A Travel Junkie's Diary

by Dina Bennett

  Relegated to the exterior, the two men commenced slamming fists on the doors and hood, screaming in fury while at the same time jabbing numbers into their cell phones. We sat inside, watching pedestrians come to a standstill and then move slowly forward in politely distracted fashion, staring somberly at the shouting men and avoiding eye contact with the two of us imprisoned in our car. Their grim faces conveyed that we were in deep trouble. I remembered the advice of the friendly bystander in Orchha some years earlier, who had circumspectly alluded to what would happen to a driver who’d crashed into our car if we allowed the police to take him to their station. So I knew what was crossing the mind of every one of those wary and watchful bystanders … that were it they in the vehicle and not we foreigners, broken limbs and smashed skulls would be the order of the day. There were looks of hope and of horror on those faces. They understood something I was still denying: that we had run the Nepal border and were illegally in India.

  My heart leaped and collided with my brain when Bernard said, “I have to get out.”

  “No Bernard, don’t!” I pleaded. More and more men were edging ever closer to the car, roiled by the imminent possibility of someone being sent to jail or perhaps beaten right there. A vision of Bernard disappearing, pulled to the ground within their slowly agitating midst, flashed inside my eyes.

  “Here, keep these,” and he handed me the heavy bunch of Land Rover keys, which I put in my purse, figuring that was a place as close to my body as possible without being part of my skin, and therefore protected from being grabbed or pulled away. Unless things got really bad.

  Bernard smiled out his window and pushed open his car door. As he did so the crowd gave way in a long rippling sigh. He walked over to the chubby man who stood on my side of the car and leaned in, making it obvious he was happy to chat. The man shoved him forcefully back, waving and shouting into his phone all the while. Truck drivers, foot travelers, villagers heading to market, all stopped their journey to enjoy the new local diversion: us. I sat in the car, windows closed, doors locked, rigid with nervous anxiety. The sun beat down on the roof, raising the temperature in the sealed interior until sweat dripped down my spine and dampened the back of my thighs.

  When the chubby man finished spewing his outrage into his phone he rounded on Bernard with fury, thrusting his face close, his anger raising him on tiptoes as he pointed to us, our car, his motorbike, and shouted, spittle flying, “Passports! PASSPORTS!” If letting him take the car keys was anathema to us, giving over our passports to the man so recently believed a thief was even more so. Bernard shook his head. The man jabbed his phone for another call, appearing to be as flustered by Bernard’s refusal as by his own apparent lack of English. Deciding that if Bernard were going to jail, I would go with him, I got out of the car, too. The crowd exhaled a gasping ohhhh when I emerged. For a second I thrilled at being the extra spice in this roadside drama.

  A small blue sedan arrived from the direction we’d come and three men in pressed shirts and creased trousers got out. The others immediately relaxed, relieved to give responsibility for us and our transgression to these more senior officials. They huddled together briefly and then a slender man with lank black hair detached himself from the cluster. “Sir,” he said, his voice polite but tinged with irritation, “Do you know where you are?”

  Bernard knew the answer to that one. “Nepal.”

  “No, sir. You are in India.”

  “India? But we haven’t crossed the border yet.” I hid my eyes, not wanting to give away what I’d seen.

  “Indeed you have, sir. And why is that? Why did you not stop when this gentleman here signaled you to? Why did you ignore him when he tried to stop you?” His pitch rose to strident.

  Bernard looked at me. I am the trip navigator. It is my responsibility to notice things like country borders and deal with them. My shame and the implications of my faux pas kept me tongue-tied. I lied by shrugging my shoulders in commiseration, too embarrassed to admit my mistake, too frightened to say a word.

  “You will come with us now.”

  We looked at the crowd crushing into the car. “We can’t leave the car,” Bernard said.

  “Of course not, sir,” said the official, showing a reasonable side that gave me a moment of relief. “My guard will ride with you. Madam will ride with us.”

