Papers, Bloody Papers

As I have mentioned before, the amount of bureaucracy we had to deal with in Libya was horrific. As a result, episodes like the one described below were not uncommon.

I needed to get an exit visa so that I could travel to the UK for a meeting of International House school directors. As usual, it took hours for me to complete all of the necessary forms, because this had to be done in Arabic and I didn’t really read or write Arabic.

Once the forms were done I went down to the Ministry of Immigration with Mansour, the school “fixer,” and handed in the bundle of papers. The counter clerk looked only at the top sheet and handed the bundle back to me. I looked inquiringly at Mansour and he explained that the top form was an old one and that we needed the new version.

We rushed over to one of the kiosks that sold government forms and asked for the new version of the form that had been replaced. The man there told us that the new form wasn’t available yet. God willing, it would be available the next day.

Apparently God wasn’t willing, because the following day the new form still hadn’t arrived.

Three days later we finally got a copy of the new form. I completed it. Mansour and I went back to the Ministry and I handed in the stack of papers again. The clerk shook his head sadly, handed back the papers and said something to Mansour. The latter explained that the form was not valid because it didn’t have the government’s motto of the day stamped on it. 

As neither Mansour nor I had never heard of this motto of the day, we went to the bank where our friend Mustafa worked to see if he knew about it. He did. He explained that the government now issued a new motto every day and this had to be written or stamped on all forms. That day’s motto was the Arabic equivalent of “If a job is worth doing, it is worth doing well”.

Since Mansour was illiterate, Mustafa wrote the motto on the immigration forms, and Mansour and I rushed back to the Ministry. Too late! It was an hour from closing time and there was a huge line of people waiting. Okay, we would go back the next morning and would get there really early.

The following morning Mansour and I were first in line when the counter opened. I handed over the papers. The clerk glanced at them, shook his head and handed them back. “What is it this time?” I asked Mansour. “This is yesterday’s motto,” he said.

A quick trip to Mustafa’s bank revealed that the current motto was, “If you help a friend, he will stab you in the back”. (This was no doubt inspired by some recent action by the Egyptian government.) Mustafa crossed out the old motto on each form and replaced it with the new one. 

Back at the Ministry, we waited in line for two hours before we reached the counter. The clerk took the bundle of papers. Mansour and I held our breath. The clerk looked at us, shook his head and said something I didn’t catch. Mansour translated, “The motto is an Islamic motto. So it must be written in green ink. You wrote it in black ink.”

Back at the bank Mustafa found a green pen and rewrote the motto on each form.

Back at the Ministry we waited in line and finally reached the counter again. The clerk took the papers. He looked at the top sheet and he smiled. “Quies (Good),” he said approvingly. Mansour and I grinned at each other. The clerk turned to the next sheet. Another smile and another “Quies”. We worked through the stack of forms, nodding approvingly at each one. Mansour and I were almost hugging each other by now.

 The clerk reached the final page. No smile this time. He pointed to where I had written my name, in block capitals as specified on the form. To my surprise, he explained the problem in English this time.

“This name no good.”

“Why?” I asked.

“All letters same size.”

Obviously they were all the same size, because my name was in block capitals. Trying to stay calm, I asked him to explain.

“You are English teacher. You should know this.”

“Know what?” I asked.

“In English first letter in every name must be big letter.”

I had been in Libya long enough to know how to react to this type of idiocy. So I didn't try to put the clerk right about capitalization in English. And I didn't do what I wanted to do, which was to grab the clerk's head and smash it repeatedly down on the counter. Instead, I meekly apologized, took the form and rewrote the first letter of each of names in even bigger capitals.
  

The clerk nodded approvingly. He stamped the papers and gave me a receipt.

“Come back tomorrow with your passport and you will have your visa”.

“Shukran (Thank you),” Mansour and I said in unison.

“La shukran. Allah wajib,” the clerk responded. “Thanks are not necessary. I’m just doing God’s work”.

No doubt.