I think that one of the first things that I noticed when I came to Zambia was the ubiquity of gates and gatekeepers. Most of these men (they are all men) are uniformed; there are a few prominent security companies that seem to handle most security concerns. Some wear military style berets; others, such as G4S, wear baseball caps. Remember that security company, G4S. They are seen at some gates, and also a lot of businesses. At the Shoprite in Solwezi, for example, four G4S guards stand at the exit and put a small rip in your receipt on your way out the door. I have never once seen one of these guards cross-reference the listing on the receipt with the contents of my grocery bags; but it is still the fact that one does not get out of the door without submitting the receipt.
The need for such services was demonstrated when Kirsten and I returned to our mud hut one day to find roughly half of our clothes stolen off of our clothesline. The burglars were tasteful and clearly cultured, pilfering only those items that were expensive and easy to wash. They kindly left us with several stretched t-shirts, most of which I acquired when I worked for the Army Cadets, and some permanently stained pants. We have since browsed the Solwezi markets to see if we might be able to purchase any items that might be remarkably identical to the ones we lost, but so far to no avail.
Security is not so tight in all places. Kirsten and I were in the capital last week to speak to Ministry of Education officials about secondary school standards. We found the building, and asked the security guard for the Standards Office. He told us to proceed to the second floor. We asked if we were required to sign the register book in front of him; we were not. We mistakenly went to what would be called the second floor in Canada, which is called the first floor here, like many Commonwealth countries. We searched the entire floor for Standards, and didn't find it; however, we did walk right by the office of the Minister, the Deputy Minister and the Permanent Secretary without more than a listless glance from a janitor.
I should mention here that our eventual meeting with the Zambian Secondary School Standards Officer was very friendly and informative. She was on her way out to lunch, but she put a halt to that and answered our questions for about an hour.
It was a slightly different matter when we wished to go to the Canadian High Council. Kirsten had encountered some trouble (ahem... corruption) at the border, and we wished to seek the advice of a consular official before proceeding to Immigration to confront them with the issue.
The Canadian High Council, proudly waving the Canadian flag in the Longacres region of Lusaka, built firmly on de facto Canadian soil, providing services to Canadian ex-patriates: We walked through the entrance, and were met by four G4S security guards, baseball caps and all.
"What is the purpose of your visit here?"
"We are Canadian citizens. We wish to speak to a Canadian government official."
"For what purpose?"
Feeling simultaneous irritation and amusement that we were being kept from our embassy by the same folks who police receipts at the Shoprite, I explained briefly that we wished to register as Canadian expatriates and we sought advice on dealing with Zambian Immigration. At this point, they called someone on a telephone and, after a brief exchange in Nyanja, the guard passed the phone over to me.
"Can you tell me what you want to do here?" asked the friendly but clearly Zambian voice on the line.
I explained the situation again.
The Zambian voice assured me that I would likely not need to speak to anyone from the Canadian government, and that they were all out for the rest of the day anyway. But if we wanted to register, we could come in and do so.
During the time this phone conversation was going on, six Zambian workers, carrying grass slashers, pipe wrenches and tire irons, if I'm not mistaken, passed by the G4S guards, ignored the beeping metal detector, and disappeared somewhere in the halls of the true north strong and free. Kirsten and I asked to be allowed to go in, but the guards declined our entry because our backpacks contained electronics. We asked if we could leave our backpacks with them, and they politely declined to take them from us, either.
So we left the Canadian Embassy that same hour, confronted Immigration quite successfully on our own, and resolved that if any unforseen circumstance should arise in Zambia that would require our security or evacuation, we would find our way to the U.S. Embassy, where we would only have to navigate the security of the U.S. Marine Corps.
***
Speaking of security, the Zambian method of immigration control is interesting and bears consideration. When I first arrived in Zambia, I applied for a work permit at a cost of 500 000 kwacha ($100). I was told that my permit had been approved, but wasn't "ready" for pick-up, and I was given a Report Order to see Immigration again on or before 28-January-2012.
Last week in Lusaka, I was advised that the permit was now "ready"... and that it would cost another 500 000 to obtain it. Seems that the government decided to retroactively change the fees. I did not have this money on me, and asked to have my visa extended for another month. I was told that this was not possible from Lusaka the capital, but it would be in Solwezi, the small mining town in the Northwest.
So Kirsten and I found Immigration in Solwezi this week. This itself was a mission; of all of the various signs for government buildings in the provincial administrative capital, not a single one exists for the Ministry of Immigration, the one service for people who really don't know where they are. We divined through some feat of interpreting gestures and unfamiliar references that we were to go to a large but unmarked building on the main street. We were quickly directed to a certain room down a plastered hallway with dangling lights and random leaflets on the walls.
