FUNKE ADETUTU
It seemed unbelievable but it is true. At 5 a.m. South African time, the sun was up almost shining in its full strength. It stood in the horizon in its yellowish radiance. How amazing it was to watch the sun rose as the tyres of the aircraft touched the tarmac at O.R Tambo International Airport.The rustle movement of our feet unsettled the quietness of the big A2 arrival hall walkway. It was obvious that business was just being revived after some hours of midnight break. Ours seemed the first flight to arrive that morning, yet the immigration officers were alert. They spoke at the top of their voices. Sleep was no where near their eyes since they had resumed duty the previous night. The sound of their voices was pleasantly annoying, such that the woman in front of me complained bitterly about their screams. "What could be so exciting at these early hours of the morning?" She asked in annoyance. After such a long trip, the laughter coming from these women seated in a corner at the immigration point was not what anyone would like to hear, especially at that time of the day. "Why are they screaming at the top of their voices?" the woman continued, mustering some efforts to speak louder for someone to caution them. "Could someone tell them to keep quiet?" she said hysterically again even as the noise continued. "That's the way of life for the average South African," I replied, forcing a smile. I was equally very exhausted after the six hours flight. The seats on the aircraft were not comfortable for a tired limb like mine. I'm sure the same it was for others."They talk at the top of their voices. At times, you'll almost think they are fighting, whereas, they are engaged in a friendly conversation.""Well, that's how they talk," I again tried to explain. By this time, someone had already waved at the shouting group to keep quiet. They now spoke in low tones made audible by the quietness of the hall. Greg of Bophelo Tours and a driver from Sixth, a car rental outfit, were already waiting to receive the two of us from Nigeria at the arrival hall. We were driven to the hotel but on our way, we had a stop somewhere at Sandton to pick up Tsholofelo Mogale, a South African Tourism representative. The streets of Johannesburg were still as beautiful as ever. The sidewalks were lined with beautiful flowers and trees. Everywhere was green! "The streets are quiet today and the roads are free," the driver observed. "I thought there would be heavy traffic by this time because of the season." "Yes, it's true. It's good to have some quiet today," replied Tsholofelo. Our drive to the hotel was a smooth one and what the driver considered as heavy traffic, when we eventually encountered one, was exactly no traffic to those of us from Nigeria at all. The real traffic logjam exists back home on the roads of Lagos, not here in Johannesburg. "This is a child's play compared with what we experience at home," said Yemisi, a colleague from Nigeria. "She's right," I supported. "I was told the same thing," said Tsholofelo. "I would be in Nigeria in two weeks. I'm scared, but I will come all the same." "You don't have to be," I tried to calm his fears and at the same time tried to explain that: "It actually depends on the area. Traffic is not bad in some. You just need to understand such is expected in any big city like Lagos. It's part of the problem of a city with so many people. But the Lagos State government is currently working on some roads within the metropolis to ease traffic congestion." We were all consumed in our individual thoughts for the remaining part of our journey to the Melrose Arch where our hotel was located. I see the Melrose Arch as a mini city in Johannesburg. All that's needed for comfortable living was there. There were about three banks in the area, several cafes and bars, hotels, shops and apartments."People live in that apartment across the road," Greg said at lunch, pointing at a block of flats overlooking the Protea Hotel where we were lodged. "This is a comfortable area to live in. Those who live there walk out of their homes into their offices. They do not need to drive cars to move around. That means a reduction in carbon emission which is safe for the environment."When he said this, I did a quick survey of the area as we sat at the JB's Café nibbling at chips and grilled chicken breast. There was actually a toll gate at the entrance to the arch which served more as a security check point than a toll collection spot. The road runs through the shops and cafes forming an arch round the building where the JB's Café is housed. The residential apartment was located on the left with a café in front of it. Trees, flowers were planted in front of it. Much later at night, it was a beautiful sight to behold. The Christmas light glittered in the dark. Meanwhile, the sitting arrangement at the JB's was fantastic. But I noticed that each group seated around the table were mostly women, no man at all. The women spoke in low but excited voices as they shared a drink. They looked unperturbed at all. They were simply having fun. On the only table where I noticed two men, the woman (whom I earlier told Tsholofelo looked like Kabelo of Channel O), was talking excitedly at the top of her voice, the typical South African way. A day at a café at the Melrose Arch testified to the relaxation spirit that is synonymous with Johannesburg. Everywhere, there seemed to be a relaxation spot full of people who spoke excitedly in low tones. No stress or worry. They were simply all out to enjoy life to the fullest, I'd say.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Wednesdays, Fridays never die at South African embassy
FUNKE ADETUTU
This week’s article is a sequel to the one I did last week titled: In the name of the Father. I could not help but write more on my experience at the South African Embassy again.
