My name is Osama bin Laden

We've passed seven more bandhas and cycle between dozens of local cyclists over the dead-quiet highway to the Indian border. The whole road is ours, nostalgic we remember the car-free Sundays we had a long time ago in The Netherlands. Between mud houses and straw huts we imagine ourselves to be in Africa . Poverty is striking here and the difference between city and countryside huge. The almost daily political strikes and traffic blockades push the destitute Nepali economy even further down the drain.

The moods of our fellow cyclists don't show any concern though. Riding ramshackle two wheelers, dressed in torn old clothing everybody gives us a friendly smile. The usual questions are thrown at us: “where are you from, where are you going, what is your name…” until it drives us crazy.
After the one-hundred-and-fortieth question of yet another fellow road user we become slightly recalcitrant and teasing:
“Hello, where are you from?”
“We are from Disneyland , America !”
A desperate look appears on the boy's face, but he quickly recovers.
“Ah, America , and what is your name?”
“My name is Osama bin Laden.”
Without batting an eyelid he poses his next standard question.
“What is in your bags?”
“The left one contains dollars; the others are filled with rupees.”
“Wow! Really? Give me some please!”
“No, I cannot do that. But sometimes, when it is too heavy, I throw some of the money away to save weight.”
The boy is quiet now and follows us for a couple of kilometres, hoping that our bags will become too heavy real soon.
Another method to avoid the well-known question and answer game is reversing the roles: when Rob and Aranka are approached they fast as lightning fire their own questions at the local people without giving them a chance to ask a question. Most people fathom it after a while and cycle on smilingly.

The last dozens of kilometres in Nepal we cycle through the Suklaphanta Wildlife reserve, passing towering termite mounds, a herd of Bambi-deer and groups of cheeky macaques. Two pied woodpeckers hammer away and a swarm of parrots flies over our heads whilst screeching. The heat has returned and at a stall we feast upon several glasses of sugarcane juice. Rob and Peter fill their drinking bottles filled with juice to have some extra energy for the next kilometres.
In Mahendranagar we cool our heated bodies under a hand pump, after which the last Nepali lunch follows in the shadow of a tree.
Passers-by have difficulty restraining their curiosity and often stare for minutes at a time at this strange phenomenon. The most beautiful people here are the Tharu women, with tight bodies, a bare midriff, colourful skirts and (fake) golden jewellery.

Gaudigadi is the border post with India , where the formalities are handled within ten minutes. The no-mans-land stretches for a couple of kilometres and offers the cooling we seek: before cycling into the immense subcontinent called India we dangle our feet in the cooling water of a canal. Clothing and caps disappear into the cold water and we look back again at the country we entered seven months ago, skinny and dead tired.
“Beautiful country, Nepal ,” Peter sighs.
“Yes,” Aranka says, “nice bandhas too!”
“You think they have those in India as well?” I ask the others.
“Come, let's have a look,” Rob answers. “And if they don't know the bandha, we'll introduce the concept.”