Kish Island - how to travel to Iran without a visa

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To be honest, I was a little nervous about visiting the Islamic Republic of Iran. Aside from the possibility of police detainment, there was also the threat of kidnap. In 2007, Robert Levinson, an American private investigator, disappeared while visiting Kish Island and hasn’t been seen since. Nothing, not a whisker. Even so, I was intrigued by the Middle Eastern nation. Every report I’d read about it, aside from the ones about kidnappings, nuclear weapons and Ayatollahs, was positive, especially about the friendly folk who lived there. I just had to see it for myself.

With only one day set aside for visiting Iran before jetting off to South Korea, I knew going to the mainland was out of the question: the visa hurdles were just too cumbersome. No, the only way was to fly to a place called Kish Island (pronounced Keesh), an Iranian free zone, where a visitor could procure a 14-day visa on arrival, free of charge, without any burdensome formalities whatsoever. Glitzy hotels, shopping malls and lush beaches would greet me when I got there. The Iranians’ wish was to make Kish Island their Dubai.

The only way to reach Kish Island from outside Iran is to fly from Dubai. Kish Air runs a series of scheduled flights every day and, if I booked sensibly, I could be on the island by 11am, see the sights and be out by 8.45pm: plenty of time to see an island three times smaller than the city of York.

Kish Air

Kish Air flights are popular with workers from the United Arab Emirates, mainly Filipino visa runners living in Dubai. Every month or so, they leave the UAE because their visas are about to expire. To get a new one, Dubai immigration has to stamp them out of the country, which then allows them to fly to the cheapest different country. After 24 hours, they can fly back into Dubai to collect another visa. A nice little industry has grown up around these visa runners, with quick thinking Iranian companies on Kish organising airport transfers and cheap hotels for these short term visitors.

Located in the bowels of Dubai Airport’s Terminal 2 is a tiny office belonging to Kish Airlines. For anyone living outside of Iran, visiting the office is the only way to buy flight tickets. The Filipino woman behind the desk seemed efficient, tapping away on her computer. She told me there was a seat for me on the next day’s flight. “But why you go to Kish for only one day?” she asked.

I had my excuse ready; I would probably be asked the same thing when I arrived on Kish Island. “My wife is shopping in Dubai and I can’t face that – so I’ve decided to visit Kish instead.”

“So holiday is purpose of visit?”

I nodded and she wrote something down on a form. After I handed over 699 Emirati dirham (about £100), she gave me a printed-out piece of paper showing that I was booked on a return Kish Airlines flight the next morning. I thanked the woman and caught a taxi into downtown Dubai for the night.

Filipino Visa Runners!

The next morning, I was at the airport good and early. As predicted, the vast majority of my fellow passengers were Filipinos. The women chatted animatedly while the men flicked through websites on their phones. All the women had free-flowing locks, which they would have to cover with headscarves upon arrival in Iran. As well as the Filipinos, there was a troop of young Sri Lankan men in dark suits. Most of the suits were ill fitting – too big and wide. The men seemed too young to be businessmen and I was intrigued about why they were going to Kish. The answer came a few minutes later when one of them stood up and I caught sight of a badge on his lapel. They belonged to a Dubai-based snooker club flying to a billiards competition on the island.

The Kish Airlines jet arrived: a colourful but older jet that had seen better days. When the call to board came, we all did, trudging along a cabin engraved with Alitalia markings. When I located my assigned seat, a headscarved woman in a Kish Air uniform yelled at me to move to the rear. When I protested, pointing out my seat number, she yelled even more. “Move to back. Any seat. Go!” While I scarpered, she yelled at another man. When he looked blankly at her, she flipped her lid and shoved him towards the rear. He ran for his life. Then she yelled at a Filipino woman who was trying to sit down near the front. She was the angriest stewardess in the world, and her colleague further along was almost as bad.

Even so, the flight was full and, once we were airborne, a sandwich was thrust my way, and then, before I had time to settle down or consider how stupid it was to be flying into Iran, we landed. It had taken thirty minutes to fly across the Arabian Gulf to our destination.

Exiting the aircraft was a novel experience. Instead of departing from the side door as normal, a hatch at back opened, and a ramp lowered to the tarmac. A set of small steps let us directly beneath the tail.

Kish Airport

Kish Airport was small. The queue for immigration was long, though, giving me the chance to study my surroundings. We were in a rectangular room heading towards the one and only security official in the building. Most of the Filipino women had already donned headscarves, which they must have brought themselves. They were all chatting away, laughing and joking; no one seemed apprehensive, apart from me. The immigration officer was working quickly and, when it was my turn, I steeled myself for some hard questioning: after all, I was the only Westerner in sight. The man looked at me, took my passport and then started turning through each page. Any sign of an Israeli stamp, and he would refuse me entry. While he searched, I regarded the young girl in the booth with him. She was aged about six and had a colouring book and some crayons. She looked like his daughter. The man’s eyes flicked upwards. A second later, he stamped my passport and handed it back. That was it: I was free to enter Iran. Welcome to Beautiful Kish Island, a large sign read.

“So glad you made it,” beamed Rahim, my guide for the day. His accent was thick but understandable. “I told you immigration would be easy for you.”

Rahim was about thirty years old, clean-shaven with a Western-type haircut and clothes. He looked nothing like the Ayatollah or any of his robed and bearded cronies. He had been living in Kish for five years now, after escaping the big city of Tehran.

I shook his hand, smiling. I’d secured Rahim’s service after an internet search a few days previously. Tour guides on Kish Island were thin on the ground, I’d quickly discovered, and Rahim was the only one who had returned any of my emails. After reassuring me that Kish Island was safe, and that Islamic extremists would not kidnap me, he described the many things I would see. After that, we had arranged to meet up.

