To avoid the Iraqi people being subject to harmful Western ways of thinking, members of the secret police are surveying all tourists to make sure that they do not impose their imperialistic ideas on people, or fraternize with dangerous elements, i.e. enemies of the regime.
We arrive at a road block. Oh no, not again! Throughout our journey in Iraq, we have spent a considerable amount of time at these road blocks, because the policemen always scrutinize our papers, and as their English is often very poor, this takes time. But thanks to our ‘guide’, the policemen at this road block are remarkably fast, and we continue after a couple of minutes.
Ur is the famous Ur in Caldaea, home of Abraham, who traveled from Ur to the land of Kanaan and became the ancestor of both Jews and Arabs. Ur was an independent Sumeric state c. 4500-2000 B.C. This kingdom was conquered by the Babylonians, followed by the Assyrians, whose kingdom vanished completely in the 8th Century B.C. The formerly proud city of Ur crumbled to a dusty pile of ruins, forgotten for about two thousand years. A local tribe, the Mustafiq, called the ruins Tell al-Mukhajar (‘Mountain of Stairs’).
Excavations started here in the 1920s, supervised by British archaeologist Leonard Woolley, who had spent 12 years searching for the spot. Royal tombs were found, containing skeletons, weapons, jewelry of gold and lapis lazuli, a unique golden helmet, mosaics, etc. The remains of a 25-metre-high temple tower, shaped like a step pyramid, were excavated. It is called a ziggurat, and it may have been one of the famous ‘hanging gardens’, where crops were grown on fields on the terraces. Perhaps the top of the ziggurat was an astronomical observatory, as the Sumerians were moon worshippers. The temple of the Moon God Nanar was also excavated by Woolley.
Evidence of the Biblical Deluge was found near these ruins. Here is a layer of sediments, many feet thick, which does not contain any cultural remains, while the layers below and above these sediments do. The layer without artifacts bears testimony of a tremendous flood, inundating this land around 3000 B.C.
“Goodbye, Mister,” he says.
“Goodbye, and thank you.”
“What a snot nose!” says Arne, when the man has left. “They are not quite right in their head!”
We commence our journey. Numerous waders are foraging in small puddles along the road, such as white-tailed plovers (Vanellus leucurus), marsh sandpipers (Tringa stagnatilis), and Kentish plovers (Charadrius alexandrinus). A passing truck comes to a stop, the driver handing us two refreshing oranges. We pass Suq as-Shukh, a cluster of dilapidated stone houses near the southern edge of Hoor al-Hamar. Huge flocks of sheep are grazing in the desert, and over the reed beds, marsh harriers (Circus aeruginosus) and pallid harriers (C. macrourus) glide effortlessly in search of prey. A fisherman throws his net into a small pool. He holds on to the top end of the net, to which a rope is attached. Numerous iron rings are attached to the bottom of the net, which is pulled underwater by gravity, hereby trapping any fish that might happen to be below it.
Dusk is approaching, so we decide to spend the night in a village beneath a grove of date palms. Shortly before the village we arrive at a small river. Once upon a time, a bridge was spanning this river, but unfortunately it has long since collapsed. We drive back and forth along the river, hoping to find a way to cross it, but in vain. A truck appears, and the driver disembarks, followed by several other men. One of them speaks a bit of English, and he informs us that we shall have to make a long detour to cross the river. He suggests that I join him to the local police station to inform the constables about our situation, while Arne will stay back at our van. We wade across the stream, and as we approach the village, dogs begin to bark furiously. My companion quickly bends down to pick up a clod of soil, and I don’t hesitate to do likewise. The dogs snarl, but keep a respectful distance.
At the police station, we are received by three friendly constables. The youngest of them shows me into his spartan room, while my companion and the two other police officers walk back to the river. By now it is completely dark, and above the village lies the Moon, back down, like a sickle. The young man removes his sandals and commences to pray on a sack on the floor, oblivious of my presence. When he has finished his prayer, he offers me a cup of tea, but before I can finish it, the two officers return with Arne. They are going to show us the detour, so that we can park in front of the police station and spend the night there. They bring two automatic guns to ensure that nobody will bother us on the way.
