ITCHY FEET TRAVELS

Chibayish, Iraq

June 6, 2023

In the south of Iraq, between Nasiriya and Basra are marshlands, home of the Marsh Arabs. They have traditionally made their homes here relying on the rushes and reeds for shelter and fish and waterfowl for food. I wanted to see this place that is so different from the rest of Iraq.

Yesterday, after arriving in Nasiriya, I had wandered out to take a look at the town. Entering a café, I got a bite to eat and in my usual way fell into conversation. A question asked of the young man at the desk soon became a round table with the manager, the young man and few others all chiming in, eager to help. The young man Ali, it turned out, had lived in Denmark for a number of years when his family immigrated and is now back in Iraq when his parents decided to return. Conversation flowed, my patchy Arabic no longer a barrier. The help locating a taxi that could take me to Chibayish had by this time fallen by the wayside. Ali decided that he would take me and there was no gainsaying him. This morning he arrived at the hotel with a couple of friends in tow. Both named Karar, I dubbed them Karar1 and Karar2 and we set out in high spirits. Ali is the translator as we chat back and forth in a mix of English and Arabic. Karar2 is irrepressible and keeps us in fits of laughter.

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In short order we reached the edges of the marsh and did not need to look for a boatman; Besam, the boatman found us. The three musketeers as I dubbed them, did the talking and negotiating and we started off in the boat. The wide swathe of murky green soon narrows as the boat fitted with a motor chugs along. Tall rushes grow at the edges obscuring the narrow ledges of land. Here are there were white rags tied to the rushes, sometimes it is a piece of styrofoam.

“Are they to show the way?” I ask.

Besam laughs. They know these waters like the back of their hands and there is no need for flags to mark the way. They mark good fishing spots.

Fish are not the only creatures in the water. Domestic water buffalo owned by the locals have taken to water to escape the intense heat and grudgingly move out of our way. We surprise a flock of birds and they fly off squawking. There are a gaggle of geese perched on a stump next to a reed shelter. There is only the chug of the motor and the shush of water and occasional cries of birds.

The gang are in high spirits. Selfies rule as they pose and the boat rocks as they switch places to take yet more videos and selfies. Besam sings – a haunting air that tells of pain and burdens that have been the lot of the marsh Arabs for long.

Here and there we pass huts made of reeds. Some are dilapidated but most are in good shape. The rounded roof reaches to the ground and the tall mast-like pillars stand vertically on either side of the entrance. Most have a small flat-roofed shelter next to it, for the buffalo or fowl.  One shelter has a skull and horns atop. It reminds me of the how buffaloes are cherished in Indonesia, in the island of Sulawesi where it is common to see a house adorned with skulls and horns. Once, all the marsh Arabs lived in these huts, their lives intimately tied to the marshes. Now most live in permanent houses in town but keep these shelters to look after their flocks. The beginnings of tourism shows in one such shelter with a restaurant made of reeds next to it. We wave and shout out greetings as we chug past but do not stop.

Besam too has such a shelter and he takes us to it. Intriguing in design, he tells us that it takes two weeks for ten men to build it. Every five or so years, it needs to be redone or re-patched. The permanent housing of bricks and mortar are better, he says. The inside is simple, with a latticed window also made of reeds. The woven walls like basketry are made of reeds and even the twine that is used to bind them together is made of the natural materials found close at hand. My crew of musketeers continue their videoing like a seasoned film crew. Karar2 is the undisputed hero of this mini-movie and struts with style.

We get back into the boat and head toward the mudhif or communal building. Typically used for community meetings, this is where the headman greets visitors. This too is in the traditional shape but much larger and more elaborate. Carpets and cushions line the edges and we troop in after taking our shoes off.

Another man walks in and sits. He has fallen on hard times, we are told and we give him some money although he doesn’t ask for any. The headman offers us Arabic coffee, pouring it for each of us in turn and we sip appreciatively. I would love to come back and stay a day or two I tell him.

“You are welcome” he says with a smile.