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Getting into Libya was always a hassle. It wasn’t unusual to spend 2 or 3 hours in lines at the Customs and the Immigration desks in Tripoli International Airport. The key to getting through reasonably smoothly was to be polite to all the officials and never to show any sign of impatience. Not everyone arriving realized this.
On one occasion I flew into Tripoli and got into the Immigration line. A few places ahead of me, I noticed a tall American man, who was wearing cowboy boots and a large Stetson hat. No doubt an employee of one of the oil companies.
As we waited, the oil company man kept looking at his watch and making sarcastic comments to the rest of us in the line. The comments gradually became louder and more disparaging, and they attracted the attention of the young Immigration official at the desk. He motioned for the next person in line to wait and, smiling, beckoned for the oilman to go to the desk.
The oilman approached the desk.
“Passport, please,” said the official.
“Here you are, boy,” said the oilman.
The official took the passport and thumbed through it until he found the page with the entry visa. Still smiling, he ripped the page out of the passport and called over two police officers.
The last I saw of the oilman he was being led to the departure lounge by the two policemen, preparatory to being put back on a plane out of the country.
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'unique flavour of the people', you hit the nail right on the head!
ReplyDeleteAmazing Blog. I was in Libya from 1962 until 1973 as a dependent. I lived in Benghazi, Tripoli and Breaga. Your blog has kept me entertained for hours as the memories just flowed. I have my own story about Immigration. In 1972 I arrived with a Visa and no Arabic in my passport into Benghazi. I was very polite but was told by a very gruff Captain that my passport was not in order and that my wife and I would have to stay and depart on the flight the next morning. The Captain left and a Sargent waived for me to go though to Customs. We hitched a ride to stay in the Omar Kayam hotel and called Esso Libya Services in Breaga that we had arrived. They at first refused to believe that we were in Benghazi, but eventually got us transport to Breaga where my wife and I were to run a summer program for the younger children. Unfortunately for us, most of the teenagers were outside the country, so my wife and I had all of the children to take care of by ourselves. After 2 weeks, the teenagers were allowed entry and we had a wonderful summer. Your blog brought back many fond memories.
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