A Tough Guy Tumbles, Another Gets His Visa
Two Consular Accounts of Cerebral Fitness

Disclaimer: Even I have a much more interesting visa, I must admit that my former housemmate (from Thailand) has a much better visa story than me.

I got the "American special" Bangladesh visa in Bangkok two days ago. One hundred bucks got me a visa valid for the next five years and multiple entries, all good for 90 days. I doubt I'll be using all those entries as, since I could hardly stomach Bangkok for the two days of running around I faced to get this visa, I doubt I'll have the stomach for Dhaka--a place that is "unfamiliar with clean" as one acquaintance put it. Plus I have a one-year open return ticket from "the Desh" to "the Land (of Thai)". My only problem was that the staff didn't tell me I had only a half hour window to pick up my visa.

Now on to my former housemate's story. I hope he doesn't mind that we entertain ourselves on his pain. Here's Dave...

Wait till you hear this one; it may seem long but it's worth it for the punchline. Following triple-checked instructions given to me over the phone by the Indian embassy, several weeks ago I mailed the necessary paperwork and fee to get my visa. This morning I took a tuktuk out to pick it up--no luck. After an hour of searching, they finally found my letter in a drawer, and my application unprocessed. "We never do those by mail! Never! How could you think that! Four days now before you have visa." This is bad, as my plane leaves on Sunday (two days).

A smarter man would have realized that when the embassy staff starts yelling at you (and it's astonishing how fast they got actually, truly mad) it's time to just hit the road. That I'll grant you. But if you're reading this thinking "this is going to be one of those stories where Dave loses his temper and gets in a lot of trouble for it," I'm proud to say that isn't the case--I approached the whole thing with a Nic-Foxian calm (breathe in the anger, breathe out the peace), knowing that would be the only way I might see a visa that day. I had provided contact information in my letter and asked them to call or e-mail me if there was a problem, so I circled that part and asked them why that hadn't happened. That took them aback only for a few seconds. "It's not our problem." But your job is to help people get visas, right? "That's not our problem. You come back Wednesday." That could cost me hundreds of dollars to move that flight, and I'll miss my friends; I might have to cancel my whole trip... "That's not our problem either. Never by mail!"

More deep breaths outside. I went back and said that I knew none of this was their fault, but since I had followed the instructions given to me, and had even given them contact information for the eventuality that they were wrong, we might be able to find some way of me getting a visa that afternoon. No. I asked if I could pay any special fees (a question with an equal eye toward doing it officially, or bribing my way up the pile) that would place a rush on it. "Never by mail!" I asked if there was someone else I could talk to. "No! Only me! You come back Wednesday."

Deep breaths, deep breaths. I sat for a long time and thought about leaving, but couldn't stand the thought of giving up on traveling just yet. To take the tuktuk back to Khao San meant certain defeat--the trip is halfway across the city and I wouldn't have the time or money to come back that day. Finally I had the brainstorm of filing a complaint--not so much that I wanted to complain as that I wanted to get in a conversation with someone higher up in the embassy. After talking to several people who spoke almost no English, they gave me a blank sheet of paper and asked me to write out my complaint. So I wrote the story that I've told you, except with a lot more detail about the phone conversation where I had asked the guy three times about instructions for mailing in the visa stuff. I didn't complain about any individuals, but just laid out what had gone wrong with my application and asked if there was anything that could still be done.

After another hour or so of waiting, they showed me into a back room. I sat down, smiled at the Jabba-like official behind the desk, and thanked him for taking the time to talk to me, at which point he threw my "complaint form" at me (not very dramatic, as he didn't ball it up first) and shouted "What is this? I want to make a complaint against you!" Thus began the monologue on what a "wrong thing, a very wrong thing, an evil thing" I had done by trying to send in my application by mail, contrasted with the stalwart integrity of the Indian embassy staff. Fifteen minutes passed on my watch without my being allowed to complete a sentence. Finally I got out something to the effect of, "You say that I'm lying about this whole telephone conversation" (no room for cross-lingual errors in Jabba's mind) "Why would I do that? I want to go to India very much, and this will cost me a lot of money. I just wanted to follow instructions. I'm really sorry for any problems that this caused--I just wanted to find some way to work it out." At this point I had (obviously) realized that nothing could be done and wanted only to smile my way back out of his office.

Unfortunately he was looking at my passport photo while I said this. It should be noted here that I don't look anything like my passport photo (which has no glasses, a beard, a shaved head, and a very unusual facial expression). It gives me trouble on every international crossing, and I always have to carry other ID and smile a lot to get past.

So, he decided I was a criminal (and with some not-very subtle references to 9-11, implied that I was a terrorist), and that he needed to report me to the American embassy as an "impostor." And really, who else but a terrorist would make up this crazy story about an Indian embassy official giving the wrong information over the phone? Grasping at straws, I offered to shave my head in his bathroom. He said it wouldn't help, and sent someone out with instructions in Hindi; a security guard came from the front to stand at the door of the office. I explained as calmly as I could that this was a rather excessive reaction to my changing my hair style, but he continued to place phone calls. Finally I took a piece of paper off his desk while he was talking and signed my name on it over and over, then invited him (oh so gingerly) to check it against my driver's license, passport, visa application, etc.

That did the trick; it turns out I'm me after all. But he still did a lot of grumbling about reporting me to the American embassy as a possible impostor--"this is a special favor that I am doing for you, letting you go"--and says he'll still report me for my "very evil thing" of trying to send my application in by mail. I'm supposed to go back Wednesday to find out if I'm allowed to go to India or not. I also got a long lecture on the problems it causes for everyone when someone's facial features change too much (for which I actually apologized... sigh). He also told me several times that I should never, never, never try to mail in a visa application to an embassy again (yeah, no shit). As for my "complaint"--"we are dishonoring this form, and we are dishonoring you, Mr. David."

I really have no idea what to do now, what city or even country I'll be in tonight. Part of me wants to just throw my hands in the air and move my plane tickets up to head home. If Wednesday's second try at the embassy doesn't work out, maybe I'll try Vietnam or Malaysia. And if I want to blow a lot of money (and you have to remember, I'm the sort of tycoon who can afford to buy plane tickets to India that I don't even use) maybe I'll just head down to the beaches for a while.

You know, the real irony here is that I spent the last four months actually being a criminal (like Robin Hood, but with more grammar), and only just quit...

I've gone straight, officer Hutt, I swear...

D