Well it seems that my Indian experience wasn't quite over, not just yet. After enduring a fairly painful but by now routine 12 hour journey from Goa on the slow train to Mumbai (see above), Pat and I had about 2 days to kill in the Los Angeles of India. This presented little problem as Mumbai is by far the most buzzing and exciting city in India in my opinion and we ran out the clock on our second last day by hitting some obligatory markets, checking out Ghandi's old house (now a museum with some classic dioramas of poignant scenes from his life), Chowpatty beach and due to fortunate timing, catching up with Noddy, Mirri and Goose over a few beers at the Alps beerhouse nearby the Gateway to India.
Good times with the boys at Leonards, a backpacker haven, Mirri, Goose, Noddy, Pat and me.
Ah yes, a fine day indeed and now only one day remained of my Indian sojourn. What could go wrong?
The story that is about follow needs a little background information that I have not yet included in the blog but shall do so now. One of the highlights of my trip so far was an opportunity that we had to tour the main Ghurka army barracks in Pokhara, the second largest city in Nepal, and enjoy lunch with the very hospitable and generous Major Peter Hill, the barracks commander, and his lovely wife Rebeccah, whom I had met by chance back in Kathmandu.
Major Peter Hill and his Aussie wife Rebecca.
In case you're not aware, the Ghurkas are a very elite unit of the British army that recruit the best of the best of the rugged, tough and RIDICULOUSLY fit young men of the mountains of Nepal and have done for some 200 years. They have a fierce reputation despite the average height of only 5'3'', and they are known throughout the world as some of the most lethal and effective soldiers out there. The Ghurka legend was well known to me and so this opportunity was one I took with great excitement.
Tim , Pat, the Major and me within the Ghurka barracks. Fanbloodytastic.
Pokhara is a real adventure centre, below is a shot of us paragliding over the town. Unbelievable fun. During our time there we also went on a 3 day rafting trip and did some kayaking, although I like to call it spinning uncontrollably in the middle of huge lake and getting really pissed off.
"Ladies and gentlemen: the story you are about to read is true. Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent. Actually, bugger it, I couldn't be bothered the changing the names either. "
Monday 22nd December, 2005.
My last day in India was supposed to be relatively routine, I had a few small jobs to do in the morning, after which Pat and I were going to meet up with our Canadian buddy Ian and head off to Elephanta Island in the afternoon. A few beers, maybe a late-night movie, taxi to the airport with a few hours wait til my midday departure on Tuesday and that's that for India. My morning chores only involved posting a boxful of christmas presents, picking up some books to post home as well and dropping by the street markets for a pair of jeans. Clearly not a huge set of tasks one would think, but I still gave myself a good four h ours before meeting up with Pat at midday, this was India after all...
8:00am
Headed off with presents in tow hoping to beat any crowds and finish up early. To my disappointment it seems that nothing in India gets started until after 10:00am at the earliest. Walked the empty streets that only yesterday had been teeming with market life until well into the night but found nay a single commercial enterprise to be open. Even McDonalds didn't open til 9:00am for crying out loud but I could never be angry at my beloved home of Maharajas so I patiently waited til I could at least I could get a bit of food down for brekky. Maharaja burger of course, which was to be an exceptionally rare highlight of my day.
Ah, my beloved McD's... I was lovin' it indeed.
9:30am
After wasting nearly an hour and a half of my alotted time waiting for anything to open, I moved on to general Post Office, right near the magnificent Chirapatti Shavaji Terminus (CST or Victoria Terminus as it until recently was named) where I sought the services of the package stitchers who were just starting to open trading for the day. Any packages sent from India, as I far as I can tell, need to be wrapped up in cotton cloth, a service which is provided by countless little shanty shops outside the post office. Quite a neat little art they do of it, I had a full box of presents all wrapped and stitched up and sealed off with those royal looking globs of red wax. Paid the exorbitant fee asked of me, wrote the required address and I was off on my way to send my package to Australia.
The beautiful CST building.
10:00am
Seems that the post office doesn't send parcels. Right. So where exactly do I need to go sir? The parcel post office, of course. So off I go to the parcel post office.
10:15am
Well bugger me, I want a job with the parcel post office (PPO). I got up there and discovered the lazy bastards don't even open til 11:00am!! And shut at 4:30!! With an hour and a half for lunch!! I was too far away from my other jobs to warrant going there and all the way back to the PPO, plus I didn't want to walk all around town with my pretty yet cumbersome white parcel so I figured I'd ride it out til 11:00, giving me only one hour from then to do all my jobs initially designated with four.
