I have not posted in week + as I have had a busy, busy life of fun and joy. Or my internet has been out when I have not been having a busy, busy life of fun and joy. It's about 50:50 really.
Anyhow, this post was actually supposed to go up last Monday believe it or not (when the relevant photo was taken), but the above happened, preventing its existence. Anyhow, without further ado, I present the story of Alexander Wamboldt and the Horrible Visa Renewal Office.
So, when I came to Egypt, I purchased a month tourist visa in the airport for $15. This is standard procedure and was nice and easy and all. However, as I am here for over a month, conundrum. I could pass the rest of the time here without a visa illegally, basically resulting in a hefty fine when I leave the country, or go to a building in the center of the city (very near the Egyptian National Museum) named the Mogamma'. Now, the Mogamma' is legendary, both inside of Egyptian culture and outside. When I told coworkers I had to go renew my visa they told me to bring: 1) water 2) food 3) a book 4) iPod 5) patience 6) no watch, as it would prevent bringing #5. A friend's guidebook tells what I am assuming/hoping to be a fictitious story about an African immigrant driven mad by the bureaucracy who jumped out of the Mogamma's window to his death instead of continue to shuffle papers from window to window. Possibly my favorite story on the nature of the Mogamma' is that its name in Arabic literally means "the Collective." How's that for bureaucracy being the Borg?
Anyhow, I got there early in the morning last Monday with my friend, Tyler, passports in hand, ready for anything. Entering the building, it becomes clear that it is just sort of lines, everywhere. Like if you constructed a building with the only desired architectural feature being the ability to have the most queues for people to wait in imaginable. We are slowly directed to the 2nd floor, which is a large, oval shaped hallway that curves around the interior courtyard of the building, lined with windows. Tens of hundreds of postal service-esque windows. These windows bear rather obtuse names like, "Palestinian refugee non-tourist residency" (begging the question of what a "Palestinian refugee tourist residency" would entail). We are auspiciously directed to window #13, where the woman immediately tells us that we are lacking the necessary passport photo and photocopies (in triplicate) of our original visa as well as our passport identification page. These can be made on the first floor. Back down. There is literally a window that about a dozen people constantly surround in a hoard in which a harried-looking woman operates a photocopier for money (talk about desirable jobs). We push are way in, get the (triplicate) copies made. Then, we have to cross the hall, and turn under the stairwell where one can get passport photos taken (the sample photo was of a rather airbrushed looking young Egyptian woman gently reclining onto her right hand and smiling vacantly in front of a background of pale pink shooting stars, which I'm fairly certain is one of those images that you can't use as a passport photo. You know, what with her smiling and all.). Passport photos taken, we go back upstairs to window #13. Window #13 sighs reluctantly, apparently realizing that we have now brought enough documents to force her to do her job. Which, it turns out, is handing us a rather incomprehensible form that asks for lots of interesting personal information in lieu of other personal information (Question #19: Religion, versus Question # oddly-absent: Previous Name or Names). We fill out said form, then return it to Window #13. Window #13 sighs again, then begins to examine forms, passport photos, photocopies (triplicate) and passports. Discovers Tyler has a student visa and assigns him to the Window of Lost Causes (#28). Window #13 is apparently still forced to deal with mine as it falls under whatever the jurisdiction of Window #13 is (suggested jurisdictions based off of my experience: non-Arab foreign tourist residency extensions?), which basically means that Window #13 has to tell me to go to Window #39. Window #39 re-examines form, passport, passport photos, and photocopies (triplicate), before stapling them together and referring me to Window #41 (suggested jurisdictions based off of my experience for Window #39: nothing? office supply distribution?). Window #41 informs me that I now need to pay 15 Egyptian Pounds (about $2.5) for unclear purposes. Upon producing this money, unclear purposes are revealed to be purchasing what appear to be a variety of postage stamps, each with a labeled value of under 5 LE (suggested jurisdictions based off of my experience for Window #41: bureaucratic postage supplier?), and refers me back to Window #13. Window #13 sighs, wearily accepts postage stamps, and proceeds to haphazardly attach them to form and passport photo stapled to form (one goes over my forehead), before asking for my passport. I am informed passport will be returned to me with visa from Window #53 in 2 hours. I am skeptical with Window #13, need convincing that this is, in fact, the case (new suggested jurisdictions based off my experience for Window #13: haphazard stamp attachment, passport thief, potential lie distributor).
Tyler's visa, in the meantime, has been declared good enough after having some blue pen drawn in a squiggly line at the top of old visa, and is free to go.
I camp out next to Window #53, glaring at it periodically while fully catching up on my iPod's stash of NPR. Two hours rolls by, and my sanity is beginning to wear thin. The building is as crowed as Space Mountain, and full of as many screaming toddlers. The old British man next to me just stares stoically at Window #53. I go up to Window #53 and ask if my visa is ready. Window #53 laughs. I get dejected, then see my passport sitting right there, next to Window #53. After telling Window #53 this, it is Window #53's turn to get dejected, then slowly pick up my passport as I glare, open it, and adhere a stamp which is apparently my visa (suggested jurisdictions based off of my experience for Window #53: attaching visas to passports, dispensing finalized visas, tripping on its own sense of power). As I sit back down to put away my passport, I see the stoic old British man is writing a text message. It reads, "I have almost snatched a visa from the jaws of the fearsome Mogamma.'" I liked the sentiment (as well as the way it sounds when read in my fake British accent), hence the title of this post.
And, without further ado:
my success as documented from photobooth (and following a shower). also, now i have a lot of extra passport-sized photos of me. anyone want one?