  That they were separating us did not bode well. I rely on Bernard’s sense of propriety in these situations, on his calm assertions that all will be well, especially if I would stop my dithering. When things leap beyond my control in a foreign country I become alarmed, which leads to me being judgmental and acting inappropriately. He relaxes into the adventure. His willingness to treat everyone as an interesting friend is what got us out of the bribe-influenced clutches of Siberian police. I wanted to be nowhere but by his side. My desires were not to be consulted, as the official was already holding open the passenger door of his sedan and a guard was adjusting his rifle to climb into the passenger seat of the Land Rover. We entered our respective vehicles. The crowd raised a collective moan as our doors shut.

  We drove back several miles toward Nepal. When we pulled down that drive bounded by lawn and flowers I couldn’t help turning to the official and telling him, “So this is where the Indian border entry offices are. Why aren’t there signs for it?” I played all innocent and troubled by our mistake, setting the scene for us to be viewed as hapless travelers. He was having none of it.

  “Madam, if you had paid attention to the indications of my assistant,” and he pointed to the chubby man perspiring happily in the back seat, “We would not now have this trouble.” Every time he referred to our troubles it was like an electric shock zinging through my body, a reminder that while he seemed diplomatic he had a duty to fulfill. I had no idea what sort of punishment border running entailed. This could wind up being the delay to end all delays.

  Outside the border control building we moved into parade formation, the senior official in the role of drum major, Bernard and I in the middle smile-and-wave positions, chubby motorbike flunky and armed guards bringing up the rear. “No one’s handcuffed us yet,” I whispered to Bernard. “That must be a good sign.” Lowly civil servants sat at battered desks, drowning amongst high, untidy stacks of forms. They looked up and then abashedly ducked their heads as we walked by. Down one dim gray hall we marched, hard right down another, passing open doorways through which I could see crowded desks, too many people in too small a space for the desultory ceiling fans to keep cool. A sweet-sour mix of ink, old sweat, and humid paper was heavy in the air.

  The Indian official ushered us into his office. Only the chubby man was allowed to remain, while a chair-wallah was sent to bring us seats from a neighboring bureau. “So,” our officer turned interrogator began, when we were all seated. “You understand that you have left Nepal without following formalities. And that you entered India without permission.” We nodded. “This is a serious matter.” We nodded again. “Passports please.” We handed them over.

  He thumbed through them in leisurely fashion, seeming more interested in visas for Afghanistan, Iran, Turkmenistan, China, and others, than in inspecting our entry stamp for Nepal and our lack of entry stamp for India. “In India we do not take this offense lightly.”

  “But everyone was crossing without stopping,” Bernard said, with utmost politeness. “We thought we were supposed to do the same.”

  “Ah. Well, what you saw is correct. For Nepali citizens. And Indian citizens. Because our two countries have such an agreement. I believe you are neither,” he finished, tapping our US passports on his desk like a pack of cards. Now I understood the persistent stream of foot traffic. It was open borders between the two neighbors, easing trade barriers and improving border relations—and shopping opportunities—for those who lived nearby.

  “That is wonderful! It’s nice to be good neighbors,” I exclaimed with honest enthusiasm, as if chatting with the president of a home owner’s association. I rolled my eyes
to express just how tiresome border formalities could be, then quickly blinked as I realized now was not the time to disparage formalities of any sort.

  “And you have a car,” the official continued. “Your car is from …?”

  “UK,” said Bernard, aware that he was instantly complicating matters further. For what would two American citizens be doing with a British-registered car? It was all highly suspicious.

  To buy time, or prolong his afternoon’s enjoyment, the officer summoned a boy who’d been idling in the dark hallway. “Chai?” he asked us.

  “Absolutely,” we answered together. I took this as my secret silver lining, since not once in all our times in India has Bernard ever drunk the local tea. He hates it. Sipping tea together seemed to bode well. Once you’ve extended hospitality as a host, or partaken of local hospitality as a guest, the rules change, as in my book it then becomes impolite to impose harsh sanctions. And Indians are very polite people.