11:00am
OK, so the little reception window was true to it window-printed word and opened at 11:00. The lady promptly shoved a few sheets of paper under the grill for me to fill out which I did so making carefully sure to list everything in the parcel box, including of course my precious Ghurka knives. Took me about 10 minutes to complete. I then attempted to head into the next room for the parcel inspection and final seal before I was told in no uncertain terms to step back out to the waiting area. Are not you guys meant to be open at 11:00? Oh, I see, you need over half an hour to SWEEP your damn tiny little floor before seeing anybody. Perfectly agreeable.
11:30am
Had pretty much given up on being able to complete my jobs by this stage considering that 3.5 hours had passed with little to show for it but a slightly higher blood temperature. The PPO guys finally allowed me to grace them with my presence, and everything seemed pretty amicable despite my slightly agitated state. Some trivial banter about the cricket lightened my mood as I rifled through my various parcelled goods for inspection and everything seemed back on track. But then the knives came out, quite literally...
What is this!!??!
Well its a kukuri knife from Nepal, a present for my...
This is a WEAPON!!??!! You can't post THIS!!?!
But I've carried it on like 4 international flights with no problems, surely if....
We cannot send a WEAPON in the POST!!
Yes sir, but surely there is no harm in putting knives in a box, they're not going to explode on impact or anything....
EXPLODE!!?? What will EXPLODE??!!
Please sir, don't do this, I really need to post these knives sir, it would really ruin my day if...
And with that the frickin PPO guy ripped up all my forms for the post in a none too subtle manner in my face. Well that was it, I began to lose it for the not the last time that day, I certainly refrained from calling him sir that's for damned sure. Amidst the wild gesticulating and arm flapping that ensued, I managed to garner from him that I could post the knives only if police permission was granted. There was no way I wanted to continue travelling with these three heavy knives on my person so I resolved then that despite it ruining any sightseeing plans in Mumbai, I would get the damned police permission and I would post them if it was the last thing I did.
12:00pm
Back to the hotel to let Pat know of our dashed afternoon activities. Made a few sketchy plans to meet up around 6:00pm at the Gateway to India, punched the wardrobe a few times to settle my rage, and then departed in search of a police station.
Here's one chap I observed obviously working under very strict OH&S regulations. I love it, jackhammers and flip-flops.
12:20pm
After not less than 5 contradictory sets of directions (i.e. 100m up on your right, followed by back 250m on your left), I finally came across what I was led to believe to be a police station. No more than a tin shack but it did have several men in uniform, although by the state of their activity levels, I could only assume they were all off duty. Still, I gave them my harrowing account of recent dramas and they all crowded around quizzically, pulling out the knives and swinging them about like great toys. When I asked them to kindly sign the form I had prepared following my little monologue however, I was courteously informed that they were in fact only security guards and could not help me in the slightest.
12:40pm
Eventually found what I thought to be a police station, this time in an actual structurally sound building. I gave the same speech (the second of many, many times as it turned out) and similarly, a whole bunch of officers gathered round to each have a play with these wonderful novelty items in my possession. Upon completion I was promptly told to ''wait here''; my questions of why, for whom, and for how long falling on either deaf, or more likely, completely ignorant/non-english deciphering ears.
1:15pm
After half an hour of tapping my fingers on the enquiries desk, I was finally taken up to a man in an office who I assume must have been some sort of big deal round them here parts, and once again I made my little speech which was coming quite readily by this stage. My performance was followed by more knife wielding, some hindi banter and then a dismissive wave of the hand on the part of the senior officer telling me to follow the same man that I had followed up in the first place. When asked of what the hell was going on, he informed me that I needed to wait for ANOTHER damned fellow at reception who inconveniently was at lunch, not to return til nearly
2:00pm.
Don't worry, wait here...
1:40pm
The man in question is miraculously back early and although providing no clarity on the whole matter whatsoever, he does direct me to the 4th floor of the building to talk to another department. So off I go, hoping against hope that some resolution is in sight, and arrive at the fourth floor ready to launch into my story once again. It seemed a bit strange that they sent me up there, as the place looked distinctively like a visa processing facility and before I commenced my familiar speech, I was asked to present my very absent passport. Well we can hardly well help you if your passport is back at the hotel now, can we?
This picture is completely unrelated to the story but I thought I'd chuck in a diorama of Ghandi on a hunger strike cause I was pretty hungry by this stage of the story. Seamless.
2:00pm
After a 15 minute wait in a back street noticeably free of any taxis that an accompanying policeman assured me would be overflowing with any minute, I walked the 150m around the corner to a frickin taxi rank and by a miracle of all miracles, found a taxi driver that not only spoke english but also knew where my hotel was. So back for the passport, and then back to the police station.
