Det er lunt da vi lander. Men måske skyldes temperaturen mest alle dem der står i flyets midtergang og sveder utålmodigt - broen vil ikke som gate-personalet vil, så der ases og mases, så vi kan komme ud af flyet og ind i The Islamic Republic of Iran.
Endelig lykkes det og jeg traver gennem lufthavnsgange som ligner alle andre og ender i en paskontrols-kø som umiddelbart også ligner alle andre. Bortset fra, at damerne i den anden kø ser meget smartere ud end damerne i min kø. I vores iver efter at se tækkelige ud er vi alle hoppet i vores kedeligste kluns. At tækkelig kan tolkes på mere end én måde opdager vi nu. Og det vil ikke være første eller sidste gang I hører mig brokke mig over egen kusinen-fra-landet-fremtoning. Jeg føler mig uomtvisteligt ærbar, og ekstremt u-chik.
Manden i paskontrollen scanner mit pAs, stempler det. Og vips så er jeg endelig rigtig i Iran. Kufferten ankommer sådan relativt hurtigt, og Imam Khomeini Airport forekommer mig meget lidt eksotisk - indtil jeg skal ud. Så føles det hele pludselig ekstremt mellemøstligt. Der er total flaskehals, folk maser, der står militærfolk på række, og en masse mennesker klapper og råber. Forklaringen? Jeg er ankommet præcist samtidig med landets wrestling team, som vender hjem fra Dubai (?) med hæder og medaljer.
Tyve meter længere fremme ser jeg et kendt ansigt, og vi tager turen hjem i ældre men utvivlsomt utrolig stabil vogn. Jeg noterer med tilfredshed at både olielampen og en eller anden anden lampe lyser konstant, mens speedometernålen på intet tidspunkt forlader 20 km/t. Da jeg senere ser en mand lige stikke armen ud af vinduet og med en løs vinduesvisker lige skrabe forruden relativt ren, SÅ synes jeg endelig at spændingen fra 1001 nats eventyr er ved at være der :-)
Mere i morgen.
@N ~ I spend the last five minutes of the approach to Imam Khomeini Airport fiddling with my scarf. I know that Iranian ladies aren't all that fussy, but I'd really hate it if it fell off just as I was being interrogated by the world's grumpiest immigration officer. So I fiddle. And sweat a little because we have to wait around ten minutes at the gate before the air bridge "docks" correctly. But finally we disembark and I find myself trotting through airport corridors that looks just like every other airport corridor I've ever walked through and I end up at an Immigrations queue that also looks pretty much like any other queue.
Except there's a significant difference between the smartly dressed ladies in the Iranian queue, and the rest of us in the Foreigners queue. THEY all look like they just stepped off the plane from Paris, WE all look like we just stepped off the four o'clock train. Turns out you can interpret "modest clothing" in more ways than one. This is the beginning of my feeling decidedly un-chic, and it won't be the last time you'll hear me moaning about that here :-)
The immigrations officer stamps my passport and FINALLY, after years of wanting to go, I am in The Islamic Republic of Iran. I don't have to wait very long for my suitcase and everything feels very - dare I say it? - like any airport in Europe or the US. Until it's time to exit the arrivals hall. Then it all goes Middle East. Total bottleneck. People pushing. Lots of army personnel hanging around. People cheering and clapping. The explanation for all this? I've arrived at the same time as the Iranian wrestling team who are returning from Dubai (I think) with medals and glory.
Twenty meters ahead I spot a familiar face, break free from possible wrestler fame, and we set out for home in an elderly but without a doubt trustworthy car, owned by a neighbour who owns a minicab service. I note that several lamps, including the oil lamp, are on, whilst the speedometer consistently shows 20 kms per hour, regardless of actual speed. Later, I spot another driver stick his arm out of the window and kind of-sort of clean his windscreen with a loose windscreen wiper. Finally, the excitement from Shezarade's fairy tales start to invade reality. Iran, one is in you. As they say. And so far, loving every minute of it.
More anon!
Sent from my iPad
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