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Saturday
Mar272010
I actually slammed my hand on the counter
March 27, 2010
(I wrote this on Friday.)
Today I've been ignored, sneered at, ogled, patronized, put in my place, and confounded. I've also been smiled at, spoken nicely to, helped, and complimented. I may have thrown a small fit at the foreign registration office when I was FINALLY driven over my limit at one too many obstacles in my path. This is after I returned to the xerox shop three times, drove back and forth between different departments in different cities seven times, and filled out two forms in triplicate. At one point, I may have had tears in my eyes, muttering under my breath, "This is it, they've beat me."
There are certain rules you have to relearn, in India. I know this, and I'm skilled at it. It won't do to get angry at people crowding a counter in an office, for instance, because the concept of a queue (or a line) is not prevalent. So don't yell and get angry! You're wasting your breath! Or take staring, for example. Staring is a perfectly acceptable social recreation. There's no point beseeching the heavens over it (although you can ask a group of rowdy men to leave you alone, or threaten them with your shoe, like my friend does to particularly naughty ones) because people watch each other here. They will stare at you, a car accident, a cat in a tree, children on the playground, or a foreigner tying his shoe. (There is a whole other meaning to rubbernecking here, as I saw the other day again when I witnessed dozens of men parking their scooters to peer at a car that had driven off the road.)
One rule that I find hard to unlearn, in the area of bureaucracy, is that a well-ordered list of requirements, including needs in the future will be given to you, when you apply for something. For instance, in my world you are told that to get the exit permit that you need for your son, you will have to visit the Secretariat with copies of your passport and visa, a copy of his birth certificate, and a printout of your plane ticket. Then you will need to wait four days and return to start the application here, after paying the visa fees at the Secretariat. Make sure you bring three passport photos with you.
Sounds reasonable, right?
This is the way it really goes. These are the rules I'm wasting my breath, trying to change.
I show up at the Foreign Registration Office. "I need an exit permit for my son. He was born in India."
FRO: "Go to the Home Office, in the town directly north over the bridge."
I go to find the Home Office (Secretariat) and drive around for a while before finding it. The man there ignores me for a while, then finally demands to know what I want. I tell him. He is a low-talker, hard to understand. He tells me to hand write a request for an exit permit and give it to him with copies of my passport and visa and Solo's passport. Oh Good, I say, I already have those.
I hand write the request. I bring it back to him with the copies. He looks through. "Where is the copy of the birth certificate?" he asks. I look blank. "You didn't ask me for one," I say.
"You need a copy of the birth certificate," he says.
I leave the compound, drive out to the little town, and make a copy. I bring it back. He looks at it. (There is a whole lot of ignoring and feet shifting and sighing going on in these interactions, but I'm not including all of it.) "Where is your airline ticket?" he asks.
"You've got to be joking," I say. Okay, I don't say it.
"You didn't ask me for one."
"You need a copy of your airline ticket." These rules are beginning to feel very arbitrary to me, and they just might be, because I know that this man can make anything happen that he wants to happen. I leave the compound again, drive out to find an internet café, find my airline tickets, print them out, and bring them back. The man looks through everything again.
"Come on 27th and pick up a disk at the FRO," he says. "Then come and pay your fees here and you can pick the permit up at the FRO." This means driving back and forth between the two towns again.
"All right," I say, doing some mental math while I walk away. I return to the desk. "The 27th is a Saturday," I say. Are you open on Saturday?"
"The 27th is a Saturday?" he asks, surprised. He changes the date on my documents to the 26th. "Come on 26th," he says.
When I arrive at the FRO on the 26th, they don't have my paperwork. "You will have to go back to that town to the north to ask them about it," they say.
"And then I can take my permit today?" I ask.
"No!" they say. "The Home Department always makes it sound like that, but now you start the application process here, once you get the paperwork and pay your fees. You will have to fill out the applications and make copies and give us three passport photos. Then we will submit your application."
"But I don't have any passport photos. And this is for my son, who is an hour and a half away, at my home."
They shrug. This is when I throw the fit. I'm not ashamed of getting angry. It's a normal part of doing work in India. Sometimes you have to get angry. But I do think I sounded pathetic. "You should give people a list of everything they will need, so they can come prepared! I have come back and forth so many times! Now what should I do? Drive all the way home this afternoon to get passport photos?"
"First get the paperwork," they advise.
So anyways, my fit earned me a compromise. I drove back and forth four more times, filled out the application in triplicate, xeroxed many documents, and paid my fees. I earned the right to bring the passport photos when I arrived to pick up the documents, on Monday. Despite the fact that I hadn't planned to come back into the Capital the day before we leave (!) I almost kissed the man's hand.