  Perhaps sensing the anxiety that was seething below my twitching exterior, the officer turned to me. “Madam, to relax please,” he said to me in a kindly tone. “It is all right. You are here now. We will discuss the matter.” I took this to mean that jail might not be in the offing after all. But we had run the border. Surely we would be made to pay, in one way or another.

  He turned to Bernard who, as the male, was worthier of his questioning. “Now, tell me why you are driving this car and where you are going.” Bernard launched into how we’d started forty days earlier in Istanbul, crossing ten countries before arriving in Nepal. That we had only a few days more to drive before reaching our terminus in Kolkata. That we were not only capable of proper border etiquette, but diligently observant about following it.

  The officer became expansive as we waited for the chai-wallah to return with tea. We were the best thing that had happened to him in a long time. We told him about journeys we’d taken in the Land Rover, which led him to digress from the travels to discuss the manly subject of car mechanics with Bernard. The boy returned with a tin tray bearing four small glasses, serving the officer first, us second, chubby man last. The officer was fascinated by it all, pursing his lips, nodding, sipping loudly from his shot glass of sweet milky black tea. We followed suit, alternately slurping and talking, relieved to have found a point of common interest other than that we were scofflaws.

  “You must agree, sir, madam,” he said, nodding apologetically to each of us in turn, “we have a problem. But what to do?” I waited for some sign of the size bribe he would accept, a discretely scrawled number, an insertion of hand in pocket. His hands stayed still. Everyone waited. He spread his arms wide on the table, seemed to take a decision, and said, “We must look in the Land Rover.”

  “Oh my god,” I hissed to Bernard as he led us back down the hallway. “He’s going to make us empty the car. That’s the punishment. He has all day, we don’t, and he knows it.”

  “Shhh!” Bernard hissed back. “I think he’s looking for a way to save face.” I did not believe Bernard. There was an opening here if only we could see it, something that would enable us to dodge the oncoming train wreck of unpacking the Land Rover and enable us to get back on our way. I could think only bad things. One calamity was that while the officer plied us with tea and questions, his minions had stashed drugs in the car, which they would now discover. Another was that he would order the car not only emptied, but dismantled, which would take a day at least. I couldn’t even imagine how long it would take to put back together, let alone if it even could be.

  We gathered around the car, more guards and minor border officials emerging from offices to join the viewing party. They were all attired in the manner of the minor functionary, loose-fitting shirts ragged around collar and cuffs, slacks that were too long and scuffed around the edges, sandals. The senior man took up his post behind the car, gestured to Bernard to unlock the back door, stood with his hands clasped behind his back. Not for him to sully his fingers picking through our goods. A soldier heaved Bernard’s big green duffel out and set it on the ground. My blue one joined it. Boxes with tools, cookstove, and spares, our nylon collapsible chairs and a jaunty tri-color umbrella still in its protective plastic sheath, followed. I prayed my duffel would escape their notice. If they were to unzip it they would find several days of dirty laundry, including lingerie, plainly visible on top.

  But the officer wasn’t interested in our personal items. He wanted to see car parts. Bernard opened the main tool box filled with orderly rows of shining wrenches, sprocket fittings, and screw drivers. The functionaries leaned in as one, eager to see the miraculous repair kit, so many tools owned by one man who wasn’t even a garage mechanic. Now it was the cookstove’s turn. Bernard demonstrated how to light it, we held the little coffee pot aloft, I opened the jar containing powdered coffee, holding it out for any who wanted to sniff. Realizing there was a packet of cookies in the stores, I opened it and offered it to the officer. After he happily took two I gave the packet to the man next to him, gesturing for him to help himself and pass it around.

