
Daily News reporter Rich Mauer is on special assignment for six weeks to the McClatchy Newspapers Baghdad bureau. For Mauer, who has reported on politics, the oil industry, military and other topics in his 23 years at the Daily News, it is a return to a region he covered as a much younger free-lancer in 1981-2, including the civil war in Lebanon. In this blog, he'll provide snapshots from his reporting.
About me
Joshua Ferguson
I joined the Army in 1996 and my position is as a forward observer. My dad was in the Air Force and I'm the oldest of four with one brother and two sisters. My wife is Danielle, and we have three young children, J.J., 5 in June, Corinne, 3 in July, and little Madeline, 1 this month.
My goal is to complete a full 20 years in the military, and then retire to become a teacher at the elementary or high school levels.
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US helicopter down
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Days will reveal what you conceal
- 1/27/2007 4:59 am
Early Cabin Fever
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Arriving in Baghdad
- 1/23/2007 10:13 am
One day to go
- 1/22/2007 4:10 am
The Cuban doctor
- 1/21/2007 1:15 pm
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Arriving in Baghdad
Posted by mauer
Posted: January 23, 2007 - 10:13 am
BAGHDAD, Jan. 23 — The passengers waiting to board Royal Jordanian flight 814 from Amman to Baghdad almost could've been awaiting a flight to Deadhorse. Lots of strong guys, a few official-looking people, lots of tattoos on muscular biceps. Among the 45 or so was one woman.
They called the flight nearly an hour late, about noon in Amman. We took a bus to a far corner of the tarmac where a white, unmarked plane was parked, a twin-engine Fokker F28-4000. Aside from the tail number, the only identifying feature on the jet was the name “Jessica” painted on the nose.
It was a good sign. My daughter’s name is Jessica.
“Ahh, Old Jessica,” a Brit behind me said as we walked up the steps.
It would be an hour and 20 minute flight. The captain, in a precise British accent, told us we’d be making the famed spiral descent. The corkscrew would lesson our exposure as a target.
As it turned out, it was more of an elongated figure eight, a series of tight turns, the first over the brown desert, the rest over farmlands irrigated through a complex series of channels from the Euphrates and Tigris rivers.
The flight was uneventful, “BIAP” — Baghdad International Airport — huge and practically deserted. I was met at the airport by several people from the bureau. The ride to the hotel was a trip past almost immeasurable tons of concrete — tall blast walls, traffic diverters, fences. Most drivers stayed on the correct side of the divided highway, but not everyone. As you’ve no doubt heard, it’s true that no one cares whether they go up an exit ramp or down an entry ramp. We didn’t care ourselves.
The Tigris flowed slowly. You could hear birds in the reeds on the far bank. Above them, the monstrously large new American embassy was rising behind the fences and walls of the Green Zone.
The boulevards were a semblance of normalcy. The neighborhood streets were another matter, definite no-go zones. In 30 minutes, we were at the bureau, my home for the next six weeks.
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