http://www.gomapper.com/travel/where-is/panjwin-located.html
After a lonesome breakfast in a men's cafe in Sanandaj where it seemed like I arrived first and was served last and had no idea how to complain about that as my Farsi was so limited, I paid the grinning, blue eyed, friendly Kurd of my cheap hotel where all the rooms' wondows seemed to be facing the hallway instead of the street, took my suitcase and left.
A Kurdish friend had booked a bus ticket for me and now I bravely took a taxi to the terminal, not sure what to expect from this day...
The man at the desk of the bus company demanded to see my passport and printed me a ticket from his computer, and we waited on this chilly morning for the bus for Sulaymaniye, Iraq, to arrive, a small motly group of people seated on a bench, all Kurdish except for me, the only foreigner. And then we were off, on our way to the border. I got a seat by myself but soon the young man from behind my seat asked if he could join me. His English was limited, and rather odd, but he kept trying to keep up a conversation with me and asked me one question after another, even though I could barely understand him.
We drove North and the bus headed int the mountains. Not quite as spectacular as driving directly through Howraman vally as I did two years ago, but still, spectacular enough. My Kurdish friend sent me sms saying, we would see a beautiful lake. We drove by it and the man next to me explained that the lake had a high sugar content. "Shirin, do you understand?" he said. Shirin means sweet in Persian, I knew that, but what was he trying to say? Exasperated, I texted my friend for an explanation, and he told me that the lake's water was pure and drinkable, and came from many springs at the bottom of the lake.
Finally, the bus took a turn to the left, passing through a small town where we stopped. I managed to buy some juice, with my poor Persian which consisted of a few words and a handful of phrases now, and plenty of gesturing.
After that we approached the border, and then a long, tedious and complicated process started, getting out of the country. At first our passports were checked. But we did not get any stamps, apparently this first check was just to take a look, to see whether we had the necessary papers or something.
After that we all had to get off the bus, take our luggage and line up and wait, in the heat, on the road that led past a booth. The process was very slow. Finally it was my turn. The immigration officer opened my passport.
"Where is your visa for Iraq?" he asked. "My visa for Iraq...?" In my mind I remembered that silly phone call to the Iraqi embassy where some Chinese sounding woman explained to me in rude broken English that nobody ever travels to Iraq and tourist visas do not exist, and if I did not believe her, I should send a fax and ask her superior to call me back the next day.
"Yes, where is it?" he demanded to know, "you don't seem to have one in your passport?"
"I don't have a visa for Iraq, I don't need a visa, I am just going to Kurdistan..." I said helplessly.
"You go back to Iran!" he told me.
My guts heaved and contracted. "But...I don't need a visa! I can get two weeks at the border, I am European!" I protested. He looked at me. Then he stamped my passport with an exit stamp and gave it back. "You go Iraq" he said, and waved me away, with an air as if I was now entering at my own responsibility and was likely to end up being stuck between two countries. Timidly I walked on, filled with anxiety and desperately hoping that what I had read on websites was true, that the rumour about the law changed was untrue, and that the Kurdish officers would accept me with my EU citizenship as a visitor for 14 days. If even the Iranian border guards did not know of this possibility? Next I was pointed toward another small building that looked a bit like a luggage deposit, and here I was asked if I spoke Kurdish. No. Arabic? A little. The man started talking to me in a hard rough Arabic dialect that seemed totally incomprehensible, I did not recognise a single word or anything that even sounded much like Arabic. I was being asked to open my suitcase, I knew that, but what else, I have not the slightest idea.
After a lonesome breakfast in a men's cafe in Sanandaj where it seemed like I arrived first and was served last and had no idea how to complain about that as my Farsi was so limited, I paid the grinning, blue eyed, friendly Kurd of my cheap hotel where all the rooms' wondows seemed to be facing the hallway instead of the street, took my suitcase and left.
A Kurdish friend had booked a bus ticket for me and now I bravely took a taxi to the terminal, not sure what to expect from this day...
The man at the desk of the bus company demanded to see my passport and printed me a ticket from his computer, and we waited on this chilly morning for the bus for Sulaymaniye, Iraq, to arrive, a small motly group of people seated on a bench, all Kurdish except for me, the only foreigner. And then we were off, on our way to the border. I got a seat by myself but soon the young man from behind my seat asked if he could join me. His English was limited, and rather odd, but he kept trying to keep up a conversation with me and asked me one question after another, even though I could barely understand him.
We drove North and the bus headed int the mountains. Not quite as spectacular as driving directly through Howraman vally as I did two years ago, but still, spectacular enough. My Kurdish friend sent me sms saying, we would see a beautiful lake. We drove by it and the man next to me explained that the lake had a high sugar content. "Shirin, do you understand?" he said. Shirin means sweet in Persian, I knew that, but what was he trying to say? Exasperated, I texted my friend for an explanation, and he told me that the lake's water was pure and drinkable, and came from many springs at the bottom of the lake.