  Next the officer stalked to the front and had Bernard open the hood. Bernard adores engines and is always willing to explain what he knows. He began pointing out the location of various engine essentials to the officer, who nodded and pointed and stroked his chin. “Very good car,” he said. “Very good!” It appeared to please him that the vehicle he’d captured was in such excellent shape, as if it were a credit to him and his position that such a fine car was now in his clutches. He walked back around the car, peering through the windows at Bernard’s camera cases and our jackets on the rear seat, noting the mammoth pink bottle of Indian shampoo I’d stuck in the netting behind. Bernard was now fully in the spirit of displaying the car, so he unlocked the side door and revealed the mini-fridge inside. I took out a half-empty bottle of mango juice, that morning’s refreshment, and passed it around. No one dared drink, but everyone smiled to feel the cold bottle in their hands.

  After an hour of this show and tell the officer looked around. He, too, seemed at a loss for what to do next. After some reflection he called over the guards and spoke to them briefly. Then they left his side and headed for us. “This is it,” I thought. “I wonder if my sister will fly over to get me out of jail. So I can then get Bernard out of jail.”

  “My guards will escort you to the Nepal border station. I will give them a document with my stamp, explaining that while it looks as though you are coming in, you have actually already come in. That you went out even though you didn’t mean to go out and now you are back and should be allowed in. Again.”

  “But can’t we cross here? Now? We’re right here.” I said, at risk of being annoying by pointing out the obvious. “And with the proper paperwork, there wouldn’t be any problems, would there?”

  The officer looked at me as though I had lost my mind. “Madam, we cannot let you cross here. This border is only for locals. Only. For. Locals,” enunciating as if speaking to a three-year-old. Bernard and I stared at each other in shock, trying to comprehend how we’d managed to skip a border that we technically couldn’t have crossed. “You will have to go back to the main road and from there to Mechinagar. I am sorry for this. It is the only way.”

  Sorry? At that moment, though sentenced to a one-hundred-fifty-kilometer detour that would take four hours, I could have hugged the man anyway. But I hid my enthusiasm, not wanting to unmask him as lenient on criminals. Instead I shook his hand and thanked him politely for his understanding, noting we appreciated his assistance in getting us back on the right road. Bernard walked back inside with him to get our laissez passé, two men, heads together, hands explaining, talking cars.

  HERE AND GONE

  PREAMBLE

  Is travel as I perceive it impossible to capture anymore? Has it become something we long for, accomplished by others who were lucky enough, intrepid enough, or foolish enough to get out in the world while there was still newness to brave? It’s easy to make a case for this, because afte
r all everything’s been discovered. It takes no imagination whatsoever to understand that wherever you are nowadays, someone has been there before you, done it before you, seen it before you. So here’s the question: If there’s nothing left that’s new, then why bother going at all?

  I have a lot of time to think about such things, because so much of the travel I do is, well, pleasant. Unsatisfyingly so. For days, nothing sparks my curiosity. Worst of all there’s no Hogwartsian transfer of me from my placid passenger-seat existence through that invisible veil to the infinitely charismatic, magical other side that I know is there.

  It’s odd then how, just when I have reached the fullness of despair, when my mutterings alternate between, “How did I get myself into this again?” and “I swear this is the absolutely final time I will ever get in a car for a long road trip,” layered with imprecations of “Would someone please just shoot me now,” the wand is waved. I’m not talking about major drama, like a march of ten thousand Muslim schoolchildren in Hyderabad, or a landslide blocking our road in Bolivia, though those have happened to me, too. What occurs is more subtle, as if I’m slowly waking from a soft Valium-induced sleep. (And, yes, I know exactly what that feels like because a doctor prescribed Valium for me after some surgery, and I’m nothing if not a good patient when it comes to doctor’s orders.)

  When that magic moment turns its sweet face to me, I am usually fidgeting in the passenger seat, scenery out of focus, mind sedated by the miles, perhaps trying to alleviate the numbness that has beset my buttocks, when there it is—a dirt side road in Myanmar for example, nondescript in every way … Except that there are three school children walking down it, the tallest shepherding two smaller ones who dally and then tumble forward to catch up, like barn kittens out for their first exploration. Where are they going? And why now?