* In other news. If you want a Leafy fix, you can get one at Fly Fishes Fly. We're churning out the videos around here.
My daughter turns six today! She is such a delightful person, such a confident and winning and loving girl. I'm amazed that I get to be in her life. She told Kid A that he can have the first turn with any toys she gets. That's the kind of girl she is. (And that's how much she loves her big brother.)
Solo has almost never worn shoes, while he's been growing up. If we are out together, it is at the beach, and otherwise I am carrying him. As a result, he is obsessed with shoes. He feels like the coolest thing in the world when he's wearing them. Oh the simple pleasures of life.
I am wading my way through all the packing and bureaucracy (I am simultaneously embroiled in trying to get my van back on the road, despite the obstacles. The DMV may also be a run around, but at least they tell me what I need to do, from start to finish.) We leave in two and a half days! Egads! And I have another trip to the Capital and a birthday party as well! Packing right now for me involves putting everything into plastic bags or tubs or metal trunks to keep it from molding during the monsoon. I have my work cut out.
Today I've been ignored, sneered at, ogled, patronized, put in my place, and confounded. I've also been smiled at, spoken nicely to, helped, and complimented. I may have thrown a small fit at the foreign registration office when I was FINALLY driven over my limit at one too many obstacles in my path. This is after I returned to the xerox shop three times, drove back and forth between different departments in different cities seven times, and filled out two forms in triplicate. At one point, I may have had tears in my eyes, muttering under my breath, "This is it, they've beat me."
There are certain rules you have to relearn, in India. I know this, and I'm skilled at it. It won't do to get angry at people crowding a counter in an office, for instance, because the concept of a queue (or a line) is not prevalent. So don't yell and get angry! You're wasting your breath! Or take staring, for example. Staring is a perfectly acceptable social recreation. There's no point beseeching the heavens over it (although you can ask a group of rowdy men to leave you alone, or threaten them with your shoe, like my friend does to particularly naughty ones) because people watch each other here. They will stare at you, a car accident, a cat in a tree, children on the playground, or a foreigner tying his shoe. (There is a whole other meaning to rubbernecking here, as I saw the other day again when I witnessed dozens of men parking their scooters to peer at a car that had driven off the road.)
One rule that I find hard to unlearn, in the area of bureaucracy, is that a well-ordered list of requirements, including needs in the future will be given to you, when you apply for something. For instance, in my world you are told that to get the exit permit that you need for your son, you will have to visit the Secretariat with copies of your passport and visa, a copy of his birth certificate, and a printout of your plane ticket. Then you will need to wait four days and return to start the application here, after paying the visa fees at the Secretariat. Make sure you bring three passport photos with you.
Sounds reasonable, right?
This is the way it really goes. These are the rules I'm wasting my breath, trying to change.
I show up at the Foreign Registration Office. "I need an exit permit for my son. He was born in India."
FRO: "Go to the Home Office, in the town directly north over the bridge."
I go to find the Home Office (Secretariat) and drive around for a while before finding it. The man there ignores me for a while, then finally demands to know what I want. I tell him. He is a low-talker, hard to understand. He tells me to hand write a request for an exit permit and give it to him with copies of my passport and visa and Solo's passport. Oh Good, I say, I already have those.
I hand write the request. I bring it back to him with the copies. He looks through. "Where is the copy of the birth certificate?" he asks. I look blank. "You didn't ask me for one," I say.
"You need a copy of the birth certificate," he says.
I leave the compound, drive out to the little town, and make a copy. I bring it back. He looks at it. (There is a whole lot of ignoring and feet shifting and sighing going on in these interactions, but I'm not including all of it.) "Where is your airline ticket?" he asks.
"You've got to be joking," I say. Okay, I don't say it.
"You didn't ask me for one."
"You need a copy of your airline ticket." These rules are beginning to feel very arbitrary to me, and they just might be, because I know that this man can make anything happen that he wants to happen. I leave the compound again, drive out to find an internet café, find my airline tickets, print them out, and bring them back. The man looks through everything again.
"Come on 27th and pick up a disk at the FRO," he says. "Then come and pay your fees here and you can pick the permit up at the FRO." This means driving back and forth between the two towns again.
"All right," I say, doing some mental math while I walk away. I return to the desk. "The 27th is a Saturday," I say. Are you open on Saturday?"
"The 27th is a Saturday?" he asks, surprised. He changes the date on my documents to the 26th. "Come on 26th," he says.
When I arrive at the FRO on the 26th, they don't have my paperwork. "You will have to go back to that town to the north to ask them about it," they say.
