Plan Is a Four-Letter Word

From Indore

I left Indore after staying one night in a comfortable hotel, a little treat for myself whenever transiting through unpleasant cities. I got a ticket on a bus that was leaving for Bhopal in thirty minutes time. One and a half hours later the bus left the depot. Thirty minutes is not measured in the usual metric of time, but the number of empty seats on a bus - and, as it happens, thirty minutes is however long it takes to fill the remaining seats on the bus.

The name of Bhopal might ring a bell for some - it was the site of the Union Carbide industrial disaster 20-odd years ago. One of the worst industrial disasters of all time - a very real reminder of the evils of modern capitalism for the sake of capitalism. One night tonnes of poisonous gas spilt from a Union Carbide factory, smothering the city, killing thousands and causing terrible health problems to this day. The responsible company, Union Carbide, did their callous best to avoid their responsibility, and to this day they still haven't fully paid the compensation that they were ordered to.

The bus ride there was longer than expected, but reasonably comfortable compared to others that I had taken recently. There were a couple of well timed stops for sickly sweet chai and spicy samosas whenever I felt my endurance being tested. Despite the chai, I was knackered when I arrived in Bhopal at six. In desperate need of a shower I set about finding a hotel. I was also in a rush because my team was playing on the TV at six-thirty (oh Ben, you travel to India and you still follow that silly game... well damn straight, if it is on the tellie and I might be able to catch a game, why not?)

I checked out a couple of hotels, which were either full, or had appalling rooms for the price being asked... and all had surly, unpleasant staff (though, I must admit, I had started to take pleasure in the Indian surliness). I checked out one final place, and found a hotel manager who was smiling ear to ear, with happy staff who made me feel instantly at home. I looked at a room - well lit, clean and a comfortable bed... and the footie on the box. Great. I took my shoes off and went to fill out the C-Forms.

A Small Missunderstanding

C-Forms? Whenever you check into an Indian hotel you have to fill these out. Indian hotels are required to keep precise records of all their guests. The details that one has to fill out vary from state to state (yep, in some places I had to give my father's name), but they always take down the details from one's passport and visa. As the manager filled out my details, joking about the Indian and Australian cricket teams at the same time, he declared that I had a problem. My visa had expired.

"No it hasn't, I have until April 18"
"Excuse me sir, but your visa expired on Febuary 28, it says it here..."
"Ahem, that was the date that I had to enter India by, right? I get six months from the date of entry."
"No you don't. Hear, I will call immigration"
"Thankyou"

After a brief phone conversation in Hindi he informed me that my visa had indeed expired - I got my six months from the date of issue, not from my date of entry. I made a mental note to inform the travel agent who organised these things for me of this little detail, then asked what I ought to do.

He said that I had to go to the Foreigners Registration Office in town, and sort out an extention. After a crazy rickshaw ride I ended up at said office, at six-thirty on a Sunday evening. Of course there was only one person there, who informed that there was nothing he could do for me on account of it being a Sunday. I didn't ask him why he had asked me to come to the office in the first place. He informed me that I had to go to Delhi or Mumbai and get the relevent extention. As I left he said "Don't let the police get you - you are now illegal and they will give you big problems". It comes as no surprise that I didn't ask him why he wasn't getting in contact with the police on my behalf.

From Bhopal In A Hurry

This presented me with a small problem - hotels cannot accept guests whose paperwork is out of order, no matter how nice and helpful the hotel owner is. After some very gentle pleading, I resigned myself to the fact that there was going to be no shower, no relaxed meal, and no football that evening. Not that I missed much, apparently the game was a very dull 0-0 draw.

I had to get to Mumbai quickly, but I first fired off some emails to my parents to let them know that I was in a little bit of strife, and grabbed a bite to eat, before heading to the bedlam of the station. Bhopal train station is a big one, one the junction of East-West and North-South lines. Lots and lots of people, platforms and trains. I dashed to the ticket counter and purchased a super-fast ticket. A super fast ticket is a cattle-class ticket that lets you jump on any train going between the specified stops.

