Solihull, We Have a Problem

After seeing the Pink Mosque, my guide Mehdi and I returned to El Guapo. He started up normally, I put it in reverse and started to back out of my parking space. Suddenly, the air con stopped working, which immediately caused me concern, as in past experience this has always been the first sign of a serious electrical fault.

Interior of the Pink Mosque

More signs of trouble soon appeared. The alternator light came on. The tire pressure monitoring system screen went dark. Nonetheless, the vehicle was still running, so somewhat against my better judgement, we continued to our next stop, the former hammam, or bath house. I didn’t learn so until we toured this facility that Reza Pahlavi Shah ordered all the hammams in Iran closed some 85 years ago, as he considered them a sign of backwardness. This one was preserved as a museum.

I pulled into a car park and thoughtlessly turned off the ignition. I tried to start again. As I expected, nothing. Fortunately, Shiraz is Mehdi’s home town, and he knew plenty of people. A mechanic was contacted. He would meet us in an hour’s time, after we finished the bath house tour.

When we returned to the vehicle, he was waiting. Although I explained it was a waste of time, we tried jump starting the vehicle. Nothing. I dug out my multi-meter and checked both batteries. 12,6 volts from each. Not the problem. The mechanic suggested we swap out the battery and drive to a garage. Again I explained it was a waste of time, but again I was ignored. A friend of Mehdi’s would bring a fully charged battery. In the meantime, we had some lunch and then went to see the nearby castle.

Mehdi’s friend was waiting when we returned. Again I showed him that the batteries were charged. ”Try it anyway” they said. Doing so is not so easy with El Guapo, as he is outfitted with a dual battery system. First, remove the driver’s seat and open the battery compartment. Remove the terminals from both positive battery posts. Remove the terminals from the negative battery posts. Remove the two bolts that secure the batteries into place. Carefully slide out the bracket without shorting out either of the batteries. Remove the leisure battery. Slide the starter battery forward and remove it. Drop the new battery (actually, it was an ancient, filthy, acid-leaking mess, but it was fully charged) into place. Connect the terminals. Demonstrate that the vehicle still will not start. Take momentary satisfaction from the ”I told you so” moment. Then painstakingly reverse the procedure. Now you have wasted a full hour in the hot Shiraz sun, but now Mehdi is persuaded he needs to call a tow truck.

Poor El Guapo :(

The tow truck arrived shortly and we followed it through Shiraz traffic to a garage on the outskirts of town. The mechanic there quickly confirmed what I had been saying all along — burnt out starter motor, a motor which in fact I had just had installed less than a month earlier when the previous one failed in a similar manner. Clearly some underlying problem was causing El Guapo’s starter motor’s to burn out, but I had no idea what. A vehicle electrician was summoned from another garage. They couldn’t figure out how to remove the starter motor, which is buried deep in the engine bay and not easily accessible. They insisted it would need to come out through the top, which would necessitate dismantling the diesel injection system. I knew this not to be the case, and told them to remove it from below. They couldn’t manage it, and it was getting late. I had the entire workshop manual for the vehicle on my laptop, but it was back at the hotel. We agree to return early the next morning to deal with it.

The driver and Mehdi collected me from the hotel, with laptop in hand, early the next morning. We headed back to the garage. We decided to have the vehicle towed again, this time to the electrician’s garage. Mehdi found a flat-bed, and soon we were unloading the vehicle at the other garage. No sooner did we finish, however, than Mehdi finished a phone call and told us he had found a better mechanic. El Guapo went back on the flat-bed and we all headed to the third garage.

More Indignities

We left El Guapo with the mechanic and headed to the Necropolis and Persepolis to do some sightseeing. The Necropolis tombs, which included Xerxes and Darius, were carved into living rock in the style of Petra. Nearby was a curious, cube-shaped stone temple of apparently unknown purpose and origin. This one was in almost perfect condition, and we saw another similar but half-ruined one the next day at Pasargad. Both were reminiscent of the Ka'aba in Mecca, and I can’t think of any similar structure — a simple stone cube -- anywhere else in the world. My fiancé would no doubt attribute all three to aliens, a theory supported by ancient, pre-Islamic legends that say that the Ka’aba is ”not of this world” and that it was build by ”angels” who came from the sky (some legends say it was the Archangel Gabriel, specifically). I cannot contribute meaningfully to this discussion other than to say it certainly had a very alien feeling about it.

I'm not saying it was aliens, but...

Next was a sight I had been wanting to see for a very long time — Persepolis. But first we had an update from the mechanic. The starter motor was burned out, and nothing could be done to repair it. I would have to find a way to put my hands on a replacement. I had the driver pull over in the shade, and I rang my friends in the parts department at Nene Overland in the U.K. No, they did have a starter on hand. Yes, they could get one next day. Shipping to Iran? Not sure — would have to check with TNT. An email came through a few minutes later — no problem with shipping to Iran. I rang Nene again and gave them my credit card info, and I was promised it would be on its way to me the next day.

