I recently declared that I hate South Africa, although this declaration at the time was as a result of a culmination of factors there is one thing that has most contributed for my distaste towards this country and that is Home Affairs.
Home Affairs is the a government department and it deals with everything from birth certificates to visas. Kind of like an immigration department but not so specific. Now if you want an expert on the dealings of Home Affairs and what kind of work they do then I am not your person but if you want an understanding of what it is like to visit this place, the procedures, the staff, the atmosphere ...etc then you have found the expert. In the last 3 weeks I have been to Home Affairs 8 times. 8 TIMES!! And after my 8th visit I still haven’t been able to finalise my application for an extension on my visa.
I will now describe for you each of my visits to this horrid place and maybe, just maybe you will understand why I am so frustrated at this country.
I arrived here in SA on the 29th of May 2010. 4 months prior to this I asked about my visa and I was told not to worry about it. Then I arrived here in SA, I again asked about my visa, again I was told not to worry about it, I had plenty of time. From that first moment I asked about my visa at least once a week. Always the same response, don’t worry about it and my very favourite response, just drive out of the country and come back again. Yes, every 3 months, great plan.
So I had no idea how to apply for a visa, I had no idea what I needed to apply for a visa and I had no idea where to go to apply for a visa. I figured if everyone was so relaxed about it then it mustn’t be too big of a deal.
As I was preparing to leave for PE I asked again about my visa, I was told I should wait till I got there, so I did. I waited again and when I got to PE I had just 1 month before my current visa would expire. I started again. Every day I asked about my visa. Finally success, Luvuyo took me to Home Affairs, who’d have thought on that first day that I would spend more time in this building than I would doing any Baha’i related activities.
The two of us walked up the ally way leading to the front door. “Photo, photo, you need I.D photo?” “You must buy a black pen, there are no pens inside. Do you need a pen?” We made it past the hawkers and then to security. We each walked through the metal detectors, it beeped, no one cared, we kept walking.
My first impression was scepticism. This was their office of Home Affairs? This looked like one of those abandoned buildings they show in movies where they hold hostages. The flooring is this linoleum in this beigey brown colour, the walls have stains on them, the roof is low. Another thing that hits me is the lack of computers and signs. Luvuyo leads me to the place where we are supposed to go. There is one woman sitting behind some desks at the far end of the room and around 25 people lining the walls. There are wooden benches for these people to sit on. I have no idea what this is. Do you take a number? How do you know who’s next? Is there only one person serving people? Luvuyo goes up to the lady and tells her we just need a form. She gives us the form and as we flick through it we have no idea what to do. I go back up to the lady, I just want to ask her what I need to bring in with this form, she tells me to wait in line. So we leave.
Next visit, its only purpose is to find out what I need to bring in with my application. I walk up the alley way, past the hawkers, through the beeping metal detector and into the same room as before. I get there as early as possible and there are already 15 people ahead of me and one woman working. I figure out that there is a structure to this room. You sit in the last seat and move up a seat as people are served. So I take that last spot and I wait. At one stage I need to use the bathroom so I get up and go in search of it. This doesn’t take long as the smell of it is so severe you can’t miss it. I follow the ‘ladies’ sign and see one of the most disturbing things of this trip so far. There is a woman, a large woman, crouching on the toilet, legs flared, just doing her thing the door wide open. She looks at me I walk past pretending not to notice. She calls out to me “Sisi can you bring me paper?” OMG she wants toilet paper which is not in the cubicles but on a rail near the sink. I go and roll out a huge amount and then I hand it to her and quickly get in to the next cubicle. Shocked, absolutely shocked. I go back to my seat and prepare myself for a long wait filled with painful mental images.
After about an hour and a half my turn comes. I take the golden seat on the other side of the lady’s desk. The seat everyone is eyeing off as they wait on their wooden benches. This seat has a cushion and best of all it’s the last seat. Once you’ve sat here you can leave. The lady makes me a list of all my requirements and then asks to see my current visa. She looks at the expiry date then back at me “If you’re here as a volunteer why have you left it so long to renew your visa?” I couldn’t agree more.
One of the visa requirements is to get a doctors clearance and a radiological report to prove that you are in good health and do not have tuberculosis. I asked Lunathi where I could find a doctor and she tells me to go to Greenacres hospital and I’ll find what I need. So go to the hospital. I see a reception desk and I ask where I can go to see a GP, I am sent down the hall. I go down the hall to another room, I stand and wait for around 10minutes. A lady approaches me and asks me what I need, I show her the forms that a GP needs to fill out and say I need a GP. She takes me further down the hall to another reception desk. I tell the people at that desk that I need to see a GP, “Just sit and wait and the nurse will call you.” So I sit and wait, 10minutes, 20 minutes, 30minutes, 40minutes. I get up and go back to the desk “Do I need to go to the nurse or will she come to me?” “The nurse will call your name” “How will she call my name when I haven’t given it to anyone?”
