Encounters with Indian Officials
One thing I wanted to mention was the vast number of strange animals I'm running into. In India you see horses and cows on the street constantly, as well as mangy, battered looking street dogs. But there are tons of more exotic animals too. Yaks, goats, mole-like things, exotic birds... but my favourite of all is the omnipresent monkey. They're smart little buggers, as graceful as they're shown to be in national geographic, and I've had at least one try to throw something at me.
My chess record is improving too - I played some Israelis last night and I'm 4-4 now against the world.
So, having lost my passport, yesterday was spent searching for an elusive "Police Complaint Form," which will allow me to obtain a new passport in Delhi. The rationale is that a police file needs to be opened, and it is necessary for the Canadian government to believe that the Indian police are searching for it.
The first police station I was pointed to was found through trial and error, since it was only marked in Hindi signage. I took note of the Hindi word for "police station". Indian police officers dress in khaki tan and prominently carry long wooden rods around with them - which I think is a cool looking uniform. The police officer inside politely informed me that I would have to go to a larger police station in the next town (20 minutes walk) up the road, and walked me outside and pointed in the general direction.
So I walked towards the second police station, which was easy to identify because it looked like a military barracks, and that I now knew the Hindi word for "police station". I walked inside, and the lady officer inside and I bantered back and forth for awhile.
Steven: "I lost my passport on the way from Dharamsala to Rishikesh."
Officer: "So.. did you lose it in Rama Jhula or Laksmanjhula? [two towns within the greater area of Rishikesh]"
Steven: "No, no, neither. I didn't even lose it in Rishikesh."
Officer: "So... Rama Jhula or Laksmanjhula?"
Eventually we agreed that I would come back in a couple hours when their senior officer returned, so I plodded down to a bookstore and bought a Salman Rushdie book, and a copy of Lonely Planet Nepal. I returned, sat directly opposite the police station in the shade of a grove and munched on oranges until the senior officer returned.
The senior officer ushered me into his office and said that I should talk to the intelligence officer at the precinct, and walked me over to that fellow's office. He was an amicable fellow, and his English was good - he introduced himself by saying "And what is your good name, sir?" We figured out that because I was staying on the other side of the Ganges, I should inquire about a form at the police station over there (however if there were hassles, he promised that I could come back and fill out the form at his office,)
"Sorry about sending you back over the river," he said. "Do you want some chai?"
I responded in the affirmative, and we chatted for awhile about how the police were structured around here. Apparently all the police come from adjoining cities, and are posted outside of their hometowns to minimize corruption. They all live in barracks - dormitory style for single men, and more traditional quarters for families and single women (who, he hinted, were expected to be married promptly). He seemed pleased that many men made the transition from the dormitory to the families quarters while they were posted in Rishikesh.
So he bid me a good day, and I trotted back across the Ganges (still the most beautiful river in the world, twenty-four hours later,) to the third police station. At the third police station, I walked inside, said "Lost Passport" and they had me write a letter to the police department explaining my circumstances - made a carbon copy and stamped it, which would serve as my elusive "Complaint Form". On the way out, I noticed two portraits on the wall - one of Gandhiji, but I couldn't recognize the second one. I asked the small crew of police, "I know the first man - that's Gandhiji, but who is the second fellow?"
"He's a freedom fighter," one fellow said.
"Against whom?" I replied, a silly question.
"Why, against you of course!" the fellow piped, a clever reply. Everyone laughed, and I laughed - nervously - and dashed out clutching my letter tightly against my stomach.
My chess record is improving too - I played some Israelis last night and I'm 4-4 now against the world.
So, having lost my passport, yesterday was spent searching for an elusive "Police Complaint Form," which will allow me to obtain a new passport in Delhi. The rationale is that a police file needs to be opened, and it is necessary for the Canadian government to believe that the Indian police are searching for it.
The first police station I was pointed to was found through trial and error, since it was only marked in Hindi signage. I took note of the Hindi word for "police station". Indian police officers dress in khaki tan and prominently carry long wooden rods around with them - which I think is a cool looking uniform. The police officer inside politely informed me that I would have to go to a larger police station in the next town (20 minutes walk) up the road, and walked me outside and pointed in the general direction.
