When I decided to renew my passport,
I had no idea that I would have lost a whole day from work. I arrived at the
Passport Immigration and Citizenship Agency in Montego Bay at 8:40a.m. Wednesday,
April 8, 2015 and joined the long line that was already there. I got a number
when a young, fair-skinned male security guard with a slight lisp asked, “Who
nuh get no ticket?” He was dressed in a pair of black pants and white shirt
trimmed with black, with the firm’s logo (Vanguard Security) in black
embroidery on the left pocket of the shirt. I held up my hand along with other
persons who had not received. When he reached me, I received A43.
About half an hour later a young,
plump, fair-skinned female security guard of about five feet six inches
appeared. She was dressed in similar uniform to the male security guard, except
that her pants were tight. She
descended halfway down the flight of steps above us calling out numbers. Those
of us who heard our numbers were instructed to ascend the stairs and sit in a
small room to her right. The thirty of us sat on black chairs packed so closely
that we exchanged breath and perspiration. Luckily, the chairs which were
fairly new were comfortable. Satisfied that all seats were taken, she returned
to the room and perched on a stool from which she informed us that she would be
giving instructions to which we were required to listen attentively. As she
spoke she reached into her handbag, cupped her left hand, replaced what she had
reached for then began to rub her hands together. Her long finger nails
comparative in length to an eagle’s talons were painted black, except for the
third finger of both hands which were painted pink with small black polka dots.
She explained the procedure to complete
the process of renewing or getting a passport for the first time. “And don’t
allow mi to be calling yu numba and yu gone about yu bizniz. And don’t go
downstairs an’ tell di security down dere dat I sen’ yu when I didn’t. Any questions?”
A few persons asked questions. One lady asked where the bathroom was. The guard
said something about photocopying which I did not quite get because of the
buzzing so I asked if I had to get a copy of my birth certificate. She said
they would photocopy it downstairs. “Please allow me to have a good day because
today is my birthday” to which several persons spontaneously said, “Happy
birthday!” All through the time that she spoke, she wiped her hands together ad
nauseam that I thought she was obsessive compulsive. “Please hol’ on to yu
numba now as it will take you truout the process.” Her pleasant demeanour made the wait
tolerable.
Luckily for me I had taken a book to
read which helped to relieve the boredom of the long wait. My concentration was
broken by the ringing of a telephone which turned out to be the guard’s. The
telephone was already at her ear when I looked up. I could tell that the passport
application process was about to begin when she spoke to someone on the phone
with a look of bewilderment on her face, “Mi nuh know weh fi start enuh. A’right!” and she hung up. “A10! Anybody have
ten? Eleven? Twelve?” No-one responded until she said, “Seventeen?” A young boy
who sat stuck to me got up and I felt relief as he left. My relief was short-lived as he was be
replaced by a fat, young woman with three whining boys. She shouted at them and
smacked them frequently as she got frustrated with their whining, and as they
became bored and restless from the lengthy and wait and the cramped position
they were in.
Despite warnings about not allowing
her to call numbers and no-one appearing, it happened repeatedly. When the guard
called 42 I was elated. I would soon get out of the cramped room, or so I thought. She stopped at 42, got
up went somewhere that I could not see around a corner and returned with a
covered hot cup and a small black plastic bag. As she sat, she attacked what
was in the bag, her fingers frequently going to her mouth. She attacked what was in the now open hot cup with
a plastic spoon which descended into the cup and ascended to her mouth in quick
succession. I realized what was in the cup when a female immigration personnel
jokingly said as she passed, “Porridge again!” The guard responded, “Yes man!”
and continued to eat with her back to some of the applicants but her side to
where I sat.
I was relieved when she finished her
meal but she would take another five minutes to wipe her mouth then her hands
repeatedly after which she shouted into the phone, “43!” I jumped up with
relief. She told me to stand on the stairs while she called out, “44! 45! 45!…” No-one responded to some of the numbers
as usual. She finally stopped at 52. She told the persons standing on the steps
below that they could go to the next room but not me. I walked off and told
her, “I’m going!” as I trekked down the stairs. As I got to the glass door of
the room below the security guard with the lisp asked, “How come yu jus’ coming
and yu numba was firs’?” I explained what had happened and he soon found a seat
and allowed me to enter the room.
I
sat for about forty-five minutes before my number was called in this second
room. I went to a young woman who photocopied my birth certificate and the face
of my passport. After that I sat for another forty-five minutes upon which I
was called to a window labeled “Processing”. A Miss Johnson took my documents, passport and
photographs. “Miss, you will have to take back the form to the JP, he misspell
your name. He will have to correct the spelling and reseal it.”
“So
near and yet so far; I had travelled nine miles to get to PICA early and now
this!” I thought. I blamed myself for not checking the spelling. My options
were between taking the eighteen mile journey to get the corrections made, and
losing another day from work. I chose the former.
When I returned to the
glass door the guard there claimed he did not remember me even though I had
asked him to remember me as I was told by Miss Johnson that I could return to
have the process completed. The guard then told me that I would have to take
another ticket. My ticket before was A43. There were persons there by that time
with tickets up to 90! I refused to take another ticket and asked if I could
see Miss Johnson but was told that she had just stepped out for lunch and would
not return before an hour. I waited and waited. After the hour had passed, Miss
Johnson returned and as she passed by me as I stood by the glass door I asked
her to verify with the security guard that she had told me to return. Whew! She
did, but it would be another fifteen minutes before I was allowed to re-enter
the processing room.
I went back to Miss
Johnson who looked at the application form to verify the correction. She frowned
then muttered something. Soon she was leafing through some papers with a
concerned look. Having satisfied herself that she had not found what she was
looking for she said, “I don’t have your profession on this list.” I panicked
as I envisioned the worse- not getting through and having to return another
day. Luckily for me she said, “We have psychologist but not counselling
psychologist.”
I thought that was ridiculous and
wanted to ask what the problem was but restrained myself as I did not want to
jeopardize my chance at getting through so I asked, “Can I cross out the counselling then?” I released my bated
breath when she said, “Yes.” She then told me that my next task would be to pay
the cashier.
I thought, “God, this
will soon be over.” only to hear Miss Johnson say that I had both pictures signed
instead of one. I felt deflated. I looked into my mind’s eye at the unsigned
photographs I had left on the coffee table at home and questioned why I had not
taken them along. I was thinking that I would definitely have to return another
day when Miss Johnson said, “You could go to the photo studio downstairs and get
your picture taken.”
“Even though I am wearing
different clothes?” I asked.
“Yes. It doesn’t matter.”
It
cost $100 more than the $550 that I had paid for the first photographs but that
was a small price to pay compared to the alternatives.
In the photo studio downstairs I noticed
that there were several people coming to retake pictures for one reason or the
other. One woman who was told the background was too white as her hair was also
white commented, “Mi tink da photo studio yah belong to one a dem wha’ work
inna di affice up de. How come so much people haffi come down yah come tek over
picture?” I silently shared her opinion.
I took the pictures back to Miss
Johnson and was too glad when she cleared me to go to the cashier. He had a bright
pleasant countenance and jokingly asked me to psychoanalyze him. I responded
that I was so tired from the day’s events that he would have to wait until I
had had a good sleep. He handed me the receipt with a smile and told me to return
any time after April 28 to collect my passport. I was apprehensive as I
anticipated what I would go through to collect the passport but was glad that
my passport application ordeal was over. When I left the PICA building it was
3:50 p.m. and I empathized with the people who would not even get into the
processing room that day.
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