The Pashmerga, the Kurdish police and security officers, were everywhere. At intersections. At fountains. At soccer games. There were never any less than four guards at the gates of our compound, which includes ten-foot high walls. There were always two or three in front of the school, where our couchsurfing host taught English. During the drive to Rania with two University students, we encountered four checkpoints, two which required a look at our passport.

But our first real run-in with the police happened while taking photos there last week. We were caught off guard by two Kalishnakov-swinging camoflauged men who were not especially friendly. One minute there were two of them, the next more than 10. Our host’s face lacked reassurance or comfort.

So we followed the soldiers through mountain-surrounded Rania, a town known for its clever strategies and participation in the 1991 Northern Uprising in Iraq. We walked casually past the cement walls which contain brown courtyards, marble pillars and squat toilets. Past the women in their headscarves and ground-length velor housecoats, past the children in their fluorescent, synthetic clothing and rubber sandals. Past bench after medieval cart of men in their olive-drab traditional Kurdish garb, a cross between a Carhart worksuit, and a brown cummerbund-wrapped tuxedo, minus the bowtie. Past the Armani belt buckles and pin-striped suits. Past a Jack Daniels-bragging liquor store, sometimes a sign of a Christian neighborhood.

At the police station, four gun-wielding guards chaotically search us for a mobile phone. It was hard for them to believe we didn’t have one. Soon, we were herded toward a room and told to sit down. In the next sixty seconds, at least 15 people came into the room. We couldn’t tell if we were the excitement of the day or if they considered us a serious threat. Soon, it was another room. Then another. I wanted to hold onto Michael, but I couldn’t. Not here. Still, no one smiled. Still, our host was expressionless. I was calm, but fearful. I tried to look simultaneously scared, friendly and apologetic, my passport in my hands, ready to submit. Finally, a man behind a big desk in a heated office examined Michael’s passport. He waves mine away. I am just a woman, after all.

No problem. We can go. We can take all the pictures we want. They just had to make sure we weren’t Turkish spies gathering information about the PKK.

Cool.

Not Baghdad, Iraq. Northern Iraq. Kurdish Iraq. Kurdistan, if you will. And we found plenty of research, testimonials and even an English-teaching couchsurfer by the name of Josh Overcast before we made our decision to be tourist pioneers. Oh the places we’re willing to go.

On our second night in Iraq, we danced to Madonna’s Vogue at a party thrown by an English teacher. There was a lot of wine, Betty Crocker brownies and bugles to eat as everyone told their stories. Brits, Australians, Canadians and Americans, a Turk, and even a few Kurdish showed up. Some had studied Middle Eastern culture and history for years. Others were just adding Iraq to the list of past teaching assignments in Korea, Taiwan, Saudi Arabia and Croatia. Most were on a two-year contract and found strange comfort in the gossipy, but gurgling insta-family which expat communities so often provide. It didn’t matter that they never would have been friends at home. Whatever differences, no matter how obvious, were overshadowed by one thing in common: they had all freely chosen to come to Iraq and they were all tired of being here.

Our first day out in Kurdistan felt a little like Africa. Out of the secure, suburban but heavily-guarded ghost-town of a complex and into the real town center. Unlike Damascas or Amman, the streets were wider, catering to fast cars. But Erbil was much more rundown with a thick layer of grime and a general disinterest in itself. A 10,000-year old citadel still inhabited by one family sat like a dusty, lazy lion who had long since fallen into a deep sleep in the center of his kingdom. In the souk, blenders with pomegranate purple and guava garnet inside sat on white counters ready to pour. Most fast food “restaurants” didn’t have napkins or bathrooms, just a hanging cow carcass, a slippery floor of fallen food and a sink for washing your hands. Roads with deep grooves, like a permanently fired, vertical pieces of pottery led the way. As in every country we’d visited, the black market was ever-present with rechargeable, (but useless as we discovered) Sony batteries, mobile phones and flash drives. But here, despite a public space full of striped umbrellas, metal benches and fountains, infrastructure was a bit weaker. Electricity was sparse, international ATMs were non-existent and gas stations were no more than a man with a pyramid of petroleum-filled plastic gallon containers at his side.

