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The Road from Amman to Baghdad
An Online Report from Charlie Mayer, on Assignment in Iraq
Charlie Mayer stretches his legs during his long trip into Iraq in the village of Safawi, Jordan.
Photo: Benjamin Lowy for NPR News
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Convoy of journalists prepares to leave Amman, Jordan, for Baghdad.
Photo: Charlie Mayer, NPR News
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Sunrise over Jordan, on the road to the Iraqi border.
Photo: Charlie Mayer, NPR News
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"Our driver was Ali, a slight Iraqi whose diminutive appearance seemed inconsistent with his bat-out-of-hell driving style. For most of the trip, we asked Ali to slow it down. He responded with, 'Okay, slow!' before putting the pedal to the metal. He maintained 90 mph along the narrow two-lane highway leading to the Iraq border as the sun came up in the east."
NPR's Charlie Mayer
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Fresh flatbread, baked at a truck stop in Safawi, Jordan.
Photo: Charlie Mayer, NPR News
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Driver Ali changes a flat on the desert highway in Jordan.
Photo: Charlie Mayer, NPR News
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Dramatic arches mark the Jordan-Iraq border crossing.
Photo: Charlie Mayer, NPR News
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"We saw a man on a motorbike. He eyed our convoy with interest. Was he a scout who would call ahead to tell his buddies that a big convoy was on its way? We saw broken down cars on the side of the road. Would men with guns pop up and start shooting?"
NPR's Charlie Mayer
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Now in Iraq, the convoy regroups and an armored car takes the lead.
Photo: Charlie Mayer, NPR News
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An armored car leads the way through a stretch of highway known for roadblocks and thieves. Journalists in SUVs drive in formation behind.
Photo: Charlie Mayer, NPR News
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This essay was filed for npr.org by Weekend Edition Saturday producer Charlie Mayer, who is with NPR's Eric Westervelt reporting from Iraq.
July 15, 2003 -- Most journalists arriving in Baghdad these days arrive either from the south, through Kuwait, or from the west through Jordan. When NPR's Eric Westervelt and I traveled to Baghdad earlier this week, we came along the road from Jordan. It was a 15-hour trip in a white GMC along one of the most desolate roads in the world.
Journalists try to make this trip in groups, recognizing that they have greater security in numbers. They fly from all over the world to Amman, Jordan, and then spend a few days prowling the lobbies of the Intercontinental and the Grand Hyatt hotels. Show up during cocktail hour and you are likely to see jet-lagged people with notebooks and handheld satellite phones exchanging information about convoys to Iraq.
In recent weeks, bandits have robbed journalists on the road to Baghdad. They point AK-47s at drivers, forcing them to stop. Then they grab cash, satellite telephones, laptop computers or anything else of value. At least those are the words repeated again and again in the hotel lobbies of Amman. News reports say that some Iraqi drivers work with the bandits, calling ahead with tips about particularly enticing loads of gear and cash.
Eric and I arrived in Amman last Thursday, hoping to reach Baghdad by the weekend. Colleagues departing Baghdad arranged a driver for us, but we had no leads on a convoy. By Friday afternoon, we had met a crew from Sky News. They had three GMCs, an armored car and a buff security consultant out of a James Bond movie. We liked the look of these guys and arranged to join their convoy. Hours later, our number came to include a French radio journalist from Tehran and two more freelance photographers in yet another GMC. Ten western journalists, five Iraqi drivers, one British security consultant and a very long journey to Baghdad.
We rolled away from the Grand Hyatt just after 4:00 a.m., speeding through Amman with all the bluster of a dignitary's motorcade. The British security consultant drove the armored car and took the rear position. Before we reached Amman's city limits, it became clear that the chiseled security man in his heavy armored car could not keep up with the more nimble GMCs. The Iraqi drivers said they would slow down for nothing -- not bandits, not safety, and certainly not some British guy with a good suntan and a slow car.
