Mike Spits on Embassies

If one were to, say, be compiling information for a research paper entitled "The Scourge of Mankind: A Treatise on Those Who Retard the Human Condition", then that person would be wise to begin their investigation with a visit to an Embassy or Diplomatic Consulate.

Let me draw you a scenario: You enter the embassy office. Which embassy? It's irrelevant. Pick a country. In fact, pick two: one for the nation being represented, and another for the country that you happen to be in.

You proceed through the door. Ahead of you are a group of chairs, made of the cheapest materials possible and chosen with the specific intention that no one sitting in them could be comfortable. In the corner there is a water cooler, but there are no plastic cups.

You survey the room. The walls are painted in the official embassy colour: off-white. Hanging above the chairs is a framed portrait of the esteemed Head of State of the republic whose embassy this is. He sits frozen, with awkward posture, a hideous tie and a lecherous grin. The portrait is tilted. The rest of the walls are empty, save for a dilapidated pin-up poster that bears the insignia of the country's federal tourism bureau, and a cheesy photograph of a famous landmark in the country itself, shown as it was when the image was taken... 20 years ago.

There is a distinct foul odour that causes you to wince. At the time, you suppose it is stale air coming from the ventilation ducts, but it is only later that you discover its true source. This is the stench of incompetence. Of sloth. Of futility. It is the stench of all the negative aspects of the human species, pooled together as if into a giant thundercloud, which cloaks the room with its pestilence, darkening the soul of anybody who ventures underneath it.

Sorry.
I still haven't mentioned the source.

You look to the left. There he is, slumped into a swivel-chair, positioned behind a desk that has no paper on it; only a few discarded soda cans and a broken 2H pencil are visible. He is little more than a bi-valve dressed as a person, with pants hiked well above the waistline and a cheap white shirt that has the remnants of something ketchupy tattooed onto the lapel. Below the unkempt wisps of his disheveled hair are two sightless eyes, which are glassy like those of a dead fish. You wonder whether or not he is breathing.

You approach the desk and position yourself directly across from him. He doesn't respond to the stimuli, so you elect to say something.
"Hello. I'm here to apply for a visa."
There is a thirty second pause while your words try desperately to penetrate the thick walls of his skull. His mouth opens slightly, revealing a drooping tongue, yellowed from years of cigarette smoking, but he doesn't say anything. Instead, he uncurls a fat pointer finger from a greasy hand and half-assedly directs it to a sign posted on the notice board behind you.
Instructions for visa applications.

"Thank you," you say. "And, how long do applications normally take?"
Again, a delay. With great effort, he raises his eyes towards you. The eyes seem to stop for a rest halfway, like a weightlifter performing the clean-and-jerk.
"We'll call you," he growls. His breath nearly renders you unconscious.

That's when you realize that embassy officials are not living creatures. They are robots - circuit boards - into which is programmed one simple text string: how not to give a definitive answer to any question.

A second hypothetical situation: an interview room, where a candidate has come to apply for a job at an embassy.
INTERVIEWER: Welcome! Could you state your name?"
CANDIDATE: Well, technically I could, yes.
INT:Correct! And could you please tell me who was Jesus Christ?
CAN: Um, sir, you'll have to consult the bible for that.
INT: Excellent! Finally, are you an utterly useless boob with the cerebral capacity of a gastropod, who would probably be turned down for a job cleaning toilets at the local Red Lobster?
CAN: Why yes!
INT: You're hired!

You're probably all thinking: such MALICE! What brought this on? How does he have the time to sit down and write these scathing rants?

The answer to these questions can be found in a small office with off-white walls and plastic chairs, on the 4th floor, Barclay's Tower, Ohio Street, Dar-Es-Salaam, Tanzania. It is an embassy of a country I plan to visit soon, but since this rant is targeted at embassies in general, I'll refrain from using the name. So let's say for argument's sake that it is the Embassy of the Republic of Kerblackistan.

Okay. I've named the culprit, and laid the foundation for my crusade against them, so now I feel obliged to back it up.

I dislike this embassy, and all those people working in it, for the following reasons:

1. They will not grant travel visas to Kerblackistan unless you have 6 blank pages in your passport.
->The visa is 1 page. A few entry and exit stamps: 1-2 more. Why the other 3? I must say, this sets the bureaucratic idiocy bar at a new height.

2. They demand a bank statement as proof of sufficient funds to travel to Kerblackistan, then make issue if the amounts are not listed in US$.
->I am Canadian. We have our own currency.

3. They open 15 hours per week, and take both Tanzanian and Kerblackistani public holidays as vacation.
->I'm sure they deserve the break. It must be exhausting spending all day wrapping things in red tape.

4. They promise a 72-hour turnaround time on visa applications. Mine took 7 days, which is why I'm stuck in DSM, unable to travel.
->It's a good thing they don't deliver pizza (72 hours or it's free!). They'd be out of business.

5. There are no Kerblackistanis working at the Kerblackistani embassy.
->A final hypothetical situation: You are a Kerblackistani in Tanzania. You have a problem. Maybe some family members are trying to contact you in an emergency. Maybe you had your passport stolen and you need the embassy to help. So you call them up - and they only speak broken English and Swahili. How useless is that?

To summarise: embassies suck. Their procedures, regulations and office hours are astronomically inconvenient, and the people who work there are hand-picked in order to provide the lowest level of service possible.

There are some people in this world who don't deserve their own share of the world's oxygen supply. You see, Charles Darwin was wrong; if natural selection is the governing force behind the development of a species, then why are there still so many individuals excercising their God-given right to be stupid?

But don't take this too seriously. I'm just bored.
Yours sincerely,
Paul Theroux's understudy