Clearing Customs part one

We still don't have any of our stuff, but I now have proper positive proof that at least some of it is actually in India, and not gallivanting around somewhere in the world having a fine holiday without us. I saw the crates containing my quilting frame at the container freight depot in Delhi on Wednesday. We had arranged (and paid for) a door to door service for the quilting frame, but the shipping company informed us that in order to get customs clearance, the consignee would have to appear in person at the aforementioned container freight depot. They couldn't understand why I need sewing machine parts (especially ones that weigh 272 kilos and come in two large wooden crates) if I'm not going to run a manufacturing business in India. Rod had lots of meetings this week, and as my name was listed as the consignee on the documents, it was really me they wanted to see. I decided I couldn't wait another week for Rod to come with me, I would just be brave and go alone. Well, not really alone. I'd have Raju.

So Tuesday morning I put on one of my flowing Indian dresses, long sleeved, ankle length. I think it says "housewife showing respect for Indian sensibilities". Rod thinks it says "tent". Raju drives me to the depot, a good hour and a half from home. I explained to him, or so I thought, that he would accompany me inside the building. We call the number we were given for the shipping company's agent and he says he will come down to the gate to escort me. He arrives, I have to show my passport to get an entry pass and I turn to motion Raju to follow me. But it seems Raju didn't exactly understand that he would accompany me, and I'm now going in alone.

Inside the depot are stacks of metal shipping containers, lots of them. There's an assortment of large cranes and super sized forklifts. There are warehouse buildings. There are men walking purposefully around. There's an administration block made of what looks like asbestos sheeting. And there's me. The shipping agent guy leads me up metal stairs (no hand rail, no health and safety) and takes me to a room with perhaps 10 men inside holding sheaves of paper. He motions me to sit in a chair next to a vacant desk. And then he leaves. I look around. The men holding the papers look at me. In a country where some men think making eye contact is tantamount to a come-on, I decide it's prudent to place my hands in my lap and look at them.

Another man walks into the room and sits at the desk. I don't know who he is, but it seems shipping agent guy has sent him. He wants to know what is in the crates. Rod told me to keep it simple, so I tell him it's a table for my sewing machine, because sewing is my hobby. He wants to know what I am doing in India. I tell him my husband has a job here and I am here with him. He wants to know why I need such a large table for my sewing machine. I tell him I used to have a 14 ft table for my sewing machine, but that wouldn't fit in my apartment, so I now have a 10 ft one. He finds this at bit extraordinary. I decide as I'm playing the role of dutiful housewife who follows her husband around the world and sews for a hobby I probably shouldn't mention I know lots of people with very large tables for their very large sewing machines.

He asks if I have an invoice for the table. I produce it. He declares an invoice is proof that I am doing this commercially. I declare an invoice is proof that I have bought something. He tells me I will not be allowed to bring the table in as personal effects and that I will have to pay duty. He then tells me to put the invoice away because it would “confuse people and make them reach an amount larger than I needed to pay”. He decides we need to agree on a “fair price” for the customs charge. The conversation went:
Him: What would be a fair price for the goods?
Me: I don’t know. What do you think? (I mean, as a former Nolting Quilting Machine Dealer this certainly isn't the first time I've ever imported quilting machines into a country, but it's the first time a customs agent has ever asked my opinion on how much I think I should pay.)
Him: 10,000 rupees (£120). Cash.
Me: Okay. I don’t have the money on me, I will bring it tomorrow.
It appears in some countries, the words customs charge and bribe seem to be interchangeable.

He then wanted me to leave the building because it wasn’t, in his words, a very nice or safe place. He obviously then hasn’t spent much time in the Mini Secretariat in Haryana. The place, while not nice by any real standards known to man, was a good deal better than there.