The faces of confusion and awe were what reminded us of Madagascar. It was apparent that even the IT professionals, teachers and contractors living here didn’t often venture into the souk because the Kurds just didn’t know what to do with us. They stared, suspicious and shy, but not threatening. One man in traditional garb took our photo twice as we drank tea at his outdoor stools and learned a little Kurdish.

But even once we knew the basics, getting a price was never easy. Whether you wanted a falafel-stuffed pita, a haircut or a taxi ride, your first inquiry was waved away as if to say: “well discuss it later”. Then, when it was time to ante up, they hushed up, waiting for you to over or under-pay them.

We ventured into an tangerine-trimmed barber shop where the men all wore avocado-colored chemises. Michael was saddled up within seconds. The cut took less than 10 minutes and before long I was having my eyebrows and mustache (I didn’t even know I had one) tweezed through the string-squeezing method. As I gasped for air and tears slipped out of my eyes, the entire shop laughed and snickered at my pain and Michael told me to be tough. My eyebrows look fabulous but it was sufficiently traumatic.

Again and again, we hear about the safety of Erbil. Stuff doesn’t happen here. The only violence occurs in the form of illegal honor killings, Kurdistan was yet another ethnic group without a homeland—over 30 million people worldwide (20% of the population in Turkey, 15-20% in Iraq) Between the near-decade-long Iraq-Iran war in the 80s and the devastating 1988 incident in Haljaba when Saddam killed off five thousand Kurds with a single drop of mustard gas, the Kurds are not only without a homeland but were often without protection from Iraq’s ruler. But when the US established the no-fly zone in 1991 following the Gulf War and the Oil-For-Food Program distribution was revamped by the UN in 1996, Kurdish life has been steadily progressing forward. Now their flag, a 21-ray sun, symbolizing their Nawrooz holiday on the 21st of March and the white (peace) red (blood) and green (nature) stripes is flown freely. There are still honor killings, where women aged 10 and up are executed by a male relative for having inappropriate relations with the opposite sex. Their crimes range from having a strange boy’s mobile number to being caught in a clandestine meeting with him. Honor Killings are illegal, but police don’t always intervene or prosecute.

Our timing wasn’t perfect, however. AlthoughTurkish-PKK conflict had been relatively quiet for months, the day we arrived, Turkish troops began a fresh incursion into Northern Iraq in an effort to undermine the PKK, “a militant Kurdish organization with the objective to create an independent Kurdish state” to some, and a “terrorist organization” to others. What was worse, the incursion was prompted by a “green light” from the United States.

When we were in Turkey back in November, the U.S., a long-time ally, wasn’t doing enough to help Turkey fight the PKK, whose goal, if achieved, would create a separate Kurdish state. But now that we were in Kurdistan, a homeland-less group which the U.S. has supported and protected for nearly two decades, the U.S. government had decided to put their foot down in defense of Turkey. In other words, we were in the wrong country. Again.

Yet. It didn’t seem to matter. Separation of individual and government, as usual, was clear. Kurdish students welcomed us at the University. We attended a political science class and gave talks to classes about Peace Corps and Bulgaria. We checked books out of the library, used the computer lab and attended a protest against Turkish forces organized by the Student Union.

Just like Syria and Lebanon, Iraq had skidded from dangerous and exotic to reasonably safe a so-not-a-big-deal in a matter of days. The difference was that this was I-R-A-Q. The difference was that Lonely Planet had not only called it “the most dangerous place on earth” in it’s 2006 edition., but had printed this message under the Solo Travelers subheading:

Sometimes I wonder how I end up where I do.

This was my thought as I walked atop the shoulders of an icy, starry night on a road between Syria and Lebanon, humming Islands in the Stream (it was playing at the duty free shop) and searching my coat pockets for toilet paper.

