Visas. Be they the stamps that fill passports or the cards that drain wallets, one cannot go far without either.
My partner, Deb, and I obtained our Indian tourist visas well in?advance.
“After all” said our barely competent travel agent “we all know how slowly the cogs of Indian bureaucracy turn.” “Oh yes” we nodded knowingly, not actually knowing anything about cogs let alone ‘Indian bureaucracy’.
India’s bureaucratic cogs turned at record pace mincing us in the process. Our visas were granted within a week and, to our dismay, started to run immediately from the date of issue.
At least our travel agent managed to book our tickets properly. Even if she did forget to log our frequent flyer status or advise the airline that we are vegetarians or do any of those other few things that a travel agent actually does besides making fat commissions selling expensive flights.
Like our travel agent, our India visas proved to be inadequate. We needed an extension. Under the rules, Indian tourist visas cannot be extended for any reason. Under the table, it is completely a different matter. Corrupt officials will give extensions for $US100. But that’s an awful lot of play money for an India Head – there had to be a better way.
I telephoned our travel agent, who, it seemed, on receiving her commission, had decommissioned.
“Anthony who?” she ventured as the rupees ticked away.
“Anthony Jucha, spelt J.U.C.H.A., pronounced ‘uha'”
“Uha?”
“Yes”
“You are uha?”
“Yes”
“You are uha are you?”
“Yes, look please, it doesn’t matter…”
Eventually, our travel agent made some extensive enquiries (ringing the Indian consulate in Australia), but was of absolutely no assistance.
“Happy to be of assistance. Remember, I can meet all your travel needs… I can use a database.”
Fortunately, we had a back up plan. We had heard that dressed like responsible, mortgage lugging, adults rather than scumbag India Heads, we had some chance of getting our visas extended for free. A major makeover was needed. Where is Ricki Lake when you need her?
Deb’s new look proved to be easy. She wore a salwar kameez. A simple, but elegant, long Indian dress with pants and a scarf (a girl can never get enough flesh coverage). Glasses. A pony tail. Perfect.
My makeover was a little more challenging. First a shave. Face only though. Not the head. Best to emphasise, not hide, the pitiful death march of my hairline. A collared shirt, polished boots and the cheapest trousers I could find. Some nice, flared, disco numbers. Finally, a band aid over the eyebrow ring completed the look and sought just a touch of sympathy.
This would be easy. And it was. Within minutes we had been in and out of the visa office and told to leave the country. All dressed up, but being made to go.
Desperate, and not being ones to learn from our mistakes, we consulted a local travel agent.
“Bangladesh” he commanded “you can extend your visas in Bangladesh.”
The word was out that the price for visa extensions had risen in the nearby Nepal, but in Bangladesh cheap corruption lives on.
The travel agent was all too happy to sell us predawn bus tickets to Bangladesh.
“Happy to be of assistance. Remember, I can meet all of your travel needs… I can use a telephone.” Almost there mate.
We caught the bus the next morning and admired the sunrise like it was our last. We believed it would be. Our driver was a maniac. I prayed that the accident Gods would be merciful and just. And just kill him.
After a terrifying journey and buying our way across an unnerving number of armed checkpoints, we reached the border. We were immediately bombarded with cries of “Change Money! Change Money!” as the aptly named money changers fought over the commissions to be earned exchanging our rupees for takas.
Shattered and all takad up, we staggered into immigration and met two equally shattered Americans. They had just spent two years working in Bangladesh and were heading out. The place had gone mad with hartals – bloody unionist uprisings. Gunfire in the streets. They mapped out where it was safe to go and gave us a reference for a guide. He would not shoot us were we assured. Reassured we were not.
No visa extension was worth this, so we turned back into the “Change Money!” brigade and begrudgingly obliged once more.
The bus operators were confused. No one normally just wants to see the border, change money (twice) and then turn back. They called the travel agent for assistance.
“Anthony who?” I overheard from the other end of the phone dippeding my head and gripping my temples.
The whole episode left us hopelessly underfunded. The bus tickets, the money changing, the disco pants were all expensive. There would be no visa extensions for us.
We resigned ourselves to leaving early and emailed our proposed flight dates to the living obstruction that sat between us and the all important flight database. Our travel agent could only secure us a flight out of the country well after our visas said we were due to?leave!
“Happy to be of assistance. You will of course have to extend your visas. Good luck.”
By this time, we were heading into Kerela, a naturally stunning state with 100\% literacy and a remarkably prominent socialist streak.
We were back chasing visa extensions once again, but had lost our enthusiasm for the whole process. This time there would be no salwar kameez, no shave and no disco pants. I didn’t even change from my stinking Che Guvera t-shirt which I had been sporting proudly for days. We strolled into the visa office and showed the officer a copy of the email from our travel agent confirming that we were stuck in the country.
“Is that a Che Guvera t-shirt?” asked the officer.
“Why yes.”
“You like him?”
“Some of his principles, certainly.” I said nervously trying to centre myself.
“That’s very good.” He regarded me thoughtfully. “You know, you look a lot like Andre Agassi!”
“Really, no one has ever told me that before.” I lied contemplating India’s apparent obsession with my scone which had earned me many a curious comparison. Andre of course. The lead singer from Aqua. Even Stone Cold Steve Austin, the WCW wrestler!
The officer was clearly starved of celebrity exposure and rushed off to have our applications approved immediately.
Apparently, his superior, on reviewing my application, was concerned that I might be some sort of a terrorist (having a shaved head and all), but once the similarity to Andre Agassi was pointed out, he was appeased and granted our extensions. No bribes. No bullshit. Nothing.
God bless Che. God bless Andre. With their help, we managed to stay in India for a few more weeks and put off working life just that little bit longer.
And I still have the disco pants!