Iran Visa Process, Part II

Don't worry, you didn't miss Part I while scrolling down the blog. This multi-phase operation commenced a few Wednesdays ago when, taking my cue from the outdated website, I attempted to get visa information at the Irani Consulate after work. With Driver Sahib at my side to help with the Urdu, I learned that the consulate was closed, and that visa information can be obtained only in the mornings. Happily, it is open on Saturdays, contrary to what the website says. In order to ascertain this information I resorted to reciting the Urdu names of the days of the week, saying 'open?' after each one. (If I ever take Profe Khanoum's advice and put these musings into book form--ha!--I think I'll title it My Year of Looking Foolish.)

Driver Sahib told me later that the guard kept asking him (in Urdu) "She's American? But she knows Panjabi words!"
"I do?" I asked. Driver Sahib explained that Monday (Pir), Tuesday (Mangal), and Wednesday (Boodh) are the same in Urdu and Panjabi.

So, Part II. After working three 18-hour days in a row to take a Very Important Person from Our School around town, Driver Sahib graciously showed up at our apartment at nine in the morning to take me back to the Irani Consulate. (I should have realized that would happen once Major Sahib asked Driver Sahib to fill in as VIP's driver. I sent him home two hours later.) Anyhoo. I outfitted myself in my most conservative version of Pakistani clothes (full-length sleeves, muted colors, dupatta on head), grabbed my passport, and headed into town. The man in the visa closet gave me a blue application form printed in English and Urdu and directed me across the street to a small park/grassy area where I could get my picture taken and fill out the form.

Perhaps twenty women, far more bundled up than I usually see in TLC, waited on benches in a little shelter to one side. A few feet away, several men were squatting under a tree, filling out the blue forms attached to clipboards. An autorickshaw and a bus (colorfully painted, as is usual here) were parked along the curb, and that is where Driver Sahib took me. A middle-aged man with a poloroid camera in one hand and the other hand wrapped in gauze directed me to stand next to the bus and in front of his colleague, who was holding a white sheet. (The photo must be against a white background.) He snapped the photo as I stood in the little side street, carefully not smiling as per C.'s instructions, while kids on bicycles and the occassional auto-rickshaw whizzed by.

That done, the photographer led me over to the parked autorickshaw where another scribe was seated in the back. The scribe invited me to take a seat in the front, and asked to see my passport, secondary ID, and visa photos. He looked over my official stats and asked (in English),

"Your name is Ubiquitous Elizabeth?"

"Um, yes." He wrote the name in Urdu script.

"Father's name?"

"Papa Pidgeon." Again the scribe transliterated the name I gave him, on the next line.

"My name is also Pidgeon," I interjected in what I hope was correct Urdu. ("Mera nam bhi 'Pidgeon' hai.") He looked up at me, confused. I pointed to where he'd written my name. "Ubiquitous Elizabeth Pidgeon." He added my surname.

"And your occupation? Housewife?"

"No, teacher." He didn't catch the English word.

"Ustad Amrikan school mein hai," chimed in Driver Sahib. ("She's a teacher in an American school.")

"Ah." The scribe smiled.

We went through a few more minutes of that until the scribe asked me my reason for travel in Iran. "Tourism," I said. "And I want to learn Farsi." At this point Driver Sahib, ever thoughtful, interjected. He pointed out that Farsi classes are available right here in The Lovely City, at the Iranian Cultural Center (where we had mistakenly gone the week before, looking for the consulate). "You remember?" he asked. There was no need to go to Iran, he assured me--a much more convenient and less expensive option existed right down the street.

I had no idea how to explain in Urdu that a) it was hard enough to keep up with Urduwallah during my lessons without simultaneously trying to learn Farsi and b) if I didn't actually go to Iran I wouldn't be able to see Esfahan, which my friends tell me is really quite necessary for a happy life. I gestured apologetically to Driver Sahib and and made what excuses I could.

In the end it turned out that there will be at least one more installment in this saga, as the visa will only last for three months, and the scribe therefore suggested I come back in late May if I don't plan to leave until after the end of the school year. Stay tuned for further adventures in the Iran Visa Process.