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It all started with a few engine failures on the road after leaving Dharamsala, the Dalai Lama’s exiled capital. I stayed there for about ten days, tent planted in the forest amidst the omnipresent monkeys and a stone’s throw from a Vipassana temple. As they gain altitude, failures become total power losses. It is quite frightening to find yourself without gas, on the way up a narrow and bumpy road, on the edge of a precipice and with a vehicle arriving in the opposite direction. It’s an experience I don’t wish for anyone. Especially with a loaded motorcycle. I think initially of a problem with the ignition cable and so I change them to new ones. Tired! It doesn’t solve anything. On the advice of an Indian, owner of a magnificent Cottage on the side of the mountain where I spend two days, I go to a garage located about sixty kilometres away. The owner is Vijey Parmar, a legend, the Indian Thierry Sabine: he has been organising the local Paris/Dakar for years: the Himalayan Raid. Very quickly the verdict fell: significant loss of compression on the left cylinder. Sand has passed through the engine. On the plain, it doesn’t feel too much, but as soon as I get higher, the engine loses power, until it stalls completely above 3000 m. The problem is that I need spare parts to repair… and the easiest way is to bring them from France. So I decide to continue and repair in Kathmandu, Nepal, where, according to the information I have, I can find a good motorcyclist.
I cross the western border of Nepal not without having first crossed a nature reserve full of Tigers with Utopia. It’s always a scary thing to ride a motorcycle with these big cats around. But in fact of tigers, I only see a few elephants crossing the track in front of me. The Nepalese border is a good child. I have to step over a lazily lying cow right in front of the counter after almost entering the country without a visa. The heat is starting to become suffocating, especially since in buildings, no fans are cooling the atmosphere: the last storm, the first signs of the nearby rainy season, has cut off power lines. I fall in love with Nepal from the first few turns of the wheel. The West is still not very touristy and traditional rural life has remained intact. I decide to stop for a few days near the Bardia nature reserve. This is where I organize the purchase and send it the necessary parts. A first neighbour takes care of the order, a second of the payment and a third friend to collect and send the parts to the great confusion of the dealer. It all takes 10 days, which I spend swimming in the nearby river. It’s the only cool place. While hiking in the nature reserve, overwhelmed by the heat, I can’t resist a swim not far from the tigers and rhinos. (see Road Trip Magazine 56, currently on newsstands). I avoid driving, for fear of further damage to the engine and I only reach Kathmandu when I know my parts are about to arrive. It is therefore not without a certain impatience that I go to the customs clearance centre to collect the precious package.
Well… I have my pieces… it was epic. Christophe just made a small mistake when sending: put the real price of the parts on the package, with the original invoice stuck on the package (Which is mandatory… but it is advisable to put the minimum or even better put: gifts! Boudiouuuu !). As a result, and everyone I asked the question to is unanimous, I will have to pay taxes and customs fees. This morning, when I pick up my package at customs, I expect the worst and psychologically I am in warrior mode: fight to the end or die (well, I exaggerate a little bit…).After a good hour to face traffic jams (heavy traffic), slips in the mud (quite a few avenues are still in the ground so with the rainy season coming, we start to have some quagmire), and dust (everything is not yet soaked), I arrive at the battle site. I go to the reception (an old abandoned elevator shaft). The woman told me to go to the offices behind her. So I walk down a rather dark corridor, from where there is a strong smell of urine…. atmosphere…. which leads to a huge room full of people and packages: the air cargo customs of Kathmandu. A little lost, I present my bundle of paper at the first window. The clerk waves at me to go to another counter. I go there, a man takes my documents and signs them, then tells me to go back to where I came from. “Oh! Oh! Oh!” I thought to myself. “Would it be that simple? “I don’t dare believe it (and I’m right). So I go back in front of the row of windows in the main hall and show my papers (with the signature!!!!!) to an attendant. She looks familiar to me something I don’t understand. In desperation, she comes out of her window and tells me to follow her… to the reception desk (you know the elevator shaft). The hostess slips away when we arrive. The clerk (the one who brought me here, you have to follow…) puts the papers on the desk and leaves telling me to wait… 30 minutes later, I am still waiting. A little impatient, so I take back my precious bundle….and go back to the damn hall like a wandering soul. A man (I don’t even know what his job is) who sees me a little lost takes my documents and consults them. He tells me that there will be 40% of taxes plus customs duties (a big hundred euros in total). I protest: I’m only passing through, and these are parts for my motorcycle. I have plenty in my crates, and I didn’t pay anything when I walked in. He tells me that yes, but the rule in Nepal is that what happens by plane is subject to taxes… Discussion of a few minutes at the end of which he takes me back to the office of the one who signed his precious signature at the beginning of this story (which I still don’t know what it is for…) and tells me to wait… (the desk is empty…) So I wait… The minutes follow the seconds and vice versa but the desk remains desperately empty. I must have been here for an hour now, and things have not progressed one iota…. So I wander around the area, my papers in hand desperately looking for help. A man finally answered me and took the papers to consult them… then told me to follow him. We are entering the customs zone itself (until now, I was confined to the counters, BIG PROGRESS. Around me, customs officers, cutters in hand, happily fan the packages in order to control them. Nice mess. So I am my “facilitator” (those people who offer to help you clear customs in many places around the world for a fee of course. Quite often, they are just useless freeloaders, but now I feel like I’m not going to have a choice.) We enter an office. I soon understand that my facilitator is actually one of the employees responsible for computerizing customs clearance documents. It calculates the amount of taxes and customs duties: 15,000 rupees (about 120 euros). I protest strongly. Why should I pay? I am not a resident, and these are parts for my motorcycle that will be leaving the territory soon. He replied that he understood and added: I can manage to reduce taxes. How much are you willing to pay? I think quickly and say: 4000 rupees (about 32 euros). He makes a face (good sign, it means I’m too low…). After a hesitation, he offered me 5000 (40 euros). I accept. He therefore began to enter the file. The value of my coins is reduced to 24 euros (instead of 240…). Using a scanner and a photocopy, documents from France undergo the same small modification. He explains to me: “If a customs officer asks you for the value, you have to say 24 euros. “I agree. One of these colleagues is coming. He is in charge of taking the package out of stock.
By the way, he tells me that he will get the original invoice stuck on the package but worried he asks me: “Is there another invoice in the package?” I don’t know, so he’ll have to check it out. ½ Hour later, I’m in the main lobby. Next to me, the precious package. This time, we have to wait for the inspector to clear the customs (he went to eat)… So I sit down to wait and observe the little tricks around me. Here such an inspector falls into a stop in front of a pretty cap when opening one of the packages… which will not go back there. A little further on, it is a T-shirt that suffers the same fate: it ends up in the customs officer’s backpack. All this in a joyful, generalized mess. After a good half an hour, the one in charge of controlling mine finally arrives. ALL CLEAR. He consults the papers and seems a little surprised by the amount (24 euros…) but everything is in order and ends up signing the documents. All that remains is to pay the customs duties (within 12 euros). Discreetly, I give the agreed amount to my facilitator who will pay the amount due. When he comes back, he hands me my package and the receipt. Small selfie, handshake and almost 5 hours after arriving, I can finally get out. In the end: 12 euros of customs fees, and 14 euros to each of my two accomplices… mission accomplished. By the way, my neighbour’s nice little attention: cans made in France
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