"And then I can take my permit today?" I ask.
"No!" they say. "The Home Department always makes it sound like that, but now you start the application process here, once you get the paperwork and pay your fees. You will have to fill out the applications and make copies and give us three passport photos. Then we will submit your application."
"But I don't have any passport photos. And this is for my son, who is an hour and a half away, at my home."
They shrug. This is when I throw the fit. I'm not ashamed of getting angry. It's a normal part of doing work in India. Sometimes you have to get angry. But I do think I sounded pathetic. "You should give people a list of everything they will need, so they can come prepared! I have come back and forth so many times! Now what should I do? Drive all the way home this afternoon to get passport photos?"
"First get the paperwork," they advise.
So anyways, my fit earned me a compromise. I drove back and forth four more times, filled out the application in triplicate, xeroxed many documents, and paid my fees. I earned the right to bring the passport photos when I arrived to pick up the documents, on Monday. Despite the fact that I hadn't planned to come back into the Capital the day before we leave (!) I almost kissed the man's hand.
* In other news. If you want a Leafy fix, you can get one at Fly Fishes Fly. We're churning out the videos around here.
My daughter turns six today! She is such a delightful person, such a confident and winning and loving girl. I'm amazed that I get to be in her life. She told Kid A that he can have the first turn with any toys she gets. That's the kind of girl she is. (And that's how much she loves her big brother.)
Solo has almost never worn shoes, while he's been growing up. If we are out together, it is at the beach, and otherwise I am carrying him. As a result, he is obsessed with shoes. He feels like the coolest thing in the world when he's wearing them. Oh the simple pleasures of life.
I am wading my way through all the packing and bureaucracy (I am simultaneously embroiled in trying to get my van back on the road, despite the obstacles. The DMV may also be a run around, but at least they tell me what I need to do, from start to finish.) We leave in two and a half days! Egads! And I have another trip to the Capital and a birthday party as well! Packing right now for me involves putting everything into plastic bags or tubs or metal trunks to keep it from molding during the monsoon. I have my work cut out.
Reader Comments (14)
From what I've been told by native Indians this is standard for India. You must either know someone or hand over some money, i.e. a bribe-- to keep from getting the runaround. I am fascinated by India but could never live there. In many respects it is a horrible place. Beautiful, intriguing and horrible at the same time. The natives just play the game, shell out the money or call their friends/family in high places. Those without means or stature get put through the same stuff as you did. It is quite ridiculous. India as a culture is 6000 years old. I wonder what it would take to change what they call bureaucracy? Bureaucracy my foot...it's just mean in my book.
Oh dear heart, it sould almost insurmountable, the things that you do! You do so well......I'm glad you smacked your hand down! I hope that you will get a chance to rest as well, to put your feet up and just relax. It will be so good to see you and I can hardly wait. We too are on a treadmill trying to get the house done, so that we don't have to do it while you are here. We have it rented out, so that's a step in the right direction.
Much love,
Give YaYa a hug from us!
We were traveling back from Goa to New Delhi, got to the airport two hours early and were told that the flight had been pre-poned. Not postponed where it arrives late, but it had actually left early. This was the beginning of two hours of cazyness..."You will need to get a hotel, come back tomorrow, buy another two tickets, go through Mumbai"... "we tried to contact you Madam." I am traveling I have no contact info! "No surely madam you were contacted." Did the pilot have a party to go to? "I am not sure madam." I want a refund! "This is not possible Madam." on and on and on....Just so that you know...NO OTHER COUNTRY DOES THIS!! "I am not knowing about this Madam" This airline should be selling fruit on the side of the road!! Head wobble... OK I need to get a taxi. (There are no more flights that day) "Yes madam" We take all of our packs and stuff outside where there are no Taxis. We go back in. THERE ARE NO TAXI's!! "Yes madam, they have left for the day!!!!! ARRRRRRGH! In the end the guy behind the counter took us to a hotel, (that would not have happened in the US) we paid for a pricey hotel, had to buy two more tickets, missed a one day window to meet up with Cate in Delhi and lost two days.... Gotta love India... Obviously...there are upsides... but OMG!
Yup, I think I need to go kiss the Visa Processor in my HR office now.
You are braver than brave to deal with it all yourself.
