I love the NHS

Last time I needed a medical and a pile* of injections I went along to my local doctor. Which happened to be a Student Health service as I was (duh) a student. No problem, you might think. I certainly didn't. Surely the travel concious, injection happy student would find their local student health an ameniable source for travel related fun at reasonable prices, right? After all, students are poor. And they want to travel a lot (I know: insane paradox) So surely student health services should be competitive with their pricing of injections, medicals and the like.

Well they are competitive... With the black market and international gangsters. Unfortunatley, not with the real world. £40 for medicals, and vaccination rates moving into triple figures for a few weeks in Eastern Europe... I felt burnt. Physically scarred for life. Well, okay, maybe not. But I was really, really angry for about ten minutes. And then I realised that I was with lovely student health. And not in the real world of the NHS and its horrific prices. And I felt greatful.

Cut to this year. I'm now planning on leaving the country for a year. Working in rural Brazil and India. I'm going to need a lot of injections. And one heck of a medical. But now I'm not a student anymore. I'm a real person working in the real world. (Note: the fact that I still look sixteen and work in a university is incidental to this story) I wouldn't be able to go to friendly student health anymore. I'd need to go to a proper doctor's. Cue cold sweats. Nervous nights tossing and turning, adding up the exorbitant prices in my head and waiting for the pain of the dawn.

Things started as expected. Yellow Feaver jabs (essential for South American travel) were provided at £40. I was already crying on the inside. Then I went back for Hepetitus A, B and Typhoid. I got the jabs. I felt the pain. I waited for the bill and... nothing. Zero. Zip. What would have cost £11.50 per shot in student world was now provided for less than the price of half a Chomp bar... And then came the medical. The same lengthy excercise in weight, measurement and genital feeling as I'd gone through previously. For the incredible cost of... £10. (Or, the price of 50 Chomp bars) Elation.

To summarise: Total cost of injections and medicals from student health = skywards of £120 (I'm not sure exactly. I was so moritified by the cost I never had them all. I mean, when was the last time you actually *got* Rabies?) Total cost from my lovely NHS local doctor = £48.50. Give or take some more money for anti-malarials at a later date. But still, the point is made. Although prices may vary and your local doctors may not be quite so worldly and decent as mine. And maybe your student health service is the paragon of value for money and kindness. Whatever the case, the conclusion is this: don't register with student health. Ever. They may be convinient and make all the right noises about being student friendly and whatever. But, really, what they really do is remind you what you should really love about the NHS: not paying inflated prices for feeling your testicles. God love 'em.

(* = unsure of the plural for injections. A pile? An armful? Loads? The mind boggles)

How to Make an American Visa. Three hour edition.

Seeing as how I'm currently still in the UK it's rather difficult to fill this blog with tales of daring do about the rest of the world. But I can do a good line in everyone's favourite accompniment to global discovery: bureacracy. So for those about to go through the procedure of obtaining an American J-1 visa, or for those who stumbled on this page by accident and just fancy some self punishment, here is my exhaustive guide to the process.

Stage 1: Getting your American job

There are plenty of *crazy* Visas which allow you to spend time working and/or playing in the States but I know nothing about them. Whether it be a B, C, K, L or indeed a D: I'm completley clueless. You're on your own getting yourself to a position where you might apply for one of these. But once you do I imagine the later stages are basically the same (especially the queing. More on this later.)

For the rest of you wanting to either study abroad for a year or work on a summer camp, this is the right Visa for you. Summer camp jobs are very easy to come by if you fulfill some basic criteria (active, like children, not sociopathic homocidal maniac etc.) and have a summer to burn. They're also a great way to explore the States as you're guaranteed at least a month's travel time after your job finishes (assuming you don't have to go back to uni. or work or whatever) If you're interested, the two companies you want to make friends with are Camp America and BUNAC

Note that travelling to the US and trying to find your own summer job is nigh on impossible. Because you won't have a Visa. Like, duh.

Stage 2: The Forms
AKA the second circle of hell

There are forms. And then there are FORMS. Trust me: nobody does forms like the US State Department.

So, check this out. If you're a male aged between 17-40 and you want to work on a US summer camp next year you'll find yourself filling out at least half a dozen of these beasts. And that doesn't mean you'll have them, go off to the Embassy and spend a pleasant half hour jotting things on them in the waiting room. These need to be downloaded, filled in and have things thoroughly stapled to them before you get to the front door.

The biggest beast of them all is the DS-156. (AKA nightmare electronica) Actually, it's probably the least intimidating. It *is* the one you need to get everything right on, but it's also now necessary to complete it entirely on-line. This is a *good* thing because it means you can convey all the salient information about your life, experience and lack of genocidal tendencies without the inconvinience of your awful handwriting to expose what a crazy person you really are. Assuming you have a job confirmed in the States and the necessary contact details, it's a sinch. And you even get your own barcode/identity tags at the end of it so you can feel branded like the criminal you (probably) are.

