The earlier you get there, the quicker you can get
out. That’s what I was told by the sisters and the internet when I was
researching how to extend my visa to Kenya. But first thing first.
I’m on a tourist visa. If you are on a tourist visa
you are technically not allowed to do
any sort of work, volunteering included. Basically, if I was caught
volunteering with my visa then I would be in some serious trouble depending on
if the people who caught cared to make a big deal out of it. However, tourist
visas only last for three months here; after that, you have to either leave the
country or get an extension.
So option one: leaving the country. I looked up
flights to Dar es-Salam, Tanzania and they were $200. And that was on the cheap
side. Flights to Ethiopia were basically the same. I considered using the bus
instead but decided that a white girl traveling alone with no real knowledge about
how to get around in the part of the world…well, it might not go super well.
Therefore, option two: extending my visa.
First of all, there is no information online through
the Kenyan immigration office about what is needed for extending a visa. Like, nothing.
I went through tons of blogs and chain responses to get a basic idea of what I
might need. Luckily, I had the chance to go to Nyayo House (the immigration
building) earlier in September with some sisters that needed to do a few things
with their residency cards. I tried to renew then (a month in advance) and was
told that I had to apply closer to my expiration date (fair enough). The lady told me that I would just need to bring my passport, photocopies of my passport, and two passport photos. However, I
did meet a lovely Canadian woman who was doing the same thing I would be doing.
After awkwardly walking up to her and introducing myself, I asked what she had
needed to extend.
According to her: passport, photocopies of the
passport ID page and visa page, two passport photos, and 2000 shillings.
‘Brilliant!’ I thought to myself. ‘Now I know
exactly what I need for when I return in three weeks.’
I’m sure you can guess what happened three weeks
later.
This past Tuesday I hopped on the bus with Sr.
Rosetta (who had some of her stuff to do) and went to Nyayo House yet again. I
had in my bag my passport, two passport photos (that I actually got in the US
before I even left for Kenya because I’m paranoid like that), the photocopies
of my passport pages, and 2000 shillings. I punched the button for my ticket
and was promptly called by the person at the counter.
“Passport extension?” I said somewhat uncertainly.
The lady looked at me with a bored expression on her
face, reached behind her to grab a piece of paper, and handed it to me.
“You need to fill out this extension request form
and submit Form 50 online and then bring a copy back here.”
Uh, excuse me? I was here literally three weeks ago
and that was not something that I was told I needed! When did this change get
put into place?! Ugh.
I clarified, “Form 50?”
“Yes, Form 50.”
So I turned around, five minutes after arriving, and
walked back out the door towards the buses. As the bus drove me back to the
sisters’ place, I decided that rather than waiting and going tomorrow, I would
quickly fill out the form the woman had given me, do the online form, and head back
so that I could maybe finish this whole visa thing before lunch.
And that is exactly what I attempted to do. The
first part was easy. I filled out the visa extension form she had given me and
asked one of the sisters for house’s address. The problem came with the second
part. I couldn’t find the online form. Straight up, the thing did not exist. I
tried logging into the immigration website and it told me my credentials were
invalid. I tried logging into eCitizen, the website I used to get my visa the
first time, and it worked fine. Sr. Purin tried to help me with the system, but
it simply wouldn’t work. In the end, I just printed out the form (which was
actually Form A1, not Form 50) and filled it out as best I could. Then I got
back on the bus, praying that what I had would be enough.
Walking back up to the counter, I handed the woman
my forms. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a face look so exasperated before.
“You were supposed to fill this out online,” she said. “You just typed on
the form and printed it out.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I tried to fill it out online, but
the system wouldn’t let me log in. This was all I could get.”
“Well, the system is working so you should be able
to log in.” Clearly this person is not good at listening.
“I believe you, but I was not able to get on the system. I could get on eCitizen but
not FNS.”
“You need to use FNS, not eCitizen.”
I AM AWARE OF THIS FACT, MADAM.
“Yes,” I said calmly. “I tried, but it wouldn’t let
me on.”
I think she finally got my point because she told me
to move over to the next counter where a man was working who, apparently, was
the head man in charge. She explained to him that I hadn’t filled out the form
online and that I said I wasn’t able to get on the system.
“Well, the system is working,” he said.
WE KNOW THE SYSTEM IS WORKING. THAT IS NOT THE
PROBLEM.
“Yeah, I’m sure the system is working,” I said, a
slight hint of frustration entering my voice. “However, I can’t get on so can
you tell me what else I should do because I leave tomorrow so I have to get
this done.”
(I mean, I left for Makuyu the next day. I wasn’t
lying.)
Then the man wrote a name down on a piece of paper.
“Go find this man in the immigration office on floor three of the main
building. He should be able to assist you.”
Awesome sauce. So I went to the main building,
climbed up four sets of stairs, ended up in a super sketchy hallway, knocked on
random doors until someone finally came out, and then was finally escorted to
Mr. Ogde. And what was the first thing Mr. Ogde said, you may wonder?
“You don’t even need this form, you’re only on a
tourist visa.”
THAT’S WHAT I THOUGHT BUT APPARENTLY I WAS WRONG.
