Not-So Turkish Delight - Part the Second

... The Nasty-Looking Customs Officer leaned forwards and snatched my passports from my hands - one of which was stamped with a valid exit stamp. Before I could say anything, a police officer had appeared at our sides. The police officer - i.e., Our New Security Officer - then conferred with The Nasty-Looking Customs Officer - a conversation augmented with wild gesticulations and punctuated by more phone calls. We looked at Our New Security Officer beseechingly.

"No problem," he told us, no problem being one of the five English phrases in his repertoire of Stock English Phrases. "Walk 50 metres, turn left. Go to Police Station." (... thus almost exhausting his full repertoire.)

"My passport," I insisted, motioning to the Nasty-Looking Customs Officer. Call me prudent old-fashioned, but I really don't like being physically separated by my passport for any length of time or distance.

"No problem," he told us.

Our fellow travellers in the snaky line behind us sniggered and craned their heads in our direction as we were sent away. Oh goodie! I thought. We get to be The Entertainment for the Great Unwashed - yet again.

We made our way to the Police Station - and by Police Station, I mean a counter in a corridor - handed Mr. This Cat's (Not Abroad)'s passports to a Nice Young Officer and explained the situation. He looked at Mr. This Cat's (Not Abroad)'s very empty new passport and his very cluttered old passport with his very valid Turkish entry visa. "What's the problem?" he asked, rolling his eyes and shaking his head.

"The Nasty-Looking Customs Officer at Booth #8 is a pinhead," I responded thought to myself. He scribbled something on Mr. This Cat's boarding pass and handed it back to us. "No problem," he advised us.

We wound our way back to Our Security Officer, who looked at Mr. This Cat's new & improved & approved boarding pass and, with a look of unbridled triumph said, "No problem!"

Relieved, we returned directly to Booth #8 - now less entertaining to our fellow passengers since we were allowed to jump the queue - and handed the passports and the new & improved & approved boarding pass to The Nasty-Looking Customs Officer. He thumbed through both passports and looked suspiciously at the boarding pass, but after once again keying in every number listed on both passports (including his father's phone number, I think), he gave Mr. This Cat an especially filthy look and picked up the phone. People in the line behind us began to grumble and shift from one collective foot to the other. I prayed that the Angry Villagers they had no access to torches and pitchforks.

This isn't exactly a field day for us!!! I shrieked (inside my head).

At this point, a feeble little light went off in our otherwise poorly lit and very empty brains. Suspecting that the problem might lie with Mr. This Cat's cancelled residence/work permit (which might be somehow confusing our security friends at the airport), Mr. This Cat presented the booklet to The Nasty-Looking Customs Officer. He picked up the phone again. Before we could say anything, Our New Security Officer had reappeared at our sides. He then conferred with The Nasty-Looking Customs Officer - a conversation augmented with wild gesticulations and punctuated by more phone calls. The sighs of exasperation emanating from the heaving mob of increasingly cranky fellow travellers behind us increased in volume. Subtle, they were not. We looked at Our New Security Officer beseechingly.

"No problem," he told us, no problem being one of the five English phrases in his repertoire of stock English phrases. "Walk 50 metres, turn left. Go to Police Station. Photocopy." (... his repertoire of English phrases now fully exhausted.)

"My passport," I insisted, motioning to the Nasty-Looking Customs Officer. Call me prudent old-fashioned, but I really don't like being physically separated by my passport for any length of time or distance.

"No problem," he told us and huzzah! - handed my passports and boarding pass to me.

The Angry Villagers, brandishing their torches and pitchforksOur fellow travellers in the snaky line behind us sniggered and craned their heads in our direction as we were sent away. Oh goodie! I thought. We get to be The Entertainment for the Great Unwashed - yet again.

We made our way to the Police Station/Counter in a Corridor, and handed Mr. This Cat's (Not Abroad)'s passports to a Different Nice Young Officer and explained the situation again. He looked at his very empty new passport and his very cluttered old passport with his very valid Turkish entry visa and the new & improved & approved boarding pass and the cancelled residence/work permit. "What's the problem?" he asked, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. He picked up the phone and made a phone call. He drew lines across pages of Mr. This Cat's (already) cancelled residence/work permit and, handing it back to us, said "Photocopy these three pages," he said.

We have to photocopy them? Is this not a Police Station/Counter in a Corridor? Is it not equipped with a photocopier? (It isn't.)

"Where?" we asked.

"Walk 50 metres, turn right," he said. "No problem."

Why is everything 50 metres away in this airport? Fifty metres will bring us back to Passport Control. Is this the only double-digit number airport employees know? (It is.)

We walked 50-ish metres and found ourselves at a shoe repair. Seriously? I asked Mr. This Cat. The cobbler looked at us and we looked at the cobbler. There were no shoes in our hands. Everyone was confused.

"Photocopy?" we asked, hoping that we would not be instructed to walk another 50 metres (which in all fairness, might only be 15 metres). He pointed to a bookshop about 10 metres way. Ahhh, that makes sense.

We walked the additional 10 metres to the bookshop and had Mr. This Cat's cancelled residence/work visa photocopies. We returned to the Police Station/Counter in a Corridor and handed the paperwork to The Different Nice Young Officer. He scribbled this and that, and returned everything (sans photocopies) to us.

"No problem," he said.

We wound our way back to Our New Security Officer, who looked at Mr. This Cat's new & improved & approved boarding pass (which had not changed since our last visit) and, with a look of unbridled triumph said, "No problem!" Perhaps he had received a phone call from The Different Nice Young Officer because he motioned us through a side-exit and poof! - we bypassed both the Angry Villagers (now brandishing torches and pitchforks) and Booth #8, without ever having to wish The Nasty-Looking Customs Officer a pleasant day.

Huzzah!

The entire procedure took 45 minutes - a length of time that might have been considerably shortened if one person had said something along the lines of: we have a cancelled residence/work visa on file for Mr. This Cat's (Not Abroad). May we see it sir? Interesting how we had no problems entering Turkey just 2 weeks earlier. In any case, unlike our colleague, we did not almost miss our flight because our airport taxi service had insisted that we leave 5 hours before our flight. Suddenly, this seemed like a wise move - but for different reasons than those anticipated by the taxi company.

We made our way to the boarding gate and boarded a bus which would take us past herds of exotic planes whose names were hitherto unknown to us (who's ever heard of Havaş or Sabena Airlines?). I suppose our section of the airport was reserved for those planes which time and the International Air Transport Association forgot.

Our flight to Kurdistan - or Northern Iraq, as Turks prefer to call it - was unremarkable save for the laudable efforts of the flight attendants to ensure that tea was served at breakneck speed. This, by the way, would include serving tea while descending to Erbil. This naturally meant that there was no inclination time to check and enforce those pesky little safety measures which so often get in the way of making and serving tea. I could mention the gentlemen who chose to stand and chat in aisles as the plane taxied to our runways or the cellphones which were never turned off, but I prefer the elderly shepherd (I swear I heard bleating coming from the aircraft hold) who sat next to Mr. This Cat. Not only did he choose not to wear his seatbelt at any point before, during, or after the flight but, rather than keeping his tray in an upright position during take-off, took a nap on it instead. Perhaps he was just waiting for his tea.

Welcome to Kurdistan, baby - or rather, Northern Iraq.