Skydiving

I've arrived. No worse for the wear, although my travel high has started to wear off, and I'll be falling asleep shortly, I expect (only to wake up, of course, at some ungodly, jetlagged hour). We begin the day at 4 am in Amman. Four AM?? Oh, yes. You see, I happened to arrive in Amman on the night that the clocks change back from daylight savings time. Except I missed the memo. So, rather than sleeping through until 5 am, I was up and, if not perky, at least conscious. Until I realized that I had an entire hour left to sleep.

So, without much drama, I eventually headed down to check out, where I met 5 defense contractors in the lobby. This bunch is a wildly different crew than we AID cohort, and I must admit I had quite a lot of fun having a bunch of large, marine-y men treat me like a princess on the way over to Iraq. Heh. Not quite what I was expecting, frankly.

We all stumbled into the airport in Amman, where we lined up to be weighed and measured (my baggage was not found wanting), and then stood around (there weren't many chairs, let alone water or coffee) for about an hour, when we all piled onto a bus. To go across Amman to the other airport. The one I landed at last night. Right.

Our airline is an NGO, that runs in and out of Iraq - there is only one woman working tickets, check-in, baggage, acting as tour guide, and dealing with the security guards. Through immigration again, passport re-stamped, visa noted, and up to the gate, where out of the darkness of exhaustion, behold! Starbucks has metastacized into the Queen Alia Airport. Ahhh.

Coffee in hand, we trundle down onto the tarmac and board our miniature prop plane. It just about fit all 19 of us, plus the stewardess (sorry, flight attendant) and the pilot (who was, I think, my age). Squinching down into our seats, me next to a man who is about 3 times my size. Now I know why I'm a "small" in body armor. Up steps our flight attendant.

"Excuse me, would any passengers going to Irbil please raise your hands?" Everyone does. "Oh, dear. Well, this plane is going to Baghdad." Um, what?

Off we go, back onto the tarmac, over to another plane about 200 yards away. There, we load our baggage (which has, thankfully, made it this far) onto the conveyor belt. At least I know it's on board, since I put it there myself.... And re-board ourselves. All is quiet until we reach Irbil airspace. The large defense contractor man (Josh), who is now behind me, taps me on the shoulder.

"Did anyone warn you about the landing?" Um. Huh. Oh, crap. I know exactly what he's talking about. When you land in Iraq, you don't come swooping in at a 5 degree angle like you do when you fly into Boston. Oh, no. To mitigate any risk, your plane will approach the airport in the following manner:

1. Point nose to ground at 30 degree angle.
2. Initiate spiral over target airport.
3. Plummet, in said spiral, until nearly at ground level.
4. Cut up sharply, and land, almost like a helicopter (but with runoff) on the runway.

Whew. It's a darn good thing I'm not afraid of flying.

I made it out of the airport, found my way to the driver, and moved uneventfully to the office. I started work about half an hour later, thankfully keeping myself awake. I have not, however, managed to remember more than about 5 of the names of my new co-workers. That's the task for tomorrow, insh'allah.

And after this whirlwind, I end the night sitting up on the roof of our compound, glass of champagne in hand, celebrating the delivery of 169 Turkish seed cleaners to NGOs all over Iraq.