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  Darjeeling, West Bengal, India
Friday, December 26, 2008

I'm going to skip ahead a week and write about Darjeeling, before talking about my previous week in Kolkata. This is because Darjeeling is so exciting and different and I'm on proper holidays!

I'm so so glad I made the decision to come up here. Ankur Kala gave me a few days off over Christmas and I braved the Indian transport system and booked a ticket to Darjeeling. I splashed out a little and made the decision to travel two tier AC, themost expensive class on the Darjeeling Mail. Cost me a massive $30. I was very patient and forgiving whilst getting my ticket, which saved me from going into fits of anger as the ticket vendors variously ignored me, talked over the top of me, refused to look me in the eyes, discussed ticketing options with the various groups of men who came up behind me and argued that they should really be ahead of me despite the fact my ticket number came first, stole my pen and generally struggled to acknowledge me altogether.

But I made it in the end, and arrived at Sealdah Station late on Tuesday night, clutching my sleeping bag, day pack, packet of tim-tams and box of mishti. It's tough to do as the guidebooks suggest and look confident and knowledgable when you arrive somewhere like Sealdah Station. I walked the length of the platform and finally decided to approach two women who looked like they knew what they were doing. Turns out that this was a good idea! Sneeha and Kantria were two of the friendliest people I have met here, and insisted (as a lot of Indians do) that I come and stay with them in Sikkim if I ever came up that way. They were MBA students from Bangalore and in a short space of time they had established my age, marital status, salary and what I think of India. (My typical answers to these questions are 27, not yet hopefully soon, $20,000 and 'I love it here' - it's best to lie lie lie when it comes to salary and marital aspirations). They buy me a pastry and fend off the leprosy beggars who take control of the station, and tell me that I am a guest in their country so I do not need to thank them - it is their pleasure to do this for me (one of my favourite Indianisms, and one of the reasons that 'please' and 'thank you' are not commonly heard). Soon enough I breezed off to my first class carriage and was befriended by a shoe-shine boy who INSISTED that my shoes needed polishing. Seeing as they have hardly any polishable bits I decided to give him some mishti and a free DVD I had got from a Vodafone store. This hardly made him happy and he started bartering for some business. '100 rupees for shoe shine? 50 rupees for shoe shine? 25 rupees for shoe shine?' He had to be content with his sweets and DVD though, as I was intent on starting my new book - 'The Inscructable Americans - Now A Major Bollywood Film!'

After three seat movements to co-ordinate family groups and travelling companions I settled down in my bunk, surrounded by a Professor of Bengali literature at Shantiniketan College, an Engineering lecturer and a high school English teacher (I always seem to be surrounded by teachers!) They ask me hat I am reading and I blush as I show them by tragic novel. I feel entirely embarrassed and assure them that I have just read Amitav Ghosh's 'The Hungry Tide'. This mollifies them a little and we get back to the important stuff - discussing my age, marital status, salary and what I think of India. We all giggle over my ability to speak tora tora (a little) Hindi and soon enough we alight from the train - only an hour a half late.
At NJP station I am the flavour of the month amongst the private taxi drivers. I choose the one who is most insistent and off we go.

What follows is the scariest two hours of my life.

As we drove I thought about what I would say in this blog entry if I made it to Darjeeling, but I don't think I have the creative capacity to put my fear into words. Needless to say that any other time in my life I have said that I am frightened or terrified it was a lie. A total lie. The road is vertical, winding, slippery and travels along the edge of a sheer drop. When we reach Kurseong I cry in relief. I cna't believe I am still alive. It is now that I make the decision that I am not coming back from Darjeeling, not if this is the only way back.