2:30pm
Upon presentation of my passport, I once again explained my situation only to be told, ''What on earth did you come here for, we can't help you. We're only a visa processing centre.''
£?"!&*%$(*&!!
A strange homicidal tendency that I have not experienced before or since was by that stage starting to well up inside.
2:40pm
After receiving only shrugged shoulders in response to my desperate pleas for some f#*k’n answers back down at the police desk, I was eventually accompanied back up to the visa floor and told that I would need to go to the AUSTRALIAN CONSULATE GENERAL for further assistance, implying as if they had actually provided some previously.
3:00pm
Being the first taxi that had any idea where the address provided to me actually was, I caught the 6th taxi that I had hailed down. Nice drive actually, I ended up doing some sightseeing of Mumbai after all.
Below is another example of some classic European architecture, this time the university clocktower.
3:20pm
Was pretty much on the other side of town by this stage, but my driver dropped me off at the wrong tower. Went through the usual process of trying to garner accurate directions from the locals.
3:30pm
At last, I arrived in the correct tower as given to me by the visa place and I asked the lift operator to take me up to the ACG. A puzzled look to say the least was given in response.
"I’m sorry but there is no Australian Consulate General in this building. I believe it moved elsewhere some 3 years ago."
I can’t quite remember, but I believe I responded by hitting my head with my fist, sobbing uncontrollably and eventually rolling around on the floor in the foyer, much like Basil Fawlty in the episode with the hotel inspectors. I figured it was apt as my whole day was starting to feel like an overly long Fawlty Towers episode. Thankfully a very kind gentleman knew of the current address and so I pulled myself together, repacked my spilt parcel of goods which I was still lugging around, and headed outside to hail yet another taxi.
4:00pm
Drove to the other side of town (again) and was admitted to see the ACG himself, a champion fella by the name of Don Cairns. Had a great chat (he informed me most of his calls regarding distressed Aussies come from Goan scooter accidents…) during which I was told beyond doubt that there was no way/no such thing as getting police permission to post my knives. Checked my watch to confirm that I had just wasted the previous 4&1/2 hours of my life attempting to attain the impossible.
4:30pm
Got back to the PPO just in time to post what items I could which I damn well hoped my family would appreciate. I then hit the markets to complete my other tasks of buying jeans and books.
5:30pm
Just missed the deadline for posting books (a parcel of books can be sent through the regular mail and is particularly cheap, a nice little feature of the Indian postal service) and so I was forced to negotiate with my parcel stitcher that he would not only stitch them up but post them for me the next day. I offered to pay him 250 rupees, the only money I had left apart from what I needed for a taxi to the airport, to which he agreed, shook my hand, sewed up my books and then asked for 350 rupees once finished. So here I am, trusting in this fellow to post my books for me, and haggling him down. (By the way, my books still haven’t arrived…)
The Gateway to India with the famous Taj Mahal hotel behind it.
6:15pm
Hmmm, I was a little late but it seemed Pat wasn’t actually at the Gateway to India, the Taj Mahal hotel, the Alps beerhouse or Leonard’s restaurant. I then proceeded to do the rounds of these locations for the next 2 hours in ever-diminishing hope to find him or Ian as we had absolutely no other back-up plan to meet up. Great fun.
8:30pm
Finally found Ian back at his hotel and we met up with Pat just in time to make the 9:00pm screening of King Kong which I had brought tickets to earlier in the day. At last, 3 hours of bliss. Brilliant.
Our mate Ian.
12:30am
Get back to our hotel to pick up our bags and catch a taxi to the airport, a journey of well over an hour even in light traffic and one with which I had exactly the right amount of rupees left to my name. A quick repack of my bag to somehow fit the damn knives in my bag and then we dashed out to placate our beeping taxi waiting outside.
2:00am
Despite more than a few wrong turns, several changed drivers, and an even greater number of near death experiences, we made Mumbai International alive and in one piece. At last I could relax, find some floor space, read a book, chill with the other guys until my flight at noon. But I still had a nagging feeling in the back of my head, as if, I don’t know, maybe I had forgotten something? A quick check confirmed that in my haste to rearrange my pack for those bloody knives that those bloody Indian postal workers wouldn’t let me bloody well post, I had taken out my camera and neglected to put it back in when the taxi was nagging us….
I figured that it was about this time that, had my day been a proper episode of Fawlty Towers, the music would have started playing with the credits rolling as I head to an ATM to get money purely for a taxi and then commence a 2&1/2 hour round journey to the hotel and back again….
Happy ending however, my flight was arguably the most enjoyable one I have yet taken, a full bay of seats to myself close to the self-proclaimed self-service galley, but better still, it was taking me towards that paradise of all things efficient. Ah yes, Switzerland beckons…
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