summer 2017
“Are you coming to Bahrain as a tourist? “Yes, I want to do some sightseeing over the next few days.” He flicks through my passport like Inspector Gadget. He notices the Iranian visa and gawks closely as if he had just solved a puzzle. “What exactly where you doing in Iran?” “I went there as a tourist.” Ten minutes have now passed and the Bahraini customs official is still refusing to let me pass through customs and continues to look uncertain second by second. “I went as a tourist” I answer him for the third time. He pushes me to the side. “Wait here until everyone else gets through.” “No problem,” I reply, as he gives my passport to another customs official sitting in the opposite direction of the emigration hall. It’s now been over an hour and I’m still waiting patiently to be granted entry into Bahrain, uncertain if I’ve missed the last bus to Manama, or if my hotel is aware that I may need to cancel my reservation.
The new custom official finally leaves his room and singles me out. He tells me to come right through. I pass through the emigration desk, without a passport stamp yet, and told to sit down on the seats nearest to his office. He looks like the big deal and maybe the main guy. “So you’re an EU citizen?” “Yes, I was born and raised in Ireland.” “Why were you in Iran?” “I went as a tourist and stayed there for over two weeks, spent some time sightseeing in both Tehran and Mashhad.” “Why did you choose to go to Iran? Do you think that it’s a suitable tourist destination?” “I’m doing a trip around most of the Middle East and one of my earlier countries just happened to be Iran.” He looks genuine, more than the earlier customs official, who rudely brushed me over to one side over an hour beforehand. “What are you planning on doing in Bahrain?” “I plan on doing some sightseeing, I want to see the World Trade Center, Arad Fort, Al Fateh Grand Mosque, Beit Al Quran and I want to do some shopping in some of the malls in Manama. He pauses and goes back to his computer and begins inserting my passport details into his computer. I’m left to wait, unsure if I’ll be granted entry into Bahrain, or if I will need to book a last-minute flight back to Dubai, or maybe even a flight to Kuwait. Things are looking more and more uncertain and the longer I wait, the longer I wonder if I’ll be able to enter.
Another twenty minutes pass by before I’m called. “Please go to customs official number 4,” as I’m now ordered to go back to the other side of the emigration hall. He hands me my passport and I begin walking back, squashing through the crowds. The customs official sends me to the back of the queue, then thirty minutes later finally stamps my passport, but only after a couple of awkward stares and some more questions, some more meaningless than others. Then onto the currency exchange to get some Dinar and luckily manage to locate the bus to Manama. Finally, Manama is everything that I had imagined, though I wish someone had told me, pre-world trip, how going to Iran would cause so many problems in the long run. Either way, a productive day, lots of drama, lots of weird stares, and most importantly- finally granted into Bahrain.
