Day -71

My adventure started ten weeks and one day before I flew to Dubai, on the 17th of April.

I flew back from New York on the 23rd of March arriving at Heathrow around 2100. I got back to my flat in Kentish Town to swap one suitcase for another then boarded my carriage home. The carriage, being a Renault Megane and the chauffeur being Mother Dearest, who had kindly driven down to pick up her favourite son and whisk him back to Yorkshire, made its way back to the homestead in good time. Despite having just flown three and a half thousand miles just a few hours before, I was up and ready for my 8 o’clock start at Barnaby Green Farm for my annual lambing placement where I retook my much-loved place as part of the ‘furniture’ for the next two weeks.

Just one hour in, after the feeding and watering the animals, I was feeling a spot of fatigue. I was ordered to take a nap on the sofa in the lounge in front of the cosy wood-burning stove. I’d planned to have a powernap of around 45 minutes which would tide me over until lunchtime when I would stock up on homemade delights that would power me through the afternoon. The phone rang, Philip answered, I looked at my watch and it was gone 11, oops! I did feel better for it though.

Two weeks of chasing sheep, pulling out lambs and driving the quad passed all too quickly and it was time for me to leave, possibly for the last time, as my degree may not allow time for me to lamb again. The next morning I had my second placement of the Easter break, this time starting at 3 o’clock in the morning; yes that is also the middle of the night. I did so with my usual enthusiasm even if there was a small amount of trepidation due to stories I’d been told about the herdsman not liking students - I shouldn’t have worried, nor doubted my charisma according to Pat.

I was ready for a day off when I finished my dairy placement after a week, three weeks since getting back from America. I had a week off, trying desperately to get my planning finished before my return to London. That week was soon up and I was back in the Capital, this time with a mission. With visiting strange and alien lands comes the need for visas, small pieces of paper that grant you access over an imaginary line as designated, usually, by centuries of war. When I said I’m going to nine different countries but I only needed five visas it didn’t sound quite so bad but after my first experience, one was too many.

I arrived at my flat late on Thursday night, the night of the 16th of April, ready for what was intended to be a day of visiting embassies around London the next day. I was all ready and prepared for Friday, I had a map of each of the embassies’ locations, contact telephone numbers, opening times, printed forms all filled out with attached photos, even an appointment booked at the Chinese embassy with the naive expectation of waltzing in and walking out with a visa, how absurd that vision seems now.

With my folder under arm and a Chinese embassy just a tube ride away I left the flat in good spirits. My appointment was booked for 0850 for which I arrived at 0830 on a packed rush hour train. I found the embassy and walked around the block a couple of times while I wished away the next few minutes. I noticed a policeman on guard outside the door so I approached with caution allowing him to tell me that whilst I was at the Chinese embassy, it was the consulate that I wanted that was further down the road. I got there for 0845, five minutes before my appointment, to find a large queue that partitioned the wide pavement and then continued down the road. I stood and queued, like every Brit should, and noticed that everyone else that was queuing was either Chinese or of Chinese origin, expect one family of four, but I didn’t think anything of it. Five past nine came and a suited man opened one of the heavy wooden doors to let around five people in – my envisioned day was already not going to plan. The English family was further up the line than I was and moments after their being allowed inside the mysterious consulate they came out again, clutching a leaflet and heading towards Oxford Circus in a less than relaxed manner.

I stepped inside the consulate, five of us stood inside a small vestibule area. A large, chair-filled room to my left and a grand staircase to my right, I wasn’t allowed to progress without satisfying the questions of the suited man first. I explained that I had an appointment booked for 0850 and that I would like to apply for a Chinese visa.

“You’ve come to the wrong place” said the suited man.

“But the policeman said...”

“You’ve come to the wrong place; you need to be in Holborn. This is for Chinese people” at which point he shoved a leaflet, identical to the one the family had, and sent me on my way.

By this time it was just leaving quarter past nine making me already twenty five minutes late and I hadn’t even arrived at the correct consulate. I shot out of the door, ran down Regent Street to Oxford Circus where I boarded a central line train to Chancery Lane where I resurfaced to find a faintly familiar Holborn and a busy dual carriageway. I ran down the road half looking at the shops and offices, expecting it to jump out at me and suck me in negating the need for me to pay much attention so I could just make haste.

Of all the countries I’m visiting, China had the most resources online that helped with the visa application. It was fairly easy for me to find out whether I needed a visa, how I had to apply and so on. I had to make an appointment, which I did with ease, but I now realised that they didn’t look at my nationality and direct me to the correct location, my attempts at being organised had been thwarted and I wasn’t impressed. My day started with a slight negative air towards to Chinese application process as I spend an hour trying to get my form filled in correctly. They helpfully had this form online as a series of questions with the result being the completed form that one was supposed to print out. I got to this point three times, each resulting in an error message which meant I had to start again. I gave up, printed out what was displayed and thought to myself that the printed form looked more than adequate to me.

