The next town, 18 kilometers away, also didn’t support the shipping of motorcycles, so I dished out the extra cash and went to Calicut with the motorcycle. Long after the sun had sunk and the stars had come out, my humble truck driver pulled the rig into the packing and loading area of the Calicut rail station. I was nervous, completely unaware of what documents might be required for the shipping of a motorcycle. Dan, the first Israeli I had approached about buying a motorcycle had apparently been able to take his Enfield on a train sans ownership papers. This line of thinking hadn’t worked in the insurance office and I heavily doubted it would work then.
Packers were working quickly wrapping Styrofoam boxes filled with fish and other items. The commotion seemed jovial but quickly I spotted a police officer sitting in a plastic lawn chair reading in the dark. I was weary of him and when communication between my driver, a packer and myself failed, they pointed at the police officer.
“Police. English. Police. English.”
I was led to the police officer and the uniformed man with a mustache looked up at me with a broad smile.
“I’m looking to go to Goa.”
“Goa?”
“Yes, Goa.”
“When?”
“Next train?”
“Next train, 12:24”
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Fantastic, thank you”
<Indian head bobble>
I pocketed the money I had cautiously loaded into my palm and walked back to the bike. After paying the packer to wrap the bike, I was directed inside the station to speak with the parcel officer. My driver explained what it was I wanted to do. The parcel officer looked at me over his glasses, tilting his head forward and making it look as though his eyebrows had been pulled downward in suspicion.
“Do you have documents for this vehicle?”
I took out the registration and handed it to him through the metal gated window. With the other hand I retrieved my unused bribe, hoping, if the need came that it would work in smoothing the situation over. The parcel officer looked at the registration for what seemed like a long time and then he looked up.
“You need a copy of this.” He handed the registration back to me.
“Where can I get one made?”
“Other side of the train station” He said, and motioned without looking up at me.
“Is that all I need?”
“Yes, only registration.” He said without looking up.
Twenty hours later, I was in Goa. Exhausted, I decided to find a tourist home and get a room before I’d deal with the bike. I showered off the grime and exhaustion of the train ride and with a clean set of clothes I went back to the train station and found the parcel office. It was busier than the one in Calicut and there were more Police around. They carried bigger guns than the ones in Kerala.
I found a subordinate worker and handed him my booking receipt for the motorcycle. He looked at it briefly and then said,
“Registration.” I handed him a copy of the registration, and as someone called his attention elsewhere, he looked back at me and said,
“You need license, too.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant by ‘license’ and so I stood among the bustle of the parcel office, looking around, wondering what exactly I should do. My eyes fell upon a sheet pinned to a notice board that was titled: Requirements for Booking of Motorcycle. I read it and after tracing my eyes along the second requirement, I stopped short. It read:
“2. License/Proof of Ownership of Motorcycle”
Shit. I should have expected that things might be different in Goa. I retreated to my hotel room, but not before stopping at a bar and nursing my options with whiskey and cigarettes. I sent a SPOT signal, as I drank and watched the smoke swirl in the still hot air. The whiskey didn’t do me any good. My thoughts turned worried and fatalistic and I tried to imagine how ashamed I’d feel to inconvenience my father enough to come halfway around the world to visit his son in prison.
I’m just being ridiculous, maybe.
But I don’t know this country.
That’s part of the point you moron, this is supposed to be a country where you can get away with inconsequential shit like this.
But you don’t know!
You’re right, I don’t know, that’s why we’re worrying.
I need to stop talking to myself.
I sent unfair text messages to Sophie and after some fatalistic talk, I got her worried about my situation as well. I went back to my hotel room to sober up and wait till it got dark, figuring a bribe, if need be, would be easier to swing with less people and less light. After watching a thoroughly idiotic western movie and drinking water from the showerhead (the faucet in the sink wasn’t connected to any piping) I made my way out into the night, my pockets loaded with bribe money. I took out a cigarette and lit it, remembering that Jack used to call it the ‘poison tit’. I had smoked three packs of cigarettes in three days. I’ve got to chill out and let this shit go, I told myself. There are people back home who would crucify me for hypocrisy if they knew.
“It might all just work out fine.” was Sophie’s last text message.
I walked into the parcel office and up to the gated window with two officers seated behind it. I handed one of them my receipt.
“Registration?” I handed him a copy of the registration.
“License?” I handed him a copy of my International Drivers’ Permit that I had prepared at the hotel reception just prior to coming.
He slid the copy of the permit behind the copy of the registration and the booking receipt and stapled the three together. He looked at the clock and then tabulated numbers in his head for a moment.