(And they totally do the same thing in Russia. Once I went to the Russian consulate in Finland to apply for a new visa and they told me they didn't process visas for Americans anymore. They're only open for three hours, four days a week, and the line was over 30 people long, so I couldn't go back that day. I checked out their claim, couldn't find anything to substantiate it, and went back the next morning to stand for four hours on the street until they opened. Oh, yes, they COULD process my visa, IF I payed a couple of extra "processing fees" - in cash, with no receipt - and waited two weeks. Oh, and they needed some extra photos. And some proof from my company that I actually worked there, besides the letter on official letterhead stating so and stamped by the official government visa people. So I did all that, eked out a barely-fed existence in Helsinki for 16 days, and came back... and they hadn't bothered to print the visa yet. AHHH!!!)
I will never complain about Italy bureaucracy again.
Happy birthday YaYa!!!
This sounds like a supersized version of exactly what we go through in Portugal.
My husband is the go-to-guy for the get mad part of the business-doing. (Also required here everywhere--banks, government offices, hospitals, etc.) Unfortunately, I don't speak the language well enough to be able to do it convincingly myself.
True story. The other day I tried to get an ATM card (after a one year wait for a bafflingly necessary document certifying my mother and father's name in the USA). I was denied and told I needed the signature of my husband's two grandmothers.
One of those grandmother's has been dead since 2001.
.-= Sarah´s last blog ..http://anchorednomad.blogspot.com/2010/03/score.html" rel="nofollow">Score! =-.
Oh, oh, oh...but what I forgot to mention is, and I think this definitely would not work in India, but here in Portugal it is very important that bureaucratic workers seem very dignified and competent and serious and important.
My tactic, because I lack the words to manifest my anger via yelling at people is to start laughing. And often, it is involuntary laughter anyway because, like yours, the situations are just ridiculous.
Such as the case with the ATM card above, requiring my dead grandmother-in-laws signature.
Right when they said it, I laughed so hard I blew snot on the counter(allergy season). I really truly started laughing until tears came out of my eyes and threw back my head and said, "Oh Portugal!"
I am a legal resident, married to a citizen, with a child, with a job (this particular bank is happy to take my money every month, just not too keen on making it easy for me to get it back out).
So, I was laughing, and an English speaker was called to deal with me. I say, "I love this! You're telling me for the sake of withdrawing my own cash from my own bank account, after a year-long wait to gather all the other documents you require, I now need the signature of a dead woman I've never met."
I realized a little bit into this dog and pony show that I was being obnoxious and really humiliating them and maybe getting some innocent bank tellers in trouble with their bosses and started feeling kind of guilty.
But a few minutes later, I magically had an ATM card in my hand. It has my husband's name on it, not mine, but it's all about small steps.
.-= Sarah´s last blog ..http://anchorednomad.blogspot.com/2010/03/score.html" rel="nofollow">Score! =-.
I hope you get to put your feet up soon and enjoy some rest. Love you Dear.
I have to admit I skimmed this post because this sums up so much of daily life in developing countries that it is painful. It's just too real, if you know what I mean!
It's just part of life overseas, but it's a part that I hate! :) Safe journey to you all!
.-= edj´s last blog ..http://planetnomad.wordpress.com/2010/03/29/abels-desert-trip/" rel="nofollow">Abel’s Desert Trip =-.
Oh the arbitrariness of that bureaucracy would make me slam more than my hand! Thank God for your children to bring solace and joy in the midst of such irritating loopholes!
.-= green girl in Wisconsin´s last blog ..http://melissawestemeier.blogspot.com/2010/03/grand-gestures.html" rel="nofollow">grand gestures =-.
Just catching up on reading.... sounds like you have had an eventful time :o)
Just when the caterpillar thought the world was over, it became a butterfly.
.-= lagata´s last blog ..http://lagata-adayinthelife.blogspot.com/2010/03/post-it-tuesday-on-wednesday.html" rel="nofollow">Post-It Tuesday (on Wednesday) =-.
I thought about commenting "This is even worse than bureaucracy in Italy!"... then I thought about commenting "This is almost as bad as bureaucracy in Italy!"... then I realized that it's exactly the same. The absence of queues, the rules made up on the spot, the pointless (or not?) errand-running, the panic over time, and the need to occasionally slam one's hand on the counter--all of it. I feel for you having to deal with all the frustrating red tape... but hopefully you're safely (and sanely!) on your way by now. Bon voyage!
.-= Bethany´s last blog ..http://www.coffeestainedclarity.com/2010/03/latent-swashbuckler/" rel="nofollow">Latent Swashbuckler =-.
This sounds exactly like Africa! We had friends say that you should ask them to tell you what you need but purposely leave one thing out so that they can flex their muscles by telling you about the missing paper.
.-= Amy´s last blog ..http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/AmysAssortedAdventures/~3/vuptvv4nf_E/where-did-time-go.html" rel="nofollow">Where Did The Time Go? =-.