Beirut Diaries - The Red Tape Between Us

Planning a trip to Lebanon on a Pakistani passport? Pause. Think about what you’re about to get into. Barring money, time and good company – which is the easy part – the visa application process can seriously stall you, even throw you off course.

Just so that more of us can enjoy Beirut, I’ll share the bare, monotonous basics of getting there. Once you’ve worked your way around the unavoidable ‘red tape’, this diary will attempt to offer more laughs than lessons.

  

Some essentials you must know straight out: tourists from Pakistan are not entertained; the Embassy will only issue business visas and most travel agents are oblivious to the business visa application process.

Our experience was riddled with obstacles. When Murad and I applied in December 2011, the Lebanese Embassy website fluctuated between sickness and health like a bad tube light. Sometimes on. Sometimes off. Sometimes inaccurate, showcasing a fashion exhibition!

When the website finally appeared, there was no online application and nobody answered the phone. Murad and I drove to the Embassy in Islamabad. A vacuous security guard greeted us. He left his post unmanned and returned with a middle-aged man. It was clear neither of the two had seen visitors before.

The middle-aged man did not invite us in. He gave us vague processing information and demanded documents we had never heard of. After a series of incoherent instructions, he shared his cell number and said, ‘call anytime’. Every time we called though, it seemed like he had trouble parting with words, like he had suddenly lost the strength to make conversation. For some days we played ‘cat and mouse’ or ‘phone tennis’ as some in our line of work say. In the end, the visa officer came through.

With the Embassy security guard and the middle-aged accommodating but not so accommodating visa officer, we had two nincompoops to deal with and they stood between Pakistan and Lebanon like heaps and heaps of undesirable, unkind, unending, red tape. 

Apart from chasing goofs, the business visa entails the following:

·      Start with a letter that states your intent to do business in Lebanon.

·      Seek an invitation from your official counterpart.

·      Submit registration documents of the counterpart. 

·      Book a hotel. Fax booking directly to the Embassy.

·      Request the Chamber of Commerce (in your own country) to guarantee your ticket back to Pakistan in case you get bankrupt! (If your business is not registered with the Chamber, ask the most prominent association within your industry to do this)

Submit your application through American Express (Gerry’s and FedEx do not facilitate applications for Lebanese visas).

There. Quite simple in neat bullet points. But it’s tedious when you get to it. Just be sure to harass all possible pre-requisites out of the visa officer to avoid surprises.

A message for the faint-hearted: every nerve you break getting to Beirut will come alive when you set foot on Lebanese soil. I will say no more.

A forewarning: the visa is like a postal stamp – do not be disappointed when you’re awarded one. Somehow, when a long struggle ends with at least something pretty to look at, the pain is less painful. This experience will offer no such relief.

Before Murad and I got the ugly ink stamps on our passports the Consul General lodged a battery of questions. Murad posed as a Publicis employee – which he wasn’t – so he remained quiet at first. After a few minutes of conversation, the Consul General raised his hand and obstructed my words with the power of his fat palm. 

He pointed at Murad and said, ‘I want to hear from him.’

The Consul General asked another question.

Murad gathered his thoughts and weaved an intricate web of unending lies – I was truly baffled. His lies were so complex it was impossible to follow what he said. Murad sounded smart and the Consul General was stumped out of his wits.

When Murad paused for a moment to breathe, the Consul General made a swift interjection, ‘we hardly issue any visas, but you seem like good persons…’

‘…these will be the first visas we issue in two years.’

Murad and I tried not to expose any teeth and conjured up a restrained smile. The Consul General instructed his mindless minion to process our visas and then he stared at something outside the window.

Murad and I got up, thanked him and shook his hands. The Consul General reminisced about Beirut and said that it was a lovely place and then he said goodbye. His eyes followed us out of the room. I could feel his gaze fixed at the back of my head. Before I closed the door behind myself I turned around and made eye contact one last time – I had to. 

The Consul General said, ‘please do call once you’re back’.

I said ‘sure’ and closed the door.

Not very long before Murad and I decided to go to Lebanon, we were at his place continuing our life long discussion on befitting vacation destinations. The Far East Island Hopping Holiday lost to other ideas. Some time later we were afloat an off-white cloud at the opposite end of the world in South America.

When we did the math for reenacting the motorcycle diaries, budget constraints nibbled away on the many miles between Pakistan and Brazil. Two whimsical imaginations were bullied into a corner, something akin to naked aboriginal warriors slowly descending onto somnolent prey. That meant South America was out and we were left with options closer to home. Finally, we settled for Turkey and Lebanon; it was ideal; pockets and traveling costs mutually agreed and just like that the trip was on.  

