Another incredibly stressful and frustrating day at the Congolese Embassy. I had written the letter as required, and had it printed on the way to the “appointment”. I was already stressing out, because the appointment was supposed to be at 10 and we were running late (African Time strikes again.) I had visions of the Ambassador refusing to see us because I was late. I need not have worried. He didn’t show up till 11, came in to the waiting room and greeted everyone, exchanging pleasantries with some, including me. He seemed a nice man, but that was all I saw of him. So much for a divine connection!
The young man who came with me yesterday was there, even though I told him I didn’t need him. The representative of the church in Congo came with the documentation, but he only speaks French so there was no real possibility of communicating with him – plus he gave the distinct impression that he didn’t want to be there. Not sure that he was actually any help at all.
The staff continued to refuse to believe that the visa had already been approved, and to treat it as a new application. I felt that basically they were seeing me as a stupid old woman who didn’t know what she was talking about, and they kept talking to the young man about me as if I wasn’t there, even though I was standing or sitting right beside them and they could speak English.
I’m not proud of it, but I totally lost my cool. I told the young man that he had mucked it up yesterday by telling them I was applying for a visa, rather than that I was paying for one that had already been approved. And I let them know in no uncertain terms that I was not at all impressed with the whole process.
To make matters worse, when they finally said yes, I was getting the visa, and I had to pay for it, they left my surname off the receipt, putting just my Christian names. At the bank, a woman rudely pushed in front of me, and when I objected the young man defended her. Then the teller refused one of my US notes, saying it was too old. How can money be too old? When we returned to the Embassy and I pointed out that they had left off my surname, I was told “It doesn’t matter.” Of course it matters! It’s my name! If you say my name doesn’t matter, then you are saying that I don’t matter.
Anyway, the long and short of it is that I got ugly. I did not show them Christ, but a stressed out, frustrated and very angry old woman. And, of course, I had to repent and at some point I will have to apologize to the young man. Lord, teach me to hide myself in You at times like this, instead of letting the old Lynn rise to the surface and bring dishonour to Your name.
Later last night I remembered that Kyaba’s message about the visa had actually been a voice message, not a text which is what I had been looking for. And yes, he clearly says that a representative of their church had come to the Embassy and spoken with the Ambassador, and the Ambassador had said he was granting the visa and I just had to pay for it. They could have paid then, or I could pay when I arrived in Burundi. That message was on 13th January, a month before I came to Burundi. I felt vindicated. I played it to Domitien, and if I get a chance I will play it to the young man, just to show him that I am not the idiot he thinks I am. I have also written a letter to the Ambassador, which I will post after I return from Congo, pointing out that he had already approved the visa and that everything I have been through in the last couple of days was totally unnecessary.
But at least I now have the visa. Only Ghana and Liberia still to deal with.