeping basically on concrete floors; The shower is freezing and all the lights in the city turn off at midnight. The streets are mud and I love it every minute here. The sky, the peace, the people, the company, the solitude are all welcome.

We have been hearing more stories of cruelty; more stories of bravery and more stories of corruption but none of them really surprise me any more. They all fascinate me and they all shock me but they are part of daily life here. In the same way that at the beginning of the week we spoke about death camps one instant and tv the next, so now we regularly talk of torture followed by fun. It is not abnormal.

Around us are the hills in which Ansar Islam held out against the allied forces in 2003, where during the last stand they tied their legs to posts in the ground to prevent themselves from running away – they were there to die as Martyrs. These are the same people who beheaded dozens of people at a time for lack of support, or simply because they were in the wrong place. These are the people who wanted regression, people who wanted blood.
We went to the abandoned villages and to an old Islamic training camp surrounded on all sides by minefields. The landscape on the Iranian border is covered with trenches and foxholes, rusting bullets and helmets. Tank battles, mortars and RPGs have all left their mark. Yet it is beautiful – poppies cover the hills, long grass ripples in the wind and birds sing all day.

We were taken by a local peshmerga hero called Wusher – an incredible man. He has lost both his legs and now walks on prosthetics that he had made in Japan. He has been shot 4 times in battle but returned to the front within days. He is known as the mine man and has disarmed over 2 million himself. He goes up every week on horseback and continues his work methodically. As he said to us earlier, he has sacrificed half his body, and will sacrifice the other. We visited the graves of his parents, his brothers and his sister which all lie under a wide tree overlooking the valley.
On these hills he lost his legs and 3000 friends fighting first against Saddam then against the Islamists. His pride and joy is his 1980s R24 rifle from the Shah’s army. As with everyone else we meet, he was born to fight, he is a born soldier and he will fight again if he must.

This afternoon we spent a few hours playing football with about 30 children. They are peshmerga in the making and have beaten me well. I can barely walk and can think only of my blanket and my concrete floor.

Adorable Nippers

There is something unnerving about 10 year old supporters of Junde Islam, and their jokes about decapitation. The simulated tongue, lolling out from one side of the mouth suggests they have all watched these snuff videos and indeed the Bazaar is full of them.
The region we are in is strictly Islamic, and although the extremists were defeated in 2003 there is still much support for their ideals, though not always their methods. We have been helping at a centre that is building an adventure playground. Its aim, among others, is to offer the kids a glimpse of a childhood free of religious restrictions while also encouraging them to help themselves rather than relying on outside support. As such we have spent a lot of time with them over the last couple of days and have been observing their lives.

Among their favourite pastimes are taunting one another; playing leap frog; praying; throwing bricks at animals (ourselves included); chopping snakes and insects up; and of course football. They are happy children and we get on well with them. On arrival we are mobbed, jumped on and generally treated as punching bags but behind these playful antics lies evidence of horrors past and of disturbing potential. They will wind you up, push you to your limits, and test you. They fight at the drop of a hat, rolling around on the floor until too tired to continue punching, then they simply walk away.

It must be said that there is something natural in their behaviour. Compared with the mollycoddling in much of the West they are certainly not breeding a pampered generation. However it is the ease with which they rebound, the fun that they get from destruction and their haunting stares that have more worrisome undertones.

Some of the children question you repeatedly about religious affiliation and are not best pleased by the answers. More than once I have hid behind the language barrier to avoid answering such questions, though generally I just agree in the glory of God; without specifying which one. Tattoos are a huge taboo, as are chains around the neck and one little kid has tried repeatedly to tear Rick’s off. Here again though appears the paradox that seems to crop up again and again. Last time they saw a tattoo it was of a naked blond. Having stared at it in amazement they returned the next day with bandaged arms, covering up extensive cuts and their own shoddy attempts to recreate the tattoo. Here again we see their fascination and admiration for all things western, even in the face of religious retaliation and 'god’s vengeance'.

The most worrying children here are those who believe they have nothing left, those who think they have no hope and that life has dealt them a losing hand. We have met a few who talk like this and they are the ones who would have been corrupted by fundamentalists bearing money, gifts, sweets and explosives. A few hundred dollars and the attention of someone from abroad was often enough to persuade then to strap on bombs, pick up AK’s and join the fight.