As I was purchasing it a drunk guy started trying to talk to me, and I gently told him that I would rather be alone right now. Maybe he sensed my distress, and started to harrass me, making a loud scene. Though the Indians around me were repulsed by his behaviour, they were also interested in the scene because it involved a foreigner. The police also found it most interesting, and refused to make the man leave me alone. I was a bit strung out, but I bit my tongue and walked away, jumping on the Delhi-Mangalore express that was going to stop in Mumbai.

Toilet Seat

I had made a very similar journey four months earlier along the same line, from Kandwar to Goa. Similarly to that infamous journey, I had to find a place on the floor at the end of a carriage next to the toilets - one of the most unpleasant places in the world to make an overnight trip. I was not the only person in such a position, as I was joined by a friendly young man from Mangalore with whom I shared our little floor space. I spread out my sleeping mat for us to share - and from then on we shared smiles, chai, food and paan during the night.

In the morning, after getting no sleep, I got off the train on the outskirts of Mumbai. Bidding a head-wobbling goodbye to my travel budy I caught another train to the Victoria Terminus in the heart of Mumbai.

Mumbai

I had been looking forward to Mumbai. It is the second largest city in the world - an enormous sprawl of slums and wealth placed side-by-side on the coast. Many people hate it, in fact most people hate it, but I also met a few people who loved the place. One Dutch woman described it as the greatest city in the world. Either way my interest was aroused - it was such a pity that I had to visit the place under such rushed and stressful circumstances.

Before I could think about looking around I had to make my way to the Foreigners Regional Registration Office (FRRO) to get an exit permit. I spent an hour wandering around central Mumbai trying to find the FRRO, getting lost thanks to the horrible Lonely Planet map. I am going to take the time out to gripe about LP maps. I reckon I have a good sense of direction, and usually have no problems using maps, but the maps in the India LP got me lost and confused so many times - even though I carry a compas. From now on I am trialling other guide books, because maps are important to me - I like them.

The Mumbai residents were very helpful in giving me directions. One bunch of Muslim men approached and asked what I was looking for. After a couple of minutes deliberation they declared that they did not know the location of the road I was looking for, much to my delight. Delight? Why delight? Because it is a fairly universal truth that if somebody doesn't know the directions in India they will just make them up and send you on a wild goose chase. These men's honesty was a treat.

But, if I thought that was surprising, the next man I asked for directions (another Muslim chap) gave me very precise directions that involved major landmarks... which beat the usual flick-of-the-wrist. Indians will flick their wrist to give you a direction - with the initial direction of the flick showing which direction you should start to head in, and any twists and pertebations in the flick are the little left-right details that will get you to the final destination. Such nuances as one-two-or-three blocks are at best implied in such actions and can cause much confusion.

When I finally got to the street a friendly shop owner directed me to to FRRO, which was closed for a public holiday. Damn. What was I going to do? No visa meant no hotel. I was exhausted after my long journey, lack of sleep and traipsing around stinking hot Mumbai with my full pack. I considered finding somewhere to sleep at the train station, then thought better of it and got a cab to Colaba. To make sure that I didn't get an entirely rosey impression of Mumbai and its residents, the cab driver made it clear that he had no idea where he was going when we were halfway to where ever the hell he was going and I had to get out. He asked for 100 rupees - I gave him 20 and a wobble, and he drove off without complaint. Luckily the first person I saw -a tour guide - gave me precise instructions to the road in Colaba district where most of the hotels lie.

Now I had to find a hotel, but I knew that the C-Forms are taken very seriously in Mumbai (the only reason I got away with having a two week expired visa was that I was in Madhya Pradesh where hotels are fairly slack). I checked out a couple of hotels, but the people running them seemed too nice or honest. Finally I found one where the owner gave me a slightly uncomfortable feeling. Perfect. When I checked in he noticed that my visa had expired, and made a show of wanting me out of his hotel. A head wobble and 400 rupees later I had a room, and my name was not on the C-Form.

