Part I of this series is the previous post. I recommend you head over and read that only so this post makes a bit more sense.
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It was pouring heavily when the black Merc deposited me in
front of my destination exactly 10 minutes ahead of my interview slot. Unlike
the ones in Chennai or Singapore, the US consulate in Taipei doesn't have
imposing walls, snaking lines along the compound or traffic constables looking
to make a quick buck by offering to safeguard cellphones. It is a rather
non-descript building, tucked away in a corner, just a stone’s throw from the
Taipei 101 tower. Once inside, I was quickly ushered through fee payment and
document verification by neatly dressed stewardesses. Although not very fluent
in English, they were very helpful, very efficient and very pleasant. In stark contrast
to the nose-in-the-air, holier-than-thou attitude that is the hallmark of the
Indian staff manning the visa seekers at the US Consulate in Chennai. I
remember getting hassled by a sari-clad lady who, I’m sure, would have given
even G W Bush a tough time before letting him through to the counter.
The interview was rather short: I explained what happened
and urged him to issue me a visa the same day so that I could take the flight
back home the next day as planned. The visa officer, although slightly amused
by my story, proceeded to review my application. After carefully ascertaining that
I was a genuine applicant with no ulterior motives other than wanting to be
home on time and escape the wife’s wrath, he promised to do his best to
expedite the process. A married man perhaps. I was asked to pay the fees – a
definite sign that my visa would get stamped. But the real question eating my
brain was: When?
As if on cue, yet another stewardess appeared from nowhere and ushered me
to yet another counter for some more processing. This time an Asian lady with
impeccable English ran through an exhaustive set of questions the responses to none
of which seemed to convince her to her fullest satisfaction. Finally, after interviewing
me for what seemed like ages, she beamed a smile from behind the glass and asked
me to return the following week to collect my visa. Mm mm, next week ain't gonna work ma’am. I had to explain my travel
situation to her with the help of my itinerary and my previous conversation
with the officer. She consulted with the officer that had interviewed me and
finally consented to issue the visa the very same day. Tick tock tick tock…easily
the longest five minutes in recent memory. It was at that moment that I chose
to divulge to her that my passport had a solitary empty side, right behind my
just expired visa. With a roll of her eyes, she walked in to the printing
section and consulted with someone who reluctantly agreed to print it on that
page. As an exception. Tick tock tick tock…easily the longest two minutes in
recent memory. If they had refused, I had the Indian embassy’s address ready in
my pocket to rush there and request a new passport. Phew!
I felt an intense feeling of relief wash all over me as I realized
that my ordeal was coming to an end. I checked my watch. I had spent just over two
hours at the embassy. However, in the bigger scheme of things, in less than 36
hours from when I landed in Taipei with a near-full passport and an expired
visa, I had gone from being a person uncertain of when he would meet his family
to a confirmed ticket holder with a freshly minted visa and on his way home as
planned. Imagine walking on water, parting the seas and feeding a village with
a lone fish – all in a single day. Although I had yet again brought another
tight situation upon myself, I had yet again managed to break out of jail. If
there is a God, he has a very twisted sense of humor. Unbeknownst to me,
further proof lay ahead.
Stepping out of the embassy, I had my first meal in over 24
hours: a foot-long veggie delite at a Subway nearby. I classified that as breakfast
and since I had a few hours to pick up my stamped passport, decided to get
myself an Indian meal for lunch. A luxury that I decided to indulge in given the circumstances. God, despite his twisted sense of humor, finally was beginning to cut me some slack. I hailed a passing cab and asked him to take me to Ali
Baba, a half-decent Indian restaurant that I had frequented on my earlier
visits. The driver, who must have been licking his lips at the prospect of
making some quick money, consulted with some fellow drivers nearby and started
driving around. Although I knew I was being ripped off, I was not in the mood
to protest.
After about 10 minutes of passing through narrow lanes, he
stopped in front of an Italian restaurant and tried convincing me that this is
where I had asked him to take me. After much explanation, he drove around a bit
more and this time stopped in front of an Iranian (Persian) restaurant. His next
stops, I suspect, would have been Iraqi, Israeli, Indonesian restaurants before taking me to an Indian place finally. Instead I chose to call his bluff, settled his fare, collected
the receipt and decided to ditch my Indian lunch plans in favor of a third “I”
cuisine: Irish. That’s right. I started making my way towards a nearby
McDonald’s to have a BigMac lite (a regular priced Big Mac without the meat.
Every time I travel, McD’s make good margins) when the falling drizzle made me realize
that I had left my umbrella behind in that taxi.
I started giving chase but the lights had already turned
green and he eased into the sea of traffic and soon disappeared. Now keen
readers may wonder why I would be running behind some random taxi for an
umbrella that probably cost $5? It was no ordinary umbrella: it was my
manager’s father’s umbrella with his name printed on it. That is why. Even if I
did buy an exact replacement, my calligraphy skills would give me away.
Moreover, the prospect of missing out on my meager professional output for the
rest of the year had already given him a mild heart attack. Although the visa
was obtained, I didn't want to do any further damage to my already besmirched image
by reporting the lost umbrella.
Swearing to hunt it down, I entered a branch of the Taishin
International Bank that was right there and urged the security guard to call
the taxi to return my item. In English. The nonplussed guard, who spoke nary a
bit of the Queen's language, pointed me to the Savings Deposit counter which, I suspect, also
doubled up as the “Miscellaneous Stupid Requests” counter as needed.
I explained the situation to the lady behind the counter.
“Taxi. Umbrella. Take. Call. Taxi. Return. Umbrella. Please”
Repeat after me: less is better.
When she stood up, a very pregnant lady that could go into
labor any minute, and started to go to the security desk, it wasn't fully clear
whether it was to help me trace the missing umbrella or call the cops on me. But I've read somewhere
that pregnant ladies are better judges of character*.
* To be verified.
Although the bank wasn't exactly teeming with depositors eager to conduct financial business, bear in mind, it was still peak hour and she must have had banking duties to take care of. Yet, she parked herself at the security desk and started dialing
the cab company's phone number from my receipt. I silently wished her a happy child birth whether or not my manager got his umbrella back. She must have been on the phone for a good ten
minutes.The poor soul even passed me hand-written
notes while still on the phone to keep me updated on what was happening.
“I catch the taxi owner.” “Umbrella on the taxi.” “Taxi
driver move back fast.”
* Sniff.* People, if this doesn't make you believe in the
general goodness of humanity, I don’t know what will.
In less than five minutes, the same taxi pulled up in front
of the branch. A little while later, I thanked the kind lady profusely and left
the place clutching the umbrella tightly. I was having a very lucky day by any
measure: it seemed I couldn't do a thing wrong even if I tried. I wish I had
bought a lottery ticket amidst all that was happening. I walked all the way
back to the US embassy reflecting on my good fortunes. At the appointed hour of
3:30 pm, my now full passport with the visa printed on the very last page was
ready for daddy to pick it up. As I ran my fingers along the smooth surface, I could imagine
how Edmund Hillary and Sherpa Tenzing would have felt at the summit of Mount
Everest. Even if they had gone back to pick up something Edmund had left behind
on their first climb.
The return flight home next day was easily the best
trans-pacific hop I've ever taken. The crummy United Airlines 747 aircraft felt
like a Singapore Airlines 777ER. The cramped economy class cabin felt like the
luxurious first class zone. The aging, rude flight crew appeared like the cheerful,
pleasant ones from Singapore Airlines. The Asian vegetarian goo though still felt
like badly cooked cardboard.
