Imagining India Part 2: Oh My Dar(jee)ling

The Rocky Road to Darjeeling

On the berth

To get to Darjeeling from Kolkata, we needed to take a twelve- to fourteen-hour (or so we were told) bus ride to Siliguri, where we would hire a jeep to take us to the hill-station. Our ride was going to be overnight one and we elected to purchase places on the bus's berths so we could sleep comfortably through the night (or so we thought). Imagine our disillusionment when we entered the bus to find that the berths, each of which were supposed to be for two people, were quite narrow! They were no bigger than single beds and in addition to two living and breathing human beings (and Kenneth and I are not the smallest), they also had to hold our personal belongings, minus our huge backpacks. Lying down, we were packed like sardines and Kenneth remarked that, lying face up with so little room for manoeuvre, we were experiencing what it was like to be in a coffin. It did not help to realise that, as the bus began to move, we were in for such a bumpy ride. Driving along the city's roads were fine but once we entered the periphery, the intensity of the rocking increased at least threefold. At one point, a particular bump was so heavy that we were actually tossed from our berth like onion parathas (I'd have used 'kipper' but I'd be accused of being colonial). Getting to sleep was also made more difficult as the man seated below us played loud, Bollywood dance music into the night, providing an accompanying tune for the bus's jiving along the road.
Just when we thought that,solace in Darjeeling was imminent after an arduous overnight journey which saw us in a semi-conscious state for most of the time, our bus came to a sudden, long halt. Alighting from the vehicle, I noticed, to my sheer horror, the interminable line of buses and trucks which preceded and succeeded ours. We were in the middle of nowhere. The afternoon heat made being in the bus quite unbearable. The engine had been switched off and the interior, without windows which could be opened, became increasingly warm and stuffy, reminiscent of the 'box' in Cool Hand Luke. A few passengers began to protest to the driver, demanding for the air-conditioning to be switched on. Imagine the sheer relief when the engine finally came on again. We found ourselves feeling grateful for any sort of movement and bumps, once so despised, were now greeted with broad smiles as these signalled that our bus was actually moving at a decent speed. After a memorable experience on our Volvo bus, we arrived in Siliguri after a whopping twenty-three hours (remember that the ride was supposed to have taken less than fourteen hours). One should be able to understand why chills were sent down our spine when barely a few minutes after arriving, vendors approached us to ask if we wanted transportation to Kolkata.

Oh My Dar(jee)Ling

Darjeeling was a sanatorium for British soldiers and officials during the colonial period, a kind of home away from home for those who needed a break from the administration of the city. For us, it proved to serve a similar purpose after the hustle and bustle of busy Kolkata. After about a two-and-a-half hour jeep ride from Siliguri, we alighted at Darjeeling's train station which served the Darjeeling Himalayan Railway (more affectionately known as the 'toy train'). The station's signs were familiar ones, inspired by the very design used for the London Underground, a physical indication of Britain's influence on the area in the past. It was somewhat surprising not to see tourists scattered around the area as Darjeeling is known to be quite popular with foreign visitors. Moreover, the December period is usually high season for visitors. We found out that the hill station area had seen an extensive strike lasting more than forty days only a few months before our arrival. The ubiquitous 'Gorkhaland' signs in Darjeeling emphatically reflected the political aspirations of an area whose people desired the formation of a state separate from that of West Bengal. This strike, carried out as a political statement, may have helped to explain the unusual paucity of tourists in the area.


A short walk uphill along Gandhi Road brought us to our accommodation venue. Named after the album Revolver, it was a Beatles-themed guesthouse and boasted a grand total of five rooms, named after each Beatle and their manager, Brian Epstein. John and Paul, not unexpectedly the more popular choices, were taken but we guys were fortunate to get George - yes, 'My Sweet Lord' - as the girls had to settle for Ringo. Entering the reception area, we saw that the walls were adorned with Beatles posters and on the lounge's coffee tables lay a variety of Beatles books, from biographies to anthologies. In our rooms, we could access, through our televisions' internal memory, all of the famous four's music albums and a few of their videos including A Hard Day's Night. We could even play Rock Band: Beatles Edition in the lounge and we duly pounced on the opportunity on our second evening. Revolver's owner and manager, Vikash, who wore a pair of Buddy Holly-esque glasses and sported a thin but long, prominent beard, was formerly a radio presenter and told us that, due to the strong British influence, Darjeeling had a relatively huge rock scene in the past. This was when The Beatles were way less famous than Jesus in India.

