11.12.04

Even a veteran traveler to India gets schooled sometimes. Yesterday, that was me.

With Christina in meetings through the morning, I was assigned the task of arranging train tickets for our trip to Dharchula. Things got off to a lurching start, as I could not find a rickshaw willing to make the half-mile journey from the YMCA to the station. "It is closed," I was told. "Government holiday." Give me a break. "Use the tourist center down this alley." No thanks. "I am not going to the railway." Well, I am. "First, talk to my friend." No thanks. "You owe me ten rupees." Take it, take it and leave me alone.

So I trundled along on foot, fending off the touts, walking to the station in the hazy morning air. Confident that the tickets would be no problem, I headed up the filthy stairs in the depot, and into the International Tourist Bureau, a place I have spent many hours over many trips arranging train travel in and out of Delhi. (To read about past adventures check the blogs at http://danoko.blogspot.com and http://danoko2.blogspot.com.)

Ah, yes, the snaking que, the sound of confused travelers sorting out which trains are available. Seats for Goa and Bombay, choice Southern destinations, will be hard to come by -- heading North to the mountains looks to be no problem. But shortly (by Indian standards, at least) I get my comeuppance.

After an hour, I approach the ticket counter. The chubby Sikh raises his eyebrows. "Encashment certificate?" he queries, needing proof that I did not purchase my rupees on the black market. Alas, C. has the ATM receipts, and I humbly submit that "my wife" has them, and is at a meeting, and has trusted me simply to arrange the tickets. The supervisor I'm informed, however, must now approve the transaction, while across the bottom of my ticket request the clerk writes: "Research visa."

For some reason, I take this as a good sign. After all, we're here as guests of the Indian government. Guess again, boyo!

As I protest my case, hoping that I can curry a sign of sympathy, I am informed that whatever past events have transpired, I am not a tourist. The fact that this has never mattered before makes no difference, and the hour I have wasted is worth less than fly spit. "You must listen," the supervisor says, "you are here for research, you cannot use this office." Yes, but.... "Relax, the tickets are available, you just have to go downstairs, do not cross the street, and go to the white hall on your left, three buildings down."

Certainly, the hall is no ring of hell, but it defines limbo. The thousand or so men lined up before some 15 ticket windows wait in orderly fashion, and they obey the 'no smoking' signs. One man suggests that as a foreigner I might want to check the International Tourist Bureau. I'm left to explain that I don't count. I'm an Indian, I laugh, wishing I were a lady, so I could hop onto the much shorter ladies line. Instead, I carefully choose a fast-looking que, when without warning our ticket seller up and disappears for a quarter-hour.

Eight men stand between me and freedom, while I wait. And wait some more.

Another hour later, I have my tickets in hand, and find a rickshaw driver willing to brave the construction-strewn Connaught Place and drop me back at the YMCA. The coming train journey will take me only a half-hour more than my assigned chore. For the rest of the day, no one mentions the government holiday.

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