And so, the Iranian embassy. We arrived early, before it had even opened, so had our passports low down in the pile, meaning we were attended to quite early on. As usual, I was the one ushered thro’ the door, searched with the portable metal detector, directed across the courtyard + into the visa section. It was odd from then on, however, for when he had taken my name + looked thro’ the file, he appeared puzzled. Misinterpreting, I tried to help him out. I had spotted my own photo – vanity! – + tried to show it to him, but he almost snatched the file away. I was then ushered in to see the Consul himself – at first, he was as puzzled by my appearance as I was, until the man I had seen bustled in to explain. In Persian of course, so I was none the wiser. And then I was told to return to the waiting-room – I would be called.
So I did, + there we sat, for about another two and a half hours, until they were just about ready to close. When I was called back, it was merely to be informed that they were sorry, but our application had been turned down. I can’t say I was dumbfounded by the shock, because the earlier pantomime had prepared me for something of the kind, but this conformation of my fears was still a devastating blow to our hopes. Why had we been turned down? He couldn’t say. Was there any chance of appeal? No. Why had we been kept waiting for so long? To verify the decision. Would a letter from our embassy help? He shrugged. Perhaps. Before Thursday? A wan smile. No. Could we apply again in a different country? The first positive response. Oh yes, of course. His chance of sending me on to someone else.
I broke the news to Val; she, too, was not really surprised, but as we stomped out, the emotion that gripped us both was of helpless rage. Why us? Why are you doing this to us? Because of course we were now in a difficult, almost impossible, situation. Iran blocks the overland route to Europe, + we didn’t think we had enough money to fly over. In order to find out for sure, we went straight to the Student Travel office. Sure enough, they told us that the cheapest flight over Iran was to London, + that was way beyond our means. So we had 2 options – to send home for money + fly, or go on to Pakistan + try again. In earlier hypothetical discussions, about what we would do if what had just happened happened (tho’ without any real fears that it would) I had always proposed the send for money option, the other seeming to me so risky. But now I had swung to Val’s idea. Our rejection seemed so arbitrary – why shouldn’t we succeed if we tried again. And even if we failed, we would have lost nothing but time + a little money – we would at least have tried.
We were dejected + hugely depressed, but life had to go on, so we carried on down to Super Bazaar, the area near the stn, to have a meal. We were also able to try a different travel agent, + rec’d a vastly lower quote for a flight home, with Aeroflot via Moscow. Still beyond us, but at least it would mean sending for a more reasonable amount. But we were still decided – Pakistan, + try again. At least our experience here, + various conversations with other travellers, had given us a couple of pointers to help our case, most important that we would support our application with a letter of recommendation from our embassy. And we wouldn’t, of course, mention that we had applied + been turned down elsewhere.
Today was Saturday, so of course the evening passed in the usual way, tho’ I also poured out some anguish in a long letter to Pete.
Quite a blow, as this account testifies. But also, apparently not unexpected, just one of the random impacts to our lives that we had more or less come to expect. And at least it meant we were (sort of) back in charge of our own future again. Not really, of course, for if we were turned down again, we really would have no choice but to send home for cash, and then have to wait around for it somewhere. Which was decidedly depressing as a prospect. But, for the time being, we would at least be on the move. And westwards, towards home.
COW
