FRIDAY, THE THIRTEENTH - PART ONE

Since meeting Basu Dev Golyan, the Rotarian from Nepal, at our farewell dinner on the 8th, I had arranged to travel to Nepal, primarily to determine if there might be some projects to consider for our teams of Rotarians in future years. Through the help of Sanjiv and his office, I was able to purchase a ticket on a flight leaving from Delhi at 9:30 a.m. on Friday, the 13th. Not that I am suspicious or anything, but as the day unfolded, perhaps a few of the doubts I may have had became reality.

First, Sanjiv's driver was not too keen about meeting me at such an early hour to take me to the airport within the required two-hour pre-boarding time constraint. Well, Badal did arrive at the house to meet me. I had packed all of my clothing into my carry-on, but also had my laptop along, just in case I might have an opportunity to access the Internet at a WI-FI location. When we arrived at the airport, at about 8:00 (not quite the two hours required) I went to the entrance for KINGFISHER AIRLINES and checked in at the ticket counter. The attendant checked my bag through to Bagdogra (an airport in Bengal, not too far a drive from the border with Nepal). I asked if the flight would be on-time and was told it would be. This is great. Things are rolling along just fine. I then passed through security, trying to explain why every time the wand passed by my left knee, the lights flashed and the buzzer went off. I finally rolled up my pant leg, showed my scar and rapped on my knee a few times and said, "Titanium". The attendant smiled and let me pass through. I collected my laptop bag and jacket and proceeded to the waiting area.

Waiting area? What an understatement! Almost as soon as I reached that area, the departure screen indicated our flight had been postponed until 11:00. Not so bad. I could continue to read the book that Sean Dolter had loaned to me. The next announcement over the PA system indicated 12:30 p.m. Well, I guess I can live with this, I thought. Within minutes there was another announcement: "The flight on Kingfisher Airlines has been postponed until 2:30." There was never any explanation, and due to that fact, when an unsuspecting gate attendant from Kingfisher strolled down to the gate area, he was accosted by about two dozen very angry and VERY vocal passengers - all of them from India. I have never seen quite such an unruly crowd in an airport. I mean, they screamed and yelled and pushed and shoved and hollered epithets and expletives UN-deleted! Evidently, when I spoke to a man who had come to sit beside me because he noticed the Rotary emblem on my shirt, the crowd was getting more and more upset, due to the fact that supposedly since Bagdogra is also a military air base, no commercial flights are allowed into or out of that airport after 5:00 in the afternoons.

I decided to get something to eat and again experienced a rather unruly crowd of hungry passengers. Finally, I was able to get something VEG and returned to my seat in the waiting lounge. I ate my breakfast-lunch-whatever meal and settled in with my book. Then more yelling and screaming. I mean you cannot even make up fiction that plays out like this scene was doing. I was then informed that Kingfisher Airlines would allow passengers to go to the food counter and get some lunch at no further cost to the passenger, so I sallied forth to join the queue at the lunch counter. I was able to get a wrap of some kind because the veggie burgers were not available. The back of my ticket was endorsed by the attendant and I returned to my seat. Would you believe… at 4:00 that afternoon, we were allowed to leave the terminal and proceed to awaiting buses that would take us to the plane? Well, not so fast! We boarded the buses (with mostly windows) and the doors closed. Unfortunately, we stood for a good fifteen minutes without being able to leave, to open windows or, heaven forbid, to have the driver turn on the air conditioning. Remember the smell of wet winter clothes steaming on the radiators at school, when you were a little kid? Well multiply that smell exponentially and you MIGHT get an idea as to how the bus stunk by the time we began to roll. To say the passengers were not pleased would be to put it mildly. Again more pushing and shoving, and for what? Did these folks really believe the plane would leave without them? Did they really believe that someone else would sit in their assigned seats? Once all were boarded and settled into seats, we began to taxi and lift-off came at about 4:45 p.m. Not bad… only seven plus hours late, and not a cloud in the sky! I was so looking forward to a free Kingfisher beer or two, but that was not about to happen.

The flight was not too bumpy and I guess when all is said and done, perhaps the company wanted us all to be able to appreciate the magnificence of the views of the sunset reflecting its crimson rays on the snow-capped peaks of the Himalayas. Doubtful, but it gave me hope. Upon landing, I picked up my checked bag and proceeded out to the parking lot and was met by a driver holding a piece of paper with some semblance of my name on it. He was a pleasant, older man, who took my bag and we proceeded to the car. I got in and was disappointed that darkness had encroached to the point it would be very difficult to see much of the countryside on the way to Biratnagar - the home of my host, Basu. The driver tried to communicate to me that the trip would take about two hours. Since I had been scheduled to address a joint meeting of two Rotary Clubs in Biratnagar, I thought anything is possible and if they met like so many other clubs meet, later in the evening, I could still make it there. Again, not so fast!!!

