Immigration Office

"we've got to go"
"what? Now? This is GMT. (Gambian maybe time)"
"Now.  The immigration office is closing in 5 minutes for prayer"


It really was a scene from the No. 1 Ladies Detective agency stories.  We were bundled into a van and driven along the dusty road.  Call to prayer was sounding as we skidded to a halt in the sand.  Picture the sight, 8 white, slightly nervous volunteers pushed into an office the size of a cell and sat squeezed side by side along a bench.  Add two desks, 6 Gambian officials and a fan.  Loud questions, Wolof speakers, papers flapping and wads of cash changing hands.  (It costs 1500 dalasi to get our cards.)


Papers passed from one to another.  A tall man asking about middle names and volunteers still squashed slightly bemused by heat, gloom and loud loud voices.  Then the filled papers were passed the the secretarial assistant.  A woman of traditional stature, clearly over qualified as she thumped an ancient typewriter with one finger.  Typos abounded and were removed with a razor blade to be re mistyped.  Said razor blade was passed back and for a wide variety of purposes, paring nails, cutting string, trimming photos and there was only ever one person in activity at any one time - for of course there was only one blade.


Next came the laminator.  Health and safety would have a field day.  No casing, bear metal and wires and LED's falling over the desk.  A frayed cable plugged into a very suspect plug with a paper clip for added security.  A few taps and still no joy.  More loud voices and heated debate.  "We have to wait."


The man in charge decided to smile and change tack.  He was very philosophical especially around education. "African children are stubborn and need to be hit to learn and have respect"



Eventually we left unlaminated cards grasped in hands, Pete is 1800 years old and my name is Eliz****bet (you can't quite re create it)