In the Fall of 1964 I was making my way across India by train or anything else that would carry me. India and her neighbour, Pakistan, were engaged in a minor war. The Indian newpapers claimed that paratroopers were entering the country to spy. Tourists were advised to keep their cameras out of sight.
This adventure happened in the city of New Delhi when my mate and I were looking for the Iraqian embassy to obtain visas. We got lost in the embassy area and asked for directions several times. In the end, we got our visas after we arrived in Kuwait.
"There's that guy who gave us the directions!" Phil was pointing across the large traffic circle to the turbaned man on a noisy motor-scooter.
"You're right! What the hell's he doing here? I thought he went in the other direction." The man was straddling his scooter as he talked to a policeman. He putted off in a cloud of exhaust but the policeman glanced our way. We were standing on the curb in the embassy area of New Delhi, trying to wave down a taxi. We were returning from an unsuccessful attempt to obtain a visa for Iraq. Neither of us was in fine humour since we'd walked for hours looking for the embassy, only to discover when we got there that neither of us had the required passport photos for the visa. The tiny, wire-thin policeman, dressed in khaki with a billy club hanging from his waist crossed the road toward us. He began to wave and natter away in loud, unintelligible Hindi before he reached us. The bobbing, wagging, skinny head brought smiles to our faces when it stopped in front of us , but we had no clue what he was trying to tell us.
Phil, at six foot four, towered above this little man. "Don't understand!" he repeated several times. Both of us shrugged our shoulders and lifted our hands in the gesture we'd used so often during the our long month in India and Ceylon. We began to move away, our minds once again on catching a taxi. Much to our astonishment, he pulled his club and held it across our path.
"What the heck is going on now?" I said. "It has something to do with that turbaned guy who took off."
"Well whatever it is, this guy is serious. I guess we just wait."
Within minutes a canopied truck full of uniformed men pulled up in front of us. After a moment of staring into the dark faces lurking in the back, we realized each man had a rifle upright between his knees. The man who hopped down to interrogate us carried a holstered sidearm. Later we would discover that about this moment each of us felt the shortness of breath and quickened heart that comes from being scared shitless.
"Pazs pord?" The word was like well-rehearsed movie dialogue. The traffic noise filled the suspended time as we watched our passports read upside down until the photo page. Several pairs of eyes watched silently from the back of the truck. Our interrogator looked at each of us in turn, glancing up from the photo to identify his suspects. He gestured with a waving arm toward the truck. The man with the billy, stood slightly behind us, herding us into the back. After a little bum shuffling we found ourselves facing each other, trembling knees almost touching, with smiling armed guards on each side.
"This is very deep do-do!" Phil said.
"We are definitely in over our heads." I replied, trying to quell the tremor in my voice. My mouth was spitless.
The truck swayed and bucked its way through the traffic so that we pressed against the guards for support and often clutched desperately to the steel frame of the canvas canopy above. One wild corner threw Phil, hand extended, between the bare legs of the man opposite and for a few moments the ensuing laughter transformed our captors into real human beings.
The truck suddenly made and abrupt turn and came to a halt in a lot filled with similar trucks. We had arrived. We were escorted inside where we waited, sweating, on a bare wooden bench outside a closed door. The tension mounted. A silent, expressionless, armed guard stood by the door where we had entered. After what seemed an eternity, but may have been less than ten minutes, a very polite and apologetic officer appeared with our passports and bid us farewell in impeccable English. We walked on air leaving that office. The feeling of relief kept us giddy for hours afterwards. We relived the excitement and the fear over and over in the telling. We'd had a taste of spy-hood and had no wish to dine again!
Dave Foster, 1965 >
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