The Value of a Dollar

This auto shakes like a catastrophe with every crack we hit in the road. I'm on my way to work, clutching my lychee iced tea to my chest, hoping the straw won't pierce my palate on the next bump. On the side wall, there is a photo of a vase of roses, yellow and pink. The color is very faded, and the plastic cover speckled with grime.

I think about Thursday evening. I was standing in line at the train station, hoping to book tickets from southern Kerala to Mumbai on a 27 hour train in mid-April that will get us to our flight out of India. The problem being that there are only two tickets left, reserved for foreign tourists, for this reason, we can't purchase them online. The waitlist for regular tickets is already topping 100+. The first lady we spoke with told us that we have to pay in US dollars. Why would I have USD? I have $1. Bartley also has $1. Also, it is not possible (not legal) to change INR to USD in India. No one will do it. We have to have those tickets. We can't pay in Rupees, we can't pay with an American credit card. Basically, we're screwed.

So we split up to try our luck with two different bureaucrats. While Bartley waited to speak to another Foreign Tourist representative, I was in the Credit Card line. Behind me, a mother and her two children, around 5-7 years old. They are Asian, I wondered if they were Japanese or Korean, and if they live in India. When she asked sweetly to borrow my pen, her English was accented, but her kids spoke together in what seemed to be unaccented American English. They were a pretty cute family, and I smiled at the daughter a few times as she ran around us, and consider talking to them.

We wait for a long time, maybe 25 minutes, though there are only 2 people in front of me. Its hot in the station, and I try not to betray my impatience by shifting my feet. I finally get to the window, and Bartley joins me, having had no luck in his line. The man-to-decide-our-fate looks down his nose through small spectacles at our inquiry form and sighs. Before long, we're explaining our situation for the third of fourth time that day.

We need that train. We don't have American dollars. Please.

This goes back and forth for a while, with him insisting we can't process it, us insisting that there must be some way. We ask for alternatives, or, where would they let us change our money? The man scoffs, raises his gray eyebrows over his glasses. "That," he says, eyes steadily on us, "is your problem." He seems relieved in his resignation and repeats, "that is your problem". I don't expect tenderness from bureaucrats, and I know he is probably a powerless tool in this system, but I am still taken aback-- why has he turned this into a personal attack? He really seems sort of disgusted with us for not having this in order, as if we're doing it on purpose to make his life difficult. He has zero sympathy for our situation and our complete lack of alternatives.

The line behind us is pressing. A man shoves in, trying to wedge himself between me and the counter and begin his order. We tell him to hold on and Bartley continues our plea. I'm sweating bullets and trying to stay calm, but all of my frustration from the difficulties of making plans these past few weeks is boiling up. I am so sick of total opaque confusion-- no one even knows what we're supposed to do.

Another man approaches on my side. I hear him say, "American dollars? How much do you need?" He appears to be the husband of the woman who was behind me. We whip our heads to look at him, eyes wide. The train bureaucrat has confirmed that there are two seats only available on this train. Sleeper class, non A/C. Fine, fine-- how much? We tell the Korean man we need $50, he frowns. No wait, its only Rs 1,000-- $20, we need only $20, sir. We're desperate. he's hesitating.

From here, it is a little blurry. He pulls out an American twenty, still frowning, not handing it to us. The currency looks so familiar and yet so foreign at once, shining like a beacon of hope amid the squalor. I'm already pulling out my rupees to give him--I pull out Rs. 1,100 and begin to thank him for his kindness. We give the twenty to the train man. The line is still pushing behind me. The Korean man seems dissatisfied, says he needs more money. For a moment I think its a joke-- like, no, of course I'll give you the money you desperately need. I've already over-paid him. His position of power in this situation is all too obvious. Then I realize he is dead serious. Bartley asks what his exchange rate was and calculates it on his phone. Still not enough. We ask how much he wants. I have no idea when I started crying, but I knew I wouldn't be able to stop once the first tears came. Even as I am standing there sobbing, the man is asking us for 100 more rupees, saying he paid a very high rate. We say fine, and Bartley gives him another 100. He takes it gingerly, as if its dirty. His daughter is looking up at me and saying something I can't hear to her mom. I'm not sure, but we may have given him around Rs 300 extra.

