The Foreign Service Journal, May 2003

68 F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L / M A Y 2 0 0 3 We’d just arrived in Calcutta and needed to exchange money. In most places, that would be a simple task, but this was India. We searched the historic district we’d been exploring — site of St. John’s, the city’s oldest church; the infamous Black Hole; innumerable book stalls; and a coffee shop once fre- quented by India’s founding leaders — looking for a money-changer. There was none, so we tried the banks instead. The first two offered no cur- rency exchange; officials at the third assured us the closest place to change money was on the other side of town. So we tried one more local establish- ment, where we found a cubicle marked “Currency Exchange,” staffed by a helpful-looking woman. She con- firmed that, yes, she could change money. We sat in the chairs thought- fully provided (whose presence should have hinted at the lengthy process to come), and gave her our money. She placed it in a metal box, simultaneous- ly extracting a stamp, stamp pad and pen, and composed herself for the task ahead. She handed my husband a long form. While he filled it in, she exam- ined his passport with a puzzled, dubi- ous expression and frequent question- ing murmurs. Finally, she left, seeking the advice of a superior. He accompa- nied her back to the cubicle for a first- hand examination of my husband’s person, and then took the passport away again. Meanwhile, our clerk examined the completed form, requested some clarifications, checked the exchange rate, totaled up the rupees we would receive, and prepared a handwritten receipt. These tasks were completed just as her superior returned the passport, which had apparently cleared whatever bureau- cratic hurdles it had encountered. When our clerk opened what I thought must be a cash drawer in the desk in front of her, I assumed our transaction was complete. Instead of rupees, however, she extracted a single large metal token and ceremoniously presented it to us. At this point, years of cultural sensitiv- ity failed me, and I burst out laughing. She gave me a slightly startled glance and a small smile, and instructed us to take the token to Window 14. We traipsed past seated customers, whose transactions were taking even longer than ours, to Window 14, where another clerk waited. His desk was bare except for a lethal-looking instrument, a sort of cross between pliers and a wire cutter. He accepted our token, compared the numbers on it to the numbers on the paper he’d just received by runner from the first clerk, and asked my husband for his confirmation that the numbers matched. He then produced three stacks of bills, including one very fat stack of 50-rupee notes, and, using his lethal instrument, began to snip the bands and pry out the staples that secured them. My husband asked him if it might be possible to substitute a larger denomination for the 50s. Looking aggrieved, he dutifully took the notes on a circuit of all 13 other stalls, but finding no larger bills any- where, eventually brought them back. By now, we were more than happy to accept them and be on our way — but not before my husband had to sign his full name on the receipt, not mere- ly the initials and last name he’d attempted to get away with. Rupees finally in hand, we returned to the first clerk to retrieve the passport. Here, another signature discrepancy had to be remedied. This accomplished, we departed, richer but exhausted. And hungry. We repaired to a restaurant and lunched sumptuously on curried mushrooms and eggplant, spicy black dhal and buttery naan. Unfortunately, we had no room for dessert — ice cream with ‘leeches’ (lychees, we hoped) — intriguing as that sounded! Years of cultural sensitivity failed me. Kathy Uphaus is a free-lance writer and the editor of The Jute Bulletin in Dhaka, Bangladesh. The stamp is courtesy of the AAFSW Bookfair “Stamp Corner.” R EFLECTIONS Forever India B Y K ATHY U PHAUS