{"id":37463,"date":"2012-08-22T12:27:11","date_gmt":"2012-08-22T16:27:11","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=37463"},"modified":"2012-08-22T12:27:11","modified_gmt":"2012-08-22T16:27:11","slug":"letter-from-india-the-permit-part-3","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2012\/08\/22\/letter-from-india-the-permit-part-3\/","title":{"rendered":"Letter from India: The Permit, Part 3"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

The story so far: Clancy and Amie continue to struggle to obtain the elusive permit that will allow them to find accommodation in a remote mountain area.<\/em><\/p>\n

\nWe stayed one night in McLeod Gange. It might be called the woo-woo capital of the world. Woo-woos everywhere\u2014frustrated, blissed out, on drugs\u2014unwashed woo-woo land, with lots of coffee shops.<\/p>\n

\nIn the morning, we passed a black street dog with white paws. He limped on a hind leg.
\nClancy said, \u201cHey, White Socks, how\u2019s it going?\u201d<\/p>\n

\n\u201cAll right,\u201d I said, in my \u201cI\u2019m a redneck\u201d accent. \u201cBe a lot better if you took one a them Ibuprofen and crushed it into a chicken liver. Or some mutton. Hell, a raw egg if you\u2019re low on funds. I could understand it, because I am.\u201d<\/p>\n

\nOne side of the road was taken up by shops that, for blocks and blocks, only carried four things: hippy clothes, jewelry, imitation Tibetan items\u2014smoked Thankas, bowls aged in urine\u2014and, of course, things to put your weed in. The other side of the road was lined with stalls. The stalls were made of wooden poles and tarps, and they carried prayer beads and inexpensive jewelry.<\/p>\n

\u201cDid I ever tell you why they call me White Socks?\u201d Clancy said, in his \u201cI\u2019m a redneck\u201d accent.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTake a look at my paws.\u201d<\/p>\n

Our permit was not ready. We tried the red-herring argument. (The most effective technique I have found in my travels\u2014just talking in a tone of authority seems to kind of wear a person out, no matter what you say. Maybe this would work in the U.S., too. Probably so; it never occurred to me to try.) We tried bribery. We tried joking. The bureaucrats, in turn, used that most-effective kindergarten-control technique: the broken record.<\/p>\n

\u201cCome back,\u201d one man would say, contemplatively, \u201cat three.\u201d<\/p>\n

So we went for lunch. We ordered cold coffee, and our waiter asked, in a meek, gravely voice, \u201cWith ice cream, or without ice cream?\u201d<\/p>\n

\nAt three, we were told to come back at four. By this time, our humor was gone. A bureaucrat said, \u201cThe district commissioner is going to your country!\u201d It was a joke, and he tried it two more times. Clancy and I gave him faces of stone.<\/p>\n

We came back at four. Then we were told to go away until Monday.<\/p>\n

\u201cTill Monday?\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, no. Just wait,\u201d he said with that old contemplative air. \u201cTill five.\u201d<\/p>\n

We sat. The madman of the group\u2014a twenty-eight-year-old who appeared to be only a couple clicks from insanity\u2014came over and asked Clancy, by gesture, if he liked to drink wine. Clancy said no. The man asked again. He made the gesture ten times, and then one of the other men explained it. \u201cScotch? Whiskey?\u201d The man gestured a few more times, smiling and bobbling his head. He sat on the desk only a few feet away from us, and there was nowhere for us to run.<\/p>\n

At five, the English girl from yesterday reappeared. English Girl was growing on me.<\/p>\n

\u201cGi! DC is here!\u201d she shouted.<\/p>\n

\nShortly, this utterance became clear. It turned out English Girl was the de facto leader a rag-tag band of just the sort of people a New York intellectual would envision in the foothills of the Himalayas. One of the bureaucrats had a piece of particle board. Tied to it by the familiar tennis-shoe lace were twenty permit applications. EG said, \u201cIf you are in this pile, you need to come to the SP\u2019s office. The DC has said no, but the SP is going to sign, and then the DC will give permission.\u201d<\/p>\n

\nShe was speaking to us in pidgin English, but we took this in stride; by this point we understood that this can happen after a few weeks.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cCome either way, so you can get the form.\u201d<\/p>\n

\nI went out in the hallway and joined the motley crew. Clancy stayed with the bureaucrats. They were encouraging us to stay with them. It might have worked better that way.<\/p>\n