The stone carvings on the palaces at Persepolis were in amazing condition — indeed looking very recently carved; this is because for centuries they were buried in the sand until being rediscovered by and excavated under the guidance of the famous German professor and archaelogist Ernest Herzfeld in the 1930s. This had also saved the ruins from intentional destruction by the Arabs in the 8th century, who did demolish what parts of the ruins they knew about. Mehdi was quick to remind me the Arabs would not hesitate to have another go at destroying this site if given half a chance, just as they had done recently at Nineveh in Iraq.

Even before seeing the cubic temple that morning I had been put on the alert for signs of ancient aliens by my fiancé, who had informed me that Persia was a focus of alien activity in ancient times. I am generally skeptical of such theories, but was taken aback when I found a carving that appeared to show helmeted astronauts in one of the palaces (the Mirror Palace).

Ancient astronauts? Or just guys with really bad fashion sense?

After our tour we headed back to the mechanic’s workshop, where we were able to observe the remains of the motor brushes for ourselves. For reasons unknown, the mechanic said he was not able to remove the starter motor without first removing the front left mudguard, which in turn could not be removed without de-installing the water pump for the shower system. Not sure why — as I said, this was my third starter motor and it had not been a problem to remove it before. He assured me he could get everything back together again, but I am skeptical. In any event, nothing to be done now except to wait for the new motor to arrive. Or for aliens to intervene somehow.

Blogndog

4 July 2015

Isfahan

That’s No Mirage, I’m in Shiraz!

Abadan was swelteringly hot when we left, as it was the whole time we were there. In fact, besides being the site of the refinery that was essentially the start of British Petroleum, and also the focus of some of the bloodiest battles of both WWI and the Iran-Iraq war, Abadan’s main claim to fame is having the highest known temperature on the planet, a heat burst that hit 87° C in June 1967.

The road started flat, straight and smooth across a featureless, shimmering plain, and continued that way for several hours. An escarpment arose in the distance, and eventually we started to climb into some hills. The road twisted through a series of rugged red canyons and steadily gained elevation. Twice I was stopped by police — once for speeding, and once for overtaking on a curve; both times managed to be declared innocent on grounds of insanity. On entering Shiraz province, the hills became proper mountains, and soon we were crawling along a series of switchbacks behind a long queue of heavy lorries. El Guapo managed to pass them one by one, leaving my guide looking a bit pale at times. Finally the road levelled out and soon we were on the outskirts of Shiraz.

We dodged vehicles, motorcycles and pedestrians for a few kilometres before arriving at edge of the old city, where my hotel was located. I turned down a narrow alleyway, and drove into the old city itself. The streets grew narrower as we got closer, at one point requiring us to fold in both wing mirrors to squeeze through a particularly narrow passageway, but we made it to the hotel and safely parked El Guapo in the car park.

Got up early the next morning to have a stroll around the old city before joining my guide about 9:30 to go to his agency to settle my bill. Due to sanctions, there was no way for me to pay for my trip in advance, and the agency had made all of the arrangements based only on my my email commitment to do so on arrival. Honouring that commitment, I counted out a big stack of hundred Euro notes for the agent.

At last, we were ready to do some sightseeing. Our first stop was the Pink Mosque, a beautiful 19th century tiled edifice with incredible stained glass windows. Finally my trip was going smoothly…or was it?

Blogndog

3 July 2015

Isfahan

Kafka, Schmafka — Welcome to Iran!

Last day of bureaucracy! (I hope). Got an early start, and my guide and I headed to the traffic police to get temporary Iranian number plates. After waiting our turn, we were told they had no more plates, and we would have to go to the police in Khorramshahr to get them. But first, we would need a letter signed by the Abadan Chief of Traffic Police, and he was not in the office. And the vehicle would need to be inspected. We headed to the inspection facility, and hoped that the Police chief would arrive by the time we returned.

Inspection was relatively efficient. We handed over our documents and drove inside. The inspector asked me turn on my headlamps. I did so. He asked me to put the vehicle in reverse so he could verify that the back-up lights were working. I did so. ”Thank you, you have passed inspection.” Another signed, stamped form was added to my bulging document wallet.

We returned to the traffic police. Still no chief, but we struck up a conversation with two mysterious guys driving late model vehicles — a Toyota Land Cruiser and a BMW Z4 — with Kuwaiti plates. I’m not really sure what happened next, as most of the discussion was between them and my guide in Farsi, but a few minutes later, we had the letter from the Police chief and we were driving into Khorramshahr to pick up the number plates. I waited outside with one of the guys while my guide disappeared into the building with the other. Half an hour later my guide emerged carrying a stack of number plates. We drove back to the Traffic Police, waited our turn, filled out more forms, handed over more copies of my passport, signed and fingerprinted a bunch of documents, and finally was issued a registration card. Went outside with the new plates and waited for a guy with a drill and a rivet gun to attach them. While we were waiting, another ”customer” emerged from the building, clutching his new number plates to his chest. He kissed them and shouted ”Allahu Akbar”. I looked at him sympathetically. ”God bless Iran!” he said, ”because nobody else will!"

