Away to the Hills

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Tourists attacked with iron rods and choppers.

Was a particularly heavy statement we came across in the West Bengal Telegraph under a leading article entitled "The Hills on the brink of flare up".

Darjeeling, in the North of the state rests in the Himalayas. It is famous for its tea, and more notably, for its Gurkhas with 95% of the surrounding population being this distinct, proud race, originally from Nepal who gave us sherpas such as Tenzing Norgay (joint first on Everest) and a formidable fighting force alongside the British in WW2. But they were also apparently responsible for bricking tourist buses and injuring elderly tourists with choppers. hmmm.

We bit the bullet and decided getting bludgeoned by iron rods was a one-off mistake back in June, and that they actually love the tourists. This, luckily, turned out to be a pretty accurate statement.

The Gurkhas, were pushing for their separate state, which would be called a fitting, if not rather conceited name of "Gorkhaland". Every building, shop and signpost had Gorkhaland stuck over the top of West Bengal, or just there in autonomous support for the political movement. They even have started to change all number plates to begin with GL, which is pretty cheeky considering the government of West Bengal were vehemently against the idea of the separate state to be carved out, losing valuable land popular with tourists. Such as us.

Darjeeling has loads to offer, including vast tea plantations, Himalayan zoological conservation area (basically a zoo with almost humane sized cages), Japanese Pagoda, Buddhist Temple, A beautiful park based around a rocky stream (rocks which I subsequently became obsessed at jumping along, inevitably leading to me falling in, moneybelt and all) and last but not least, views of Everest at sunrise.

So we got up at 03:30am to embark on the windy (that reads whine-dy, not breezy) road up to Tiger Hill, famed for its 260km panoramic views of the Himalayas. Upon reaching there, it seemed others had the same idea, as the crest of the hill was absolutely swarming with Indian tourists all jostling for a view of Everest. In the hour I waited their having misplaced the girls, I decided that such a beautiful spectacle as a sunrise in the crisp, clear, cold(!) Himalayan sky, was something not best experienced with thousands of others, spitting, yelling and vomiting (yes, vomiting) over the viewing platform. However it must have been an incredible view, as I left still feeling it was worth it, even though Everest was a mere triangle peaking over the ridge adjoined to Kachenjunga, India's highest peak that really stole the show. No offensive Everest. I am sure it was perspective that made you look tiny. Yeah, suuuure, just really far away. To be honest, it looked tiny, and if it wasn't for spending a long time in The Everest Museum, I would probably give the peak a bash. No Probs.

Darjeeling was great, and I realised I was sounding like my parents commenting on the "lovely air' however, coming from the public urinal that is Kolkata's pavements, fresh mountain air has really made me hungry for the Himalayas again, come November. What will really stick with me, was an incident on the journey there. I will save the tales of Indian trains and stations for another time, but this one image really has engrained itself into my being. This little girl, no more than five is pulling at my sleeve. I have been in India long enough already to know there are so many deserving souls, that the best thing you can do is ignore them and hope that the little good you can do through volunteering or giving to an NGO can substitute any guilt you may feel for not reaching into your wallet. The girl says hello mister...please please... then thankfuly moves on ahead to try and beg from someone else. I allow myself the risk of looking down when she is far enough away and going down some stairs.

In her tiny arms she is cradling a baby. Not a baby in the sense that we are used to, but a lifeless bundle with matted hair and stick thin limbs. Each step she takes down the stairs, the baby's head rocks backward to an angle that you almost expect to hear the snap of its vertebrae. The little girl has no idea that the baby needs its head supported. Or at least that is what I hope. Really hope. The other reason may be the girl believes that careful handling is not necessary for a dead or dying burden. On the return to Kolkata, I was afraid that the girl would be pulling on my sleeve again, and that my hand would brush the cold body of that baby, often a symbol of joy and love, but here just a liability and its use just to cut deep into the hearts of tourists that make the mistake of looking down.

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