Rocket Man

December 13, 2008

Going to town in Iraq is something I didn’t think I’d ever be doing when I came here. In Baghdad, leaving the FOB was always something of a grand production. I’d have liked to visit the city and walked the streets there, but for our safety it was never allowed. I’m OK with that. But if you think about a year spent living on the FOB and only getting outside the walls of my little world there a few times it makes sense that getting out here, in Sulaymaniyah, like something akin to a rocket trip to Mars. So here I am a rocket man, and the local Kurds are Martians. I’m OK with that too.

We try to get to town weekly to do some shopping and get a decent meal. By shopping, I mean going to the Haji-Mart, (They even have a door greeter!), and getting some supplies for basic living like TP and soap, etc. But mostly we get food because the chow on the camp blows. But we also hit the downtown Sulaymaniyah street market area that makes Pike’s Place Market in Seattle look like a five cent swap meet. Thousands upon thousands of people walk the streets perusing the small shops and vender stands buying anything that the imagination can dream of. There are cell phones, underwear, fruit, chickens, phone cards, gold, drugs, (the pharmacy type), tools, blankets, shoes, cameras, and guns, to name just a few. (Yes, we even came across a little shop that had guns for sale…and a few shady guys squatting in a back street selling armaments not meant for the average Joe.) Basically, if you need it, it is there somewhere for sale. And the prices range from ridiculously cheap to incredibly overpriced. There doesn’t seem to be any kind of price standard among the shops. I look for gold every time we go and find the price per gram to be hugely varied from one shop to another. But, one economic standard does seem to be in effect…and it is that the further you get off the beaten path, or the deeper into the bowels of the market you go, it becomes easier to negotiate prices. Like a casino draws gamblers off the street by putting the noisiest, most flashy slot machines near the front door, the shops that are on the main drag display their wares in a way that beckons the passer-by to stop and look…but most certainly they will never hit that elusive jackpot. Capitalism at its finest is alive and well in Kurdistan.

So here we are, our small team of Americans wading through an ocean of Kurds, (remember not to call them Iraqi’s, even though technically they are.) Some of us wear our side arms hidden comfortably under a shirt or jacket and some of us choose to leave them behind locked in the Suburban. But none of us lets our guard down by forgetting where we are. I love this town and the vibrant pulse of the huge crowd gives me a feeling of being truly alive…but my pistol is always on my hip, just in case. On the off chance the war finds us I don’t want to be caught with my pants down. I’ve been in big crowds before but never under these strange circumstances. At Disneyland or Vegas, the thought of Mickey Mouse or the average gambler blowing themselves up really isn’t viable. So here I feel like an ounce of precaution is worth the piece of mind. I haven’t gotten the feel from the locals that I am an unwanted yet unavoidable result of the war. I would say though that just about everyone I’ve encountered is friendly and accepting of my presence. In Baghdad, death stares and the feeling of needing to keep my hands near my throat to avoid it being cut open were common…but not here. I have been elbow deep in the crowd here and never felt threatened. I think that says a lot about the Martians and their willingness to make this rocket man feel right at home.

-Jim Franks