Traffic jams, Iraqi style

November 07, 2004

The road from Camp Taji to Forward Operating Base Gunslinger was packed today, with all four lanes crammed full with traffic and people in a confusing jumble of activity and stagnancy.

A bomb had been discovered on the roadway — a big one.

It was made by hand from a large artillery shell that was carefully wired and placed where U.S. forces were unlikely to see it.

But it was spotted.

And those crazy soldiers in the bomb disposal unit came to the scene. When they saw it, they turned away and decided to put on something they rarely unfold — the puffy bomb suit that makes its wearer resemble the Michelin tire man. The suit weighs more than 85 pounds and offers as much protection as you can find from a bomb.

Anyway, one of the bomb guys placed more explosives on the bomb — I know, it sounds crazy — and ran as fast as he could in his bomb suit.

The improvised explosive device was big and volatile, more so than most seen by the bomb unit.

It made a huge boom when they blew it up.

And while this was going on, traffic was stopped.

We rolled by about an hour after the bomb was blown and traffic still wasn’t moving. Most of that was because of the way Iraqis drive. If the lane they’re in isn’t moving, they shift to oncoming lanes. If they get sick of dodging traffic, they take to the median. And if that doesn’t work, they just go off-road.

Well, after a few hours of that, Highway 1 was little more than a snaggle-tooth of traffic pointing every which way and going absolutely nowhere.

Typically, soldiers can get out and walk through traffic, directing drivers out of the traffic knot they’ve tied themselves into, making a hole for the patrol of humvees to squeeze through. I call it pushing tin.

Not today.

There was nowhere to go.

Truck drivers were actually congregating next to their trucks, taking seats on the median to visit as they casually rubbed strings of worry beads.

One guy was having a picnic lunch on the hood of his car.

Another decided it was the perfect time for a tune-up. He popped the hood of his truck — which was piled high with massive bags of grain — and climbed in to check the oil.

He looked at us, dipstick in hand, as we tried to move around him.

There’s a word Iraqis use in times like these, “Inshallah.”

It means, “God willing.”

They believe that everything, from death to traffic jams, is the will of God. If you ask an Iraqi if a job will be done today, the answer is inshallah. There’s no reason to fight it, it’s God’s will, they figure.

A car wreck? Well, inshallah. God willed it.

Things will get done when they get done.

So the job may or may not get finished. The traffic may or may not clear. Why fight it, they say. Just make the most out of it and have a picnic in the middle of the road or change the oil.

Trucks piled high with freshly harvested onions and garlic, cane and turnips filled the road. People in a beat-up little car visited with the people locked in next to them in a red Mercedes. It appeared neither could get out of their vehicles because they were so close together.

A woman in a full-length black robe that covered her from her head all the way to her toes wandered through the traffic with a monstrous bag of pomegranates balanced on her head.

Surreal.

Finally we went off-road, navigating 5-ton trucks and humvees over a set of railroad tracks and onto a dirt path with the help of some locals who live in mud huts on the other side of the berm.

A boy about the age of 10 stood barefoot in the mud and waved a stick in the air at the humvees to direct them which way to go.

“There’s a future [Iraqi policeman],” laughed Spc. David Gates of Newport.

We hit a crossroad at one point where a huge group of men lingered in the middle. They were talking about traffic, I suppose.

Several soldiers walked up to ask them the best route back to the main road.

Sgts. 1st Class Greg Mayfield and Chris Richey questioned the men with the help of wild hand gestures, pointing in the direction of the clogged, main road.

In response, the group seemed to erupt in discussion with waving hands with pointing fingers.

“Everybody is pointing a different way,” chuckled Capt. Chad Higginbotham of Hamburg, Delta Company commander.

Indeed, they were.

Hands and arms jetted out of the cluster of people in every direction.

And the good sergeants would ask for clarifications with more hand gestures and pointing.

This went on for a while until someone finally waved goodbye and we rolled on, back toward the road just in time to make the exit to Gunslinger.

The typical 20-minute drive took about an hour and a half.

But it was an hour and a half filled with rich colors of red turnips and green cane, purple pomegranates and creamy white onions intermingled with brown dates.

Inshallah.

Posted by Amy at November 7, 2004 09:43 AM