Commentary

Nude Teri Hatcher in a Suitcase

Getting to Saudi was the hardest part of visiting the country. The beginning of the trip was filled with petty details and endless tasks.

The first was getting a visa. Three months before I left, this had already turned into a nightmare. The Saudi government had no record of me leaving the country from three previous visits in the past two years, even though I had only arrived twice. It was not "in the computer" which is another way of saying "we screwed up... again." To clear the mess up I had to send a photocopy of my previous visa to the company liaison in Jeddah. After a couple of weeks we finally got the matter squared away and they believed that I had actually left the country.

To get a visa is not as easy as it may sound; the Middle East is still quite unsafe no matter what people on CNN would have you believe. Until this trip I had never heard of anyone being denied a visa. It was only after my arrival that I found that people have not been permitted entry because their names were spelled incorrectly or they were living in "Englund."

The procedure itself takes about six to eight weeks and requires filling out a cornucopia of documents. The first set of documents I had to fill out was an endless list of information they could have easily gotten via the U.S. State Department. The next set asked the same stuff with a little more detail. The last three questions were: where was I staying, who was my sponsor and what was my religion. My first instinct was to write desert, Nike and Rastafarian. To avoid the sort of complications I had two years ago when I put down "atheist," I kept it simple I put down "Christian." It was declaring a major I didn't have.

The last of the documents was the scariest of the all. It was headed by the Saudi Arabian coat of arms: two swords crossed at the bottom of a date palm (or was that an oil gusher?). It was followed by a paragraph in Arabic that read from right to left, which was about all I could understand. Thankfully it was followed by a translation that read:

I hereby certify that, during my stay in Saudi Arabia, I shall abide by all the laws and regulations of the Kingdom and I shall respect the morals, customs, values and feelings of the Saudi society. I also should not smuggle in any prohibited items. I am aware that alcohol, drug narcotics, pornographic materials and all types of religious, political or cultural leaflets, pamphlets, magazines, books, audio tapes, video tapes, films or other references of all sorts, contradictory to Islam are prohibited from entering the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, whether for sectarian, religious or political purposes. Any types of illegal drugs and narcotics smuggling in and distribution inside the Kingdom of saudi Arabia is punishable by DEATH. I agree that, if I am convicted because of violation of the laws and regulations of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, I shall be subject to penalty.

With some apprehension I signed the document, wondering if I might hang for the Hunter S. Thompson book I was carrying with me or if I might face a firing squad if someone planted a Playboy in my carry-on luggage.

I then sent my passport and documents to my sponsor company in San Francisco and they sent the documents to the Saudi Consulate. I received them only two days before my departure. The visa would allow me to stay in the country for three months, even though I stated I would be going for only three weeks.

The quest for entry did not end with the simple acquisition of the visa. Immigration and customs are some of the most horrible things a person could be made to suffer through when in the Middle East. It was eleven thirty at night, but it was actually midday for me. I hadn't slept in thirty hours. I was drunk three hours out of Seattle and remained so for almost twenty four straight. My vision was blurry and I knew that I still had to go through more red tape to get into the country.

The entire process is generally quick.This is when you find out if all your forms paid dividends. I stood in the first line only to realize an hour later it was the slow one. At least three people had been denied entry and then refused to leave the line. At this point you have to push ahead of them. You get a couple of scowls, but the immigration officers really don't seem to care--you're only walking past people they've blackballed anyhow.

All the company men in full dish dashes (robes) and gutrahs (head pieces) had come and collected about 30 passports and moved straight to the front of the line, at which point about 30 people from behind you could go past you and slip by.

By the time I finally reached the counter it was almost nine in the morning. I smiled and handed my passport to the military officer behind the desk. He punched a couple of buttons on the computer, all in Arabic. He punched more buttons. After about two minutes he looked up to me and said, "No visa, goodbye." Had I been denied entry? It was hard to think; my brain was still foggy from the trip over, maybe I smelled like booze. He repeated in his broken English, "No visa, goodbye. Goodbye."

"Well give me my passport then." I wasn't leaving without my passport.

He gave me a strange look, rebooted his computer, typed on the keys some more and stamped my passport. He handed it back to me and I gave a quick thank you in Arabic. He apparently had tried to make a joke with me. It was somewhat funny, but I had more important things to worry about, like customs and how to fend off the 50 or so porters trying to grab my bag.

Customs in Saudi is normally a long drawn out process where you have your luggage almost completely unpacked and then you are forced to stuff everything back into it in a matter of minutes. After three visits to Saudi and several others elsewhere, you learn to get in line behind Nigerians. They are almost always taken aside and searched elsewhere. This is due to large volume of the opium trade being operated through Lagos, Nigeria. They hauled the poor guy in front of me away and sent me directly through without even checking my bag. I could have had kilos of crack for the masses, a full bar, the Communist Manifesto and Teri Hatcher nude in my suitcase and they wouldn't have known.

As I left the customs hall to find a driver I passed a mammoth suggestion box. I was tempted to suggest that if they got their immigration officers to quit shaking hands with every Abdullah or Muhammed that passed by they might get their job done a little quicker. My higher reasoning penetrated my fog-like stupor and I left to find the driver.

When I initially started documenting my little excursion to Saudi, I was just writing things as they happened. Completely chronologically. Now, looking retrospectively, this little story is a lesson in what it is like to deal with bureaucracy at several levels. With the current election, it has become somewhat timely.

I hate to break it to any of you folks thinking the contrary, but Nader or Perot just isn't going to happen. Even poor Bob Dole doesn't stand a chance, even if the Democratic National Committee (that's the Clinton camp, folks) has been taking money from illegal foreign sources. We are going to get Clinton again. The general principle of the Democratic party is to help people through government programs, expansion of those programs and regulations to hold your hand throughout life. The growth of bureaucracy is bad. If you thought my little journey and run-in with government officials was more a result of the language barrier, you are wrong. How many times have you had to go through living hell known as the DMV? If you can count them with less than one hand you more than likely have some degree of sanity left. If you think that's an ordeal, you should see the garbage people are subjected to at the INS or IRS. Bureacracy is a horrible thing everywhere.

Gordon Gilbert is still sharing his Middle Eastern experiences in the Oregon Commentator