I landed in Iraq yesterday, my first trip here in a year.

 I took the direct Cairo-Baghdad flight on Iraqi Airways, which in my experience is an unreliable, often-delayed and generally unpleasant route. Not this time. It took off and landed on schedule. The South African crew members (speaking an odd mishmash of Afrikaans and Arabic) were professional and courteous, taking special care not to offer food to passengers observing the Ramadan fast. Families chatted happily, comparing the shiny Egyptian lanterns they were lugging to Iraq as gifts for the holy month. It was so…normal.

Then we arrived at Baghdad International Airport, and the surreality show began. I walked into the arrivals hall and almost tripped over the dozens of Sri Lankans, Bangladeshis and other South Asians who were camped out in the lobby. The Americans and, increasingly, the Iraqi government recruit them for manual labor. The Americans hire them mainly because they don’t trust Iraqis to work among them on their bases, and I’ve been told the Iraqis are now turning to them because they are cheaper than local hires. An Iraqi immigration officer kicked one thin South Asian man out of his way and cursed at another who was sitting in front of the office. The man just looked up and said, “As salamu alaikum.” The Iraqi mocked his accent and walked away.

After clearing immigration, I walked a few steps when a man in a white jacket rushed over and bopped me in the forehead with something. Turned out it was a fancy thermometer for detecting potential swine flu cases. A warning would’ve been nice.

I then headed over to baggage claim, where a burly white Westerner in a DynCorp shirt was barking orders to perhaps 100 Ugandans who had just arrived to work for the private security firm. The Iraqi officers didn’t mess with the Ugandans like they did with the South Asians. The Africans were all of a similar build – muscled and huge, apparently handpicked for the job in Iraq. I didn’t ask where they were headed, but one of the Ugandans wore a T-shirt that read, “Camp Cedar, Nasiriyah,” an installation in southern Iraq. Each was allowed a single bag and some of the bags never arrived. When one of the Ugandans complained about his missing property, one of the DynCorp handlers shushed him, saying, “It’s gone, man. Just forget about it. We have to go.”

At the next baggage claim, dozens of white-draped Iraqi pilgrims returning from Makkah waited for their bottles of Zamzam water, which comes from a sacred well and isn’t easily available outside of Saudi Arabia. Several of the plastic bottles had broken during the trip and holy water splashed all over the grimy conveyor belt.

About two minutes later, the power shut off throughout the airport. The conveyor belt rumbled to a stop, the lights went out and the bustling arrivals terminal became eerily quiet. The blackout only lasted a few minutes and then all the luggage came at once and caused a small stampede at customs, the last stop before the exit. Iraqi pilgrims, families from the Cairo flight, South Asian laborers, and the Ugandan contractors and their Western bosses all jostled for the doorway.

Out of nowhere came a tall, lean guy (American? British?) carrying a guitar case. He wore a periwinkle-blue shirt and pressed khakis. He did not seem to be accompanied by anyone, which is unusual for security-conscious diplomats and contractors. He just strode through the crowd with his guitar, smiling.