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All hail to the high priestess of 80s soft rock... this week it’s all gone a bit Bonnie...
Turn around bright eyes... I was determined this week to become legal. Don’t get me wrong, I’m one of the lucky few who have a 1 year visa but since the Mumbai bombings, everyone needs to register despite having a visa. This isn’t a simple process as I found out...
Day 1 and it’s off to the Ministry of Home Affairs to get a letter. Unfortunately, I was unaware that there are two Ministry of Home Affairs. One where the minister lives next to the President’s Palace and one in a shabbier part of town where foreigners need to register. Naturally, I went to the wrong one and was politely told to turn around unless I was here to visit the minister on official business. On arriving at the right place the queuing marathon then began. I don’t know why we think queuing is an English speciality. I have to completely admire the efficiency of the Indian queuing system having spent two days of my life turning from amateur to semi-pro. Firstly, you needed to queue to get an entry slip into the building. A numbered ticket was given and we huddled in a waiting room with at least 80 countries represented from the UN. Within an hour we gained our slip and security let us through to stage two. Mass form filling ensued and we again waited for our number to be called to be interviewed by a clerk. Several hours passed, after a quick chat with someone vaguely official looking I was told to come back at 5pm to get my letter.
Turn around bright eyes... I was determined this week to become legal. Don’t get me wrong, I’m one of the lucky few who have a 1 year visa but since the Mumbai bombings, everyone needs to register despite having a visa. This isn’t a simple process as I found out...
Day 1 and it’s off to the Ministry of Home Affairs to get a letter. Unfortunately, I was unaware that there are two Ministry of Home Affairs. One where the minister lives next to the President’s Palace and one in a shabbier part of town where foreigners need to register. Naturally, I went to the wrong one and was politely told to turn around unless I was here to visit the minister on official business. On arriving at the right place the queuing marathon then began. I don’t know why we think queuing is an English speciality. I have to completely admire the efficiency of the Indian queuing system having spent two days of my life turning from amateur to semi-pro. Firstly, you needed to queue to get an entry slip into the building. A numbered ticket was given and we huddled in a waiting room with at least 80 countries represented from the UN. Within an hour we gained our slip and security let us through to stage two. Mass form filling ensued and we again waited for our number to be called to be interviewed by a clerk. Several hours passed, after a quick chat with someone vaguely official looking I was told to come back at 5pm to get my letter.
This letter is your passport to more queuing on Day 2 and is more precious than your passport. Whatever happens, you cannot open this letter and fierce warnings remind you in the waiting room. I returned at 5pm pleased to see that my letter would be handed out in what seemed an orderly fashion by country grouping. Then madness ensued. Random clerks returned with piles of paperwork shouting out surnames. This meant the entire room (around 150 people) rushed to each clerk as if they’d announced that the duty free was about to shut on a ferry. Two hours later, letter in hand I left prepared for the next day’s queuing...
Day 2 and thanks to insider tips from other volunteers, I arrived at 7.30am two hours before opening time in freezing fog. It seemed that the Afghan community were well aware of the situation too. So I turned up to be greeted by 60 male Afghan refugees forming a queue. I was the only a) blonde b) girl in the village. It’s amazing how the warmth of 60 pairs of eyes staring, one iPod to shut everything out and much jiggling about can fight off the cold. Luckily by 8.30am I got talking to a very interesting Afghan journalist. She was visiting her husband who was studying in Delhi and trying to extend her visa by a few days. It was fascinating to talk to someone who lives in Afghanistan. Our understanding is clouded by what we see and hear of the war, to actually talk to someone living there and about life in Herat was very humbling. The fact I was equally queuing up with Afghanis and we all had the same goal to stop queuing and get our paperwork sorted out put things in perspective.
By 10.30am I had made it in the building, to queue again. Despite being near the front, I soon realised that those ahead were professional visa handlers. They are paid to queue every day and process multiple visas for privileged Westerners like me so this meant more waiting. I finally got to the first clerk with the aim in mind I was going to leave with all my paperwork sorted and get my temporary resident’s card. My letter was opened and again I was told to turn around, I needed a visit from the police first to confirm my address details before I could get my paperwork complete. Frustrated, icy cold, tired from my early start and mass queuing I bundled myself back in an auto rickshaw home and warmed myself up with trusty VSO Central Heating (that would be a warm bucket of hot water for your feet!).
Total Eclipse of the... it would be a slight exaggeration to say total eclipse as it was tantamount to 1/16, but NYE’s was spent admiring a partial eclipse of a Blue Moon. I joined several other volunteers for roof top drinks and to keep warm it was hot toddys, dancing in the New Year and some spectacular air drums to Phil Collins... a magic way to see in the new decade.
Highlights: Despite the queuing my visa registration experience gave me a chance to chat to some amazing people and remind myself of one of the many reasons why I’m here, attempting to cook Indian food on our gas stove (the chapattis were chewy, the dosas were doughy but practice makes perfect...), spending a Sunday exploring our ‘hood (loving our neighbourhood and can’t wait for it to warm up so we can sit on the roof terrace for some serious people watching), yoga classes with Guru-Ji (that seriously is the name of our yoga teacher, 3 times a week outside in the courtyard of our local temple, I’m expecting to find my inner yogi by February or its cash back!)
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