Saturday 30 July 2011

Visa'd - Debushka, You are not flying

Russia was quite adamant about not letting me leave. In a more aggressive, inhibitive way than the statements of  beautiful friends and acquaintances 'You have to stay.' Here, the phrase was pronounced in a very different tone.

At the check-in desk there was no problem. Everything was clear and the stewardess only smiled at my slightly delapidated visa. The fact was that when I was given some flimsy green sheets of paper I had no idea that they were actually needed for leaving the former USSR.  I whimsically carried them around in my handbag in case of being stopped by the police. Who knows, one day I may have been mistaken for a young man from a minority group? My handbag underwent multiple and marvellous adventures through various different climates and met a variety of art utensils, squares of chocolate, cosmetics and fiddling fingers. As a result, it looked a bit like a used tissue. Although, I assure you, I never in fact resorted to using it as such.
After check-in, I was extremely relieved that my bulky baggage passed right through so that I wouldn't have to wear several soviet dresses, a kinky bulgarian dress with heavy metal buttons, jeans and hefty snow-proof redneck hunting boots while declaring, 'For all I know it could be very cold in England'. It wasn't Stansted and no-one cared about the weight restrictions.  I nonchalantly handed over my Visa to the little hut-like office. The woman inside frowned , 'Step aside, Debushka.'  I'm not impressed or amused. I'm the rule book without annotations or illustrations or comical scribbles. Her entire face was as smart and pursed as the navy blue uniform. Alas, as I stood reading outside the office another girl asked me to step in. 'I'm already being seen to, thanks.' How friendly and young and annotated she sounded! Alas, it was too late.

An official looking man, the epitomy of officious and average, stepped in and they spent a long time discussing my Visa.I risked popping my head in. 'I know it's a bit messy but look; here's all the photocopies,' I attempted to say in Russian with a sweet smile. No-one listened. The man went away for a long time while I stood too exhausted to panic.


'This way, Debushka,' he said when he returned, motioning towards the check-in desk. 'You need a new visa.'


'Will it take long?' I asked, looking at my watch. 'I fly in 40 minutes.'


'Debushka, You are not flying.'


'I don't understand.'

'You are not flying.'


He took me to the flight desk and handed in my ticket. 'This young lady isn't flying.' Brutally, They struck me off the list. I objected. 'I have to fly today. I start work today.'


'It's simply impossible.'

Then, realising the gravity of the situation,  I tried to explain about something that had happened to my bag in Dacha (expat party place, especially for young irresponsable foreigners) and how my poor visa was returned defaced. A girl stepped in and translated for me. It was still quite clear that I wouldn't be flying. The customs official explained that the serial number wasn't clearly legible. There were two girls behind the desk who kindly but firmly said, 'I'm afraid that there's nothing we can do for you Madam' . I calmly persisted in standing there and requested the number of the consulate. The calmness was assisted by the three hours sleep I'd succeeded in attaining over forty-eight hours of farewell parties and missed bridges. After a couple of tries I got through to a consulate, 'You need an emergency visa.' The check-in girls quickly became interested and made an effort to help me;  Russian coldness  melted into Russian warmth.
'The flight's twenty minutes delayed. You might still get on.' They ran off behind scenes and came back, 'That visa's not possible for multi-entry visas (meaning I had several bits of green paper rather than just one).'


I phoned again , 'Well, you need to speak to the head of customs.'


It was clear I wouldn't get this plane.  'Will my flight be refunded?' '

I'm sorry we don't do refunds.' At first I was devastated, only wanting to get back to England, be in England, work in England and leave the sort of place that required visas to let you leave it. I dreaded dragging my bag back on the marshrutka and saying 'Here I am again', to all the people I had melodramatically Dasvydanyed.  Then I began imagining all the minimally funded adventures I could have if I stayed. Camping at a concealed lake with an abandoned banya, drinking tea in Cafes, travelling around Russia, teaching privately for a few weeks, finding a camp in Russia to work at. It was all impractical of course.
Here, they brought me a lady  from British Airways with a smooth Moscow accent (defined by excellent, slightly Americanised English); slim, perfect and Moscovite. From a past era of  glamourous airports. She said she would try to deal with the problem and perhaps my ticket would be refunded.
We took my bag to the British airways office in a corridor by the airport.

The lady phoned a friend some-where official and handed her to me 'It may be possible to get this sort of visa.' No, that wasn't possible. 'I'm going to have a meeting with customs.' 'And if that works will I get a free ticket?' 'I'm afraid they refused.' She went away to speak to somebody in customs. I waited for a while in the office chatting  to her colleaugue who spoke no English who made me a cup of emergency tea.
She returned briskly, 'Customs have agreed to let you leave the country at 3 o clock exactly. But you have to hand in your whole visa.'

'That's fine. I don't want it'. I just want to leave your cruel  country with visa OCD, and never come back. 'It won't cause problems if I did perhaps  want to come back some-time?' Of course I want to come back really, now forewarned with the knowledge that those ugly green bits of paper should be kept in a plastic cover, with a pocket, in a Emma-proof safe. However, I can't decide whether fate wanted to give me a second chance to stay longer by making escape a challenge or whether it just wanted to take all of my multi-entry visa so coming back any-time soon would require effort , planning and paperwork.

'Not at all.'

'Tickets?'

'We will go to the office and ask about them now .'

They printed some  tickets and handed them over easily.

As everything kept yo-yo-ing from 'maybe' to 'no' to 'yes' and back again  so frequently I could see the red yo-yo before my eyes I decided not to be entirely relieved yet or phone any-one. I went to the workers cantene, to the disguised within a Soviet building (we are not so far from Moskovskiy Prospect) t above the airport and enjoyed a thoroughly Russian meal; buckwheat and fish, an the indispensable soup and a Greenfields Tea sachet. A  sort of Last Supper.

Now, having a little bit of time on my hands before I was accompanied to customs I thought I should buy my saviour(BA lady) a little present, such as chocolate. I heard this sort of thing is actually expected and is equivalent to a bribe. I should've had some Whisky in my pockets for the customs official. However, I would be too afraid too offer a bribe for fear of offence and ridicule. In any case, it seems to be a male domain. At least, I've never heard a woman telling anecdotes about bribery. The lady told me to keep the chocolate for my friends back home. She handed me over to customs. This time the unsympathetic customs man smiled a little and told me to have a good journey. Ice melting.

 Oh well. I waited for the plane and started chatting with some English tourists who had flown over for the white nights and found the city beautiful but not intimate..'So I was actually supposed to fly this morning and it seemed like the perfect thing as I got a job right near Gatwick airport so I decided to just fly straight to work.  Wait a second, this does go to Gatwick doesn't it?'

'No, this is for Heathrow.'

'Oh -'

With three hours sleep out of forty-eight; a ridiculously snotty cold; a dress that is too warm for the szauneric airport; an expired sim and two phones that just about work between them; the wrong airport; a suitcase full of impractical things; airportial price inflation the adventure continues       ...............