Working without a Visa
Go on, roll your eyes at me.... I'll roll them right back. With a casual wave of the hand I dismissed any fears others had about going to teach in Colombia without a working visa. 'It'll be fine' became the hackneyed phrase, I knew it wouldn't but I'd made up my mind.
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'I grant you impunity' |
It'll be fine, It'll be fine, download some lovely Juanes and everything will be fine.
Two months later, four of Bogotá's finest immigration officers burst into my classroom, leafed through my passport and found what they were looking for. The blank page where my working visa should have been.
My student's protests were in vain, I was bustled out of the class and into the Directors office, I wasn't even allowed to put the lid back on my board marker, as a victim of obsessive compulsive order it was a restriction that didn't sit well. The 'told you so' merchants were forming a disorderly queue in my mind, I entered into a panic, leapt up onto the boss' desk, pulled down the sword hanging on the wall and disemboweled myself. Pride becomes before a fall but rather that than fall into the hands of my enemies. Harakiri latino style.
Of course, none of this happened, I made it up... but it could have.
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| Take a board pen! |
The reality had far less severe repercussions but uncomfortable ones nonetheless. I was working for an agency, a man with a phone who sent me to various companies around Bogotá. He was assisted by Juan Felipe, a former student from the UK who worked tirelessly to make things happen. He was a good guy, despite forcing me to be a Millonarios FC fan. Then there was me, a teacher with a board pen and a folder of resources and this was our agency. A bit like Sterling Cooper Draper Price in its infancy, minus the hotel room and whiskey.
Now, the man with the phone, luckily happened to be a honest man with a phone, I was paid a salary, on time, regardless of how short I fell of previously agreed classroom hours. I was supposed to teach 20-25 hours a week, I was doing about 10 on average. Under worked and underwhelmed but not underpaid.
Despite having pesos in pocket, working illegally puts you on shaky ground, it lends an uncertainty to your plans.
'How long are you staying in Colombia for?'
'Erm, not sure'
'Well when does your working visa run out'
'Ehem, technically it doesn't...'
There were talks of making me legal but investigations into how left me bewildered. We started to glean information from various quarters, in short, it was going to require numerous phone calls, the extraction of certificates and documents from storage, in England, whereupon they would need to be stamped at a notary then sent on... this all before addressing the financial aspect, sums of money I didn't have. Oh, I'd also have to leave the country.
Searching for suitable accommodation without supporting papers also proved to be a concern. Having to lower expectations to stay off the radar allowed for some interesting viewings. I'm sure I saw one the beds used by the Khmer Rouge used to torture perceived dissidents, scorched bed frame, dried blood stains on the mattress, that was slightly better than the apartment I saw, straight out of Trainspotting, the crack den with a maid from the Dominican Republic, for some reason it had egg boxes covering all the windows. The best piece of advice I could give anyone is that if you ever happen to use compartoapto to seek accommodation in Bogotá then avoid, at all costs, Paula from Chapinero, it took months of counselling and self harm to erase the images of her 'flat'.
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| Looks can be deceiving, you haven't seen the toilet... |
I settled on a flat (above) 'managed' by a 15 year landlady, dubbed 'the landgirl', sharing with two guys who pissed all over the toilet seat and never flushed... another girl who 'enjoyed' many visitors, in hindsight, possible contributors to the puddles left by seat peeing duo... the bed looked good, but wasn't.
If that wasn't enough, there was the added suicide feature of lighting a micro-tolerant gas cooker with the shortest matches known to mankind. Colombians, why are your matches so small? If I start to describe the shower then I'll be angry for the rest of the day. I could go on but I fear it'd undo many hours of fine counselling. All that said, I was an illegal immigrant and in the eyes of the law, I had no right to complain.
It would have been possible to survive, a visa could have been achieved eventually but the fact remained I was padding class numbers by using former students previously met in the UK, the rain was torrential (see Part 1), the threat of a good mugging was palpable (see Part 2) and the fact I didn't have the right to remain legally was like diarrhoea icing on a turd cake.
Work dried up in December, it got to the point when some nice students from Avianca offered to pay for further lessons that they didn't really want, in order for me to stay. I dolefully declined, it would have meant having to approach the charity classes with enthusiasm and verve, of which I had none left. I left and sought work in Spain, you don't need visas here, God bless the European Union.
The whole experience could have been avoided if I'd found a job in an established school who provided a contract and working visa upfront.
But that would have been boring wouldn't it?
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| There it is! |
