By Marlene Heloise Oeffinger 

Ominous clouds, never-ending drizzle, five degree Celsius. An unusually cold January in Agra, India. The landscape sped past our motor rickshaw – dreary moving images, separated from us by speed and world economics. Emaciated cows scavenging through garbage, women balancing piles of bricks on their heads, children in grimy clothes asking for baksheesh, street vendors selling produce, clothes, chai. All shrouded in cough-inducing smog and the acrid smell of burning plastic, intermingled with the stench of decay and human waste. Just another day in this city of world heritage.

“Excuse me…”

My voice was swallowed up by the whining sound of the motor as we wound through streets and alleyways, never slowing. Our driver seemed to have a clear destination in mind.

I freed myself from underneath the layers of shawls that kept out some of the biting wind.

“Excuse me,” I shouted against the unremitting noise.

“Yes, ma’am?” the driver glanced at me briefly over his shoulder.

“I really need you to stop at a bank, please. Before we get to the Taj Mahal.”

I was thrown against the rickshaw wall as we took a sudden sharp turn down a narrow street.

“I think he got it this time,“ Daniel said from beside me as he righted himself on the wonky seat.

“Mm-m,” was my non-committal reply.

The scene around us changed gradually. Houses of all different shapes and sizes replaced street vendors and small shops. Peeling paint and water-stained walls became the new defining features of our passing motion picture. We had left all commerce behind. Including banks.

“Excuse me…?” I tried again.

The scenery around us slowed.

The driver turned towards us.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m taking you to get money, ma’am. No problem,” he responded with a smile.

I looked at our surroundings, face contorted in confusion.

Our journey came to an abrupt end a few turns later in front of a small blue house, no different from the dozen of others we had passed. The engine stopped, and the unanticipated silence was disconcerting. Our driver turned around.

“My uncle,” he pointed at a house, “ you can exchange money here,” his expanding grin revealing yellow teeth behind reddish-brown lips.

“Your uncle? No, no. We just need a bank!” I pulled the shawls off my shoulders, sitting up.

“My uncle better than bank. He exchanges your dollars for good rate. No problem, “ his smile was unwavering.

Daniel leaned forward, “Even if your uncle exchanges money, we don’t have dollars.”

I shed the last of my layers.

My hands gripped the faux leather seat tightly. “Look, I’m sure your uncle is a nice man, but all we want is a bank!”

The driver’s smile vanished, his eyes narrowed.

“Today Sunday. Banks closed.” His head bobbed up and down in affirmation.

Suddenly, an elder man stepped from the house. His dark eyes darted over us with an assessing glance.

Our driver turned towards the newcomer, unrecognizable words flying from his mouth, before switching to English.

“They need money. They want A-T-M,” he waved his hands in our direction, eyes round, head moving from left to right in a typical local gesture.

The man turned towards us more fully, shaking his head thoughtfully.

“No. That’s not possible. No money at ATM. It’s Sunday. ATMs closed on Sunday.”