The two constables occupy the front seat beside Arne, so I take my seat on a wooden box in the cabin. From my position, I can’t see a thing. The bumpy road shakes the car violently, and I’m tossed from one side of the cabin to the other. To make things worse, I am bored out of my wits, cursing the trip. Why did I have to go? I might as well have stayed at the police station. Finally, our car comes to a stop, and I can get down and stretch my legs. However, we still haven’t reached our destination. The police officers are busy buying fish from a truck driver, after which we continue our journey on the terrible road. In the head lights, Arne spots a jerboa (Jaculus), jumping across the road. When we reach our goal, the policemen hand us one of the fish, and we are served several cups of tea. After our meal we talk with the men, but progress is slow, as they do not speak English, and our Arabic is still very basic.
A fierce wind now starts blowing, and the air is soon filled with dust. This reduces visibility drastically, and around noon we realize that we are completely lost. We stop to have some food and wait for the wind to subside. But, on the contrary, it gains in force, and we decide to spend the night here, as the road track is now impossible to distinguish from the surrounding desert. We decide to return to Suq as-Shukh the following morning, as we don’t have much petrol left.
However, late in the afternoon a truck arrives, its driver generously offering to guide us back the way we came from. A man and his son take their seat beside Arne, and again I must retreat to the cabin. As it turns out, this journey is even more terrible than the one the previous night. The truck driver is driving like a madman, but all Arne can do is to stay close. Our car rattles and bounces, and when a wheel hits a stone or a pothole, the shock-absorbers bottom out. Back in the cabin, I feel quite miserable. Boxes fall to the floor, our belongings being scattered all over. Hours pass, and I wonder why we still haven’t reached Suq as-Shukh. Our car gets stuck in a mud hole, and it takes a while to get it out again. The truck driver returns to see, what became of us, urging Arne to drive faster!
We continue our journey, driving 80-90 km/h – and suddenly we are back in Nasiriya! We thank the truck driver, after which we manage to find our familiar camping spot in front of the ‘tourist office’. The following morning, when the ‘tourist guide’ arrives and spots our van, he looks as if he has swallowed a camel foal. He is quite relieved, however, when he learns that we are heading north the same day. On the very inaccurate map, which was given to us at the tourist office (the real one) in Baghdad, we have noticed a small town, named Diwaya, situated near the western edge of the marshes. Here, we shall again try to get into contact with the Madan people – also called the Marsh Arabs.
A surly officer receives us and commences to note down our names, when we have repeated them three or four times. He wants to know where we are going, and when he learns that we would like to eat, he escorts us to a nearby restaurant. Here we meet a nice man, named Hassan, who speaks a bit of English. We inform him that we would like to go into the marshes. He volunteers to go with us to a nearby river, Shatt al-Saadir, where three or four villages are situated near the edge of the marshes. Unfortunately, the ‘bloodhound’ is going to join us.
The headman in one of the villages invites us for tea, guiding us to his mudhif (guest house). This is the only building in the entire village, which is constructed of reed. The rest all have walls made of timber, with a plaster of mud. We enter the mudhif and greet the men gathered here. The centre of the floor is occupied by a huge fireplace, dominated by an enormous coffee pot. We are served coffee in tiny cups, following an ancient ritual: You drink three cups, after which you shake the cup, indicating that you have had your fill. Afterwards, we are served tea. More men arrive, and after a while about 25 people are gathered in the mudhif. Apart from the fire, it is illuminated by four kerosene lamps. Now, in the far end of the fireplace, another fire is lit, its light flickering on the reed arches. This, and the dense smoke under the roof, creates a cozy atmosphere, only disturbed by a blaring transistor radio.
