The Strike: Bhadrapur to Biratnagar Coming back from India into Nepal, we had a problem. The day we were to fly back to Kathmandu from Bhadrapur in Nepal, there was scheduled another of the Nepalese nationwide strike days, protesting the advent of VAT taxation. In fact, this time they were striking for two consecutive days and the first day was declared to be very serious. In order not to have our vehicle stoned, we had to somehow get from India into Nepal early enough in the morning so that the strikers were not yet up and about. OK? We arose well before dawn, grabbed our baggage and prepared to set off. Our hotel was locked up tighter than a drum, so we had to feel around in the dark for lights, wake the doorkeeper and the gatekeeper, etc. At any rate, by 5 AM we had left Silagree and were heading toward the Nepal border. Even in the pre-dawn darkness there was heavy people-traffic on the road, probably because the day was some sort of Hindu holy day. Everywhere were small tent shrines with glaring lights, in which were brightly-painted statues and loud music. In many places along the road, bare 4-foot florescent tubes were mounted upright and arranged on either side of a shrine, to create a funnel-like light effect into the statue. Perhaps as many as 10-12 tubes would be set up this way, giving an eerie and carnival like effect. The sacred music boomed out of the darkness as we sped along. It was like a carnival, but a sacred one. Soon we were once again in the dangerous area outside of Karkavitta, heading toward the Indian-Nepal border. At the border, the three official checkpoints were not yet open and huge booms across the road blocked all traffic from passing through. Traffic was already piling up. In our hurry to avoid the strikers, we set about waking the local officials, who were in no hurry to help us until we promised some ‘bakshish’ or bribe money. Even then, it was a slow go. Finally, the customs and immigration officials appeared and slowly put us through the long form-filling process, while we eyed the clock and the coming of dawn, which meant possibly more danger for us once inside Nepal. There were three checkpoints, three sets of forms, and three waits. I left my family locked (like some folks lock dogs in a car when going into K-Mart) in the jeep, in the darkness. Of course, they had to have each member of my family personally come into the office and sign the forms, even my 11-year old son. At last we were done and had crossed from Karkavitta into Nepal. Unfortunately, it was now light as we headed for the airport. Groups of Nepalese were gathering here and there. Some had rocks in their hands. But luck was with us and we wheeled into the tiny airport and piled out. We were pleased with ourselves that all had gone so well thus far and that we were already at the airport. Now all we had to do was wait for the plane. Little did we know. It was early and no one was around. Our conversation managed to wake a few people who had been sleeping somewhere in the open building. Our driver had an animated dialogue with one and then turned to faced us, a little wide-eyed. I thought for a moment he was telling me that the plane had been cancelled, that the plane would not be coming here today. The man next to him nodded in agreement and in better English said the airport had been closed due to water in the field that served as the runway. Second take. He was in fact telling me that! I was in shock and refused to accept this information. They were happy to repeat it and it sounded no better the second time. My mind was racing. Let’s see: The strike was on in Nepal, not just for today, but for tomorrow also. The plane we needed only came twice a week. In other words, we were stuck hundreds of miles from Kathmandu with no plane and no way to travel to another airport. Worse, we had only two days to make connections for our plane reservations back to America. The start of a two-day strike meant we could not even take the All night bus ride through the mountains to Kathmandu, even if we wanted to. I was not a happy camper and my protestations soon produced an airline official on a motorcycle. A Brahmin, who spoke English, he assured me that we could stay here locally as long as we wanted and be well treated. Not comforting. "But I have no intention of staying here," I protested. The official appealed to the airport manager, who just shook his head. He would allow no planes to land here today and that was that. Then the airline official said he would appeal that decision and that ‘their’ planes could land in these conditions. Accompanied by another motorcyclist, he went out in the runway field and drove up and down. I was hopeful, but when they returned, they just shook their heads. No plane today or anytime soon. He suggested that we go to this local restaurant and wait and he gestured toward a building that was little more than a hovel. "No!," said I. By now we had quite a group of people gathered around to enjoy the show, watching me freak out. The nearest city was Biratnagar, almost a 3-hour overland journey from where we