Let us hope that one government or another; be it PUK, KDP, KRG, the central or even a western one, gives them some support and a chance to aspire, before they are again swayed by the promises of the afterlife.

I want to reiterate that these children mean well - they want to live and be left alone. On settling down at night, exhausted and to a cacophany of snores, one cannot help but feel happy, and I genuinley believe that that these children are also happy. On many levels the simplicity of life here is enviable - on others it comes with untold sadness.

Ice Cold in Sule

We stumbled out of the mountains, into the city and past the guards at hotel security. Unshaved, unwashed, with straggly hair and covered in animal waste we marched straight to the bar and ordered a cold beer. I had been thinking about this moment for the last few days and had been dying to relive that scene from the classic film, Ice Cold in Alex; as John Mills staggers out of the desert to his long awaited reward.

However something wasn’t the same and I was finding it hard to put the last week out of my mind. Something inside felt different that not even a cold beer could fix. Perhaps the realisation that I would soon have to reconcile what I had seen with what I would be returning to was bothering me.

This was our last day and a large part of me didn’t want to leave. I will be returning to Iraq soon, but not until I have faced the cocktail parties and dinners of London. “How was it darling” they will all chime, as if an adjective or two could describe the poverty and the knot in your stomach. I have been saying for the last couple of weeks that people in Iraq seem to be emotionally underdeveloped, but in retrospect perhaps it is the other way round. So many people in the West are unable to grasp lives so different from their own – and perhaps that’s precisely what our large armies protect us against having to do. Feelings are all relative.

Let me return though to the previous day and to other awakenings - even on the eve of departure I am still learning. It began with a furious phone call from a fixer, angry that we had hired a different translator for the day. “He is spy, he will ruin us, and I will then beat him” he cried in his rather silly high pitched voice. It took some time to calm him down when we met later that day and even then his podgy fists remained clenched tightly. Ironically it is he who has connections to the powers that be, so perhaps what he really meant was “Only I can be the spy here”. If this is true then he has much work to do and many other people to beat.

For spies here are everywhere: following you in cars, working in hotels, even teaching at schools - this is simply an accepted part of life in recent history. Under Saddam many Kurds worked for the regime, often turning in their neighbours, even helping with the slaughters. They are called Jash and like in so many other parts of the country they have still not been brought to justice – tragically many of them are still in positions of power and are flexing their muscles.* We spoke to one family waiting to receive their ‘displaced family allowance’ ($10,000) and were told they had been sidelined while families of the Jash got their payoffs first. In recent months people have become vigilantes in order to right these wrongs, and the murder rate is growing yet again.

Fighting for both sides like this however was not always about preservation of the individual, but about preservation of the family and hedging ones bets. In many cases (just as in Scotland during its wars against England) families fought on both sides of conflicts thus guaranteeing the survival of at least half the family. This led to people switching sides at the final moments and to stories of soldiers turning their guns on each other when defeat was imminent. It has also led to a sense of kinship that is rare to see.

Today we popped into the gun shop – sandwiched between the baker and the butcher in the bazaar’s main street. It is really just a concrete room with guns lying in piles and covering all available wall space. It is here that you come to have your trusty friend repaired or to pick up your sons first weapon. Everything from immense sawn off shotguns to 1920’s British rifles are on offer, and they do a lot of business. It is illegal here to carry weapons but nobody pays attention. Everyone has lived so long with one by their side that they have become like extended members of the family – and family here is everything. Family protects, family punishes and family guides. In the West it is just one more value that has begun to disintegrate.

We have been fortunate enough to eat many a dinner with local families, indeed so hospitable a people are they that it is hard to eat alone. What I have discovered is a respect and a bond between them that is enviable. They all have opinions and are usually only too happy to share them, questions they would rather not answer are replaced by a simple shrug of the shoulders and a polite hand to the heart.

So how do I feel sitting here, with my western beer and my own home just a flight away? Having seen both good and bad in both East and West? Well I feel privileged in every way and grateful everyday for what I have. If only everyone could understand how fortunate we are and what we lack.

See you all in England.

*There are other high profile Baathists who have not been brought to justice including Ali Hassan al-Majid’s (chemical ali’s) second in command and other senior intelligence chiefs. They were given immunity by America in exchange for testimony in the top few token cases.

