Lessons in Bureaucracy on the Pakistan-India Border

By P.J. O'Rourke

Where there's government, there's bureaucracy. And it turns out that's not always as bad as it sounds...

I got my lessons in government bureaucracy 18 years ago, crossing the Pakistan-India border on the road between Lahore and Amritsar.

In 1998, luxury SUV maker Land Rover introduced its Discovery II model. Bill Baker, head of Land Rover PR, was an old friend of mine. Bill took a pair of the new vehicles on a drive around the world – across Europe, the Middle East, and the Indian subcontinent... then by ship to Australia, crossing the Outback from Perth to Sydney... then by ship again to North America... and home, at last, to England.

It was probably one of the last times somebody could pull off a publicity stunt like that without getting blown up, beheaded, or blocked by climate-change protestors in Berkeley.

Bill invited me on the Islamabad-to-Calcutta leg – 1,700 miles along the "Grand Trunk Road." The Grand Trunk begins at the Khyber Pass and ends at the Bay of Bengal. The road was celebrated in Rudyard Kipling's Kim and dates back at least to the fourth century B.C. (especially in the matter of stoplights and lane markers).

I met the Land Rover convoy in Pakistan's capital, at a hotel that later became the target of an Islamic extremist terror attack.

There were eight of us – Bill, me, four other journalists, a Land Rover engineer, and our guide, a former British army officer.

Traffic was light driving southeast toward the Indian border. Tollbooth lines are short in a country with no money. Groups of squatting men flicking whisk brooms kept the turnpike clean. And the pavement was excellent – if you didn't mind a berm six inches lower than the asphalt so that if you swerved to miss one of the whisk broomers and put a wheel off the road, all the other wheels would go into the air.

Downtown Lahore was more crowded. We got stuck in a traffic jam of local buses, bullock carts, goatherds, and crippled beggars.

"Can you tell us where the border is?" we yelled at a policeman who was busy directing traffic by hitting it with a long stick. The policeman replied, in perfect English, "No."

It was 116 degrees Fahrenheit with 100% humidity in Lahore. Breathing was like drinking coffee through your nose. Our Discovery II had air conditioning, but once we had lowered the window to yell at the policeman, we couldn't raise it again because we caught part of a goatherd and most of a crippled beggar in the opening.

We had one of the early, bulky commercial GPS units. It claimed to show our position within three meters. But the streets of Lahore weren't three meters wide. One street was so narrow that I think we wound up inside someone's house. The GPS directed us to the border. Turn right at the sofa. Left at the kitchen sink.

Only one road connects Pakistan and India. And nothing was on it that day. All we saw was a company of Pakistani army rangers. They were in their pajamas – it was naptime.

Nobody drove down the road, because nobody could. "Pakistani and Indian nationals are only allowed to cross the border by train," said my tourist guidebook. But complete lack of customs traffic had not prevented the establishment of fully staffed customs posts on both sides of the border.

The bureaucracy at Pakistani customs was simplicity itself. The customs officials were asleep, lying on the unused concrete baggage-inspection counter. The No. 1 man roused the No. 2 man, who explained the entire system of Pakistani tariff regulation and passport control by rubbing his thumb against his forefinger.

"Fifty dollars," said the No. 1 man. I opened my wallet, foolishly revealing two $50 bills. "One hundred dollars," he said.

Bureaucracy was different on the Indian side. They had an unused baggage-inspection counter plus an unused metal detector, an unused X-ray machine, and an unused pit with an unused ramp over it to inspect the undersides of vehicles that didn't use the border crossing.

Supposedly, we had government permission to do so. We were bringing the Land Rovers into India along with the GPS unit, our luggage, a satellite phone, several computers, a trailer filled with food, camping gear, and spare parts.

Our group included people of four different nationalities. The rules concerning entry of such persons and things into India filled a book big enough to contain the collected works of Stephen King.

The Indian customs agents were delighted. They had never had an opportunity to consult the whole book. They began a happy bureaucratic debate among themselves. Now and then, they would pause in their arguments with each other to argue with us. An agent would turn a page, point to a paragraph, and say, "You are doing what with these vehicles?"

"We're testing them," we'd reply.

"Oh no, you are not. That would require special licensing."

"We're transporting them," we'd say.

"Definitely not, that is a different permit."

Everything had to come out of the cars and trailer. Everything had to go through the metal detector, which wasn't plugged in. And everything had to go through the X-ray machine twice. The customs agents weren't watching the first time. They were too busy looking through the great big book.

All this took four hours, during which the seven agents on duty met each hint at bribery with the stare you'd get from an octogenarian Powerball winner if you suggested the 20-year payout option. The fellow who was recording, in longhand, everything inside our passports did take two cigarettes, but he wouldn't accept a pack.

None of the cases, trunks, or bags – unloaded and reloaded in the stifling heat – was opened, except for a wrench set. Perhaps there's one particular size of wrench that requires a special permit in India.

The satellite telephone did require a special permit, which we didn't have. The briefcase-sized satellite phone went unnoticed. (Engine compartments and undercarriages were inspected, but no one looked under the front seat.)

Our tire pressure had to be checked in case our tires were packed with drugs. The Indian government's tire gauge wasn't working. We offered our own. We were halfway through checking the tires when we realized no one was watching.

I went behind the customs shed to take a leak. I was urinating on thousands of dollars' worth of wild marijuana plants.

In 1998, the Indian economy was beginning to boom. Per-capita gross domestic product (GDP) grew 4.2%, nearly double the previous year's 2.2%. But India was still – obviously – overburdened with bureaucracy.

We can see something of what that bureaucracy cost India by comparing economic figures.

In 1998, the Chinese economy was already booming. Per-capita GDP grew 6.9%.

It has always surprised me that India's economy hasn't outperformed China's.

India is a democracy with rule of law (though maybe too much of it) and reasonable protection of property rights. China is a dictatorship where law and property rights are what the dictators say they are. But one thing dictators can do is cut through red tape.

However, that's only one lesson in bureaucracy. What about when there's no red tape? When government bureaucracy is replaced by corruption? That was Pakistan.

In 1998, Pakistan's per-capita GDP grew 1.1%. Government bureaucracy soaks up tax dollars, sucks time out of the business day, and smothers economic activity under blankets of rules and regulations. In general, it has earned its awful reputation. But...

Economic growth needs the rule of law and a respect for property rights. Pakistan's chaos bred corruption and outright theft that destroyed any semblance of a legitimate economy.

Regards,

P.J. O'Rourke