The Odyssey, one of the oldest and greatest literary works from antiquity, gave us the legend of Sisyphus – some poor bastard who had to roll a damn stone up a hill for all eternity. It’s a comforting tale in some ways, perhaps because it’s one of those stories that helps us feel better about our state of affairs, a story once used to placate the middle class, like Nicholas Cage in The Family Man. Personally, I see Sisyphus as an immigrant worker, a foreign national with a nagging visa problem.
I don’t want to sound like a chronic malcontent, but I have been thinking of this story recently when I see that big fat page-consuming sticker on my passport that reads “The Republic of China”. It all started this way: my most recent job ended, and thus my ARC expired, and thus I had to leave the country. I had lived in Taiwan for 3½ years and never – not once – did I ever have to go on what is commonly called a ‘visa run’. I always had a job, always had my papers in order, and never even looked into the ROC’s visa requirements because I never had to worry about it, never had to ‘run’ anywhere. But then suddenly I was faced with having to leave the country; suddenly I became a visa worrier.
OK, no big deal, I thought. I’ll just do what I have to do. I’ve got plenty of money, plenty of time. I’m not even going to look for another job for a while. Maybe finish up that novel I’ve been working on for three years. Maybe I’ll watch that 16-hour documentary on the British Isles I downloaded this summer. Taiwan’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs’ website says “A country can undertake preliminary reviews and screen visiting foreign nationals to ensure… that the foreign nationals are unlikely to be a burden to local society.” Hey, I don’t have a problem with that. I mean, “unlikely”? I’m as unlikely a burden as they come. My landlady doesn’t find me a burden. For the last two years I labored on one of Taiwan’s most important public works projects. They didn’t find me a burden. I filed my taxes. I haven’t been in any drunken bar fights, haven’t impregnated any local women, haven’t even gotten a ticket. This visa thing will be a cakewalk, I thought. Then I got to Hong Kong.
A friend had told me that I should buy a ticket out of the country, just in case they ask at the airport upon my return. Hmm. Really. And you need to prove you have adequate of money to sustain yourself. This started to sound bad, and it got worse. And you need to wear a suit when applying for a visitor visa in Hong Kong, he added. Wow. OK, if I do all that, I’ll be welcomed with open arms, right? Turns out I should have rented a tuxedo.
The woman behind the counter was as welcoming as the bulletproof glass that surrounded her. She didn’t seem in the least bit impressed with my tailor-made, wrinkle-free combination silk/cashmere Italian suit I paid three big ones for in Bangkok. She immediately looked at me like she was a parole officer having a bad day, like one who had heard every excuse in the book from every lowlife in the world. Her look was harsh and disdainful as she took my application and passport. I felt sweat forming on my forehead. Suddenly I could hear my heart pounding like the central character in the film Midnight Express. I started to fidget in my seat. I pulled my collar. I managed to paint on a humble smile.
“I would just like to…” I nervously muttered, “spend time…”
“You didn’t,” she interrupted with aloof abridgment, tapping an empty space on the application.
“Oh yes, of course,” I said smiling. “My home address.”
I nervously scratched down my mother’s.
Taiwan is my home now.I began to think of all those other things my friend had told me.
“You’re not supposed to look for a job. It’s a visitor visa.”
“When you do get another job you’ll have to leave again.
“You might as well buy another ticket. They have to know they can get rid of you.”
“Make sure you’ve got all your paperwork.”
His voice trailed off.
My God, maybe Taiwan isn’t my home.
“You know, you can get 30 days just by leaving the country,” my parole officer said with a suspicious look.
“Yes, but…”
“And there’s no guarantee we will give you more than 30 days,” she interrupted before snatching up my 800 Hong Kong dollars (or about $3,400NT).
I felt desecrated, like I’d been through an interrogation I didn’t deserve. I had dressed up as if for a job interview. I had revealed the contents of my bank account. I had purchased an open-ended plane ticket just to prove I wasn’t a vagrant. I was made to feel unwelcome by the country I had praised again and again to my friends and family back in America. And after all that, I wondered if I might have just thrown away hard-earned money for the experience.
Now I better understand what an acquaintance told me when I first moved here: “Get married to a Taiwanese woman. It will make things a lot easier.” Taiwan is more difficult than most countries when it comes to entering and staying. It keeps people away. It has to. It lessens its competitive edge in the global economy. It has to.
When I got back to Taipei, my email inbox was filled with job offers. Getting a job here can hardly be called a “Sisyphean challenge”.
Maybe the visa run isn’t so bad after all.
Comments
sean
"Maybe finish up that novel I’ve been working on for three years"......lol...
i thought it would be obvious though that once your ARC expires you is back to square one........which means a trip out every 30 days........that's why HK gives everyone shit since with 30 day visa-free entry there is no longer any reason for anyone to apply for a visa unless they intend to look for work........or have a very specific reason.....kicking back till you can be arsed to look for a new job ain't gunna cut it.....
June 8, 2007 5:20 PM
163
1
October 1, 2007 4:08 AM
LT
Y'know, I had no problem in HK when I went to get a visa there. They didn't even want bank info.
December 27, 2007 11:51 PM
1001
cd
April 2, 2008 6:59 PM