Once again, a situation of panic, all 4 of us only being awoken with the train pulling into the stn, + hurriedly packing + getting off. Said farewell to D + S – they were off to find a hotel, + hope soon to leave Bangladesh for Darjeeling direct. We hoped to be leaving on the “Rocket” paddle-steamer tonight, but we had a chore or 2 to perform first. The first of these was to the airport, where we hoped to buy some duty-free whiskey + cigarettes. We had already brought one batch in, of course, but I was sure I had seen a sign up saying one could buy such things, up to a month after arrival. So, since the stuff we had brought in had not been checked in any way, we thought we might as well give it a try.
The journey out there, by rickshaw + then bus, was not as painful as I had feared – the problem was that it had begun to rain, + we arrived at the airport terminal in a slightly soggy state. And when we attempted to get our illicit booze in a licit manner, we got nowhere. No, it was not possible for us to enter the duty-free zone, + no, they knew nothing about any sign. I had half-expected as much, it had never seemed to make much sense, + I was ready to give up the idea at that point. But Val is made of stubborner stuff, + hated to give up on the money the stuff would bring us in India. At any rate, she steeled herself to obtaining the stuff illicitly, by simply walking in thro’ the exit gate. I couldn’t watch, I’ll confess, but she was gone a reassuringly long time, + returned sure enough, with 2 carrier bags: one whiskey (Johnnie Walker), one cigarettes (555). For one glorious moment, I thought she had performed a miracle + got mine as well, but no, it was my turn next. And after such an example, how could I demur? She gave me swift instructions, assured me it was a piece of cake, + I was off.
There were quite a lot of security chaps about, but either my white skin or my hastily acquired air of confident bravado were sufficient to deter them from enquiring about my business. The fact that a flight had just arrived, + that customs + immigration were full up with white-robed pilgrims returned from Mecca did me no harm whatsoever, + thro’ the white tide I marched to the Duty Free counter, There my order was filled quickly + efficiently. An airport worker also thrust extra dollars into my hand + persuaded me to buy extra cigarettes, feeling exhilarated by my success so far, I gave it a try. No go, however – they would only sell me the one carton. So, it was back the way I had come.
Even more nerve-wracking really, since how on earth could I explain what I was doing, technically outside the country attempting to come in, bearing one bottle of whiskey + one carton of cigarettes. But I needn’t have worried. I squeezed past the pilgrims lined up at passport control – not even a glance from the officer there – swerved away from the customs officials, + out thro’ the doors. And a most unlikely returnee from Mecca I must have looked too. I hasten to remind you that mine was no wondrous achievement, I was merely following in the pioneering footsteps of Ms Jonas. I knew that she had gone in + returned unscathed + victorious, so I should be able to do so too. And I did. But I can’t tell her story, I can only tell mine. Without, I hope, claiming credit where credit is not due.
We returned to town by bus, then took a rickshaw out to the boat office. There was the usual contretemps at the other end over the fare, but we exercised our usual veto on the discussion by simply walking away. The man in the shipping office said there would be no chance of a 2nd class cabin on tonight’s sailing, + tho’ we had already decided that Deck class would make for a miserable trip, it looks tho’ we would have to take it anyway, since we did not intend to stay another night in Dacca. We could buy our deck class tickets on board, he told us, but as it hadn’t arrived yet, we left our bags in the office + went out for a walk.
Breakfast came first, a pleasant meal in a small café where they were obviously delighted to serve us. That done, we decided we should change some money – if we had known the trouble it would cause, we might well not have bothered. The first bank I tried did not do Foreign Exchange, + the manager told me so. I asked where I should go. Clearly the manager was dealing with an imbecile. He shouted at me. “No foreign exchange here,” at point blank range. Only slightly shaken, I repeated my enquiry. He seemed to understand, at any rate he rattled out some name or other. I was none the wiser – it takes me more than one hearing to fix a long foreign name in my head. I sighed, + asked him to repeat it. “Eximoojee,” (it might well have been.) Tell the rickshaw driver Eximoojee,” he barked, loudly. No, sorry, I still hadn’t caught it, + tried to explain that my attempting to give directions to the rickshaw driver by parroting his directions would not be likely to get us very far. A kinder (+ dare I say wiser?) soul perceived the difficulty, + came outside with me + instructed the rickshaw driver where to take us. He also negotiated a price (tho’ not, I suspect, a very good one.) That was not, however, the end of our troubles.
Our man started off confidently enough, with us attempting to follow his route in case it were possible to walk back. But after a time he turned to us + shrugged his shoulders expressively. “Where is it you want to go?” they said. We hadn’t a clue, of course, + obviously his instructions hadn’t been precise enough, or else he hadn’t understood them properly, but we spotted a largish-looking bank, + Val seemed to think it must be the same name as the one we had just come from, so we pointed over there. In I went again, to meet the same story: no Foreign Exchange here, you have to go to Head Office. The consolation was that this time the man I spoke to was sympathetic, spoke better English. I explained that we had already been re-directed once, implying, quite truthfully, that I was becoming a little fed up with it. He was non-plussed. “You’re sure?” he asked anxiously. “To Sofano Bank? Workers’ branch?” I couldn’t be absolutely sure, of course, but I told him what was very nearly the truth. “I don’t know. The man at the other bank gave the rickshaw man directions, + he brought us here.” At this my interviewer – young, smart, attentive – turned grave. “Just a moment,” he said, + disappeared into the inner sanctum.
