Yesterday in Warsaw, a short(ish) story...
We - my wife and myself - leave our guesthouse at 10, arrive in Plock at 10.35, immediately jump on a two hour bus to Warsaw. Suburban train out towards the station for the UK Visa Application Centre. An abortive attempt at finding something nice to give our hosts; wine and chocolates is nowhere near enough, but they adamantly refuse anything more. Back to the VAC we go.
The VAC is situated on the first floor of a hotel on the way out towards Chopin Airport. This is our third trip. Last time, there were a few hundred people on the first floor. Now they also have operations just past reception on the ground floor to help process the numbers. Several layers of queuing, starting with the queue to get into the right queue - collections downstairs, biometrics upstairs. We overhear a man talking to a staff member that he, his mother and grandmother were sent from the new VAC at Rzeszów and have nowhere to stay. I’m sure he’s not the only one in this situation.
Eventually, we’re asked to take a seat. Occasionally, English staff will come down with passports and attempt to read out the names. They say the names too quietly and forgo attempting surnames altogether. It takes people in the waiting area to actually volunteer to communicate whose documents have been made available. Most of them don’t have visas in them, so they’ll have to try again tomorrow. Faces visibly crumple in pain when this happens. The lucky ones with visas cry tears of relief.
At around 3.35pm, a staff member in an orange T-shirt calls out my mother-in-law’s name. We bounce up off our seats, letter of authorisation to pick up in her name on our phones and eager to glance at what should be a passage to safety, a weight off of our shoulders, a small mercy in this time of extreme need.
“There’s been a mistake, she’s been given the wrong visa.”
I hear blood roaring in my ears.
“I can check upstairs, but you might have to come back tomorrow. I’m really sorry.”
We move to another table seething whilst he runs upstairs again. Whilst he’s away, my wife’s passport comes back with a visa in it. It reads as valid until 8th June; it’s shorter than her current visitor visa. This does not inspire confidence.
Twenty minutes later, the orange T-shirted man is back again. They’re trying to get back in touch with the Home Office in Sheffield. Yes, the wrong visa has been printed. Yes, they’re trying to sort it promptly. No, he can’t confirm that it’s coming back today, because the person who was supposed to print the correct visa before is travelling. No, he can’t name names. He asks whether one of us wants to stay overnight; he’s willing to give up his bed for us to stay. We say no, we need to go back for my mother-in-law; we took a letter of authorisation so we could come together and spare her the difficulties of another six hour-plus round trip, we’re not leaving her in the guesthouse overnight. These visas are to be immediately extended at same point we pick up the IHS certificates, valid for three years. This isn’t in writing, but that’s a small worry right now. He goes back upstairs again.
4.30pm, Orange (I don’t ever catch his actual name) comes back. Not going to be printed today, the person in Sheffield is completely out of reach. That the fortunes of Ukrainians in Poland should rest on one person filling out paperwork in South Yorkshire and them out of office just makes me snap to a directness I don’t think I’ve ever had before. I explain that we’re only this far with our application because we got heard out from journalists in national papers and had people in the offices of British MPs putting in calls - if we’re getting fucked like this by the system, how bad is it for everyone else in the room? I go back to the point that I don’t want to go after anyone as individuals because they’re trying the best they can, and Jana - the Bosnian manager we’ve spoken to on our last two visits - has been especially helpful. “Do you want to talk to Jana?” FUCK YES.
Ten minutes later, Jana is down. She’s sincerely apologetic about the absolute mess and will put in a call. Hold on and I’ll let you know. We wait with as much patience as we have left, with the assurance that the best person in this building is personally fighting our corner. She comes back at 5pm.
“The document is printed, get a taxi and run to the embassy, pick it up before it closes, ok?”
We burst into tears of joy and hug Jana with all the gratitude our arms can exert. Quick taxi across the city to the embassy, ring the bell, staff member comes out with the printouts; full documents for my mother-in-law in the UK. Joy. Another three hours until we get back to lodgings. Come back absolutely exhausted.
Cat now needs an EU pet passport, which we’re sorting tomorrow in Wrocławek. Could be travelling to the UK this weekend.
TL;DR - humans in the family have visas and the whole system is still fucking atrocious.