What to Pack for Iraq

Historic Iraq is one long cobblestone ankle-test. From the baked-mud lanes of Ur to Baghdad's crowded souks you'll be glad you wore shoes with grip and a cushioned sole.

One shirt in the morning, another by lunch, 100 °F heat in Samarra and Karbala will soak cotton in minutes. Quick-dry fabric buys you time between laundromats that may not exist for days.

Compression cubes turn a carry-on into a mini-dresser. Roll in a long-sleeve for mosque visits, a tee for 40 °C afternoons, and a cardigan for Kurdish mountain nights, everything stays neat as you hop from Basra hotels to Erbil guesthouses.

Markets here are a full-contact sport: pyramids of saffron, sacks of sumac, vendors shouting prices. A foldable daypack holds your water, your scarf, and the box of dates you swear you'll mail home, then vanishes into your pocket once the haggle is done.

Power cuts don't send a calendar invite. A 10,000 mAh power bank keeps the screen alive while you photograph the Al-Shaheed Monument at dusk or call a driver in Najaf.

Chevron-pattern Iraqi dust will eat flimsy cables for breakfast. Braided nylon survives repeated unplugging in Kirkuk guesthouses and the back seats of share-taxis.

Earplugs turn the volume down on Iraq's soundtrack: 5 a.m. muezzins, horn-happy traffic, generators that growl like tired lions. Pop them in and the overnight bus from Baghdad to Sulaymaniyah becomes almost tranquil.

Voltage spikes are part of the local charm. An increase-protected strip keeps your laptop alive when the whole hotel is drawing from the same tired transformer.

A TSA-approved quart bag keeps shampoo from soiling your socks and speeds you through BIAP security. Once in-country, it hangs from bathroom taps that may offer no shelf space.

Pharmacies thin out past Ramadi. A palm-sized kit with plasters, ibuprofen, and antiseptic saves a half-day hunt for a chemist when you skin a knee climbing Ur's ziggurat.

One lemon-sized soap sheet lathers without a drop, good for a quick face-wash in a Nasiriyah bus station or when the hotel plumbing wheezes.

Crossing time zones is easier than convincing an Iraqi clinic to refill your prescription. A seven-day pill organiser keeps doses on track while you chase sunrise at Babylon.

RFID sleeves passports are cloned faster than you can say "checkpoint." A signal-blocking sleeve keeps your data safe when soldiers scan documents outside Mosul.

A silk neck wallet sits flat under a shirt, holding your dinars, debit card, and visa copy while you shoulder through Baghdad's Shorja bazaar.

A four-digit cable lock loops through suitcase zippers and around hotel wardrobe rails. It also secures the glove box of a hire car parked outside Najaf's shrine.

Iraqi dawn starts at 4:30 a.m. in June. An opaque eye-mask buys you two more hours of sleep on a Baghdad rooftop or a Dubai-to-Basra red-eye.

Dogs bark, generators throb, and the first prayer call floats in at 5 a.m. Foam plugs drop the decibels so you wake when you choose, not when the neighbourhood does.

Collapsible bottles shrink to cookie-size when empty. Fill from the 1.5-litre you bought at the corner store and stay ahead of the 10% humidity that sucks moisture out of you near Ur.

Rain in Iraq is brief but dramatic; a fist-sized poncho develops in 30 seconds and doubles as a sun-shade while you trace cuneiform at Hatra.

Plastic bags are banned in many cities. Stuff a fold-up tote with flatbread, fresh figs, and the embroidered table-runner you haggled for in Najaf.

Street-lighting is patchy in old Basra; a credit-card flashlight clips to your belt and lights the alley back to the hotel when the power drops.