How Not to Get a Special Pass

In Round 2 of Jen vs. The Immigration Officers in The Battle to Legally Stay in Uganda, I managed to cut the number of trips to the requisite offices from 7 down to 5.

Is it odd that I consider this an accomplishment?

Trip 1:
At 9am, requested vehicle to take me to Immigration Office at 11am. Vehicle shows up promptly at 1pm. Arrive at Immigration Office, everyone is out to lunch and windows are closed. Failed attempt #1, check.

Trip 2:
Arrival at (open) special pass window. Female officer sits eating samosa, waits until finished, reluctantly accepts my paperwork, pages through documents with greasy fingers, frowns. “You. Why didn’t you staple you work? You go and get a file folder. You buy from over there.” Gestures in the obvious direction of…away from where she’s sitting.

500 shillings and a blue file folder later, I returned to her window, ready for my next reprimand. “But lady. You have not put inside. You get that punch there.” Again gestures…away from where she’s sitting.

Locate punch, pop holes, insert papers, return to window, hand over folder, and wait to see what error I’ve committed this time. “You do not need this.” Hands me back a piece of paper. “Where is this school in Uganda?” I oversimplify my response, “Bugalobi,” and take her silence as approval. “You have attached your air ticket?” (Proof that you’re leaving the country increases your chances of them letting you stay for a bit – I had.) She finally issues receipt, takes my passport and tells me to return Tuesday. I celebrate with my driver in the car.

Trip 3:
Knowing there’s no way it’ll be done Tuesday and unwilling to waste excessive amounts of time, return Wednesday. Sun is beating down. Line is 5 deep. People are standing unnecessarily close together for fear of 2nd grade style budging. Do my fair share of boxing out and eventually make it to window. Give my brightest smile, most charming “Good afternoon!” and receipt to the graying gentleman at window.

Without so much as a glance at the slip, he tells me to look for my name in “the book”. I look over a fellow immigration-goer’s shoulder as he flips through page after page of hand-written, unalphabetized/nationality-ized or otherwise categorized names. Yelp when I see mine and inform Officer that my name appears. He takes my receipt, asks the others in line if they have receipts, ignores me, and helps the next person. Perplexed, I return to end of line.

Sun is beating down. Line is 7 deep. People are standing unnecessarily close together for fear of 2nd grade style budging. Budger succeeds, prompting swears under my breath. By the time I make it back to the Officer and retrieve the approval for a special pass and my passport, the cashier has closed. Told to return the next day.

Trip 4:
Return to cashier the next day. Please note: No money changes hands at the Immigration Office. Instead, they issue another receipt, and you have to go pay at the Uganda Revenue Authority in town. Fortunately, this trip to URA was much more successful than my first. During Round 1, I managed to try three incorrect doors before finding the winning entrance. They had also significantly improved their “knowing when your payment has been processed” system. Last time, the process was for a group of 20 people to smoosh around the counter and wait for the woman to call their name. I heard my name, eagerly called out “Here!”…only to realize once the documents had been passed back that they had called not Jen Orkis, but, Chen Olia.

Whoops.

This time they actually had a board displaying your name when it was ready, saving me enormous amounts of embarrassment. After getting my kabillionth receipt, I went back to Immigration, paid for copies, and relinquished my passport and documentation to another officer. Her response upon seeing the photocopies?

“But madam. This is too faint.”

Trip 5:
“Good afternoon. I am here to pick my special pass.”

“Your receipt?” Produced. “Your nationality?” American. Officer retrieves passport from basket and hands it over. It was almost too easy.

Almost.

They issued the pass for 2 months, instead of the standard 3. I returned and explained that, gosh, there seems to have been a mistake. My insides screamed in outrage when I was told I would have to start the entire process all over gain. I summoned up my friendliest face and calmly explain that, sir, that’s absolutely ridiculous. Back and forth, back and forth, logical points countered with bogus rationalizations until he finally agreed to fix it, there and then, while I waited outside.

Which he did.

And I didn’t even have to bribe him. Victory.