My new plates were fixed on top of my Qatar export plates, as I would need them when I left Iran. We were done. We drove back into Abadan, had lunch, and set off towards Shiraz. Allahu Akbar.

Blogndog

2 July 2015

Shiraz

Iran at Last

I was directed to pull over a few meters inside of Iranian territory. The same border guards who had been so surly the day before were all welcoming smiles. First order of business was to search the vehicle, which is a task they apparently enjoy immensely. Since they were speaking in Farsi, I didn’t understand most of it, but just about every one of my bags elicted a wise-crack from one of them, which would cause the others to pause and laugh hysterically before retorting with an even funnier joke of their own. When they opened my box of camping supplies and saw the canisters of Camping Gaz on top, they shouted ”bomb!!” in unison and feigned ducking for cover. When they were done, all shook my hand warmly and bid me welcome to Iran.

A customs official accompanied me to the customs shed, where El Guapo would have to remain until clearance procedures had been completed. After parking, I returned to the border post and started the immigration process. All the while, a friendly English-speaking guy in street clothes made casual conversation with me, but it was obvious he was with the intelligence services, inquiring about my family, my job, my life, and my politics.

Back at the border post, after waiting an hour for the right official to show up, I was formally interviewed, and again asked detailed questions about my life, my family, my beliefs, etc., this time with no attempt to disguise it as friendly conversation. In the end, the agent apologised for having to do so, explaining that procedures required it. In particular, he asked if had any knowledge of Iranian history or politics. ”Yes,” I replied.

”What is it you know?”

”I know a lot — is this a test?”

”What specifically do you know?”

”A lot. Would you like to start with ancient, Mediaeval, or modern Persian history? The Sassanids, the Timurids, the Safavids, the Qajar or the Pahlavi?”

That was it. My passport was stamped, but then I was told I would need to be fingerprinted. I assumed this was the standard border fingerprinting process, using a scanner, but instead I was put in a car and driven to police headquarters in Abadan. I was led upstairs to a small room adjacent to small dark cell, with a small and sad looking man gazing out through the bars. Directly in front of the cell was a table with an ink plate and roller. One by one, the police officer rolled my ten fingers in ink, and then again onto a fingerprint form. I thanked him, washed my hands, and then we went to our hotel in Abadan. It was now 14:00 (during the summer, you lose and hour and a half crossing from Iraq to Iran), and everything was closing, so customs procedures would have to wait until the following day.

Next morning we returned to the border post and first got a letter from the Customs chief at the border that would allow us to take the vehicle. We needed to get formal permission for import from Customs headquarters in Khorramshahr, where the General Director was expecting us. We drove to his office at Khorramshahr port, but found he had gone to a meeting back at the Salamchech border crossing, where we had just left. We waited an hour, and finally dispatched a driver to take our form back to Salamchech to have it signed. Finally, by 12:00 we had the signed letter. On our way in, we had engaged a clearance agent, and we found him in the first of three different facilities he would have to go to complete the import process and handed our documentation over to him while we went to buy insurance.

The insurance agency was in a tiny storefront on a nearby side street, and was staffed by a single agent. She prepared everything, took my premium, gave me a receipt and proof of coverage and we were on our way. We caught up with the clearance agent in another building. I mostly sat in chair for two hours while he went from one window to another, every so often waving me over to say ”pay this guy 100 dollars,” or ”sign this,” or ”give this guy a copy of your passport.”

Then we drove to another building near the entrance to the customs facility. The carnet was examined. Another copy of my passport was handed over. El Guapo was visually inspected. Another payment was made, and more forms were stamped. Finally, a gate pass was issued. I drove out and the clearance agent announced, ”congratulations, you have cleared Iranian customs.” I paid him his fee of 4 million Irani riyal, took my paperwork and drove off, arriving at our hotel in Abadan in time to watch Poland beat Iran in the FIVB World League volleyball tournament in Tehran.

Not quite done though, although again, it was now late in the afternoon, so the final procedures would have to wait until the next day.

