Chapter 14- The Mule

The deep wrinkles of her skin might even be hiding something.

As the crinkle of cigarette cases became the soundtrack to the tense atmosphere, nothing seemed beyond the realm of possibility.

Cases disappeared beneath her shawl. They were like little clowns in reverse, stuffing themselves back into the car.

She might have been 85. Or 30. Being a cigarette mule drains the soul like it drains the face.

My glances in her direction didn’t deter her. Instead, her hands became frenzied claws that gripped and shoved until she became a walking cigarette that wrinkled and rustled just like the real deal.

We were five stuffed into four seats. The driver, the American, the driver’s friend, and the two innocent old ladies who had seemed the safest travel companions as we made our way back into Turkey.

Maybe they were late bloomers that found adventure and thrill in shepherding tobacco instead of Tuesday canasta. Maybe I should be learning something from them. The drivers seemed to be- they turned and shifted boxes until anywhere became an ideal hiding place. Except our backpacks. Those were off limits, we warned.

And for a second, I pondered the ridiculousness of the situation- minutes from a security check that should reveal all that was hidden within the car, we were in a taxi leaving Iraq with two semi-retirees and who knows how much soon-to-be smuggled goods. The old lady next to me was probably more processed tobacco than blood.

We had read that it would happen- the drivers would try to sneak as few boxes into our bags as our glances were elsewhere. So no bag strayed from any eye. It seemed that they really didn’t need us. More had gone down everyone’s pants than would have ever fit in the bags.

Driving away from the flooding streets of Erbil, cash in hand, all of our troubles seemed to be out of the way. How hard would it be to get back into Turkey?

Very, it turned out. Taxis and cars formed two obedient lines that stretched back far enough to diminish the hope in even the most ardent optimist. Bumpers were being removed, and cars meticulously searched for weapons, drugs and eagle print bedding.

She might have been someone’s grandma. She should have been a public service announcement. Kids, don’t buy smuggled cigarettes. Your grandma put her life on the line to bring them over. She should have been a lot of things, yet her conservative dress belied her real intentions. She was a hardened criminal dealing in contraband. But she probably made great biscuits. I wondered if she would go home and knit, the pyramid of Prestige cigarettes tossing a boxed shadow over her shaking hands.

Somehow, we made it over. Barring all common sense, our taxi rolled back into the familiarity of Turkey, and the passengers all breathed a sigh of collective relief.

I don’t know what became of the old woman and her stash. Maybe they were presents for her children and grandchildren. Maybe she had a little stand on the street, and sipped tea all day while nicotine-craving passers by jumped at the price of bir bucuk.

The other one, who had either been subtler, or had carried less on her person, boarded the same bus as us.

“Very cold,” she told us, for the fifth time in Turkish. It seemed to be all that she thought we knew. Maybe nodding enthusiastically was encouraging it.

Midway through our trip, as the border fell further and further away to become an idea, rather than a place, the bus was pulled over for a jandarma checkpoint.

The guard only raised his eyebrows when we told him our reason in Iraq was a vacation.

Further down the bus, a little girl was asked what was in her bag. She reluctantly held it back. The jandarma pulled it away. Smokes. Lot’s of them.

“Everybody off the bus!” he ordered. Busted.

All bags were opened and searched. Except ours. We were told there were no problems, and were sent back on the bus, as herds of shivering Turks watched their valuables (most of which turned out to be cigarettes) be rifled through.

After half an hour, the bus started rolling again, dodging potholes with a grace reserved for the worst of drivers. The bus drove into the night, lighter than it had been moments ago. A group of happy jandarma waving over another bus the last picture I saw before my eyes closed.