The Road Less Travelled

Thursday, April 13, 2006

This is my Stop

This is my stop
An uncomfortable bus journey in Baghdad.
Settling on a seat just next to the slide door of the Kia minibus at the Nahdha bus garage in Baghdad, I lit a cigarette and started fiddling with the cell phone to bide time until the bus filled up with passengers.
My healthcare clinic is located in a suburb of Baghdad. I take the less conspicuous bus instead of my own car because if feels safer (though that can be argued), and because Kia drivers know plenty of tricks to circumvent roadblocks and other unpleasant surprises on the road. They are very alert and always on the lookout. They do, however, have a reputation for being reckless drivers. Other motorists try hard to avoid them on the streets as much as possible.
The 11-passenger Kia minibus itself is featured in the international coverage of Iraq almost daily. Somehow, I doubt that this South Korean-made vehicle operates anywhere else in the world but Iraq. They must have set up a separate assembly line just for us.
Twenty minutes and two cigarettes later, and with just five passengers arriving, I dropped the phone. Something else had really piqued my interest. A few metres away, a bus driver and his assistant (or sikin, distorted from the English "second hand") were frisking passengers before they boarded the Chuwadir line bus. Ladies had to open their purses for inspection, and shopping bags were gone into. Women in long black abayas, however, seemed to be exempt from this treatment.
In Baghdad, you don't have a sign on the bus marking its destination or stop. Instead, the driver yells, "Chuwadir, Chuwadir," (for instance) at the top of his voice, very much like a street vendor would to call attention to his goods, until the bus is full.
Of course, Chuwadir is a district on the eastern edge of Sadr City and, given the recent string of bombings at markets and crowded places over there, this frisking was just one of many measures that Iraqis have taken into their own hands to ensure the security of their neighbourhoods.
The two men doing the searching were dead serious about it, despite smiles and jeers from other people in the garage. They also curiously looked like off-duty Mahdi militiamen with their black shirts.
Our restless driver, still yelling his destination outside, didn't bother to search any of us, and it looked like we were going to move at last. It's unsettling to stay in a crowded bus garage for long. It's always a potential target. Now, it was just one more passenger to go.
Then he boarded.
He was hauling an enormous sack full of something on his back. It looked like one of those hanging punching bags that boxers use for practice. He tried to push it behind the only empty seat, which happened to be right across me. It didn't fit so he stuck it between my legs and got seated. That was when I went: "Uh oh."
I sat frozen and stared at the sack for about a minute. The bus had already started moving by now. Then I looked up at his face, searching for, I don't know, signs and gestures, anything that would reassure me that he was not what I thought he was.
He looked about 20, dressed in a fading striped shirt and plain, almost ragged trousers, puffing smoke from beneath a thick black moustache. I couldn't help but gaze into his shifty, pale brown eyes that seemed to quickly scan everything, but not settle anywhere. He didn't even return my interest, which I took as a deeply troubling sign. Every few seconds, he would glance at the sack a bit surreptitiously and away again. It was still firmly planted between my legs.
I continued to fix my stare at him while my hands, which were on my lap and concealed behind the sack, automatically started feeling up the sack. It felt solid, accentuating my fears even more.
His hands were hidden and it was bothering me. Taking a casual look around, I noticed that a couple of passengers were also fixated on the sack. An old man next to me was furtively watching my reactions and he kind of gave me a knowing look. They were probably thinking the same, I thought. But no one dared to say a word. What was worse is that he was pretending not to notice the investigative looks from everyone.
Thoughts raced in my head. What should I do? If anyone made a threatening move he would most likely just detonate. Should I shout to the driver that this is my stop? Should I slide the door open and jump. Maybe I should try to engage him in conversation? I needed to hear his accent, to determine whether he was Iraqi or Arab. His eyes kept shifting to the street and back.
I realised that my body was trembling. I was frozen and my legs felt numb. The only thoughts in my head were what it would feel like to be blown to smithereens. I had absolutely no doubt that I would die instantly, with the cursed sack being so intimately close to me. Then I started lamenting the fact that I didn't make it for the previous bus, or that I didn't sit in the back instead of choosing this particular seat. I suddenly worried about my family. How will they ever know what happened to me? There will be nothing left of me for them to recognise. I swear, I spent so much thinking about it that I forgot about everything else.
We reached the first checkpoint on the highway, manned by Iraqi interior ministry commandos. Dozens of vehicles were squeezing through the bottlenecked street. This is his target, I told myself. I saw that his eyes were faster now. There was a noticeable change in his demeanour, and to me that was all the proof that was needed. Still I did nothing. When we slowly approached the group of soldiers that were waving traffic through, I thought this is it. I just closed my eyes hard.
Nothing happened. I opened my eyes and almost jumped up in relief. Was I wrong about him? Or could it be that he had another target? Now that I had some blood flowing again to my face I thought it would be a good idea to get off and somehow notify the checkpoint about the suspect.
"What have you got in there?"
It was the old man motioning to the sack.
"Ah. Nothing. Just some used clothes for sale," the man responded with a smile. Everyone else jumped to attention.
He untied the strings, took out a couple of T-shirts and displayed them.
I found myself unconsciously digging through the sack to see if there was anything under the clothes.
Nothing but damn T-shirts.

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