So I walked towards the second police station, which was easy to identify because it looked like a military barracks, and that I now knew the Hindi word for "police station". I walked inside, and the lady officer inside and I bantered back and forth for awhile.
Steven: "I lost my passport on the way from Dharamsala to Rishikesh."
Officer: "So.. did you lose it in Rama Jhula or Laksmanjhula? [two towns within the greater area of Rishikesh]"
Steven: "No, no, neither. I didn't even lose it in Rishikesh."
Officer: "So... Rama Jhula or Laksmanjhula?"
Eventually we agreed that I would come back in a couple hours when their senior officer returned, so I plodded down to a bookstore and bought a Salman Rushdie book, and a copy of Lonely Planet Nepal. I returned, sat directly opposite the police station in the shade of a grove and munched on oranges until the senior officer returned.
The senior officer ushered me into his office and said that I should talk to the intelligence officer at the precinct, and walked me over to that fellow's office. He was an amicable fellow, and his English was good - he introduced himself by saying "And what is your good name, sir?" We figured out that because I was staying on the other side of the Ganges, I should inquire about a form at the police station over there (however if there were hassles, he promised that I could come back and fill out the form at his office,)
"Sorry about sending you back over the river," he said. "Do you want some chai?"
I responded in the affirmative, and we chatted for awhile about how the police were structured around here. Apparently all the police come from adjoining cities, and are posted outside of their hometowns to minimize corruption. They all live in barracks - dormitory style for single men, and more traditional quarters for families and single women (who, he hinted, were expected to be married promptly). He seemed pleased that many men made the transition from the dormitory to the families quarters while they were posted in Rishikesh.
So he bid me a good day, and I trotted back across the Ganges (still the most beautiful river in the world, twenty-four hours later,) to the third police station. At the third police station, I walked inside, said "Lost Passport" and they had me write a letter to the police department explaining my circumstances - made a carbon copy and stamped it, which would serve as my elusive "Complaint Form". On the way out, I noticed two portraits on the wall - one of Gandhiji, but I couldn't recognize the second one. I asked the small crew of police, "I know the first man - that's Gandhiji, but who is the second fellow?"
"He's a freedom fighter," one fellow said.
"Against whom?" I replied, a silly question.
"Why, against you of course!" the fellow piped, a clever reply. Everyone laughed, and I laughed - nervously - and dashed out clutching my letter tightly against my stomach.
posted by Steve C at 10:21 PM
5 Comments:
Oh steve. I'm suprised you can still be so good natured about everything despite your circumstances. I would've been a bit more panicked and in a foul mood had my passport been stolen.
Which Rushdie are you reading right now? I'm giving Midnight's Children my third try at powering through.
Well, thank you for dignifying my *lost* passport by calling it "stolen" ;)
I sympathize with your manual toil situation - on one hand, I worked for 35 days consecutively in one stretch - but at least I always was around English-speakers, and intelligent ones at that. So it must be lonelier, and when you're hot, sweaty and lonely I know how cycles of negative thoughts loop over and over in the mind. I guess the only way out is to occasionally say to yourself, "Wake up!" and get free from their grip.
A lost passport isn't the end of the world, just a pain in the ass. I just talked to the embassy and it'll take 15 working days to replace it, so it delays my Nepal plans for at least a week, but I will have more time to play and learn in Rishikesh.
I finished Midnight's Children a week ago. It's not going to make my list of books to take to a desert island, but I still thought it was worth reading. It is fun in its fantasy elements and has very intelligent thoughts on how families and succession within families work.
It took me a month to get all the necessary signatures to get an exit permit when I left Doha. Count your blessings dude. Lol.
I must say your blog has inspired me. I only wish I was your age again. I'm impressed by your resilience to the whole passport affair. But they were nice enough to offer you chai. Don't you just love the chai over there? Did they serve it with sweetened milk? Mmm... That's my favorite.
Well, you know once the passport hit the ground, someone grabbed it, so in theory you could call it stolen.
Midnight's Children catches my attention for a few pages at a time I've found, I can power through a bunch, but set it down for a long time. You should really read Grimus, I think you'd love it.
Work is getting better, I think they all needed to warm up to me a bit. Manual labour is a different beast that's for sure though.
c'mon stevo, let's hear some more of your adventures
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