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My Japanese travel companion and I had just returned to Delhi from a one-month long stay in Manali, an Indian mountain resort in the Himalayas. I certainly had had no intention to stay there for a month but the weather conditions – it had snowed incessantly for a week after our arrival blocking the only access road – had put all further travel plans on hold. We had to wait until the road were cleared of snow and that lasted a month.

After this seemingly endless time we could get on a bus that brought us back to Delhi via Chandigarh, the capital of Punjab and Haryana. So, here I was back in Delhi, planning for the next leg of my improvised trip through India.

The time in Manali had been rather frugal due to the lack of supplies from the valleys. We had Dahl, the spicy lentil or chickpea soup and Chapatti, the ubiquitous Indian flatbread, practically for breakfast, lunch and dinner every day. Admittedly, there had also been a meager selection of other types of food available at the local grocer’s, but the town center was a fairly long walk away from our lodge and so we usually cooked in our room, also to keep it as warm as possible, but that’s another story.

Chaotic and scorching hot Delhi was a nice break from the month of winter in Manali, but I have to admit that it had never been my favorite town in India and, since my Japanese travel companion had a return flight to Japan from Kathmandu a week later, I decided to accompany her back to Nepal. I had been to Kathmandu at the beginning of my seven-month long trip and found the Nepalese capital a fascinating mix of medieval and modern. Especially the time I had spent in the Thamel district evoked fond memories of streets lined with eastern and western bars and restaurants, with good food and interesting people.

After a few days in the Indian capital I walked into a travel agency near our hotel to inquire about possible transportation arrangements for the trip to Kathmandu. The agent offered me a favorable deal that included a bus trip to the Indian-Nepal border at Raxaul-Birgunji , a taxi transfer across the border from the bus terminal on the Indian side, a one night stay in a lodge on the Nepali side of the border and an onward bus ticket to Kathmandu. The overall price seemed reasonable, so I bought two packages for my Japanese travel companion and myself.

The bus we boarded two days later was labelled “Deluxe” It claimed to be fully air conditioned and fitted with reclining seats. Well, that was at least what was printed in large, pop-color letters on the side of the brightly decorated bus. As often, reality was rather different. Yes, there was air condition and the bus was indeed ice-cold inside – but the air condition was dripping condensed water and many of the seats were soaked. As the bus was fully booked, the wet seats had been covered with layers of old newspapers to sit on. Also, the reclining function of many seats was not how it was originally intended with some of them stuck in a permanent reclining position while others refused to move an inch.

As the bus gradually filled with passengers it also became ever more stuffed with all sorts of luggage that was crammed into every space available. Luckily, we had seats somewhere near the front of the bus so we were at least able to leave the vehicle when it would stop at a service station without digging our way through heaps of carton boxes and other obstructions that were piling up in the aisle.

As I got off for a quick last cigarette before departure, it became clear that the vehicle was hopelessly overloaded with people and goods to the point that it was precariously leaning to one side. “Never mind” I thought, this is not the first time in India that I traveled on a vehicle that wouldn’t have passed a road-worthiness test in any other country. I decided just not to think about it and stoically endure the approximately 12-hour ride to the border.

Departure time was at 8 o’clock, the driver slammed the doors shut and the bus swung into motion with the diesel engine belching out plumes of black exhaust that also penetrated into the passenger cabin making everyone cough.

Rucksacks crammed into the space between the seats, knees perched against the front seats we made ourselves as comfortable as possible for the long journey ahead. I had bought a book from a secondhand book exchange in Delhi and started to read while Kaori, my travel companion, sat at the window and took in the passing scenery as the bus left the Moloch of the Indian capital and sped down endless trunk roads through the Indian countryside. I had made it a personal rule not to observe the road ahead through the windscreen to avoid panic attacks. Also this driver, just as many others, managed the road and its numerous obstacles with apparently just constantly honking the horn and keeping the gas pedal pushed to the floor – he didn’t seem to grasp the purpose of the brake pedal.

We passed Agra and had just left Lucknow behind when the obvious happened. A couple of hours into our trip I had started wondering when the bus might have its first breakdown as this was an ordinary event on any longer bus journey in India – and there it was. The front wheel on the driver’s side blew, the bus swerved from left to right and came to a standstill on the shoulder of the road. Probably cursing in whatever language the driver spoke he got off the bus and examined the damage. In fact, all of us got off and a group of men started discussing animatedly how to handle the calamity. Rummaging around on the underside of the bus the driver then discovered that the spare tire was just as badly in need of air as the one that had just blown.

