Championship Basketball

            Yesterday I attended the national championship of the Iraqi basketball league.  I have no idea what the name of the league is or anything like that, but I think they play in the West Asian Basketball Association (WABA.)  I went to one of the Duhok team’s games before as they scrimmaged a Kurdish team from Erbil.  Fans were sparse and it wasn’t even a close game as the Kurdish team got absolutely thrashed.  Granted, it was a warm-up game for the Duhok team and everyone knew the outcome before the game began. 

            The opponent for yesterday’s game was a team from Baghdad, supposedly one of the best in the league.  Both teams are composed of primarily Arabs from different areas.  The Duhok team has an Arab-American who hails from Detroit named Jenero; he also lives in Zeri Land and I have spoken with him a few times now.  There are some large individuals on the teams, compared to “regular” sized people, but nobody who you would mistake for Shaquille O’Neal.  The players are clearly talented and physically gifted, but to be honest, I think the top American high school teams may be able to beat them.  The level of competition is just not what you see back home in a country where so many people play. 

            Right from the outset it was evident that the crowd was going to be amped for this game.  Although capacity is only around 1,000-2,000, they were LOUD.  A lot of people were yelling, chanting, and banging drums.  They were into it.  The fans would have been the best part of the game had they not ruined it by polluting the air with their incessant chain smoking.  Add that to everyone rudely walking on other people’s seats to get by, staining them with their muddy sandal prints and forcing you to sit on the back of the seat, and I was slightly frustrated.  However, the way the game turned out left no room for anything but pure bewilderment at what was taking place. 

            I don’t know the history between these two teams, but it is clear that there is one and it is quite acrimonious.  The team from Baghdad was quite chippy and despite a discrepancy in fouls called in their favor, they seemed to take offense at every call that went against them.  Their whining and exhortations to the referees, even grabbing them to try and plead their case, eventually earned them some well deserved technical fouls.  This team exhibited zero sense of discipline whatsoever, and even the couch seemed to be a hot-head who probably cost his team the game.  Numerous temper tantrums got the coach tossed from the game along with a few other players.

            To make matters worse, the crowd was feeding off this negative energy.  They were indefinitely exacerbating the entire scene, especially as they were throwing trash at the opposing team’s bench.  At one point I thought there would be a fight between players and fans!  It was really like watching a basketball game mixed with an old Clint Eastwood western: chaos and lawlessness.  Despite numerous security guards menacingly dressed in military uniforms, but clearly not masking their ineffectiveness, the rowdy crowd continued to throw stuff at the other bench.  Shocked at this whole debacle, I then witnessed the other team simply storm off the court! 

            A coach who looked like an Arabic version of the Pringles man was livid.  It looked like he wanted to kill somebody, and he too almost got into it with a fan.  The entire team just left, went straight to the locker room.  I stood there not knowing if they forfeited the game or what happened.  There was still 3 minutes left in regulation and it was only a one point game; it was far from over.  Granted, there were just 4 technical fouls called, but to concede defeat like that was mind boggling.  The only thing was, 15 minutes later the team came back! 

            After the previous scene began to repeat itself (angry teammates, a disobedient crowd, and fuming coaches) security finally began to allay the concerns that they were completely inept.  They organized themselves and clear the entire section behind the Baghdad team’s bench.  After another 10 minutes or so of sitting in a smoky arena, play was finally resumed.  Evidently, these two teams always get into it and, surprise, surprise, the team from Baghdad always storms off the court only to return later to a mixture of mocking cheers and boos. 

            Duhok started with 8 free throws and possession of the ball so the team from Baghdad effectively shot themselves in the foot and killed any chances they had of coming back.  The game was over, Duhok became champions and the crowd loved it.  Large trophies were handed out, the team celebrated and the crowd was overjoyed.  I, still unable to grasp what had just transpired, stood there wondering…what the fuck just happened?  