I go to the nurse “What is the problem?” “I just need to get these forms filled” “This is an emergency department, we don’t fill out forms like that” I explain that I told everyone who I dealt with that I needed a GP to get forms filled and this is where they sent me. I ask her where I should go. “Next to this building is PEGP they can help you there”
This sounds promising, so I go and find the place, step inside and tell the lady at reception that I need to see a GP. “We don’t have a GP here” ..... WHAT!!! The place is called PEGP, how can they not have one??? She points out another building and so I go there. I approach a man who has just come out of a shop “Hi, where is the GP in this building?” “You should go to the hospital” “No, I was told there was a GP in this building” “No, there’s no GP but there’s a doctor over there” WHAT’S THE DIFFERENCE!!!
Finally, finally, finally I find a GP. The waiting room is empty, probably because unlike Australia you have to pay to see a doctor here and so people don’t just visit the doctor because their pinky hurts. I go in to see the doctor and tell him about my dramaful day. He laughs and explains that people here don’t know what GP means, always use the word doctor or they won’t understand. Now that wasn’t me talking, that was the doctor. Even the locals can see the messedupness of this place. He signs my forms and sends me back to the hospital for my x-rays. Now this part I liked. I didn’t have to make a booking, they did my x-rays on the spot and my results were ready within 20minutes. I really liked that, they were playing ‘UP’ in the waiting area so the time flew by.
Finally with my medical stuff done I just had to wait for a letter from the Baha’is before I could go back to Home Affairs. When that came I ventured back to that dull, dreadful place and waited in line again. This time it took about an hour for me to reach the front and when I did “Where is your bank statement?” “Why do I need a bank statement?” “We need to see that you can take care of yourself, we don’t want you to be a burden to South Africa.” Me?? A burden to South Africa? South Africa is a burden to the world!! Then I get this delightful bit of information “Go and check the chart to see how much your repatriaction fee is, you must pay it.
Ok so I’m thinking it will be like R1000... no its R10 000. Where the hell am I supposed to get that kind of money? In my head I think it must be a mistake, it should say R1000 and it’s a typo. I go to the shopping centre next door and get a print out of my bank statement and take out R1000 to pay the fee. I go back to Home Affairs and go to the finance department to pay. The lady calls me to her desk. First I ask her why do I need to pay this fee? “That’s a very good question but I don’t know, wait here and I will find out because I would also like to know.” K Ok so the lady comes over and explains that it’s like a bond that I have to pay and I get it back when I leave. Fair enough I guess, how much is it? “R10 000 that’s the fee for Sydney Australia” can I pay on credit? “No, cash only” CASH?? Who walks around these streets with that much cash. I get up and leave, again.
I talk to Luvuyo and he says that with Aziz who is a Baha’i from Kenya, he didn’t have to pay this fee. He decides to come with me on my next visit to figure this out. We sit in line and wait for almost 2 hours. This is where we meet the lady with the amazing story in my previous blog post. We get to the front and here’s some exciting news, I don’t have to pay the fee if I show them my return plane ticket. Well isn’t that just wonderful. We leave again and with 9 days left on my visa I’m starting to think that I may just have to take a little trip to Swaziland or something.
Now I have a small problem. My return ticket is for September because when I booked my flight that was the latest return date they could give me. So I have to call the airline and have this changed. They want to charge me $250, I say that’s not fair, it wasn’t my fault they didn’t offer a return date when I wanted one. They tell me to call my travel agent and do it through them. Now remember there’s a 7 hour time difference so I have to wait till after 1am to make the call. I call and we start the process. I don’t sleep at all that night as the girl I’m working with is emailing me all through the night and I have to keep responding so that we can get this sorted. Thankfully after 2 nights without sleep I have a return flight on the 19th of May 2011 without having to pay a fee.
