Darjeeling - fog, altitude, & the pub.

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This will be a hasty post. I've reached Varanasi, sitting in a dark, cavernous room using an internet connection powered by a diesel engine, and the Ganges is sparking with sunlight outside.

I spent 5 nights in Darjeeling. I booked a good room in Hotel Dekeling, and was pleased when I arrived. The process of arriving, however, was an ordeal.

I took the night train from Kokata to New Jalpuriguiri Station, in 2 AC class (I couldn't book 1st class). Mine was the lower berth (lower bunk) and when I entered I met a Darjeeling family on the two across from me. I left my copy of Hannah Arendt's 'The Life of the Mind' on the table with other things, and a face from the upper berth glanced down at it. Above me was another Australian, much younger, and after a quick conversation we'd worked out that we'd both gone through Philosophy at Sydney Uni., and, through his questioning, that we had both gone to GPS Sydney schools (he went to High). YPG (Young Philosophy Graduate) had just just dropped out from his honours programme, and something about him reminded me of the nightmare of honours (I took a 2A, and went into English Honours afterwards, my best subject and last according to plan, but dropped out halfway through, depressed and exhausted, wondering what to do with myself in the world). He'd landed in Kolkata, and admitted that he'd found it quite a hard starting point for his holiday, and proposed that we split the jeep fare from NJP Station to Darjeeling. He reminded me of my own depressed and fatigued confusion when leaving Sydney university.

At NJP we were swamped by beggars, and found our way to a jeep with an American girl. It took 3 hours by jeep to climb the hills and mountains for Darjeeling. I sat on the back seat with two travelers, tickets purchased for 120 rupees. At the last minute a large Indian fellow put his wife and daughter in the front seat of the jeep, then jumped in with us. Suddenly there was very little room at all, the ceiling of the jeep was low, and I spent an excruciating 3 hours of pot-holes and sudden stops.

At Darjeeling neither the American girl nor YPG had rooms, so we went to my hotel, and the American girl found one, and I shared mine with YPG. I'd paid extra for a wonderful room, and the view through the window was impressive, though a thick fog, which wasn't to lift the entire time, obscured the Himalayas and the lower parts of the mountain.

Darjeeling is beautiful. It's on the south-western side of a small mountain, altitude 2100 metres, and faces the Himalayan range directly. The views are supposed to be breathtaking. It was much cooler than the regions I'd left, forcing me to use the jeans and jacket I'd packed for my return to Melbourne.

During the day I walked and thought about life back at home. I met an Amercian architect, Lloyd, staying in the hotel, who had returned from a 5 day trek through the ridge by the Nepal boundary. His enthusiasm rubbed off, and for a while I planned a 4 night trek toward the Nepal border, convincing YPG to come along but, perhaps sharing a room had begun to irritate the both of us, and I wasn't sure that we'd get along happily the entire way. I met a guide, who explained that the usual practice of hiring a porter and a cook wouldn't work at such late notice. YPG remarked that he didn't want to carry his own gear, and I decided to cancel the tour at the last moment. The nerves between YPG and myself flared a little, and we agreed he should find his own room. We still quite liked each other, but I resolved to find some space for a day or two.

Despite not having a view of the mountain range vista, I enjoyed wandering through the town. YPG wasn't inspired. One time, while I was walking through the lower market streets, away from the tourist traps, and feeling particularly enlivened by everything, I met him wearing his Sydney High School jersey, and he approached me quickly to say 'This place is a shithouse' before returning to our room to read his novel. It irritated me a little bit, though I understood that India might be a hard place to begin developing a taste for travel.

The Darjeeling people here are very happy and kind, and the racial elements of Tibet and Nepal are evident alongside the Indian. The hotel staff were genuinely friendly, always exchanging smiles, and singing quietly to themselves. The sound of children singing was often in the streets, or from schools. I often encountered smiles, kind comments, or simple joking gestures which I hadn't found in the cities below. Once, passing through the crowded market stalls of the tourist circuit (this is a holiday town), a stream of dirty water splashed just inches ahead of me; glancing in I saw a middle aged woman who'd thrown it out, nearly drenching me, retreating to a sitting position quickly, caught she burst out laughing good naturedly, realizing she was red-handed, and making me do so as well. These sort of interchanges aren't rare here and are refreshing after having traveled through places like Kolkata or some areas of Mumbai.

The stalls are full of shawls and scarves, again for tourists, ranging from the very cheap to some of high quality. I purchases scarves for my immediate Melbourne circle and one other.

