The music cassette-mending singer at the helm of the New Asia Hotel reception had assured us that the breakfast service would be in full swing at 06:00 hrs. When we came down at 06:40 hrs., however, the restaurant was bolted, and the staff were still pushing out Z’s in their cubby hole.
The new trainee reception desk man was most apologetic and nervous and did his best, but we ended up paying our bill and leaving hungry. We stopped down the road at the Holiday Hotel for porridge and eggs and despite our telling the owner that our bus was due to leave at 07:30 hrs. he was still pissing about at 07:25 hrs.
We got away and headed, hot foot, for the Bus Station arriving just in time. Our battered bus, number 107, pulled into the courtyard, swung a swift U-turn, paused and drove out again as we joined the other passengers in throwing our kit on and leaping aboard on the run.
In Britain this bus would have been considered a write-off about ten years ago, but here it was cheerfully labelled “Luxury Express” and plied a tortuous route between Pokhara and Sunauli every day. The “Express” misnomer was the best joke as it took nine hours to cover 195 kilometres at a painful crawl with abruptly short lunch and tea breaks, and ridiculously long stops for no apparent reason.
The driver must have been deaf as a post for the horn was painfully loud in the interior and he leant on it relentlessly and incessantly. Our travelling companions were a blond Danish couple (the female of which was always absent when the coach was about to depart, but the bloke looked a good sort), an Italian soapy couple (both with John Denver round glasses) and another Scandinavian wazzock who was “overlanding”.
Thus, we were well pissed off and fed up when we reached the border with India. Luckily, our crossing back into India was short and sweet with no hassles. We booked into the dormitory of the shabby six-month old Government-run Niranjana Hotel for 10 Indian Rupees each.
We hit the restaurant and were disgruntled to find that no food was served until 19:00 hrs. and it was only 17:30 hrs. George left me to read “Battle Cry” by Leon Uris and went off to buy bus tickets for Gorakhpur tomorrow. Gorakhpur is situated about 100 km from the Nepal border, and is 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.
As souvenirs we had our trekking permits and maps acquired from the New Asia Hotel to remind us of our marvellous stay in the Kingdom of Nepal. George returned to report that there was a pay as you board bus system here so we left this for the morrow and put away an egg and vegetable curry.
The English holidaymakers at the next table soon had us writhing and cringing with their inane banter. Their podgy son hung a fag (cigarette) from his lip and the whole family pitched in with gusto when a girl joined them to discuss stomach ailments.
We moved to a café on the “no man's land” part of the border and sipped coffee. We returned to the dormitory, which we had to ourselves, to perform our ablutions. George ran through his usual two exercise routine (press ups and sit-ups) with much panting and wheezing.
Just as we were dozing off there was a knock on the door, and we had to admit two more guests. At least they got to bed with the minimum of fuss.
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