Post Partum Blues and The Next Step

So the Rumi festival is over and I'm in that post partum depression, a mixture of sadness that all the new friends are going their separate ways (I'll make it to Iran one day, but don't know when and the situation will be different) and total exhaustion, plus a bit of nervousness about the road ahead. Part of me is sorry not to join the foreign traveling band and head up to Cappadoccia-- that wild volcanic city - and another is trying to get into the right mind frame to catch a plane the day after tomorrow to Kuwait and a flight into Baghdad two days later. And to make matters worse, I can't find a darn hotel for less than $120 in Kuwait!! So it's a mixture, and I'm always grappling with whether travel is really Doing anything or whether it's valuable, apart from my own momentary entertainment. Yes, I want to write but every time I think I have a sense of how to frame it, another angle opens, more depth enters and I feel completely overwhelmed and underprepared.

The day Rumi united with his beloved was a totally emotional day full of prayer and intensity, WAY too much sugar and not enough rest. It’s a very special day to Sufis, especially in Konya, and the museum where his tomb is stored was packed with worshippers weeping, praying and reciting poems. There was a single line of worshippers that ran through the stalled crowd much as a stream works its way through sand. In time I found myself in a small eddy directly in front of the tomb standing quietly. An old woman next to me saw my contemplation and said something sharply to me in Turkish. She could have been admonishing me for not having a headscarf for all I know and I was in no place to fight. But when I looked down at her she gently put her hand on the side of my face. I closed my eyes and out of nowhere began to weep. I took the woman’s hand and held it until I could stop crying. Then I leaned down, kissed her cheek and made my way back into the stream. From there a strange series occurred: A woman from Turkey sought me in the crowd and wanted me to come meet a spiritual teacher from Istanbul. A woman from Iran who was giving out Iranian money and candy to celebrate the wedding took me in her arms and held me as I began to cry some more. One man whose music I had listened to the night before, and who had given me several rings broken from his drum, found me to tell me he had dreamt about me, and that we had been traveling together. Then there was poetry (when it got too passionate the guard came to quiet things down.) then music, food and ceremonial goodbyes.

I’m guessing that it’s the nature of such a festival to have strange, powerful connections that come and go in an instant and that my experiences were a few of hundreds of similar exchanges throughout the week. At least I hope so. The next day my back felt brittle and sore and my brain fried. But what a beautiful festival. I'll certainly be back here and can't wait to reunite with this crazy band of pilgrims, whoever they may be.

My Istanbul transit
Ahh…so this is what everyone was talking about when they waxed on about Istanbul!
The streets are filled with people, the energy is great, and the night skyline is one of the most beautiful I’ve seen anywhere. And this was just night one. My first short tour was given by an Israeli photographer I met in Konya and in whose roommate filled pad I might stay once I return to Turkey. Plus the folks might want to join me for both Turkish and tango classes. Que suerte. Despite transportation difficulties and a pretty high cost of living, I think I could get to like this place quite a bit. I’ll be back here after the holidays sometime and will investigate every crevasse and corner, but right now other adventures are calling.

Christmas in Baghdad
It wasn’t exactly the way I had planned, but somehow I’m spending Christmas in Baghdad. It was the Los Angeles Times article that did it, the one that led with the line, “No one spends Christmas in Istanbul.” It went on to describe a cold, dark city where restaurants closed early and the streets were bare. It was completely wrong I later found – Istanbul is always bustling and though they don’t celebrate Christmas per se, New Years is a huge celebration -- but it was too late. I had already called the New Mexico National Guard and asked if I could embed. They were so enthusiastic I thought they would put me on a plane themselves.
So now I write this from Kuwait, where I’m staying in a high-rise apartment with some contractors I met on the flight from Istanbul. Everyone is Iraq-bound or just emerging and we all share stories of the incredible ineptitude of the reconstruction so far. One thinks the problem is that there’s not enough capitalism, another that there’s too little optimism. We all agree there’s too much bureaucracy for effective people to get anything done.
Dean is a former banker and reservist who was called to action last year and ended up running the finances for most of southern Iraq. After leaving the service he decided to return as a private contractor and is now in his newest incarnation as a hostage negotiator since a colleague “went missing” near Basra. Negotiation may be a bit premature, he admits, as they have yet to hear a word about the Turkish businessman from a Veery wealthy family. Johnny just came in from the southern town of Samawa where he’s building a power plant for a Texas company using Iraqi labor. He’s off to meet his wife in London for the holidays and couldn’t be happier. The apartment they all share—these two and a couple others -- towers over the bay opposite the heart of Kuwait City. It’s beautiful and glitzy, just like the city. That is, at least on the surface, though cost and my own exhaustion is keeping me from exploring a bit more. This country is insanely rich from oil and prices are to match. It’s not exactly the backpackers destination and Dean laughed when he saw me change only $50 for the night. “You haven’t been in these parts for a while have you?” In fact the exchange is about $4 US for one Kuwait Dinar and it flows and flows and flows. The mighty dollar is not very mighty here! Yet here I am hanging out and watching bad movies while overlooking a sparkly bay scene. We - myself and the contractors - all wait for our next moves and compare severity of our pre-flight jitters. Mine are exceptionally strong. When the news announces the explosion near Mosul that seems to have killed 22 people and wounded more than 50 we sit in silence and wait for our program to continue.

The next morning I take a brutal, rollercoaster flight (they called it "avoidance tactics") into Baghdad airport where I’m picked up by two New Mexico National Guardsmen from the 515th Command Supply unit, my military escorts for the next month or so. We arrive at Log Base Camp Seitz, northwest of Baghdad and just below the town of Abu Ghraib. I’m right away ushered into the office of commanding officer Jose Rael, a Santa Fean and one of the more down to earth military personnel I’ve met in Iraq. He briefs me on some ground rules, namely no pictures of wounded, then gives me a brief tour around the base before it gets dark. My favorite stop: the medical emergency center run by a group from Madison, Wisconsin (with a Green Bay Packers flag center wall). The head physician’s assistant is hysterical and invites me to “ladies night” on Christmas Eve. I can already tell this will be a very different experience from last time.

So now I sit on a skinny bed in my own comfortable room near the commander’s headquarters and feel the walls shake as helicopters pass overhead and the skies moan as Bradleys patrol the surrounding area. I’m excited to be back here and eager to work. But I miss the Iraq I was first introduced to and the people I once easily visited. This time around there won’t be any walking in the streets – or even leaving base at all. There will be no Iraqi food or music or culture because this place hardly belongs to Iraqis anymore. It belongs to Americans, so this is the story I’m here to write.