At night it became cold and foggier, a sense of the mountainside and the height of the place emerged. Lloyd, YPG, and I played cards most nights in Joey's Pub (one of two bars in Darjeeling, though I never saw the other one). On the first night of cards it became apparent that YPG wasn't picking up the rules for Euka (a simplified Australian version of Bridge), and we kept explaining the rules to him. Lloyd quickly picked up that YPG and I had begun to grate upon each other, and throughout the game it became apparent that YPG was simply nodding his head and switching off about the game. Finally, after another stupid play, I confronted YPG directly about using his mind to engage with the game.

"So," I said, explaining the rule a third time, "If trumps are clubs, and the Jack of Clubs is the right bower, then the left bower is the Jack of Spades. But what is it then, a club or a spade?" The table stopped the game, Christopher, a computer scientist from Denmark, and Lloyd watched. "It's a club," said YPG, and the game continued. YPG then went on to make several winning plays, including the last trick of the game very cleverly. I left the pub early, and he returned to the room in higher spirits, and rose at dawn to visit the sunrise at Tiger Hill with Lloyd. He proposed we play cards again the next night, with a grin, and found his own room the next day. It felt as though a threshold had been passed, and we relaxed about each other again.

I also visited Nathmull's Tea House and sampled their best teas. They serve six cups for 200 rupees - three black, two green, and one white (the last served in a wine glass). I and purchased some of the best black as a gift for a friend. The manager was present, and handled the sale. He recognized me from the pub before, and commented on my playing cards and liking whisky (though I had only had one or two on the nights I'd been down there).

Most of my new friends had departed by Saturday night, I couldn't find YPG, and at 8 pm I left Hotel Dekeling and wandered down the hillside, passing beneath the town clock tower, for the pub alone. I was quite happy; there was something idyllic about the entire picture of a quiet Saturday night in a village. It almost felt European. The bar was empty. I ordered a whisky. Two Israelis came in, and we began chatting about life in general, then they spoke to me about being drafted into the military, and fighting against Hezbollah, saying that they liked I could talk directly about it and not judge them before hearing what they had to say.

The Israelis left, and I was about to go, when the manager of Nathmull's, Cuchi, wandered out, gave me a grin, and insisted that he buy me a whisky. He asked me to join him and his friends in the back. He led me to an outdoor bonfire in a construction area, where the owner of the bar, Pareen, sat quite urbanely, smoking, cross-legged, with several others, including an Irish girl, Z. Cuchi turned out to be second son of the owner of Nathmulls; he was very gregarious. He told me that he drank two or three litres of tea each day, and then as much whisky as he could hold in the night. He was constantly laughing and smoking.

We drank much whisky, Cuchi or Pareen shouting. Z and Pareen were engrossed on the topic of guitars. At 11 pm Pareen invited Z and I to his house, where he served us more whisky and played amazing guitar (mostly 60s tunes). He enthused about the brilliance of Chuck Berry, demonstrating how a lead riff was played by most, then how Chuck Berry used two strings for a better resonance. In my whisky stupor I imagined that perhaps that was partly the point of travel, to experience oneself in two contexts. I walked Z home at about 2 am, and stayed for a beer, then left for the hotel a bit drunkenly to the desolate mall (everything closes early at Darjeeling). I found two French backpackers hopelessly lost in the fog, most of the electric lights had been turned off and everything was very dark, trying to find their hotel. We located it, and I managed to wake up a fellow sleeping on the couch of my hotel, and slept in the next day.

For the rest of the time I simply walked the hilly paths of Darjeeling, visiting the zoo (quite something to see Black Asiatic Bears, Snow Leopards, and Indian Tigers, but also sad to see animals in capture frustrated). I think I must have walked four or five hours each day. Darjeeling is still breathtaking, even without view of the mountains. I visited the Tibetan Refugee centre and bought more scarves - which were of high quality but better priced than the on the tourist circuit.

I visited the pub most nights, but had to watch myself around Cuchi. He was good company, but drank like a fish, and it was always one or two half whiskies for the road before I found myself in the warmth of my hotel room.

YPG left a day before me, wanting to find cricket in the IPL in Delhi. I'd had to wait two extra days, due to the difficulty of booking train tickets in India. He'd visited the station and had convinced them to sell him an emergency exit ticket.

The manager of Hotel Dekeling had said that she hoped the fog would clear so that I might once see the mountains before I left. On my last day the fog became thicker than before, and it was impossible to see more than 15 feet ahead at any moment. I had a final cup of tea with Cuchi, bought more tea, then left, wanting to return. I hired a cab back down to NJP, for 800 rupees, and would recommend this to anyone who has difficulty fitting into closed quarters. I'd like to return and see the mountain views and do a trek to the border, but I liked most of all the experience of the town, and the friendliness of its inhabitants.

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