Our morning departing Beirut had been a hellish nightmare of false starts, perfume peddlers, taxi scams, bus ticket tricks and below-the-highway bust-ups. We’d finally managed to find a five dollar mini-bus, which along with eight other smoking, shifty-eyed males, took us up over the mountain pass and even stopped for a currency exchange. Six weeks ago, on our way in, we’d exchanged cash in panic through a barbed wire fence at the Lebanese entrance while we prayed that our bus didn’t leave without us. It sucked. But this time, despite the confusing conversion of Lebanese Pounds, Syrian Pounds and American Dollars (which were also used in Beirut) we fared better.

But getting our cash was only the first step. At the Syrian entry point, where not one officer spoke English, we discovered via a kind bilingual bystander that it would take five or six hours to issue a visa since they’d have to contact Damascus and wait for approval.

No problem. We’d been warned and were well-prepared with snacks and our books: Eastward to Tartary and Beirut to Jerusalem. Plus, there was a Dunkin Donuts nearby. Swell. All day long we watched hundreds of border-crossers come and go and the moustachioed pea-green-uniformed officers change shifts. But eight hours later, we were still hugging the radiator in our little bucket seats, going a little stircrazy. That’s when paranoia began to set in. We had no idea what was going on back there. Had our request been sent? Were they checking on it? Were visas issued after business hours? Shit, what had I written in my blog about Asad? Bloggers had been recently arrested in Egypt. What was the problem? Damn it America! Look at those Japanese tourists–in and out in five minutes!

Finally, just before 10:00 they motioned us over.

The visas would be issued.

Whew. But now we had to find a ride to Damascus. It was just a forty minute drive, but dark and cold by now, hitchhiking did not sound good. About that time, we heard American voices. Texas accents.

Fifteen minutes later we were sitting comfortably in the front seat of our own knight on a white horse. Except this hero had a 1974, velour interior dirt-dusted Caprice Classic–so big and white it seemed like it would fly. It’s driver, Abu Anas, a friend of the family spoke little English, but lucky for us, Abeer the pharmaceutical rep, Kinan the real estate guru and Zak the attorney spoke good Arabic. Somehow, it was arranged that we would stay with Abu tonight at his home and tomorrow morning he would drive us to Amman, Jordan for a small fee.

So we dropped off the Texans, then headed far out of the center to the cinder block shantytown of his suburban home. It was rockpiles and late-night fruit stands, dark alleys, corrugated tin and cement compounds. But his smile was as wide as the Caprice Classic as he called his wife and told her the good news. Though nearly midnight, he was bringing home guests. American guests. So would she plug in the space heater and put on the tea?

That night we slept in our clothes on a firm bed under three blankets. Harsh security lights courtyard, the outdoor space between the living spaces of his “house”, flooded our room, setting aglow the literally hundreds of garish ceramics displayed in our bedroom, a strange status of wealth in these Syrian communities. The next morning, after a quick teethbrush at the outside faucet, we sat around the kitchen diesel stove while Koran verses san across the television. Did we want tea? Well of course we did. As Abu’s headscarfed wife flowered with facial expressions and three of their nine little boys watched us with delight, we knew we were at a red-level alert for another kidnapping. This would be a close one.

But this time was different. This family was at ease with each other and that made us at ease with them.The energy was buoyant and we relaxed into the comfort of confusion we had come to know so well. I practiced my Arabic numbers. They practiced their English greetings. It was shy smiles and photos all around. Soon, Abu Anas made a move to go and we followed the nonverbals. Onto the white horse we climbed, one leg at a time and he drove us to. . . .not Jordan, but the bus station, where he arranged our seat with a bus-driver buddy of his. A miscommunication. Not too shocking. But it didn’t matter. A free bed, a culture-rich evening and a personal delivery to the bus’ two front positions, the best seats in the house. Abu refused to accept any money.

The Jordanian border, with King Abdullah and Queen Rania smiling at us with delight as if we’d just arrived at their private dinner party, was full of shiny marble, modern mosaics and velvet ropes which swung with order.

Amman here we come.