The large, heavily tinted windows of Morley House on Holborn viaduct looked less than inviting. I whizzed through the revolving door to find a security guard sat hunched over a small reception desk looking thrilled with his chosen career and even more thrilled to see a hot and flustered student late for his appointment. He read my expression perfectly looked as if he was thinking ‘not another one’ and pointed to an open doorway placed awkwardly off the lobby. I marched down the garishly wallpapered corridor to find yet another security guard. The man, of retirement age, was a glorified receptionist in the wrong uniform. Perched on a high chair behind a lectern his job was simple, to find the name on the list and press a button which printed a ticket. He acknowledged my lack punctuality and proceeded to tell me that I wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the last. Why, then, do they not do something about it! I couldn’t help but think that I could so easily be the last if they made a slight change to their website, that is, add the address one is supposed to go to. I wasn’t there to argue and he didn’t seem to care much for his job so without too much fuss he printed my ticket and I was sat in the nicely laminated chair waiting for my number to be called.

“Ticket number three-zero-two, please go to desk six” came the monotone, robotic voice over the PA system in the same way Post Offices seem to do these days. I got up and walked over to the booth clutching my passport, ticket and form. I passed through the form and passport which resulted in a perplexed expression, a short burst of Chinese to his colleague culminating in my documents being passed back to me. Apparently, the form, which I tried so hard to get printed in the first place, did not print out correctly, that is it came without the decorative border, and I was directed to the back of the room to fill in a fresh one by hand. Unimpressed, but still with my spirits high, I sat down and began to fill in the form. Upon completion I had to ask the security guard-come-receptionist for another ticket and I retook my place in the queue.

“Ticket number three-zero-nine, please go to desk seven” came the same voice from the tinny speakers. I handed over my documents only to have them stopped halfway and pushed back through. I looked at the girl, sat authoritatively behind the glass, with a certain level of insult but said nothing.

“Photo too small, photo too small! You’ll have to get a new one. Chinese embassy not accept this.” She chanted at me. Now annoyed, I grabbed my things and marched to the back of the room to the photo machine that I had previously spotted, swiped back the curtain to find that the light was off – it was out of order.

‘Typical’ I thought to myself as I asked the security guard where the nearest operational photo machine was.

“Oh that old thing, yeah, that hasn’t worked for months now, I keep telling them about it but they never seem to get it sorted...”

“So where can I get some photos from then?” I interjected indicating that I needed to make haste, the day was getting on and I didn’t have time, or the inclination, to listen to his long and tedious story as he recalled the history of the late photo machine.

“Out the door, turn left, walk towards Holborn Circus and you’ll see a WH Smith after 100 yards or so, they should have one in there” he said sensing my urgency.

“Thank you very much” said I.

“My pleasure” he said as I about turned, heading out to the main doors, it had left half past ten.

I found WH Smith, walked inside to find one of those annoyingly thin and stupidly long shops; the machine was at the back. I sat down and found my wallet so I could feed the machine the inflated price of £4 to get a meagre four photos. Fishing out the little loose change I had and foolishly putting it straight in the coin slot I realised all too quickly that I only had £3. The only other cash I had was a £20 note which, of course, it wouldn’t accept. Being far too trusting, I left my bag in the booth, and dashed to the nearest counter to ask for change. As I was at the back of the shop, all I had was the DVD counter which wouldn’t and “couldn’t” give me any change, for that I would have to go to the front of the shop and queue. I went back to the booth and tried to get my money back but the coin rejection button didn’t work and I was forced to go back to the DVD counter, again leaving my things so people knew it was occupied. This time there was a small queue which gave me time to decide what to buy. All they had was large box of spearmint Tic Tacs which I didn’t want for two reasons – I don’t like Tic Tacs and I don’t like spearmint. The purchase was necessary and I got my handful of coins, topped up the machine and walked away with the ever so slightly larger photos.

“Back again are we” said the security guard. I smiled through gritted teeth, accepted the ticket and sat down. My number didn’t come and people with higher numbers started walking up to the desks so I took it upon myself to go and see the same girl I saw before, effectively pushing in, in the process. She looked thrilled that I had a new photo, complemented me on my passport case and continued to check my form which was going well until she saw my dates. The dates were fine but too far in the future, she explained that the visa would run out before I got in the country if I applied for the visa now. I tried to reason with her but she rejected my application, I was being penalised for being “too organised”!

I wasn’t overly happy after that and I stormed down the road ringing my mother on the way. I was angry. Angry that they’d messed me about, that they’d wasted my morning and that I was being shunned for having the forethought to plan ahead. I rang my mother to release some steam.

