The Passage to India

They say that India is the home of meditation and spiritual transcendence. And after a week there, it’s easy to see why. You would need the patience of a saint to deal with the machinations of Indian bureaucracy.

First off all, you have to get a visa, a simple task when visiting most countries, but as you later find out, India is not most countries. In fact, the drama involved in getting one would not be out of place in a Merchant Ivory movie. In reality the passage to India is paved with many potholes.

I checked the Visa website which seemed straight forward enough, apart from the extortionate fee required, and presented myself at the consulate office in Melbourne. I took a ticket and waited in the queue, not realising that such things are just a show for the uninitiated. I watched as others arrived and marched straight up to the service counters, regardless of whether some other unfortunate traveler was standing there.

Eventually the waiting room emptied and I was the only applicant left. I sorted my papers and approached the desk confidently. The official sniffed at my Irish passport and said “We can’t process that here, we only deal with Australian passports.”

I was prepared for such a challenge however and produced the paperwork required for this eventuality. “This is the form on your website for people with overseas passports. “ He peered dismissively at the form over the rim of his glasses. “This no longer applies. Delhi changed the rules a month ago. You will have to apply in person to the Indian embassy in your home country”.

I explained that my home country was at the other side of the world and that a trip there to pick up a visa wasn’t really in my travel budget.

He relented and said I could apply by post and so began the tortuous journey of my lonely passport across the world and back.

But it turned out that when dealing with Indian bureaucracy, getting a visa is the easy part. When you arrive at an Indian airport you realise that they work to the maxim “Why have one person doing a job when you could have ten”. I got my passport stamped and then immediately had to show it to another gentleman who checked that the stamp had been correctly applied. And so it went on until I had made my way to the taxi rank where the world and his brother were waiting to try and rip me off.

I eventually found what I thought was an official driver, but it turned out that he was just the official that noted your place in the queue. Another official was responsible for writing down your destination, while you also got to meet the luggage official, whose job it was to put your bag in the boot of the taxi, overseen by three supervisors who were monitoring everything.

When I finally got into the cab, I was surprised to find that there was only one driver as I was sure at that stage that they would have separate people operating the steering wheel and accelerator.

Sumit was a decent enough driver, although sticking to lanes seemed to be a challenge to him, as was the concept of one way streets. We battled our way against approaching traffic like we were in a car chase in a James Bond movie.

I arrived at the hotel shaken but not stirred. But I later found out that Sumit was one of the more conservative drivers in Bangalore. Drive around here for a few days and you’ll wonder why India has yet to produce a Formula One world champion. People pay a lot for thrills elsewhere, like jumping out of planes or tying elastic bands to their feet and chucking themselves off bridges. You can get the same thrill by trying to cross a busy street in Bangalore. Amid the din of beeping car horns, you will notice that traffic lights and pedestrian crossings are as irrelevant as a sun dial in Ireland.

The trick, I discovered, is to find a local who is trying to cross at the same point. Stick to his shoulder and go when he does, ignoring the buses and motorbikes that are hurtling towards you. Amazingly nobody seems to get hurt and it seems to me that there is an unspoken rule at play. It’s as though little vehicles have to give way to big vehicles or the bravest get the right of way. Either that, or they drive like bats, navigating by some sixth sense unknown to us Westerners.

After a week at work, when I saw little apart from the office and the hotel, I decided to spend the weekend discovering the real India. First of all I walked around the centre of Bangalore, which was just about the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. There are no footpaths to speak off and the temperatures get unbearable as the day wears on. This after all is the country that inspired the line “Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun.” I did what all Irishmen do in these situations and searched out an air-conditioned pub where I studied a couple of Indians trying to make sense of the ski-jumping at the Winter Olympics.

On Sunday, I finally got out of the City and into the real country. A land of endless queues and strange animals. I got up at 5am for a 6am planned departure which turned out to be as notional as an economic forecast. We eventually left at 8am and I found myself as the only non-Indian on the rickety old bus that was taking us to Mysore.

If I was doing it again, I’d go by helicopter, because it’s worth seeing, but not worth going to see. Mysore Palace is amazing however, as are the monkeys that steal tourist water bottles and then scurry up the side of a temple and try to open it.

The cows and bulls that wander the streets are a little scarier, as hitting them a belt with a Hawthorn stick (as we would do in Ireland) is strictly forbidden. It’s strange being in a country where cattle are considered to be more important than people. I have every respect for other people’s culture and traditions, but couldn’t they have picked something more macho than a simple heifer? The meek have certainly inherited the earth in this dusty corner of it.