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Published: November 8th 2009
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My final hours in Iran - that country that I will never forget, for its generous, beautiful people, so misjudged by the majority of the West. I arrived at the ferry port in Bandar Lengeh as instructed at 7am, for my 10am trip to Sharjah - part of the sprawling city in the United Arab Emirates that includes neighbouring Dubai. At 7am there was no sign of any official activity, but there were half a dozen people already waiting, sitting next to their personal cargoes of identically tied-up cardboard boxes and plastic-wrapped dozens of jars of pickled gherkins. I walked to the beach to enjoy the clean and salty air, and soak up the heat that was almost unbearable so early in the day. I also thought and worried a little about my possible visa predicament; was I on my permitted fourteenth day in Iran, or was I a day over?
Back in the waiting room at the port I chatted to a young Iranian called Younis, who had reasonable English. He had done that ferry trip before, so he told me to relax when most others seemed to be jumping up and queing at the slightest sign of a
customs or immigration official. By 9am all was apparently in full swing. The scene was now buzzing with porters in pale-blue overalls, happy Iranians and local Arabs - men in pristine white robes and checked headgear, women in bright colours, with bizare metal face-pieces that made them look like they were wearing silver fake moustaches and eye brows.
When I got to the immigration post the guard looked at my passport and furrowed his brow. Was he thinking about my 14-day visa stamp? I guessed that he was, when, as I had done a couple of days before, he wrote down a column of numbers from 17 to 31 to count the number of days since I had received the stamp. He looked up at me, and said something in Persian that I did not understand. He clearly had no English. Younis, who did, and who was watching what was going on, also suddenly had no English. Please just stamp it, I silently prayed - to Allah, of course. The official, barely taking his eyes off me, took my passport into a back office for deeper contemplation. "Ok, ok," said Younis to me.
The official returned with a
colleague, and they chattered in Persian and tallied up the column of numbers a few more times. Eventually my passport was stamped, rather heavy-handedly, I thought, and handed back to me by the official with one finger raised, frowning pursed lips and a shaking head. I shrugged my shoulders to indicate I didn't know what the fuss was about. I was saved a fine and possibly days worth of paperwork by his lack of English, an absence of anyone to interpret and his reluctance to submit to the possibility of frustrating hard work in trying to communicate to this foreigner that he had overstayed by a day.
Finally I was on board the enclosed, highspeed ferry - not the open-decked older-style vessel I had been hoping for. It was 10am, but for some unknown reason we didn't leave until 11.40. There was no explanation, just a uniformed crew member solemnly passing around a plate containing boiled sweets - something like a collection at church, but in reverse. Through the grubby window I could see the impressive traditional wooden boats - lengeh - as brightly coloured as the local women's clothes , and laden high with everything from pomegranates to
tractors. On board the ferry I sat next to Mohamed, a graphic designer, who insisted on giving me a large heavy printed catalogue of his designs, containing pictures of his town that he was obviously so proud of. It was Bandar Kong, in between the two Bandars I had visited.
Soon into the journey we were allowed onto the fore deck, from where we could espy silvery flying fish, herds of jelly fish, plastic drink bottles and a lone orange. As we got closer to Arabia the number of ships and other boats grew. In the middle of the Gulf we suddenly stopped - engine off - for no evident reason. He we taken a wrong turn? Were we ahead of schedule? Unlikely. Switching fuel tanks?
We arrived in Sharjah well after schedule, at 5pm. Immigration and customs there were and remain a complete mystery to me. No queing, random flocking to different counters, eye tests, some bags inspected, some not. Two hours added to the lengthy journey. I was about an hour from Dubai, where I wanted to end up for the night. There was no bank, therefore no local currency (but about a million Iran rials
still following me about) no bus or information at the port, nothing that might be useful to a traveller like me. I discovered that another absence was the Iranian hospitality. By now in Iran I would have notched up a dozen offers to stay at new friends' houses, but I was invisible in UAE. Even Mohamed, who had earlier joined with me in taking group photos, could only offer me a rather obvious suggestion that there may be an ATM at a petrol station.
I did have a back pack, and so far on this trip I had done very little walking with it, so I off I went towards some hopeful looking neon lights. I wanted to find an ATM and an internet cafe, to get some directions to Dubai and maybe a hotel suggestion. Unfortunately I discovered a wide harbour in between civilisation and me. There was plenty to see in the twilight, though, especially many cheerful lengeh. After a long walk I found an ATM in the middle of roadside verge - in a little palace-like building of its own. But how much should I withdraw? I had no idea of the exchange rate - would
20 be enough for a day or two, or 200,000? I really had no idea at all, my planned research having been scuppered by the closed coffeenet in Bandar Lengeh the evening before. I soon came alongside some shops, although they all seemed to be tailors. I got directions to an internet place about 300 metres away, and felt more confident about my presence in this new country.
With the www in my possession I soon felt confident in what I was doing. I had a concept of the local currency's worth, I knew how to get to Dubai, how much the taxi should cost, what the time was, where I was going to stay the night, and, perhaps most poignantly, what my left-behind world was up to on Facebook. I would miss Iran, but rejoiced in simple things of the free west like taxis with seatbelts and meters, mobile phone coverage, bbc.co.uk and toilet paper!
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