Meanwhile, the train man wants our passports. I have only a copy of mine, and he is again disgusted. "Oh, so many problems you are having!" This is not a sympathetic statement, it is accusatory. As if he may as well give up now. He berates me for not carrying my passport. In fact, he berates Bartley, even as he is copying down our passport numbers. The photocopy is certainly sufficient for his paperwork, but he continues his lecture.

Simultaneously, the Korean man is not happy. He declares that Bartley has insulted him by throwing down the last 100 rupees. He is lecturing us from the other side, demonstrating repeatedly how NOT to THROW money at someone-- it is a disgrace! He is glowering. I am apologizing in two directions, shaking, still crying. A crowd of Indians have gathered around us to watch the spectacle. There is no polite physical space reserved for watching; they are right behind and beside us, inches from our faces. I can't figure out what anyone wants from us or why they are all against us. When did these teams form?

As the paperwork is completed, the Korean woman shoos her husband away, and attempts to make small talk with me. She seems embarrassed. She says they have had the same problem. I still can't stop the tears, but I don't blame her and want to show that, so I ask her about her kids, where they live, etc.

We finally get tickets in hand and turn to leave. The Korean man is standing, defiantly, flanked by a white-bearded Sikh in purple turban and gold framed glasses and shorter, mustachioed Indian fellow who have decided to become involved. He continues his lecture, how insulted he feels, saying he really wanted to help us. I can't tell if what he wants is more money, an apology, or his feet kissed. But he is extremely persistent. And I still haven't stopped crying. Aware that we may have genuinely bruised a cultural sensitivity, Bartley explains.

"Sir, I am sorry if we have offended you-- we were in a tight spot, and we're very grateful for your assistance. We meant no disrespect..." But his words seem to be meaningless. Our angry money exchanger tells us, repeatedly, that he was in this same position three weeks ago, that he is South Korean but has traveled very much, that he really wanted to help us but then-- this? We fling the money at him?? The whole situation is bizarre, and yet I feel deeply shamed. Especially when he says something about Americans being ungrateful, then I am really struck. I try exceedingly hard to be a conscientious and respectful traveler, and we have even already thanked this man and excused ourselves (for what?), even as he continued with his condescending airs! I am dumbstruck and deeply hurt, and sofuckingtired of people assuming that Americans are disrespectful hooliogans-- some of them are, yes, but I actively work to destroy this generalization, and for all the compliments I have gotten for wearing modest Indian dress and beautiful communication I have had by being respectful of others, for a moment, this man's accusations shatter all of that and I feel like one more bratty white kid.

We apologize several more times before side-stepping him (and the spectators) and making our way to a small counter to collect ourselves. The Indian Sikh follows us over, apparently for a casual conversation.

"Ah, so, where you are from? America! Ok!" Bartley replies to his queries passively, I wrap my dupatta around my head and, still sniffling, walk quickly out of the train station. I remind myself that privacy doesn't exist here and this man isn't trying to be rude, but I simply cannot talk to anyone else.

As we drive away on the two-wheeler, we attempt to make sense of what just happened. There wasn't much we could've done differently. We can't decide if the S. Korean was psychotic.

If I could've known, in my heart of hearts, that this man was somehow truly injured by us, I would sincerely want to conduct a conversation with him. I don't like causing hurt or negativity. I would want to open up and reassure him of our true intentions and thankfulness, and leave in peace.

But if I could've known that what he wanted was to wield power over us or take advantage-- well, then I would probably have punched him square in the face, because I am also a bit vigilante. Not that violence is an answer, not that it would have created justice. But seriously.

As it was, I know nothing of this man or his heart. But I would hope that whatever caused his distress can be resolved for him, as I am certainly not the one to do it for him. And we've got a ticket--for the longest, dirtiest train ride, ever-- but it will get us there.