Africa 2: A taste of the Liberian highlife

Yesterday Simon and I went to the Liberian embassy to obtain our tourist visas. Upon arrival, the embassy official (sat behind what looked like bullet proof glass) looked at us as if we had just walked in on him in his pyjamas. He didn't speak, just stared and looked from side to side as though trying to inconspicuously locate his gun.

After I reassured myself that this was indeed the embassy and not his bedroom, I asked him how to obtain a visa. A ridiculous amount of frowning ensued – and when he eventually realised that we were serious he left the desk without a word, and returned some fifteen minutes later with two forms and a man, who also appeared to have frowning issues. I got the distinct impression that they hadn’t seen humans in their office for quite some time.

Once the forms were complete, he informed us that we were also required to write a letter explaining the reasons for our trip, and so we started writing. We wrote about being fascinated with Liberia and its culture, and enthused about wanting to explore this wonderful country - I was actually rather proud of our combined linguistic skills, but he didn’t even read it. He did however insist that we add a line at the end, which he meticulously dictated to us:

'I declare that while I am in Liberia I am responsible for my own welfare. Should anything happen to me it is not the responsibility of the Liberian embassy.’

As we crossed the T’s and dotted the I’s Simon and I exchanged alarmed glances, neither one of us daring to question the need for such relinquishment. Needless to say we are not going to tell my mother about this little waiver.

We then handed over our passports and paid extra (£108 in total) for the ‘express 1 hour service’. In return we were given a post-it-note bearing a code written in biro (this, it appeared, was our receipt) and were told to come back the following day. Before I had the chance to say ‘same day service’ the two men disappeared into the back room with our cash, leaving both our passports on a desk under some paper.

So, is this little ramshackle organisation with its post-it-notes and lackadaisical staff a taste of what is in store for us in Liberia? I hope so because it’s very very funny.

What is even funnier however, is the thought of what my mother would do to Scott Harrison should indeed ‘something; happen to us while we are away…