Relax

It was a temporary relief to have a room - some space for myself in which to clean up and relax after the claustrophibic travel and worry of the last 36 hours. I had a shower, washed my hair, and went for a little wander around Mumbai, before retiring for an early night.

The next morning I woke at six, did some yoga, went for a walk in the cool Mumbai morning. The previous evening I had been accosted by touts selling everything from hash to handbags to giant novelty balloons and had been forced to flee by their incrediable persistance. I even met a Bangladeshi businessman who had been robbed and need ten dollars to get back home - he would mail me the money once he was safe. Oh dear. But in the early morning the city was quiet, and the only people on the seaside were joggers, dog walkers, people doing laughing therapy, and a lone chai seller.

I composed my thoughts, and came up with plans for the different situations that might arrise at the FRRO. The hotel owner had suggested that I might want to pay the police there some backsheesh to get the visa extention - which had made me cautious. If the police there were that corrupt I might have to pay more than a bit of backsheesh when they realised how desperate I was: a two week out-of-date visa can get you in a lot of strife.

Catch-22

As it turned out I had no reason to be afraid, the office was run by civil servants whose respect for the rules was unbendable by a lowely traveller such as myself. After waiting in line, I was informed that I would have to show a confirmed flight for the next couple of days before I would be given an extention, and I only had a couple of hours to organise it because the office did not "entertain" visa applications after 2pm.

I didn't have enough time to bring my ticket forward, so I tore off to the American Express travel agency listed in the Lonely Planet. As it turned out there was an American Express office of some sorts at the specified adress - on the second floor behind a couple of layers of security personel. Once inside I was informed that this was not a travel agency, and that I should go to the agency on this card. They were clearly well prepared for dealing with the many tourists that LP erronously sent their way.

I ran down the street with my pack to the Thomas Cook travel agency. Luckily they were actually an agency, with large airconditioned offices like those back home. My friendly travel advisor listened to my story with a lot of sympathy, and found a very cheap flight for me the next day. I ordered it and handed over my credit card. She vanished for a while, then returned and asked me to wait a little longer. I waited for half an hour, my alarm increasing all the while as I watched the clock ticking over. She returned to inform me that she would be unable to issue the ticket because I didn't have a valid visa.

Oh, bloody hell! I explained that I needed the ticket to get the visa, and was in a very tight spot in terms of time. She was very nice, and went for another extended talk with her supervisor. She managed to win him over, and issued me my ticket with one and a half hours to spare.

My cab was caught in traffic, and the driver was quite ok with this. I asked him if he could speed things up, and he said "traffic traffic". I gave him a sad look and said "big trouble, big hurry". He grinned and sat one hand on the horn and wove, pushed and bullied his way through the Mumbai traffic - smilling over his shoulder at me all the way. It was then that I decided I really like the people of Mumbai.

Back to the office, I got through the first queue, and with my confirmed ticket I was ushered into the more comfortable air conditioned second queue. From then on it was a very simple process of filling out the correct forms and paying my fine. No questions were asked, and I even flirted a little bit with the girl, Ms Mkwanda, who processed my visa. I was stamped and ticketed, and ejected into the heat of Mumbai with ten minutes to spare. I sat down for a soft drink at the shop of the man who helped me find my way on the first day, and who had been sharing my story each time I went to the FRRO.

Salvation

That night I got a room at the Salvation Army Hostel, a cheap place offering overcrowded dorms at the only half-reasonable prices for a room in Mumbai. There I met some other travellers, relaxed, and even went out for some beer on my last night in India (I hadn't had a drink in seven months).

