WHO WOULDN’T BE DISGUSTED
Backtrack a little. This is my first trip abroad. My
programme is in Mali and Ivory Coast. No one even knows where Mali is. The
travel agent, in fact, almost booked a ticket for me to Male! No, Mali cannot
be the island in the Indian Ocean. It must be a country in Africa near Ivory
Coast! Finally, we discover it. Bamako is the capital. There is no flight to
Bamako from anywhere in India. We take a ticket through Air India to Lagos in
Nigeria and they will arrange for an onward flight to Bamako by another
company. Fine.
No matter where we search and whom we ask (there was no
internet or Wikipedia those days!), we cannot locate an embassy of Mali or
Ivory Coast in Delhi. I find out that the French Embassy issues visas for Ivory
Coast, but not for Mali. I inform the organizers that I am travelling without a
visa for Mali. They say they will take care of everything when I land in
Bamako.
Going back to where we left off yesterday, we are on our way
back home from the airport because the fight is cancelled. An idea comes to me.
I tell my Gujarati friend, “Sir, I have yet another problem. I have no visa for
Mali because we could not find an embassy of Mali in Delhi. But Nigeria is,
after all, in Africa, not far from Mali. It is possible that Mali has an
embassy here. Could we try today for a visa here? In any case we don’t have
anything to do all of today.”
He has never heard of an embassy of Mali in Lagos. We ride
around the town asking a lot of people. No one has the information. Then he
gets an idea. He says, “I have a good friend here in town, who is a travel
agent. I am sure he would know. Let us ask him. He will help – after all, he is
my friend.”
We reach the travel agent. Unfortunately, his “friend” has no
idea whatever whether Mali has an embassy in Lagos and even says he has no idea
where we might be able to find this information. We are about to turn back. But
then, my friend, the Gujarati gentleman, dips into his pocket and pulls out a
bank note and hands it over to his friend, the travel agent. Immediately he pulls
out a directory, searches through it and tells us, “Sorry, Mali has no embassy
in Lagos.”
I immediately understand what has happened. The travel agent
has a directory with the addresses of all the embassies in Lagos. But, he will
not even make an effort to share a piece of this information with “his friend”
without being paid for it! Well, it is not exactly a bribe, but …..
But, why am I not surprised? Flashback once again!
Anyone travelling to Africa and South America is obliged to
get vaccinated against yellow fever. In those days (1985) only three hospitals
in India had the technology to store this vaccine. The vaccination becomes
fully effective only ten days after getting the injection. Hence you have to be
vaccinated at least ten days before you take your flight.
I was in posted at Imphal. I was the head of a school. I had
to reduce my absence from school to the minimum possible. In any case, I was
ignorant of this ten-day rule. Three or four days after my vaccination I am on
my way to Lagos.
I land. I come to the first counter. “Yellow fever
vaccination, please!” I hand it over. “OK. You have a problem. It is not yet ten days
since you were vaccinated. I am afraid I have to put you on the return flight
to Bombay.”
“I see. Is this rule so strict? Could you not make an
exception?”
“Sure, I can. Give me a hundred dollars!”
“Sorry. I can’t do that. You probably know that our
government allows us to buy only 200 dollars of foreign currency – and that,
too, in travelers’ cheques!”
A long negotiation followed – we bargained like a good
Indian and a good Nigerian would do in the fish market. Finally, I gave him 10
dollars in cash. He let me go. Then I thought I would have some fun at his
expense; and, at the same time, give vent to some of my anger and disgust.
“Sir,” I said, “would you kindly give me a receipt?”
“My dear man, how can I give you a receipt for this? Why do
you need a receipt?”
“Sir, when I go into the next room, what if someone else
asks me for the vaccination again?”
“No, no! No one will ask you once you are out from here.”
“But I would feel more secure with something to prove that I
have paid you.”
“My dear man, are you stupid? Here. Listen. You reached here
a few days too early. I am supposed to send you back to Bombay. To avoid that
you are paying me a bribe – A BRIBE.
OK? You are giving me a bribe. How do you expect me to give you a receipt for a
bribe?”