“40 Rupees. Holding charge.” I gave him the money.
“Sign here.” I signed there.
Bribe money still in my pocket, I wheeled the bike out into the free night air.
40 Rupees is roughly the equivalent of $1.20
Packers were working quickly wrapping Styrofoam boxes filled with fish and other items. The commotion seemed jovial but quickly I spotted a police officer sitting in a plastic lawn chair reading in the dark. I was weary of him and when communication between my driver, a packer and myself failed, they pointed at the police officer.
“Police. English. Police. English.”
I was led to the police officer and the uniformed man with a mustache looked up at me with a broad smile.
“I’m looking to go to Goa.”
“Goa?”
“Yes, Goa.”
“When?”
“Next train?”
“Next train, 12:24”
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Fantastic, thank you”
<Indian head bobble>
I pocketed the money I had cautiously loaded into my palm and walked back to the bike. After paying the packer to wrap the bike, I was directed inside the station to speak with the parcel officer. My driver explained what it was I wanted to do. The parcel officer looked at me over his glasses, tilting his head forward and making it look as though his eyebrows had been pulled downward in suspicion.
“Do you have documents for this vehicle?”
I took out the registration and handed it to him through the metal gated window. With the other hand I retrieved my unused bribe, hoping, if the need came that it would work in smoothing the situation over. The parcel officer looked at the registration for what seemed like a long time and then he looked up.
“You need a copy of this.” He handed the registration back to me.
“Where can I get one made?”
“Other side of the train station” He said, and motioned without looking up at me.
“Is that all I need?”
“Yes, only registration.” He said without looking up.
Twenty hours later, I was in Goa. Exhausted, I decided to find a tourist home and get a room before I’d deal with the bike. I showered off the grime and exhaustion of the train ride and with a clean set of clothes I went back to the train station and found the parcel office. It was busier than the one in Calicut and there were more Police around. They carried bigger guns than the ones in Kerala.
I found a subordinate worker and handed him my booking receipt for the motorcycle. He looked at it briefly and then said,
“Registration.” I handed him a copy of the registration, and as someone called his attention elsewhere, he looked back at me and said,
“You need license, too.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant by ‘license’ and so I stood among the bustle of the parcel office, looking around, wondering what exactly I should do. My eyes fell upon a sheet pinned to a notice board that was titled: Requirements for Booking of Motorcycle. I read it and after tracing my eyes along the second requirement, I stopped short. It read:
“2. License/Proof of Ownership of Motorcycle”
Shit. I should have expected that things might be different in Goa. I retreated to my hotel room, but not before stopping at a bar and nursing my options with whiskey and cigarettes. I sent a SPOT signal, as I drank and watched the smoke swirl in the still hot air. The whiskey didn’t do me any good. My thoughts turned worried and fatalistic and I tried to imagine how ashamed I’d feel to inconvenience my father enough to come halfway around the world to visit his son in prison.
I’m just being ridiculous, maybe.
But I don’t know this country.
That’s part of the point you moron, this is supposed to be a country where you can get away with inconsequential shit like this.
But you don’t know!
You’re right, I don’t know, that’s why we’re worrying.
I need to stop talking to myself.
I sent unfair text messages to Sophie and after some fatalistic talk, I got her worried about my situation as well. I went back to my hotel room to sober up and wait till it got dark, figuring a bribe, if need be, would be easier to swing with less people and less light. After watching a thoroughly idiotic western movie and drinking water from the showerhead (the faucet in the sink wasn’t connected to any piping) I made my way out into the night, my pockets loaded with bribe money. I took out a cigarette and lit it, remembering that Jack used to call it the ‘poison tit’. I had smoked three packs of cigarettes in three days. I’ve got to chill out and let this shit go, I told myself. There are people back home who would crucify me for hypocrisy if they knew.
“It might all just work out fine.” was Sophie’s last text message.
I walked into the parcel office and up to the gated window with two officers seated behind it. I handed one of them my receipt.
“Registration?” I handed him a copy of the registration.
“License?” I handed him a copy of my International Drivers’ Permit that I had prepared at the hotel reception just prior to coming.
He slid the copy of the permit behind the copy of the registration and the booking receipt and stapled the three together. He looked at the clock and then tabulated numbers in his head for a moment.
“40 Rupees. Holding charge.” I gave him the money.
“Sign here.” I signed there.
Bribe money still in my pocket, I wheeled the bike out into the free night air.
40 Rupees is roughly the equivalent of $1.20
smoking, eh? i could use one and a whiskey in your company at some bar in some hot country. your writing great as always. making stories out of stress and fatalism - going strong, my friend, a true writer's rigor.
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