THE PRICE OF A US VISA
How come a Filipino gathering inevitably turns into a circus of unintentional laughs? Be it a regular Sunday mass, beauty pageant, sports tournament or awards program. The same applies to the crowd that mill at the US Embassy along Roxas Blvd. in Manila.
Hilarious is the word, but maybe I am only saying this to lighten up an otherwise nerve-wracking and excruciating experience.
In one week I made four trips to the US Embassy. The first time we waited in line for two hours for my turn at the "drop box." I was asked to come back for a personal interview. The second trip found me queuing in the sidewalk with a hundred sleep-deprived souls at five in the morning. Only to be informed that they have reached the day's quota at 8:00 a.m.! A handful of exasperated applicants trudged back home in a huff. We patted ourselves in the back for not breaking out of the line as we were issued numbered stickers which gives us priority for the next day.
My companions deserve another pat for befriending the security guards who advised them that the number is only for monitoring purposes but the first come, first served rule still applies. This meant getting back in line at 4:00 a.m. the next day. Of the six persons in our group three were denied and three were granted visas five to eight hours later. After a few days I was back in another line to pick up our passports. Waited for two hours just to be told that only one visa was processed and that I had to come back the next day for the other two. Instead I rushed to the airport and hopped on a booked flight back to Cebu. I couldn't go through the same ordeal for the fifth time.
Except for the few resourceful ones who brought portable chairs and umbrellas, we all stood for hours exposed to the sun, rain, breeze, dust, and mosquitoes.
There were people who arranged for others to "reserve" a space for them in line well ahead of time. Somebody offered his services to my friends, charging P500 per person. Then the guy tells them that they must be ready to take their places between 2:30 and 4:00 a.m. Disgusted, my friends dismissed him with a "what the heck are we paying you for?" snort. That was a wise decision because those who were caught later were yelled at by the security guard, "magtiis naman kayo dahil yung iba dito nagtitiis!"
A lot of people tried to cut in, a bad Filipino habit. Nobody who lost a good night's sleep will take that sitting down. A chunky woman got into a verbal tussle then started shouting to everyone "We are all Filipinos here, please behave and show some discipline!" Still at the top of her voice she started policing the ranks and ordering everybody to line up properly.
One well-dressed woman tried to insert herself in front of the line and was politely asked to leave. We eyed her warily while she did this four times as she got nearer. Not realizing that there were six of us she delicately positioned herself in front of Marriz who tapped her on the shoulder and pointed to the end of the line, about a hundred people behind us. She stepped out then cut in front of me, whereupon Marriz in an equally loud voice did a perfect mimic of the security guard: "Walang singitan, magtiis naman kayo dahil yung iba dito nagtitiis!" The woman mumbled that she is already suffering because the others wouldn't let her get in line.
The momentary lull was broken when a younger woman arrived and started shouting "Marigold." She went around the long line which at this stage resembled an irregular intestine. There must have been five hundred people standing in a tight coil of a winding line that five in the morning. She kept moving around, calling out to Marigold. Unable to resist I yelled back "she's not here."
Minutes later her cries were matched by this guy from the other side of the embassy fence, who kept calling for a Mr. Macalaya -- one of the security guards who led him to that holding pen then locked the gate. "Kinulong ho ako!" he wailed to the amused crowd. Holding the bars with his legs spread-eagled, he did look like a prisoner. Somebody asked him why. "I don't know," he said. A grinning matron turned to us, "don't believe him, the guard caught him trying to cut in in front," she explained, "he must be one of those professionals who line up for a fee." And so they went "Marigold!" "Mr. Macalaya!" in a ping-pong exchange of cries.
When I came back for our passports the sidewalk was unusually devoid of the usual crowds. I didn't notice the anti-VFA activists on one side and the dozen uniformed cops on the other. I was standing right between the two until somebody shouted, "hey you, get out of the way!"
A quirky sense of déjà vu took hold of me as the protesters started mouthing the same old slogans I know so well in my college days, 12 years ago. I felt sad that their rhetoric was falling on deaf ears partly due to the poor audio quality of their bullhorn and partly because people have grown tired of the same old arguments rehashed over and over again.
Just last week another protest rally ended in a melee when the activists splashed the visa applicants with paint.
What is the price of a US visa?
March 19, 1999