I thought the High Commission would have improved on the visa procurement procedure based on the promise made by the head of the Lagos mission, Peter Malepe, at the South African Tourism workshop held in Lagos in June. But the efforts of the mission seem not good enough as several people who had been there had one or two gory tales to tell.
I still recall the how terrible I felt the first Tuesday I was at the mission to submit my application. The mission was already saturated with people. I later learnt from someone that some of them had been there several times yet they never had the opportunity to submit their application. A particular young man lamented bitterly about how he had been there for three consecutive Tuesdays. His category of application was never called.
Luckily for us, I would say. The mission’s door was thrown open at nine that morning. It was earlier than the actual time I was told by a friend, 10 am. That itself was a good sign that things were working the right way.
The consular officer who stood at the door wore a stern look that sent a cold shiver down the spine. “Deposit!” he shouted. The security guards at the entrance echoed the word to the hearing of the waiting applicants. “What does that mean?” I asked the woman who was standing close to me. “It’s for those who had been here before but had not paid the deposit required as a guarantee that they would come back to Nigeria after they arrive South Africa,” she explained.
“Medical!” shouted the consular officer again. I could make something out of this at least. The call was for those who were travelling to South Africa for medical treatment. After this group had been scrutinised, the next group was called. “Training!” the man shouted again. This time, many people rushed through the gate. I was furious with the people even as they rushed like primary school pupils through the gates. This angered the officer and he ordered that those at the tail end of the queue should go out. It was saddening that some Nigerians would never behave in a civil way. I can’t understand why they had to rush and be humiliated in like manner. On a second thought, I would not blame them since their past patience was unfruitful.
If you had been to the South African embassy before, you’d understand the kind of picture I’m trying to paint. The humiliation and inhuman treatment of applicants is disheartening. They stay out in the sun for hours waiting to be called in. There was even no hope that they might be since there was no proper order or arrangement for them to be.
And when I went there the following Tuesday, the consular officers simply called people in at random. He would just look at the crowd and pointed at the elderly, women with infant, and whitemen and women to come in. That’s just by the way. What happened that day simply showed that if you did not belong to any of these categories, you have no chance of submit your application, proto!
After I’d submitted my application, I breathed a sign of relief. But I never knew more shock awaited on the Wednesday I was to pick up my passport. I got there at 9am but the consular did not open until 10. There was still a rush that day as people were eager to get in. our receipts were submitted to the security officer who took them. We waited endlessly for our names to be called as the hours go by. The system was somewhat slow. The names were not called in alphabetical order as I had expected. The security officer would go in to bring the passports that were ‘ready’ to use his word. After I watched as people were handed either their receipt, forms, or passports with or without visa depending on the situation. After I’d waited for more than three hours, my name was called and my receipt was handed back to me. “It’s not ready,” said the security officer, come back on Friday.”
On Friday, I was there! It was the same old story. A young man was angry with the officers on duty when he was told to come back again. “I wasn’t to withdraw my application,” said the young man. This will be the third time I would be coming without getting my passport. The conference I’m going for in South Africa started yesterday and you are telling me to come back,” he complained bitterly.
