Nepal

Saturday 5th November 1983

We were roused by the French bint’s alarm at 05:40 hrs. so we dressed and waited for the chinky restaurant to open. Other European passengers appeared and we eventually filed in for breakfast. This consisted of quarter of an omelette with two small squares of untoasted toast and a cup of tea.

We then packed into a tiny minibus which had an excess of extremely narrow seats. The Yank contingent; a couple and Joe Monotone, the Yank from last night, made more space by evicting the drivers four mates who were intending to “travel light” as far a paying fares were concerned. One of them sneaked back on claiming that he was “our guide”.

We set off along a crudely tarmacked narrow road through rural countryside with plenty of rich greenery due to the plentiful rivers, streams and swamps. Oxen tilled the fields under the watchful eyes of wizened old men. Little children minded goats and cheered as the bus passed by. The amount of trees increased, became a forest and mountains appeared to the north.

At our dinner time stop we saw all we wanted to see of grubby Gorakhpur, a city along the banks of the Rapti river in the north-eastern part or the Purvanchal region of the Indian state of Uttar Pradesh. Joe Monologue assumed command by virtue of his ability to reel off the most names in his travel patter. Also he had been prey to the most exotic diseases and could catalogue their symptoms at the slightest prompting.

As we neared Nepal the greenery got lusher and the road became more cluttered with people, dogs, bicycles, thousands of cows, and at one stage, an elephant! Loudspeakers in each town ensured that we knew there was still a festival going on.

The sun set in an orange flaming glory and we arrived at the Sunauli border at dusk. Sunauli is the traditional name given to both sides of the India/Nepal border crossing, 70 kilometres north of Gorakpur and 3 kilometres south of Bhairahawa. Technically the Indian side is "Sunauli" and Nepal side is Belahiya. It is a dusty town that offers little more than a bus stop, a couple of simple hotels, a few shops and a busy border post.

A couple of Indians crouched around a table peering through the gloom upon which their paraffin lamp made little impression. They slowly processed our passports and as usual we found ourselves on the bottom of the pile, by being first to complete our disembarkation cards. We milled about while the half-witted ape on the bus roof struggled to untie the luggage and pass it down for inspection.

We passed on to Nepalese Immigration and quickly filled out the cards and were stamped into Nepal. The other wretched passengers struggled and whimpered, unable to answer the simple questions posed by the card and unable to pay for a visa with Indian currency or travellers’ cheques. The chumps have now got a seven-day visa which they must renew, the price of being unprepared.

George and I moved on and left them to it, passing rapidly thorough Customs and on to the hotel where we copped a triple room. Diwali, or something similar, was also raging on this side of the border with the familiar assault of firecrackers and lights. Children carried candles on trays near a temple decorated with snakes. At least the Nepalese seem to have a spark of intelligence in their eyes, a pleasant change from the Indians lack of wit.

We went into the hotel restaurant and changed Indian into Nepalese Rupees with a friendly intelligent looking fellow who spoke good English. We ordered food which seemed to be very cheap after our experience in India and sat waiting under the observation of a small frog on the ground. I demolished vegetable curry and rice with a cup of tea as the lairy know-it-all travellers gave each other advice and chatted up the locals.

We retired after a cold shower whilst the soapy German who shared our room lit one of his mosquito coils.