I explained to him the reasoning that had been given
to me downstairs (namely that there was none, I was just trying to do what they
told me to do) and he shook his head, smiling.
“You’re only here for a short amount of time so you
don’t need to register as an alien.”
“Right. Could you call and explain that to the
people downstairs? ‘Cause I don’t think they’ll believe me if I just tell them
that.”
He laughed. “Yes, they will.”
No, they won’t. “Still, could you explain it to
them?”
So Mr. Ogde called down and started talking in
Kiswahili, effectively leaving me completely lost as to the direction the
conversation was taking. While he started out pretty cheerful, he quickly
became more reserved as the conversation went on. Eventually, he hung up the
phone and wrote something on a piece of paper. Handing it to me, he said, “This
man is at the counter you came from. Counter 4?”
Dude, I don’t know.
“Well anyway, he will assist you.”
Okay, hold up. “So do I need this Form 50 or not?”
“Mr. ________ will guide you about what you need.”
DO I NEED FORM 50 OR NOT, THIS IS NOT A DIFFICULT
QUESTION.
Sensing that I would get no answer, I walked back to
Point A and went to counter 7 (because no, it was not counter 4). I held out
the piece of paper to the guy manning the counter and said, “Is this man here?”
He took it and shook his head. “No, but he should be
back fairly soon. He just stepped out to do something.”
Now I’ll be honest. I had no idea how soon ‘soon’
was. It could have been two minutes or two hours for all I cared. I planted
myself like a tree right in front of that counter (though slightly to the side
so other people could be helped). I was not going to be moving until Mr.
What’s-his-name came to freaking guide me.
In a rather anticlimactic turn of events, Mr.
________ came around, and asked the following questions:
Do you have your extension form? Yes.
Do you have your passport? Yes.
Do you have your passport photos? YES.
Do you have your passport photocopies? YES I HAVE
EVERYTHING OKAY
Then he took everything over to the first lady that
‘helped’ me. She put together some papers, still looking like she’d rather be
anywhere other than her job, and handed it back to me.
“Go to counter 4 to pay the 2000 shillings and
they’ll direct you from there.”
THANK YOU AND I HOPE I NEVER SEE YOU AGAIN.
The man at counter 4 was a refreshing change. He
just took my forms and money and told me to sit down while they processed my
payment. After that, they would call me back up.
A brief interlude followed in which I met an Indian
man who had previously worked in Germany, had tried to get an American visa,
failed, and ended up working in the plastics industry in Kenya. So if anyone
wants his contact information, he gave me his card. I can hook you up.
Counter 4 man directed me then to counter 2, where I
handed the lady my forms and went to sit and wait some more. So I’m waiting. They
called up some other people and took them to another room. I waited some more.
“Mason, Mary Margaret!”
‘Tis I!
“Here I am.”
The lady held up my forms and looked me directly in
the eye. “You’re not in our system.”
…No.
“You have to fill this form out online.”
I SWEAR ON ALL THAT IS HOLY.
I didn’t even bother with a polite smile this time.
“Right, so I already talked to the people over there about this and they sent
me up to floor three, which I did, so can you just check with them because I thought
we had already resolved this issue.”
She looked at me like I was a particularly
disgusting bug that she had just had the misfortune of stepping on. “Take a
seat.”
GLADLY MADAM.
I watched as Mr. ________ and Bored Lady came over
to counter 2. And then I ignored them. I ignored the whole situation. I pulled
out my phone, opened a book, and ignored the crap out of that counter. Either they were going to figure it out
or I was going to have to calmly throw a fit of epic proportions because I had
done my best, darn it! Throwing fits isn’t my forte, but I would make an
exception for this mess.
 |
| IGNORING ALL OF THIS |
Luckily, fit throwing was unnecessary. Pretty quickly I
was called up by the woman who handed me my forms and directed me to counter 15 (which
was really a room).
And then I got to have my fingerprints taken! All of
them! It was actually slightly painful because the lady doing it just kind of
grabbed you and maneuvered you as she wished. Some of my fingers were not meant to
bend like that. To be fair she actually felt pretty bad when she did my
right hand because she realized that I had my bag and was attempting to keep it
on my shoulder as she jerked my arm around. Considering she was the first person
to apologize that whole morning, she became my favorite.
Fingers totally inked up, I went back to counter 7.
A different lady was working there now and she grinned when she saw me.
“Miss Mason.”
YOU KNOW MY NAME, THAT IS SO SAD.
And then she just handed me back my passport. Like,
that easy? Really?
“So I don’t need to do anything else? I’m good?”
“Yes, you’re done.”
…
…
HALLELUJAH I CAN HEAR THE ANGELS SINGING.
I walked out of there at a speed previously
unmatched by human beings. I could have beat Usain Bolt in that moment, that’s
how quick I got out of that building. And on the bus back, I took the most
important photo of this entire experience.
 |
| CAN YOU HEAR THE PEOPLE SING |
So what is the moral of the story?
Never trust the Kenyan Immigration office to give
you a straight answer or to have consistent policies.
There’s about to be some major changes coming up so
I’ll let you know all about it in my next post (which may be the last post for
a while).
Kwaheri!