Finding the Immigration Officer, a man of no more than twenty years in civilian clothing behind a desk cluttered with passports and scads of memoranda, I explained that I was reporting, as ordered, before the 28th. He took my passport and, without looking at the nationality, picture, my name, or asking any question, he stamped it with an order to report back on or before the 27-February-2012. And thus I am legally entitled to be in Zambia for another month, at which time I will, I suppose, repeat the process.
The need for such services was demonstrated when Kirsten and I returned to our mud hut one day to find roughly half of our clothes stolen off of our clothesline. The burglars were tasteful and clearly cultured, pilfering only those items that were expensive and easy to wash. They kindly left us with several stretched t-shirts, most of which I acquired when I worked for the Army Cadets, and some permanently stained pants. We have since browsed the Solwezi markets to see if we might be able to purchase any items that might be remarkably identical to the ones we lost, but so far to no avail.
Security is not so tight in all places. Kirsten and I were in the capital last week to speak to Ministry of Education officials about secondary school standards. We found the building, and asked the security guard for the Standards Office. He told us to proceed to the second floor. We asked if we were required to sign the register book in front of him; we were not. We mistakenly went to what would be called the second floor in Canada, which is called the first floor here, like many Commonwealth countries. We searched the entire floor for Standards, and didn't find it; however, we did walk right by the office of the Minister, the Deputy Minister and the Permanent Secretary without more than a listless glance from a janitor.
I should mention here that our eventual meeting with the Zambian Secondary School Standards Officer was very friendly and informative. She was on her way out to lunch, but she put a halt to that and answered our questions for about an hour.
It was a slightly different matter when we wished to go to the Canadian High Council. Kirsten had encountered some trouble (ahem... corruption) at the border, and we wished to seek the advice of a consular official before proceeding to Immigration to confront them with the issue.
The Canadian High Council, proudly waving the Canadian flag in the Longacres region of Lusaka, built firmly on de facto Canadian soil, providing services to Canadian ex-patriates: We walked through the entrance, and were met by four G4S security guards, baseball caps and all.
"What is the purpose of your visit here?"
"We are Canadian citizens. We wish to speak to a Canadian government official."
"For what purpose?"
Feeling simultaneous irritation and amusement that we were being kept from our embassy by the same folks who police receipts at the Shoprite, I explained briefly that we wished to register as Canadian expatriates and we sought advice on dealing with Zambian Immigration. At this point, they called someone on a telephone and, after a brief exchange in Nyanja, the guard passed the phone over to me.
"Can you tell me what you want to do here?" asked the friendly but clearly Zambian voice on the line.
I explained the situation again.
The Zambian voice assured me that I would likely not need to speak to anyone from the Canadian government, and that they were all out for the rest of the day anyway. But if we wanted to register, we could come in and do so.
During the time this phone conversation was going on, six Zambian workers, carrying grass slashers, pipe wrenches and tire irons, if I'm not mistaken, passed by the G4S guards, ignored the beeping metal detector, and disappeared somewhere in the halls of the true north strong and free. Kirsten and I asked to be allowed to go in, but the guards declined our entry because our backpacks contained electronics. We asked if we could leave our backpacks with them, and they politely declined to take them from us, either.
So we left the Canadian Embassy that same hour, confronted Immigration quite successfully on our own, and resolved that if any unforseen circumstance should arise in Zambia that would require our security or evacuation, we would find our way to the U.S. Embassy, where we would only have to navigate the security of the U.S. Marine Corps.
***
Speaking of security, the Zambian method of immigration control is interesting and bears consideration. When I first arrived in Zambia, I applied for a work permit at a cost of 500 000 kwacha ($100). I was told that my permit had been approved, but wasn't "ready" for pick-up, and I was given a Report Order to see Immigration again on or before 28-January-2012.
Last week in Lusaka, I was advised that the permit was now "ready"... and that it would cost another 500 000 to obtain it. Seems that the government decided to retroactively change the fees. I did not have this money on me, and asked to have my visa extended for another month. I was told that this was not possible from Lusaka the capital, but it would be in Solwezi, the small mining town in the Northwest.
So Kirsten and I found Immigration in Solwezi this week. This itself was a mission; of all of the various signs for government buildings in the provincial administrative capital, not a single one exists for the Ministry of Immigration, the one service for people who really don't know where they are. We divined through some feat of interpreting gestures and unfamiliar references that we were to go to a large but unmarked building on the main street. We were quickly directed to a certain room down a plastered hallway with dangling lights and random leaflets on the walls.
Finding the Immigration Officer, a man of no more than twenty years in civilian clothing behind a desk cluttered with passports and scads of memoranda, I explained that I was reporting, as ordered, before the 28th. He took my passport and, without looking at the nationality, picture, my name, or asking any question, he stamped it with an order to report back on or before the 27-February-2012. And thus I am legally entitled to be in Zambia for another month, at which time I will, I suppose, repeat the process.
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