St. Andrew's Church

During our stay in Darjeeling, We were afforded a good amount of sunshine which complemented the cool temperature of the hill-station area. The town was also relatively clean and the locals whom we'd encountered, be it passers-by or staff at our meal venues, were generally warm and helpful. Although Nepali is the most spoken language in the area, the use of English was quite widespread, which made it easier for us to communicate with the locals. It didn't take too long before we felt at home. A walk around Darjeeling was, therefore, quite an enjoyable experience as one took in the sights and sounds of the place. The aforementioned colonial influences took unmistakable, physical forms in the area's numerous churches and mission schools. Students, walking together along narrow footpaths, were dressed similarly to those who attend public schools in Britain. The largest bookstore we came across, named Oxford Books and Stationery, was located along Chowrasa and had a very good (and a very reasonably priced) selection of English books. The architecture of the post office in Darjeeling, one of the oldest standing buildings of its kind in India, also harked back to colonial times. This was where we purchased stamps and sent our postcards. I have to admit at this point that when it comes to posting letters or postcards, I'm a chronic stamp-licker. Having bought the necessary stamps, I proceeded to do what I normally do. It was only after I had pasted stamps on all of my postcards when Kenneth told me that, because the stamps were of questionable hygiene standards, I risked getting diarrhoea from licking the backs of my stamps. I was initially fearful of the possible health consequences that might follow, but looking at the stamps I had used, I confidently told him that Mother Teresa, whose image was on the 15rps-stamps used, could not possibly allow me to fall sick.

Chowk Bazaar

The Chowk Bazaar area along the lengthy Hill Cart Road was the busiest area which we came across. A huge variety of items were on sale here, from clothing to foodstuffs. Again, tastes from the colonial era were manifested in the many pastry shops along Hill Cart Road, selling the familiar butter biscuits, chocolate doughnuts and cornets filled with rich vanilla cream. The only thing we had to get used to while walking around Darjeeling was the constant honking from the vehicles on the road. Honking in this part of the world (this did not seem to differ in the other parts of India that we visited) differs from honking back on Singapore's roads in terms of the attitude and intentions conveyed by the action. Back home, honking is often a means of expressing frustration and impatience at other drivers or at pedestrians living dangerously. Over here, the act of honking has the chief purpose of alerting others, be it other vehicles or people walking on the road, of the vehicle's presence. It was especially necessary considering how the very narrow walkways caused people to inevitably spill onto the side of the road. Honking seemed to convey a message along the lines of 'do be careful, I'm just behind!'. However, even while recognising this, the high pitched sound emanating from the horn, and the frequency at which it was heard, can cause great annoyance after a while. One could liken it to a mother's nagging, almost always well-meaning but hardly ever received with open arms.

Talking about the British influence, this also seemed to take a more contemporary form in the apparent popularity of the English Premier League in Darjeeling. Walking along the streets, I noticed many locals, both male and female, wearing scarves and donning jackets containing club logos (Manchester United, Chelsea and Arsenal seemed to be the best supported clubs there). I also spotted these on car decals as our jeep passed other vehicles. Sadly, I seemed to have been the only one wearing something expressing an allegiance to Newcastle United. It was a pity that we left the place a day before my beloved Mags beat the Red Devils at Old Trafford for the first time in more than forty years. I would have been tempted to, with my black and white scarf tied proudly around my neck, direct cheeky winks at the other United's fans.

Happy Valley Tea Estate

Darjeeling is also renowned throughout the world for its tea and we visited Happy Valley Tea Estate, one of Darjeeling's best known plantations. It was about a half-hour's walk from Chowk Bazaar and most of the walk took place along a relatively quiet stretch of road, making for a pleasant escape from the boisterous bazaar area. On our way down a slope surrounded by countless tea bushes, we bumped into a South African couple. Upon hearing that we were from Singapore, they began praising our country, telling us that it's one of their favourite places (they may have been being polite here). They also, to our astonishment, added that they fell in love with durians while they were in the Lion City. They said that they went to the same durian stall so regularly, the owner couldn't help but express his sense of bewilderment, stating that it was the first that he had seen 'white people' enjoy durians to such an extent. We proceeded to the estate's main building itself where we were given a short tour about tea-processing (I admit that my brain didn't process a fair share of the information though I remember that black tea is not consumed for medicinal benefits).

Mmmmm...