There was no immediate solution to the mishap, therefore, some passengers calmly unpacked food parcels and started having a late lunch or early supper by the roadside while the driver flagged down a passing motorcyclist and apparently instructed him to call for help in the next village.

Finally, after an hour or so a pickup truck arrived with a spare tire. It took the combined physical strength of all male passengers to heave the bus onto the car lift since the shoulder of the road was uneven and the ground sandy and not very stable. Nonetheless, with lots of shouting, swearing and gesticulating the bus finally rested on the jack and the tire could be replaced. At least all necessary tools were at hand and a while later we were back on the road.

This incident had cost us a good three hours and therefore we arrived at the border at about 10 in the evening, much later than foreseen.

I wouldn’t be able now to describe Raxaul, the town on the Indian side of the border. The bus had arrived late, and we were trying to spot the taxi that, according to our travel arrangements, was supposed to take us across the border to Nepal. All our attempts, though, to find a transport turned out to be futile. No one wanted to take us across the border for any amount of extra money I had desperately started to offer. “The border is closed! Come back tomorrow!” was the unanimous response to my question. I cursed angrily. My Lonely Planet guidebook clearly stated that this border was supposed to be open 24 hours.

However, in the end my persistence paid off and I found a driver – an old man with a donkey cart – who was willing to take us to the border. “Not across”, he said in a determined manner, “just to the border!” A little bit of extra baksheesh then ensured that he would wait for us in case our undertaking to cross into Nepal would turn out to be impossible and soon the cart rumbled into the darkness towards the brightly illuminated border a kilometer or so away.

Once arrived, we hopped off the uncomfortable vehicle and walked down the road towards the Indian immigration office. To our delight there was still movement of people behind the windows, and we went into the building. The counter was unmanned but as I called out: “Is anyone there?” an officer appeared from an adjacent room.

“It’s too late now. Come back tomorrow!”

“We have a hotel booking in Birgunji (the Nepali side)” I showed him my travel itinerary. He scrutinized the paper and said: “OK, I will put exit stamps into your passports. The Nepali immigration is about 500 meters down the road and I’m sure they are closed – but this will be your problem!” With these words he went over to a desk, took out a set of stamps and impressed them into our passports. We had officially left India!

Now the only way was forward. We left the barrack style Indian immigration building and headed down the road towards Nepal.

The whole area was bathed in harsh white light coming from beams mounted on high masts. There were high fences topped with rolls of barbed wire everywhere. It felt like walking towards the entrance of a prison. I could not spot a single soul, but I had the feeling that we were observed.

After about 200 meters we reached a barrier. It was closed so I lifted the pole and we slipped under it. Another 300 meters farther we finally arrived at the building that housed the Nepali immigration. All shutters were closed, and everything was quiet around the building.

Since there was no way back, I started to knock on the main door and as nothing happened my knocking became pounding until I heard a key turn in the lock.

An obviously very irritated officer in an untidy uniform opened the door and bellowed something in his native language. Then he barked: “What do you want? Don’t you know that the border is closed? How did you get here?”

“I’m very sorry” I apologized, “but we have a hotel booking in Birgunji and we need to get an entry visa to Nepal.” I mustered more apologies for the inconvenience we were causing, and that seemed to calm the officer down a bit. He opened the door and beckoned us to come in.

The immigration office was quite a large room shrouded in tobacco smoke mixed with the smell of food and sweat. There were about six desks, all covered with mosquito nets that hung from the ceiling. It seemed that the officers on duty used their desks as beds at night and had been just about to go to sleep when we arrived.

While the officer who had opened the door to us started clearing his desk to accommodate the late visitors, I felt the eyes of the other occupants of the room on us, especially on my female travel companion. In this rather awkward situation I was glad that Kaori was rather skinny and not a great beauty as that might have complicated our situation. I became suddenly anxious to get out of this room, to get this whole thing over with as quickly as possible. My usual self-assurance was eroded by the constant stare of the people in the room and the whispering and subdued laughter as we were filling out our entry visa forms.

While I went over the form my eyes caught a 4×3 cm rectangle with ‘passport photo’ printed into it in tiny letters. “Oh no,” I thought, it had never crossed my mind that we might need photos for the application and therefore we had none.

“Is the photo really necessary?” I inquired and when the officer nodded I admitted not having any.

“I can’t issue a visa if you don’t have a photo,” he explained impatiently.

