Delhi to Kabul
The next morning we woke up early, and had a nice breakfast at the hotel. I watched with envy and fear as my dad drank orange juice, mango juice and had fresh peeled fruit. I wanted it so badly, but knew I’d better not take the risk. My dad wanted to leave at 1030 for an 1130 flight, but we managed to get him out the door by 9 am.
Now was the moment of truth. The night before I left Phoenix, I read something about visas for Afghanistan. I didn’t need a visa the last time I came in, but that was a year and a half ago. According to the Afghan Embassy website I didn’t need a visa because I was born in Afghanistan, but my sister did since she was born in Boston. Although Wazhma is 7 years older than me, she was born in Boston because my dad went MIT there. When they returned to Afghanistan I was born. Despite the late notice, I called Wazhma up to make sure she had gotten a visa, and she said she hadn’t because my dad said it wasn’t necessary.
When we reached the check-in counter, my dad managed to check in before us and decided to go downstairs to check on his luggage. Wazhma gave the woman her ticket and passport and the woman asked for a visa….uh-oh. We called my dad over and he said that she didn’t need a visa etc, etc. But the woman asked we speak with the Immigration officer first. The immigration officer didn’t quite know what to do and went to speak with someone else. Meanwhile, Wazhma and my dad were sweating bullets. My sister’s blood pressure started to rise and my dad was feeling guilty for not getting a visa for her. My dad said, “Well isn’t it better if you get to Kabul and they refuse you there, rather than getting refused in India?” My sister’s green eyes started to flicker and she said, “NO!” I informed them that the Embassy website said that people entering Afghanistan without a visa would be deported and their passport would be confiscated. Now Wazhma was really upset and time was ticking until we were to board our flight.
The Immigration Officer finally returned and told us if it was OK with the airlines it was OK with him. So we went to the counter and the woman issued our tickets. We stood aside and arranged our things, and my dad asked me why I hadn’t told him that Wazhma needed a visa. My dad spoke too soon, and an Asian man from the airline interrupted us and started questioning us. He said he needed to confirm with Immigration that we could go through. So here we were again! He returned 15 minutes later and told us we didn’t have permission. So my dad had to argue with them for another 10 minutes and they finally let us through. Maybe we exasperated them enough that they gave up.
We now had 10 minutes to spare and still had to get through immigration and security. After getting through immigration my dad started wandering toward the duty free store. “Dad!” we pleaded, but there was no use. Wazhma and I got through security OK, although I was stopped for having a water bottle in my bag (whoops!).
Luckily the plane was delayed and we made it on the plane despite my dad’s last minute duty free shopping (*sigh*).
There was a beautiful Afghan man sitting in front of us on the plane and I had to keep nudging Wazhma to keep her big green eyes to herself! I had already decided that she would need sunglasses on this trip to keep us out of trouble!
We arrived at the Kabul airport, and to my dismay things had changed in a year and a half. The last time I came there was no immigration counter; just a short old man that said “Welcome!” We had filled out a green form and were admitted. This time there was an actual counter with disciplined lines of people waiting. This didn’t look good for Wazhma.
A large adverstisement for the fancy Serina Luxury hotel decorated the otherwise bleak airport. We finally got to the counter and a man with a mustache and a kind face stamped my dad’s passport. He did not, however, accept Wazhma’s passport because she didn’t have a visa. My dad tried explaining that we were his daughters and we were traveling as a family, but the man didn’t care. Rules are rules. Furthermore, he was perplexed by how Wazhma was born in 1974 in the US and I was born in Afghanistan in 1981. He wasn’t convinced we were his daughters. Wazhma scooted closer to my dad so that the man might see some resemblance between her and our dad. After 15 minutes of holding the line up, he finally stamped Wazhma’s passport and told us to get a letter from the Embassy in Kabul. We finally made it in the country!
Now was the moment of truth. The night before I left Phoenix, I read something about visas for Afghanistan. I didn’t need a visa the last time I came in, but that was a year and a half ago. According to the Afghan Embassy website I didn’t need a visa because I was born in Afghanistan, but my sister did since she was born in Boston. Although Wazhma is 7 years older than me, she was born in Boston because my dad went MIT there. When they returned to Afghanistan I was born. Despite the late notice, I called Wazhma up to make sure she had gotten a visa, and she said she hadn’t because my dad said it wasn’t necessary.
When we reached the check-in counter, my dad managed to check in before us and decided to go downstairs to check on his luggage. Wazhma gave the woman her ticket and passport and the woman asked for a visa….uh-oh. We called my dad over and he said that she didn’t need a visa etc, etc. But the woman asked we speak with the Immigration officer first. The immigration officer didn’t quite know what to do and went to speak with someone else. Meanwhile, Wazhma and my dad were sweating bullets. My sister’s blood pressure started to rise and my dad was feeling guilty for not getting a visa for her. My dad said, “Well isn’t it better if you get to Kabul and they refuse you there, rather than getting refused in India?” My sister’s green eyes started to flicker and she said, “NO!” I informed them that the Embassy website said that people entering Afghanistan without a visa would be deported and their passport would be confiscated. Now Wazhma was really upset and time was ticking until we were to board our flight.
The Immigration Officer finally returned and told us if it was OK with the airlines it was OK with him. So we went to the counter and the woman issued our tickets. We stood aside and arranged our things, and my dad asked me why I hadn’t told him that Wazhma needed a visa. My dad spoke too soon, and an Asian man from the airline interrupted us and started questioning us. He said he needed to confirm with Immigration that we could go through. So here we were again! He returned 15 minutes later and told us we didn’t have permission. So my dad had to argue with them for another 10 minutes and they finally let us through. Maybe we exasperated them enough that they gave up.
We now had 10 minutes to spare and still had to get through immigration and security. After getting through immigration my dad started wandering toward the duty free store. “Dad!” we pleaded, but there was no use. Wazhma and I got through security OK, although I was stopped for having a water bottle in my bag (whoops!).
Luckily the plane was delayed and we made it on the plane despite my dad’s last minute duty free shopping (*sigh*).
There was a beautiful Afghan man sitting in front of us on the plane and I had to keep nudging Wazhma to keep her big green eyes to herself! I had already decided that she would need sunglasses on this trip to keep us out of trouble!
We arrived at the Kabul airport, and to my dismay things had changed in a year and a half. The last time I came there was no immigration counter; just a short old man that said “Welcome!” We had filled out a green form and were admitted. This time there was an actual counter with disciplined lines of people waiting. This didn’t look good for Wazhma.
A large adverstisement for the fancy Serina Luxury hotel decorated the otherwise bleak airport. We finally got to the counter and a man with a mustache and a kind face stamped my dad’s passport. He did not, however, accept Wazhma’s passport because she didn’t have a visa. My dad tried explaining that we were his daughters and we were traveling as a family, but the man didn’t care. Rules are rules. Furthermore, he was perplexed by how Wazhma was born in 1974 in the US and I was born in Afghanistan in 1981. He wasn’t convinced we were his daughters. Wazhma scooted closer to my dad so that the man might see some resemblance between her and our dad. After 15 minutes of holding the line up, he finally stamped Wazhma’s passport and told us to get a letter from the Embassy in Kabul. We finally made it in the country!
posted by Gazelle at 9:48 PM
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