Last updated on January 31st, 2017

Four soldiers stand impassively, their rifles indicating that negotiation is not an option. They guard the border to Turkmenistan. The general is particularly stern, his plump belly straining out of an old uniform, his fierce gaze forcing me to turn around. Behind me are the red mountains of Northern Iran, the individual summits dominating a barren desert landscape. They rise from nowhere, an impassable barrier that seems to symbolize my position. I’m in limbo, lost in the blank space between national borders. I must choose between trying to illegally enter Turkmenistan, or Iran. The solemn and laconic orders of the Turkmen general put a swift end to my first choice. So I bow my head and slowly walk towards Iran, numbly thumbing my British passport.

In 2009 three American hikers were arrested after crossing an unmarked border from Iraq to Iran. They spent over two years in prison. I always thought they were idiots. Why go trekking near the Iranian border without a guide? But now I understand. Nobody plans to enter Iran illegally. It just happens. Step, step, step; each little movement seems suspended in time as I watch beads of sweat snake down my forearms.  Will the Iranian border guards buy my story?

The Path into No-Man’s Land

I had tried to pick up my Turkmenistan visa in Mashhad, but a small printed sign declared that the consulate would be closed for five days due to national holidays in Turkmenistan. Consulting the guidebook I was unable to match the dates. Carpet Day was the last Sunday in May and the National Day of the Melon wasn’t until August.

I lamented my frustration to an Iranian with a gracious smile, who coaxed down the consul with a pleading phone call. The Turkman exuded hostility, but many Iranians have a remarkable ability to tell a story and combat belligerence with charm. He won over the consul (or so I thought). Twenty minutes later I had an unsigned piece of paper with my visa application number printed in large blue biro – 1282. According to the consul, my visa had been approved and I simply had to show this paper to get it printed at the border.

The Difficulties in Entering Iran

It sounded dodgy. I was already in Iran and it had taken three months and as many different embassies to obtain my single entry visa. As soon I was stamped out that would be it. My existing visa would be invalid. Iran revels in bureaucracy and restricting foreigners’ movements. It definitely doesn’t do a visa on arrival. To obtain an Iranian visa, foreigners must detail exactly where they sleep every night. Then each foreigner must try a combination of tactics. Mine were: wait, wait, try a new embassy, wait, new embassy, and go there every day for a week.

But three weeks in Iran had filled me with trust. Everywhere I went I met honest people who were always eager to welcome a foreigner. I’d drank chai with women, slept on the floor of village shops, and made many friends. Locals always liked to remind me that the views of Iranian people are very different from the views of the government. I sought advice from Vali, the eccentric home-stay owner in Mashhad. His business had a vested interest in me staying, but Vali turned around the question and said “why would you not go?” I swallowed any fears of becoming stuck in no-man’s land.

The Negotiations Don’t Start Well

Except the Turkmen soldiers didn’t even entertain discussion. And as I desperately pleaded and probed, they radioed for the back-up. I was naively hoping to bribe the general who appeared. But how do you even give a bribe? Perhaps a rolled up $50 in a cigarette packet? A clandestine note transferred during handshake? The general probably took one look glance at my torn backpack and decided I couldn’t afford it.

Walking slowly, I loose myself in the Iranian mountains, picking out the shimmering red summits as I try and formulate a plan. Honesty seems the best policy. This was a genuine mistake, albeit a rather stupid one. As soon as I dare to make eye contact, words come spilling from my mouth, a convoluted story blurting out, silenced by the soldier’s upturned palm. He doesn’t understand a word of English.

Chapati and Realism

I’m guided into a characterless room; faded off-white walls, a single desk, and footsteps clanking on a concrete floor. The Iranian official arches his eyes at my explanation, twiddling a pen between fingers and not writing anything down. Once again I quickly blunder my way through the story. I sound like a teenage boy confessing to his first love, rushed words interspersed with nervous silence. He studies my face, slowly inspecting eyes and tense smiles. Then he laughs and combines a Persian sentence with unambiguous hand signals: the boss is eating his lunch. I’ve just spent ten skittish minutes explaining everything to the admin.

It feels like two hours before the boss arrives. But that’s a blind guess and I’m aware that time is moving very slowly. During this time the admin took out his lunch and offered me a chapati. I accepted automatically, and then fretted over the symbolism of eating this stale piece of bread. He seems like a good guy, making me feel comfortable with food and untranslatable jokes. My situation is looking up! Then again, maybe he’s just bored. In overanalyzing small gestures I’m overlooking the real predicament: I’m attempting to enter Iran illegally.

Meeting the Big Boss

The interrogation doesn’t start well, boss and admin sharing a good laugh about my inability to recognize the rank of Iranian officials. This time I’ve decided to wait for my cue.  The boss sits and gets comfortable, protuberant belly almost resting on the desk, a military hat neatly adjusted. He thumbs my passport, occasionally peering over the pages to analyze my expression. Rotating his palms he asks for an explanation. Is that a faint smile? Yes! My hopes rise further!

Buoyed by adrenalin I give my most passionate rendition of the story. I’m leaning over the desk, grabbing the passport, pointing to the exit stamp, unfolding the paper from the Turkmenistan consulate, giving the phone number of the Iranian driver who brought me here, re-enacting the actions of the Turkmen general, wait…did I mention that the consulate had been closed? This is, without question, my most incomprehensible version of the story.

Stonehenge and Surprises

An encompassing silence fills the room. The Iranian boss smiles impassively and taps my passport against the desk.

– “British…hmmm…from England?”

– “Errr, yes” this time my words are barely audible.

– “How is England in summer?”

This must be a trap. Pride in my own country will surely indicate I’m a spy. Then again, so would dismissing my homeland as drab and grey. Ahhhh! I’m still contemplating the implications of each answer when the boss speaks again.

– “One day I see England in summer. Stonehenge. Big Ben. Buckingham Palace. One day I see. I take my family and I see England in summer. Yes!”

We spend five minutes discussing famous English landmarks and I assure the boss that each one looks exactly as it does in the pictures.

– “You very lucky. Foreigner very lucky,” the boss continues, “Foreigner always travel. One day I travel.”

A Simple Solution

The next two minutes pass in a blur and suddenly it’s over. From the desk drawer he pulls out a dark blue stamp and goes to work on my visa. It’s that simple. A cancellation stamp now covers my exit stamp. It’s accompanied by a short explanation across the bottom of the page, a few words in Arabic that probably detail my stupidity. According to my passport I never even left Iran. It seems too simple? Yet even as the boss escorts me towards the red mountains he’s still chatting excitably about Westminster Abbey. The Iranian government doesn’t usually receive the best press. So let’s take a moment to realize that there is humility and mercy behind the stereotypes. And let’s consider this desire to travel and see the world. There are some things that unite everyone in this world…

By Stephen Bailey, The Fat Dogs