Dodging Traffic, and Mortality

It's the third tour of duty reporting from Iraq for NPR's Guy Raz. In the latest Reporter's Notebook, an occasional series of essays written for npr.org by NPR reporters and correspondents, Raz reflects on how close danger can be, and how the simple pleasure of riding a scooter can be a revelation.

NPR Correspondent Guy Raz speeds through Baghdad on a scooter. Photo: Souad Mekhennet for NPR News

"Mark (Fineman) came here for the same reasons we all do: It's a mixture of addiction and a sense of mission, a public service and an adventure. A chance to ride a scooter at top speeds, without a license, without any bureaucratic papers to fill out." NPR's Guy Raz

Sept. 25, 2003 -- Desperate times call for desperate measures.

For me, it was to drive very quickly on a Honda scooter through the streets of Baghdad. I bought it at a used parts lot in northern Baghdad. The guy sold it to me for $200, and threw in new tires.

I drove it all the way back to the hotel, five miles away, through the chaotic streets of Baghdad. There is an inexplicable feeling of liberation, knowing you are testing mortality by weaving in and out of oncoming and outgoing traffic. The breakdown of law and order also means the breakdown of traffic laws.

But, in a sense, we test mortality by being here.

This morning, my colleague Emily Harris and I were thrown from our beds. An explosion that was too close to be another "story." It happened 50 yards away, at a quiet hotel not too different from ours, used by NBC.

Emily walked, I rode the scooter. And when the smoke cleared, we discovered that the blast killed one of the hotel's workers. I was convinced it was a simple electrical glitch. It was the best way to reassure myself. But it wasn't.

So now the NBC crew has moved into our hotel and started to set up. For some reason, the technician with blood running down his leg thought the best way to the roof of our hotel was through my room. He kept opening and closing my door. "Apologies," he said in a nice British accent. "We're trying to set up the satellite and filing center on the roof."

It's a bit disappointing, because the roof has been a sort of refuge for the months we've been at our hotel. Normally, it's a nice place to gaze out over Baghdad -- especially at sundown. Each time a blast goes off, I dash up there with my binoculars, scoping the horizon for signs of fire and smoke, and then run down the stairs to get in the car to chase the story. We all come here for that reason.

Just as I arrived for my third trip here, my colleague Ivan Watson was leaving. He was still shaken from his brush with mortality. The explosion that killed more than 100 worshippers at a mosque in Najaf barely missed him and our shared translator, Vahram.

And just three days ago, I sat in the pleasant back garden of the Washington Post house, enjoying the company of my colleagues as we washed down cooked river fish with tall cans of beer. Mark Fineman, a veteran reporter from the L.A. Times, was sitting across from me, laughing and telling tales. He was very much alive that night.

And yet two days later, Mark collapsed and died. He had a massive heart attack right here in Baghdad. Mark came here for the same reasons we all do: It's a mixture of addiction and a sense of mission, a public service and an adventure. A chance to ride a scooter at top speeds, without a license, without any bureaucratic papers to fill out.

I've already given Emily a ride on it. She's vowed to leave Baghdad adept at weaving in and out of traffic on her own, open to the elements on a two-wheeled motorbike.

In Depth

 For more coverage about events in Iraq, visit NPR News Coverage: Beyond the War in Iraq

 Sept. 25, 2003: NPR's Guy Raz reports on the death of a member of Iraq's interim governing council, and a deadly bombing outside the hotel housing the staff of NBC News in Baghdad.

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