KATHMANDU
VISA
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| COMING IN TO LAND ON OUR WHITE KNUCKLE SPICE JET |
It’s a bumpy ride into
Kathmandu Airport. The updraft from the
hills surrounding the valley buffets the plane and the safety belts are
secured. Known as Gauchor Airport the
last time I was here, having been named Tribhuvan International and Domestic
Airport by Shree Paach Maharajdhiraj
Mahendra Bir Bikram Shah Dev in honour of his father, Mahendra. I’m aware that the valley stands at 1,400
metres and is hemmed in by four-major mountains: Shivapuri, Phulchoki, Nagarjun and
Chandragiri, all just under 3,000 metres.
Coming over these peaks is
breath-taking and knowing that a pilot has to be especially skilled at dropping
down into the bowl of the valley and landing safely keeps everyone on hig
alert. On September 28, not long after I
arrived, 19-people were killed at the airport when a bird struck the jet and
the pilot made the error of turning too sharply while trying to land. One of the passengers was a British man named
Raymond Eagle, though some say it was a vulture that met its fate along with
the passengers and staff.
We arrived safely at about
19.00 hours but we can never be too sure of the time here. Nepali time is 15-minutes ahead – or is it
behind? – Indian time, a kind of temporal statement of independence for its
neighbour. The airport clock was wrong
and no one seemed to know the correct time; perhaps because of the unpredictable
power cuts. I still don’t know the
correct time.
As soon as we entered the
customs hall, the lights went out; then went on; then went out again before
going on again. I read the ominous sign
above the counter where a series of men were taking money and stamping passports: CURRENSIES
ACCEPTED US DOLLERS AUSTRALIAN DOLLERS and one or two others which I didn’t
have.
Of course, I had made the mistake of bringing only Nepalese and Indian
rupees. There was a too convenient
currency exchange counter near the visa stamping desk. Checking my money, I discovered I didn’t have
enough for the visa and was predictably told that the ATM didn’t work and I
would have to go outside to the street.
Down I went through an
empty hall and saw a crowd waiting outside.
There was my sister-in-law, Renu.
Hello
makpa I saw you on
cctv and was wondering what was happening, she said as we hugged each
other. I explained the situation quickly
and she directed me to an ATM nearby. I was well aware that I was out on the
street without a visa or a passport and without Fulmaya and my luggage I was
feeling kind of naked and vulnerable.
At the ATM, I put my card
in the machine, punched in my four-digit code and heard a satisfying whirr as
it presumably counted out Rs10,000; but nothing came out, including my
card. Another two times I tried and
again the expectant whirr of the cogs or whatever there is in the machine was
heard – and again, nothing!
Someone
behind me said, It’s probably run out of
money.
I tried a fourth time and
– success! My edginess is assuaged by a Rs10,000
bundle of notes and I felt like I’d won the jackpot and wouldn’t have to spend
the night at the machine trying to retrieve my bank card.
Waved goodbye to Renu,
said I’d be back in a min, back into the hall and this time I’m stopped by a gaggle
of policemen. Where are you going? they ask.
I’m told to go through the machine that detects knives, bombs and guns,
safely arriving at the other side, then they ask me to show what I have in my
money belt. I open it and they see the
sheaf of money but their interest seems to be in a tube of Poy-Sian, the Thai
version of Vicks. Ah, lipstick! they proclaim, and burst out laughing.
At this point, I say in
Nepali, What’s this? My passport is upstairs and I’m out here to
get money for a visa. What else do you
want to know?
That does the trick and I
leave them laughing their heads off and back upstairs where I exchange enough
rupees for dollars to pay for my visa, have our passports stamped and through
“customs”, a table with a half-asleep security guard who, if you told him you
had a bomb in your bag, would probably wave you through anyway.
My last glimpse as I exit
is of a Mexican family wandering around looking lost and wondering what is
going on. There no one else in the hall
except the passport officials and a bemused American couple.
And into the dark, wet
streets of the capital and the smells I so well remember of stale excrement,
piss, and spices cooking.
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| HOW I MIGHT HAVE SPENT MY FIRST NIGHT IN K'DU WITHOUT MONEY |
