Darjeeling, 14th December. Happy Birthday to Emms (my eldest neice) for yesterday. Hope you had a good first term at Universtity and a good birthday.
Today it is I, sitting in the Himalayan Java Coffe House on the Mall, Darjeeling, who is tapping away on the keyboard.
Darjeeling is not what I'd expected. What I had expected was a picture post card tea plantation outpost, small, green and peaceful. It is much more bedraggled than the image in my mind's eye, perched steeply on a precipice with narrow streets squeezed together on steep inclines or declines depending how you choose to see it. It's also cold, yesterday evening I could see the vapour of my breath.
Having said this I do really like being here. At times I get old impressions of skiing resorts, at other times of an English holiday resort and it's certainly quieter and less stressful than Kolkata. I have a nice room in a nice hotel and will probably stay here 4 or 5 days whilst I visit Ghoom and other Tibetan monasteries in the vicinity.
My journey from Calcutta was the most sociable and, therefore, in a way the most enjoyable part of my trip so far. Having sadly waved good by to Sabir, the lift boy at the Sunflower Hotel and feeling like going home, I was taken by the Ola taxi to Sealdah station in Kolkata to catch my train to New Jalpaiguri and thence to Darljeeling. Sealdah is a busy and bustling station and, having arrived in plenty of time, I sought refuge in the 'Upper Class' resting room, which I wasn't quite sure I was entitled to (I went to Sherborne). It turns out, however, that holding an AC ticket I was well within my comfort zone and was pointed to a seat in a row amongs rows.
At some point I managed to drop some coins (I must remember to do this more often) and got to talking with the highly intelligent guy sitting in the seat next to me (his back pack was literally next to me). As it so happened, Avishek who it turned out to be, was also travelling to New Jalpaiguri on the Darjeeling Mail. We had a very interesting conversation where I discovered that Avishek was a sort of roving Chemistry teacher, despatched along with around 180 colleagues covering different disciplines, from the one university to enthuse students across Bengal with a love for their subjects. Fantastic!
Avishek also very kindly walked me to my coach where we shook hands and I bundled my way with heavy back pack through the narrow corridor to the othe end of the carriage where my berth, top bunk no 14, was situated.
Again, I was lucky. Reclining on the bunk opposite me was, Vitim, 19 year old student, majoring in English at a missionary college in Calcutta, admirer of Jane Austen, Eugene O'Neil, Mulholland Drive and much else besides and whose knowledge of the literature of my country frankly put me to a floundering shame. The bunk below was shared by the very kind and patient Ragini and her precocious, energetic and lung gifted 5 year old son, Aram, who proceeded to tell me the national animal and flower of England, to declare the name David, with a disparaging snort, to be boring and to show me his collection of toys.
Having sneaked an illegal cigarette with Vitim, my lighter came in handy for the first time, which potentially could have incurred a 200 rupee fine (yes, I am living right on the edge if not slightly over it) and tasted, not literally thankfully, of my first Indian rail toilet we settled down, at Aram's isistence primarily, for a night's repose which, in my case, was fitful sharing berth 14 as I was with my bulky back pack.
Sleep I did, however, to discover next morning via someone else's ap that we were running around 2 hours late, probably due to mist (Vitim's opinion not that of the aps). This did not bother me unduly. I enjoyed a hot chai courtesy of the genrosity of Ragini, an indifferent dhosa, some of whose newspaper wrapping I also managed to consume, and a tasty omelette. This was my first 'risk' with Indian food.
We finally arrived 2 and a half hours late into New Jalpaiguri and waving goodbye to Ragini and Aram, who I strangely miss, Vitim and I set out for the exit where we parted company with a handshake. I was soon offered a lift to Darjeeling, hauled my rucksack on and off one jeep before departing in the boot of another. The Lonely Planet Guide suggesed that one could book the front seat for a more comfortable though expensive ride which I had not done. This was left to a couple of annoying happy and giggly love birds (I remain irrascible) whilst I shared the rear of the jeep with the very lovely Pikla, her charming husband, manufacturar of shoes, and their beautiful 9 year old daughter and young son.They in turn shared their food with me and could not have been kinder.
The jeep ride from New Jalpaiguri to Darjeeling is a 2-3 hour climb through mist and steeply inclining hair pin bends and on pretty ragged surfaces at times. At times too, the toy railway trucks run parallel to the road and I was struck by the amazing engeneering that had gone into the construction of that as well as the roads.
The higher we got the more the mist cleared and the more profuse were Buddhist prayer flags and what I took were green, white and yellow regional flags. Layers of clothing on inhabitants also increased to woolly jumpers and hats, scarves and mittens.
By the time we got to Darjeeling I was pretty well shaken by the roughness of the journey without wanting for it to end as then I would have to face the unknown once again. I, of course, need not have worried so much. I was directed to my hotel, which is up a steep incline that had me panting, backpacked as I was, and settled into my room easily enough. From there a walk around Darjeeling up to the Chowrasta and down as far as the Governor's Palace and then back again stopping, I'm ashamed to say for yet another veggie burger and chips (I know, I know) and a big pot of Darjeeling tea, which of course did not help me to sleep later on.
Then back to the hotel and the ever so invitingly warm coal burning stove in the lounge and a long chat with Nick, the tall, long blond haired, lip pierced and entirely convivial driver and mechanic for the DragomanTour Company, who advised me in his soft Bristol burr on medicine for the inevitable diorhea and vomiting attacks, suggested some good reading, the Baroque Cycle by Neal Stephenson and a book called ' The Name of the Wind' and entertained me with stories of driving a truck around India, West Africa, South America and along the Silk Route. Nick, I take my hat off to you. I in turn suggested Butcher's Crossing which I am still reading and enjoying.
From thence to a low and very snug double bed that quite frankly is entirely wasted on just me.
Love, Dxxx