So now I have everything I need, every photocopy, every bit of proof, everything I need to go to Home Affairs and have this finalised once and for all. The lady I have been dealing with tells me next time I come to go directly to her and not wait in line so on Thursday, with 6 days to go on my visa I go in at 11.30am. The gates are being closed, why are the gates being closed? “Sorry we are closed for the strike, come back before 11am tomorrow.” Great
So I go back, it’s 9.30am. I don’t want a pen, I don’t want an ID photo, the metal detector beeps and I go and sit on the wooden bench. My 7th visit to Home Affairs. My lady isn’t at work, I guess I’m waiting in line. I can hear the conversations of other poor souls like me. There’s a lady who entered SA with her kids. Her children’s passports were stamped with October 22nd, hers was stamped with August 22nd. She only just realised and is now here to have this mistake resolved. When it’s her turn she finds out she has to go through the whole sorry process of bank statements and forms and fees just like everyone else even though it was a mistake by border control. It’s been 2 hours now that I’ve been waiting and I am finally at the head of the line. I’m next, this is it, I am finally going to be done with Home Affairs. As I get ready to lift my bum off the seat and place it down on the golden chair the voice of a man destroys all my hopes. “We are sorry, the comrades are here and we are going on strike.” Despair, hopelessness, injustice, anger, disappointment, these are all running through me. Stunned into complete shock some of us just stand there, our mouths open in disbelief. We stare at each other, not knowing what to do. The lady in our section stands up with a grin on her face, packs up her papers and walks off without so much as an apology to those of us who have just wasted our lives waiting for her assistance. A South African lady who had accompanied the one with the wrongly stamped passport is standing in shock as well. Her friends visa expires on Sunday and now she will have to pay a fine because of the strike. She tells us this has nothing to do with money, it’s just a day off for most, they don’t care either way. She apologises to us and says that we should just leave the country and come back. She especially empathises with me, “You came here to help us and this is how you get treated.” A man who was waiting in another section looks over at us “I can’t believe this, I don’t understand why you people want to stay in this country?” I hear ya brother. There is one white lady sitting at her desk, I see her every time I come in, she’s always smiling, always courteous, the people she serves leave happy. She’s still seated at her desk, still serving the lady who’s turn was next. She announces that she will stay and serve the remaining people in her section. All the other staff are walking out, handbags over their shoulders, they leave with smirks of satisfaction on their faces. This woman stays, her priority to serve. She receives a phone call, it’s all in Afrikaans, while on the phone she starts shaking, her whole body trembling, she cries out, people are telling her to stay calm. Fear and panic cover her face and a workmate holds her and walks her elsewhere. After a few moments she comes back, she takes her seat behind her desk and carries on her work. The lady I had been speaking to tells me that this woman has just been told that she should stop working or they will kill her. I’m so disgusted I can’t even start to be angry.
A young guy comes around and tells us we should leave for our own safety, as we walk out a male employee looks at us and says “Sorry but this is out of our control” “No, it’s not. You should remember who you are working for, the people and right now the people are the only ones suffering.”
I leave, again. More frustrated and angry than I’ve ever known myself to be. I dread having to come back to this place on Monday and wonder if this is a sign that I am not supposed to be here.
Sunday night I say some prayers and I know that depending on the result on Monday I will know what I have to do.
Monday morning, my 8th visit to my beloved Home Affairs.. It’s 8am when I arrive, that’s half an hour before opening time. There are already more than 20 people inside waiting for the place to open. I join the end of the queue knowing that being here this early I will definitely be served but considering all the set backs I have had before I am still apprehensive.
A man comes out to talk to us, I recognise him as the man I spoke to on Friday. “Everyone as you know we are on strike and so we are working at minimal capacity. The following services will be available.. Ids, passports..” I am praying he says permits, he must say permits “..birth certificates, fingerprints.” He’s stopped talking and he hasn’t said permits.. OMG OMG OMG!!
“I am sorry but those of you who need permits and visas that sector is striking the most heavily and they will be on strike indefinitely, please consider your options if you have a permit that will expire shortly.”
OMG OMG OMG!!
8 times!! 8 times I tried. No one can say I didn’t try, that I didn’t really pursue every effort to get this fixed but deep down I always knew I would end up leaving the country. From the first time Mr Shams, as a joke, suggested that I leave the country and come back almost 3 months ago I knew that it would come to this. My gut feeling, my intuition, my soul knew that this moment would come where my visa would expire and I would need to leave, only to come back and have another 3 month visitors visa issued. This whole time I had already been considering where I wanted to go on this little get away and my soul has been crying for Uganda, where one of the 7 Baha’is temples of the world is situated. I have only seen 2 Baha’i temples, one in Sydney and one in New Delhi so this will be my third and I’m actually really excited. Sometimes you just have to read the signs and the signs are saying I need to leave South Africa.
So I now have 2 days to book a flight and find somewhere to stay in Uganda. I’m thinking I’ll stay for about 5 days or so and hopefully I will come back to SA refreshed and re-energised and I can continue with my work completely in tune.
This life is not predictable and we always have to be ready to seize opportunity when it comes. You know I actually feel blessed that when God wants to tell me something he makes it pretty obvious for me what I am supposed to do. 8 times and no cigar, I can take a hint.
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