.Traveling by Air an Adventure in Iraq
BAGHDAD, Iraq Mar 9, 2006 (AP)— The Iraqi Airways flight north to Sulaimaniyah is scheduled to depart at 4 p.m., and in line with the airline's instructions, I'm at Baghdad International Airport three hours early for the security drill. So far so good.
Except that instead of a security check, I and my fellow passengers are made to hang around the terminal for more than two hours, only to be informed that our flight has been canceled. Instead, we are told, there will be a 4 p.m. flight to Irbil, two hours' drive from Sulaimaniyah.
We decide to go for it. Our bags pass through an X-ray machine, we go through a metal detector and are then informed that passengers booked for Sulaimaniyah can't take the Irbil flight. Confusion reigns and the Iraqi Airways agent promises to call the station manager.
About 20 minutes later the manager appears. He tells us that there will be a flight to Sulaimaniyah after all. When? He's unsure. Maybe at 6 p.m.
Take the chance, or argue my way onto the Irbil flight? It's hard to make choices in Iraq these days.
Sulaimaniyah, like Irbil, is in the Kurdistan part of Iraq. I could drive it in five hours, but bombers, kidnappers and highway robbers lurk along the road, and I've already had a white-knuckle ride to the airport along six miles of highway that U.S. soldiers call "RPG Alley," RPG meaning rocket-propelled grenade.
The airport complex is so well defended that Saddam Hussein and his top lieutenants are imprisoned there. But getting airborne is a different matter. To avoid missiles, pilots have to execute a steep corkscrew takeoff maneuver at the risk of colliding with U.S. helicopters, fighter jets or pilotless spy planes.
Still, having opted for the skies, I decide to wait for the promised 6 p.m. flight.
The Iraqi Airways agent hands me my boarding card. It's blank no flight, seat numbers nor destination.
How do I know the flight is going to Sulaimaniyah? "You can tell from the color," the agent explains.
But all the airline's boarding cards are green.
Annoyed, the agent scribbles "Sulaimaniyah" in Arabic and the city's airport code, SHL, on the ticket. Seat number? There are no assigned seats, he snaps.
I pay the airport tax of 1,000 dinars (about 70 U.S. cents) and head to the departure lounge, which is spruced up with new potted plants and green carpet. Under its French-designed arched ceilings there's a duty free shop and a cafeteria.
Scores of tired-looking passengers lounge on soft gray sofas.
Two Iraqi women have been waiting since 7 a.m. for their 10 a.m. flight to Dubai in the United Arab Emirates. It's now about 4:15 p.m., night is approaching, and if the Dubai flight is canceled, the women will have to overnight in the terminal. It would be too dangerous to drive back to Baghdad.
The mood in the departure lounge is one of resignation.
At 6 p.m., the flights to Irbil and Dubai are ready to leave. The two women jump to their feet and rush to their gate. The planes depart.
And our 6 p.m. flight to Sulaimaniyah? No airline or airport official is anywhere to be seen. Uniformed men from Global Securities, a private company in charge of airport security, roam around with walkie-talkies but have no answers. All they know is that no flights operate after 6 p.m., and we may have to stay the night in the lounge.
At 7 p.m., an Iraqi Airways official emerges. Passengers swarm around him.
A plane is on its way from Istanbul, he says. It will land at 8:30.
We are skeptical. What time did the plane leave Istanbul? "We don't know."
How long is the flight from Istanbul? "I don't know."
Is there any way he can find out? "We don't have a way to ask."
That's because after 6 p.m., Iraqi civilian controllers hand over the airport to the American military and are cut out of the loop.
So we wait.
At a little after 9 p.m. a Global Security official, a Briton, sheds some light; Iraqi Airways is determined to fly, but the Americans insist the passengers be searched.
But we have already been searched.
No matter, we're told; maybe one of us bought a sharp object like a pair of scissors in an airport shop. And besides, there are no female staff on hand to search me and the other women passengers.
A little while later, the flight from Istanbul lands. We wait to board. And wait, and wait.
