Everybody know that Kurdistan is a dangerous area where people are kidnapped. Yesterday, at the end of afternoon, we’ve tried to escape and made a walk in the bazar. Returning to the Sheraton, we almost crawled under the windows of the control-office, for we were too lazy to open our bags thrice per day (The Sheraton is very watched, surrounded by a big concrete wall against kamikazes, with very nices pictures painting on it and at the entrance of the reception hall, there is photography of President Barzani controlled by peshmergas and goodwillingly accepting it, but we can bet that it happened to him only one time, for the picture).
So we thread silently and then bump ! we crushed on the chairman of the university, a kind Kurd with a beautiful face in traditionnal clothing (but there is precisely always kind people who put you in trouble). He seemed surprised for we came back in the hotel and asked us why we don’t go to Khanzat Hostel, where we are invited by Mohammad Ihsan. “Euh… Everybody ?” “Yes, all of you.” Hum. It sounds like the “official” diner from which we could not escape. And indeed we can’t escape. The vice-president arrived with his 4/4 (all officials have big cars), he put his passengers in the luggage chest of his car, both poor men yield and packed themselves as they can, Keith Hitchins get up front of the car, we, 3 girls behind and then we go.
When we arrived, everybody went down, the 2 yielded in 4 in the car unpacked and the Vice-president presented us with ceremony his son and his body-guards…
Khanzat Hostel is so luxuous than the Sheraton but out of the city, on hills, facing Barzani’s villa, as people told. Wonderful landscape, swimming-pool, the ideal place for tourists from the Gulf States. The minister is waiting for us, at a table crowded with suited, pot-bellied and moustachu guests… professors, ministers, the Iraqi ambassador in London… and only we, 4, as foreign guests. In fact everydbody had declined the invitation,pretending to be tired (or really ill), or, were not aware… The three girls looked at each others, half-laughing half-despairing by foresseing the wonderful time that they will have to pass. Moreover, one began to be ill and wondered in which official plate she could vomit (not me). Another one sat down and 3 secunds later announced that her favorite denim suddenly suddenly split and she just hoped that her skirt could hide the disaster (not me). The last look with consternation bottles of water on the table and said : “mortal dinner, and we could not EVEN drink’ (yeah that was me). The bad impression was confirmed when the waiter came and asked what are our whishes : coca, fanta ? Yareb, what a nice evening !
But when it is men’s turn, the waiter proposed them wine, beer… IOutrageous ! Fortunately M. Ihsan frowned and asked why we don”t drink wine. And everything is OK when emerged a man with the Gandalf-Style but more corpulent, with long and white hairs and beard like a dervish !An artist and a former MP, I think…He drinks beer but considered that his mission is to fill regularly my glass of Lebanaese wine.
At the end, like in all these moments where we imagine that we have reached the bottom of the well, we laughed so much during all the dinner, that the moustachu-tied suited people would have like to join our table side…
