Last Wednesday I began a 72-hour epic journey to Dar es Salaam to apply for a tourist visa to Ch--- (names have been left out because I don't have my visa yet!) Dar is the notoriously hot and humid commercial center of Tanzania, the only city in the country with a Ch--- consulate, and also about a 12-hour journey via road from the Rift Valley Children’s Village. How I ended up in this situation—applying for a visa from a foreign embassy while in a foreign country—I don’t even want to begin to explain; we’ll just take that at face value at this point. Forty-five minutes from RVCV to Karatu, plus 2.5 hours from Karatu to Arusha, plus the 9-hour bus ride to Dar es Salaam. All sounds well and good, except the Ch--- have thrown in a twist. The embassy is open for only 2 hours per day, 3 days per week. Perhaps they are selecting for only the most persistent of tourists…it couldn’t possibly have been a sign of some of the unreasonable things to come on my visit!
The excursion began on Wednesday afternoon; my travel companion was Andy, who runs the microfinance program at RVCV, has been in Tanzania for about 2 years and consequently knows Kiswahili very well. Talk about a perfect person to have you when you’re taking local transport and dealing with foreign embassies that are in foreign countries to start with. We began the journey with the 2.5-hour ride to Arusha in a speed taxi – a glorified station wagon that packs in up to 10 people at a time. Being a seasoned traveler in Tanzania, Andy suggested that we buy a third seat to share between the two of us. Wise choice – the middle row ended up with three huge Tanzanian guys who looked wildly smushed, despite the fact that they were actually under-quota for the usual number of passengers in that row (4). Surprisingly, the drive was okay; it would have been more scenic were it not for the itty-bitty windshield and broad shoulders in the row ahead, which were blocking our view.
The following morning, we awoke at 6 am to catch the 7am bus to Dar es Salaam. Andy, of course, did all of the talking. “Boos luxury” is all I caught out of the conversation, and I thought about how unluxurious the luxury buses in Ecuador had been. The bus was a pleasant surprise, apart from its lack of a bathroom, but that’s to be expected, even for buses making full day journeys across the country. Dar was just as hot and humid as I expected, full of drivers not observing traffic laws, people moving about all over the place. I was dripping with sweat within minutes of exiting the bus - to most people this is the only sentence needed to describe Dar es Salaam.
The next morning, I rose with determination. I came to Dar with a mission to get a visa, and today was my day to shine. I had done all of the research on documents and forms that I'd need and was ready to roll. Of course the day began with the realization that I no longer had enough cash to pay for the visa in the first place, not to mention the bribe money I might need. (Unfortunately that's a very real part of how things work here, and I was hoping to break the mold and get my visa in just one day--the same day--which in Ch--- embassy in Tanzania terms is just two hours.) The wild goose chase for an ATM that actually worked brought us to a 9:20am arrival at the gated Embassy door. I smiled my way inside, received a second form to fill out for the visa. (I guess the form that I brought, which was exactly the same, wasn't good enough.) Then I made it to the front of the line and was asked to go to the back because my picture wasn't affixed to the application form. So I glued it on, and finally made it to the window at 9:50am. (With only an hour and 10 minutes left til closing.)
At that point the woman at the counter, who seemed nice enough (but had also been the one to demand that I affix my photo before proceeding any further) asked for my Tanzanian Residence Permit. Of course I have the Residence Permit I said....TWELVE HOURS BACK IN OLDEANI!! I kindly explained to her that I am American, volunteering in Tanzania and had spent 12 hours traveling to Dar. Though I have a permit, I don't have it with me. No way around that, she said. "You need the original copy." Yeah right, I thought, and within 5 minutes of persuasive chatting, she had agreed to let me use a copy that I'd scanned in and printed out - someone back at RVCV was on that task in seconds.
She examined my application more thoroughly. I'm staying in a private residence on my visit? Do I have a formal invitation to do that? Of course not--why would anyone remember to include that piece of information on the visa application checklist that I had looked up online before even leaving for Dar? And it can't be an email she tells me. It must be a hand written invitation. Ever clever, as I dashed out the door in search of an internet cafe to print my permit, I was already crafting the message for my travel buddy Andy...I mean Julia, my friend and host in Ch---, to write to me. We finally came upon a print shop and while I begged my way to the front of the line, Andy wrote the message. Of course I was unable to print the document at the print shop (don't even ask), and when it was quarter to 11 (the embassy closes at 11), I cut my losses and decided to rely upon persuasion and puppy dog eyes to get the visa.
When I approached the window for the third time, the woman looked at me approvingly as if to say Ahh, you have done all that I have asked. I will now grant you the visa. Wellll not quite, I thought. "So," I began, "I found a package that my friend had sent to me to apply for the visa and guess what? She knew that I needed the written invitation and wrote me the note. I just didn't find it until now!" I unfolded the note, which I had folded up about 10 minutes before to make it look like it had been through a lot. She looked pleased and began to read the note out loud. I was hearing it for the first time. To whom it may concern, This note is for the proper authorities... "The proper authorities??" the woman repeated. I worried. Then she goes, "This note really is from Ch---!" I should have known that she'd appreciate being addressed as a proper authority. Weird, but I guess not that surprising.
At the end of all that, when I had talked my way through some more missing documents, she had filled out the paperwork and told me I'd have the visa by noon that day, she finally took my passport and then read dismayingly, "United States passport?" "Yes," I replied, "I'm an American..." "Oh no," she says, "We can't expedite for Americans. Five days. Sorry." I could tell we'd reached the end of the line. After all of that, political b.s. would force me back to Dar for a second time... to be continued...
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