He looked up at us with a face like stone, while handing it back to us, ‘No, absolutely not, it has to be perfect.’ We tried to debate the issue for a little while as we didn’t have any more dollars to give him. Straight away he pointed out that one of the notes had a few tiny sums scribbled in biro on one corner. He turned them over in his hands, studying them meticulously. On request, we handed over the customary one-hundred US dollar bill each, for our visas. We sat in two very moth eaten chairs opposite him and filled out the paper work. This lack of a wall made it appear like a theatre set, the only actor being one very stern man, sat behind a desk that was covered with tall piles of papers. The border control was just a dilapidated office that seemed to have lost it’s front-facing wall (perhaps in the Gorkha earthquake of April 2015) and had never been repaired. We found the little building set back from the road, hardly signposted at all. We completely missed the border check point and had to turn ourselves around and go back to search for our all-important stamp of entry. Rich green vegetation was visible in the distance and the dusty, rocky road stretched far into the Western jungles of this new country. Over the rushing water, the chaos of India faded away and a very different atmosphere brewed in the warm and fragrant air that greeted us on the other side. We crossed a long bridge that formed the entrance to the new country. Riding into Nepal was like entering a different world.
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