Blogndog

2 July 2015

Shiraz

If at First You Don’t Succeed...You’re Probably at Some Crappy Middle Eastern Border Crossing

The next few days passed in a blur of hopes raised and dashed, frustration and success. A brief chronology:

Friday

I parked El Guapo at the entrance to the Iraqi side of the Shalamcheh border crossing post. Didn’t have any proper camping equipment, but at least I had a cot to get me off the ground and safe from the ”cobras” the soldiers warned me about, which I set up alongside the vehicle. The first of many acts of kindness and generosity I was to receive from the personnel at this post in the coming 48 hours was having the police commander park his Ford F-150 on the other side of my cot, and put a barrier in front of me, so I was sheltered by vehicles on both sides, protected a bit from wind and shaded from the sodium vapour lights glaring at the entrance. Thankfully I still had a sandwich and some other food I brought with me from Doha, but despite the long day, I slept only fitfully, and was wide awake by 6:00.

Waiting for Major Saddam

Saturday

Spent two long hours watching the empty and entirely uninteresting landscape around me slowly brighten. Finally the post commander, introduced to me as Major Lawa Saddam, arrived in his convoy, and his men at the entry post explained my situation. He welcomed me and promised what help he could provide.

First, of course, there was more waiting around to attend to. I followed the soldiers to their barracks, where they made me a surprisingly delicious breakfast, made all the more impressive by the fact that they were fasting and couldn’t join me. We waited around until 10:00, when the Major summoned us to his office. His translator was waiting, and I was asked to ”leave my firearms” at the entrance. We quickly sorted out the papers needed for exiting the vehicle, and these were handed over to the appropriate functionary. Next, I needed an exit stamp, and the Major assigned one of his men to escort me to the ”Hall of Going Away” for this purpose. However, the ”Going Away” team directed me to the arrivals hall, which directed me back to some more senior functionary on the Going Away side. Papers were signed and stamped, and taken back over to the Arrivals side. I was photographed and fingerprinted, and finally, given an Iraqi exit stamp. I returned to the vehicle and drove up to the crossing. The Iraqis removed the barrier so I could cross. I started into Iran. Four guys came out waving their hands madly and shouting in Farsi. I rolled down my window. The Iraqis tried to help. I rang my Iranian guide, who was waiting on the other side, for assistance. After a half-hour stalemate with El Guapo straddling the international border, it was established that I needed to go back to the Iranian Consulate in Basra and get my vehicle papers translated into Farsi. The Iranians insisted it would take ”only 15 minutes." I turned El Guapo around and headed back to Iraq.

Everyone's favourite part of visiting in Iraq – the "Going Away" facility

I was not thrilled at the prospect of leaving the border post, and I had no idea where in that chaotic city the Iranian consulate was. I tried to get one of the Major’s men to give me directions, but the Major instead directed one of them to escort me. First, however, I needed to get my exit stamp cancelled It was 10:20 by the time we left, and 11:00 by the time we reached the Consulate. We were admitted immediately, but then learned the Consul was in a meeting and would not be free for an hour. However, I was invited to meet with some other very friendly but irrelevant functionary; I think he was the Literary Attaché or something like that. Nice work if you can get it.

After waiting an hour, I was informed that no such document (e.g. vehicle information in Farsi) was required, and the that the Consul himself had spoken with the chief of border post and he had confirmed this. He advised me to leave the vehicle on the Iraqi side, cross on foot to Iran, sort our the paperwork, and then return to retrieve the vehicle.

I returned to the border post, this time being waved straight through to the Major’s office. I parked the vehicle, and got a new exit stamp. I again approached the Iranian side. I told them what had transpired at the Consulate. They refused to budge. I called my guide again and told him what was happening. He said he would come straight away. I waited on a bench about two meters inside Iranian territory for him to arrive. We argued with the border guards. Finally, they agreed to go let us talk to Iranian customs, so we were escorted through immigration and driven across the complex to the Customs Office where we were able to meet with the director. He referred us to Customs HQ in Abadan, about 7 km away. He examined my documents, assured me that all was in order and that there should be no problem; however, the office was closed for the day.

I crossed back over to Iraq. Major Saddam had left for the day but his men were under instruction to take care of me, so I was put up in the Major’s own office complex, which not only featured the Major’s huge office and majlis, but also a staff room with a giant map of Iraq where I could plan the decisive counter-strike against ISIS. The staff kept bringing me food and tea as I caught up on the news on the Major’s flat-screen TV, and finally I went to sleep, praying to Jesus, Mohammad, all the Angels and Saints, all the Buddhas and Bottisattvas, the spirits of my ancestors, and especially St. Christopher for success the following day.

One of the many luxuries in the commander's headquarters at the Shalamcheh border facility – a choice of soap colour

Sunday

At 8:00 sharp I crossed over to Iran again, again met my guide and was escorted to the passport control office. My guide took all the paperwork, leaving me to watch TV in the Passport control office and catch up on the news of the nuclear negotiations in Geneva and Bree Newsome’s successful removal of the Confederate flag from a flagpole on the South Carolina Statehouse grounds. Two and half nail-biting hours later he returned with good news and bad news. First, apparently Americans are not actually permitted under Iranian regulations to travel to Iran in their own vehicles, and I was urged to consider leaving the vehicle in Iraq, visiting Iran, and then returning to my vehicle (what is it these people don’t understand about me taking the vehicle to Europe?). If I did so, I could enter Iran immediately. The good news — they would be willing to make the first ever exception (yay!), but I would have to begin the import process the following day (boo!). In the meantime, however, I could bring the vehicle over and park it at Customs.

