By hook and by crook, I cross the Nepal border

On Friday afternoon I go to the Kashmere Gate ISBT (Inter State Bus Terminal) in Delhi to find out how I can get to the Nepal border. I had been dreading trying to go to the border to renew my visa because I know it would not be easy. Now I will find out if my fears are justified.

I had heard various ways to go to Nepal, such as taking a train to Gonakhpur and bus to Sonali. This was a twenty-four hour trip, supposedly. On the map the border at Banbassa looks much closer. But there does not appear to be any direct way to get there. The closest train station looks to be at least a hundred kilometers away.

About the Banbassa border Lonely Planet says, "this little-used border crossing is not recommended at present due to Maoist activity in Nepal's western region. It certainly should not be attempted in the monsoon or immediate post-monsoon ceason because the roads in western Nepal are often impassable due to landslides and washed-out bridges."

That sounds encouraging. But I am not trying to cross western Nepal; I just need a little stamp in my passport to restart the six-month clock on my Indian visa. I will just bop across the border and come back and it will be taken care of. Besides, the Lonely Planet entry was written two years ago and in the last two months the Maoists and the King are supposedly getting along.

I had heard that the only way to Banbassa was an eighteen-hour ride on a government bus. An ordinary government bus means something amounting to a run-down school bus, with hard bench seats, sliding windows to try to beat the heat, and no limit to the number of people who will pack in. If it gets extra-crowded people will just sit on the roof. I took plenty of ordinary government buses in Himachal Pradesh for as long as nine hours; I know I don't want to ride one for eighteen.

At the ISBT I find a travel agent booth. He tells me that there is private deluxe coach. What's more, it has a sleeper, which is a six-foot-by-four-foot berth above the seats in which I can recline and sleep. I had taken sleepers in Rajasthan and they are not too bad. The bus leaves at 9:30 at night. I don't want to wait another twenty-four hours to get going so I book a sleeper for 480 rupees for that night.

Now things are moving. I take the Delhi Metro back to Ramakrishna Ashram Marg station, pack my stuff, and make a couple of calls on the internet. They won't let me on the Metro with luggage (for security reasons, although this seems to limit the usefulness of the Metro and probably won't wash at the Commonwealth Games), so I catch an auto-rickshaw near my hotel in Pahar Ganj. I tell him I need to go to Connaught Place (I need to use the Citibank ATM) and then to Kashmere Gate ISBT. He says he is headed home and will only take me to Connaught Place. I am starting to get into a time crunch, so I agree.

After the ATM I catch another rickshaw for Kashmere Gate. There is a lot of traffic near Old Delhi, and now it is 9:20pm. Time is crunching more loudly now, as I was supposed to arrive at the bus at 9:00 which was then to leave at 9:30. We circle around the ISBT and I find the travel agency booth I had found in afternoon. The agent tells me to wait, one of his guys will walk me to the bus. Since these are private buses they do not have a berth at the terminal; instead they pull up at some pre-designated spot on the road and pick up their passengers. I offer to walk there; why isn't he worried about me missing the bus?

He says no, and in a little while one of his many runners walks me away. We leave the bus terminal area, go to the street, then round a corner to a little side street by a main road. There are shops and various people waiting with duffel bags. There is no way I would have known this was the place; it is too far from the bus terminal.

For twenty minutes I watch people get in rickshaws and minivans, but I see no buses pull up. Another young guy tells me to come. He puts me on a bicycle rickshaw with another guy with a duffel bag. Where are we going? The buses are not allowed to pull up here, I gather, and they are taking me to a place where the buses actually stop. The kid on the bicycle rickshaw coasts us down a hill, and then labors up another hill, traveling a couple of kilometers, to a part of the street lined with more travel agent booths and dhabas (food shacks).

