I alighted at Gorakphur and the heat hit me like a hammer. It was even hotter than in Delhi – over 35 degrees. I knew this wasn’t the tourist season in these parts, and I now fully understood why. I’m sure you could get used to the heat, but it wouldn’t be a time you’d choose to go travelling; not when you could wait a few months and do so in relative comfort.
It was about midday and my next mission was to bus to the India/Nepal border at Sunauli. My trusty ‘Lonely Planet’ guide assured me the bus station was about 300m south of the train station, but Gorakhphur didn’t warrant a map. Directions like that always amuse me – my sense of direction is lousy and I could be staring at a sunset and still have no idea which way was south. I used to get that at work, too. “Just head East for a couple of kays”. Righto. What am I, a homing pidgeon? I marvel at cops who can give compass directions during the heat of a pursuit. I would need Crocodile Dundee seated next to me with a GPS unit on his lap to pull that off. But maybe I’m the only idiot who needs landmarks and street names. Anyway, knowing how bad my sense of direction is (acceptance is half the battle), I had brought myself a watch with a compass function, so I selected what looked like the main road south and set off.
I had already learned that a ‘bus’ can be a fairly vague term around here, and ‘Lonely Planet’ had indicated that private operators were the norm, so I was feeling flexible. I did, however, want to avoid the innumerable touts lining the road opposite the station, offering all sorts of “luxury” bus trips. Most of these seemed to include tickets right through to Kathmandu and help with gaining a visa for Nepal; the former I knew to be a scam – there are no buses that go through the border – and the latter I knew I didn’t need. I ploughed through the shouted offers and advice and found the bus station.
The buses here reminded me of the ones we used to catch to school – crappy. I spoke to a couple of drivers who disinterestedly waved me back the way I had come, saying that buses to Sunauli left from “there”. I had seen a couple of different coloured buses on my way and wondered if these were bound for the border. Walking back I got talking to a private ‘bus’ tout. 100 rupees per person for the trip, in a car with 10 others. I looked at the 4 wheel drive vehicle; it certainly looked safe enough (the definition of ‘safe’ I employed had nothing to do with roadworthiness and everything to do with survivability in case of collision with motorbike/cart/oxen) – and I saw several locals seated inside. This was obviously how the locals did it and I wasn’t being ripped off (I checked that everybody else was paying the same and I was expecting 60-70 Rs for the bus anyway), so I watched as my pack was strapped to the roof and clambered in. After waiting about 10 minutes we had a full load of passengers and we set off.
In a 4×4 which would comfortably seat maybe 7 people we had 12, not counting the guy on the roof looking after the baggage. I say “looking after”; while waiting to leave I had kept a wary eye out for my pack disappearing off down the street, and I didn’t completely relax until we had left the city. Thankfully, most of the passengers were of a typically slight build – except for the fatty next to me. Too many samosas, mate. The driver had expertly packed people in and leant on the doors to get them closed. He was now sitting in the lap of one of the 4 men crammed in the front, and I wondered if they were sharing the peddles. ‘Personal space’ is a concept that I had learned to adjust and fatty and I became quite close, but we had all the windows down and it wasn’t as uncomfortable as it sounds. Not quite. Judging from the number of buses we passed, it was a lot faster, too.
The driver stuck assiduously to the speed limit – which was whatever you could wring out of your vehicle, in our case 80kph – and was generous with his use of horn and indicators. I was definitely getting my money’s worth. The road was flat, as we were on the plains of Northern India, and cluttered with the usual heavily laden bicycles, motorbikes, ox-carts and buses. Hot, dusty air seemed to be rolling off the plain in waves, like blasts from a hair dryer and the open windows did little to assuage the heat, though I was grateful to have secured a window seat. The landscape beyond the tree-lined road consisted of verdant farmland disappearing into the distance, dotted with occasional cattle and red-brick buildings. As I looked North (I knew the road headed North, and I checked my watch, thank you), I searched for any hint of the Himalayas, but a thick heat-haze obscured any view.
After a stop for tea we arrived in Sunauli, which looked as dusty and shambolic as Gorakhphur, and I joined the procession of vehicles and people heading towards Nepal. The trip had taken under 1 ½ hours and I was glad I wasn’t still sitting on a crowded bus. Several friendly touts offered advice, which I carefully listened to then cheerfully ignored. My attention was directed to a notice board, which declared that it was illegal to carry more than 5000 Rs (about $160 NZD), across the border; due, apparently, to the activities of Pakastani terrorists. Luckily I had electronically wired my contribution to the Islamic movement the day before, and so wasn’t carrying much cash. (I shouldn’t be a smart-arse; India deals with plenty of terrorism, both foreign and domestic). The touts also pointed me to the Indian immigration office, which consisted of a guy sitting at a desk in the shade, and which I would’ve walked straight past if they hadn’t, possibly at the risk of being shot. (Just kidding). This border crossing – the most popular between India and Nepal – struck me as being fairly relaxed. The difference in attitude between the officials on the two sides, however, was palpable. The Indian official, dressed in open-necked shirt and pants, was a surly bugger who ignored my ‘namaste’, thumbed through my passport and pointed out where I had failed to sign on the requisite one-page form with a tap of his finger and a grunt. He eventually stamped my book, allowing me to leave India. I couldn’t help reflecting on India’s massive civil service at this point, wondering just what this guy had to do to get his cushy job. Mind you, it was very hot, I was leaving his country and he may have been conducting a shrewd and subtly sophisticated appraisal of me as a potential smuggler, for all I know.
I walked past a couple of armed soldiers lounging against the concrete archway that demarcated the border and I was in Nepal. At last.