“Can’t you take a photo here?” Panic grew while I pictured us being caught between two nations without being able to go either way. Luckily, the officer obviously wanted to get this matter over with and not seeing any alternative he said: “I’ll make an exception and let you go to Birgunji if you promise to get back here first thing in the morning with passport photos.”

What a relief! We didn’t know how to thank the officer enough and promised to be back as soon as possible the next day. With another stern admonition the officer attached the application forms to our passports and let us go.

Once outside the building we started marching towards the one-kilometer distant town. Soon we were engulfed in utter darkness, indeed so dark than it was hard to distinguish the path from the surrounding countryside. There was no one on the road and the night was filled with all kinds of odd nature sounds, some of them quite unsettling so that we accelerated our pace and were relieved when we reached the dimly lit outskirts of the small town.

Finding the hotel stated on the itinerary proved to be quite easy as it was located on the main street that led through the town but getting into the place much less so. It was well past midnight and the town was devoid of life. The hotel entrance was locked and no one was in sight.

I started banging on the metal shutters to get some attention and after a while the blind was partly raised and a man appeared. “We have no rooms,” he said, “I cannot help you.”

I showed him my reservation. “Sorry”, he said, but because you did not arrive on time and we had no notice from you we rented the room out. We are fully booked.”

“But you can’t let us stay outside” I pleaded, pointing at my travel companion, “do you want my friend to sleep in the streets?”

Kaori, who spoke a bit of Nepali, also started imploring to let us sleep inside.

“OK”, he finally conceded, “come on in. I can’t give you any room, but there are some armchairs in the lobby. You can sleep on them. However, the toilet is on the second floor and there is no shower. If you need water, I can give you some bottles. Don’t drink the water from the tap in the toilet!”

He also gave us some candles since the electricity was not reliable and, wishing us a good night, he disappeared into his quarters.

The lobby could best be described as a mosquito infested furnace. Since all windows were locked, the air in the room was hot and stale with humidity at a 100 percent. Sleeping was impossible, the shabby armchairs were worn out and uncomfortable and the invisible army of mosquitoes ready to descend on us as soon as we stopped moving. Despite all of this I managed to catch an hour or so of sleep before dawn and was consequently punished with mosquito bites all over my face and exposed parts of my body. Soon after I had woken up from my shallow slumber the man appeared again and opened the shutters of the windows and main entrance. A breeze of fresh morning air flooded the lobby and infused us with much needed energy.

As the town was slowly waking up, we left the hotel in search of some breakfast. To our delight we found a restaurant that had ‘English breakfast’ on the menu. Never had a cup of coffee, toast and fried eggs tasted better than this morning after the ordeal of the previous night. We kept ordering coffee refills until we had regained enough strength to face the tasks ahead.

Next point on our agenda was a shop to get photos taken. My face was so marked by mosquito bites that the photographer offered some make up to cover the red spots and a few minutes later we had our passport photos. We then flagged down a passing taxi that offered to take us to the border and back. When the driver sensed our hurry there was little use bargaining and we had to pay an exaggerated price for the two-kilometer round-trip.

It was eight o’clock and traffic at the border was already brisk. When we entered the immigration office there were a lot of people in the crammed space filling out visa form and waiting for their applications to be processed. We were assigned a number and had to wait almost an hour before it was our turn.

The clerk first looked confused when we explained the reason of our return to the border and then launched into a tirade that had word such as: illegal, prison, hefty fine, arrogant westerner and alike. A group of onlookers started gathering around to watch the spectacle when the officer who had given us permission to enter Nepal the previous night appeared. He must have been of higher rank than his colleague as he quickly managed to shut the enraged man up and ordered him to process our visa without any further comment. Photos affixed and stamps imprinted we finally had our visas.

When we left the building, I half expected that the taxi driver had taken off without waiting for us but he was there and so we soon got back into town. Naturally, all of this had made us miss the bus to Kathmandu. When I showed our bus tickets to the clerk at the counter in the bus station, he just shrugged his shoulders and said: “Your tickets were for the 9 o’clock bus. It has left. If you want to get to Kathmandu today, you have to buy tickets for the 12 o’clock express bus.” No explaining or discussing could sway the man and we ended up buying another set of tickets for the later bus.

This bus at least turned out to be what was promised in stylish print on both sides of the chassis: ‘Excelsior Class’. It was comfortable, spacious and with functioning reclining seats so the last leg of our trip to Kathmandu was almost boringly uneventful. We arrived in Kathmandu late that evening, about 10 hours later than anticipated but with another bag full of incredible stories to tell.