Walking down Queens Gate, flags are flying for many foreign embassies. White, green and red next to the flag of the European Union, further down the Thai flag and beyond that the Sultanate of Oman hanging in the still air.

Running With Flags

The buildings are grand and white, their entrances columned with stone steps leading over the basement level to dark, heavy, oak doors. At the Bangladesh High Commission, a tattered note is tied to the black, gold tipped railings out front. “Passports and Visas: Basement.” There is an arrow pointing down and to the right, towards an open gate. A cracked staircase of terracotta tiles falls away beyond, taking us down to the gutter between pavement and building. Headed back under the road, I see two doors and imagine a cavernous space beyond, filled with the sound of a dragon roaring with each passing car overhead.

One of the doors has been left ajar and I look through to see a cramped toilet, the moulding walls lit by a bare bulb hanging askew from the ceiling. To the left is a third door, half open with mops and buckets tossed against the walls. A white froth has spilt from the bucket, seeping across the tiles and leaving dirty marks.

In the opposite corner is the door we are looking for: Passports and Visas.

Opening the door causes the mob of Bangladeshis beyond to shift and make way as we stooped into the low, cream coloured room. Around us, the crowd seemed bored, idly standing and waiting. To our right are four booths made of wood with plastic windows and a sign above each. “NCP,” “No stamp required visas,” “Passports,” “Visas for Foreigners.” As we wrestle through the waiting, I realise the mob has congregated in three loose lines tumbling away from the booths against the wall. For the foreign visas booth, the one we had come for, there is an empty lane.

Fiona acted as ambassador to her own country, formerly inviting me to stay with her family. I guess it would speed things up having a Bangladeshi national there to say “Yes, Jake is a responsible young man who will not get involved in any cheeky occupational work during his visit.”

Whilst writing this letter of invitation, we sat on one of the few plastic seats lining the back wall of the embassy basement. In twenty minutes I saw only three other “foreigners” head to the Tourist Visa booth. The other three lines ambled along as people came and went in a leisurely manner.

Next to us in the corner of the dank room sat an ancient photocopier, stained and scratched from years of misuse. A few people shuffled to and from the beast, clutching their passports and the twenty pence fare to get a copy.

We took the letter back to the clerk and handed it over. He double checked everything and noticed the date. We were far too early. They offer a three month visa valid from the date of issue and, if purchased today, mine would run out by the 19^th of April, nine days before leaving Bangladesh. We left the coffee stained room and returned to street level.

Next door, the Thai flag was flying so we decided to get forms for that visa too. We entered into a vastly different world. The room was clean-cut with wood panelling and bright halogen lighting. There was a ticket system attached to a pillar and rows of chairs beyond with the waiting looking around with an idle boredom.

In front of us was a desk with two computers set up facing away and two Thai men stooped in their chairs, tapping away at their keyboards. I looked around the room, searching for a smiling face or welcoming look and, finding none, turned back to the computer men.

The younger of the two had lifted his head to look at me. His face was blank and he looked on with an aloof curiousness; wanting to know what I wanted but not wanting to talk or interact at all. With no one else to turn to, I approached and asked him how long the Thai visa would last.

The man turned his head to one side, cocking his ear as if switching on to the fact someone was talking to him. I opened my mouth to repeat the question when he replied.

“Two working days.”

Much as I appreciated the effort on his part, this was not the answer—or the question—I was looking for. Never the less, I nodded my head like some profound and useful piece of information had just been departed upon me.

“Right, thanks. And how long does it last?”

This time, a blank look. Hoping for a delayed response I waited. By now, his colleague had raised his head too, distracting himself from fervent work. He made clear the confusion. “What?”

I leaned over the chairs sat on our side of the table and repeated. The words were lost in the metre between me and him, swimming in the air in front of him like silver sardines. I saw his eyes crease and his brows twitch, as if he was attempting to grasp just one of the slippery fish in his mind.

He turned to his computer buddy for help but received no saving grace. In a last ditch effort—perhaps to get rid of me, perhaps meaning to help—he turned to me and said a final few words. It was my turn to be confused. When I repeated what I had heard, he nodded enthusiastically.

I still had no idea what had passed his lips and Fiona, too, had her brows furrowed; deep confusion, it seemed, was mutual on both sides of the computers.

The juxtaposition, the vast, cultural canyon, could not have been made clearer to us. Perhaps we were talking to the wrong people, maybe where to get forms was blindingly obvious, but it escaped our knowledge and no one offered any help.

It was as if we were invisible until our ticket number was next. All the staff were caught up in typing, filing paper work, chatting amongst themselves. They did not have time to talk to us; we were not on their agenda. Their life was a system, ruled by order and not making time for ticket number forty-seven until number forty-six had been dealt with.

At the Bangladesh High Commission sure it was disordered, but the faces were friendly and they haven’t systemised it because people don’t mind waiting for a few extra minutes if the service is good and the conversation is interesting.

Perhaps I am jumping the gun a bit here, but it wouldn’t surprise me if this difference of cold system vs disordered hovel would prevail in the countries these embassies represented.

I’ll have to wait and see.