I dashed back to Iraq. Went to say good-bye to Major Saddam and thanked him profusely again, and offered him my final tips on how to crush ISIS. Got Saturday’s exit stamp cancelled, and got a third Iraqi exit stamp for Sunday. Retrieved El Guapo and once again, drove up to the border post. The Iraqis removed the barrier on their side. The Iranians opened the gate on their side. I drove through the crossing and into Iranian territory.

Good-bye Iraq, Hello Iran

Blogndog

Shiraz

1 July 2015

Road Trip!!

Wednesday of last week had a farewell lunch with my colleagues from the Strategy Department. Early Thursday morning picked up my passport from immigration and was ready to hit the road. My colleagues came downstairs to snap some photos of me with El Guapo, all loaded, fueled up and ready to go (El Guapo was, not my colleagues). At this moment, sitting in the lobby of my hotel in Abadan, Iran, it seems hard to believe that was just a few days ago; the intensity of the experience in the interim makes it feel like it was some time last year.

I left the Ooredoo Tower in West Bay, Doha around 10:00. Arrived at the Salwa border crossing with the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia a couple of hours later, and started getting the export paperwork processed. The first of many bureaucratic snags I would stumble over in the following 72 hours was that the vehicle was destined for the Czech Republic, and they couldn't find "Czech Republic" in their computer system, so they announced that I could not export it there because "this country does not exist". They thought "Republic of Chad" was probably close enough, and so that's what they put on my export form. They did not yet know that when I travel, I am protected by very powerful Guardian Angels. I looked up at the agent, and then over his shoulder to the window behind him, where just at that moment a huge lorry just pulled up and came to a stop immediately outside the window. Emblazoned on its side was the "Hortex" logo and the words "Brno, Czech Republic” in meter-high lettering. I directed his attention to the window and the lorry parked directly outside. "No," I said, "there is a Czech Republic, and that's what you are putting on this form." Whomever implemented their system did not put the countries in any particular order, so it wasn't easy, but eventually we found the Czech Republic in the system, I finished the paperwork, had the vehicle inspected by customs and I left Qatar.

A few minutes/meters later I was in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia and dealing with the first of many extremely friendly, completely incompetent officials I woud encounter over the coming days. With my export certificate, which specified that the vehicle was being exported to the Czech Republic, I was only permitted to travel on a route towards the specified destination (Chad, of course, is in an entirely different direction). Unfortnately, their system actually did not have the "Czech Republic," and so on a Thursday afternoon in Ramadan in the KSA, I had to wait while they emailed the central IT support function for Saudi Customs in Riyadh so they could implement a new route in the system. After waitng three hours, I finally was directed to a customs area where El Guapo was searched yet again, a Customs tag was attached, and lots of paperwork stamped. I used the last of my Qatar Riyals to pay the fees, but then had to go buy insurance, which was 50 Riyal. When I explained to the agent I had no Riyal, he took 50 SAR from his own wallet, and then refused to let me repay him after I went to the cash machine.

I was about half-way to Damman when it was time for the Maghreb prayer and the end of the fast. El Guapo needed refueling so I pulled off the highway, but was flagged down (along with other motorists) by a group of Saudi teens distributing snacks for travellers to break their fast with -- a zip-loc bag with some dates, yogurt, cheese, water, lemonade and some religious literature in Arabic. There was no one pumping fuel when I arrived at the filling station; I wandered around a bit and found the entire staff in a tent at the rear breaking their fast. They invited me to join them and so spent a half-hour eating before anyone could see to El Guapo. 112 litres of diesel, 28 SAR.

Free Iftar Snack!

I got back on the road and continued towards Kuwait. I arrived at the border around midnight. Yet another computer problem. Exiting the KSA, the immigration officer asked me my destination, I told him "Kuwait City", but for some reason the system kept rejecting his input. He tried several times and even showed me the screen. He said he would have to call Qatar. When he finally spoke with them, it turns out what he wanted was my final destination, the Czech Republic, not my destination for that evening (Kuwait City). Once he changed the destination, it accepted the input immediately.

Things were worse on the Kuwait side. First, I had to get a "visa on arrival". As is typical, there were about 12 guys in the immigration office, but only one tired-looking, chain-smoking guy wearing a filthy uniform and a baseball cap was processing applications. After a half-hour wait, finally it was my turn. There was a bit of a scramble as they tried to locate an English-language visa application form.

