The Journey Begins

After two weeks of "recovering" from the road and enjoying the company of friends, I was looking forward to my trip to India. Mark (Erica - my college roommate's husband) had decided to join me before beginning work in Bangladesh while he still had the luxury of unemployment. Erica, tied to her job from Sunday to Thursday every week, made plans to meet up with us for five days in New Delhi and a day trip to the Taj Mahal.

Mark and I left the safety and security of he and Erica's plush Dhaka apartment for our 10:00 p.m. bus to Calcutta on Thursday evening. Unable to flag down a cab, we hopped into a CNG for the hour long ride through the crazy Dhaka traffic to the bus depot. Arriving with plenty of time to spare, we climbed aboard for our 12 hour over-night trip to Calcutta.

The bus was nice with comfortable seats that reclined back enough to make sleep a real possibility (much to my delight) and a boxed breakfast consisting of a banana, two slices of white bread, and two sweet breads. The only thing I could see standing between myself and a good nights sleep was the blaring Bangladeshi movie on the television at the front, which I was forced to drown out with even louder music from my discman. Unfortunately, my headphones haven't fared well over the past five months and now in order to get the sound to come out of both ear pieces, it is necessary to pull the wire taunt against the body of the discman, giving me the option of either staying awake enough to hold the wire, allowing me peace from the ridiculously loud movie, or attempting to sleep with music in one ear and Bangladeshi dialogue blaring in the other. I chose to rest and listen to the music, figuring that the movie couldn't go on forever.

A few hours later, having nodded off a few times, but not enough to feel any refreshing effects, I woke to find that the movie had just been shut off and the bus was dark, signaling, to me, that it was time to sleep. Smiling to myself, I put my headphones away, reclined my chair back as far as it could go (shouting a muted apology to the man behind me as I unintentionally squashed his knees) and settled in for a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Just as I closed my eyes, the smooth pavement we had been gliding along suddenly disappeared and was replaced by a rutted dirt road. The ride went from smooth and lulling to harsh and jarring in a matter of seconds. Soon thereafter the lights were turned on, along with the radio at an almost earsplitting volume, as a man came around with papers for the passengers to fill out to allow them to leave Bangladesh. Because we were not citizens of Bangladesh, we were not required to fill out any forms. The sound sleep I had foreseen just minutes earlier, lost in the melee.

We arrived at Bangalore at the Bangladesh/Indian border at 6:00 a.m. and we were asked to hand over our passports to the bus driver for processing and to then take our hand luggage and disembark. Mark went ahead while I packed up my things and by the time I made my way off of the bus, Mark was waiting with a young boy piloting a rickshaw van (a bicycle with a wooden platform behind the seat for transporting goods, or in this case, passengers). The bus driver had told Mark that we were to ride the rickshaw to the "office" and that the fare would be paid by the bus company. Not knowing where we were going, but figuring that we should probably head in the same direction as our passports, we set off.

The boy pulling us was talking to Mark in Bangali and when I asked what he was saying, Mark told me that the boy was saying that Mark had broken his mat when he stepped on it and now owed him 100 taka (63 taka - $1). My scam meter was suddenly aroused from where it had been slumbering for the past few weeks and starting going off incessantly. Mark seemed willing to pay the boy something just to shut him up, but not wanting to start off our trip in this manner, I asked him to simply tell the boy that he hadn't done anything and wasn't going to pay him and walk away. Knowing that Mark had done nothing, I figured there wasn't anything the boy could really do. When we got to the "office," the boy continued to demand payment. Unable to sit idly by while my travelmate was hassled incessantly, I stepped in front of the boy and in my most impassioned prevailed traveler impression shouted "No" until he finally went away.

The "office" was a big cement building consisting of two front rooms separated by a hallway leading to the bathrooms. The room on the left offered international phone services along with snacks and other conveniences, while the room on the right was filled with chairs and was serving as a waiting room for our busload of weary travelers. Mark and I took turns watching our bags and using the overcrowded unisex bathroom and then sat down to wait for our exit stamps out of Bangladesh.

An hour later, I was roused from my intermittent slumber as the bus driver began calling out names and handing out passports. When we received ours, a young man grabbed Mark's bag and motioned for him to follow. Hoisting my own pack - having brought a much smaller pack with me to India than I had in Cambodia - I followed as they led us out of Bangladesh and into India.

The first stop in India was the Indian customs office. We were motioned over to a counter behind which stood two imposing looking Indian men in military-esqe uniforms. The men said something to us in heavily accented English. After a few minutes, Mark decided that they were asking for a US dollar. Immediately reminded of Vietnam and now back into my openly suspicious traveling mode, my thoughts went to my hidden money pouch and thought gratefully of the small amount of money I had in any accessible place. Mark, not having any US dollars in his wallet, went for his money pouch. He pulled out a crisp US one dollar bill and laid it on the counter. His attention now turned to the contents of Mark's pouch, one of the officers put began pointing, gesturing to Mark that he wanted more and eventually, pawing at Mark helping himself to the contents of his pouch.

As they laid Marks money on the counter eyeing it greedily, one of the officers began looking over Mark's passport and then helpfully explained to us that Mark's passport did not allow for him to bring over such a large amount of US currency. Smelling a scam, I asked the man if we were allowed to bring in the same amount in rupees, to which he replied affirmatively. I then asked if there was somewhere where we could exchange all of our money into rupees and be on our way. The man began to confer in Hindi and then came back with a new tactic. Counting Mark's Bangladesh taka, they informed us that we were only allowed to bring in 300 taka and that they would have to confiscate the rest. My patience, already worn thin by the blaring music, the bumpy ride, the opportunistic kid, the hour long wait and the overall lack of sleep, gave way and I warmed up to my counter attack.

"Can you tell me why we aren't able to bring this money into your country? We are going to spend it in India. It doesn't make any sense that you would not want people spending money in your country. Do you have any documentation to back up any of these policies that you are throwing out at us?" And finally, "WE ARE NOT LEAVING YOU WITH ONE CENT OF OUR MONEY UNLESS YOU CAN SHOW PROOF OF THESE POLICIES, IN WRITING, IN ENGLISH!" Seemingly at a loss for further scam tactics, the men handed Mark back all of his money and we walked through customs to get our stamps into India.

Incredulous at the blatant dishonesty of the Indian customs officers, but exceedingly proud of myself for not being duped, I followed Mark onto the bus that would take us on the final leg of our journey to Calcutta.