There are buses here but none seem to be mine. An agent at a different travel agency does not seem to be too concerned. He tells me to wait, then puts me on a bicycle rickshaw to go back the way I came to a traffic light. I am taken down the hill, but there is no bus in sight. I tell the kid to take me back. He labors back up the hill.

I wait some more. There is a lot of activity at this place, with people pulling up in rickshaws, people waiting, and agents sitting in their booths using walkie-talkies and mobile phones. I am put on another bicycle rickshaw with another man. He is going to Banbassa, says the agent. He puts the man's hundred-and-fifty pound sack of something on the footrest of the rickshaw and his other possessions behind the seat. He climbs in and I struggle aboard with my very heavy travelpack still on my back. I hold my small daypack on my feet, which are perched on top of the sack. I have not paid for any of these rickshaw rides. It must be all part of the travel agency - private bus network.

The kid takes us back, down the hill, back up the hill, past the Kashmere Gate ISBT. That's where I started, I tell the man. He smiles but doesn't seem to care. It's after ten o'clock now. There's no way I'm going to be able to catch this bus now, I think. I imagine going back to my hotel and trying to catch the 7:00AM train to Sonali the next morning.

We come to a quiet road. A bus is pulled up to a pump at a petrol station. The rickshaw pulls into the station. This is our bus, says the man. A man directs me onto the bus. He looks like someone who has directed me earlier at another place. I start to protest. I paid for a sleeper berth, I say, This bus doesn't have sleepers! Don't worry says the man. This bus is only to take you to your bus.

I climb aboard. The bus is full of people, and everyone in the front is a foreigner. Are all of these people going to Banbassa?

The conductor, a skinny guy in jeans, is asking all the foreigners for ten rupees for a luggage charge. My ticket says there is a charge for luggage, but since this is not my bus he does not ask me. Everyone else complies except a young Israeli guy behind me with big blonde hair. I only have credit cards, I do not have ten rupees!, he says. If I had it, I would give, but I don't have! The conductor gets very angry and threatens to take the man's luggage from behind the driver and remove it from the bus. The Israeli gets out of his seat to confront the conductor. He is much taller face-to-face, but the conductor is much angrier. Oh good, a fight, I say to the man next to me. This looks interesting. After more exchange, he borrows ten rupees from another Israeli, and things calm down.

Where are you going?, I ask the man next to me. We are going to Rishikesh, he says. That makes sense, I think. A lot of people going to Rishikesh, the yoga capital of the world, most probably straight off the plane in Delhi.

It turns out I will be dropped off in Annan Vihar, a suburb in Uttar Pradesh about an hour from Kashmere Gate. The bus stops here before leaving for Banbassa. It is red. It looks like a bus that the first bicycle rickshaw had coasted past at which I had briefly tried to get the boy to stop to check if it was mine. I climb aboard. I find a sleeper booth. I realize at this point that "deluxe" does not mean "air-conditioned". I knew that, but I had forgotten. I will have a window to slide open that will deliver fresh air once we get going. It is 11:30pm. I settle down and close my eyes. We sit for an hour before we leave.

I doze through the night. In the morning I see the plain of the Ganges. There are puddles everywhere and the fields are green. It is monsoon season, but it is not raining. There are wispy clouds and blue sky and the sun is rising. The highway is more of a lane than a road and it is very rough in places; I wonder if it is paved. We stop for a long time in a traffic jam somewhere near Moradabad. Apparently there is an accident up ahead. We get out and stand in the long line of trucks. Some people find tea. People bicycle by on their way to work.

At 12:30 we finally reach what I think is Banbassa. I get out. The conductor directs me to a jeep. It is packed with people. They put my luggage on the roof and tell me to sit in the front, where I squeeze next to three other people. Where are we going? Banbassa. How far is it? Ten kilometers. Where are we now? Hiramir.