Americans vanish - then reappear

The news that 3 Americans had been kidnapped reached us yesterday, long before it filtered down to the rest of the world. It happened just 30 mins from here in an area I have been to recently. At first we heard they had been kidnapped, possibly by ansar al islam who once held the area as a stronghold. This remains a possibility despite the fact they are now in the hands of the Iranians. Iran has many agents in the region, indeed in this very city, and westerners are worth a lot of money, so it is still conceivable they were taken and sold on. We don’t know at the moment and probably never will.

In fact we do not really know who they are. Journalists, tourists, or military? I have heard all three and have evidence for a couple.

I spent the day on their trail – from here anyway. Have been to their hotel and spoken to people who’s paths they crossed, or people who saw them. I have been from bureau to bureau, paper to paper and on. It is amazing how this network of sources works. All the villages in the mountains have spies of some sort or other and everything works its way back to us.

I played football today and really must get in shape. I was also guest of the week on a political talk show. Don't they know I only came for the weather?

A lot is happening here and I am upset to be leaving soon.

"Back like cooked crack" !?

There is something about being Western here than flings doors open for you. Quite literally. Yesterday evening as we returned home we past a large heavily guarded party for about 1000 people. There were as many guards, soldiers, range rovers and mercedes around which we know immediately means government. Having decided to run the gauntlet we marched straight to the entrance, through the amassed forces waving our cameras ahead; sure enough we were let in. We had entered Presidents party.

Straight onto the dance floor with cameras rolling, we then jigged and jived with the cream of Kurdish society. It took only 15 minutes for security to bundle us out though and we were roughly turfed back onto the street. Rick was forced (again) to delete his pictures though this time I remembered to swap out my tape and give nothing.

Later in the night we joined the far more inclusive street party as people here continued their election celebrations. Once again we found ourselves surrounded by soldiers, accused of various things, and man handled by a crowd of both angry and jubilant iraqis. Once again though we made it out. There were of course continual scuffles as opposition supporters clashed with kurdistanis, and certainly there were some tense moments throughout the evening but although there were fireworks, they were not of the violent kind. Some idiot lit a box of rockets upside down and they veered towards us. No sooner had we scattered and hit the ground, than people ran back to do it again.

It seems now as if the squabbles here are among the leaders and their milita rather than the supporters, who are content with to have watched the democratic party. At one point we hopped into the back of a pickup truck for a ride elsewhere and were amazed to see flags from both parties trailing from the windows. The car was full of friends supporting different parties: but no one cared, the only wanted to celebrate

We also saw the American special forces again, patrolling the streets and moping in dark corners - this time we were given nods though we can still not ascertain if they talk. At the end of the night when everyone had shouted themselves to sleep we befriended some local soldiers and got driven home in military convoy. Browning 50 cal machine guns on the roof, sirens blaring and 100 miles an hour down the wrong side of the road. I could get used to this.

This morning we had trouble getting to Erbil so stayed in Sule. I have been asked to appear on the panel for a political show so will try to make it tomorrow instead. Today though we drove up into the surrounding hills for a better view of the city. So much sand has been picked up in the surrounding deserts that all we could see was a blanket of yellowy grey. We passed couples kissing in cars (taboo), saw Talabani’s city compound (a city in its own), played football with some bottles and then smashed some glass (which seems to entertain people here for hours).

We also received some breaking news about party politics. Goran radio announced that the KDP will be offering only 12 of its 56 seats to the PUK. This may have serious repercussions here. They had entered the election as a 50/50 coalition, but the KDP place all blame of their poor results firmly in the hands of the PUK. This may well result in a split within the coalition and if this happens and if Goran joins forces with the Socialist / reform party, majority leadership will change hands. In a matter of 10 days the political arena here has been turned upside down and the Kuridstani coalition may be imploding. Although they won't let that happen.

It is rumoured also that the PUK has been sacking some of its people and blaming them for the loss. We have heard about editors of their papers and other people in charge of propaganda being the first to go.

But once again there was no sign of political disruption today in the bazaar and almost no military presence. The usual gaudy pointed bras were on sale, along with the awful designer knock offs, the football paraphernalia, the nuts and the toys. Labourers with their own pneumatic drills lined the streets waiting for work and people were as welcoming as ever. On the surface at least normality seems to have returned. Parties are expected again tonight so we shall see if PUK / KDP tensions flare.

Rick found a t-shirt in the Bazaar that said “I’m back like cooked crack”. Bizarre bazaar.

