now thats what I call a bureacrat

Let's begin this way. We discovered we have a basement. That wasn't bad, it was thrilling because its approximately 15 degrees cooler down there at all points in time. So Sarah and I picked up our mattresses and moved 'em down to our swank new accomodations.

The good times however were not to last. I started feeling rather poor that night and by the time I went to sleep I was shivering furiously and felt extremely achey. Sarah assured that it was in fact still above 80 F in the basement so I deduced (sorry, been reading Sherlock Holmes) that I had fever of the highest order. I hoofed it back upstairs and collapsed on the couch for half the night where for once 91 degrees was a blessing. The next morning I almost blacked out from dizziness, lack of breath and pounding in my head, while attempting to climb the stairs again, and decided I had better stay in for the day. I stumbled back downstairs and collapsed on my bed and blacked out. I'm still feeling extremely week 24 hours later. So, you know all the symptoms. Bets on whether its malaria or not? We'll find out in a couple days if the fever returns or not.

Five hours of sleeping later I decided I could handle a quick trip to the train station to reserve tickets for Mt. Abu (a hill station we are very excited to reach). This, however, turned out to be an entirely unpleasant hour and a half lesson on unsuccessful bureaucracies. To begin with, the reservation office was very allusive. After wandering aimlessly and constantly asking direction we walked OUT of the train station and down a narrow road of apparent residential nature, with passing Indians nodding and telling us "sita sita" (meaning go straight, straight) until we finally reached an entirely separate building called the reservation office... and that's when the real frustration began.

We sat in line for at least 45 minutes but with only two costumers ahead of us. At first we thought an old woman in the front was holding up the line. But when our turn finally came it became very clear that it wasn't the 90 year old but the over-paid dick bureaucrat sitting in his air conditioned cubicle making time slow down. The man moved with the jolting speed of sloth, conducted a friend's business while we stood waiting, and when the first train we asked for was full tried to pawn us off to another line until the blessed woman behind us castigated him in Hindi. He then proceeded to not read our form right, have us spell out our names twice (even though it was spelled in clear bold letters on our form). Then he left for a while. When he came back he was carrying another role of ticket paper. He didn't immediatly put it on though, favoring a chat with his friend next door for a minute or two. Finally he digned to pring the ticket. He stared about my 500 ruppee bill for a good 10 seconds longer than necessary to determine its authenticity then signed three times on the ticket in the slowest possible manner. When we finally got the ticket I had sweated about a bucket.

If this wasn't a lesson in what complete job security, over pay, and no evaluation of work quality does to a bureaucracy I don't know what is. I've been repeatedly told that to get a government job here means you are SET. Its virtually impossible to get fired, it pays better than most, and there is good retirement payment. Not to mention that it is generally accepted that most government workers are expected to do virtually nothing. Whooeey. I will never complain about the school registrar again!

Aww well, I guess every day can't be a laze by the pool, but I could really just use a bowl of chicken pho, sushi, and real raised wheat bread to make things better.

Cheers

written by  Drie on April 11, 2008 from Jodhpur, India
from the travel blog: Adventures in Hindustan
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