Finally, the bus took a turn to the left, passing through a small town where we stopped. I managed to buy some juice, with my poor Persian which consisted of a few words and a handful of phrases now, and plenty of gesturing.
After that we approached the border, and then a long, tedious and complicated process started, getting out of the country. At first our passports were checked. But we did not get any stamps, apparently this first check was just to take a look, to see whether we had the necessary papers or something.
After that we all had to get off the bus, take our luggage and line up and wait, in the heat, on the road that led past a booth. The process was very slow. Finally it was my turn. The immigration officer opened my passport.
"Where is your visa for Iraq?" he asked. "My visa for Iraq...?" In my mind I remembered that silly phone call to the Iraqi embassy where some Chinese sounding woman explained to me in rude broken English that nobody ever travels to Iraq and tourist visas do not exist, and if I did not believe her, I should send a fax and ask her superior to call me back the next day.
"Yes, where is it?" he demanded to know, "you don't seem to have one in your passport?"
"I don't have a visa for Iraq, I don't need a visa, I am just going to Kurdistan..." I said helplessly.
"You go back to Iran!" he told me.
My guts heaved and contracted. "But...I don't need a visa! I can get two weeks at the border, I am European!" I protested. He looked at me. Then he stamped my passport with an exit stamp and gave it back. "You go Iraq" he said, and waved me away, with an air as if I was now entering at my own responsibility and was likely to end up being stuck between two countries. Timidly I walked on, filled with anxiety and desperately hoping that what I had read on websites was true, that the rumour about the law changed was untrue, and that the Kurdish officers would accept me with my EU citizenship as a visitor for 14 days. If even the Iranian border guards did not know of this possibility? Next I was pointed toward another small building that looked a bit like a luggage deposit, and here I was asked if I spoke Kurdish. No. Arabic? A little. The man started talking to me in a hard rough Arabic dialect that seemed totally incomprehensible, I did not recognise a single word or anything that even sounded much like Arabic. I was being asked to open my suitcase, I knew that, but what else, I have not the slightest idea.
The officer seemed satisfied and now I was pointed towards another building, 200m away. I wandered down the dusty path with my suitcase. Here I lined up again, among a crowd of people crowding in front of an open door. Nothing happened for a long time. I looked around.I seemed to have lost all fellow passengers from my Iranian bus, and was alone among strangers. Again, the only person who was neither Iranian, Kurd nor Arab, and, naturally, the only woman traveling alone. I decided not to give this any further thought, as I had once been shocked about being left behind without my luggage at the Syrian border near Tripoli, only to discover that my bus had driven 100m down the road where it was waiting for me to finish my border procedures. I was sure, our bus driver was doing the same.
A man in uniform came out of the building, took my passport and a few others and disappeared inside. I wondered if they would process our visas without even looking at us? I waited. Time passed. Everyone stood in the sun, nothing happened. Finally, I was told to come inside, sit down in a row with others along the walls. In front of us 5 windows, of which one or two were occupied. The officers seemed to be on break. They talked to each other but not to us. After what seemed like 30 minutes or more, the officer finally pulled out my passport from under a pile of others and called me to the window. "What is your name? ...What is your father's name? You want to go to Iraq?" "Yes." "What do you want to do in Iraq?" I shrugged my shoulders. "Turist" , I said, trying to sound as convincing as possible, still feeling low rumbling in my guts. He leafed through my passport, like the Iranian officer had done, forwards and backwards. Then he stopped, read some of the visas . I waited, nervously . At last, he reached across his desk and with a heavy, determined "clonk" put a stamp into my passport. I exhaled, my shoulders dropped. "Oh my God, thank you, I am in!" I thought . He handed me back my passport. The stamp had Arabic and English which said:"You have to report to directorate of Residence within 15 days". I picked up my suitcase and ran to the nearest toilet. My churning, trembling guts now exploded with the huge relief of having it made past the authorities after arriving at the border of Kurdistan, Iraq without a visa, not being interrogated as a suspected spy, smuggler, journalist and whatnot on either side. OOOOOF!!
I now started looking for my bus, realising, I did not even really remember what it looked like, what company it was...I was kicking myself inside for not even memorising the name on the bus, but I found it. It was standing, among other buses, down that dusty road from the border booth. And it was empty, noone was there. I wondered how after all this time, I could be the first one to have gotten through the controls? There were two three other people, from other buses. Somebody brought bottle of water from somewhere and I begged him to give me some. It seemed like another hour until one of them showed up, and more time, until they were all there. Just like on the Turkish side, we seemed to spend the major part of this trip just hanging around at the border, waiting, even though it was not even very crowded.
At last the bus started driving, and we entered a green, mountainous area, and then my phone lost contact with Iran, and I was, once again, without a sim card I could use .