Apparently, visitors to Kuwait are managed by the "Parts Department" (just ask for "Earl" or "Leroy")

Visitors to Kuwait are required to attest to their "auerudedsement" of the terms of their visa

I completed the form just as it was time for Mr. Efficiency and all of his colleagues to go on their break so that they could eat before dawn. After another half-hour wait, finally he returned and issued my visa. Now all I had to do was get the vehicle cleared in. I was directed a very nice agent, young, enthusiastic and eager to do his job right. He informed me I would need to have Kuwaiti plates put on the car and that couldn't be done until Sunday (it was then very early on Friday). I argued with him, asked to check. He found his manager. His manager confirmed that he was wrong, but that in order to bring the vehicle in, "you must have a 'Trip Ticket'" (Carnet). I produced my Carnet, he looked at it and said, "no, you don't need this." A coven of Kuwaiti customs officials was assembled in the conference room. Experts were telephoned and the spirits of departed officials were summoned. The ancient prayer of customs officials, "लेअसे प्रिन्त् च्लेअर्ल्य् उसिन्ग् ब्लोच्क् चपितल् लेत्तेर्स् इन् ब्लुए ओर् ब्लच्क् इन्क्”* was chanted aloud. Incense was burned. My documents were passed around the room and scrutinized by each officer in turn. One declared, "the vehicle can transit Kuwait, but it must go on a trailer."

”Why?," I asked

"The certificate says it must go by road."

"Driving it is going by road," I countered.

"But it doesn't say you can drive it."

"It doesn't say I can't"

Ten pairs of eyes squinted at the certificate. There was a long moment of silence. Finally one voice announced "he is correct -- it doesn't say he can't drive it". Other voices murmured their agreement. The skeptic was silenced. "He must buy insurance!" announced another.

"I have insurance"

"You have? Let me see"

I produced my Orange Card. It was passed around. One declared it was insurance for Qatar, as it was issued by the Qatar Insurance Company. With a dismissive scowl, his colleague read the Arabic text on the back of the certificate aloud -- "UAE, Oman, Yemen, Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia, Libya, Somalia, Egypt, Lebanon, Syria, Iraq AND KUWAIT." Another skeptic silenced.

Finally, the cabal announced its collective judgement. A short form would need to be completed, signed and stamped. The insurance office would have to stamp my Orange Card, and the Export Certificate would need to be stamped. I walked over to insurance office with the Orange Card and got it stamped. When I returned, the other documents were ready. Smiles and handshakes all around. I was on my way.

I arrived at the Kuwait City Sheraton around 4:00, checked in, went up to my room, ordered and ate some breakfast, and went to sleep around 5:30, just as dawn was breaking. Slept until 11:00 or so, went downstairs, checked out and was back on the road north by noon. 85 km (about an hour) to the Iraqi border. I arrived at the initial checkpoint, where a Kuwait soldier waved me off, ”not here, this for Iraq”.

”I know.”

”You go Iraq?”

”Yes”

”No”

”Yes”

”Yes?”

”Yes”

”OK"

I drove past the checkpoint to the customs office. The usual scratching of heads and assembling of the elders ensued, but they figured the vehicle exit process reasonably quickly, completed my paperwork, and directed me to the immigration hall to get exit stamped. The soldier who had greeted me at the entrance followed. My passport was passed around and the Iraq visa carefully eyeballed. A green sheet of paper was waved at me — ”you cannot leave unless you have this paper.” I had no idea what it was or where to get it.

”You must get this from the airport”

I tried to argue but it was pointless. I returned to the customs building. Phone calls were made on my behalf. There was no other way — I would need this special green paper or I would not be leaving Kuwait for Iraq. With the assistance of the Customs officials, we eventually found a recent notice on the Kuwaiti Ministry of the Interior website, and only in the Arabic section of the site (the corresponding English page said ”Under Construction”), informing passport holders of a couple of dozen countries that with immediate effect, permission from the security section would be required for those wishing to travel to Iraq from Kuwait. The very first country on the list was ”America" ("أمركا"). It was now Friday afternoon, during Ramadan, and the Security Office would not be open until Sunday morning. I would lose two full days.

