Via Prague

12:55 a.m. When Islam and I arrived there were already about 50 people outside the office. Most were stretched out on make-shift beds, blankets with bits of newspaper underneath. A few Russians and Ukranians drank beer purchased at nearby all-nite shops, and chatted in circles. Somewhere music drifted from a radio. With about seven hours to wait, fortunately it was a mild, clear summer night.
'Ah, the visa fight,' Islam said. 'Everywhere there is war. War for oil. War for food. And now war for visa.' He chuckled to himself.
The majority of the people waiting for visas tend to be from the Ukraine. Many work in construction, and are responsible for the work that's gone into Prague's building boom the past decade. This morning a heavy-set Ukranian man and a couple girls were putting people's names on a list. I didn't like this or trust it. I've been to the Foreign Police before and know that it usually dissolves into a free-for-all when the doors open, and who were these list-makers anyway?
'I think it's pretty corrupt,' said one Australian guy, who was back for a second attempt like me and Islam. 'It's mostly Ukraine people and they try to control the process. But I don't see any way around it.'
Still feeling highly skeptical, I added my name along with Islam's. We were listed at 145 and 146 respectively.
'You should get in,' the Australian guy said. 'Yesterday I was 300 and just missed the cut. They ran out of numbers just before.'
230 a.m. The broad-shouldered Ukraine guy, the apparent leader, is doing a roll call. Islam had decided to go for a walk to stretch his legs, so when our names come up I answer for him. Everyone looks tired, tense, but there are moments of laughter, such as when the Ukraine guy tries to pronounce the Vietnamese names on the list. Not that he does better with English ones. He pronounces my name, 'Yam-ez Treezler.'
'Here,' I say.
430 a.m.Another roll-call. This time, the Ukraine leader, aided by other Ukraines, begins trying to start the actual line. By now there are about 200 people. We're pushed back and back, while names are called. The scene starts to get tense with all the pushing. People step forward, trying to hear their names. 'This is ridiculous,' I say to an African man next to me. He speaks English, and nods in agreement. More shoving, people step forward and try to get the Ukraine man's attention, checking and rechecking the list for their names, insisting. A few of the men are obviously drunk, and they begin gesticulating and cursing in Russian. This is never going to work, I mutter to myself.
At one point, a couple Russians get into a shouting match with the Ukraine leader and he gives a 'hell-with-it' gesture and hands the list over and strolls off. Then dozens of hands are reaching for the papers, and there's more shoving and cursing. One man goes ballistic, chattering and unleashing a volley of orders in screeching Russian.
This isn't working.
During the ensuing chaos, I quietly slip through. No one stops me. I go and join the small group of people already called on the list and have a seat. No one stops me.
I go and sit next to a youngish guy who tells me he's from Uzbekistan. He's been waiting for the last two days.
'But today I should get in,' he says. "I'm number three on the list.'
'Two days?' I grow alarmed.
'Some people they are here for five days,' he says.
'The other day the news media was here,' the young man continues. 'They had cameras, there was a story. But still nothing really changes.'
Hell with it. There's no way I'm waiting five days. Hell with their lists. The thing is to be as close to the front door as possible when it opens.
6 a.m. The police arrive, a dozen of them in black slick suits. This is a new wrinkle from last year. But I'd heard even with police there were still problems. Recently a couple of the cops were fired because they were found to be taking bribes from people to get places in line. This morning the police spread out and stretch out poles with red tape to control the perimeter of the line. I'm within shouting distance of the entrance, about 30 people ahead. I notice at the very front of the line is none other than -- the big Ukraine guy, our list man, the great organizer. Amazing his ability to combine community and self service, a lesson for us all. Oh well, good enough. I don't know where Islam is, and look around for him but don't see him. Hopefully he'll get in.
7 a.m. The doors open. It's actually much more orderly with the police around. A certain calm has settled over the crowd. The police let in the first dozen or so. After a few minutes the next wave, and so on. Upstairs I get a coveted number and sit down. I'm so tired I'm a little dizzy, mostly worn-down nerves from all the waiting and uncertainty.
830 a.m. Islam and Anwar come upstairs. They got in! I wave and they wave back, and I remember that I've got one of Islam's documents in my bag, so go over and get it to him. A few minutes later my number comes up on the screen. 'Good luck,' my friends say.
845 a.m. The girl at the desk is young, early twenties. It's her first day, and two other women are training her. 'It's terrible,' one of the older women says. 'It's summer and some of our colleagues have holiday.'
My paperwork is in good order. The women hand me a receipt. 'Come back in 30 days,' they say.
Bummer. Last year they gave me the visa on the spot. This year I have to come back and pick it up. In 30 days. That means another pleasant all-nighter at the foreign police.
I got home and slept for a few hours. I heard Islam come in about 1130. 'I must going back,' he says. 'I am missing some papers.'
'Me too. I mean I have to go back in 30 days to pick up the visa.'
'Ah, the life is hard,' Islam said.
We went in to sleep.