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BAGHDAD, IRAQ -
The Iraqi Airways flight north to Sulaimaniyah
(Kurdistan) 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 Erbil,
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 Erbil flight. Confusion
reigns and the Iraqi Airways agent promises to call
the station manager.
About 20 minutes later, the manager says there will
be a flight to Sulaimaniyah after all. Maybe at 6
p.m.
Sulaimaniyah, like Erbil, 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," the initials standing for
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 take off in a
steep corkscrew maneuver at the risk of colliding
with U.S. aircraft.
Still, I decide to wait for the promised
6 p.m. flight. I head to the departure lounge, which
is spruced up with new potted plants and green
carpet.
At 6 p.m., flights to Erbil and Dubai are ready to
leave.
And our 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, 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."
So we wait.
At a little after 9 p.m. a Global Security official
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.
A little while later, the flight from Istanbul
lands. We wait to board. And wait, and wait.
We start boarding at 9:45, the repeat security
checks having been waived.
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.
There is no safety demonstration.
Just before takeoff, all lights are doused.
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.
At 10:20 the lights come on and the mood relaxes.
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 to
Erbil.
The passengers mockingly applaud.
After a bumpy landing on the wet runway, we file
into Erbil's new terminal. It is about midnight,
some 11 hours after I got to Baghdad airport.
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. "Even
if we have to stay at the airport for three days, we
can take it."
AP
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