Getting Around
Billions of feet, hooves, paws, and tires separate the fine, soft dust from India’s continental plate as it gets hot every spring, and India and the atmosphere lose their clear, defined borders. When you fly in India in the late spring, you first leave the solid earth to pass through the floating earth before reaching the upper atmosphere. Down below is a brown haze, which, for all I know, covers the entire subcontinent from Kerala until it butts up against the Himalayas, waiting for the monsoons to come to wash the sky and tamp the earth back down with a heavy wall of water.
In this haze are the airports, which make little sense to my Western raised mind. “Have you ever been to Kathmandu’s domestic airport?” my seatmate, AJ, asked me on the flight from Biratnagar on the southern edge of Nepal. “What? No, never been to Kathmandu at all” (I instinctively buffer my responses with a “what?” “Um.” or a “Huh?”, as I am not good at understanding accents so I need the time to compute). “It’s not as fancy as the international side. That one is nice.” “Huh? Oh. Really? Is it like Biratnagar?” “No, no, not even that fancy.” The only airport worse than Biratnagar was Bagdogra in India, and the difference was marginal. Both were just a hot and dusty hall with a few tables where you checked in. Biratnagar had an extra room where you could buy dirty bottles of water or momos. To get to the airport, you have to go through several security checkpoints where men with machine guns manually search your bags and check you ticket. To get to the one gate, you go into a room marked “Men” or “Women” where a man or woman (depending on your room) feels you up and down with their gloved hands, then searches through your bag again. Some airports have xray machines and metal detectors, but there is still someone waiting to rub their hands all over your body.
When we got off the plane, there was nothing but a roof over a table with our bags. Next to that was a taxi stand. That would be the most developed transportation structure I would see in Kathmandu until the International airport. I saw one stop light in the whole city, and it was only a blinking red light that I presume only worked when the power was on. At large intersections where two four-“lane” (all four lanes are poorly marked and go both directions) roads met, taxi drivers would find a hole in the cross-traffic and barrel on through to the other side. Sometimes there would be a roundabout. When I get home, one of the most shocking things I think I’ll see will be the simple, lawful sight of cars waiting at a stoplight as they let others cross in front.
When I finally got to the international wing for my flight to Delhi, I got to see how the Nepalis run an airport. After waiting in line to get into the dark, brick building, I had to wait in another line to pay the airport tax at the money exchange counter before checking in. When I got to the front of the line, I saw a small sign that read “If bought ticket after 1 March, tax may be paid already, ask your sales agent when buying.” I had bought the ticket the day before, but there was no sign telling me to ask my agent about the airport tax at the agency. But, at least there is a sign somewhere saying this, which is a step in the right direction. I handed my e-ticket over and the man at the counter told me I had already paid, so I went to go queue to check in. The check in counters were a few wooden tables with signs “Delhi” over them. Closer to the tables there were organized lines, but where I was it was just a crowd waiting to get into the line. The line moved slowly, as travelers always find something to complain about when they can talk to official people.
Between the counters and the first waiting room was another ticket checkpoint. Between the first waiting room and the hot and crowded gate was the main security line. They xrayed our bags and made us walk through the metal detector. Then, maybe because they do not trust this Western way of doing things, they searched everyone’s bags and felt around their bodies before stamping their tickets. At the crowded gate there was just a water cooler and a bucket for you to pour the water into your mouth. (This is the way they often drink in Nepal. I was in a little one room restaurant serving bowls of instant noodles, beer, soda, and milk, waiting for the proprietresses to close up to join my Nepali friend and I. The tall, skinny owner washed the bowls as she shyly stared at me. The short, rotund owner squatted down to dip a small bucket into a bigger bucket of milk. From her squatting position she tilted her head back to pour the milk into her mouth in one long flow. She did this several times to finish off the day’s milk.) When we finally got to the airplane, there was another line to get frisked again, our bags thoroughly rechecked, and our water bottles emptied. A young British woman ahead of me told her frisker that this was ridiculous and that she will never come to Nepal again, the lady just smiled back.
(When my delayed flight finally got to Delhi, I had to run to catch my connection, which I had purchased separately. From the new, clean, and bright international terminal, it was a 20-25 minute drive to the older, but still clean and bright, domestic terminal. My flight arrived at 12:00, my connection departed at 1:05. I still had to clear customs, immigration, swine flu checking, and get my bag. Fortunately, it was all easy and question free and I was out in 25 minutes. The cab driver raced me to the domestic side, through the city, around the cows in the street, and got me there in 15 minutes. They hurried me in, got me to the check in counter, where the lady looked at my bag and said “Not possible.”
I have a strange power over air travel. When I do not want to leave a place, my will creates weather problems, agitates workers minds to strike, or whatever it takes. Often my flight is canceled, and there is nothing that can be done for 2-3 days. When a place I’m going to is pulling me deep inside toward it, my will bends time or finds ways to delay. I once woke up 40 minutes before a flight that was at the airport 40 minutes away, my bag still only half packed, and made the flight which departed on time. I have arrived at the gate, the door closed, the attendants unwilling to open it for me when a passenger got sick and had to get off, allowing me to get on.
So, when she said “not possible” I waited. She then asked me why I was late, which was because my other flight on the same airlines was delayed. She looked at my ticket to Delhi, checked my bag, and said “come.” We ran to security, where they quickly but thoroughly frisked me, then ran to the closed gate. She put me on an empty bus, where I stood up front with the driver to find the plane. The stairs had been put back, and my bag and I made it to Chandigar.)