The helpful Customs team showed where on Google maps the Security Office was. I drove back out of the border post and headed back towards Kuwait City, intending to return to the Sheraton and hang out for a couple of days. On my way there, I decided to first go find the office, so I would know exactly where to go on Sunday. I found the airport without difficulty a bit over an hour later, and then with the help of a friendly cop, found the security office. I decided to park and see exactly where the office was. As expected, when I found the building, it was dark, but decided to try the door anyway. To my surprise, it was unlocked. I stepped into a darkened lobby, and then went up the stairs to a large, deserted, open plan office. I wandered around the dark, silent space but found no one there. I was just about to leave when I heard faint voices coming from one corner, and followed the sound to the immense corner office occupied by the director of the security office, a big guy with 3 stars on his lapels, who was apparently catching up on some work over the weekend with his deputy. I explained my situation, or at least tried to, but I have very limited Arabic and their English was even more so. But once I mentioned ”Iraq” they understood what I was after. ”No problem,” they said, ”we do it now.” My guardian angels saved the day again. The deputy led me to a workstation where he sat down, logged in, and entered details from my passport. A blank sheet of the precious green paper was produced. They hit ”print”. Nothing happened. They stared at the machine, they cursed at the printer. They tried a different printer. Success! Stamp, sign, done. I thanked them profusely, ran back to El Guapo and raced back to the border.

Why, yes, I do have a special green paper

I arrived just before sunset, and just as the customs official who had helped me earlier was putting up a barrier at the entrance to the border station. ”Did you get it?” he asked. I triumphantly waved my green paper. ”Come with me,” he said. I followed him to a building on the other side of the complex, and started to bring my paperwork. ”No, no,” he said. ”we’ll finish that later. First we have to eat.” I followed him into the building where the entire staff of the border facility was seated on the floor, waiting for the end of the fast. Plates of dates, yoghurt, fruit and bowls of lentils were already waiting. After a few minutes, the end of the fast was invisibly signaled and we all tucked in. We had a short break, and then the main course was laid on — roast chicken and lamb, vegetables, rice, and pasta. Finally, some Arabic sweets for dessert.

Iftar with Immigration

At last I was ready to get my exit stamp. The immigration team returned to the departure hall, but still wouldn’t stamp me until the military representative gave the OK, and he was nowhere to be found. I spent another half an hour waiting around before immigration finally agreed to stamp my passport. I set off down the final 500 meters to the frontier gate. A final check of my documents was done, and the hydraulic gate on the Kuwaiti side was opened to allow me through. The Kuwaitis bellowed to their Iraqi counterparts. After some time, two disheveled guys appeared, one carrying a walkie-talkie. He spoke into it. I understood enough Arabic to know that he was informing someone that he had an American passport-holder at the gate who wanted to come through. Eventually, permission was received, the rickety iron gate on the other side was opened and I drove through into Iraq.

I entered into a dark, deserted area, with no pavement and a few decrepit shacks. First they wanted to search the vehicle. We started the process, but then the guy with the walkie-talkie got me alone for a minute and offered to expedite the process for 100 dollars. I countered with 10 Kuwaiti Dinar (about 35 dollars). He accepted. Next, the usual vehicle formalities, completed by a decrepit gentleman in filthy pajamas sitting in an equally decrepit shack. Then immigration — fingerprinting, photos, etc. all performed in an eerily dark, vacant and run-down facility. There was no evidence that anyone else had recently passed through the facility. Finally, I was ready to depart, and I headed off to the barrier at the exit.

In prior experience, this final exit check is quick and routine — they just check to make sure the guys inside have done their jobs properly — is the passport exit stamped, are the vehicle papers in order. Three uniformed soldiers stood at the barrier, the first reasonably professional looking guys I had encountered since entering Iraq. They insisted on searching the vehicle again, and then declared that my GPS would not be permitted to enter Iraq. I was directed to return to the customs facility. Eight guys questioned me over the next hour, and again the vehicle was searched, this time with great thoroughness. In the passenger footwell, alongside my discarded crisp packets and water bottles, they found the Arabic literature that the Saudi teenagers had given me along with the Iftar snack. I was questioned at length about this. When I say ”questioned at length,” I mean they kept asking the same stupid question over and over again. I had actually snapped a photo of the bag (see above) and I showed this to them. I couldn’t get the simple point across that I had no idea what the book said. In the end, they gave me two options — surrender my GPS or return to Kuwait. The GPS was an 800 dollar Garmin Monterra, but I had no other option. It was locked to the dashboard mount, so I had to partially unpack the vehicle again in order to dig out the special tool needed to remove it. Finally, I was permitted to return to the exit barrier and this time, it was lifted so that I could depart. I was finally free!

I started down the road. Less than a minute later, I was flagged down by soldiers demanding my passport. I was on the verge of losing it — I had only 74 km to cover in Iraq, but at this rate it was going to take forever. Eventually, my passport was returned and I asked them the way to Basra. They escorted me to the main road, and I started on my way. 10 minutes later, a military checkpoint. Again I am stopped, and this time escorted to the commander’s office. My papers are checked. I am offered water and juice. The commander doesn’t speak English, so he phones his brother, who does. The brother explains that there is no problem with me, everything is in order, but he is concerned for my security. He makes some calls, and is obviously frustrated. Finally, after a half-hour, he sends me on my way, asking me to be careful.

