27th May 1992 Day 312

The Diary
A day of wasting time before the flight. Nothing at Poste Restaurante, another visit to the British Council Library, we changed some more Nepalese rupees into Indian rupees and then tried to waste the few Nepalese rupees we had left. Cadburys did quite well out of us although I wonder how much they worry about vendors selling out of date stock? It'll get them a bad name. We wasted a bit more time and then caught a taxi to Tribhuvan Airport at 4pm. One of the least picturesque airport routes, even worse than the route to Teesside Airport that goes past Urlay Nook.

We encountered complete confusion at the check-in desk. No real queue and the least helpful staff anywhere. We got through, customs seemed to be non-existent, nobody wanted to check exchange receipts so we sat down to wait. Eventually the boarding signal went up and there was a mass charge. We waited calmly to the end and wandered through. Our baggage hadn't been labelled but when we got to the plane it was all laid out on the tarmac. We identified our bags and they were loaded on. 


The view from the plane was fantastic as we were overland all the way, it was light and I had a window seat. The mountains disappeared and then it was completely flat. The in-flight meal consisted of a plastic beaker of water and a cardboard box marked 'vegetarian' which contained a tiny tomato sandwich (no butter), a pastie filled with vegetarian curry (a samosa?) and a slice of fruit cake all served by two unsmiling stewardesses in their Indian Airlines saris. On a par with United Airlines.

By the time we landed it was dark. Customs and Immigration were slow, strange and bureaucratic. The English speaking foreigners on the plane - the two of us and six Yanks - grouped together for moral support. The passports were checked by two people and then passed to a third who checked our visas against a huge computer print-out. Then we had to pick up our bags and join a queue and declare the amount of money we'd brought with us. Nobody seemed interested in checking our bags. This might have been slow for us but the majority of Indians were not even past the passport check.


The three American backpackers, 2 girls and a very old-looking young man called Jack, suggested the five of us catch a taxi together. We agreed and stepped outside. At that point, all hell broke loose as we were engulfed by the most insistent and persistent taxi-drivers and hotel touts encountered anywhere. Jack did the bargaining and got us a cab for 150rp. Even after we'd got in the cab people were opening the doors, pulling down the windows, shoving their cards in our faces, trying to tell us the cost was more than 150rp but we stuck it out and eventually moved off into V.S. Naipaul's 'Area of Darkness'. We reached the town and drove for miles through bustling streets full of pedestrians, rickshaws, cows, dogs, donkeys and auto-rickshaws. Eventually the cab stopped and the driver said we were there. At first we weren't convinced but it turned out we were in the right area.

We walked around being helped and hindered by more touts and 'helpful' locals. Through a labyrinthine bazaar area we went to the Yogi Lodge; not enough room, awful beds and full of hippies.Then we went through even more impossibly windy back streets and found the Om Lodge. Oz and I took a room and Jack went off to find the others. They were eventually led to the Hotel Ganges which they reckoned was far better. We were OK at Om as the owners were exceedingly helpful and friendly.


We were shown the way to a local restaurant but by this time it was 10pm and everything was shutting. We gave up and went to bed. The moral of the story? "Don't arrive in the dark". Why can't they follow the British example and have summer days that end after 10pm?


2012