Summons from the state attorney

Moroni – Courthouse:

I had already been here the night before. To no avail. There wasn’t enough time left before the end of the workday. After an uncertain night, we’re back—with flashing lights on the bed of a police pickup truck. I don’t know what’s supposed to happen now. I still haven’t received any information. Using my broken French, I explain my story to the prosecutor, then to the attorney general, and to others. Then everything happens rapidly. My belongings end up in a car—and so do I.

The twist

“Welcome to the Comoros. You’re free now!” a muscular guy greets me in German. Somewhat confused, I look at him. We’re in one of the best restaurants in town. Sitting across from me are men of influence—as I soon find out. A few apologies follow. Once again, I recount my story. Then I can finally breathe a sigh of relief. I spend three days with one of the three men, taking care of everything else. By the very next morning, I’m holding my “laissez-passer” from the French Embassy in my hand. A simple piece of paper, signed by the consul, is the only form of identification I currently possess. Now I have to decide. Either I fly back to Germany or to Dar es Salaam to get a new passport. In the end, I book a flight to Tanzania. If I’d had a few more days to think it over calmly, the decision would probably have been different.

A short freedom

I’ve been moving about freely on „Grande Comore“—the largest of the three main islands of the Comoros—for just under two weeks now. You can read all about my experiences in my blog post on the subject. It’s the last evening before my return trip. I wake up confused just before midnight. An unusual noise at my hotel room door woke me up. Still half-asleep, I open the door. Standing before me are familiar faces: I already know these police officers from the precinct. “Come with us!” one of the officers says to me, and that’s all. He glares at me. He’s been doing this for the past two weeks at the police station. So far, I haven’t exchanged a single word with him. Sandwiched between two police officers, I take a seat in the back seat. At least I’m spared the cargo area. My questions about why this is happening fall on deaf ears. Either they’re not allowed to tell me, or they don’t want to—but it’s likely that the lower-ranking officers don’t even know themselves.

Race Against Time

The next day, a race against time begins. My flight leaves just before 1:00 p.m.—I want to leave the station by then. Meanwhile, there’s been a change in leadership. My new contact seems eager to help—but is initially at a loss. A few minutes before the scheduled departure, we leave the police station with the sirens blaring, heading for the airport. What a taxi service! And the treatment at the airport is almost like that of a super VIP. Past all the lines—straight to the person in charge. But we’re too late. The plane’s doors are already closed. I know all too well what’s coming next: another night at the police station. Two days later, I’m on the plane—finally! The Attorney General personally took care of it and sincerely apologized several times. At last, I’m completely free again—well, as free as one can be without a passport.

The end

“Anything that can go wrong will go wrong”—Murphy’s Law. The process of getting my new passport will provide the ultimate proof of this law. After waiting for more than a month, I received a message from the embassy: Unfortunately, the Federal Printing Office made a mistake while printing your new passport. We cannot tell you at this time when the new passport will arrive. So, I’ll just have to keep waiting. Just under two months after I submitted my application, I finally hold my new passport in my hands—now I’m truly free.