On my way back into the country, I'm standing outside a trailer home in ghastly temperatures. (I thought MY country was hot! It had to be near 120, and the wind was blowing so hard it pulled my hair out of the clip. I mention the wind, because my colleague later equated the wind there to trying to blow dry your hair in Africa. Blowing hot air in the heat is horrid. HORRID.)
All around me are these rocky mountains that look like the kind of place that Osama could be hiding...or Yoda. Heat, creepy mountains, guards with guns, and lil ole me. To my right is a Pakistani family dressed in typical Pakistani fashion (long, flowing, dark colors). To my left is an Afghan man dressed in typical Afghan fashion (long, flowing, cream colors). Behind me were some other Muslim men in their typical wherever-they're-from fashion (long, flowing, white colors). In front of me, and American man in jean shorts, bright red shirt, and a BYU baseball cap. Typical American fashion, I guess... but standing out as a sore thumb to be sure.
I'm waiting patiently for him to finish his business when I realize he's having trouble. He states that he didn't realize that when he left the country, he would have to acquire a visa to enter the country on the other side of the border (which would cost about $100+ for his whole family, behind me in a van). He just wanted to exit the country, get his exit stamp, and come back in to get a new entry tourist visa (which, in this country, is free). The passport control police man nicely explained that in order to exit, one must enter somewhere else, which in this case means the country on the other side of the border, which requires visas. The American explained that he didn't know that when he left this country, he doesn't want to buy visas, and he simply wants to come back in. The passport control police man nicely asked the man to step aside. Uh-oh.
I step forward, sweating a bit that I, an American, am having to now follow that American's prelude. (I don't know how familiar this passport control is with Americans, but seeing how I'm surrounded by Central Asians, and nobody speaking English, it's just a little odd that this man had to go right before me...) I smile and hand the passport control police man two passports: mine and my colleague's (who is in the air conditioned car, lucky girl). He works on hers, scans it, stamps it, and sets it aside. He begins to work on mine when the guard dealing with the rowdy American asks for the family's passports.
The passport control police man picks up the six, and my colleague's, and moves to hand them over. I, in a quick panic, reach my hand through the window (mistake number one) and say, "Wait! That's my passport!" (mistake number two). He holds up my passport, looks at the picture, and reads my name. "Is this you?"
"Yes. But I have two passports." (Mistake number three).
Can I interject here while all of you are reading and wondering WHY I was so stupid to say "I have two passports" to the passport control police man? This all happened within a very short, quick time span in which all I was concerned with was getting my colleague's passport back. And I was standing in 120 degree heat, with a migrane headache, and an obnoxious American causing a scene right beside me. I was trying to act cool and non-descript. And in doing so, made a very bad grammatical slip.
The passport control police man sits down, leans over towards the window, raises his eyebrows, and says, "You have two passports?"
"No. I have one passport. That one. (I point). I gave you two passports. The other is my friend's. (I point to the car.)" He takes the top passport off the pile, opens it, looks at the picture, leans over to look towards the car, and proceeds to give me a look that says, "you're lucky, lil girl..."
I scurry back over the car as quickly as possible to drive back to our city away from passport control. Something I didn't write about last week is that I almost did something last week that could have landed me in jail. So in the span of one week, I've danced on the outskirts of the law twice. I might be singing a different tune if I don't start paying attention.
