Part I. Bureaucracy
We last left you wondering, would Callie get her visa registered, having left the visa itself well-stashed in Hotel Star Paradise on her first attempt. No.
After a slow start, we climbed into an auto-rickshaw and slowly made our way across town to the Indian Foreigners Registration Office. One hour later, we exit the rickshaw. VA pulls out her reading material; Callie begins The Long Wait.
Another hour later, she meets a pair of African students, who seem more savvy in the ways of the IFRO, and begin to list the items needed for registration. Having been given NO information at the NY visa office, Callie assumes this is specific to their student visas. And keeps waiting.
Another hour later... the line budges slowly forward. Outside, Jonas tries to explain to the still-waiting rickshaw-walla that he really should leave; six Indian men gather round to help translate, but it quickly becomes apparent that none of them speak English. Translation fails, but the rickshaw-walla disappears shortly thereafter.
Another hour later, Callie arrives at the front of the line with her visa and employment certification in hand. The sour-looking bureaucrat quickly waves his hand, determining that she has none of the TWELVE documents required, and pulls out a ripped slip of paper listing them, then sends her on her way.
Alas, Callie will not be registered until after the 14 day grace period. But since they seem to be in no rush to process things around that horrible, horrible office, we're not too concerned.
Part II. Missed Trains and Chai
We miss our train to Chandigarh. Shit.
We enter the calmest office we see. We are ignored. We are finally acknowledged. We are escorted to another office, buried deep in the train station. We speak Hindi. We are laughed at. We laugh. We laugh a lot. We make friends with the kind Hindi-only workers of the railway bureaucracy. We are offered chai. We accept. We watch the man fold many papers. Many papers. We ask for the ticket office. We are laughed at again-- we come to understand that we are in the ticket office. We wait. We are asked if we are planning on eating dinner. We ask about our ticket. We are told that it is not the ticket office. It has been 1 hour. We leave to seek new tickets in the elusive ticket office of the New Delhi Railway Station.
Number of Indians we asked for help in the train station: 14
Number of laps walked/run from Track 1 to 16 and back: 7
Number of hours spent in the train station: 3
Percentage of our party eligible for tickets sold in the tourist office: 50%
Percentage of groundspace covered with sleeping people: 70%
Hours until next available train: 18
We wait again.
Part III: Bagged Salads in the Season of Monsoon
Enjoying an extended lunch in a back-alley restaurant with Jackie Chan's Rush Hour in the background, we realize: the time is approaching. We must leave for our train. But alas, we have ordered more food and it is yet to come. The waiter assures us that it will be right out, and so we wait anxiously, preparing our bags for the race to the station. Callie's salad arrives, and her traditional manner of eating (read: slow) will have her missing another train. Virginia suggests that she ziploc her salad and donate her tea to a neighboring table, as onlookers laugh at the spectacle-- Virginia barking out minutes as Callie cuts bites of onion until Virginia forces the plastic bag into her hand.
We depart, to find that the great subcontinental rainclouds have opened and monsoon season is upon us. We are deep in the heart of Paharganj, a ramshackle neighborhood of failed construction: the streets are half filled with piles of brick and more potholes than road in the rest. We climb over the brick piles, trying to avoid the knee-high pools of water, finally reaching the station, absolutely soaked.
But... we make the train!
The End.
Epilogue: We now find ourselves in the calm haven of Chandigarh, a planned city of wide leafy avenues and Le Corbusier's concrete creations. Onward to the mountains for the next two weeks.
With love,
Cal and VA
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