Travel

Visas; permits and promises

 

 

“Life is 10 percent what happens to you and 90 percent how you respond to it.”

– Charles Swindoll

 

There are many challenges when we opt to live in different countries with different rules. Other people rarely relate. Some will even say “well, you chose to go”.

We had decided to take jobs in Kenya, looking for something else after 5 years in the UAE. We were delighted that a very different life was on offer in Nairobi. We had accepted the drop in pay, the day that we signed the contract. This move wasn’t about the money.

East Africa was all new to us. We worked with amazing students. I established professional links with numerous film industry professionals and submitted work into film festivals. I loved my job.

But visas were an issue from beginning to end. The organisation that we were working for took months to obtain our work permits. This had a knock on effect on the release of our shipment. Our personal items sat in a shipping container in Mombasa for seven months. Seven months!

But overall, life was good. Kind colleagues tried to teach us Kiswahili. We made good friends. And the travel opportunities were some of the best experiences that we ever had in East Africa; The Great Rift Valley, Samburu, Meru, Diani and the ancient Swahili town of Lamu.

Almost two years in to this chapter, we found ourselves sitting in the Director of School’s office. We presented a small list of requests as we negotiated an extension to our contracts. Everyone wanted us to stay, or so they said.

A week or two later, the visa debacle began. Have you ever run into problems with visas?

Some months after appointment, the HR office had obtained a one year work visa for me. Why one year, who knows? My contract was for two. It would have made sense to get a two year visa. They managed to get that for my husband. It defied logic.

I politely reminded the HR dept that the visa expiry was looming. Reassurances were made that it would all be addressed in time. None of it was addressed in time. Empty promises.

And so the day came that my work visa had expired and I was now, no longer legal in the country. My boss quickly told me stay at home, in case Immigration officials came into the workplace. Clearly something like this had happened before.

And so I waited and I hoped. I effectively ‘hid out’ at home in our Westlands apartment. I sat in the walled garden every afternoon, staring up at the barbed wire fence and pieces of broken glass. I felt trapped. I missed eight days of work with my students over three weeks. Students contacted me to ask what was wrong but I couldn’t say.

I phoned the British High Commission and explained the visa debacle. Their advice to me was “get yourself over the border”. It was too late for that. I was still in the country with no visa status at all. Not a tourist. Not a resident. Illegal.

The High Commission expressed their disappointment that I had been put into this position. But they said that it was an employment issue and they couldn’t intervene. I was on my own.

By the end of the second week, I was going stir crazy in the apartment. Cabin fever. I had broken out in hives twice, angry bumps all over my arms and legs. I’ve never had that before or since. I was super stressed.

So I decided to go out. I phoned for a taxi and headed out to Nairobi’s Wilson airport, to organise tickets for a future trip. My husband’s birthday was coming up and I wanted to surprise him with a trip to Amboselli NP. I hoped that the whole visa thing would be sorted out and that life would be back to normal soon.

My driver got me to the office at the small regional domestic airport. I made the booking and left with the tickets. Something had gone well for the first time in days. As we drove out of the complex, a uniformed policeman pulled us over. The driver complied and said to me “let me do the talking”. My heart was in my mouth. If the officer had asked me for ID, I would have been in trouble. The driver stepped out of the vehicle. The two of them walked around the car, the policeman ‘inspecting’ the tyres, looking for a fault. All was in order. A long conversation about nothing at all ensued. Eventually, my taxi driver produced a 100 shilling note (about USD 1) and the officer walked away. My taxi guy turned to me and said “he was just looking for some lunch money” and laughed. I remember responding, “if only everything in life could be solved with 100 shillings”.

My hide out continued. But we had made plans some time ago for the mid semester week and had flights booked to Kampala. What should we do? I called the British High Commission again. My visa problem was unresolved. They advised me that if I went to the airport now, effectively handing myself to the authorities, that I would face questioning. They warned me that I might be detained, arrested or even deported.

My husband and I discussed it all. To hell with it, we were going ahead with our trip. My employer had put me in this position. We made a plan, in case I got deported.

The night before our flight, I couldn’t sleep. I composed a long e mail to a close friend, detailing the whole visa saga, asking her to share the information if things went wrong . We travelled to the airport early the next morning. We queued at immigration. I was called up. I glanced at my husband, then stepped forward.

The immigration officer was a young, cocky guy. He had all the ‘swag’ going on. The first thing he said to me was “Habari lady. Sorry Madam, the computer system is down. Power cut”.  I pulled out my best Kiswahili to chit chat, while he half heartedly flicked through a few pages of my passport and flirted, before stamping me out of the country. I was through.

We flew to Uganda. Tears of stress and relief rolled down my face at take off. By the time we reached our hotel by Lake Victoria we had got angry and both agreed it was time to look for new jobs. Fiest.

We checked e mail later that afternoon and by chance we had been invited for interviews for two teaching positions in Indonesia. Fate.

Eventually, after the trip to Uganda and after buying a tourist visa to re-enter Kenya, I was back at work. I tried to draw a line under the whole thing. Colleagues would ask me why I had been away from work for so long, and when I shared the whole visa story the response was always the same, “pole sana” (sorry). Funny, no one from the organisation said sorry even once.

What’s your experience with visas? Have you ever run into visa problems?

 

© Maggie M/ Mother City Time