I entered Timor-Leste on a thirty day tourist visa. You buy one at the airport for thirty US dollars. Easy peasy. Apparently it’s easy once you’re here to apply for the working visa required to work legally. Having gone through part of that process, I wonder what’s required to acquire a working visa prior to coming to Timor. The soul of your first born perhaps? Okay, I exaggerate; maybe not their soul, perhaps a few functional organs might seal the deal.
In Timor-Leste you can ameliorate the process by hiring a consultant. Our consultant’s main aim seemed to be trying to truncate the process with a little grease – and I’m not talking the elbow kind. The first part of the process involves going to the hospital for a blood test and an x-ray. Our Visa Consultant told me that actually the hospital tests weren’t necessary and for $100 she could get me the “results” by that afternoon. “Americans and Canadians,” she confided, “They don’t like needles in foreign hospital.”
Never mind the Americans and the Canadians, employees of the school where I worked needed to follow the process. I was pretty sure that the process didn’t involve paper bags or envelops of any kind.
So I found myself at 8am the next morning navigating the grounds of the Hospital Nationale. After much wandering, I found the clinic and, as advised, presented my working contract to the clinic doctor.
“Copy of your passport?” he asked.
“I’m sorry?”
“You need to give me a copy of your passport,” he said again.
“I wasn’t told that.”
He shrugged.
I ground my teeth together . . . .then left to find somewhere I could get a photocopy of my passport. In case you haven’t already gleaned this, let me reiterate that nothing in Timor is easy. And so it was that about forty minutes and half a litre of sweat later I found an establishment that declared “fotocopy”. For twenty-five cents the very pleasant young lady made copies of the required pages of my passport and I retraced my steps to the hospital and triumphantly re-presented my documentation.
The doctor scribbled on some forms, handed them to me and the process began:
Day One
I was to go to the blood testing lab.
I was to give them the slip of paper from the clinic.
They would give me a piece of paper that I was to bring back to the clinic.
I was to pay a fee to the woman behind the payments window.
She would give me a receipt but no change. I was to remain silent on the issue of change or give her the exact amount. I was to take the receipt back to the blood laboratory where I would be relieved of a vial of the strong stuff and given a small square of paper that I needed to present to get my results. They would be available the next day.
Then I was to go to the x-ray building and present the second slip of paper from the clinic.
They gave me another slip of paper which I was to take back to the clinic.
I would pay another fee and receive another receipt.
Then I could return to the x-ray building for zapping and would also receive another small piece of paper that entitled me to my results. They would be available the next day.
Day Two
I was to take my slips of paper to the respective laboratories and receive one slip of paper from the blood lab and an x-ray in a brown envelope from the x-ray lab. I was to take these to the clinic for examination by the doctor.
Day Three
I was to return the next day with a third and final payment and would receive a signed certificate.
I duly completed this process. It wasn’t quite as arduous as it sounds, though it was mildly annoying having to return to the hospital on a daily basis – it was at the far end of town and a $2 or $3 taxi fare depending on the driver.
The signed certificate, x-ray and blood test results were given to the visa consultant who was to then organise an interview with the Department of Works. To give you an idea of how things can work, or not work depending on how you look at it, I completed the three-day process in my first two weeks in Dili, that is, by 25th September.
It wasn’t until last Wednesday, 16th November that we got the call: I was to present at the Department of Works at 9am the next morning.
My boss came too – fortunately. While he took a call I tried to get the receptionist to log my presence and point us in the direction of my interview.
“When did they call you?” she asked.
“I’m sorry?”
“When did they call you?” she asked.
“Yesterday,” I said, wondering how the timing of their phone call was relevant.
She began flicking through a book and shaking her head. “No, not here,” she told me.
Around this time my boss finished his call and joined the party. “We were called yesterday. We’ve been here before. Some of your colleagues take English at our school.”
She didn’t even feign mild interest.
“Can I speak with your manager?”
“Ah, here,” she said. “Go through.”
We were funnelled into an office with a rather impressive, if faux, ornate door handle. The man behind the desk indicated for us to sit. He did not look happy.
“You didn’t come when we called.”
“We were called yesterday. We came today.”
“No. You were called a month ago.”
My boss turned to me, a red slowly rise up his neck. “I’ll strangle that woman (clearing meaning the Visa Consultant),” he growled through gritted teeth, then turned back to the grumpy official. “I can assure you that we have come every time you’ve called us. We want to do everything possible to work with you.”
“I almost cancelled the paperwork.”
“There’s obviously been some misunderstanding. I’ll call my contact.”
He dialled “that woman” and handed the phone over.
Begrudgingly the grumpy official took the phone. “Hello,” he said. “Hello?” He handed the phone back. “No one there,” he said. Then added, “Never mind. We continue.”
And we did.
“What is your highest level of education?” he asked me.
“A Master of Medical Science.”
“In education?”
“Medical science.”
“What work did you do in Australia?”
“My work has always involved English, writing and presenting in English.”
“How long have you been teaching?”
Since eight weeks didn’t sound terribly convincing, I imagined all the times I’d taught anything in Australia. In particular I imagined teaching peewees karate and confidently replied, “About five years.”
“Five years?”
“Yes.”
“In Australia?”
“Yes.”
“In schools?”
I visualised me tutoring university students in invertebrate zoology and said, “At university”; my work on the Link and Learn Project and said, “at high school”; my copywriting workshops for business owners, “adults” and my Korean university student, “and privately”. Hhhmmm, I was almost impressing myself.
He turned to my boss. “Do you have fire extinguishers?”
“Yes, we have three.”
“First-aid kit?”
“Yes. Your people have come into our school and inspected it. We have a security certificate.”
It continued with the not-so-grumpy official asking about staffing levels, including how many Timorese teachers we employed – or why we didn’t. We don’t because they don’t have the skills. However, we are training some local teachers and next June will choose the two most competent to join the teaching pool at the school.
“Okay.”
The no-longer-grumpy official passed me the papers and a pen. “Sign.”
I did.
“It will be okay,” he said. “Two weeks.”
We thanked him and left. We’d hit the halfway point in Mission – Mandy’s working visa.
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