The Study Permit

It’s a little odd to see the culmination of your life in a stack of old and new papers. My Birth Certificate, child immunization records, marriage certificate all mark the passing pretty major milestones in ones life. Then I have the newer documentation that I had to acquire. I now officially have a statement signed by a physician that assures that I am “generally in a good state of health” and, furthermore, am “not suffering from leprosy, venereal disease, trachoma or other infectious or contagious condition”. Well, I suppose that is a good thing. I don’t have tuberculosis or any criminal offenses that would prevent me from entering the country. Then there are letters from my university, financial statements and flight information. All in all, the packet consists of sixteen pages of a temporary residence permit application and an additional sixteen verification documents, two passport photos and my passport.

I’ve been assured that it takes about five business days to process the permit and issue me the proper visa. I was also told by my dear, sweet-speaking friends at the Consulate General’s office that I shouldn’t send it in until a month or less before I leave. The website suggests submission six to eight weeks in advance. I opted for the middle road of six weeks. I’m fairly confident it will be approved. However, there is a small wrenching in my stomach that wonders what would happen if it were denied. I’ve already given notice at my job, my apartment and with all of my friends. I’ve purchased the plane tickets. This is the only way to go about acquiring the permit. Hmph!

A very successful, spirited and wise friend recently commented that we get what we want because we put EVERYTHING into it. I smiled heartily when I read her text, fighting a tear that was trying to well up. Perhaps. I think my struggle will be having enough left in me to tend to a whole new set of challenges ahead. Because, while this experience has been extremely difficult in many ways, I have a funny feeling that ahead lay a whole new set of challenges that will again demand everything I have.

Secrets may make you sick... but sharing them is no walk in the park either

Telling my co-workers that I had decided to attempt to move to South Africa was much more difficult that I thought it would be. I had a well thought out plan to quickly announce my departure at the end of Friday afternoon staff meeting. Well, at the time it seemed like it was well concieved. Tic-toc-tic-toc... 4:30 arrives. Time to wrap up the staff meeting. People start to leave and I quickly share that I my last day will be July 16th because I have a wonderful opportunity to go to South Africa. Just as I had rehearsed. Ok, good. I field a couple questions and quickly head down the hall to my office. I work there for another hour or so until the office empties of all my co-workers. I think to myself that it went pretty well. There were a few gasps and looks of disbelief. And a couple people were sobbing a little. But I figure that is just because change is hard to accept... and the staff meeting did get a little intense.

I shut down the computer, close the blinds and meet two co-workers for a couple drinks. I had told them the news earlier in the week. I enjoy talking with them. As we talk my confidence in their professionalism and insight grows. See, things will be fine- maybe better- without me. They share some insights about the meeting with me. Including information that somebody left the meeting sobbing. They assert it was specifically because of the news I was leaving. They say some very nice things about me and my work. It felt sincere and it was very nice to hear. Yep, things will be all right.

I process the afternoon and evening as I carefully navigate the 23 miles back to my apartment. I arrive at my place nearly in tears. I open the door to my apartment and emotions explode from me like fireworks. And not just any kind of firework. It was like the kind with the cardboard tube that you gently fill with the brightly-colored, spherical explosive with the really, really long wick. The wick that you light, quickly turn and run before you hear the ka-boom of the explosive that flies super high in the air until it bursts overhead in a bazillion directions. It was like that kind.

I'm not even sure why. I think a part of me was just saddened by an overwhelming sense of loss. The loss of a job I cared about. The loss of people that I care about. And the inability to feel like I could really fully articulate to those that mattered most most to me. The loss of familiarity. At the same time, another part of me felt like I was letting people down by leaving. Not that the good work wouldn't continue, but that I was abandoning an effort, or rather a vision, and casting it aside for others to battle without me. And yet another part of me felt like I really didn't matter at all. That, really, nobody cared in the first place and my contribution's of the past would be washed away with the spring rains. The intense emotions sprayed, fell and faded only to have new ones burst. I fell asleep crying. I woke up crying; my eyes red and puffy and my cheeks crusted with salt.

The effects of telling my closest friends proved to be even more difficult and longer lasting. This isn't going to be easy.

South African accents and the Consulate General's office

Is it actually possible for me to go to South Africa for several months, a year or more? The preparation for making such a seemingly extraordinary decision is exceptionally arduous. I've spoken with the South African Consulate General office at least a half dozen times. I've called twice as many times, often being left on hold for twenty or more minutes until I hang up the phone in frustration. Those times on hold are especially difficult because I am bursting from the seams and on the edge of my seat waiting...waiting...waiting.



I'm waiting to hear the answer to what may seem like a small question. But, to me, it is not. The answer will inevitably be: "yes, you can come to South Africa" or "no, you can not come to South Africa". The real answer would, in all actuality, be more like "such and such document won't work" or "you are eligible for the study permit with such and such documents" or something to that effect. I feel like the blueberry girl in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I feel bigger and bigger and bigger until I feel like I could explode from anticipation of an answer.



Finally, somebody answers the phone and I run from the doorway of my bathroom to my kitchen counter-which really is only about 10 steps- where my Blackberry was laying in wait playing some sort of techno-elevator music. (South Africans never cease to amaze me about their keen aptitude for the paradoxical.) I grasp the phone, push the center button and attempt to scroll down to turn off speakerphone so I can talk with the woman. Click. Too slow. Damn it!



Another day I try again with much more success. Questions swim in my head as I frantically scribble answers in the margin next to the question itself, which is written on an old T-mobile phone bill. "Do I really need a radiological report to prove I don't have tuberculosis, or will a skin test due?" "How do I buy medical insurance?" "What kind of criminal background check is required?" "Can I work with this permit?" "How long can I stay in South Africa?" Even though I was taught with anticipation of each answer, I was always lulled into a strange peacefulness by the smooth and sweet South African accent. Boy, I love that accent! I wonder if I will pick up their lovely and melodic inflection if I am there long enough...