The bright yellow Honda dirt bike roars down the vacant Baghdad parking lot before popping a wheelie and continuing another dozen metres on its back wheel alone.
The rider then spins the bike to a halt in a swirl of pungent exhaust fumes, burnt rubber tyre tracks and a burst of applause from young men and boys who have gathered to watch Iraq’s impromptu motorcycle club.
“We come here to forget about the killing and the violence going on in the streets,” says Qais Mohie, a Shi’ite electrician whose black-and-yellow bandana matches the vibrant colours of his bike. “We come to have fun and forget a little.”
About 20 riders, both Sunnis and Shi’ites, gather at this forgotten spot on the edge of Qaddisiya neighbourhood in west Baghdad to test their skills and escape a city that is disintegrating around them.
They come twice a week, in those brief hours as the sun sets and the blazing heat of the Baghdad summer finally dissipates — but before total darkness brings the onset of curfews and roaming death squads.
They meet in a vast parking lot under Jadiriyah highway, which was once filled with the cars of people visiting the riverside “Bride’s Village” where couples and families used to picnic by the river.
“There is no other place for us to meet,” says Ahmed “Harley” Bassem, a Sunni construction contractor. The parking lot has slipped through the cracks of the increasingly rigid sectarian boundaries of Baghdad’s neighbourhoods.
“We come here to blow off steam,” he says. “There’s so much stress right now — we have no security, no fuel and no work. This is our only escape.”
In an increasingly distrustful and sectarian city, this is a surprisingly diverse group of electricians, mechanics and bike riders united by their love of speed and precision machinery.
Zaid Abdallah, who makes a living refitting old bikes and repairing new ones, actually started an informal bike racing club back in the 1990s. It lasted for just a few dozen races, and United Nations sanctions kept them from getting decent machines or the parts to repair them.
Now the members of this fledgling biker gang strut their stuff on sleek and nimble Honda and Yamaha motocross bikes with 250cc engines that let them drive on a single wheel for 100m.
There are also hulking 400cc Kawasaki Ninjas and a Suzuki GSX that can’t quite spin like their smaller counterparts — but they still make a powerful noise.
“We buy old bikes and fix them, and some bikes come new — there are people who import them,” says Bassem. “There are only used spare parts, though.”
In the beginning, it was just a few enthusiasts looking for an empty place to ride their bikes, as roads alternately clogged with traffic jams or emptied by curfews did not suit their adventurous style of riding. People who noticed their two-wheeled acrobatics from the road stopped to watch, and some eventually brought bikes of their own.
“We’re not from one area; we come from different neighbourhoods. Any skilled biker is welcome to come here and meet,” says Ahmad Hassan Issa, a Shi’ite mechanic.
There is always a crowd of children on hand, watching in awe as the riders gracefully put heavy machines through their paces. For these children, it is a rare moment for them to develop role models that do not brandish weapons.
“Here, all the bikers are from different sects and ethnicities. We don’t care about these things,” says Abdallah, a Sunni. “Here we meet, say hi to each other, and introduce each other to our new friends who come with us, and teach one another driving techniques.”
Activities at the vacant parking lot have not gone completely unnoticed by officials, the bikers admit. The police have been by to see what this group of motorcycle enthusiasts is up to.
“We have to get permission first from the police and, of course, the army,” says Abdallah. “We introduce ourselves, show them our IDs, and they come and check out our bikes and then we can start.”
So they roar up and down the parking lot, popping front and back wheelies and spinning their machines in noisy circles that leave black smears on the asphalt.
After about two hours, though, the light dims, the engines fall silent and eyes turn towards the darkening sky.
“We are afraid,” says Abdallah. “In no time the sun goes down and each of us has to be back in our homes — just like chickens.” — AFP