Older Series:
Series: Diary of A Reluctant Immigrant: Part I
Series: Diary of A Reluctant Immigrant: Part II
Series: Diary of A Reluctant Immigrant: Part III
Series: Diary of A Reluctant Immigrant: Part IV
Series: Diary of A Reluctant Immigrant: Part V
After having been in London for several months I realised that I needed to change my hairstyle(I had had the same hairstyle since I arrived in London!)to ensure I looked good in the pictures. For posterity, you understand. There were no black hairdressers in the area in which I lived and as a result I travelled somewhere I knew I could find an afro-centric hairdresser that was open on a Sunday. I went to Walthamstow, mostly because I knew the area but also because I was still afraid of going to Brixton.
I found a hairdresser that was open and was assigned a big(and I mean big)Jamaican lady with a greasy face and a hairstyle did not inspire confidence ;She had perched upon her head what appeared to be the fur of dead animal dyed to within an inch of it's afterlife. However, it being a Sunday all the other hairdressers on the street were closed (evidently they took the day of rest seriously)so I really did not have a choice but to sit and allow her to manhandle my head. I suspected she was straight off the boat as she had a strong accent and struggled to understand her instructions as she asked me to sit down. After a few pardons from me, she rolled her eyes(probably thinking"my God, this child is stupid" )and pointed to the chair in front of the sink. She washed my hair and then took a lunch break. I waited thirty minutes as she leisurely devoured some of the greasiest chicken with rice and peas I have ever seen in my life.
I was relieved that she washed her hands before she returned to blow dry my hair; I wasn't ready to deal with her possible combustion. She asked me what I wanted done and I showed her before she proceeded to do something completely different. Every so often she would go outside with her phone attached to her ear.
During one of these absences I asked the Korean woman who was renting a space in the corner if she could give me a manicure. Please don't ask me what I was thinking;I have no idea myself. All I know is a few minuets later my nails were painted pale pink(not disastrous)and had deep groves just above the cuticle that had not been there before she came over. My hairdresser returned and chased her away, without asking whether or not she was done.
After spending the whole afternoon being tugged every which way and chastised by the hairdresser, I finally emerged with a facelift and a headache. The cornrows were so tight I looked twenty years younger, and my head had somehow changed shape. I staggered away from the hairdressers and vowed to find a more convenient, less menacing and better skilled person to do my hair. The headache was threatening to become a migraine and I decided to find I something to eat. Despite having previously been excited about showing Mr. Doright my new hairstyle, I could not muster the energy to do anything but crawl to my own room across town and go straight to bed.
It took several days for my headache to subside and the cornrows to release my scalp into a more natural shape(though pictures still show me looking slightly lopsided during this time!)
It was at this time that Mr. Doright and I felt confident enough in our relationship to undertake what we have subsequently been told is the ultimate test of a relationship. We decided to take a holiday together. After all, I had a new hairstyle I needed reason to take picture of it to send to my family.
Visiting Europe was one of the objectives of my trip to the UK, London being a perfect base for hopping into Europe for a weekend break. I had spent several of my TV hours watching Keith Floyd, the TV chef travel through France, Spain and Italy and I wanted to go and see these places for myself. I wanted to sample the food and wine and enjoy the views.
I also wanted to see more of the UK because despite having spent a number of years in England at boarding school and university I had not really seen much of the country;my travels had been limited to going to see my friends in London, Leicester and returning home to Bristol or Guildford. I had been hiking and camping in Wales(an experience that put me off camping for the rest of my life;it was raining, cold and muddy the whole time)and I once took an excursion to Bath with a more cultured friend from school.
Given my views I was surprised when Mr. Doright suggested Prague, the capital of the Czech Republic as our first holiday destination. The more I thought and read about it the more I realised it was perfect(as long as I wasnât going for the food or wine!).Having been stuck in either Lusaka or Ndola for most of my time in Zambia, I was just happy to be getting on a plane again.
But before I went anywhere near an airport I needed to get a Visa to let me into the Czech Republic. Though I had previously travelled to the UK, the US, and various African countries, I had not considered the Visa process cumbersome. Getting my Visa to travel to the UK took 24 hours to obtain despite the notoriety of the British embassy in Zambia. I was aware that obtaining a Visa had become considerably harder after the attacks of September 11 2001, but I did not consider that they would be particularly hard on me.
I don't think that the Visa process was as hard (or expensive) as it could have been. I just found the list of required documentation on the Internet and gathered the requisite bits and pieces. I took a morning off work and wandered done to Kensington Place (all the embassies I have been to since are in the fanciest places in London).
European Embassies treat need a Visa from them with disdain. One has to queue outside for at least thirty minutes before, whatever the weather, before being allowed into a waiting room to queue some more. Once you get to the counter your papers are scrutinised as though you are hiding something and you are questioned as though you are a suspect in an investigation into some heinous crime. And you are, you are a suspected terrorist, potential illegal immigrant, people trafficker or general nuisance to their society.
I am lucky that I am Zambian as people of other nationalities are made to wait weeks, sometimes even months before they are granted Visas and can be charged up four times as much as I was being charged. They are treated in a manner that disregards the fact that they may be law abiding citizens and sometimes asked very personal questions within earshot of the waiting room.
This is the main reason I have grown to dislike applying for Visas, not only is your privacy violated, there are double standards. The facts that I am from a country whose citizens are considered less of a threat is of little comfort though it does mean that I got my Visa to the Czech Republic within 3 days.
And so having received my Visa and changed my hairstyle, I was ready to travel to the former Eastern bloc.
