Leaving Nepal

In the cramped yellow lit bus the heat makes madness. The streets are dark. People shouting and strange noises. An unthinkable amount of time remains. Sleep is an impossibility with the seat ahead smashing my knees to pulp. Bugs flit around the bus lamps left on while someone searches for a headlamp only to come back to a dead battery. We wait wait wait in this eerie place broken seats tilted askew the bus now half empty and angrily silent. The lights of the passing cars struggle to cut through the murky air and light up the slow smoke of many cigarettes. As the bus starts a cluster of burning cigarettes form around the entrance as people crowd and I follow. Sitting down I argue incomprehensibly for space with the man in front of me. My shirt is no longer an article of clothing but an extension of my own body clinging desperately. The bus jolts forward finally. The only thing that keeps me sane is listening to the melodies of Morrison but this only helps for a while. I see a STD/ISD station and I have to restrain the urge to run off the bus and call everyone I know so that I can scream madness into their ears. The boy that sat next to me earlier telling me how he was a devout follower of both the first and second incarnation of the mysterious Sia Babba leans forward telling me quietly that we have just passed into India. Suddenly it makes sense. The bus driver speeds down narrow roads to avoid getting stuck, fishtailing from side to side tossing everyone about. The hard wooden back of the seat ahead slams into my knees with each bump. Outside of the bus small figures with dark faces and long shadows pass by. We stop again and a small carriage pulls up to the right. The donkey wears blinders and tilts its head down and to the left as it struggles through the mud, teeth bared, it is whipped forward. Statues decorated garishly with tinsel and lights live in many roadside shrines and get frequent worship. Small fires line the street in homage to many headed and armed gods.

We stop yet again this time for fuel. As the bus pulls out it moves about ten meters before it stalls and dies for good gurgling its last few sounds before remaining silent. Another long wait as they fiddle with the engine. Impossibly the pitted pitiful roads seem to get worse and we move at a snails pace moving up and down as much as forward. I doze for a bit only to come fully conscious when I realize we have stopped again. Outside I hear angry arguing voices and the bang of what sounds like an empty gas tank. I stumble outside to watch the spectacle from the cement median. We are indeed out of gas. It seems that either there was a leak or the station attendant cheated the bus driver. Resigned, I talk to the boy next to me and find out that he is studying business. After a few minutes of small talk he feels comfortable enough to ask me about my sex life because as he puts it, "I think that in America people are much more frank" when it comes to talking about sex. It was awkward. Eventually we are able to flag down another bus and siphon gas into a bucket to transfer to our own bus.

In the morning the sun rises big and heavy through the thick air. As I look out at the flooded plains, huts half submerged, i realize that we are in the state of Bihar which has had some very bad flooding in the past months. Millions displaced and thousands dead. This explains why the roads are in such bad condition. We make a tea and shower stop at a hand pump well. Too hot to close the windows during the night ride we have all been caked with a fine dust. I wash my face and hands the best I can while someone pumps water then take my turn at the handle. After we go for tea but I do not have any Indian money so someone that sits near me on the bus buys me a cup. Those of us in the back of the bus have developed a sort of relationship over the past twenty hours. I won't say we are all friends but more like a frustrated family on a long car trip, arguing, joking and sharing. Even the two silent brothers in front of me with mean eyes and wicked moustaches are part of it. As we continue on we pass yet another wrecked vehicle. This time it is a large truck. Its load has spilled frame twisted in extreme angles, the windows busted out and staring with jagged eyes seem to ask implicitly, "well how bout it?".

As we stop for lunch I begin to realize that there is no way that i will make it to Darjeeling that day. It is already late afternoon and we are no where near where we should be and the border at Karkarbhitta closes at seven. One by one my new family steps off the bus shaking hands and saying their goodbyes. Soon it is just me and the mean eyed brothers. Suddenly I have never felt more alone in my entire life. Mine is the last stop and as we move on the towns seem to get darker and smaller. I start to worry about finding a hotel in the dark. Then I start to worry that the brothers will knife me and steal my stuff when we get to the station. Revenge for arguing with them earlier. In fact I KNOW that they will do this. I will die a slow death from a knife to the stomach in a dirty bus station. This is my fate.

Of course this does not happen and when we get to Kakarbhitta the electricity has turned back on. The city is lit up and not so empty. When I get off the bus I am actually approached by several hotel owners wondering if I would like a room. I go to my room, for which i pay less than three dollars, and fall asleep for twelve hours.