The Sky News armored vehicle tells the story of how international attention has shifted from one Middle Eastern capital to another. Until last week, Sky News kept its armored vehicle in Jerusalem. It is now in Baghdad, having made the journey to Iraq in our convoy. It is a white truck, wrapped in thick metal armor and painted conspicuously with the black letters "TV."
Our driver was Ali, a slight Iraqi whose diminutive appearance seemed inconsistent with his bat-out-of-hell driving style. For most of the trip, we asked Ali to slow it down. He responded with, "Okay, slow!" before putting the pedal to the metal. He maintained 90 mph along the narrow two-lane highway leading to the Iraq border as the sun came up in the east.
We paused in the Jordanian truck stop town of Safawi. Huge rigs stop in this village, and drivers hop out to grab kebabs, a cold soda or fresh bread. Young men in an open storefront kneaded velvety dough into huge Arabic flat breads, baking them in a brick oven. They welcomed in an American with a digital camera.
By mid-morning, the convoy stalled when we blew a tire. With a little help from the other drivers, Ali changed the tire in less than 10 minutes. "Sorry, sorry," said Ali as he rushed back to the driver's seat. We were just glad that the tire blew on the Jordanian side of the border, where we would not attract the attention of bandits.
We reached the border around noon. Checkpoint followed checkpoint as we showed our passports no fewer than six times to a collection of Jordanian and Iraqi officials. An American Bradley fighting vehicle kept guard on the Iraqi side of the border. Two dusty GIs sat at a desk outside the Iraqi passport control office. "Are you guys stamping passports?" I asked. "Nope," said one of the guys. "We're just here to help the Iraqis run this operation the way they want to run it." A minute later, an Iraqi wearing a badge called for one the GIs to settle a dispute inside the office. The GI left his helmet and his rifle at the desk and walked into the office. With the help of a translator, he calmed a restless group of men who were waiting to get stamps in their passports.
Two archways mark the border between Jordan and Iraq. A picture of Saddam Hussein once stood between the arches. It is now a blank slate.
The highway on the Iraqi side is better paved than many highways in the United States. Saddam Hussein built a very good road. It is slick, wide and well painted. Guardrails run the length of the highway. Every hundred kilometers or so, there are concrete picnic tables that are covered with metal umbrellas. No travelers were stopped at these rest areas, in the heat that exceeded 120 degrees Fahrenheit. A stiff breeze blew up little dust storms as we drew closer to Baghdad.
At one point along the road, a detour on a gravel road took us around a bridge that Ali says was bombed by American forces. Concrete and steel dangled from the bridge, leaving gaping holes in the roadway.
Forty miles outside of Fallujah, we stopped at a gas station. The British security man briefed the drivers on how we would approach the most dangerous part of the trip. He would take the lead in the armored car and the other vehicles would fall in behind him on either side of the road. We would plow through any roadblock. The Iraqi drivers, who did not typically heed the security man, followed his instructions and drove in formation past Ramadi and Fallujah. NPR's Eric Westervelt wryly sang a 1970s trucker classic: "We got a great big convoy, truckin' through the night..." Those of us with flack jackets wore them.
We saw a man on a motorbike. He eyed our convoy with interest. Was he a scout who would call ahead to tell his buddies that a big convoy was on its way? We saw broken down cars on the side of the road. Would men with guns pop up and start shooting?
Barren desert quickly turned to greener terrain. We could see palm trees towering over austere villages. Ramadi was just an exit off the highway. Fallujah passed on the right at a bend in the road. We had waited for 12 hours to see it and in two minutes, it was gone. Ali grabbed the steering wheel with both hands, pulling himself over the dashboard. He said, "No Ali Baba." No thieves.
Once we reached the busy streets of central Baghdad, someone in a white car pointed a handgun menacingly at one of the other GMCs in our convoy. Welcome to Baghdad.
In Depth
 NPR News Coverage: Beyond the War in Iraq
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