Bureaucracy. You’ve got to love it, just for its sheer
pointlessness. Yesterday I had to go to the Immigration department, to renew my
monthly visa (It can take anything up to a year to get a work visa processed).
So we trotted off round the corner, my trusty Filipina receptionist/finance
officer and I, armed with a sheaf of papers and $80. The Immigration building
is housed in a compound not 100 metres from us – a selection of darkened rooms,
in a dusty square, with lots of people in important uniforms, standing about,
being important. So important, that it was tricky to work out exactly which
important job they were doing, but it may have been top secret. I certainly
couldn’t quite work it out.
We queued for about an hour to get into one dark, heavily
curtained room, behind other assorted ex-pats and NGO’s from all over the
world, grasping similar sheaves of paper, and all looking a bit hot, but
resigned. Most of them did this every month, so were quite used to it. I am
mustering up that look of resignation
for next month.
A man of imposing stature, seated behind a wooden desk,
studiously read my papers, closely examined my passport, studiously examined me,
and laboriously signed my papers and handed them back to me, gesturing me out
of the room with a flick of his large, gold ringed, fingers.
We then headed to the army green container, which housed the
finance chap. My trusty Filipina friend had already got in line for me (she’s
done this before), so I slipped in halfway down the line. To find all my fellow
queuers ( who had been behind me in the previous queue) had had the same plan
and were actually in front of me. I paid my $80 dollars, received my
handwritten receipt, and moved on.
We then travelled to the next room, on the other side of the
compound, to wait in another queue, behind the same people as before. By now we
were all on first name terms – I met a very nice boy from Dublin who I chatted
to for a while. This room had 3 desks in it, behind which were sitting 3 people to a desk. It appeared to be training
day. Oh good. The lady on my left seemed to be picking it up very quickly, and
beneath her rather fetching hat, was very beautiful. I was not so lucky. In the
time it took her to process 3 of my fellow visa-hunters, my chap was still
typing my name into the computer, letter by painful letter. He really did have
his tongue poking out in concentration. To be fair to him, his “helpers” were
making it worse by knocking his hands out of the way and typing over him, then
deleting what they had just typed so he could do it himself. On my right one of
the “obviously top secret” (or presence without a purpose) workers, scraped a
table back and forth across a dusty floor for no apparent reason. Teeth on
edge, I consoled myself with the obvious top secret-ness of the operation.
Honestly – he spent at least 15 minutes repositioning that wretched table ,
only to put it back exactly where he found it. As you can probably tell, my
bonhomie was beginning to wear a little thin. And I had forgotten to bring
water. Schoolgirl error.
After what seemed like an hour (but was probably only 20
minutes) I received the same sheaf of papers back, after being fingerprinted,
and still trying to smile
.
It wasn’t over yet. THEN, we got in another line, this time
being ordered into line with an
imperious “STAMP!” command. Finally I was admitted into the same room as the
first one, this time to a desk on the opposite side, where, after careful
consideration, my visa was pasted into my passport, and we were allowed to
leave. We had actually, geographically and metaphorically, gone full circle.
The whole thing took about 2 hours, which is nothing in the
great scheme of visa appropriation, but it felt like half my life had passed
by...Possibly the most wearing thing was trying not to look fed up, smile
nicely at the officials, and just resign myself to it. Next time I will
definitely bring water.
Not that the visa is foolproof. Oh no. My poor friend and
colleague, the deputy head, was coming back from leave today, but wasn’t
allowed on the plane to Juba. He is currently residing in a hotel in Nairobi until
we can get him back. Although the visa is single entry, so, on paper, if you
are given it in the country, you are allowed back in once, the rules appeared
to have changed since yesterday and we have to start all over again with him.
Still, he’s having a nice stay in a hotel, and off to see some Elephants
tomorrow.
South Sudan had its 3rd Independence Day
celebration on Tuesday. Now for all our local staff, that meant a day off,but,
with Andrew on leave, left me as the only person to run the clinic. Although we
were closed, there is always the possibility of an emergency. That said – no cars
were allowed in Juba, and the phone lines were cut for several hours, so
mercifully it was all peaceful. For security reasons, we did not leave the
compound – I had been out the day before with Okello, and every few yards there
were roadblocks being set up, by huge groups of soldiers with very big guns
indeed.
It’s very tricky politically here at the moment, as someone
said the other day “a toddler country, bashing into things and getting hurt”,
so security was high. It all passed without a hitch however, and we could hear
the sounds of celebration drifting over our barbed wire, late into the night.
We consoled ourselves with eating all day – a fantastic brunch cooked by our
German manager, and roast chicken, roast potatoes and gravy, cooked by my N
Irish boss, and me.
So it’s my birthday tomorrow. I’ve spent many a birthday
abroad, but definitely nowhere as odd as this. I am planning on spending this
one, my 44th, working and going to yoga, then on Saturday, after
work we are all going out for a meal, then onto a restaurant by the Nile called
“Bedouin’s” for a few drinks. This is also my boss’ last hurrah, as she leaves
on Monday. Thank goodness I am not on call on Sunday – it promises to be a late
one.
After a small sense of humour failure on Saturday, and a
tiny burst of homesickness – entirely due to burning the midnight oil and
working hard, I have pulled myself back together, and will face my 45th
year (good grief!) with a song in my heart !...well, a little ditty, anyway.
Happy Birthday me !
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