3-Month Mark

            Once you have spent enough time away from home reflecting on the various nuances of life abroad you come to accept certain things.  Nothing will be exactly the same as it is back home, so there is no point wasting your time attempting to wish it to be so.  Initial culture shock runs out, you accept the differences and for the most part move on.   However, everyone has a limit on how much patience they can exhibit before frustration takes over.  For me, this happens around the 3-month mark. 

            It is becoming increasingly clear that after 3 months I get fairly pissed off with the whole ordeal and want to throw my hands up in the air and walk away.  For the first month or so after my arrival, or after a vacation, things generally go really well.  It isn’t “new” again, but I am well refreshed after seeing the world outside of Duhok, Iraq.  I can easily accept things as they are here because I have just seen what things can be.  I have loads of patience, settle back into my routine, and for the most part enjoy the little niche I have carved out for myself.

            Then, at about the 2-2.5 month mark, I start to break.  I look around and instead of pulling the positives out of this experience I start to condemn this place for what it is not.  No financial system to deposit money, no variety in food, can’t speak to anybody, workforce is untrained and lazy, students are unmotivated, no night life, only one close friend here, girlfriend isn’t here…the list goes on.  Each day presents a new reason why the country sucks and is at least 50 years behind America. 

            Clearly, this is a terrible attitude to take and is only manifesting itself as a result of the continued frustrations of having to face these challenges with little to no reprieve.  The only solution: another vacation.  I need to get out of the country every 3 months.  It is a must.  If I don’t, my level of disdain will just continue to fester and I won’t enjoy myself.  I am not complaining that this is an overly difficult experience, it certainly is not, but as anyone who has lived in the Middle East can tell you….it ain’t nothing like home. 

Lunch with the Governor….he had a great house, most likely funded with “wasta” money, aka corruption.  It was an enjoyable experience, but I am not a fan of pomp and spectacles, and I am certainly not a high class individual who will kiss someone’s ass because of their position.  When all the “grown ups” were in a room talking, in Kurdish, about local issues I just left to hang out with the students.  It was much more fun.  He seemed like a decent guy though, and I hope he invites me back for a summer pool party....lol.

Dr. Strangelove

             Once you stay in a place long enough, what outsiders see as unusual, risky, or odd you chalk up as part of the daily routine.  I was not surprised when the health department closed down the cafeteria that I ate at every day, and they probably should have done it sooner, but I ate there anyways.  When I asked my friend, Warvin, about a place to get some moles on my neck removed I was not surprised when she said, “Don’t be scared if he doesn’t look like a doctor…”  By this point I know what she means.  I have seen patients smoking cigarettes in doctor’s waiting rooms, heard doctors telling me that how much sugar and salt you eat really doesn’t matter, etc. etc.  Despite being a little skittish, I wanted the moles removed at the lowest price possible.  They weren’t a major nuisance, nor were the reasons cosmetic, but they were large enough to warrant a removal to be on the safe side.  And so the journey began.

            Warvin and I met up in the bazaar to go to this “famed mole removal guy.”  Evidently he has made quite a name for himself in the community as someone who does a good job for a low price.  It sounded promising, but I was definitely unsure of why were heading into the bazaar.  I thought he may just have an office in there or something, but nope.  After winding through the bazaar’s many small roads, passing the shoe section, vegetables, and gold, we come to a tiny room that can’t be more than 6x6.  There is no door, only a red curtain.  Inside there are two men wearing sandals, both around 60, and one of them is sleeping.  Welcome to the doctor’s office. 

            I had absolutely no idea that this would be the place I was going to, but here I was.  If I had seen it in advance I may or may not have come, but here I was so there was no turning back.  Once the second guy is woken up from his midday slumber he inspects the back of my neck and tells Warvin, in Kurdish of course, that it isn’t a problem and he can remove it.  I sit down and he injects the area of the first mole with an anesthetic.  He then revs up this machine that sounds like a saw and goes to work.  I feel a burning sensation that is dull and bearable, but then at one point it hurt.  Warvin said he burned my neck, but the mole was gone.  She is talking to him in Kurdish as I am helplessly sitting there.  She tells him only to remove one, but he insists and does the second anyways.  Except this time he doesn’t use any anesthetic or the burning machine.  He simply grabbed a knife and lopped it off. 