In 5 mins he was back. “Come!” he exclaimed triumphantly. “I will take you.” This wasn’t quite what I wanted, but I obviously didn’t have a great deal of choice, + followed him out to where Val was waiting on the pavement. He engaged 2 rickshaws, leapt upon the first himself, while we took the 2nd, + set off in furiously pedalled pursuit, into the business heart of Dacca, a part we had not seen. When we arrived at the bank, our mentor paid off his men, + I expected to see him no more, but he took us inside, + while Val sought out a comfortable seat, I was taken up to the Foreign Exchange dept, just one desk among many. From here on, I knew what the procedure would be, having witnessed it in Chittagong. And I was quite right, except that this being so much a larger bank, the man I dealt with had younger versions of himself available to run around + have forms filled in, stamps stamped, cheques checked, + eventually, after about 45 mins or so, the money handed out. He merely presided.
Just as I was receiving + counting my money, the man from the other bank re-appeared + urged me to hurry downstairs, as my wife had fallen asleep, a situation he regarded far more seriously than I did. But once we had gone down to fetch her, we were installed once again in the rickshaw, + asked where we wanted to go. We told him the Shipping Agency, which he transmitted to the rickshaw man, before paying him. He took care to instruct us that the man had already been paid, + we weren’t to give him any more money. Our friend had been so very kind, we thanked him profusely.
The journey back was very long, + at the other end I gave our man a taka. He was scarcely grateful, feeling no doubt that one taka over the approved rate was scarcely sufficient compensation for carrying 2 Westerners. But that was another chore done, tho’ it took us most of the morning to do it.
We walked once more along the waterfront, dodging men carrying huge burdens on their heads or backs, as well as the rickshaws + bicycle trollies weaving in + out. We wanted to buy some fruit, but the enterprise did not begin well. We stopped at an old man’s stall, where Val picked out half a dozen bananas, which she handed to me. But when the old man quoted what I was sure was a hugely inflated price, I became so angry that I didn’t even stop to argue – I merely flung them back into his basket. Wrong of me, in retrospect, but it was how I felt. The second incident was worse. We stopped at an apple stall, + after a little while agreed on a price for a kilo, which the young bloke then weighed out carefully on his simple balance. We paid him. + had just started to walk away when Val realised she had nothing like a kilo’s weight in her hands. We spun round + thrust them back at the man, who proceeded to weigh them again. “But that’s not a kilo,” said Val, pointing to the weight sitting in the other pan. “Yes, yes, a kilo,” he insisted. But by now, quite a crowd had gathered to watch the fuss, + one or 2 of them soon confirmed that the weight, stamped in Sanskrit, was a half-kilo. The apple seller could see he had lost, sourly thrust a few more apples into the bag. I had remained fairly cool up till the handover, but now I really blew my top, + told the bloke what I thought of him. I also prodded him a bit, hoping to provoke sufficient reaction to give me the chance to belt him I suppose. He wasn’t happy, but didn’t respond sufficiently, so I marched away. Curiously, that seemed to dispel my bad temper, for the rest of our walk, I joked + laughed with the young beggars + various sellers.
At around lunchtime we collected our bags + went aboard, where we were immediately ushered upstairs to Second Class, despite all our protestations. They couldn’t, or wouldn’t, understand, + really we weren’t too distressed, for the 2nd class deck was a more comfortable place to sit + relax while we waited for the situation to be sorted, far better than the hot + smelly lower deck. It was wonderfully pleasant, sitting on deck in our cane chairs, watching the frenzied life on the river below us – boats of all shapes + sizes, propelled by wind, oar + diesel. Eventually, the ticketing officer came aboard – it was of course our friend from the office. He wanted to know what we were doing in 2nd class, + we explained that we had not been allowed to remain below. There ensued a discussion between him + various officials concerned with running the 2nd class section – in Bengali, naturally – the outcome being that it was discovered that there was a 2nd class cabin available, after all, “because you are guests in our country.” We’d been guests a few hours before, but it didn’t seem polite to remind him. I am certain now that he knew all along there could be room for us, but was looking for baksheesh – a bribe. The idea had occurred to us before, in fact, but the whole notion is so alien to us that we hadn’t known how to approach it. But the deed was done, + we felt much happier about it.
The good thing was that we now had a very pleasant cabin to ourselves, with an electric fan each, + opening direct onto the deck. The bad was, not having counted on spending so much money for the trip, we were now very short. We had made tentative enquiries about changing $5 cash, but we were offered such a poor rate that we turned it down, out of principle than because of the money involved. But it was a bit awkward. We ordered just the one evening meal between us, which we ate in our cabin – luckily there was a good amount.
Just before we sailed, a man came on board bearing a huge stack of pamphlets + magazines in Sanskrit, plus his English section, 2 old Penguin copies of Howard’s “Forster’s End”. Having so little cash, we had to persuade him to accept a US dollar as part payment, but he wouldn’t take our word about the correct exchange rate. I had to show him today’s bank receipt.
Really quite the most extraordinary day, with battle after battle with authority, all of which, despite the odds, we seem to have won, emerging victorious with whiskey, cigarettes, money, a 2nd class cabin… Disappointing that I allowed myself to become so angry with the fruit-seller, but that does seem to be an increasing pattern, that I am allowing the strains and stresses of daily negotiations to affect my merntal health. Which is a very modern way of looking at it, as we never used to refer to mental health in such a way, but true, nonetheless.
