Untamed Spirit II

India—I have no problem exiting Nepal. It is smooth sailing through Customs and Immigration. My passport and carnet are stamped and I ride into Raxaul, Bihar—the poorest state in India. I reach customs at 9:00 am and hand over my passport and carnet. The officers take some time investigating my papers, and then tell me I must wait until 10:00 for another office to open. One of the officers tells me to wait in a building nearby that looks like a garage. Inside, the room is drab and smells strongly of creolin, or some kind of disinfectant. Maybe this is the quarantine shed. The only furniture is two old filing cabinets resting against one wall, and a long old table with a couple of chairs in the centre of the room. I decide to wait on the sidewalk. Immediately the officer comes back and says, “You wait in here.” “No,” I reply. “It stinks in there.” Besides, I am not entirely sure they won’t close the door and lock me in. When the officer realizes I am staying outside, he leaves and returns shortly with a chair for me to sit on. I get out my camera to take some pictures of the fancy trucks, bicycle rickshaws, ponies, steers, and longhorn Brahmas pulling hand made wooden carts. Instantly the guard looks at me and barks “No pictures!” “I just want a picture of the ponies. Not even the ponies?” I ask. “No! No pictures here!” “I don’t understand your country. What are you trying to hide?” I mumble. The officer makes no reply, so I suspect he did not understand me. That is probably a good thing. I sit and patiently wait, watching the hustle and bustle of border activity. The landscape has become flat since leaving Nepal. At 10:05 I yell across the street to the customs officer sitting in his tower, “Ten o’clock” and point at my watch. A guard standing on my side of the street says, “Ten minutes” Sure enough, at 10:15 another officer arrives dressed in a stark white shirt, loose tan pants, and shiny black shoes. This man must be the head customs officer. I wonder how he keeps his shoes so shiny walking on these dust-filled streets and sidewalks. I am ushered into the strong-smelling building and asked to sit. Two officers sit opposite me and look through my carnet and passport. They chatter back and forth, seeming to decide on what to do with this paperwork. Finally the first officer gets up and retrieves a huge ledger and “Head Officer” begins to record all my information. While this is going on, another officer comes in and offers me a Coke. I am very appreciative. It is hot here and my throat is parched. When all is recorded, I am released and told to stop at the immigration office under the bridge to get my passport stamped. I ride over the bridge past small shacks and rundown buildings on both sides of the street. I cannot see a building that looks anything like a government office. I turn and ride back to a row of shacks under the bridge. I had not seen them going in the other direction. I stop at an open front stall to ask directions. To my surprise, this little hole in the wall is the immigration office! The officer is an elderly man dressed in a muscle shirt and loose cotton pants. He takes my passport and records the information in another humungous ledger before stamping my passport and handing it back. Finally, I am free to start my journey into India. The date is April 25, 2003. It is stifling hot, and I look for a shop in the next village to buy water. No one understands me, and they appear to be unwilling to sell me water or food. I return to the bike, having now attracted a huge crowd of men and children. Nervous and uncomfortable with all those eyes on me, I dig out my cookies and warm water so I can have a snack. I offer the children some cookies but they are shy and do not take any until an older man tells them it is okay. When I start my bike, the crowd parts and forms a path for me to ride out. Pakistan—Today I am not feeling well. The farther I ride the weaker and more tired I feel. I reach Loralai, get fuel and water, and then continue on to Ziarat. I stop several times to ask if I am on the right road and how much farther to Ziarat. Three times I am told “six kilometers”, but six kilometers goes by and still no town. The highway is taking me into the foothills of the mountains bordering Pakistan and Afghanistan and this worries me. As I ride I can feel the nausea begin to build. It is becoming almost unbearable and I know that once I stop I will be sick. I must stop before reaching Ziarat because I do not want to throw up on a street in town. At the same time, I know I can’t stop too far out in these mountains either, so I push myself to keep riding. Finally I see a building that looks like a restaurant. As I pull into the yard I can see that the building is boarded up and there is no one around. Good thing too because I only have time to pull off my helmet before I expel everything left in my body. Once that is over I have to find a spot behind the building to empty out from the other end. I have never felt so drained and exhausted in all my life! I make my way back to my bike, take out a bottle of water, and sit down with my back against the building. I find myself fighting to stay awake. It takes all my willpower not to lean my head back and close my eyes. I know that if I allowed myself, I would be asleep in seconds—but I cannot let this happen out here in the middle of nowhere. I drink a few swallows of water and mentally force myself to gather some energy to get back on my bike and ride. I am sure it is not far to Ziarat—I must make it that far. Maybe I can get some toast and summon up enough energy to ride on to Quetta. Leaving Iran—I move slowly through town behind other vehicles heading for the border. At one point in the line, I am stopped for several minutes when a man comes over and asks if I would like to take breakfast in his café. I tell him I have no Iran money left. He says, “No problem, you are our guest.” I have not had breakfast yet and have no idea how far I will have to travel to reach a restaurant once I cross the border, so I accept his invitation. Breakfast consists of bread and cheese, and the most awful coffee imaginable. I eat the bread and cheese but leave most of the coffee. I thank my host and return to my bike and rejoin the line. The Iran border crossing goes quickly. Within ten minutes my passport and carnet are stamped for exit from the country. Departing is always easier than entering. When I reach the Turkey border I am sent back and forth to different rooms and booths to apply for my visa, pay for it, and then have it processed and stamped. I was under the impression I did not need a visa to cross into Turkey, that my passport would be sufficient. I feel positive that the government Web site indicated that Canadians could obtain a stamp in their passport at the border. Surprise, surprise! I should have applied for it at the Embassy in Tehran. This is creating a longer process for me now. Next, I am sent to a room where an officer is signing and stamping carnets. The first thing I notice is the newspaper spread out on his desk with a bikini-clad poster girl covering a full page. This would not be permitted in Pakistan and Iran.