Visa Madness

After three nights in idyllic Arslanbob (not sure of the origination of this name, but 'arslan' means lion in Turkic, so you can hazard a guess), we feel we should get to Bishkek and start working on our visa applications. It's a task we have avoided in Tashkent. We get up early and take a shared taxi down to the nearest town on the main highway. Here we agree a rate to Bishkek and then have to wait while the other passengers have finished their shopping in the bazaar. They are two women with a little girl, and one of them is drinking beer when we set off (not the girl, but her aunt, she of the gold teeth upper front left). It's 10.30 am and we know we're in for a long ride. Luckily our driver seems sane and although he hammers his Audi saloon he shows no inclination to overtake on blind corners, of which there are many. The scenery is marvellous. There are rolling green hills covered in poppies, mountains left, right and straight ahead, narrow gorges, reservoirs, and big open expanses of green grassland. It is the start of the summer and herders are moving their cattle, horses, goats and sheep to the higher pastures to graze. They use the main roads like everyone else, so we get a close up of the cowboys on their horses. This is Big Country. We climb over two high snow-covered passes, the second descending in a blur of hairpin bends into a gorge that belches us out onto a low plain leading to Bishkek. The little girl and her mother have a tendency to vomit at every twist in the road, so there are several breaks whilst they retch onto the roadside. Aunty just pops another beer and laughs raucously with our driver. Occasionally he taps me on the arm, points to the huge peaks in the distance, and asks "Anglia?" No, we don't have scenery quite like this in England. One time he indicates a donkey with the same question. Then he wants to know how much my walking boots cost in dollars. It's an interesting cultural exchange......

In Bishkek we come across a rather disturbing phenomenon amongst the travellers staying in our hostel. It is called Multiple Visa Psychosis or MVP for short. The symptons are varied but can include some or all of the following: a general listlessness, alchohol dependency, onset of Tourette's Syndrome, an inability to focus on anything for more than ten minutes, and obsessive and repetitive discourse on pending visa applications. There are some physical signs too - principally varicose veins and bruised kidneys from standing outside embassies and then scrimmaging to reach the counter. One Belgian cyclist we meet was clean-shaven when he arrived, and finally departs with a Rasputin beard. Everyone here is hanging around waiting for visas, going west, north, east and south. We have reached a cul de sac, with China as the end wall. But we are not alone and we get tips on flights and stories about our friend James, lots of stories. He has managed to get a visa for Pakistan here, against current form, and we need to do the same because that's our next destination. Because of the lack of flights we decide to miss Tajikistan and spend longer here (to apply for more visas!!). To get to Pakistan we have to cross into Kazakhstan to Almaty to take a flight to New Delhi, where we will then backtrack to Islamabad overland. Not quite what we planned, but hey ho. This means we need three visas and a visa extension. It's at times like this that we question our sanity, but then we are surrounded by other equally crazed travellers, so we kind of feel okay.

oh dear what can the matter be......

For those uninterested in the visa process, look away now. I too have succumbed to MVP. We visit the Kazakh embassy on Thursday and are given a form to complete. Come back Monday, they tell us. We ignore them and complete the form outside in 5 minutes. We queue up and submit it. Niet, come back Monday. We come back Monday and after being told by a stupid Englishman that we should not jump the queue ("What queue??" we ask), we submit our form again. They pass it straight back with a bank slip. Pay the fee and come back. At this point we pause. We need to extend our Kyrghyz visa before we complete our application, otherwise they may refuse us. We have already visited the Indian embassy where we are thrilled to see on their noticeboard that we can pay for a one-year multiple-entry visa. But when we submit our application the consul official tells us that it's very hot in India and 6 months is enough time to visit. Also the visa starts to run from the date of application so in this case we should resubmit it closer to our date of arrival. Undaunted we head for the central police office for visa extensions. We are dealt with by a warm, friendly and interested police woman. Like hell we are. Niet, niet, niet. Parusski? No, we don't speak Russian, but we do understand niet. We can only apply for an extension three days before the visa expires. Finally we try the Pakistan embassy. They have craftily employed a Russian receptionist to field queries from applicants. "Why haven't you applied in your home country?" she barks at us. We explain, and she tells us " The process is six weeks." This is her ace card, but we can trump her: "we have a letter of invitation from a friend who works for the United Nations in Islamabad". She hesitates and waivers. We have to bring the application form back with the letter. When we do, we are told to return the next day - no official is present to look at our application. Time for the vodka.
We need to get into these beautiful mountains that are visible towering above the city as soon as possible. Our sanity depends upon it..............