In Antakya, Turkey, our last planned stop before Syria, we stayed with Sakine–a friend of Fevy, our host in Antalya–and her sisters:

Feygin, Jaylin (we called her JLo) and Sakine, not yet married, all lived with their mother in a large flat, where they lit a fire to take a shower and drove each other around in a fifteen year-old car. They didn’t mind sharing a bedroom, because it also meant sharing expenses. Most amusing, the girls were tough-skinned, teasing each other (and eventually us) mercilessly, as they drove in the rain, from one nargile bar, restaurant or tourist site to another, JLo singing and movie quoting the whole way. A big Sunday breakfast, a space heater for sleeping, a trip to the coast and a Christmas tree (!) also made for endless good times in Antakya.

Proven by the pillow fight (WHICH TOOK PLACE IN A RESTUARANT) below.

This near-the-Syrian-border town also marked a cultural shift, as the pepper paste became spicier, the hummus more plentiful (hallelujah!) and the Kunefe, a cheese, syrup and pastry dessert, more obligatory. In addition, this family was Alevi, a 15 million-strong religious and cultural community in Turkey. Alevi is profoundly influenced by humanism, where women and men are equal and the focus is on uniting with God during ceremonies including music and dance. Some consider Alevism a type of Shi’a Islam since Alevis accept Shi’i beliefs about Imam Ali.Finally, and perhaps most profoundly, we began to realize just how sacred a ground we were beginning to cover in this part of the world.The Church of St. Peter (merely a cave and rocky Indiana Jones-like escape tunnel) is widely believed to have been dug by Peter (yes, the Apostle!) for the budding Christian community of Antakya (then Antioch), where he and Paul (yes, the other important Apostle!) preached around 50 A.D.It is rumoured that the inhabitants of Antioch were the first to call Jesus’ followers “Christians” (Acts 11:26).

(I did not take the picture above)

But I did take this one–me scooping the allegedly healing water of a dripping pool in the corner of the church/grotto.With such Christian roots, we decided to look a little harder for any current Catholicism. And after a windy walk through the medina,

we found it.

Their guesthouse was without heat, and even then, unfortunately too expensive for our hobo blood, but we visited their altar and Michael video’d and photographed and spoke at length with other parishioners, including a French woman who was WALKING on a pilgrimmage from France to Jerusalem.

Our Syrian border story coming soon. . . .

Sitting here talking about love life issues. Just ordered a Dominos pizza. Celine Dion’s French voice is in the air.

But first having cigarettes and coffee. Tea will be after the meal. How does anyone sleep here?

When Sez’s couchsurfing profile told me that his motto in life was: “take the blue pill,” I knew he would be a good host. But I had no idea what we were in for. By day, while Sez went to work, we read, wrote, cooked and wandered his neighborhood of apartments, patisseries and dirt soccer fields. When he returned home, we fell into conversation about Bush, the PKK (see video here) and the troubles of his Iranian friend, Sara. He played Arabesque Turkish love songs for us. His friend Erkan improved his English. We taught him the words to They Might Be Giants rendition of the Istanbul-Constantinople song.

One night, we saw live Turkish music, clapping along with immersion beneath the ceiling-wrapped vines of tulip lights, green wavy walls and round tables of testosterone. We drank Tuborg and took pictures. We ate a traditional cig kufte appetizer of spicy raw meat sprinkled with lemon and wrapped in a lettuce leaf. And then, we were forced to sing what words we knew of Hotel California into a microphone. In front of the bar.

Here in Denizli, where he lived, there was nothing to see. He knew that. We knew that. But we didn’t care. We were interested in speaking with the real Turkish people about life. What they ate for breakfast (olives, bread, jam). How much vacation they got (two weeks). How they dated (a lot of very formal set ups).

And even Lonely Planet, the bible of all guidebooks, with its boxed vignettes of anecdotes about regional cuisine and historical legends, has become, shall we say, “quaint” after the cultural exchange which is possible from couchsurfing. . . .

So many experiences, so little time. . . .six months will never be enough.