That was the fate of an average applicant at the South Africa embassy. In fact I must tell you dear readers that I didn’t get my passport until I went back the third time on a Wednesday. The South African High Commission must put the right system in place very fast to ease off the stress and congestion at the embassy very fast so that the promise of come back Wednesday or Friday would be totally erased.
This week’s article is a sequel to the one I did last week titled: In the name of the Father. I could not help but write more on my experience at the South African Embassy again.
I thought the High Commission would have improved on the visa procurement procedure based on the promise made by the head of the Lagos mission, Peter Malepe, at the South African Tourism workshop held in Lagos in June. But the efforts of the mission seem not good enough as several people who had been there had one or two gory tales to tell.
I still recall the how terrible I felt the first Tuesday I was at the mission to submit my application. The mission was already saturated with people. I later learnt from someone that some of them had been there several times yet they never had the opportunity to submit their application. A particular young man lamented bitterly about how he had been there for three consecutive Tuesdays. His category of application was never called.
Luckily for us, I would say. The mission’s door was thrown open at nine that morning. It was earlier than the actual time I was told by a friend, 10 am. That itself was a good sign that things were working the right way.
The consular officer who stood at the door wore a stern look that sent a cold shiver down the spine. “Deposit!” he shouted. The security guards at the entrance echoed the word to the hearing of the waiting applicants. “What does that mean?” I asked the woman who was standing close to me. “It’s for those who had been here before but had not paid the deposit required as a guarantee that they would come back to Nigeria after they arrive South Africa,” she explained.
“Medical!” shouted the consular officer again. I could make something out of this at least. The call was for those who were travelling to South Africa for medical treatment. After this group had been scrutinised, the next group was called. “Training!” the man shouted again. This time, many people rushed through the gate. I was furious with the people even as they rushed like primary school pupils through the gates. This angered the officer and he ordered that those at the tail end of the queue should go out. It was saddening that some Nigerians would never behave in a civil way. I can’t understand why they had to rush and be humiliated in like manner. On a second thought, I would not blame them since their past patience was unfruitful.
If you had been to the South African embassy before, you’d understand the kind of picture I’m trying to paint. The humiliation and inhuman treatment of applicants is disheartening. They stay out in the sun for hours waiting to be called in. There was even no hope that they might be since there was no proper order or arrangement for them to be.
And when I went there the following Tuesday, the consular officers simply called people in at random. He would just look at the crowd and pointed at the elderly, women with infant, and whitemen and women to come in. That’s just by the way. What happened that day simply showed that if you did not belong to any of these categories, you have no chance of submit your application, proto!
After I’d submitted my application, I breathed a sign of relief. But I never knew more shock awaited on the Wednesday I was to pick up my passport. I got there at 9am but the consular did not open until 10. There was still a rush that day as people were eager to get in. our receipts were submitted to the security officer who took them. We waited endlessly for our names to be called as the hours go by. The system was somewhat slow. The names were not called in alphabetical order as I had expected. The security officer would go in to bring the passports that were ‘ready’ to use his word. After I watched as people were handed either their receipt, forms, or passports with or without visa depending on the situation. After I’d waited for more than three hours, my name was called and my receipt was handed back to me. “It’s not ready,” said the security officer, come back on Friday.”
On Friday, I was there! It was the same old story. A young man was angry with the officers on duty when he was told to come back again. “I wasn’t to withdraw my application,” said the young man. This will be the third time I would be coming without getting my passport. The conference I’m going for in South Africa started yesterday and you are telling me to come back,” he complained bitterly.
That was the fate of an average applicant at the South Africa embassy. In fact I must tell you dear readers that I didn’t get my passport until I went back the third time on a Wednesday. The South African High Commission must put the right system in place very fast to ease off the stress and congestion at the embassy very fast so that the promise of come back Wednesday or Friday would be totally erased.
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