The day of Daman

"Where is your entry card from Delhi?"
"There is no entry card, because we never got one when we arrived at the airport, sir."
"But you must have one, everybody gets an entry card at immigration!"
"We're sorry, but they never gave us one, so we don't have them."
"Then you have a problem, and you have to pay."
We stand at the Indian immigration office in Raxaul-Bazaar. An unsightly decrepit building, hard to find because it's partly concealed by a bridge. On a rickety wooden desk hundreds of papers are strewn, somewhere between them lay our passports and the forms we filled in. An immigration official, forty kilos overweight and dressed in a singlet that once must have been white, looks at us suspiciously. We've done nothing wrong, as opposed to his colleague in Delhi who failed to give us the necessary entry card after supplying us the visas.
But whatever we say or do, the unflappable civil servant puts the mistake on our plate and we have to digest it. Sighing we put one hundred rupees on his desk, which he pockets negligently.

Another unpleasant surprise awaits us at the Nepalese side of the border; this year we've been in Nepal for 126 days already, and this office is allowed to give entry-permits for a maximum of 120 days. Only in Kathmandu we can get the maximum of 150 days one can stay in the country.
But, the officer will be forthcoming, so he says. For a reasonable baksheesh he will write a letter which we have to show the authorities in Kathmandu, and there we will receive the visa for the remaining 24 days.
As a foreigner you are supposed to know all the (immigration) laws of the country you visit, although you'll have a hard time finding them written down anywhere. Baksheesh means nothing else but bribary and corruption, and we detest the idea of joining the cheating and lying. On the other hand, we have to go to Kathmandu for the publishing of the English version of our book "Exceeding all Bounds". There isn't a lot of choice.
"How much baksheesh?" we ask him.
"Whatever you think it is worth, it's up to you."
This sounds easy, too easy. We decide to play the game, but within our own rules.
We let the man write the document first, take the letter from him and stick it in one of our many bags.
In one of the secret pockets of another bag we have some one-dollar notes that we've been carrying with us for years. Nowadays the American currency has lost most of its value, so this is a perfect situation to get rid of the junk, better than spending our beloved euros.
Before leaving we put four whole notes of one dollar in his hands. He looks taken aback, while we are more cheerful with every second.
"That's a good price, four real dollars, only for you!"

A bit disappointed he watches us leave the premises; we wish him a happy Dasain and cycle into Nepal.
A tiny adventure that goes out like a damp squib.
The Nepalese bordertown of Birgunj is completely in Dasainly atmospheres and with some effort we wriggle the heavy bicycles through the main street where a crowd of people gapes at the plastic parafernalia of the immense temporarily bazaar.
After India Nepal is like heaven on earth. The people leave us alone, the atmosphere is relaxed, nobody's obtrusive and interfering, and many women participate in business and daily life. Nepalese people treat us with normal human respect; we're no longer a mere soap opera at any unexpected moment.
After sixty kilometers of slowly climbing we reach the town of Hetauda.
Peter says: "Tomorrow is the big day.
Tomorrow we'll cycle to Daman, over two thousand meters higher, in the cool mountains, with one of the most spacious and magnificent views of the snowpeaks of the Himalayas."
For weeks already he has been looking forward to this day, to the grand climb, ending in the peaceful village of Daman. He wishes it was tomorrow already, he can't wait. I have my own thoughts about tomorrow...
In a simple hotel room we wash the cycling sweat off our bodies. A neighbouring restaurant serves pizza, honest food without chillies and peppers; nobody could get intestinal problems eating it.
Nothing can happen to us now, luck is smiling its biggest smile at us.

Finally, Friday October 19 2007, the day of Daman!
But the start of the day of Daman is a bit weird. Something's wrong.
Even before the alarm clock sounds both of us are awake. Not caused by noisy neighbours, street sounds, or crowing cocks. Impatiently we take turns visiting the toilet; moaning and groaning with cramps and nausea.
After emptying every centimetre of bowel our intestines quiet down a bit and we're on our way. To Daman...
This scenic itinerary, which we cycled with Rob and Aranka in December 2006, is kind of special. The snaking mountain road next to the river leads into a forest with many birds, butterflies and monkeys. The villages, with Dasain-swings, change into hamlets and the trees get greener and greener. Every year again all villages build an almost ten meters high bamboo swing for the Dasain festival. The children reach dreadful heights in these beautiful killing toys, and every year again someone crashes down. But: tradition is tradition.
A fit of cramps forces Peter to get off his bicycle quickly; in the shrubbery he lowers his shorts as fast as he can, and terrible light-brown stuff flows like a fountain onto the poor soil. He feels wretched.

Powerless I push the pedals, we're ailing, our pace reduces to walking speed, and that's not caused by the inclination of the road. I too have to jump off my bike, and then Peter again.
The lights slowly go out, I wish to give up, but Peter stubbornly wants to go on...

Just before dark we arrive in Kathmandu and disillusionedly we step out of the bus, that picked us off the road after 31 kilometers.
Our hotel, Ganesh Himal, is fully booked and dispirited we cycle to hotel Tenki. Every hotel, providing us with a bed, is good enough.

The deceptive day of Daman is followed by two weeks of weakness, diarrhea, lack of appetite, nausea and two cures of antibiotics.
We swallow spirulina, vitamin pills and eat as much vegetables and bananas as we possibly can. A cure of anti-giardiasis takes us back to the land of the living, finally.

Kathmandu is an old friend. We visit our acquaintances and have business talks, rather a business fight, with the publisher of the English book version of Exceeding All Bounds. In the contract he demands the publishing rights for all countries except for the Netherlands. In this contract we would be dependent of any of his whims.
We negotiate, offer him the publishing rights of whole Southeast Asia, but he doesn't budge.
At the last minute of our precious 24 days we decide to cut the deal. Our trip to Kathmandu was all for nothing.
Not wanting to cycle through rancid India again -our bodies are just about recovered- we book a flight to Thailand.

A couple of disappointments, as well as a couple of experiences richer.