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We Are Finger-Printed … Just in Case

November 9th, 2009 · No Comments · Abu Dhabi

Just in case. Just in case … what? We steal the crown jewels, perhaps. Or we break into the Lamborghini dealership we pass on our way home every night … and make our escape with something … but don’t wear gloves.

Anyway, we were finger-printed at the Ministry of the Interior today. And how.

Getting a work visa here is a long process. One with many steps.

We already have done the HIV/blood test … with chest X-ray thrown in as a special added attraction. That took us down to Khalifa Hospital. Or to a clinic next to the hospital, anyway. I mentioned that last week, I think it was.

Still to go … the general physical examination by medical personnel … and the finger-printing.

Today, we knocked off the prints.

We took a cab down to the ministry, which is almost off the island. It’s way down south of downtown. The cabbie had no idea where it was. “I’m new,” he said. He kept calling his office to get directions. And we kept going further south, almost to the airport.

I hadn’t been down to that area of the island since the night I landed here. And never before in daylight. The buildings are newer. Tidier. Spiffier. Looks like a nicer place to live, but probably more expensive and further from the good grocery stores. And something of a hassle in terms of a commute, perhaps.

Anyway, back to the ministry. There is a police station next door, and we first, unwittingly, went in there. Nope. Go next door, one of the cops said. Or motioned.

So, we went outside and down one more door into this large building, and we were there. We knew it was the right place because women get finger-printed over here, and men get finger-printed over there. Can’t be finger-printed in the same spot. That would cause a commotion. Or something.

A south Asian man met us just inside the door. He pushed a button on a machine and it spit out a number for the wait. He handed it to Leah. Off she went. He motioned for me to push for a ticket out of the men’s machine, and I did. I got No. 220.

We had been encouraged to get to the ministry early, because the wait can be awful. We were told. In this case, there were two guys working behind a table, and a waiting room in front of them … but only about a half-dozen men (one Western guy, and five south Asians) there. And I was up next.

I sat down in front of a burly guy in a military-style uniform. A ministry guy, probably. Not a cop. They wear different uniforms.

I handed him an envelope of papers the HR department at The National had prepared. It was missing one document, a copy of the page from my passport that had my entry into the country stamped.

But it was no big problem. The ministry guy just sort of shrugged. He tapped his computer and apparently accessed some database, and soon enough he had his own copy of my passport. He said “Paul?” He wasn’t going to give the surname a test. I said, “Yes, that’s me.” He asked me for 67 dirhams, which is about $19. That’s what it costs to be finger-printed. (I earlier paid nearly $100 for my HIV test.) He gave me exact change and said, almost jovially, “go get your finger prints!” and waved me around the corner.

There, in a corner of the next room, was what I decided immediately was a police desk sergeant, because he looked straight out of Central Casting. Old, paunchy and gruff. If he had been named Mahoney and worked in the 58th Precinct in New York … well it would have been perfect. Imagine Abe Vigoda, except shorter and tubbier.

He had bags under his eyes and a beret on his head, and he looked as if he deeply regretted whatever it was in his career that left him dealing with idiot foreigners five days a week.

In front of him, next to a wall, was a row of seats in which we would-be permanent residents could wait for an audience with The Sarge.

In turn, he took the wad of papers from each guy, scanned them disapprovingly, paged through them again, heaved a deep sigh … and eventually signed off in a little box on the first page.

Then the applicant could sit back down and wait for one of the two guys over at the finger-printing machines to call him over.

Amusing moment. To me, anyway. The Sarge, who appeared to be an Emirati (a homegrown Arab, that is) called for the man who had been at the front door (a south Asian, but a fellow employee) to come over … and pick up a stack of papers he had collected. And take them wherever they go. The south Asian guy said no. The Sarge got angry. He thrust the stack of papers at the south Asian guy … who shoved them right back and walked off.

The Sarge was hating life even more now. And it was my turn.

He was deeply disturbed by my papers. He bent his head over them. He looked. He looked again.  He squinted up at me, without moving his head. He looked back. He seemed disgusted that I hadn’t filled out a paper that was written in Arabic. It needed my name and phone number and the company’s address. I got busy, and headed in my work. But things still weren’t quite right.

He asked another Emirati, a giddy young man who was laughing and chatting up everyone and exchanging semi-high fives had just glided into the place and was wearing “national” dress (long white robes) … to go ask the guy up front a question. So off the kid went. He was maybe 25.

He walked back up to the guy in the military uniform. I could hear an exchange. They were talking about my papers. The kid came back and said something that clearly sounded like “hey, Dude up front says it doesn’t matter.”

Again, the copper was unhappy. But his English was shaky, and I was not going to be speaking Arabic, so he seemed to decide to just push me on through the process so I would be out the door (and out of his life) that much sooner. He tossed my papers at me. I thought he was just putting them down. I turned away. Someone said, “No, you take.” Sarge had my papers. I took them. He motioned for me to sit down, right in front of him … and all the other guys moved back down one seat.

A few minutes later, a finger-printing station came open, and I was waved over. The finger-printing machine is electronic and about the size of a California voting-machine. It had that same temporary look to it, and all the business parts of it were waist-high.

The technician, who was wearing the same (Interior Ministry) uniform as the guy up front, gestured for me to extend my right hand. And off we went.

He was wearing rubber gloves. He first put my right palm on the glass. He took a photo. Then he held my thumb and pushed it down on the screen, and rolled it, and then the rest of my fingers. Then the left hand. Sworls everywhere. If I steal something, I better not leave prints.

And then came the odd part, but one I had been warned about. They side-of-the-palm-printed me. That is, I put the outside of each hand on the screen and they took a photo of that, as well. I’m having trouble figuring out what good that might do, in a criminal investigation, but there you go.

We were done. The guy made a little wave of his hand. “Finished?” I said. He waved again. Apparently so.

Leah’s experience had been similar. Fewer people, because the UAE is 70 percent men, and even more than that when it comes to expats. She was in a room with two other women and one cop/technician. And she was finished faster.

In theory, I might not like the idea of such thorough finger-printing, but by now this country has 1) my passport, 2) a photo of my right retina, from the airport; 3) my blood (and DNA?) from the HIV test and a picture of my chest. So what’s a few fingerprints?

So, I am another step closer to being done with the paperwork. Not that it seems in sight, really. But closer.

Just before we got here, my paper did a story on how the UAE realizes that getting expats legal is, oh, a logistical nightmare that runs foreigners all over town … and was making plans to turn it into a one-stop event. Which is a grand idea but, alas, won’t happen in time to help me.

For all I know, the U.S. does all this to immigrants, too. Which is what I am, really. An immigrant worker. I don’t really know.

Looking forward now to the physical! Maybe they can get dental X-rays, or something. In case they need to prove I bit someone.

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