BAGHDAD, Iraq -- To the poet's eye, Arabia is a land of slender minarets
and lush oases, magic carpets and teeming bazaars.

   But in the end, as a 19th century traveler put it, all is "sand, sand,
still sand and only sand."

   And, he might have added, sandstorms.

   On Saturday, Times photographer Jamie Francis and I experienced this
strange and fascinating phenomenon as Baghdad was enveloped by an eerie fog
that settled over much of the Middle East. From North Africa, where it
arose on the strong spring winds, to Egypt, Jordan and Iraq, the powdery
orange sand was on everyone's mind. And clothes. And cars.

   We had arrived Tuesday to explore the impact of economic sanctions
imposed on Iraq after it invaded Kuwait in 1990, sparking the Persian Gulf
War. Our first foreshadowing of a true "desert storm" came a day later as
the brilliant blue sky gave way to what appeared to be gray clouds swirling
high overhead.

   "Is it going to rain?" I asked our "minder," one of the government
guides assigned to keep an eye on all foreign journalists.

   "No, it never rains here in summer," came the reply. "But tomorrow maybe
the weather not so good."

   By Thursday, the clouds had been replaced by an ominous white haze as we
drove to Tikrit, birthplace of Saddam Hussein and site of his 63rd birthday
celebration. The elusive Iraqi president was nowhere around, but hundreds
of gaily costumed schoolgirls sang and danced in his honor. Many carried
portraits of Hussein, including one in which a roaring river seemed to pour
from his chest.

   "Saddam, he is the source of our water," an adoring Iraqi said.

   Indeed, as we left two hours later, the heavens briefly opened and
raindrops splattered the windshield. They disappeared almost as quickly as
they hit.

   By nightfall, the wind had kicked up in earnest. A fresh-air freak, I
had coaxed the hotel into unlocking one of my fifth-floor windows so I
could enjoy Baghdad's surprisingly cool night air. But now the wind howled
with such force that it was a struggle to keep the window open.

   It was almost 8 a.m. before I finally awoke. There was no bright
sunlight streaming in as usual. Instead the room seemed almost as dark as
the night before.

   As I pushed apart the curtains, I realized why. Everything was shrouded
in a thick, dusky orange haze. I could no longer see the Hands of Victory,
the colossal monument that has dominated Baghdad's skyline since the end of
the Iranian-Iraqi war. I could barely make out the palm trees and swimming
pool just a few floors below.

   Where the window was open, tiny piles of sand had accreted along the
sill. The rest of the room -- TV, mini-bar, desk -- was covered with a fine
orange powder. It was so thick, I could write my name.

   As excited as a kid at the first sight of snow, I went downstairs and
stepped outside. Jamie was already there, watching as a hotel custodian
made graceful arcs in the sand as he tried in vain to mop clean the
terrazzo entranceway. He was soon joined by an entire brigade of workers,
all pushing mops and floor polishers.

   "This is very bad," muttered the assistant manager, his white shirt
tinged orange.

   Our guide agreed.

   "It is a bad situation for all persons suffering from breathing
problems," he said.

   In years past, Iraqis had protected themselves during sandstorms by
donning surgical masks. But since the embargo, they have become hard to
find and are so expensive that almost no one can afford them.

   "A lot of women and children are going to die in this weather," the
guide glumly predicted.

   Baghdad's notoriously reckless taxi drivers made few concessions to the
fog, cutting in and out of traffic kamikaze-style even though visibility
was only a few hundred feet. Ghostly figures on foot suddenly floated into
view and just as quickly disappeared.

   A hair-raising 20-minute taxi ride took us to the Iraqi Meteorological
Office near Saddam International Airport. Due to the no-fly zones over much
of Iraq, another punishment stemming from the Gulf War, the airport has
been closed since 1991. As a result, the weather office is a rather lonely
outpost.

   The staff seemed glad to see us and eager to explain the conditions that
had blanketed their country with even more sand than usual.

   "During April and the first of May, a wind comes from North Africa
called the "Khomasin,' " said Muhammad Mahmoud, the assistant director.
"The means "fifty' in Arabic because it usually lasts 50 days."

   Much as the United States suffers tornadoes when warm and cold air
masses collide in the spring, the Middle East experiences violent storms as
hot winds blowing from Saharan Africa hit cold fronts pushing across the
eastern Mediterranean from Europe. Since there is so little moisture in
this arid part of the world, the wind carries sand, not rain.

   Although the region has always had sandstorms, they have become worse in
the past three years because of even less rain than usual. Whatever the
reason -- global warming, El Nino -- Iraq has already endured several
storms this season.

   But this was the worst, covering Egypt and Jordan and causing flight
delays throughout the region.

   "The visibility is so low it's not good for takeoffs and landings,"
Mahmoud said.

   By morning, he predicted, the sand would settle and the sky again would
turn sapphire blue. Planes could once again leave the ground -- everywhere
but in Iraq.

   -- Susan Martin can be contacted at susan@sptimes.com