Down And Out In Iraq War-Ready Journalists Had A Rough Time In Saddam’s Bleak Cult Of Personality

War reporting, for the war that never happened this week, is hell.

If you manage to get a visa to Iraq, which requires little short of divine intervention - or perhaps a bribe to some greedy official - there is the problem of getting into the country.

With commercial flights shut down by U.N. sanctions, the journey for most people is by car across the desert for 10 to 15 hours, depending on how much of a daredevil the driver happens to be.

For those of us who were unable to get visas, there suddenly appeared a deus ex machina in the form of U.N. Secretary-General Kofi Annan. He insisted on bringing two planeloads of correspondents with him, and the Iraqis, anxious to please him if not us, had little choice but to agree.

The United Nations cannot afford modern planes, so about 30 of us flew from Kuwait in an ancient Russian Antonov transport that, against all odds, made the trip safely. But not to Baghdad. Because Iraqi officials are not allowed to fly from Baghdad, they refuse to let nearly everyone fly into there.

Instead, flights land at an airport 90 minutes west of Baghdad. It’s not just any airport, it is the military air base at Habbaniyah. We were the first correspondents ever to set foot on the base, and we would hardly have been more astonished if President Saddam Hussein had headed the welcoming party.

We stepped off our plane to see scores of MiGs, Sukhois, Mirages and Jaguar fighter planes spread out over a vast airfield. Many were under reinforced concrete shelters, while others were in the open, covered in some cases with rotting camouflage netting.

Even a nonexpert could hardly fail to notice these planes, covered in a filmy coating of desert dust, were not being properly maintained. But Habbaniyah, heavily pounded by Western aircraft during the 1991 Persian Gulf war, has largely been rebuilt. I saw only one concrete shelter that still had a gaping hole in it. “Down U.S.A.” has been scrawled on buildings and pavements all over the base.

Just outside, there is a graveyard of wrecked aircraft from the war, about a score of them piled on top of each other in a narrow ravine, and a graveyard of military trucks next to it.

Baghdad, which I had not seen since 1991, has hardly changed. It is a sprawling, chaotic metropolis of 5 million people, bisected by the muddy Tigris River, a city in which some once lovely but decaying old buildings remain, but others have been supplanted by modern, decaying buildings.

The Babylon Hotel, where we were assigned rooms, is one of the modern, decaying structures. The lighting is dim, and the toilet seats have mostly been broken and not replaced. A thick green scum floats on the water in the swimming pool - not that it is warm enough to swim.

But there is a Chinese restaurant in the hotel, run by a Thai businessman who turned to the restaurant business to survive when his assets were frozen, and the food is good. A friend who has just spent a month in Baghdad warns Iraqi beef and lamb are infected with screwworm, so for six days I dine on chicken.

For those who come without satellite telephones, communication with the outside world is nightmarish. There are land lines that work for some, but in six days I could never transmit data from my laptop computer. The alternative was to dictate stories, at rates up to $40 a minute, depending on whose phone you used, or transmit by fax.

Out on the streets, ragged children rush up to cars at stoplights, hold out a hand, take money if it is offered and go away silently. This is a new phenomenon. There were no children begging on streets before Saddam plunged the country into two wars that devastated its economy.

In the days of Iraqi prosperity, one dinar was worth more than $3. Today the exchange rate stands at about 1,200 dinars to the dollar, and most bank notes are denominated in 250 dinars. Change a $100 bill and you get so many 250-dinar notes you have to carry them in a plastic bag.

Iraqi money stinks. To keep mice from eating it, Iraqis put it in bags with mothballs.

Wherever you go in Baghdad, you cannot help but encounter the cult of personality that surrounds Saddam. Almost every institution of any importance, and some of no importance at all, is named for him. He smiles down from paintings and posters and huge bronze statues, wearing a military uniform or a keffiyeh, the traditional Arab headdress, and the robes of the desert chieftain.

You can buy posters that show Saddam in a Tyrolean hat waving to a crowd of peasants, Saddam down on a prayer mat, Saddam before a stove with a spatula in his hand or Saddam in portraiture, looking fatherly and benign.