We head down a quiet country road lined with very large trees. Everything is still green. We are supposed to be near Nepal, but the only hills are off in the distance. You need to pay, the driver tells me. How much? I ask. One hundred fifty rupees, he says. Fifty rupees more than I paid for a forty-minute auto-rickshaw ride to South Delhi. I could be sure none of the locals in the jeep were paying anything near that amount. After traveling for many hours I always find it the most difficult and tiring time to bargain. Ok, I say, knowing he already has me over a barrel, and I hand it over.

Every form of conveyance, mostly motorcycles, bicycles, bicycle rickshaws, and horse-drawn carts, is going down this road. Everyone has figured out a way to maximize the amount of goods conveyed with whatever form of transport they have. We pass a horse pulling a carriage with eight people riding in it. The jeep driver asks them a question. We both stop. You are taking this cart, the driver says. But you were going to take me to Mahendranagar, at the Nepalese border. No, you are taking this, he says. How much?, I ask the horse driver. Fifty rupees. I still don't know how far it is. Thirty rupees, I say. Forty rupees, he says. I will need change, I say. Not a problem, he says.

I have a pleasant ride with seven Nepalese. We cross a large river. They want to know where I'm from and how much my camera costs. It costs quite a few U.S. dollars I say, without giving an amount. The woman next to me will not let me take her photo.

The driver drops me off at Indian immigration, a simple building. I give him a hundred rupees. He comes back with fifty. You were going to take me to Mahendranagar, I say, and it was going to be forty. I raise my voice a little. He leaves angry with his cart-load of people.

I fill out my information with the friendly immigration official. He asks me where I'm from. How far is the Nepalese checkpost? No more than a kilometer he says.

I put my pack on and sling my daypack over my shoulder. I am dripping with sweat from the heat and humidity and I haven't even exerted myself yet. A man with a bicycle rickshaw offers to take me to the border. You can take me there for ten rupees, I say. No, no, thirty rupees, he says. Forget it, I tell this blameless guy, who is really on the bottom rung of the transportation ladder. I start walking.

Halfway down a paved lane by another river another bicycle rickshaw offers a ride. The Nepalese checkpost is within sight. Ten rupees, I say. Okay, he says. People are relaxing in the shade by the river in this no-man's land between checkposts.

The friendly man at Nepal Immigration takes down my information. Welcome to Nepal, he says. How many foreigners have registered here today?, I ask. Three, he says, showing me a stack of immigration forms with smiling passport photos of foreigners stapled to each. One yesterday. Two the day before. You may stay here three days on this free visa, he tells me, but an extra day is okay too.

I pass smiling young Nepalese soldiers with machine guns at a simple gun tower. I reach some dhabas and go inside one to get a liter of mineral water. Taxi drivers want to take me to Mahendranagar. I know there is a bus going for six Indian rupees. After twenty minutes the waiting bus starts its engine and honks its horn. I leave the shade of the dhaba and go on board.

Immediately across from the bus station in Mahendranagar is the Hotel Gangotri Plaza. It looks decent. I go inside and it has shower, television, clean beds, a fan, and a restaurant. I'll take it, I say.

The afternoon is cold showers, dozing, snacking, and watching sports, American television re-runs, movies, and the war in Lebanon on CNN. I watch a second-season episode of "The O.C.". I never watched the show in the States. I am re-watching "The Royal Tenenbaums" when the clerk comes in with food that I ordered. Do you smoke? No, I say. Do you smoke charas? No, I don't smoke charas, I say. He takes the remote from me and switches the station to cricket. I want to watch the cricket, he says. That's nice, I say, but I am watching this movie. I smile at him, take the remote away, and switch it back. He looks at the screen for a moment and then leaves.

Twenty-four hours after going to Kashmere Gate I have the little stamps on my passport that I need. Tomorrow I just need to do it in reverse, and then head to wherever I'm going next, which will most likely entail a long busride. I was justified in thinking the border crossing would not be easy, but in the end it is do-able. In the end I used three buses, two auto-rickshaws, four bicycle rickshaws, one jeep, one horse-drawn cart, and my feet.