Alone in Iran

Fox News’ reporter Amy Kellogg has gone to Iran, without her usual cameraman and producer, because Iran would only issue Fox News one visa.

Scary!

Here is an excerpt:

I took the overnight flight from London to Tehran, which arrived at 6:30 in the morning. Iran said it would only grant FOX News one visa. Usually I travel with a producer and a cameraman. This time, I was entirely on my own.

Since I am a U.S. citizen and America has no diplomatic ties with Iran, I figured going through the arrival routine might be a nightmare. I had arranged, at the cost of $100, to use the CIP service: Commercially Important Persons. I never thought a journalist (except maybe Barbara Walters) could be considered "commercially important," but apparently anyone with an extra Ben Franklin qualifies.

I was met on the ramp by a man in a suit with a sign, then was whisked through the bowels of Mehrabad International Airport. He turned me over to two men in uniform who kept me waiting for a while, and then led me to a remote room in a dimly-lit basement. They couldn't find the light switch in the room, so there we were, the three of us, searching the dark room for light. One of them then fished out a little-used vat of ink and rifled through some papers, as if trying to figure out what do do next. Since America apparently fingerprints Iranians at JFK, there's a tit-for-tat reciprocal arrangement in Tehran. I have never given my prints before so I figured a digit or two would do, then it became clear that all 10 were required. I asked if I could get some wet-wipes out of my briefcase to avoid reaching in with two inky hands later. I don't speak Farsi and they didn't speak much English, so a strange little pantomime ensued. One of my guards gave me a look as if to say, "I am so sorry I have to do this to you." He took the baby wipes from me, opened the packet, and got one ready. I was feeling a bit disoriented, weak, blinking through very dry contact lenses. Cleaning ink off 10 fingers is not easy, and suddenly the officials seemed in a huge hurry to move me along. I began to fumble with my bulging briefcase, trying to close it and find a garbage can for my grimy wet wipe. My scarf slipped off my head. A third man appeared out of nowhere and barked at me to adjust it...

From there I was handed over to my "fixer," the term journalists use for people we employ when travelling to foreign countries to help us "fix" our interviews and video shoots. I had been speaking to this man for months on the phone as the details of my visit were worked out, and felt I knew him already. I was very glad to see him, finally, in the flesh. He shook my hand heartily — he had warned me in advance that he would, so I wouldn't be taken aback. Men and women don't usually shake hands in Iran, but he was relaxed, friendly and raring to go. Time was of the essence.