I drive as fast as I can on the poorly surfaced and maintained road, dodging pot-holes and random obstacles. I am detained by police again — this time only briefly — two more times in less than an hour. About three-quarters of the way to Basra, I’m hurtling along at 100 km/hour at the left side of the roadway when suddenly the road narrows by several meters. I suddenly find myself driving with my left wheels in deep, soft sand, and my right wheels still on the roadway. I struggle a bit, but manage to bring the vehicle back under control, and back onto the roadway. If I had done that in anything but a Land Rover it would have been a disaster for sure.

Without my GPS, I am reliant on Google Maps to get me to the Shalamcheh border crossing with Iran. Fortunately, it gets me across the Shatt al Arab and to the crossing without difficulty. Unfortunately, when I arrive I am told that I would have to wait outside the border complex until the commanding officer, arrives at 8:00 the next morning. So began the 72-hour saga that eventually ended with me sitting here in my hotel in Abadan, with El Guapo safely parked out front.

Blogndog

29 June 2015

Abadan, Iran

*"Please print clearly using block capitals in blue or black ink"

The Waiting is the Hardest Part

After working in Qatar almost exactly eight years, I am "moving on to new challenges", although not in a rush to get back to work any time soon. One of the things that has kept me sane during the last four of these eight years was buying and then extensively modifying a 2010 Land Rover Defender 110 station wagon, since christened "El Guapo." Carrying out these modifications consumed so much of my time during the winter months (when it is cool enough to carry out such work in Qatar), that I had few opportunities to enjoy its many capabilities until recently. I did a few weekend camping trips to the Inland Sea, but only this past March, when I drove around Oman in it with the amazing woman ("MJ") who has since become my fiancé, did I get to take it on a proper trip. Everthing performed beautifully -- both the original Land Rover equipment, and nearly all of the numerous modifications I installed. At some point, I will get around to doing an extended blog entry on this vehicle, but for now just want to keep people updated on my current adventure.

After getting the excellent news from my employer, Ooredoo Group, that services were no longer needed, I started the long and complicated process of exiting Qatar -- closing the bank account, terminating my lease, shipping my belongings, etc. It is a notoriously complex process, but for some reason I felt compelled to make it even more complicated by deciding to leave Qatar by driving El Guapo across the Middle East (yes, that Middle East) to Europe.

With ISIS in control of much of both Syria and Iraq, the "traditional" route -- through Saudi Arabia, Jordan, Syria and Turkey was not possible. Civil War in Libya took option 2 -- Saudi-Jordan-Egypt-Libya-Tunisiia and then ferry to Italy -- off the table. So the only viable option was via Iran and Turkey. Getting to Iran though still was a bit of a challenge -- either I would have to take a ferry from either the UAE or Kuwait, or drive through 74 kilometers of southern Iraq. This part of Iraq is relatively safe, with "relative" of course being the key word here. Given my previous experiences with ferries in the Middle East, I decided to chance it with the second option.

First step was to book a tour to Iran, which is the only way Americans and Brits are permitted to visit the country as tourists. I emailed a half-dozen or so agencies, almost all of whom responded that it was not permitted for Americans to bring their own vehicles to Iran and would not assist me. One of them, Pars Tourist Agency, agreed to assist with the understanding I would have to sort out the vehicle formalities without their assistance.

Found a lot of info on-line about bringing a vehicle into Iran -- nobody made it sound easy, but it certainly seemed possible. At the borders with Turkey and Turkmenistan there are "fixers" who can help facilitate with the formalities, but none seemed to operate on the southern borders. However, I contacted one of these fixers and he confirmed for me what the Iranian embassy in Doha had told me, which is that it could be done, but that it would be necessary to have a Carnet de Passage. I visited the Qatar Automobile and Touring Club on C-Ring Road in Doha, which is the AIT entity authorised to issue Carnets in Qatar. They told me it was simple as long as I had a Qatari guarantor.

Carnet de Passage

Over the next few weeks, I sorted out my Saudi transit visa, finished booking my Iran tour and getting my Iranian visa, and submitted an application for a visa to the Embassy of Iraq in Doha. They told me to come back in two days, but when I did, I was told no visas could be issued. In order to protect certain individuals who assisted me, I cannot provdie details about how I overcame this, but after six more visits to the embassy over ther subsequent days, I finally was the proud owner of an Iraqi visa.

Finally, my Iraq visa!

Not going to get far without being able to enter Saudi Arabia

And finally, my Iran visa

In the interim, I had finished packing up and moving out of my house, returning my Liquor Licence, getting my electricity and telephone turned off and settling the final bill, getting export plates put on my car, and getting an "Orange Card" insurance certificate for the vehicle.

Getting El Guapo fitted with export plates

Orange Card

All that remained was to get my residence permit cancelled, and to "make like a hockey player and get the puck out of there," as they say in Canada.

Blogndog

28 June 2015

Doha