Passport Aplication - A Listener's Story

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.