Just then, his phone rang. As we walked towards his car, Rahim began chatting away to someone in thick Farsi. A minute later, he finished his call and apologised. “Just a colleague from work. They want to know why the computer systems are down. I told them yesterday, but they do not listen. And I am the boss!”

“Oh, so you’re the boss of the tour company?”

“Tour company? No, I work in an IT department. I only show tourists around in my spare time. Today, I told my colleagues that my car needed a service and so I would be out all day – but still they ring me! This is the tenth call this morning. I hope you don’t mind me taking them.”

The airport road was pristine, light in traffic but busy with billowing green, white and red Iranian flags. Large shrubs, punctuated with tiny red flowers, lined the road. I might have been in Dubai or perhaps Kuala Lumpur: everything looked deliciously tropical and clean. Further on, perched above a roundabout packed with palm trees, was a large billboard depicting the Ayatollah Khomeini. It reminded me instantly that I was in the Islamic Republic of Iran.

What religion are you?

“Tell me,” said Rahim, “what religion are you?”

I bristled at the question. I didn’t know how to answer. It seemed rude even to ask. Was it bad to admit being a lapsed Christian? Was it worse to lie and say I was a Muslim? Outside, the streets of Kish were quiet. A huge, blue-glassed building was on our right, emblazoned with ‘Kish Trade Centre’ on its front. It looked like a shopping mall. In the end, I decided to answer truthfully. “I was born a Christian, but stopped going to church when I was ten. So I have no religious beliefs.”

Rahim nodded thoughtfully. “Same as me. I was born Muslim – and still am – but I do not follow teachings of Islam like my parents do in Tehran. For a start, I like beer.”

This revelation really surprised me – not just that Rahim drunk alcohol, but that the regime even allowed it on Kish. “I thought Iran was a dry country?” I said.

“It is, but if you want beer, I can get some for you. But there is a catch. It costs $20 for one can of Heineken. People smuggle it in from Dubai by boat. But there is lots of non-alcoholic beer in Iran. Every shop in Kish sells it. I will buy some for you later. It is my favourite drink – except for real beer, of course.”

The Underground City of Kariz

Our first stop on the Kish Island sightseeing extravaganza was a place called Kariz, an ancient underground city that the Lonely Planet described as a ‘commercially-driven complex masquerading as a historical site.’ Rahim thought differently, telling me that, although the site had been modernised to attract visitors, the central section – a pre-Islam hydraulic well system known as a qanat – was over a thousand years old and well worth a visit.

“Kish Island is made of coral,” he told me as we pulled into the empty car park. “The people who lived here thousands of years ago dug into the coral and made wells and tunnels. When it rained, fresh water filtered down through the well, and by the time it got to bottom part of qanat, it was pure enough to drink. This is how people survived in such an arid place. Come, I will show you.”

We both climbed down some circular stone steps into the catacombs. Once underground, Kariz did look a little showy and false. It was atmospherically lit and it had a man’s voice speaking in a Farsi monotone filtering in through hidden speakers, presumably explaining what I was seeing. It also had a cafe and a gift shop, but it did have the central qanat, a chimney-like vent, which, as Rahim had explained, cut vertically through the coral to strike the surface and open air above our heads.

“In ancient times,” Rahim told me as we wandered past a deep chasm resonant with the sound of running water, “the channels were so large that sheeps could use it.”

I was astonished. Why would a sheep use a water channel? “Sheep? Down here?”

Rahim nodded solemnly. “Of course. Many sheep.”

It was only later I realised he meant ship.

Another section of the underground city was full of pottery and pieces of woven cloth. Rahim tried his best to explain the importance of them, but to me, a pot was a pot, and it didn’t matter whether it was from the Neolithic period or from IKEA – it held no interest. I was a heathen of the highest order. Perhaps sensing my impatience, Rahim said we would head back up to ground level.

Comfor-table!

Back on the road, I asked Rahim where he had learnt to speak English. We were driving along a palm-fringed highway that featured plenty of cranes and construction. Kish Island, it seemed, was going through a building boom.

“School,” he said. “Everyone has to learn it in Iran.” We were now passing another large billboard of the Ayatollah. With his large white beard and fierce expression, he looked a man not to be trifled with. Rahim glanced at me. “Why? Is my English not good for you?”

I told him I was impressed by it.

“Thank you. So let me ask you something. When you are sitting in nice chair, how would it feel?”

It was an unusual question, and I had no clue how to answer it. Rahim could see I was confused, so he tried again. “Okay, if you were sitting in nice chair, would you be aching or would you feel . . .” He left the sentence hanging, waiting for me to finish it.

“...comfortable?”

“Yes! Comfortable! That is the correct way of saying it. But when I was at school, our teacher told us it was pronounced ‘comfort – table’, you know, like table in a house. So that is how I said it for many years until I met someone from England. And he said it like you just did. So what I’m saying is this: I think I speak English well, but sometimes I will say something wrong – but I am blaming my old English teacher, a man who never set foot outside Tehran in his life. I can hear him now - Ajus–table, collec–table, regret–table.”

Another case in point came up a few minutes later. At the side of the road, travelling at some speed was a man on a horse. I pointed him out to Rahim, who nodded absently. “Yes, people on Kish ride the cow often.”



If you enjoyed this tale of Iran, the you might enjoy the full story:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Africa-Asia-continents-eleven-countries-ebook/dp/B01KQNALKE/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1471757311&sr=1-1&keywords=africa+to+asia+jason+smart

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