… when what is supposed to be an easy, fairly straight-forward process turns into a most harrowing three hour “horror spectacular” bar none!
It didn’t come as a surprise when we women were told to wait until after the men were finished (that’s a good 1 1/2 hours of standing in place waiting!) to have our turn. I even sort of “accepted” it as a matter of fact when some brazen locals jumped queue with their wards so that their employees could have their turn at the expense of poor, unfortunate souls like us who have been waiting patiently for hours!
(Yes, although the latter case is also common from where I come from, at least us Pinoys have the delicadeza to “use the back door” and not flaunt the oft-repeated mantra of it’s not what you know but who you know.
)
What got my goat was when it was finally the women’s turn to have a crack at this process, other expatriate wives like ourselves suddenly appeared out of nowhere and literally bulldozed themselves (think sumo wrestlers in “ninja costumes”, people…) to the front of the supposed line, which, by the way, was virtually non-existent! As expected, it was sheer chaos and pandemonium. I honestly feared I might just pass out from being in the thick of the mob! Gosh, even my toes got exhausted from trying to stand my ground to “defend my rightful place”!
It puzzles me how a nation as affluent as this can’t even invest in queue management machines or even simple queue poles and cordons (like the ones commonly found in banking halls or movie theatre lobbies) to make processes like these more orderly. Or that the supposed security personnel in the office just watched – some even snickering in amusement – while we women were literally forced to fend for ourselves to “reach our goal”.
And when we finally were able to pass through the “narrow door”, after three long hours of pushing, shoving and what-have-you, I almost was not even able to complete what I set out to do! Why? Because the first man I was assigned to could not properly identify my name as written in my passport nor correctly read my resident permit (iqama) number (which, incidentally, is written in Arabic!).
Oh, did I forget to tell you what this whole brouhaha is about? We simply were following a government directive to have the photos and fingerprints of all expatriate workers taken/scanned to supposedly make our resident permit and visa processing easier!
The irony of it all is not lost on me most definitely. This is one experience I shall surely remember (painfully) for a very long time.
Rant ends here. Let the happy thoughts begin!
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