Two words of warning about the DS-156:

Photo You will not (and, I repeat, not) be able to use a standard UK passport sized photo on this form. That would be too easy. Instead, you need (and, I repeat, need) to get ahold of US standard passport photos (which are two inches square and, generally, are much bulkier than necessary. Insert appropriate US/UK comparison witticism here) You may have some intricate dark art involving a digitial camera and a photo printer to assist you in this arcane ritual. The rest of us have to go to the scarily named SnappySnaps and pay twenty quid for the blasted thing.

Payment Nothing in life is free. And, if you want the US Embassy people to even look at you in the right way then you need to pay the fee which they send through to you at any Barclay's Bank. Handily, the slightly harrassed looking people at the door of the Embassy will whip themselves up into a frenzy reminding everyone in the queue about this payment so, if you have forgotten to do it, you can join the convey heading down to Barclay's Bank, Mayfair to get it done on the day. But best to do it in advance. (A final word on payment: the DS-156 makes various references to stapling proof of payment to the form. You may assume this simply means "Attach the bugger", but you'd be wrong. First hand experience at the Embassy tells me that there is an officially sanctionned US State Department regimental procedure for the attachment of payment slips to the DS-156. I know this because my carefully stapled form was greeted with a sigh, a grimace and then unceremonious unstapling. Regulation US embassy glue (extra shiny!) was then used to attach the payment to the form in a way which I can only describe as: patriotically satisfying. The correct form of attachment is to glue the top half of the payment at the bottom half of the form and then fold the bottom half over the bottom half of the form. If that made any sense then, congratulations! You could get a job in Visa processing! Form an ordely queue at the job centre and watch your life slip away, one application at a time.)

The other forms (the DS-158 and, if you were unfortunate enough to be born a man, curse your parents and fill in the DS-157) are pretty straightforward but, sadly, handwritten. This is easy for some people but I did spend a good hour with a lovely young lady from Sudan who was having terrible trouble understanding the form and its rather loose assossiation of instructions to the little boxes you need to fill in. If in doubt: plead ignorance or check the US Embassy website)

Stage 3: Your Visit to the US Embassy
Or: how I learned to stop worrying and love tedious voiceover


See this building? See it? Take a good, long look buster! You're going to be getting *real* familliar with it pretty soon...

So you've filled in the forms, you've got your appointment at the Embassy and your lovely little interview time. That means you wander in, get interviewed and get out, right? Wrong, loser! You see, approxametly two hundred other people will have the same interview time as you. So when you turn up at the Embassy on that bright March morning, you'll find yourself at the back at quite a long queue.

The thing you need to worry about least is missing your interview time. As long as you're at the Embassy around half an hour before the time printed on your letter, you'll find you are accepted into the time displacement chamber which is the US embassy. Things happen differently in this building. Time doesn't follow the usual rules. Basically, you do things when *they* say you do them. Just take the whole day of work, strap in and hope for the best.

Final point of warning: remember the harassed employee standing in the queue gibbering on about payment slips? Well, they'll also be waving their arms around manically and spitting something about envelopes. Ignore your basic survival instincts and listen to their rantings: you need this mysterious envelope. It may be that by the time of writing this the Embassy has gotten its act together and told folks that they need this before they join the queue on cold winter's mornings. In any case, this is a relativly new instrument of torture added to an already overly complicated application process. Thankfully, it's very simple. March your way to a post office and ask them for a pre-paid Special Delivery envelope. They will give you a thoroughly dissapointing looking plastic bag with a few stamps stuck on it. Guard this with your life. It's more valuable. (If you are get to the queue without this and are told to get it, the post office is only five minutes away. And you get the bonus excitement of queing with a dozen other people wanting exactly the same thing. The employees of the Mayfair post office are well versed in this little ritual and will have your envelope ready before you can say "I was just at that silly American place and they asked me to get a...")

Got your envelope? And your forms? With photos and payment? Good... Didn't forget your passport? Clever boy/girl. You are now ready to join:

The Queue: Here's the first test. There will be two queues. Follow your British instincts and join the longest. (The shorter one, assuming it *is* shorter, is for the last interview time. So if you arrive at 9.30am for a 10.00am appointment then the shorter queue will be the last of the 9.30am people still getting through security.)

The reason for this hideously long queue is that everyone needs to pass through the security checkpoints before gaining access to the Embassy. Put away your passport etc. You don't need them. Just get out the letter confirming your interview time, warm your hands in your pockets and try to suss out which of your fellow queue members are Americans standing in the wrong place by judging how irate they are. Then engage them in conversation and ask them to explain social security numbers to you. You'll find the half hour wait just flies by!

Assuming you get through security, you'll find yourself directed round the building and inside to:

The Lobby: Which looks suspisously like a hospital waiting room. Only much bigger. Your suspisions will be further confirmed by the little machine you need to press buttons on to get a waiting line number. Yes, it's just there to confirm what you knew when you filled in the DS-156: You are a number, not a human being.

You will now find yourself sitting down and awaiting your appointment. At this stage, if you didn't bring a book you'll wish you had. And if you did, you'll wish you hadn't because you'll constantly be looking up at the colourful noticeboard trying to estimate when you'll be seen by the mysterious Embassy employees.

