Come back tomorrow

I wish I had blogged more in the moments that I felt truly lucky to be here – and there have been many! – in order to balance out what I’m about to say.

Sometimes I really hate being in this country.

Never once, in six months in Senegal did I experience what I have experienced 4 times in less than a month here – men trying to touch me inappropriately on the bus or in a taxi. It’s so disgusting and so shameful and I don’t know they can bow down and pray to Allah after they try to harass a woman wearing a headscarf who is repeatedly pushing their hand away. I am ashamed that they are Muslims. And now every time a guy so much as looks at me in a sleezy way on the street – and it happens more often than you would think in this “conservative” society – I feel the urge to punch him.

Possibly even more frustrating than the sexual harassment, though, is what I have termed bureaucratic harassment. A two-week trip to Egypt should have been a relaxing thing to look forward to. But organizing a way out of this blasted country has become an absolute nightmare. I have spent the last four business days – FOUR FULL DAYS – trying to get an exit visa. Yes, you need a visa to LEAVE the country. What a whack a concept to begin with. But fine. But for me to waste four days – standing for hours in lines and having people shuffle me around from place to place, talk to me with words I don’t understand – and still have no documentation to leave the country has left me so frustrated I simply cry as I’m walking down the street. I can’t control it. After the first three days of this bullshit, I ranted to my father about it. “There are no rules, no systems… you show up with everything they told you you would need and then they say, ‘no, but you need this too’.” He said, “Heba, if everything worked properly, if it was developed and organized, you would have no work there.” Excellent point. I tried to remind myself of that as I was standing in the crowded office today and the woman told me “You need a photocopy of your witness’ ID card.” This of course meant that I would have to take the 45-minute bus ride back downtown, photocopy the card, and come back again. But I smiled, reminded myself of my father’s wise words, thanked her and went about my business.

But tolerance has a limit. And I surpassed mine long, long ago. I came back with the photocopy. While she looked through the papers, I prayed silently for her to pick up the stamp and approve it. Please, let there be nothing else wrong, I kept wishing, like a desperate child. When she finally stamped the thing, I thought: My father was right. I just needed a little patience. But then I was quickly reminded of why patience just isn’t enough. From there, I had to go to the security window. From the security window to the payment window. Of course, they never really tell you where the payment or security window is, so you spend a good ten minutes going from line to line until you find the right one. From the payment window to some 4^th floor place where the women laughed because I was in the wrong place. Well maybe if anyone bothered to properly explain to me what the hell to do and where the hell to go, I wouldn’t be here! From there back to the payment counter. We’re nearing the end! This is the second-last step! Then the bombshell: “360 pounds please”. WHAT? 180 dollars just to leave the country? Are you kidding me? Not only was the amount outrageous, I didn’t have the money with me. If that, that’s about all the money I have left right now, after borrowing some from a friend. I turned and walked out of there, tears streaming down my face once more, before she had the chance to say the famous line I have heard so many times, “Come back tomorrow.”