bout de papier, Vol. 5, No. 2 (1987) — Summer 1987 // Été 1987, p. 39
Most Canadian consular officers are not normally involved in issuing visas. But at three of the posts at which I’ve served, my presence in the Canadian office brought an involvement in the special world of visa issuance, like it or not.
My first posting was to the Queen City of the South Pacific, Sydney, Australia and it was there that I discovered there is more to the average Australian girl than meets the eye. Happily I didn’t issues visas, as that was done at the High Commission in Canberra, but I did advise on the application procedure to countless scores of beautiful Australian “sheilas”, all of whom wanted to visit Canada, and work while there.
Now you may have heard that there are more men in Australia than women. That may be true, but not in the cities, and certainly not in Sydney. All the girls from the towns, properties, and outback of Australia came to the cities to find work and men, while the men sought work in the towns, on the properties and the outback — someone had to look after the sheep. And so it was that my business hours were filled by advising scores upon scores of young, tanned Aussi women on how to get a visa for Canada.
At the time, the mini skirt was at its height, and the Australian woman, sun lover that she is, took full advantage of the latest fashion. Twenty times a day at least, my office door would open to reveal a bronzed young nymph wearing a blouse and a broad belt, or so it appeared. I would rush chivalrously forward, as is the wont of Canadian diplomats, and sweep her into a chair, where she would cross her legs, lean forward and say “I wana go t’Canada to wurk”. ’. So the conversation would begin, and so would the disillusionment. Australian nymphs may have had gloriously tanned legs, but they had feet of clay. “In order to work in Canada, you have to immigrate” I would say. “Ahweh!!” she would respond, aggrieved “But you don’t have to stay,” I would hasten to add. “Ahhh” she would reply, relieved. And so it would go, my advice and her ahhs, awehs, oohs, rising and falling as appropriate. In Sydney, a consular officer’s lot was not a chatty one!
In Port-of-Spain, Trinidad, my next post, I had nothing to do with visas. As administrator, consul and public relations officer, I had no time for immigration work, especially given that administrative duties took 120% of my time, the rest being devoted to distressed Canadians and promoting Canada’s image. But man shall not live by work alone, and so it was that in my leisure hours when not “playing mas” I acted in the local theatre group and had my own monthly radio program on opera — so my name was fairly well known in the community.
One day a Trinidadian visited my office, who was not a tradesman trying to sell his services to the High Commission, or a labourer seeking employment. I was having difficulty finding out exactly what it was he wanted, when he asked how his visa application was progressing. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid you’re speaking to the wrong man. I don’t handle visas. I’ll get you the right officer.”
“Just a moment, Mr. Jones, didn’t my $100 help?” “I’m sorry?”
“Mr. de Sousa said that if I gave him $100 for you, that would speed up my application. So I gave him the money to give you, to help it along.”
“You did what!!” Apparently de Sousa, whoever he was, had told that poor applicant that I would speed along his application for a “private handling fee” of $100. “Stay right there”, I said, “TIl be right back”, and went to fetch a witness. That was my mistake of course; I should have phoned for one of my colleagues to join us, for when we returned, the applicant was gone. We reported it to the local police, of course, who just laughed when I said the name de Sousa. (You should know that de Sousa is a name in Trinidad as rare as Jones is at a Welsh Eistedfodd). Apparently it was a local “scam” “, to name someone working at an embassy or high commission, and claim to be able to gain his influence, at a cost. If the visa application was successful, the applicant thought his “fee” had been responsible. If not, well there were always explanations, especially as most of those tricked into paying the bribes were poor and uneducated. “If it’s any consolation, it happens all the time” the police said. “This is the first time Canada has been involved, so we’ll watch out; but with a name like de Sousa…” and they just shrugged. A sobering experience!
After Trinidad came Accra, Ghana and there visas for Canada were far from my mind. Shortly after the departure of our Head of Post for greener fields, a series of crises started and lasted seven months. First was Jerry Rawling’s attempted coup, then his successful coup coupled with a mutiny in the armed forces, followed by a revolution, a series of student riots, a money exchange with border closures and associated labour unrest, and a blockage of the main water pipe from the reservoir which left 2/3 of Accra without any water for 10 days at the height of the hot/dry season. Needless to say, as Acting High Commissioner I had little time to worry about visas. However, one fine day our new Head of Post arrived and the local situation quietened (is there a lesson in that?) so my family and I decided to take a brief holiday by driving to Abidjan. Regrettably my international driver’s licence had expired, and to get it renewed I had to obtain a clearance from the local Ministry of Transport, a routine matter.
It was indeed routine, but it would take at least three days, or so I was informed by a ministry official, unless I wished to apply in person. I knew what three days meant — more likely three weeks — so I presented myself at the Ministry the next morning. There I discovered that I had to fill out a series of forms and then pass them through about 6 different officials, all of whom had to put their “chop” on them and all of whom had long lines of other applicants waiting patiently in front of their desk. This was going to take me days!
The young man who explained this procedure to me noted my somewhat bemused air, and offered his assistance, which I gladly accepted. Then for the next three hours he stayed with me, instructing, guiding, suggesting, at the end of which in the 40 degree celsius heat I was drenched with perspiration but had, at last, received the final signature on my clearance. I was very gratetul to the young man who had helped me so assiduously, and not a little surprised at his interest and energy, both being somewhat unusual in the local ministries. I thanked him profusely, as I shook his hand on departing. “No problem Mr. Jones. I was happy to help ’cos I know how you’re going to help me.”
“Oh! How is that?”
“By getting me a visa to Canada.”
“Ah!!.. Well I’ll certainly make sure you’re seen by one of our visa officers.” And so it was, that later that week the interested, energetic official visited the High Commission for a visa interview which, unhappily for him, he failed to pass.
At my last post, Denmark, I also encountered visa applicants, with tragic results. But that’s another story.
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Originally published in bout de papier, Vol. 5, No. 2 (1987) — Summer 1987 // Été 1987, p. 39. Read the rest of this issue →
