Somehow I didn’t get to the embassy until the day before my flight to the north. On the day I arrived, it was too late to drop off my application, then it was the weekend, then we had things scheduled during the day. It was my last chance. We flew the next day up north and would come back the day before our flights out of the country.
I took a taxi to the embassy. It was on a side street with guards stationed at the entrance and at the gates. There was a crowd of people waiting outside with numbers. I got an application and realized I had forgotten to bring photos. Why they need photos for a tourist visa, I still don’t understand. I got a new taxi and went to a photo store. My taxi driver waited while they started the generator to turn on the lights and the printer. Thirty minutes and several dollars later I was back, application filled in, waiting in line.
The embassy charges $30 for the visa and only accepts US Dollars. I had a hundred dollar bill with me. I waited in the paltry shade of the only tree on the street until my number was called and proceeded through the lines to the payment counter.
“Do you have another bill?” the cashier asked, carefully scrutinizing the minute crinkle in the bill where it had, just once, been folded.
I shook my head.
“I’m sorry. I can’t accept this bill.”
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It was 11am. The counter closed at 11:30. I was directed to a nearby hotel which would change the bill for me.
I walked quickly to the end of the street, bolted across the mad rush of traffic and stumbled over uneven pavement stones until I got to the hotel. I paused a moment at the entrance, catching my breath and trying to look cool, collected and richer than I was, then went in.
I had no problem changing the bill, and successfully insisted on getting crisp, new-like American bills for the embassy. I stumbled down the street, sweating profusely, darted through the traffic, rushed past the guards and paid for my visa application.
I noticed, while the cashier carefully examined every inch of my new bills for a tear, a sign posted in the embassy that read: “Closed: March 27th”.
The cashier handed me a receipt for my passport and said I could come back tomorrow afternoon after 1pm.
“I’m leaving the city tomorrow for about a week. Is it ok if I pick it up on March 28th?” I asked.
“Of course, no problem,” the cashier replied.
I left, congratulating myself on noticing the important sign. How awful, I thought, not to have noticed and to have made travel plans involving picking up my passport on the 27th, only to find the embassy closed.
I flew out the next day and spent the week travelling. All went well. I rolled back into the capital off a highly uncomfortable night bus on the morning of the 28th. I would spent the day in the capital, exploring a famous temple I had not yet seen but which was conveniently located near the embassy. I would pick up my passport and get on my plane the next day.
I spent the morning wandering through the city and caught a bus up to the embassy. The rush of traffic was the same, but something was different. There were more guards stationed at the entry to the street and less people waiting around the gate. No people, in fact.
I arrived at the gate and found everything shut and not a hint of a person anywhere. The guard behind the bars of the entryway saw me and came over.
“It’s a holiday today,” he explained. “Please come back on Monday.”
I shook my head wordlessly. “Yesterday was a holiday,” I said, senselessly.
“Look at the sign,” he said, shrugging and walking away.
I looked at the sign. It now read: “Closed: March 27th & March 28th.”
“Wait!” I called in to him. “Surely there’s a mistake. Last week I was told I could pick up my passport today.”
The guard was firm and clear. The embassy was closed. Absolutely no one was inside, he said. Someone important had flown in and everyone, every single person from the embassy, had left to meet this important person at the airport.
“But that’s not fair,” I said. “You can’t just decide to close the embassy suddenly like that. Last week I was told I could pick up my passport today. My flight is tomorrow!” My voice was starting to rise. My heart was starting to race. I felt events slipping terribly out of control.
The guard just looked at me and sighed. “Can’t you just come back on Monday?” he asked.
The problem was that I couldn’t come back on Monday and not just because of my flight. Flights can, of course, be changed, however inconvenient that may be. The problem was that I had been on a very tight budget. I had planned every day very carefully and was standing in front of the embassy, on what I had assumed was my last day in a country with no ATMs or credit card facilities or foreign banks, and I had $5 in my pocket and no hope of getting more.
There was no conceivable way I could survive as a tourist in the country with that much money. I would have to pick up the passport on Monday afternoon and wouldn’t be able to get a flight until Tuesday morning, which meant five more days than planned in the country on $5. It was a disaster.
“Please,” I begged. “There must be someone you can call.”
But the guard was deadpan and steadfast. “No,” he said. And to every question, every plea, every idea I had of how I could get my passport from behind the counter just meters away beyond those bars, “No. No. No.”
So I did what any person who is helpless in the face of disaster would do. I cried. I couldn’t help it. I was tired from the long uncomfortable bus ride the night before and helpless and had no ideas of how to move forward from those embassy gates. So I didn’t. I collapsed on the ground right there in a fit of tears which also quickly went beyond my control.
I admit, I got a bit hysterical. I just didn’t know what to do.
The guard put up with it for a short time then approached again. “Excuse me,” he said tentatively. “Could you please move away from the gate?”
“No,” I said, echoing him and getting back to crying again.
After a few attempts at getting me to move, a man approached me from my side of the gate. He was well dressed in a crisp white buttoned shirt. “What is the problem?” he asked. “I am a police officer. I would like to help you.”
I explained the problem.
“Can’t you just come back on Monday?” he asked.
I explained the problem with that.
Even in my hysterical state (to my great embarrassment, I couldn’t stop crying, even when I was explaining the situation to the man), I noted the very ironic nature of the situation. Many people are afraid of undercover police officers in this country. They are generally keeping a low profile and keeping their eyes open, or in other words, spying, and one can only imagine why this one is stationed outside the embassy of a neighboring country where many people are trying to obtain visas so that they can leave this one.
I don’t know what happened next. The man had a radio and spoke with the guard and the radio. The guard was speaking to someone on the phone. But a few minutes later, the man gently asked me to step away from the gates because someone was on their way.
It was really only a few minutes before two women in crisp black business suits angrily took my receipt and handed over my passports. I thanked them profusely but they only looked at me with total disgust. I thanked the guard profusely but he turned away in embarrassed disgust. I turned to thank the undercover police officer but he was already gone.
Then the gates were closed and I was out on the street, brushing away my tears, trying to catch my breath and feeling like I was emerging from behind a cloud of cotton wool into a remarkable day. You cannot escape disaster without feeling blessed and the sun sparkled on the temple’s golden walls and the wind blew through the temple bells and it all happened with such clarity and beauty that I felt alive and free and wonderful.
There is an important lesson here and I learned it and that is to always, always, always carry and have access to extra money when travelling anywhere. One never knows what is going to happen, whether it is a medical emergency or missing a plane, so it’s best to be financially prepared for any eventuality.
I caught my flight the next day at the airport, clutching my passport happily and stamping into the neighboring country with my new visa and a huge smile upon my face.
