Having just arrived from Botswana, where lines are the norm, and we’ve all come to learn to just stand in them patiently, I wasn’t at all fazed by the line at immigration/arrivals. I approached the unsmiling agent, handed him my pink passport and gave him my biggest dose of friendly African style greeting of “Hello! How are you?” complete with a big smile. I was soon reminded that here in London, that is interpreted as “crazy” and treated as such.
Unsmiling Immigration Official: “What brings you to London, Ma’am?”
Me (bristling only slightly that in the last 7 years I seem to have gone from “Miss” to “Ma’am”):
“Well I missed it! I studied here some years ago and….”
UIO (ignoring my charming story and flipping through my passport, which is a different one than I had at that time and holds no European stamps. This one starts In Africa as it’s my Peace Corps passport-the other one is expired) “Oh really. And where are you coming from?”
Me: “Africa! Or really, as one should be specific about this as it’s a whole continent, I was living in Botswana-I just finished the Peace Corps- and then I flew out of Jo-burg, but this most recent flight? Well it was from Egypt…….”
UIO (cutting me off): “And where are you staying in London?”
Me: “With my friend Jo! In Paddington!” (Which I know I had written on the little form that was right in front of him, but am quite used to answering tons of ridiculous questions asked by people who have the information right there in front of them.)
UIO: “Paddington is surely a big place. Any specific information about where your friend lives?”
Me (still smiling like a golden retriever): “Well I have it somewhere, but it doesn’t matter. She’ll pick me at the train station.”
UIO (sighing): “And how long will you be in London?”
Me (oblivious): Begin rattling off my itinerary to a man who clearly DOES NOT CARE.
UIO: “And what is your employment?”
Me: “Well I’m unemployed. And really homeless too, if you think about it! See I just finished the Peace Corps in Botswana……”
UIO (cutting me off): “Do you have a ticket to leave the UK Ma’am?”
Me (proudly): “Actually I do!” Begin repeating aforementioned itinerary.
UIO (cutting me off again): “May I see it, Ma’am?”
Me (riffling through my overweight carry-on bag that was put through by the ticketing agent in Jo-burg through just this type of friendly subterfuge): “Yeah, I’ll get it for you now. I’m so glad I had my shit together (insert noticeable eye roll from the immigration agent here) and printed them off in Botswana… Do you want to see all of them or just the one from Scotland to the States? They’re marked with the pink sticky tabs and the yellow highlighter.”
The Unsmiling Immigration Official reviews my travel document as I prattle on about my upcoming travel plans.
UIO (satisfied at finally finding confirmation that the idiot in front of him was not trying to stay in his country on any sort of permanent basis, and again cutting me off, whilst almost violently stamping my passport.) :” Thank you Ma’am, this will suffice. It seems as you are indeed leaving within the allotted amount of time I won’t have to ask you to provide proof of income (muttering)-as it seems you have none- and I have to remind you that you are (loudly) not permitted on this entry visa to work in the UK. Enjoy your visit.”
Me (suddenly realizing this man thinks I’m clearly some sort of terrorist): “Uh, thanks.” Repacking all my shit into my bag and heading to the baggage claim.
As I walked through the same duty free lined hallway I passed through to enter this country on another great adventure (with blinders on, as the amount of bright lights and perfume smells and just well, STUFF that lined the shops would have stopped me for at least a few hours if I so much as glanced left or right) I again grinned, happy to be back, and excited to see something familiar from my past. I grinned at all the people who were not waiting for me, and remembered meeting my former boyfriend here, as well as my mom and sister when they arrived.
I walked over to the cash machine and inserted my card, and punched in my code. Denied.
A small part of me was swept back to 7 years ago, when I arrived in this same airport, alone and more that slightly freaked out at the prospect of 5 months in a foreign country where I knew no one (with the exception of the location of some graves that apparently held some long dead ancestors that my great uncle had told me I should go visit). I was trying to call my mom to tell her I was in London with the calling card that she gave me. We had known it was going to be the middle of the American night when I got in, but she wanted me to call to let her know I was safe so I did. The card, which we thought would last at least few phone calls was finished in about 5 minutes (first lesson about foreign pay phones and calling cards learned the hard way) and I was suddenly alone in a very big city (at least until the study abroad babysitters came to collect me, when the flight with everyone else from the East coast arrived) and I was scared.
