Bus to Delhi-part 2

Let me see if i can do justice to the chaotic and ancient border crossing between nepal and india. First one goes from jungle greenery and bird chattering to carts pulled by handsome white brahmin bulls and steered by thin brown men wearing ragged shorts and white shirts. rickshaws painted in all sorts of red and yellow flowery designs, some with the extra protection of having Shiva or Krisna painted on them, some with interesting phrases like "love me tender" and next to it the Hindu god with a cow body and man's head. The traffic begins to congest, the tourist busses idle in line spewing diesel, motors at a quiet rumble, children lugging even smaller children on their hips are plying the line of tourist busses trying to catch your eye and maybe a rubee tossed their way. The many mongrel dogs sniff the street for any chance of a half-eaten roti or picked over trash. Trucks hauling all sorts of merchandise make another line, each facing their prospective borders, waiting for the long pole that is balanced at one end by a configuration of old tires all tied helter-skelter with rope and twine to weight down one end. Police from both sides chat with shop keepers, no one seems concerned about smuggling or any of the other kind of border riffraff that i'v become acustumed to with all my crossings into mexico. Their is hardly any to no private vehicles here-in fact, most are walking across, carrying their shopping bags and personal belongings balanced on their head, obediant children in hand.
There is a space of about 100 yards between both border "poles" and in this no man's land, free enterprise is going on. Hot chai is being peddaled, all kinds of wares one might need for a long bus ride, material in case you need to quickly sew up an outfit, I guess, hardware, roasted corn and juice in convenient travel sized boxes. But most interesting is the wandering of dazed and confused tourists, most Danny's age, with backpacks on their backs like turtle shells, tired and wondering which small shoulder-width shop is the immigration office, where you need to go twice, once for Nepal and once for India.
If it wasn't for my dear friend Kelsang, I'd be just as confused and wandering, trying my best to avoid the sleeping dogs, some so thin that when they lay in depressions in the road they are level with the ground and you could step on them thinking it just some fur. As Kelsang led me into a gritty dark immigration booth for India, with two very tired and bored officials, look all the world as if they were need of a tea break, although it was only 6:30 am, I took a quick note at the passports being shoved their way by tourists eager for attention. Ireland, United Kingdom, Germany, France-ah yes, the usual Europe contingent-and me, the only American.
There is a certain finese with which to get an indian officer to give you their attention, no I take that back. This applies to any Indian you need service from, whether for a bottle of "sanchey panni" (cold water) or your passport stamped.