The next morning I woke up a little hung-over and grabbed a taxi to the airport. The young driver and I chatted about the cricket for a while, covering both the in-progress world cup and his own glorious cricket career. Like all Indians he was both a batter and bowler. I was always entertained when I asked "are you a batsman?" and got a yes, then was informed that "I am also bowler".

A Reminder

Then he told me his story. Stories like his are everywhere in India, particularly in cities like Mumbai. During my stay in India I came to realise that there are two sides to every coin, and that the behaviour of the people I met could not be measured the same as my own. The fact that Indians are by-and-large so warm and friendly when they struggle through what we would consider great adversity speaks volumes.

He was origionally from Varanarsi, on the other side of the country. He had been attending college, but then his father went to prison. His father was an alcoholic, and had murdered another man - I was given a graphic account of the crime in true Indian style. He had been forced to leave college, and come to Mumbai to drive a taxi. He didn't own the cab, but worked for the owner. The owner did the day shift and he did the night shift - sleeping on the pavement when he was not at work. All of his money was being sent back to his mother in Varanarsi to pay for his sisters dowry.

The story was honest, and he wasn't asking me for money. He was just telling me his story. I told him my own, paying special attention to the details of my own mother and sister (topics dear to Indian men). He had a go at listening to my iPod - though he found it amazing that I should have so much music, and none of it Hindi movie music. At the end of the one hour ride I gave him decent tip, and wished him good luck.

There is a lot of warmth in the Indians, but they don't necessarily show it to the average foreigner. I certainly had my guard up when I first came to India, and had a fairly hard time with the Indians for a long time - regular readers will remember my frustrations. My ego took a bit of a battering, but eventually I opened up a bit and started to get some reward from them. Mind you, I am still a long way from being really comfortable in India, and there isn't a day that goes by without somebody doing something that drives you up the wall with irritation/frustration/anger/exasperation. For a while there I said I would never return, but now I say I might go back... after exploring some other interesting parts of the world that I haven't seen yet.

The UK

My exit stamp and associated paperwork caused me no further drama, receiving only cursory glances from the Indian and English passport controls. I was amazed at the amount of space that I had on my economy class seat, and the sheer luxury of TV and meal services. This was a sharp contrast to the claustrophobia that I usually feel on planes, and testiment to the cramped and uncomfortable travels that I had endured in India.

I arrived at Heathrow with no idea what my next move would be, as I had no chance to form a plan due to my hasty exit from India. I called my budy, schoolmate and one-time flatmate Jamie, but he was in Scotland. That wasn't much help, so I got a train to Paddington (the 10 minute ride cost as much as an overnight first-class train ticket in India) and made my way to a cheap hostel. Well, cheap by London standards.

The next morning I went for a walk at 6. The sun was rising when I entered Hyde Park, and the watery sunshine made no difference to the sub-zero chill in the air. But it was beautifull, even when the sun rose into the clouds and it started to snow. I wandered around the park watching happy dogs getting their morning walks, marvelling at the gothic architecture and statues sprinkled around that park, and the well-ordered nature of life in a London park. It was all such a strong contrast to the sweltering heat and chaos-that-somehow-worked that I had left behind.

The next day Jamie came down to London from Edinborough, and we went to the pub to chat and swap stories. James has been in the UK for the last twenty months, so we have a lot of catching up to do. London was very expensive and, though museums and galleries such as the amazing British Museum are free, I had to leave.

I am now in Brighton, where I have been biding my time for the last week. I haven't got any sort of working visa at the moment, so I have to be careful with my funds until I can get something organised. I have decided to get an Irish working holiday visa, as it appears to be the only option that is even remotely certain to succeed. I am currently sorting out the paperwork required for my application. They want copies of my qualifications and work references among other things... it defeats me why they want these things, but I suppose they have to make it tricky somehow - apparently visas aren't meant to be easy.

Jamie has lined up a job for me, cash-in-hand with accomodation and food included in the deal. I think that it is some sort of cafe-bar work, and it will do nicely for the mean time.