            I had intentions of possibly removing an additional two moles, but this was enough for one day.  I had no idea how these two would turn out, and it is still difficult to tell as my neck is still burned and caked with dry blood and scabs.  To top off the experience, he hands me a tube and tells me to apply it to my neck.  After looking at the medicine he gives me, it clearly states on the box: Eye Ointment.  He dismisses my gestures towards my eyes and reiterates to put it on my neck.  Fine.  I ask how much this whole ordeal costs.  He tells me it is free because I am American.  Just another day in Kurdistan.  

Part II: Commence

           This past Wednesday marked the end of one chapter in Kurdistan and the beginning of another.  My roommate, co-worker, and friend, Paige, recently departed Kurdistan to head back to America.  For the past 8 months we have been living together and essentially sharing this entire experience.  There isn’t a large expatriate community here, so for a bulk of the time it was very much Paige and I.  Naturally, we both had our Kurdish friends, but there is no replacing the connection you have with someone of the same cultural background.  It is very different. 

            With anyone you live, work, and spend a majority of your time with, you really get to know the intricacies of their personality.  Paige and I are clearly different in many ways, and similar in others.  There were obviously many minor annoyances in our time here, but I can honestly say that there were no major problems.  Most of the time, it was smooth sailing.  Had she not been here with me, this experience would be entirely different.  I probably would not have met so many people so quickly (the benefit of being with the only blond around), but perhaps I would have made a greater attempt to learn Kurdish and take up other endeavors.  Who knows…..all in all, it was a positive experience with her, and as this chapter closes, another one has already begun.

            Samuel, my British friend, has recently moved into Paige’s old room.  Within days the place has undergone a nearly complete makeover.  Enlisting the help of Warvin, we cleaned the entire place from top to bottom.  Random things that have accumulated over the past 8 months have been disposed of, and while we were drunk we even took out the living room carpet.  The place has a much cleaner feel already.  Samuel is clearly different than Paige, but sometimes change is refreshing, and I very much look forward to seeing how the next 5 months play out living with him. 

Just after a few days we have already got into some mischief.  Last night we downed a liter bottle of Johnnie Walker: Black Label over the course of the evening.  We played poker with friends (I won a whopping 3,000 IQD) and then played catch with the football outside.  Catch came to halt after Samuel threw it onto the balcony of the person 2 floors below us.  So far we have tried knocking to no avail and also left a note in chicken scratch Arabic.  After that we drank on the deck some more and decided to go out for a walk.  We randomly saw Kevin and convinced him to join us on an adventure to the bar.  This is where the night is a little hazy.  We ended up in a bar drinking beer with a policeman and a Peshmerga (soldier).  Again, we stayed until closing and then went out for chicken shawarma from the best place in town. 

On the way over this taxi randomly stops and, in English, asks Samuel if he made a comment to him, something along the lines of, “Fuck you.”  Clearly, Samuel said no such thing, but this man was fairly adamant that he heard it.  We exhorted him to get back in his car and let it go.  Being drunk, patience wore thin with having to deal with this man, so I eventually did tell him what he thought he heard the first time.  His eyes grew wide like something was going to happen, but he just got in the car and drove away.  Normally I would be bothered by someone acting like that, but it was nothing a Doner Sultana shawarma sandwich, or three, couldn’t cure. 

Again we met a group of totally random people while eating our chicken.  They were a group of kids, probably about 18, who told us they would take us to a “club.”  Even though I was in my pajamas, shorts and a t-shirt, I didn’t care so we all said, “Let’s go!”  As we get to this random place underneath a bridge everyone exits the cab and we see two men leaving the “club.”  Within 30 seconds, without warning, one man pulls a gun from his pants and fires a single shot into the air.  I don’t know the reason, and strangely enough, I didn’t even blink.  I just kept walking into the “club” like nothing happened.  The “club,” as it turns out, did serve alcohol, but by this point I was already well gone so I had no need.  The place was terrible.  It was about 8 men pinky, two dancing, and one overweight woman singing.  Our new acquaintances were trying to get me to dance, but rather than dance I said we’re going outside and Samuel and I ran away. 

