Well Zambia isn’t what I expected, so far.
The signs on the outside of the airport had an immediate effect. They were handpainted. It gave me a feeling of nostalgia that it took a while to place, before I realised it reminded me of the seaside. Or the abandoned London Underground station I saw, when all of the old signs were still intact and they were painted on wood, not mass-printed with a glossy sheen.
That much was enough to get me thinking about how much I take things for granted. Then everything went crazy.
I always have a bit of awareness when I approach an immigration desk that the person I’m talking to has the power to deport me if they don’t like what I have to say. (In America, they also have a gun.)
My first problem came when they said I needed a visa. I’d completely forgotten about that. In the US I’m electronically registered with an ESTA and in Europe I get a waiver because I’m a British citizen. But here, I needed a visa. I guess I assumed Worldvision would have thought to take care of it and so I didn’t ask.
The visa costs fifty dollars. Simple enough. But I don’t carry cash with me, so they held on to my passport and told me to go to the bank outside the airport to withdraw the money.
After the confusion of 50 in dollars being 270,000 in Zambian money, and terrified I’d press one zero too many and accidentally clear out my bank account, I attempted to withdraw.
Nothing.
I used my Visa, my other Visa, my Mastercard and my American Express, pressing every button on the machine, and nothing worked.
Finally, the guy behind the counter said he would need my passport to approve the transaction.
“But they won’t give me my passport back until the transaction’s approved”, I said hopelessly.
The guy said it would be fine if I just went back and explained the situation to the boys at customs. This I did, but not before having to battle the guy at security, who (quite rightly) pointed out that once you pass a certain point in an airport, you can’t just turn around and go back again. He lectured me for a while on my failure to inform him that I would need to return, cutting me off each time I tried to explain myself to further chastise me. When he finished, I said “okay, so what are my options apart from flying home?” And with an impatient huff he let me back.
After waiting for all of the passengers of the newest flight to be cleared through, the guy with my passport escorted me to the bank – for all the good it did, as my cards still failed to work. Going through my emails, I found that all of the contact numbers I had for the Worldvision staff I’d spoken to were Australian numbers; none of them were contactable with African phones. And when I tried to phone my bank in the UK to see why my cards weren’t being approved, I was met with the words “this number is not in use” and then the line going dead.
Finally I phoned an African number for one of the Worldvision staff, who passed details of my plight on to our organiser, who is now coming to the airport to meet me and apologise profusely for the oversights. Meanwhile, while I wait, I’m sitting in the Zambian immigration office – the guy with my passport is gone, but he very kindly bought me a Fanta – and I’m thinking that for all the upheaval I’ve had getting into the country, it’s a good thing I flew business class.
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