April 11, 12, 13 1972: Al Qa'im, Iraq

Taken From All About My Hat The Hippy Trail 1972

It was April 12, 13 1972.

At that time Iraq was governed by President Ahmed Hassan and the al-Bakr Ba'ath Party.

“Another walk through no-man's land,” said Al. “I wonder how far that's going to be. The last one looked like people lived there and they go back and forth freely to markets and things – if they're in no-man's land they may not even have passports. “We'll take some extra water this time, as it's gonna to be hot walking if it's a long way.”

Al and Keith took out their sleeping bags and lay down on the wooden balcony outside the custom's post; the guard brought them some strong and sweet coffee. As they relaxed drinking the coffee, all they could hear were crickets and flying bugs.

The bugs were massive. Neither Al nor I had ever seen anything like them before. They flew around madly targeting the bright lights that were on at all four corners of the custom's building, often crashing into a wall or post. Then they fell to the ground, often landing on their backs and started trying to flip themselves over with their wings. Few seemed to manage that.

As the numbers of bugs increased, the noise grew louder and louder and sleep was retreating. The guard came out with a broom and brushed away the bugs – some took off again and presumably ended up crash landing again, because numbers did not decrease. The guard said “Flippers!” and laughed. This carried on throughout the long sleepless night, every time the guard shouting with glee “Flippers.”

The next morning Keith and Al rose quite early, left the border post and walked several miles across no-man's land, where they spotted several small houses and people working in the fields. Keith told Al that they were neither Iraqi nor Syrian people and I figured out they must be no-men and no-women if they lived and worked in no-man's land. Or maybe he meant Norman's land – I had met somebody called Norman once but I did not know if this was where he was from or not.

After an hour or so we arrived in Iraq, presented their visas, changed their money again, this time the money was called Dinars and walked on into a small village.

“I wonder what this place is called,” said Al, “the only sign I saw was in Arabic.”

As we arrived in the village we were greeted by several smiling young men dressed in what I realised was typical desert costume of djellaba and sandals.

To say that the village was dry would be an under-statement. It was parched! There was very little vegetation in sight, lots of dust and sand and many of the buildings seemed to be made of dust and sand too. The main road which led eventually to Baghdad went straight through the village and as we arrived along that road, we saw a tea-house. We headed straight for it, accompanied by some of the young men.

The men were all very friendly and smiling and kept offering Keith and Al cigarettes and black tea. They would not take no for an answer. They wanted to talk and talk in English – as they were all studying English at school.

Al asked one of the men what the village was called.

“Al Qa'im,” he said proudly.

Al asked whether there was a way to get to Baghdad cheaply. He knew that it was about 330 miles from Deir el Zur to Baghdad and they were not half way yet.

One of the young men, called Mohammed, a very common-place name and not just in this village apparently, said that the bus was in the early morning and had already left that day, but maybe a truck would pass by. “But,” he said, “you have to pay driver same as bus fare – we all pay for lifts in Iraq.”

He offered to show Keith and Al around the small village before sharing some food. I sensed some reluctance in Al. He said to Keith: “What about our bags, I don't want to be carrying a rucksack round the village. I am a bit worried if we leave the bags here and one gets nicked, what chance would we have of getting it back?”

Mohammed immediately said “No problem my friends, there are no thieves here. In Iraq we cut off a hand of a thief. You can leave bags here, nobody touch.”

“I guess so, man”, said Keith.

When Al opened his bag and took out his camera, immediately there was a small crowd eager to get their photos taken. Mohammed organised them in one line and led Al over to join them, whilst Keith took the photo. It must have looked odd with about 15 local lads dressed in djellaba and sandals, some with head-scarves, lined up with Al wearing a donkey jacket and jeans and ME perched on his head! There was a lot of movement until suddenly Mohammed shouted “Cheese”. They all shouted “Cheese” and froze perfectly still. Keith took the photo. It would be along time before that film was developed.

Mohammed and a couple of his friends or brothers walked Keith and Al around the village and took them to their little school. There were few people about, those that were had donkeys and one or two carts laden with figs or dates. Some children, some dogs, a few cars, not a woman in sight!

It was not a large village so the tour took just about half an hour and they returned to the tea house where they were immediately served with couscous and spicy beans with vegetables, dried and fresh figs, goats cheese and unleavened bread, yoghurt and black tea, followed by more black tea, coca cola and endless cigarettes.

Mohammed had asked questions about where we were from, where were we going, why, what we did at home, did we have wives and children and why not? They wanted to know what life in the UK was like and did we have televisions and telephones. “Have you been on aeroplane?” asked Mohammed.

Suddenly Mohammed turned to Al. “Do you like the Zionists?”

I felt some hesitation in Al before he answered. “There's good and bad in everyone,” he said.

“Very good answer,” said Mohammed beaming. “You are right, but here in our village, only good!”

Later in the afternoon, Al asked if there was a small hotel or lodge to stay the night. Mohammed said “You both stay at my father's house. I take you now?” So this time with their bags, the duo followed Mohammed down a few narrow dusty streets, around a few corners, and eventually stopped at a small one-level house with a few chickens, goats and dogs roaming around outside. Mohammed's father was called Mohammed!

Mohammed senior asked many of the questions that Mohammed Junior had asked and Mohammed Junior translated both ways. It wasn't long before more food arrived. Couscous with spicy beans and vegetables, bread, goats cheese and yoghurt, dried figs and this time olives. There was also chicken that Keith tucked into. As much as Keith and Al ate, more arrived. Nobody else was eating.

Eventually both Keith and Al said they could not eat any more.

Then the others at the table started eating most of what was left.

At this, Al said to Mohammed junior “I hope we have not eaten your dinner.”

“No, no,” said Mohammed, “you eat first and we eat after, that is our tradition for guests. What is left is for women.”

That night as the sun set they went to bed. Fine embroidered quilts and cushions were provided.

The toilet was a small shack down near a tiny stream about fifty yards from the house. One had to take a candle and a bottle of water at night. It was a crouch down toilet, a hole in the ground with a run-off to who-knows where and would not cope with toilet paper. The idea was to use one's left hand to wash oneself with water from the bottle, then wash one's hands afterwards, of course. It was a tradition that everyone kept, to wash or do dirty stuff with the left hand but to eat or shake hands with the right hand. To offer the left hand to shake is a powerful insult and to eat with the left hand is considered dirty, almost obscene. That makes having one's right hand cut-off for thieving even worse .. There are probably few with only one hand in Iraq.

In the morning after a breakfast of bread, yoghurt and figs, Mohammed junior led us to the place where we could catch a bus to Baghdad. It was to take almost all day and we passed through the desert. They carried several bottles of drinking water each and some bread, goats cheese, figs and olives for lunch.

“Great people there,” Al said to Keith, “this is the first time I've ever been across a desert.”

“Yes but it's very hot man and not much to see except sand. Fucking hot,” said Keith.

He was right; it was hot, and I spent several hours on Al's lap instead of his head.