"The plane has no fuel and the fuel truck is nowhere to be found," a security guard explains.
The truck driver, an American with Skylink, the firm that manages Baghdad airport, has gone to bed. He is woken up, fuel is delivered, and we start boarding at 9:45, the repeat security checks having been waived after the captain takes full responsibility for the safety of the plane and passengers.
We taxi on a runway lit by blue lights. A female voice over the loudspeaker welcomes us aboard the Iraqi Airways Boeing 737 under the command of Captain Adel Hassan en route to Sulaimaniyah. Flight time is 50 minutes and we will be flying at an altitude of 17,000 feet.
There is no safety demonstration.
Just before takeoff, all lights are doused and even though it's a nonsmoking flight, a cabin attendant tells us not to light so much as a cigarette lighter.
It's pitch black and totally silent.
The plane ascends in a spiral, circling four times. After the fourth circle, we head north into thick clouds.
Underneath, the runway lights fade away. A sigh of relief. We are safe.
At 10:20 the lights come on and the mood relaxes. Two female flight attendants pass around cookies in a basket and serve soft drinks. We're mainly relieved just to be airborne, but there's also a sense of leaving Baghdad's troubles behind, heading into autonomous Kurdistan, where business and reconstruction are surging ahead.
Most of the 40 or so passengers are Iraqi Arabs headed there on business. An Oil Ministry official is going to help the Kurds build an oil depot. Four Chinese businessmen are working with Kurds on their telecommunications network.
After 40 minutes the seatbelt sign comes on and we begin our descent to Sulaimaniyah. Then more bad news. Because of bad weather we are diverting eastward to Irbil.
The passengers break into mocking applause.
After a bumpy landing on the wet runway, we file into Irbil's new terminal. It is about midnight, some 11 hours after I got to Baghdad airport. The staff have gone home and only security men are present.
There's no telephone link between Irbil and Sulaimaniyah, which are in separate provinces of Kurdistan, so passengers can't call families and friends to tell them the flight has been diverted.
A sleepy Iraqi Airways station manager arrives. Rather than find hotels for the passengers, he tries to persuade Hassan, the captain, to fly us to Sulaimaniyah. Hassan says he's too tired; he has been flying since 8 a.m. from Sulaimaniyah to Baghdad to Istanbul to Baghdad to Irbil. Besides, he says, Sulaimaniyah lies between two mountains and it's hard to land there in poor visibility.
The Iraqi Airways man asks passengers wishing to fly on to Sulaimaniyah to identify themselves; perhaps a show of hands will persuade the pilot. A few hands go up but to no avail, so the official gives in, but only partially. He'll provide a bus to the hotels of the passengers' choosing, but the airline won't pay for the rooms.
By now I'm resigned to staying in Irbil. Anyway I have work to do there as well as in Sulaimaniyah.
Jamila Mohammed, an Iraqi Airways ticket saleswoman, is not surprised at our adventure. "This sort of thing happens every day," she says.
Iraqi Airways planes are chronically overbooked, she says, and once a Baghdad-Amman flight took off with nine seatless passengers standing in the aisle.
"Iraqis are used to all this," Mohammed says. "We got used to suffering. Even if we have to stay at the airport for three days, we can take it."
Hassan joined Iraqi Airways in 1976 but lost his pilot's job following the 1990 Gulf War and the international air embargo imposed on Saddam's Iraq.
He's back in the air these days with Teebah Airlines, an Iraqi-owned carrier that leases its planes and crews to Iraqi Airways.
Flying to and from Baghdad is stressful, he says.
"It's very scary, because normally when you approach an airport you make a gradual descent, but here all aircraft come to the same point before descending. At times you see five planes on top of each other, leaving and landing, all at the same point," he says.
"Last night, I came to Baghdad and was approaching the runway. Three hundred feet before landing, all the runway lights were shut," he says, laughing. "They said it was power failure. I had to overshoot and go to another runway.
"When I get on the ground I laugh, but when airborne I feel tension. It's very dangerous."
