Tehran – Flying West

The Iran Air midnight flight from Kuala Lumpur to Tehran was surprisingly crowded. The Iranian passengers came with loads of their luggage – seemed to be enormous number of shopping goods during their holiday in Malaysia – queued in font of the check-in counters in Kuala Lumpur’s new, modern international airport.

Iranians were always as what I have knew before, curious and friendly as usual. It was not hard for me to start conversations with other passengers. First there was a woman who just finished her shopping holiday. Then there was another man who had to open his carry-in luggage (as the police saw him bringing too many powders in his suitcase but it seemed that the man was too obsessed in buying milk powder, instant coffee, instant juice, and all other powder drinks – strange things to buy from a country as far away as Malaysia).

While waiting in the crowded, messy lounge (somehow didn’t match the modernity of KL International Airport), I chatted with Omid, a 30 year-old-man who had been working for more than 7 years in Malaysia but spoke only a few Malays sentences. We chatted in English and Farsi.

“This plane is full because it’s near to Noruz, the Iranian New Year. All people are going back to Iran,” said Omid.
“I felt lucky I booked earlier, I thought the flight might be empty as not many people willing to go to Iran,” I said. But I was wrong, for sure. It might be right that there would be almost no East Asians going onboard. I saw only 3 other non-Iranians among the some hundreds Iranian passengers.
“It is interesting to see what these people prefer to buy after long shopping in far-away Malaysia,” said me pointing those instant food products and baby pampers among the goods that the Iranians brought for check-in.
“You know, I have a baby myself,” said Omid, “and the baby pampers we have in Iran are imported from Dubai. I have tried different brands in Iran, but really nothing is more comfortable than this one from Malaysia.” I didn’t see Omid’s luggage but I bet he also brought some baby pampers with him.

The flight itself to Tehran was started midnight, completely dark. I fell asleep easily just after I got into my seat, until the veiled fat stewardess in her mid forties served the late dinner. The dinner was indeed not bad, but I was more interested at the veiled flight attendants and how they did arrange the seats for women passengers (all were veiled). The plane even had special room, a small mosque, for the Muslim passengers to perform namaz (the Muslim’s prayers), not far from the toilet. Just a small wonder, how they should face to Mecca direction (qibla – to which direction all prayers should be directed) as the plane kept moving its direction. The existence of mosque inside a plane was interesting enough for me, as we didn’t have this yet in Indonesia (probably). Islamic Republic of Iran, being an Islamic republic, was indeed different.

The plane landed in Tehran’s old airport, Mehrabad Airport, at inconvenient time of 4 a.m. Iran time. Tehran by this time was surprisingly bright from the sky. It was the same image when I came to Iran for the first time, five months earlier, just after crossing the Afghan border. The highways of Mashhad at midnight were lavishly bright. So was Tehran at this dark time. All road lamps were turned on and you could see the detail of the roads of this sleeping city from air.

Passing through the passport control was straightforward, but not the customs check. We had to wait more than one hour to get our luggage delivered out from the plane, and another one hour to queue with about 200 Iranian passengers to pass the X-Ray machine. Some passengers with huge amount of shopping items had to open their luggage for hand check by the officials.

“They will have to pay tax,” said a passenger to me, “This is Iran. We even don’t have freedom to use our own money. This is our own money, actually we should be free to use it, to buy things as we wish, as it’s our own property,” he grumbled.

The Mehrabad airport was cold and anonymous. It was an airport without identity. The temperature of winter midnight of Tehran was a sudden surprise after the humid, evaporating Indonesia and Malaysia. Omid dropped me to Sadeghieh Metro Station with his car, from where I could get metro to the city center. This time was 06:30 but it was still dark.

In front of the ticket office, I just realized, I didn’t have even any single Rial with me. I begged to the veiled girl selling tickets, and she gave me a ticket free of charge. It was not a matter that the ticket was actually very cheap (750 Rial = 750 Rupiah), but it was the willingness to help a poor stranger which was adorable.

Malaysia and Iran have 4 and half hour time difference. I was very tired but I couldn’t sleep as my body clock still couldn’t adapt to the sudden time change. I forced my exhausted body to get to the Uzbekistan embassy to apply for visa anyway.

The Uzbek embassy address was on Nasdaran Street on Pasdaran avenue, but after I arrived in Pasdaran avenue and asked around, nobody knew about Nasdaran. It took me long time to walk through thain road as some pedestrians told me they knew exactly where the embassy was. I followed the direction and after long walk it turned to be Oman embassy. The guards of Oman embassy told me to take a taxi, which immediately brought me to the address. It was indeed hidden in small alleys.

I was there just to be told that the visa should be obtained from the consular office, not from the embassy. And it was some blocks away. The time showed 11:30. The man from the embassy said in Russian, “Hurry up. The embassy closes after 30 minutes.”

I ran away following his direction, but I got lost. After running back here and there, after being exhausted chasing time, I arrived full of sweat and evaporated in energy, in front of the consular office hidden in a smaller alley (Park e Chaharom, the 4th Park alley). It was indeed a miracle that I could find this place.

The visa itself was fast and straightforward. The Iranian woman officer worked together with the Uzbek consul in the small office. The Iranian woman took my invitation letter, printed all of the information, and printed the visa in less than 10 minutes. I paid, the consul signed the visa, and that was all. I even didn’t need to fill in any forms.

After getting this visa I needed nothing but sleep.

But a visit to Indonesian embassy delayed my desperate. Here the consular staff was keen to give spiritual speech to anybody and I received some photocopy prints of his recent religious lesson. He kept chanting his spiritual achievement with his eyes shut closed, while I was listening by keep saying, “Yes sir, …, that is right, sir… wow, that is indeed a wisdom sir, …”

I fell asleep myself in the embassy.

After being 3 hours in my own embassy for just a simple registration, I felt the air of freedom again. When I reached my hotel, I fainted.