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AMANULLAH

can wait all day before he has his baggage passed. And,
through the driver, I explained that I was bringing
nothing into the country which could be sold.

They must have proof of that. Efficiency was the
keynote (and I had only paid ten rupees). Their duty
to the Government was to be thorough (and I had only
paid ten rupees). Bring in, therefore, the traveller's
goods.

Coolies, pouncing on the car, dragged out suitcase,
bedding roll, and typewriter. The babus, rummaging
through the bag, produced pyjamas (no doubt a dis-
guise), shirts (indubitably to sell to the Kabulis), and
other domestic needs equally incriminating.

Then they inspected the typewriter.

Was it mine ?   It was.

Was it new ?   It was not.

Was it for sale ?   Over my dead and quivering body.

Was it old, then ?   It was patriarchal.

Was I, then, going to write about Afghanistan ?
Compliments only, particularly about the Dacca Customs
Post, . . .

Then another ten rupees appeared from the driver's
pocket. The suitcase, the bedding roll, and the type-
writer disappeared swiftly back into the car. I was free,
and honour was satisfied. Wonderful Afghanistan !

There was, it is true, a little trouble about the number
plates before we got away. The driver had been on this
route for a year or more, and on every journey had had
trouble with the number plates. They were, apparently,
out of date. The car was not paying tax to the Govern-
ment at the full rate. What to do, said the Customs
babu, as obviously the car could not proceed on its
journey, and I must stay in Dacca, perhaps for days,
perhaps for ever. * , . What to do ?

The^driver's face suddenly lit up with inspiration.

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