I tell Hassan it's the last time I'll fly Iraqi Airways. He laughs and says: "Good decision."
ABC
Except that instead of a security check, I and my fellow passengers are made to hang around the terminal for more than two hours, only to be informed that our flight has been canceled. Instead, we are told, there will be a 4 p.m. flight to Irbil, two hours' drive from Sulaimaniyah.
We decide to go for it. Our bags pass through an X-ray machine, we go through a metal detector and are then informed that passengers booked for Sulaimaniyah can't take the Irbil flight. Confusion reigns and the Iraqi Airways agent promises to call the station manager.
About 20 minutes later the manager appears. He tells us that there will be a flight to Sulaimaniyah after all. When? He's unsure. Maybe at 6 p.m.
Take the chance, or argue my way onto the Irbil flight? It's hard to make choices in Iraq these days.
Sulaimaniyah, like Irbil, is in the Kurdistan part of Iraq. I could drive it in five hours, but bombers, kidnappers and highway robbers lurk along the road, and I've already had a white-knuckle ride to the airport along six miles of highway that U.S. soldiers call "RPG Alley," RPG meaning rocket-propelled grenade.
The airport complex is so well defended that Saddam Hussein and his top lieutenants are imprisoned there. But getting airborne is a different matter. To avoid missiles, pilots have to execute a steep corkscrew takeoff maneuver at the risk of colliding with U.S. helicopters, fighter jets or pilotless spy planes.
Still, having opted for the skies, I decide to wait for the promised 6 p.m. flight.
The Iraqi Airways agent hands me my boarding card. It's blank no flight, seat numbers nor destination.
How do I know the flight is going to Sulaimaniyah? "You can tell from the color," the agent explains.
But all the airline's boarding cards are green.
Annoyed, the agent scribbles "Sulaimaniyah" in Arabic and the city's airport code, SHL, on the ticket. Seat number? There are no assigned seats, he snaps.
I pay the airport tax of 1,000 dinars (about 70 U.S. cents) and head to the departure lounge, which is spruced up with new potted plants and green carpet. Under its French-designed arched ceilings there's a duty free shop and a cafeteria.
Scores of tired-looking passengers lounge on soft gray sofas.
Two Iraqi women have been waiting since 7 a.m. for their 10 a.m. flight to Dubai in the United Arab Emirates. It's now about 4:15 p.m., night is approaching, and if the Dubai flight is canceled, the women will have to overnight in the terminal. It would be too dangerous to drive back to Baghdad.
The mood in the departure lounge is one of resignation.
At 6 p.m., the flights to Irbil and Dubai are ready to leave. The two women jump to their feet and rush to their gate. The planes depart.
And our 6 p.m. flight to Sulaimaniyah? No airline or airport official is anywhere to be seen. Uniformed men from Global Securities, a private company in charge of airport security, roam around with walkie-talkies but have no answers. All they know is that no flights operate after 6 p.m., and we may have to stay the night in the lounge.
At 7 p.m., an Iraqi Airways official emerges. Passengers swarm around him.
A plane is on its way from Istanbul, he says. It will land at 8:30.
We are skeptical. What time did the plane leave Istanbul? "We don't know."
How long is the flight from Istanbul? "I don't know."
Is there any way he can find out? "We don't have a way to ask."
That's because after 6 p.m., Iraqi civilian controllers hand over the airport to the American military and are cut out of the loop.
So we wait.
At a little after 9 p.m. a Global Security official, a Briton, sheds some light; Iraqi Airways is determined to fly, but the Americans insist the passengers be searched.
But we have already been searched.
No matter, we're told; maybe one of us bought a sharp object like a pair of scissors in an airport shop. And besides, there are no female staff on hand to search me and the other women passengers.
A little while later, the flight from Istanbul lands. We wait to board. And wait, and wait.
"The plane has no fuel and the fuel truck is nowhere to be found," a security guard explains.