were, but there was the strike to consider. A call to the owner of the jeep we had been riding (and paying for) for the last week brought only the response that he would not allow us to use his vehicle. There was too much danger of damage from the strikers. We were stuck. All of this was made worse by the fact that my son had been quite sick the last few days, throwing up and not feeling well. He (skinny as a rail to begin with) had lost some weight and we needed to get him back to Kathmandu, where there was food that he would eat. Thoughts flooded through my mind of us here for days, trying to get out, missing our flights to the states, not to mention the fact that we needed those last days in Kathmandu to finish up our trip. After all, we had not yet been to the great Swayambu stupa, etc. and etc. I pleaded with the different folks there for help and asked if there was an ambulance that we could hire to drive to Biratnagar. Surely, people would not stone that. I pointed out that my son was sick and he hacked and coughed for them on cue. There was also this off-duty policeman who was standing around. Perhaps he could ride with us up front in the ambulance and make us look official. They liked the ambulance idea and began to call around looking for one. We found one, but it would not be available until sometime in the afternoon. "Better than nothing," was my response. Upon hearing of the advent of the ambulance, the owner of the jeep (who had refused our use of it today) came down to the airport and dickered himself with us. He was also a Brahman and we had a Brahmin war between the airline official (who really was trying to help us) and this man, who did not like to see us spending money on an ambulance, when he might get some. We suggested that the policeman ride in his jeep, of course, for a stiff fee. He saw dollars and said "Yes." We were willing to chance it. This way, we could start at once. We made a deal to drive through the strike to Biratnagar and all we could hope for was that there would be a plane leaving soon from the airport at the other end. After a stop to bless the jeep (to protect it from harm) and lay some garlands of flowers on the front bumper, with our uniformed policeman sitting up front, we headed out into the strike zone. The plan was to tell anyone who stopped us that we were headed to the hospital at Biratnagar and, at the last minute, head for the airport instead. My son, Michael Andrew lay across our laps in the back and hacked and coughed when we were stopped. He looked the part. Skinny anyway, he had lost weight in Tibet and India. He did not look well. And so began about a three-hour trip across Southern Nepal. We did stop at different checkpoints and we passed many groups of men with stones, but none really were thrown. Perhaps I heard one hit the back of the jeep. Still, there was tension in the air as we drove along. Our policeman sat bolt upright and hung one arm out the window, as if he could care less (as a policeman should), surveying the endless throngs of people along the road eyeballing him. The fact that the strike was on meant that the roads were empty of cars, but even more full of people and animals. The short of it is that we made it to the airport and through the mass of armed guards that had congregated there. Once inside, we had the extreme good luck of catching a plane to Kathmandu that was leaving within the next 30 minutes. This was luck. We said goodbye to our driver and the police guard, gave them some extra cash, checked our pile of baggage, and were ushered to one of those small propeller planes and given cotton for our ears, candy for the swallowing. We soon were on our way back to Kathmandu. And a funny thing happened in that flight. I am not a lucky person, in that I don’t win raffles, contests, at poker, etc. And everyone who knows me will tell you I don’t like to fly. I don’t normally even like to travel at all. Here I am, flying across Nepal, in a prop-driven plane, with cotton in my ears. And the flight attendant holds an in-flight drawing, based on your seat number. And, they select my son, Michael Andrew, to pick the winning ticket. And you guessed right. I won the contest and my reward: a free ticket on the same airlines for any place in Nepal. Talk about irony. I had to laugh, but I gave the ticket to a friend. All I could think about was getting back to Kathmandu and seeing my daughters again. Once there, the strike being still on, we paid through the nose for a taxi willing to brave the Kathmandu streets and were driven safely back to the Boudnath Stupa area and the Happy Valley Hotel, where we were eventually reunited with our two daughters. We were so glad to arrive and everyone was glad to see us too, for they worried about us when our plane from Bhadrapur never arrived. By mid-afternoon we were all sitting high on the terrace in the Stupa View restaurant enjoying a quiet (and eatable) vegetarian meal, when only hours before it had looked like there was little hope to reach Kathmandu for days. What a switch. ...back to the opening page go on to the next story...