Iraqi Kurdistan

He was just nineteen and newly married when they were forced to flee. I try to picture them: faces furrowed with worry as they melt into the mountains, fugitives in their own land. 

Today, there isn't much to mark the spot: a few tanks – surprisingly small, almost like outsized toys – behind a wire enclosure.

'Here in Kore, there was big –'

'Battle?' I venture, helpfully.

'No –' Sleman hesitates, uncertain of what I mean, before settling on '– big fight.'

I sense a tinge of doomed heroism behind his words.

The Kurdish uprising of 1991 was quickly and brutally quelled but, here at this pass at least, the Kurds had stood up to Saddam's army and had repulsed it, capturing the tanks that still stand like a gesture of defiance to Baghdad. 

  

We continue towards Shaqlawa, but stop in the Safeen mountains for me to visit the cave of Raban Boya. I know very little about the place, other than that there was once a Chaldean Catholic hermitage high in the rocky hillside. The pious still come – pilgrims of various faiths – 'to ask for children', explains Sleman. So I am surprised to encounter an elderly couple toiling their way down as I ascend. We smile at each other shyly as we pass, each guessing what the other's business might be.

The path to the shrine is steep in parts. The shrine itself comes as a disappointment: a small grotto blackened by candle smoke, with multi-coloured mounds of melted wax. 

The Citadel of Erbil (Qelay Hewlêr)

It is the weekend of the Eid holiday, and half the country seems to be in Erbil for the festivities. At the foot of the Citadel, by the side of a road clogged with traffic, is a little carpet shop displaying the most extraordinary selection of rugs: fiercely mustachioed tribesmen in turbans, doe-eyed beauties of various persuasions, galloping horses – all in a dusty palette of red, green, brown and black.

We eventually make it up to the top of the tell to find rows of parked cars gleaming in the sun – an unexpected touch of brash modernity on such an ancient site. But there are no crowds – perhaps everyone is at midday prayers in the old mosque.

The Citadel is one of oldest continuously inhabited settlements in the world, and is one of Iraq's candidates for inclusion in UNESCO's World Heritage list. Under a vast flag of Iraqi Kurdistan, slowly unfurling in the breeze, I unfold a print-out of the description prepared by the High Commission for Erbil Citadel Revitalisation. 'To walk through its meandering pedestrian alleyways,' it reads, 'and experience the exhilarating visual and spatial qualities of its traditional architecture, the Citadel is truly a remarkable human achievement.' Unfortunately you can't, as most of the Citadel is off-limits to the public for restoration. 

Still, I manage to wander down a narrow side street and stray into a small dusty courtyard. And there, amidst the dying weeds I stand in a moment of silent contemplation, surrounded by the stillness of the early afternoon.

IDF

'So, what's it like to get rocketed?' I ask JB on the way back to our accommodation.
'Sorry I can't organise an attack just for you to experience it,' she retorts wryly.

We've been through this before. Unsurprisingly, the COB comes under rocket fire every now and again: the work of Al Qaeda, or the Iranians, or a bunch of bored and disgruntled youths, depending on who you talk to. Earlier in the day, I'd been shown where a rocket had previously landed. It left a messy hole in the the corrugated iron roofing of the car park behind the office: not hard to imagine what that might do to soft flesh.

Alone in my room, I fish out the instruction leaflet that the Skylink management have left by my bedside:

"Actions to be taken in the event of indirect fire (IDF):

Immediate action:
If you hear a blast followed by an audible warning siren 'Incoming, incoming, incoming,' fall to the ground immediately and minimise profile, cover your face with hands and lay still. DO NOT move across open ground or stand near windows or glass doors.

Post-attack drills:
After the attack siren has ceased, and you deem it safe to do so, make your way to the nearest designated hard cover – concrete shelter surrounded by sandbags. Ensure if possible you collect your helmet and body armour. Once at hard cover, make yourself known to a member of SKA or your allotted security team.

Follow-up process:
There are procedures of accountability and further reporting that need to be carried out by SKA security staff. This will take some time and in addition the base US military will conduct a clearance exercise of the entire location. When the all clear has been given, only then will personnel be allowed to return to their rooms and soft cover."

I wondered what the IDF alarm sounded like. If we were attacked in the middle of the night, would I sleep through it? In the end, I suppose it was a quick (if messy) way to go...

When does anyone start getting used to this stuff?

COB Basra

Arrived in Amman a short while ago on the Royal Jordanian flight from Heathrow. It is now sometime in the wee hours of the morning, and they have put me up with a few of the other transit passengers at the Golden Tulip hotel near the airport. I wish they hadn't. The bathroom leaks, the door to the room doesn't lock, and the whole place reeks of decrepitude. On the whole, I think I would have been happier roughing it out in the terminal building.

I can't sleep.

In a little under three hours, I will be bussed back to the airport for my connecting flight to Basra in southern Iraq. What did the FCO travel advisory say about flying into Basra? Were commercial flights still subject to small arms and missile fire? I can't remember – don't want to remember.

I could still bail out. Ring up and cancel. Spend the rest of the weekend lazing by the Dead Sea... but, of course, I don't.

* * *

Good start - I seem to have made it in one piece!

Somewhat inexplicably, the destination at our departure gate in Amman had read 'Aqaba', so I was still half hoping I'd tumble out of the Embraer into a Red Sea resort. But no – we're definitely in Basra.

There's plenty of time for me to observe my fellow passengers at immigration – and what a rum lot they are. Most appear to be ex-military types, interspersed with a few shady-looking 'businessmen' in shiny suits. I wonder what they must make of me, with my linen jacket and FT. There were also two women on the flight. Definitely not Iraqi - what were they doing here?

It takes several hours for my visa to be processed, but I was forewarned and have come prepared with a chunky novel. When I emerge into the arrivals hall, it turns out to be larger and, well, less dingy than I'd expected: light, airy – and with a rather intriguing mural of a fallen bird-man. Best of all, there are no obvious bullet-holes in the masonry...

I will be staying on the Skylink compound on COB Basra over the next few days. As its name suggests, the COB (contingency operating base) is still an American military facility, surrounded by grey concrete blast walls and heavily-guarded checkpoints. On the plus side, I have a superb view of the control tower of Basra airport.