“Oh, I see. Thank you so much for making me understand. You
have asked me for a bribe and I have given you a bribe and you are allowing me something
that you are not supposed to. I see. I see now.”
“Exactly. Now you get it. Have a nice stay in Nigeria!”
When my Gujarati friend’s friend would help him only after
being paid, I was not in the least bit surprised! It was a part and parcel of
the flesh and blood, bones and skin of the culture of the country. If you
noticed, I have changed back to the past tense. I do not want to insult the
Nigerians of today. Hopefully, they are not corrupt any longer. God bless them!
I have several good Nigerian friends today.
Not yet the end of the story.
Finally, after three days of staying with my friend, with a
daily check on whether there was a flight that day or not, we are told to come
to the airport. After the experience of being sent back three days ago, I did
not insist with my friend that he has done enough for me; he may drop me and go
back home! He stays with me, and I am grateful. It turns out, it is a good
thing he did !
There is first a check of the luggage. My friend dips his
hand into his pocket, pulls out a note and hands it over.
We move on to the check in counter. Two hands meet. A note
changes hands – from my friend to the airlines staff. I get my boarding card.
They give us also a yellow-coloured form – foreign currency declaration.
We fill it in and move to the currency control counter.
“Welcome, Sir!”
“Good morning, Sir.” I hand over the yellow form.
“OK. Where is the red form?”
“The red form?”
“Yup. The red form you filled in when you arrived.”
“No one gave me a red form when I arrived or told me that I
had to make a currency declaration. I have only 200 dollars in traveler’s
cheques and 10 dollars in cash.”
“Ah, unfortunately you made a mistake there …. You ought to
have filled in the red form … ” My friend pulls out another note from his
pocket and hands it over. We move on.
If I am not mistaken, my friend pays up at another two or
three counters that day. Something or other is needed at each check and the
only way to pass through is to pay up.
Security checks those days were not like the ones today, and
my friend comes with me right through every step of the multi-stage process of
getting into a plane, more stages than I have ever since seen anywhere else in
the world. He handed over notes at every single stage. He could not be with me
only for the very last check of the hand luggage. There I am finally alone.
At every new counter and every new bribe my blood pressure
has been rising. By this final check my BP could cause a stroke to an elephant;
I am stubborn; I am disgusted to the core. And the officer here is a lady! She
has taken my passport and is going through it.
“So … you are an Indian. You are a priest? Catholic priest?”
Turning the pages of the passport; each word dragged out slowly, in a sort of
drawl. Maybe she is trying to tell me that my being a Catholic priest makes no
difference to her.
“Yes, Ma’am. I am a Catholic Priest.”
“Good. So … what have you got to declare?” Keeps turning the
pages of the passport.
“I have nothing to declare, Ma’am.”
“Open you bag, please.” I do. She picks up my breviary.
“What is this?”
“That is my prayer book. My Bible.”
“I see. So … you are an Indian. So … you are a Catholic
Priest. So … you have nothing to declare.” She is picking through the books, clothes
and trinkets from my handbag. She picks up an item, raises it into the air and
looks at it hard and long. She puts it back. She picks up the next item. I am angry; I am disgusted. But, I am
stubborn. I am determined that I will NOT pay anything, to anyone, any more.
“That’s right, Ma’am. I am an Indian. I am Catholic Priest.
I have nothing to declare.”
My stubbornness finally won. We lost time. It was
embarrassing to watch all my personal belongings being displayed before
everyone. But I did have nothing she could object to in any way. She had to let
me through.
The contrast between the kindness of that Gujarati Brahmin
gentleman to a total stranger – a Catholic Priest whom he had never met in his
life – and the height, depth and extent of corruption in that country … that
contrast could not be greater. My own country is corrupt – corrupt even today,
but I think corruption of THIS sort is rare. I make no judgement on Nigeria,
not even of those days, and certainly not of today. I do hope it is better now.
By the way, I did ask my Gujarati friend, one of those three
days I spent with him, why he was being so kind to me, and he did explain. But
I see that I have written far longer than I originally intended to. So, THAT
will have to be another story, another day!
