Transit Visa to Remember

An Unforgettable Journey Through Uncertainty and Resilience

My colleague and I, engineers at a leading Indian Public Sector Engineering Consultancy firm, after attending an international IT conference in Houston, were on our way to Algiers with a change of aircraft at Paris. We had been deputed by our company to Algeria, where it was executing a prestigious project, and we were to present our IT capabilities and explore opportunities.

The unexpected and unpleasant hours spent at Charles de Gaulle Airport in the mid 1980s are still vivid in my memory after 40 years.

At the French immigration desk, our enthusiasm hit a wall of bureaucratic hostility. The issue was a missing French transit visa. Our office administration team back home had overlooked this requirement. With no mobile phones, contacting our officials was not even a thought. We stood stranded at immigration, explaining in English, but the French speaking officers remained unmoved. Finally, after much gesturing, an English-speaking lady officer arrived. She understood our situation but made it clear that as transit passengers without a visa, we had to spend those few hours in the airport police station. We marched through the terminal to the airport Post de Police, stripped of our luggage and our dignity.

For ten long hours, we sat in a cold room under dim fluorescent lights like convicts, though thankfully not handcuffed. Every basic need became a submissive negotiation. To get a cup of coffee, we had to hand over US dollars to a policeman who took the cash with quiet contempt. To use the restroom, a uniformed escort shadowed our steps. In those brief moments, I learned a lesson in international economics. Even in custody, the US dollar worked on a French policeman in Paris and ensured a smooth trip to the bathroom.

Suddenly, loud thuds of unattended and unclaimed baggage being thrown into the adjoining cell shattered our nerves. We sat in paralyzed silence, wondering whether our own baggage, containing important documents might receive similar treatment. Fortunately, it did not.

When our flight to Algiers was finally announced, a deep sigh of relief escaped us. But the police did not merely see us off. They marched us onto the aircraft and watched until we were physically seated. The two hour flight felt like a breather.

We landed in Algiers to a city trembling with the fever of a coming civil war. At the hotel, the vigil felt less about hospitality and more about surveillance. That night, the darkness was punctuated by the distant thud of bombings. Sleep was elusive.

The next morning, our commute began under armed escort arranged by the client. It was not a casual drive but a convoy with a police van in front and another at the rear; blue lights flickering across sunbaked deserted streets, reminiscent of a spy thriller. We joined our engineering team and carried out the assigned tasks, but the memories of the inhospitable treatment at the French police station and the tense atmosphere in Algeria lingered throughout our professional journey.