Motorcycle Explorer December 2014 Issue 3 | Page 12

T
he border post appeared about ten miles
from Silopi. The line of trucks was endless.
That post was the only way of land
communication with the West. The Iranian
border is not suitable for entering Western
goods due to the embargo, and the Syrian
border means to cross through the Sunni
hornet's nest. My appearance caused
astonishment and joy within the Secret Service
members. What in the hell was I doing there?
From where did I come from? How much costs
my bike? Was I a follower of Real Madrid or
Barcelona?
T
o enter the bike was hard. Kurdistan tries to
be a modern state, but repeats the old
bureaucratic schemes of that region. Slow and
incomprehensible procedures. A mechanic
identified the brand, model, number of
cylinders, chassis, and license plate of my bike.
He handed me a document, but when I showed
it to leave Kurdistan, it turned out to be
insufficient. I never came to understand what
was missing or unnecessary in that document.
While waiting, I called Jan, the Christian who
was supposed to help me out. He told me he
would come to pick me up, but time passed
and hedid not appear. So, I decided to go to the
town of Zakho, which was just ten kilometres
away. I tried to find a hotel and as I walked
slightly disoriented a young man approached
me. His English was full of grammatical errors.
He was Jan. He had recognized me at first
glance. He invited me to stay at his house. He
got as a passenger on my bike and as we
started to penetrate in the dark alleys of
suburban neighborhoods , it fired in my head
the precaution chip that often can result in
paranoia.
THE BORDER!