I meet a dazed Englishman (from Dorset) named Alistair on Christmas night who tops all my travelling tales. He's just come over from Kathmandu - a trip that involved a 12 hour bus trip through similar roads to the Darjeeling trail, a boat across a river where flooding has caused the road to collapse and a river to appear, another 10 hour bus trip, and a 5 hour trip up the mountain in a share jeep - built to hold about 8 - that jammed in 14, including the father of the learner driver. The stop was interrupted by a tyre blow-out and a brief spell of rain. Alistair's eyes glaze over as he drinks his Kingfisher beer and giggles intermittently. We soon are agreed that Darjeeling is a nice town and we could easily live there forever. But Alistair has his hiking boots, and I'm convinced he's going to steal off in the night and hike his way down, leaving me to tackle the plight alone. The thought of leaving keeps me up at night, it truly does.

Christmas day was great fun. Apart from meeting Alistair that night I have a leisurely breakfast of tibetan bread with jamand a hot chocolate before viewing the mountain ranges from the roof. I amble through town, spend an hour walking down down down to the Tibetan Refugee Centre where they have closed for lunch, and trek back up up up to Glenary's restaurant for lunch. I order malai kofta and am delighted to see that plum pudding and brandy sauce is on the dessert menu. Sadly my malai kofta comes out cold in the middle. I stop a friendly waiter and ask if they are supposed to be cold.
'Oh yes ma'am, they come straight out of the freezer.'
'They're not freshly made?'
'No, not possible ma'am.'
'But you don't even heat them up?'
'Yes ma'am.'
'Okay, but they are cold.'
'......'
'And the sauce is hot.'
'Yes ma'am?'
'Can I please have them hot in the middle?'
'Certainly ma'am.'
Five minutes later a fresh plate of malai kofta is bought to me. These ones are even colder in the middle.
'Excuse me...these are still cold.'
'Yes ma'am.'
'Are they supposed to be cold in the middle?'
'Yes ma'am.'
'I don't think they are. I think they haven't been heated up properly.'
'....'
'Maybe I could get some that are cooked in the middle?'
'Not possible to cook them on the same day ma'am.'
'I understand, but shouldn't they be hot?'
'They are not hot?'
'Are they supposed to be cold or hot?'
'Yes ma'am.'
'Don't worry about it...'

I push the kofta around idly and curse my luck. Soon a senior waiter comes over and trys to figure out the problem. Eventually he takes away the kofta and ten minutes later proudly delivers a steaming plate to me - kofta and sauce bitingly hot. Soon I am eating hot plum pudding and hot brandy sauce for dessert and chatting to a group of Australians at the next table. I admit to them that the pudding isn't quite up to Grandma's standard, but it's worth it all the same. Another group of 5 Australian girls about my age invite me to come to high tea at Elgin's heritage hotel (5500 rupees a night, compared to my 600 a night) and we troop off and have delicious fruit cake, biscuits and tea, with only brief and comical ordering issues. we spy on the very rich guests and discuss Indianisms and Indian men. But it's night too soon and we sadly part ways, exchanging email addresses and realisations that one of the girls spent a lot of time at the Berkeley Vale chicken shop when she was younger (she says she can't remember the name but it has the best chips with chicken salt she has ever tasted and I know instantly where she's talking about!)

I can't stomach dinner (don't eat cold malai kofta in India, no matter what the waiters tell you) so I have some hot banana custard, some hot chocolate and more Darjeeling tea as I chat to Alistair in our hotel restaurant.
It's been a really great Christmas day! It was great to speak to people back at home (who I miss very much today), I find a great cooking show on TV and eat delicious chocolate (Amy, it was as I suspected - the chocolate was the best I've tried yet) as I lie in bed with my four blankets, one sleeping bag, tibetan yaks wool socks, pyamas, jumper, yaks wool beanie, gloves, scarf and hot water bottle. If it wasn't dark I could see the beautiful town of Darjeeling spread below my hotel window, with the mountains being delightfully picturesque in the background. It's quiet and calm and my tourist guide promises me lots of sights to fill my days. I promise myself I will have pancakes for breakfast and go to sleep believing that coming to Darjeeling was a very very good decision.

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