Although the driver really tried to make up for lost time - I mean for all seven hours of lost time - there was more in store for us along the way. We drove through totally blacked out areas - I mean not so much as a flickering candle or oil lamp, and then through some very noisy villages where open-air markets were still crowded despite the darkness of the hour. There always seems to be an inherent bustle about the villages in India, almost as though going to market is as much a social event as it might be for buying a few eggs or some fresh produce. I also noticed lots of bicycle rickshaws - I mean literally hundreds and hundreds of them, not only in the towns and villages, but also being pedaled along the main roads leading out of the villages, and with no safety features such as lights or reflectors. In the USA, OSHA would have a field day…

We finally reached an area where I began to notice signs that we were approaching the border with Nepal. We might still reach the meeting. Nay, nay, not so fast!!! First, we had to stop at the checkpoint on the Indian side of the border so I could legally exit the country and get my passport stamped. Unfortunately, the driver had forgotten this little tidbit of a requirement, so we had first driven to the border, only to be turned back so I could get the passport stamped. In what was close to total darkness, with an occasional single low-watt light bulb dangling from a frayed and spliced wire to interrupt what seemed like we were inside a large pocket, I was directed by a rather spirited military officer to go back to a hut in the rear of the compound and someone would come to meet me. I am sure I was the attraction, being rather large and white. I entered what I thought would be the right hut and was told to wait. Why not? After having left the safe haven of Sanjiv's home some twelve hours before, what is another few minutes? The officer finally came and asked me what I wanted. Although somewhat unsure as to what I really wanted, I told him I would be grateful if he would stamp my passport so I could proceed into Nepal. After fishing through the pages of my passport to find a clean page and to locate my current visa, he finally stamped it with such pronouncement that I am surprised it was simply stamped, rather than embossed.

Now, back to the car and my driver who was eagerly awaiting, ready to transport me to his master's house. We approached the international border between India and Nepal and were stopped again. I expected this, since one must check in at an immigration office to enter a country. He driver left me in the car to locate the right office. This location was even darker than the checkpoint on the Indian side, if that is possible. Not so much as two street lamps that seemed to flicker, almost in a pulsing rhythm. The few cars passing did not have headlights lit. Night vision in Nepal must be fantastic! About ten minutes later, the driver returned and got into the car. He looked upset. I asked him if there was a problem and he tried to explain we could not cross the border. "This is just ducky," I thought to myself. Here I am in the middle of nowhere, unable to speak Hindi or Nepalese, in near total darkness, wondering if I was to have the pleasure of camping out in the back seat of my sub-compact limousine. Ah, for the sake of adventure…

The driver tried several times to call on his mobile, presumably to Basu. He was finally able to get through, although the connection seemed a bit sketchy. He told me to wait in the car again, but this time he left the interior light on, and I really became the attraction - with passersby peering in the windows as though I were a giant white fish in a tiny fishbowl. Fifteen minutes later the driver returned to the car, seeming even more frustrated than before. He tried calling about a dozen times but to no avail. He got out of the car again and told me to stay there. Like I was about to go for an evening stroll or something??? Another fifteen minutes passed, and he returned to the car, rapped on the body of the car and motioned me out. He explained the Immigration Office was CLOSED!!! Oh joy. So where was he directing that I should proceed? A military officer was walking along the other side of the street, in the same general direction I was headed and I thought we should just about meet one another from perpendicular starting points. I guessed he was military, although his uniform was a bit suspect - typical army green jacket with a name tag and a medal, not buttoned; a relic of a rifle slung over his right shoulder; and a pair of dirty white cargo-type shorts and bare feet. "Oh well, go with the flow," I thought. The principal gate - a ten foot wall of steel, was closed and bolted shut. However, a tiny door opened into the yard of this outpost. I was invited to step in. I suddenly remembered a childhood story where the last part of the line flashed into my head, "said the spider to the fly". Was this going to be where I was encamped for the night? Would this be my ticket into the country? What was going to happen next?

Inside the building, and I swear this is true, there was an office with a processing counter. Perched atop the counter was a single lighted candle, about the thickness of a Bic pen, providing absolutely the ONLY light in the room. There were three men, including my barefooted, cargo shorted military officer, behind the counter. I was asked to produce my passport and in order to expedite this process; I opened it to the page where the Indian officer had pounded my exit information indelibly onto the page. He did not seem to be impressed with this and handed me a 3" x 5" piece of paper, an entry form, that I was required to fill out. I did so, and then a horrible thought crept into my mind. The previous day, I was supposed to have had two passport-sized photos taken, so I could provide them to the Nepalese Immigration officer, in order to obtain a visa and enter the country. That never happened. What to do now? Wait until I was asked for the photos. I handed the completed visa application form to a plain-clothes guy, who in turn handed it to the other man who then handed it to the barefooted, white cargo shorts guy. Each had to take a look at it, but how could they see any of the writing, since the candle was on my side of the room? One man produced a penlight and held it in his mouth, while he read over my visa application. He then asked the sixty-four thousand dollar question, "Photos?" Such a simple question. I thought to myself, "Elias, you are in SOOOOOOOOOOO much trouble!" Just as I was about to tell them I had no photos, I remembered my Rotary business card that has a photo of Jane and me on it. I reached into my pocket, produced two of these cards (the photo is only about an inch by and inch, but it is a photo) and handed them to the first guy, who guided his mouth-held penlight onto this new prize, then passed them onto guy number two who held them in front of the first guy's mouth with light, and finally passed them onto white shorts barefoot guy. (Do you see a Bollywood movie script in my future?) "Where is Madam?" he asked assertively. "Madam is at home shoveling snow," I informed him. "We must have Madam here with you to process," he said. I then told him to cut the picture in half so Madam did NOT have to be with me in order for me to enter Nepal, and Ripley, are you ready for this??? He took out a pair of manicure scissors, cut Madam out of the photo, stapled the two cards to my visa application, stamped my passport, peeled off a peel-and-stick-visa form from his book and slapped it into my passport. The flickering candle was extinguished and I was then escorted out of the building, through the tiny opening in the steel wall, and proceeded to my car, where no driver was to be seen. He appeared soon and we were off for Biratnagar, where presumably the Rotarians had long-since departed from their meeting. We got to the pike, which was only partially lowered, so we just drove underneath it and, huzzah, we were in Nepal. On to PART TWO.