Fables of the Reconstruction

As we speed down the Tigris River under a brilliant sun in a fiberglass skiff, Iraq almost seems like Vacationland--but only for a moment. Soon we're dodging the half-submerged barges and ferries sunk in last year's bombing. Then two Black Hawk helicopters dash low overhead, their menacing door gunners fully visible.

Farther on, there are more bad signs. A strange column of dark smoke rises from a lush palm grove. And suddenly, huge nauseating plumes of raw sewage spill from pipes at Baghdad's southern edge.

Not far from these fetid torrents are several major water-intake stations and a handful of fishermen setting long gill nets from wooden boats. Several of the fishermen, their vessels tucked in the shade of reed patches waiting for the nets to fill, say the catch is in decline. "Sometimes the fish tastes and smells like sewage," explains one. Downriver, millions of people in cities like Basra draw their water from the Tigris.

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