Somehow, the night still didn’t end there.  I don’t know how we got there, but we ended up at Jihan Hotel, a large, nice hotel on a hill.  It is where the UN people stay when they come into town, and evidently there is a dance club on the top floor.  This was the focus of our mission: to dance.  We stumble into the hotel and ask a porter to take us to the club.  Once we get to the top floor we find a man sitting at a table, in what looks like a dining room.  No music.  No dancing.  Just a fat man telling us that everything is closed.  Dejected again, we took the stairs to the roof to have a gander at the views.  Here it was decided that it was time to take the long walk to try and find a cab ride home.  Another day, another adventure complete.

Uncomfortable Siuation

            Given the awkwardness of many men here around women, it was only a matter of time before a highly uncomfortable situation like this one presented itself.  Our neighbor, Mohammed, is a 50ish year old Egyptian man working as an engineer here in Duhok.  His entire family is back in Egypt so he is here alone.  Mohammed speaks English at a fairly high level, and has been most personable in our encounters with him.  He always asks how we are, and shortly after we met began inviting us over for tea. 

            Being American and valuing set plans, not random ventures to some stranger’s apartment for tea, we never really took him up on his offers.  He became noticeably upset about this and frequently inquired as to why we never come over.  I felt sort of bad about since he is surely lonely, so we obliged.  Mohammed is pushy in his hospitality, like many of the people here, and cannot seem to stop force feeding you.  Our first dinner over there was fine.  The second one did not go so well. 

Paige was getting set to leave in a few days time so Mohammed wanted to invite us over for dinner before she left.  He came back late, however, so Paige made other plans that night.  I still went over.  When Paige finally returned he, being pushy and all, went over to our flat and insisted that Paige come over.  I had already been at his place, a characterless flat with no decoration whatsoever, for a while and was ready to leave.  I informed them both that I was going home, but I left both doors open because I knew that Paige wouldn’t stay long either as she never really liked him to begin with.

Evidently, leaving her alone was a mistake that I should not have made.  Shortly after my departure Mohammed moved seats to sit closer to Paige.  When she picked up a tray of food that she never wanted anyways he placed his hand under hers.  Beginning to sense the nature of Mohammed’s intentions, Paige got up to leave.  At this point he began pressing her to stay and then tried to get closer as he said, “Give me a kiss.” 

Paige rushes back home in tears and apprises me of the situation.  Feeling slightly shocked and a little angry, I went over to his flat and confronted him.  Mohammed continually denied doing anything, constantly reiterating that it was a “misunderstanding.” I didn’t believe any of it.  I felt bad that Paige had to go through that situation.  If it were a younger guy, and one that she flirts with, I would understand more.  But there was nothing about this situation that should have given any inclination that Mohammed’s actions would be deemed a good idea. 

In a way, I am not released from feeling any sense of responsibility towards hanging out with him.  I have no desire whatsoever to spend my time with someone of that nature.  Our Sunday night dinners are effectively nixed after only two occasions.

Saddam's Got Good Taste

Recently we took a trip to Gara Mountain to see a now destroyed palace once occupied by Saddam.  The views were breathtaking….

American Pie

I recently assigned my students into groups of 4 for a project in which they had to present about a specific country of their choosing. They had to discuss the government’s structure, the economy, international status, and the outlook for the future.  One group, we’ll call them Team America, was definitely the best presentation.  This is not my being xenophobic, but they had the right mix of substance and style, and even brought four American flags to hang on the wall.  

One of them was given to me as a gift, which now proudly hangs in my room.  As much as I criticize my country for its shortcomings, and I do it quite often, I’m still an American through and through.  As a great movie once said…America! Fuck Yeah!