I got to Kakarbitta, which would surely be my last stop in the kingdom
of Nepal, as it’s a border city, enabling travellers to get to the
north-eastern part of India. I thought that Ilam would be my last Nepalese stop
right about the time I thought I would catch a direct bus from one tea country
to the other, from Ilam to Darjeeling respectively. But, as always, plans are usually
changed faster than socks and I ended up in Kakarbitta.
The buzz and heat only reminded me that the border is just a virtual
one, that the first person I’d meet would not be that strikingly different from
the ones on the other side of the border. And, sure enough, I still couldn’t
tell the difference between Indians and Nepali even at gunpoint.
The Indian-looking Nepali at the hotel was very kind to explain that the
cheapest way to get across was to walk (preferably with eyes and ears closed so
as not to get distracted by the myriad of offers of rides to the other side of
the border, to Siliguri or Darjeeling, or to any other happy place, made happy
by my own existence and the existence of the person offering). So,
within 10 minutes after walking up that morning, I started walking to India.
The border trend seems to be bridges; and, of course, there’s a bridge
crossing to get to the Indian border: a bridge long enough to make the crossing
irritatingly hot and sweaty even in the trickling rain, so that people would be
either really exhilarated or immensely exasperated by the time they reach
India. I was definitely on the reasonably irritated side of things by the time
they pointed me to the Indian Immigration Office, welcoming me with shouts and
preposterous offers for the most uninspired transportation means to major
Indian cities, an eye-watering deal that could well mean the most memorable
welcoming present to India for any credulous traveller (it would also mean that
a considerable amount of one’s budget would go towards the maintenance of the
shabby jeeps which would provide the transport to any Indian city).
So, after having some really friendly Indian policemen welcoming me on
the other side of the bridge, I hopped around the alley leading to the
Immigration Office because it was under construction and, eventually, got face
to face with a nice officer who shoved some forms under my nose and proceeded
to ask me about my favourite football team. After filling out the immigration
forms, the officer turned to his job and started analysing my handwriting and
checking the highly important information. And just when I thought I’d get the
stamp of approval to go crazy anywhere in India, the officer asked if I had
‘checked out’ of Nepal. I was flabbergasted; there hadn’t been an Immigration
Office on the Nepali side of the bridge and I didn’t know you had to officially
say that you were leaving Nepal.
‘You need to go back, ma’am, and get the stamp from Nepal Immigration
Office in your passport. I would take you myself but I have to stay here… so
maybe if you wait for half an hour, I can take you.’
Lovely offer, really, but I chose to do it myself and left my backpack
in India, leisurely walking back to Nepal. I’ll tell you this: the bridge
didn’t get any shorter in the meantime and the stroll was not all that much
fun, as the motorised traffic between the countries with its unceasing honking
– a sure sign of joy or sorrow for leaving or coming into a country – was as
pleasant as having a tooth extraction. At the Nepali Immigration Office nobody
was at work, which meant that I had to spend more time in Nepal waiting for
someone to put a goodbye stamp in my passport. They eventually did that and
soon enough I was back on the bridge reminding myself that the careless Nepali
ways have just been replaced by the complicated Indian methods of doing things.
And I knew I was back!
On the upside, I did get a neatly written name and phone number (‘If you
need any help…’) from the Indian immigration officer and made my first true,
honest friend in India.