We found out what we could beforehand and got some advice from friends who had previously been through the process - it didn't seem so bad. The application form is the most unofficial document you've ever seen - it's a document with absolutely no headings, seals, or insignias that would signal it is in any way an official government document. It's so basic your average first grader could create it in Microsoft Word.
The best way I can describe the Burmese Embassy is to say that it resembles a small refugee camp. Dozens and dozens of Burmese citizens, mostly young men, loiter around the front of the embassy and inside - and by inside, I refer to a courtyard surrounded by a corrugated iron fence with a few tents set up to provide shelter from the sun and rain - and there, dozens more people sit on filthy plastic chairs smoking and chatting - there are no tablets, smartphones, kindles or ipods here. Everyone looks like they have been there for a very, very long time.
The contrasts between the Burmese embassy and the surrounding embassies are stark - even the Senegalese embassy a few doors down looks palatial by comparison. The Irish embassy and ambassadors residence is just opposite - it is a modest mansion with a lovely pool - where the huddled masses from the Burmese embassy can just about peer over the spiked fence while the Irish ambassador relaxes poolside.
We left work early and arrived 15 minutes before pick-up time - which is strictly between 4:00-5:00pm. There was already a queue with roughly 20 people in front of us and a rapidly expanding line behind us. 4:00 came and went. At 4:15 an employee appeared, sat down at the window and commenced eating a sandwich. Another employee appeared. Things began happening. A few happy people came away with passports, a few travel agents waited on the side and a few people came away looking disappointed or frustrated. Uh oh.
Word began to circulate that passports were only being returned to people who had applied on November 29th (not the 30th like us - despite the fact that our receipt very clearly said that our passports would be ready that day).
No need to panic, we had requested the expedited service. We got to the window, put forward our receipt and the man flipped it over, shoved it back in my face, shook his head and said 'no' (and by the way, the expedited service doesn't exist!)Time out.
Not only can I not be leaving work three hours early to queue at the embassy during my last four working days of the year - but I've got a flight to catch to the UK at the end of the week. I need my passport.
Panic was rising and time ticking. I've been through enough visa drop-offs and collections to know that the possibility that the window would be slammed shut at 5:00 regardless of how many people were still in line was a very, very real possibility.
I also know that this was probably about the last situation in which one should shout. Shouting about third-world bureaucracy rarely achieves anything. In fact, it can be downright counter-productive. Nevermind. Frustrated, stressed and wet (the heavens had opened) I let loose. 'I MUST have my passport. I am flying to the UK tomorrow' (white lie, but given the circumstances . . . ) Repeat several times. Man at the window shouts back. After several unproductive minutes of trying to shout above the noise of the now torrential rain, he says, 'you wait, wait' and disappears into a dilapidated building.
Minutes tick by. He re-emerges to applause - he is carrying a basket of passports, escorted by a man holding a giant pink umbrella over the basket. Ian's photo is poking out of the top of the basket.
A few more minutes and we are safely away with our passports. Drenched and back at the car we notice the stamps have been slightly smeared by the rain (but all remains legible). I dried them in front of the air conditioning vent. I hope we don't have to bribe a border agent when we arrive.
No comments:
Post a Comment