After a spot of reason and a dollop of rationality, I realised that I still had time to get to Kensington where the Vietnamese Embassy is located. Just a stone’s throw from Kensington Palace, the Vietnamese Embassy was a very different affair. The embassy was what looked like a converted residential property with a high box hedge around the perimeter and an electromagnetically locked gate at the front. I was buzzed in after ringing the bell to find a heavy wooden door painted gloss black. It opened surprisingly easily and I stepped inside cautiously, not quite knowing what to expect. The wide hall gave rise to a reception room to the left, with original fireplace, a closed office door and a two-windowed make-shift partition with a couple of representatives busily working. The queue was short and with as little said as possible on their part, my passport and application had been accepted and I’d paid the £40 fee and was told to come back on Friday, a week later. After, I found the Thai Embassy, which is close by, being just a few metres from the Natural History Museum. Here they employed a delicatessen-style system where one plucks a ticket, of the correct colour, from the dispenser and then wait to be called by one of the people at the windows. I wasn’t waiting long before I was served and the friendly lady informed me of what I needed to apply for and that it would be free in a bid to try and increase the number of people going to Thailand during the recent troubles. I might die when I get there but at least I don’t have to pay to hop over the border.

The week flew by, which included delights such as starting the three injection £150 course of Japanese encephalitis vaccinations that I had to source privately as the vaccine is no longer licensed in the UK for financial reasons; not surprising really. I collected my first visa and saw the conspicuous notice instructing all to check the visa before leaving. I did this, of course, after realising that I had forgotten my dates and had not synced my phone for a few days so the dates had not been transferred. All I knew was that I didn’t feel entirely happy with them. Back at the flat I discovered the dates were wrong. They’d put me down to enter the country on the 09/08/09 and leave on the 08/09/09 when it should have been 08/08/09 to the 07/09/09. Applying for visas really isn’t the easy process it ought to be. I tried ringing them, several times over several days but it wasn’t until after I sent my second email that I got a reply. I printed out the email and took it to the embassy to get my visa corrected though worryingly unsure of how possible this would be. A week and a half later I was back at the Vietnamese embassy trying to explain what had happened. The lady wasn’t impressed and after a great deal of foreign exchange between herself and her colleague, I was asked to sit in the little-used waiting room while a new visa was issued. Eventually it came and I was charged a further £20 for the privilege, which I wasn’t massively happy about but at least I had my first visa.

My Thai visa was collected after a further week and a week after that I could go to Willesden Green to apply for my Cambodian visa. Annoyingly, I had to get the Northern line right into central London, get the Central line west and then get the Jubilee line back north to Willesden. This was made a little more awkward for me due to the fact that there was “a person under a train at Finchley Road” which meant there was a part line closure. I had to get the metropolitan line, which runs parallel with the Jubilee line for that section, right up to Wembley and then back down on the open section of the Jubilee line to Willesden Green which, thankfully, was the last station that was open before the closure. As we slowly passed Finchley road station I could see a train half in the station and men in bright orange suits with yellow biological waste bags clambering over the rails picking up the smaller parts of whomever had committed suicide. What an awful job. I, like everyone else on the train, was being made late because of this and had a schedule to keep but I couldn’t help but get annoyed at the several people that showed elevated and very visible anger towards the situation. Their lives were apparently far more important and it was their cold blooded frustration that made my stomach turn, not the gore of the accident. Intentional or not, death is horrific and should be dealt with understanding and respect.

Nevertheless I was worried that I might miss the embassy as it closed at lunch time. Walking through a couple of housing estates, I shouldn’t have been surprised when I turned the corner and saw the Cambodian flag waving vigorously in the breeze attached to a large detached house. If it wasn’t for the flag, and notice board outside, the embassy would have looked just like any other house. I rang the bell and a little old lady came out to open the gate for me and she welcomed me into what felt, and looked, like her home. Inside was a reception area with various rooms coming off it, all oak panelled and rather up market in a very old England kind of way. Large pictures of what I assumed to be heads of state adorned the walls along side pictures of the main tourist hot spots like Angkor Wat.

I gave her my form and paid the £15 fee. She scurried away into a room behind the small reception desk to get me my change. She spoke to a gentleman behind some double doors in a foreign language. I imagined a large room, again oak panelled, with a large desk covered in green leather and the gentleman sat behind it working quietly and diligently. She came back and advised me on a pick up date and I left, being escorted to the gate and seen off.

Back at Willesden Green tube station, the critical section of the Jubilee line was still out and I was advised to get on the train and go to the next station then catch the replacement bus service. I wasn’t keen on catching the bus but a train then pulled into the station and I was urged onto it. The train travelled about a mile and then stopped, waiting for about twenty minutes while the train in front reversed into a siding so it could change direction. Fortunately, by the time it had finished the line had been opened and we shot through Finchley Road with no sign of dead bodies or the police. What a strange feeling it would be to think that you were in the first train over that section of track, the blood still damp where the person lost their life.

The following weeks passed quickly and I managed to collect all my visas and have my vaccinations in between lectures, revision and exams. I couldn’t get too excited about my imminent trip as I was concentrating on exams but I knew, in the back of my mind, that soon enough I would be “swanning off”, as my friends liked to describe it, around the world seeing southeast Asia for nine weeks (except Laos).