As far as vacations go, Turkey is still an oft desired and discussed escape amongst itching, exploratory natives. Beirut, on the other hand, was as random as random gets – we were going because it was the first country we spotted on the map in the Middle East.

Murad and I didn’t bother researching Lebanon. Our planning started and ended with a hostel booking and how we were going to spend our vacation was not the least bit clear to us.

The only thing evident sentiment was our conviction to the idea of a break. I thought a ‘change of scene’ would help dilute the many thorny memories of an impossible, forbidden love. Murad’s parents and siblings thought they should push him out of his hole; out of the drudgery of the daily grind and Murad couldn’t complain as long as someone wrote the visa application for him.  

We found a Publicis office in Beirut to act as our business counterpart. Sammy Moujaes was the Managing Director. We looked him up and wrote to him.

Dear Mr. Moujaes: 

Allow me to introduce myself. I am the General Manager at Publicis Pakistan. I have been with the group since February 2008. 

My friend and I want to visit Beirut for the New Year celebration but the Lebanese Embassy in Islamabad will not let us do so as tourists. Only businessmen are entertained. This has apparently been the case for countless years.   

I was wondering if you could invite us to Beirut on the pretext of discussing 'offshore business' and perhaps we could actually have a formal discussion on the subject!

Please be assured that this is a genuine concern – not a scam! And please do suggest if you can help. 

Many thanks. 

Khizr

Sammy responded within a few minutes. He invited us to discuss ‘offshore business opportunities’ and took care of all the paperwork.

Since the Turkish visa didn’t happen, not even after we got back from Beirut, four days in Beirut became nine. At the outset we thought maybe nine days would be too many. One week into our trip we were discussing ways to permanently settle in Lebanon and I think through the course of this diary you’ll understand why.

Considering the infinite tribulations of the visa process (which were just as frustrating for Sammy as for us) we felt indebted to him and decided to pay him a visit.  This happened well into the trip. By then we had gathered enough praise for Beirut and ofcourse the gifts we had brought along from Pakistan. We bought Sammy and his secretary ajkan bed linen sets which was Murad’s brilliant idea.    

We met Sammy at his office around 3pm on a weekday. We were happy to see him in pajamas and a pair of sneakers. I thought ‘comfort over convention’ but didn’t say.

Sammy’s demeanor was like his clothes – comfortable. He listened to our anecdotes with an unchanging smile. We talked about everything under the sun but offshore business! For a moment, Murad and I felt like we were back in Lahore. 

Murad and I liked Sammy. He offered us Lebanese chocolate and green tea. We didn’t feel like he was much older or an advertising baron – he talked without professional barriers. In fact, he was extremely down to earth and genial. At one point in the conversation Murad interjected Sammy to say, ‘we are second to none in hospitality’ and then he invited him to Lahore.

Later, when our many stories about Beirut ended, Sammy took us around the office and introduced us to his entire team. I had to draw comparisons between Beirut and Lahore. Some things were uncannily similar. Others were not.

Graphic Designers were glued to their PCs. Client Services and Public Relations officers had nightlife dibs on their fingertips.

In differences, the ladies in Beirut were all immaculately dressed. Obesity was a subject left for History books to elaborate on. The Beirut office had two peons for twenty executives. Their CEO was bald. Almost everybody spoke four languages and almost everybody had formally studied either media or advertising or graphic designing. There were no ceiling fans or power outages or generators. The best part: everything was dust free and squeaky clean.

In Lahore, the security guard alone weighs half a ton and there are plenty of ‘thunder thighs’ at the office to complement him. We have two peons to each executive. Our CEO has grey curls; and a unique sense of humor.

After our little round around the office, I asked myself if I would swap Beirut for Lahore. The question must have fallen into a dark bottomless hole because I didn’t get an answer. 

Creativity and Arabic, together – couldn’t wrap my head around that. Seemed like an impossible marriage; or at least an improbable one. I hope you’ll forgive me for my bias but it’s just that every time I hear too many words in Arabic my mind drifts out into a big, blue sea; the feeling you feel when you look at a blank canvas.

Beyond temporary dementia, one thing that made my day was when some people at the office gathered around us for gup shup and the Creative Director asked, ‘so what clients do you look after?’

And before I could respond, Sammy said, ‘he manages the office.’

After a few ‘Ohs’ and ‘Ahs’ we went on to discuss other things while I basked in the afterglow of unspoken but widely understood praise.