This first wait will be, probably, around half an hour. (Or, in my case, about as long as it takes to explain the word 'immigration' to the Sudaneese girl to your right) You will then be directed to a window where you hand in your lovingly prepared paperwork. Watch with tears in your eyes as all your careful folding, gluing and stapling is ignored and your application is dismembered before your eyes.

At this stage you might have been lulled into thinking that the procedure is nearly over. Au contrare. It has just begun. The lovely indivudal behind the plexiglass screen will now inform you that your application is awaiting review and you must return to your seat and await the interview. Cue more waiting and more finger drumming. But, this time, with the added bonus excitement that the numbers for the queue this time around are called *in a completley random order* At this stage, amuse yourself listening to the irate interviewers calling the same number over and over again and spend some time wondering how anyone could possibly get lost in a single room. It's a mystery worthy of Fox Mulder.

Eventually, around the time you're seriously considering eating your own hand, your number will be called. You can then attend:

The Interview: I can only speak from experience. But this part of the visit can only be described as anticlimatic. Once again you will find yourself in front of your paperwork behind a plexiglass screen. But this time you'll find the person accompnying it to be smiling, conversational and, in my case, American. (Obviously there's something about filing paperwork which is soul crushingly destroying given the not so excited attitude of the first employee I dealt with. I sure hope the Embassy rotates them and lets them all interview from time to time. I might write in and suggest it.)

My interviewer was chirpy, helpful and amusing. No doubt this is to put all terrorists at ease so they let details of their masterplan slip. However, such incidious tactics are wasted on me. I told her nothing. Except where I lived, what I did for a living and what I would be doing for the next year.. Hey, she was a sweetheart, what can I say? Assuming that all has been done correctly, this moment (the apex of this whole procedure) will be the swiftest and easiest part of the day. They'll type all your details into the computer and assure you that your passport will be with you in five days (Liar! Mine was back in the office in three!) I believe it is possible to come unstuck here if you're unable to prove you're going to leave the US after the summer has ended. If you're a student, or have a job lined up or, indeed, any proof of ties to this country then you'll have no problem. However, even if you don't, it doesn't seem to matter for us Brits. I provided no evidence of ongoing study, a new job or any *real* assurances I'd leave the country besides my round the world ticket details. And not an eye-lid was batted. So don't worry, answer all the questions and above all: flirt. You know you want to.

Stage 4: Escape

Three hours after entering I stepped out blinking into the midday sun. In summary, this procedure is not quite so intimidating as it would appear (assuming your motives for entering the US are, of course, not on the 'evil' side of the spectrum) I wouldn't go so far as to call it user friendly. But as long as you read everything you are sent, do everything that is expected of you and always assume that they're right and you're wrong, you'll do fine... Welcome to the USA!

Map of the Phworld

So where in in the Phworld am I going, do you ask? Well, ask no more thanks to the wonders of red-line-o-map!

Starting in the USA on June 15th at Camp Aldersgate I'll be spending nine weeks working with the lovely kids and staff therein. After some time travelling across the States visiting friends in Cincinnati, San Diego, Vancouver (okay, that one's in Canada) and Greensboro I'll be heading off to Brazil for three months volunteer work in Florianopolis. Then, after stints in Chilie and New Zealand, I am hitting Oz to become a casual worker about town (not sure *which* town yet). Finally, the home leg. Hong Kong and three months volunteering in India. (Three different projects. Working with kids in Dehli, followed by a rural community close to Lucknow and finally a forestry project in Dehradun)

Hello, and welcome to Phil's Phworld

Phil's Phworld is quite like the world you live now. But also, its very different. It's like looking out of your window at your familliar garden through a kalidescope. There's a small bird out there. And it's staring back at you with furious anger in its tiny, birdy eyes. You're scared. You're confused. You don't know whether to keep looking at the bird or ignoring it until it goes away. This is my Phworld. Welcome.

Over the next year I'm going to be exploring the Phworld. Travelling its oceans. Meeting its peoples. Arguing with its dumb check in desk clerks. And you can join me... Not literally, of course, unless you have a couple of grand lying around the place. But metaphorically. spiritually and, most importantly of all, thousands of miles away from me. All thanks to this blog.

Needless to say: I despise blogging. Bloggers are either overly hormonal, deeply pretentious students. Or frustrated writers who seem allergic to pen and ink. Or lazy e-mailers who don't want to type out the same thing ten times. This is, therefore, why me and blogging are a perfect fit. For, you see, there is nobody more frustrating, pretentious and lazy as me.

Seriously, though, I have suffered the perils of the traveller's e-mail many times in my life. A rambling mess of facts, figures and e-mail addresses destined to clog up inboxes and incur jealous rage as travellers swan about talking about how great their travelling is. Far be it from me to contribute to this epidemic: I love writing about travels and work and letting folks know what I'm up to. But I don't want to force anyone to do the same thing if you don't want. I'd like you to read. And to make comments. I want to feel your love or, indeed, your bile in pretty comment form.

So this blog is part diary, part cheap excuse for novel writing and, also, hopefully a tool full of practical type advice on all manner of travel related craziness. From jabs to Visas. From flights to treks. It'll all be here. My findings, my mistakes, my misery and my joy. My Phworld. I hope you enjoy it too.