Tired but content

The last few days have been hectic to say the least. Yesterday we travelled to the disputed city of Kirkuk to interview the Governor. It was 50 degrees and smoke from surrounding oil wells made it unbearable. Entering the governors compound was equally challenging, and took a good half hour to get through all the security checks. Soldiers here wear balaclavas such is the risk to their own lives when working for the government. We were not allowed to stop for pictures, or even put our lenses out of the window. We did anyway.

When my interview finally began one would not have believed that we were in one of the most dangerous cities in Iraq, because as with every other interview we have had the governor painted a picture of absolute bliss. I questioned him repeatedly on the tensions between arabs, kurds and turcomans but all I could get was a pass the parcel like blame game. When I asked about infiltration of the armed forces he merely said that it was the same everywhere in the world. When I asked him about inter faction violence he blamed it on foreign elements and claimed that all sides got on well together. When I asked about the rise in bombings that coincided with the Americans departure he denied it. It was frustrating to say the least, but then I have come to expect it. In truth I can now answer 90% of interviews myself and sometimes wonder why I bother.

However sometimes you get choice snippets. For example the leader of the socialist party and the Islamic league leader both blew up (they got next to no votes) and shouted loudly for a while flailing arms (poor translator tried to keep up). Today we met the second in command of the gorran party (the leader’s brother) and got an admission that he had dealt with the Americans during campaigning. He denied it out right during the formal interview so we stayed and had coffee with him during which he accidently let slip that despite regular contact with the US they had not sent observers to monitor the elections.

Last night got a little worrying. Official results were released and supporters of both parties took to the streets. At first the mood was jubilant. We were in the middle of a Kurdistani street party and 100s of soldiers danced around guns in the air, wooping and shouting. Hundreds of cars drove past with flags flying and horns hooting. I jumped in a passing tut tut and sped off down the road filming.

Then I came to the PUK headquaters and the mood began to change. Gorran supporters started appearing, then just in front of me one got out of his car to taunt hundreds of loyalists soldiers. As would be expected they jumped on him threw him to the ground beat him with their rifles and then started dragging him down a dark side street kicking and screaming. I filmed it all. My camera was pushed down, but I ran ahead and continued filming. As the mood got worse and others began to be attacked I knew I had to get out of the throng. Suddenly someone grabbed me. I was pushed to a corner, surrounded by soldiers and police and held up against the wall. Everyone was shouting. They tried to take my camera which wasn't going to be pried from my hands. I waved my passport and shouted journalist over and over. Before things got worse someone appeared who spoke English and he demanded I follow him inside the police headquarters. I absolutely refused. If they were going to talk to me or shake me down I wanted it to be done in public where I felt safer.

After stubbornly refusing to give over my tape for a good 20 minutes they started to get physical and I had no choice but to agree and record over it. By this time though I had secretly rewound the tape to an earlier shot so recorded over something else instead. They figured this out too though and in the end most of it was deleted. I may have saved some at the end but have not yet checked the footage.

Rick and I had been split up earlier but we met up right afterwards and will not loose each other in crowds again. An important lesson.

Later that night down the road, we stood with the riot police between both sides. I must say that despite the earlier episode nothing happened. They shouted, but that was it. A few stones landed around us and many water bottles, but perhaps they realised how bloody thirsty we were, the night was heavy. Then we noticed a group of enormous western men kitted out to the hilt. They were American special forces and another four of five of them hung around in civilian clothes. They were on high alert and would not speak to me. One of the civi’s came up and told us not to talk to ‘his boys’ but we hung around them anyway. They are of course supposed to be pulling out, but there is a base nearby and they were expecting trouble.

Despite the earlier episode which makes the evening sound very dangerous, for most people it continued to be joyous. Women took evening strolls around the crowds with the babies, people sat at cafes talking and looking on and even the cd stall remained ope. It was strange indeed to see how normal this was for everyone.

I have now interviewed the leadership of all parties. The mayors of various cities and villages. Political leaders, government heads, ambassadors and supporters on all sides of this election. I am impressed greatly by the response to what was no doubt a fraudulent election and the methods with which the opposition are fighting for justice. Only a few years ago things would have resorted to serious violence, but now people merely come out and hoot their horns. Democracy is slowly taking place here and it is wonderful to watch. Had the supporters of two opposing football teams in England faced off like this yesterday many more would have been injured, many more dead.

Also visited a new autism centre, the emergency department of the city hospital and tonight we go to the park. I think tomorrow we head to the capital, Erbil.