Travel Journal - Entry 10

Ahmedabad 2/16/2008
I hoped a taxi to the train station this morning to purchase passage to Mumbai this afternoon. The travel agent on the phone had informed me that the first class carriage was full but that there were tourist class seats still available. I just had to actually go to the station to get them. So I went. Apparently they reserve seats on trains for tourists like me who can't get it enough together to buy their tickets any more than a few hours in advance. Once there I stood in line to speak to a woman behind the cage in a blue sari who was firmly in command of her domain. Other men in line bobbed and cowered at her spiteful glances hoping to avoid her disdain in her lust for dominion over mankind. Simply spoken, she made every little thing as complicated as she could possibly make it. She drew out every little detail, left unsaid essential information for later conversations, sent people off left and right to fill out ubiquitous paperwork without the aid of writing utensils, etc.

Besides not having writing utensils where one might expect to find them, India has a glaring lack of public trash bins. I would carry around something I needed to dispose of for hours upon hours until I had formed an emotional bond with it. When I finally found a place where my western sensibilities would allow me to get rid of it, it was always with mixed feelings that I did so. Anyways, back to the Queen of Ahmedabad Station...

There was behind me in line another foreigner, a woman from New Zealand wearing traditional Indian clothing who I found out was also an instructor at NID (where I toured yesterday). She was booking passage for four, two were her parents I believe and so I assume the fourth was her husband/significant other. But the Queen was making even her jump through hoops as well. This made me think that either Her Majesty's wrath was liberally poured out not just on men but on anyone who wasn't from around there. Which in her case would be most anyone she encountered here. She was beneath the sign which indicated that "Foreign tourists, Mercenaries" etc could only buy their train tickets from her. Perhaps she just didn't like mercenaries all that much and figured we all were soldiers for hire. Because everyone loves American tourists.

She made us all do unnatural things. I felt like a bee who had found pollen and was back at the hive trying to communicate the exact flight path to the rest of the bees through weird jerky movements and halted gestures, as if I were dancing to music that was meant more for musical chairs than for a waltz. We should all have been able to breeze through the line, gather what information deemed necessary and quickly fill out the simple form with Her Majesty's kind assistance (How should I know the train number I want? EVERYTHING IS WRITTEN IN GIBBERISH HERE!!!). Instead, we all had to work our way up to the counter, gather more misdirection and then flutter back to some chair or standing table in order to regroup for another attempt at making headway through the royal bureaucracy.

On some point in the ordeal the other travelers, co-prisoners bound hand and foot in incomprehensible red-tape, sensed that I was nearly at my goal of a train ticket to Mumbai. Time was running out fast. Like a man struggling to complete the last 100 yards of a marathon, they were offering words of encouragement, handing me pens and train schedules and then shoving me back up to the front of the line while confused railway officials still thought they smelled blood and were salivating.

Finally my paper was flat on the counter in front of the Queen. I humbly waited as she demanded my passport then looked over every minute detail of my documents; name and country of origin, the name of the line I was taking, the number and the time it was to depart. Trembling, I stood watching. Finally she turned and began typing into her old computer as a cheer went up from behind me. Soon I was waving the hand sized card stock ticket printout over my head, blowing kisses, shaking hands, and thanking everyone who had made this day possible. Then I bolted out the door for the cab back to the hotel. I still had to gather my things, check out and get back here before it was too late.