Coming off a smooth ride through Iran, Iraq immediately offered a reminder that every border tells a different story. Immigration and customs took more than five hours, with officers poring over the Iraqi visa he had obtained in Tehran.

“They were curious but polite,” Katiravan recalled. “It took five hours and 20 minutes to clear.”

The wait, thankfully, proved a poor introduction to the warmth that followed. In Basra, even the owner of the modest hotel where he stayed took personal pride in welcoming him – driving him around town and treating him to buffalo-milk ice cream, a local specialty Katiravan found unexpectedly delightful.

From Basra, Katiravan set out north on a 550km ride to Baghdad, astride Parameswara, the BMW touring motorcycle that has become his trusted companion across deserts, mountains and borders.

The desert road cut through endless flatlands, the landscape barely shifting as the temperature hovered around 34°C.

Earlier in the year, Katiravan had reshuffled his entire route after studying climate patterns. Instead of entering the Middle East in summer, when temperatures can soar beyond 50°C, he continued through Europe and returned in October.

“The heat here is unforgiving,” he said. “Even now, this is considered mild.”

That reality was visible along Iraq’s highways – scattered tyre remnants and burnt-out vehicles littered the roadside. At first, Katiravan thought they were war wreckage. Only later did he learn this debris comprised victims of the desert heat itself.

Fuel stops came with their own lessons. In some petrol stations, motorcycles are not allowed to refuel directly. Fuel is pumped into containers first, then poured into tanks – a safety measure against vapour ignition in extreme heat.

Navigation, too, proved unreliable. Google Maps and Waze offered little help, forcing Katiravan to rely on local assistance. In Baghdad, his hotel arranged taxis so he could explore the city.

What he found challenged long-held images of a city once defined by conflict.

The focal point of global headlines during the 1991 Gulf War and subsequent invasions, Baghdad today feels like a modern metropolis, complete with high-rise apartments, busy streets and everyday routines unfolding calmly – even as parliamentary elections took place during his stay.

One of the city’s most profound impressions came at the Imam al-Kazim and Imam al-Jawad Shrine, where history and devotion converge. The ornate complex houses the graves of two of the revered Twelve Imams and stands as a reminder that Iraq’s story stretches far beyond recent decades.

From Baghdad, Katiravan rode 560km farther north towards Mosul, a journey punctuated by about 20 military checkpoints. Passports were checked, bags opened, questions asked – over and over again.

Yet the stern faces often softened when they saw his Malaysian passport.

“They became friendly. Polite,” he said. “That’s the power of the Malaysian passport. I learnt this many times on my journey.”

In Mosul, Katiravan reached the Lalish Temple, the spiritual heart of the Yazidi faith, tucked into a mountain valley. Visitors remove their shoes before entering – a ritual that made him wonder how pilgrims endure the scorching summers barefoot.

He learnt that Lalish means “luminous lamp” or “safe place”, a fitting description for a sanctuary where Yazidis from around the world gather to be baptised in the waters of Kani Spi, the White Spring, and observe the week-long Jama’s Eid.

On the road again, a brief stop in Tikrit came with an unexpected warning. A police officer advised him not to speak about former president Saddam Hussein. Only later did Katiravan realise he was at the birthplace of the man who once ruled Iraq with an iron fist.

Then came one of his longest days – 480km south to Karbala, passing through checkpoint after checkpoint.

“Sometimes there were three checkpoints within 1km,” he said. “They were strict with everyone, even locals.”

And yet, amidst the security, kindness surfaced again. A man flagged him down on the roadside and invited him home for lunch, rest, even an overnight stay. When Katiravan declined, the stranger insisted on pressing 10,000 Iraqi dinars (RM32) into his hand for fuel.

“I filled my tank later,” Katiravan said. “It was exactly 10,000. I forgot to ask his name.”

In Karbala, the rhythm never seemed to pause. The Imam Hussain Shrine, open around the clock, glowed with life, earning the city its nickname – the “no-sleep city”.

Established in the 7th century after Imam Hussain’s burial in 680 CE, the shrine remains one of the most sacred sites in the Islamic world.

Plans to visit Babylon Governorate had to be shelved when navigation failed again. Instead, Katiravan wandered into the nearby Al-Harith shopping mall, quietly noting the normalcy: families shopping, men and women watching movies together.

Eventually, he turned back farther south towards Basra, closing one chapter of his journey before exiting to Kuwait.

For Katiravan, Iraq was not a land defined by war but by heat, hospitality, resilience and quiet dignity – another reminder that the world reveals its truest self only to those willing to ride through it slowly.