Lucky Lucan wrote:More than 20 years ago I decided to go from India to Nepal..
Ha, less than 30 years ago I went from Nepal to India, crossing at Raxoul. Border towns always seem to evoke a sense of frustration in me and Raxoul was no exception, arriving just on dark didn't help matters.
An hour after handing over my passport, my mispronounced name was tying its hardest to be heard on a clapped out tannoy. I walk in to a dilapidated hut, and sitting at a desk piled with passports, sits a portly immigration chap in an immaculate uniform, and without looking up at me, says "You have something to give me?"
No, I have nothing to give you, I say.
You have something to give me? he repeats. somewhat sternly.
No, I have nothing to give you, I asserted.
Silence, easily 5 minutes, and I'm getting a little bit concerned about his attitude and of course the oz of hash I have on me.
Silence, bar the flicking of pages.
BANG! he stamps my passport and hands it to me. He had not made eye contact the whole time.
I walk in to India and board the forlornest of buses, even by India's standards, a story in itself.
I much prefer the more direct approach of the German border guards. Driving to Berlin when the wall came down, the big fat German guard stuck his enormous swede through the open window and yells "Ver is all the 'H' ?! Get out of zee car! Surrender your passport!"
[quote="Lucky Lucan"]More than 20 years ago I decided to go from India to Nepal..[/quote]
Ha, less than 30 years ago I went from Nepal to India, crossing at Raxoul. Border towns always seem to evoke a sense of frustration in me and Raxoul was no exception, arriving just on dark didn't help matters.
An hour after handing over my passport, my mispronounced name was tying its hardest to be heard on a clapped out tannoy. I walk in to a dilapidated hut, and sitting at a desk piled with passports, sits a portly immigration chap in an immaculate uniform, and without looking up at me, says "You have something to give me?"
No, I have nothing to give you, I say.
You have something to give me? he repeats. somewhat sternly.
No, I have nothing to give you, I asserted.
Silence, easily 5 minutes, and I'm getting a little bit concerned about his attitude and of course the oz of hash I have on me.
Silence, bar the flicking of pages.
BANG! he stamps my passport and hands it to me. He had not made eye contact the whole time.
I walk in to India and board the forlornest of buses, even by India's standards, a story in itself.
I much prefer the more direct approach of the German border guards. Driving to Berlin when the wall came down, the big fat German guard stuck his enormous swede through the open window and yells "Ver is all the 'H' ?! Get out of zee car! Surrender your passport!" :lol: