Sucking at getting a visa - part 1

Dear people!

Yeah, I know - I should be more regular in my posts, otherwise I'll loose the 10 people composing my readership. I haven't been writing the last few days because I had little time, but I'm blaming that on the blooming social life I have here (come on, who am I kidding).

Actually, at the beginning, I feared I wouldn't have much to write about, as Cape Verde is a very nice country, with adorable inhabitants – everything is pretty much great here, and I felt somewhat bad, if something was wrong, to complain about it and make fun of the Cape Verdeans. I mean, in Japan or Russia, it was much funnier to criticise, complain, or denigrate local traditions (probably because Japanese people are crazy and Russians are cavemen). Here, not so much. 

But days passed, and the euphoria of the first weeks was quickly replaced by rage, incomprehension, anger and despair, depending on the situation. Therefore, allow me to pick up a pen and use this blog as a catharsis (in order to avoid a 10-year psychotherapy).

Today's example: administration, mental breakdown and applying for a visa. This article is a diptych: it's in two parts. This part is entirely my fault; the other (that I'll publish in a few days), not quite.      

Remember when I said I suck at traveling? If you are an avid reader of this blog, you know that already. You also remember I was kind of stressed out before flying out to Cape Verde, because of all the cancellations and delays and stuff. Wait, I shouldn't be using this as an excuse: bottom line is, I am a lame traveler, and if there is a meeting point to misunderstand or a train to miss, you can count on me.

So. I knew I could get a Cape Verdean visa upon arrival at the airport in Praia, which would cost 25€. At the airport in Paris, some time before boarding the plane, I noticed I didn't have the 25€ with me; I asked myself if I should hit an ATM to draw money out for the visa and... I didn't. I simply thought, no need for that, I'll probably be able to pay with my Visa, or there will be an ATM in Cape Verde to draw money out there.

How stupid is that, may I ask? THIS is why I hate to travel alone – because there isn't anybody to draw me out of my lack of straight-thinking, lazyness or lethargy. Why on earth would an African country install wires and machines and spend a lot of money on equipment (devices for payments by credit cards are quite pricey)? Why did I think that, and why did I also assume there was going to be an ATM in the security zone, before one gets his passport stamped?

Of course, OF COURSE, you can't pay with a Visa at the airport – and there is no ATM between the airplane and the passport control. AH! I asked the security officer and tried to explain my situation... It never happened to me in any other country, but I can assure you that Cape Verde is the greatest place on Earth to be an illegal immigrant. Instead of yelling, calling me a stupid tourist (which I am) or organising a charter flight back to where I came from (what Mr Hortefeux would probably have done), the lady smiled at me (probably interiorly mocking my lousy Portuguese knowledge) and told me I could let my passport at the visa-booth, get out, go to the ATM located outside the security zone, draw money out, come back, pay my visa (and finally leave her alone). Great, thanks! I thought. So I did all of that – well, actually only the 3 first steps of the plan. Ahah.

As I got closer to the ATM, I couldn't help but notice the little flashing red lights on the screen. It was Sunday night, around 1am, and the ATM was out of order.

I resisted the urge to faint and approached another policeman instead to explain my situation – he told me I could go home (where I should have stayed, actually – but he didn't mean home, as in Go back to your country, you stupid European – he meant, go your hotel), draw money out in the morning and come back to the airport to pay for my visa and collect my passport. But I was supposed to take another plane to Mindelo at 7am the following day, I said – would the visa-booth still be open at that time? Yes, it will – I simply would have to go through the arrival gate, knock at the door and talk to the policeman. What a relief, I thought, what a nice policeman. Then he asked if I was German, which almost resulted in me pulling out his gun and painting the airport red. When you're all stressed out, jet-lagged and French, it's not a nice thing to hear.

Anyway. In the meantime, the driver the agency arranged for me (living the dream, bro!) had left – so I had to kindly ask / morally oblige a nice shop clerk at the airport to call him for me. The driver came back after a while, took me to an ATM and then to the hotel I'd be spending the night – telling me he would collect me the following day at 5 am. I barely slept during the night, totally stressed that something would go wrong (I don't mean just because of the passport: since the „incident“ in Santiago de Chile, I HATE going to airports). Of course, the driver showed up at 5:30. Ahah!

So I made it to the airport around 5:45 – my plane was leaving at 7:05. I rushed to the arrival gate, and... It was closed. Aha. The security guy in charged didn't seem to understand much of my blabbering – or perhaps I was to stressed to express myself clearly? He wouldn't let me go through. Imagine this: you are in a foreign country outside the European Union - no wait, let's be even scarier: you're in an African country, you don't really understand its languages (offical/non official), you're supposed to board a plane (ticket paid by your future employer) within an hour, you don't have your passport with you and in case of a control, you can't prove that you legally entered the country. Now the right moment to have a stroke, if you planed to have one.

Anyway. Like I said in a previous post, I also have this ability to pull myself out of desperate situation I deliberately created. 

So I went to the information desk and found a nice lady, who called (or pretended she did) somebody, then she got up and left her desk while telling me to wait. I was counting the seconds before my flight to Mindelo would leave and considering digging a hole in the tarmac of the landing strip and burying myself in it, as, finally, the nice woman reappeared from the arrival gate and told me I could go through. Miracle!

Today's story ends on a good note. I found the passport-booth with a fat policeman inside, paid the amount of Cape Verdean Escudos (actually, a bit more, as the fat policeman didn't have change... Making me pay more than I should is probably the best way life picked to tell me I should be more organised... next time...), got my passport back, admired the little stamp they put on it – took a deep breath, and boarded my plane.

By the way, happy new year to all of you!