I spent a few minutes in the hall and came back inside. The man with the particle board had untied the shoestring. From another pile, a different bureaucrat found our applications. He gave them to Clancy. We stood behind the bureaucrat with the SP pile. It\u2019s difficult to describe our agitation, which was brought to a head by the news of the DC\u2019s arrival and the SP\u2019s signature and the pile. In short: I took the applications from Clancy, reached around the bureaucrat, and dropped them onto the SP pile.<\/p>\n

\nThere was a shocked silence. This is not done. To be honest I\u2019m not sure what came over me.<\/p>\n

\nMeticulously, the bureaucrat lifted my application and Clancy\u2019s from the pile. It was clear that what he most wanted in the world was to burn them. Instead, he placed them above the SP pile, kitty-corner, and continued sorting. When the pile was sorted\u2014reshuffled, I should say\u2014he took our applications and put them on the bottom. Then he took them out again. Our photos were held to their upper-right-hand corners by pins. He unpinned them.<\/p>\n

\nThen he replaced the pins. He put them on top. Then he took them off the pile and removed a very small note from each. He placed the small notes on the table. Clancy and I both saw the small notes were recommendations, from our bureaucrat friends. The man, satisfied, put our applications into the SP pile and\u2014ignoring us and the crew\u2014got up and started walking.<\/p>\n

\nWe followed. The entire crew was heading to the SP office. One, I noted aloud, had bedbugs. Clancy and I let them get ahead of us, and then we took a shortcut to the SPs. Our shirts were soaked. We had to climb a mud-covered wall and leg-it-up over barbed wire, standing on its edge. Clancy cut his hand. \u201cOh no,\u201d I said. \u201cDid you get your tetanus?\u201d Then we went around an atrium, into a set of back doors.<\/p>\n

\nA grandmother sat on a cot, surrounded by her grandchildren. Very thin boys were doing construction in the ceilings. A young girl in a dress wore two large Styrofoam rings around her arms, and went skipping down a corridor and to the right. The old woman looked at me, wondering why I was in her house. This was a large government building, still under construction. It was where we were supposed to be, but we\u2019d come in the wrong side. About ten feet away a man was cutting rebar with a diamond saw.<\/p>\n

\nClancy and I went back outside, around to the front of the building, up a set of stairs, soaked to the skin, to wait half an hour with the others. Three of them, young women, regarded him like sailors lost at sea for months might regard a single cracker. I tried not to think about it. All of us made conversation.<\/p>\n

\nThe SP agreed to our terms. We went back to the DC. Another half hour passed, and we were asked for a bribe. Clancy gave five hundred rupees for the group. One woman thanked him; I thanked him. The others sat quiet, as though thanking him might result in a need to pay. Names began to be called: the DC had signed. Our PAPs were granted.<\/p>\n

Back at Chokling Guest House the following morning, Clancy saw a familiar face in the dining hall. A friend, someone who\u2019d asked us about our health several times, and in fact, a New Yorker<\/em> writer, said, \u201cAfter you left, things really melted down at the camp. Other people got sick, Bishan was apologizing. Let me put it this way: people are people. I\u2019m not going to say anything else.\u201d<\/p>\n

They got on the subject of Chokling Guest House, and Clancy said, \u201cIsn\u2019t it nice.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d she said, \u201cit\u2019s too bad you can\u2019t stay.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, you see,\u201d she raised her head slightly, \u201cthere is a thing called the PAP.\u201d<\/p>\n

Read part 1 <\/a>and part 2<\/a>.<\/p>\n

[tweetbutton]<\/p>\n

[facebook_ilike]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The story so far: Clancy and Amie continue to struggle to obtain the elusive permit that will allow them to find accommodation in a remote mountain area. We stayed one night in McLeod Gange. It might be called the woo-woo capital of the world. Woo-woos everywhere\u2014frustrated, blissed out, on drugs\u2014unwashed woo-woo land, with lots of […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":291,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[4393],"tags":[1048,8473,6049,123],"class_list":["post-37463","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-first-person","tag-india","tag-mcleod-gange","tag-tibet","tag-travel"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nLetter from India: The Permit, Part 3 by Amie Barrodale<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"August 22, 2012 \u2013 The story so far: Clancy and Amie continue to struggle to obtain the elusive permit that will allow them to find accommodation in a remote mountain area.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" 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