The truck driver, an American with Skylink, the firm that manages Baghdad airport, has gone to bed. He is woken up, fuel is delivered, and we start boarding at 9:45, the repeat security checks having been waived after the captain takes full responsibility for the safety of the plane and passengers.
We taxi on a runway lit by blue lights. A female voice over the loudspeaker welcomes us aboard the Iraqi Airways Boeing 737 under the command of Captain Adel Hassan en route to Sulaimaniyah. Flight time is 50 minutes and we will be flying at an altitude of 17,000 feet.
There is no safety demonstration.
Just before takeoff, all lights are doused and even though it's a nonsmoking flight, a cabin attendant tells us not to light so much as a cigarette lighter.
It's pitch black and totally silent.
The plane ascends in a spiral, circling four times. After the fourth circle, we head north into thick clouds.
Underneath, the runway lights fade away. A sigh of relief. We are safe.
At 10:20 the lights come on and the mood relaxes. Two female flight attendants pass around cookies in a basket and serve soft drinks. We're mainly relieved just to be airborne, but there's also a sense of leaving Baghdad's troubles behind, heading into autonomous Kurdistan, where business and reconstruction are surging ahead.
Most of the 40 or so passengers are Iraqi Arabs headed there on business. An Oil Ministry official is going to help the Kurds build an oil depot. Four Chinese businessmen are working with Kurds on their telecommunications network.
After 40 minutes the seatbelt sign comes on and we begin our descent to Sulaimaniyah. Then more bad news. Because of bad weather we are diverting eastward to Irbil.
The passengers break into mocking applause.
After a bumpy landing on the wet runway, we file into Irbil's new terminal. It is about midnight, some 11 hours after I got to Baghdad airport. The staff have gone home and only security men are present.
There's no telephone link between Irbil and Sulaimaniyah, which are in separate provinces of Kurdistan, so passengers can't call families and friends to tell them the flight has been diverted.
A sleepy Iraqi Airways station manager arrives. Rather than find hotels for the passengers, he tries to persuade Hassan, the captain, to fly us to Sulaimaniyah. Hassan says he's too tired; he has been flying since 8 a.m. from Sulaimaniyah to Baghdad to Istanbul to Baghdad to Irbil. Besides, he says, Sulaimaniyah lies between two mountains and it's hard to land there in poor visibility.
The Iraqi Airways man asks passengers wishing to fly on to Sulaimaniyah to identify themselves; perhaps a show of hands will persuade the pilot. A few hands go up but to no avail, so the official gives in, but only partially. He'll provide a bus to the hotels of the passengers' choosing, but the airline won't pay for the rooms.
By now I'm resigned to staying in Irbil. Anyway I have work to do there as well as in Sulaimaniyah.
Jamila Mohammed, an Iraqi Airways ticket saleswoman, is not surprised at our adventure. "This sort of thing happens every day," she says.
Iraqi Airways planes are chronically overbooked, she says, and once a Baghdad-Amman flight took off with nine seatless passengers standing in the aisle.
"Iraqis are used to all this," Mohammed says. "We got used to suffering. Even if we have to stay at the airport for three days, we can take it."
Hassan joined Iraqi Airways in 1976 but lost his pilot's job following the 1990 Gulf War and the international air embargo imposed on Saddam's Iraq.
He's back in the air these days with Teebah Airlines, an Iraqi-owned carrier that leases its planes and crews to Iraqi Airways.
Flying to and from Baghdad is stressful, he says.
"It's very scary, because normally when you approach an airport you make a gradual descent, but here all aircraft come to the same point before descending. At times you see five planes on top of each other, leaving and landing, all at the same point," he says.
"Last night, I came to Baghdad and was approaching the runway. Three hundred feet before landing, all the runway lights were shut," he says, laughing. "They said it was power failure. I had to overshoot and go to another runway.
"When I get on the ground I laugh, but when airborne I feel tension. It's very dangerous."
I tell Hassan it's the last time I'll fly Iraqi Airways. He laughs and says: "Good decision."
ABC
posted by madtom at 2:52 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home