We are invited for dinner, rice and mutton. Boys bring in the food on small trays, one for each person. As guests of honour, Arne and I are served the best part of the sheep, namely the head, one half for each of us. We glance enviously at the other men, who have been served more genuine mutton. But out of politeness we have to pretend that we are delighted with our share. The brain doesn’t taste too bad, and some scraps of meat can be found here and there on the cheeks. I lift the ear, looking enquiringly at our host, who nods eagerly. So I crunch the cartilage, smacking my lips politely. The eye is lying in its hollow, looking at me, somewhat accusingly, I imagine. Politeness or no politeness, I just cannot make myself eat it, though my act will break the laws of hospitality. Arne is in similar distress. After the meal we are handed soap and water to wash our hands outside the mudhif.
Next morning, we go to a tea house to eat kebab (small chunks of meat, roasted on skewers). A cool wind is blowing, and from the opposite river bank a blaring loudspeaker plays Arabian music. Hassan and his brother join us. The brother is very eager to practice his English on us. When finally he asks us: “Is my English good or bad?” we tell him ‘good’, being too polite to inform him that it is almost incomprehensible.
A boat approaches us, and after a lengthy talk the men in the boat hand us a coot (Fulica atra), which they have shot. The leader of the village jokes with the men and puts his gun in their face, and when their canoe is about a hundred yards away, he takes his rifle, aiming so that the bullet hits the water a few feet from their canoe! He is also eager to show us his ability to shoot birds. The other men cheering, he brings down a pied kingfisher (Ceryle rudis), hovering above us, and a black tern (Chlidonias niger), passing the boat. He aims at a flock of pelicans (Pelecanus onocrotalus) far away, but to our intense relief, he misses. Naturally, ducks and coot are very shy and take off at a distance of several hundred yards.
The sky is overcast, and a cold wind is blowing. Back in the village, we enjoy a cup of hot tea. When we leave, the men hand us the three birds. In a nearby village, we are invited for dinner. Back in Diwaya, the chief of the police force invites us to his home. We hesitate a bit, but as it turns out he is much more pleasant than the mudir and not at all inclined to homosexuality.
Most Muslims cannot afford to make the Haj, so on this day people instead try to visit a qubba, a grave of a holy man. We leave in our van, which is fairly crowded, as we bring Hassan, the chief of the police, and two of their friends. We are heading for the tomb of a local holy man, Said Achmet al-Rifai. (‘Said’ is a title, used by descendants of the Prophet Muhammad). The road leading to the tomb is an awful dirt track, full of potholes, and sometimes we have to leave the road, crossing an irrigation canal on an incredibly narrow bridge without rails, driving across ploughed fields, and getting stuck in mud. The qubba is somewhat dilapidated, partly covered in sand, paint peeling off the green dome. A nearby minaret is partly crumbled. Inside the qubba, the coffin of the said is enclosed by a rail, which pilgrims kiss and touch with their forehead. Women tie bits of cloth to the rail to ward off ‘evil eyes’. On the wall, people write their names with chalk, and the chief of the police also writes our names, in Arabic.
On our way back, we stop to cook the birds that were shot the previous day. They are delicious, but then we are hungry. Shortly before Diwaya, we visit a couple of black nomads’ tents. A camel is lying outside the tents, chewing the cud, while others graze in the distance. The nomads receive us very courteously, and we are seated on carpets at one end of the tent, surrounded by bleating sheep. A horse rider, carrying a rifle, arrives at the tent, dismounts and greets us by shaking our hands and kissing our cheeks. He hands us cigarettes, and we talk, frequently interrupted by an elderly woman, who puts her head over a large cloth, which separates the men’s and the women’s sections of the tent.
Suddenly, a fierce gust of wind fills the air with a mixture of dust and rain. We leave abruptly and hurry back to Diwaya. The wind increases in force, and while we sip tea in a tea house, the date palms around the town bend under the storm.