No Man's Land

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.