But the bigger part of me has been dealing with bullshit of this nature in foreign lands for the past two years, and simply knew it was a matter of making a plan.
I quickly cursed myself for impulsively buying the overpriced magnet of the green World Cup 2010 mascot in the gift shop in the airport in Jo-burg, as cashing in those Rand might have been enough to try to get a tube ticket at least to Paddington to meet Jo. The little guy is creepy and weird, but I was feeling nostalgic and wanting something to commemorate my time in South Africa leading up to the world cup. Here’s his picture.
Creepy, huh?
As it seems everywhere in the world besides the Maun airport that has wireless internets locks it down and makes you pay, using my laptop to get on Skype or the internet was quickly eliminated as an option.
My next move was to try to use my card to use the internets at the little kiosks (using one's card-three pound minimum-of course-plus international fees) to see if I could get a hold of my mom (unlikely as it was still early in the States and she's usually not on the internet unless I warn her that I might be) or the bank to sort this out.
My "make a plan" skills kicked in once I realized if I could get someone on Facebook who was in the States to call my mom to alert her to the problem she could probably call the bank and we could sort this out. A second cousin of my fathers was quickly found to attempt this duty and my mom was soon on the internet and calling the bank. (thank you so much Lori!!!!!)
After a few hours, a few international calls on my credit card (the irony of using my credit card to determine why I couldn't use my credit card was not lost on me) to determine why I couldn't use the damn thing to get cash or buy a train ticket and I was feeling an awful lot closer to the girl who was here 7 years ago. I had used the internet to ask Jo to come rescue me (bless my amazing friend's warm and wonderful heart, as well as the crazy technology of everyone having the internets on their phones. I did have my Botswana phone that I tried to get a sim card for but that particular machine was allied with the cash machine and the train ticket machine in rejecting me)and was waiting for her in the train station below the airport.
As I waited for Jo's undoubtedly smiling and distinctively unencumbered with luggage figure to emerge from one of the trains, I put my ipod in my ears and felt sorry for myself. This readjustment thing was going to be harder than I thought.I chided myself for the rookie mistake of forgetting to have my mom call the bank and remind them that I would be in the UK for a month (This lovely mistake was confirmed completely the next day when I tried to get cash from the ATM at Paddington station-thinking there was a perhaps a 24 hour hold or something to do with the British bank holiday-and the machine ate my card. Thanks, Visa. This leaves me with no credit card- it shut itself down from disuse from two years in Botswana without using it and now no cash card. Awesome). My ipod was playing a shuffle playlist apparently designed by the gods to bring me right back to all of the happiest times I ever had in Botswana.
I sat against the wall of the station surrounded by my bags and thought back to the disdain in the Unsmiling Immigration Official's voice as I explained my current (and flippant) life plan. I was homeless (and now looked it in the train station sitting against the wall surrounded by my worldly possessions) and jobless (although I did briefly consider that busking might be a positive career move for the time being, before remembering that I HAVE NO TALENTS past giving my friend's cheeky nicknames)and at this point at least, penniless.
Botswana and Africa seemed so close and yet so far away, and I was swept up in longing for the kindness so commonly and frequently shown by strangers there. In Botswana if someone had seen me sitting alone in a train station they most likely would have stopped and chatted with me. They would likely have inquired as to what I was doing alone in a train station,and when I told them what was happening, they would have shaken their heads, muttered "hey" in disbelief, helped me buy a train ticket to be paid back when we got to Paddington. I quickly realized this was not going to be what happened here in London when I briefly tried to greet someone and ask how the automatic ticket machine worked and they looked at me with complete fear in their eyes that a fellow human being might be speaking to them and needing something from them.
Jo rescued me soon after, and I only made friends with one African (the smiling Nigerian ticket taker on the train) on the way home. The impersonality of the western world is going to be a tough one to get used to, but as with all things, we move forward....
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