Leaving the building, we found ourselves settling down for a drink in a café just outside it. The owner of the cafe, Kusum, was a retired tea-picker of Anglo-Nepalese origin. She warmly welcomed us to a cosy lounge attached to the main shop and began teaching us a tea-smelling technique (with disastrously comic results). Although she called her place a 'café', Kusum admitted that she had never tried coffee in her life and that her outlet was solely dedicated to the sale of tea. She also showed us how tea leaves were brewed and predictably, attempted to sell her tea leaves. We had used Mandarin Chinese throughout the trip as a secret language and we spoke it among each other when discussing the price of Kusum's tea. When we eventually reverted to English, Kusum asked us to continue speaking in Chinese (leaving me stuck in my discomfort zone), stating that she loved the sound of the language even though she claimed to not understand it. We hoped that she was being truthful here or it would have been utterly embarrassing. Having placed our order, she proceeded to package the leaves with startling meticulousness, even going outside to pick flowers (all of these would have turned brown or worse by the time you read this) to decorate the individual packs.

Kusum packing the tea leaves

On our second day in Darjeeling, we decided to take a day-trip to Kalimpong, a nearby town on a hill overlooking the River Teesta. Our guesthouse, a 'very hands-on operation' according to Vikash, provided us with a jeep and Daniel, our assigned driver, took us there. Driving along the bends at the higher points of the hill, we were treated to views of the lovely, verdant landscape below. Mt. Khangchendzonga also made regular appearances which made me more eager to visit Tiger Hill to catch a better view of the world's third highest point. On the way, we stopped by Lamahatta (according to Daniel, this meant 'monk area'), a small park, with a strong Tibetan influence in it a colours, built on a slope. Vikash told us that the place was quite incapable of receiving long stretches of sunlight and he wondered how the people living across the road dried their clothes. Other stops included Lovers Meeting Point, affording an unobstructed view of the Teesta's confluence point, and Pineview Nursery, where a variety of cacti was cultivated. It was at our final stop at Deolo Park, which afforded one an excellent vantage point of the river and surrounding landscape below, where the highlight of my day occurred. *Please skip the rest of this paragraph if you are about to have your meal* Before having lunch, Leo and I decided to head to the toilet located outside the park. While walking there, I told him that I was hoping for the toilet to be an unstructured one where we could make a direct contribution to nature with our small business. To my disappointment, it was a structured toilet with proper urinals. However, the floor had been so wet and muddy, Leo wondered aloud if the providee structure was actually used. Mental debates over what we were stepping on came to a conclusion when the moment I began making use of the urinal, I realised that it was leaking badly! The rest is history.

At the Zang Dhok Palri Phodang monastery atop Durpin Hill

Of course, no stay in Darjeeling would be complete without a visit to Tiger Hill to watch the sunrise. Shivering from our rooms to the jeep, marshaled by the very capable Daniel, we set off for the hill at four in the morning. The 'excitement' of the day did not begin with the sunrise but rather, even before we reached the top of Tiger Hill. Kenneth and I alighted briefly to purchase tickets to enter the hill's lounge. While queuing to get our tickets at the booth, Kenneth's line was cut by several people. They manoeuvred their way into the ticket office itself and a few simply stretched their arms in front of us in attempts to pay for tickets. The urgency with which they struggled at the queue made it look like they were attempting to obtain limited tickets to watch the Second Coming, available on a first-come-first-serve basis. 

Crowds gathering at Tiger Hill for the sunrise

Arriving at our lounge early enough, we went through another minor struggle before we managed, with a stroke of fortune, to get front row seats, next to open windows, to watch the sunrise. Curiously, the lounge was built in a way where instead of facing the sun or the magnificent Mt. Khangchendzonga, we had to settle for a direct view of a hardly visible Kalimpong. Seated down, we began a process of turning into ice blocks as the chilly winter winds blew directly at us, bringing back memories of watching football games at St. James' in the cold. As the sun began its rise in the distant horizon, Khangchendzonga grew in prominence, looming over the landscape like a white eminence, weightless but domineering. The response to the sunrise was something I'd never quite experienced. People began cheering enthusiastically at the first sight of the sun, emerging as a glowing, red dot. The hearty cheers were followed by numerous cameras uniformly turning in the sun's direction, the greatest natural source of light enjoying a rightful celebrity status. The reddish character of the sunrise gave Khangchendzonga an increasingly regal appearance and after shivering for an hour or so, we were pleased that our patience had been duly rewarded. It was truly a sight to behold.

Admiring Mt. Khangchendzonga from afar

If you've come this far, thanks for taking the time to read this somewhat lengthy post. Writing this wasn't easy. I had actually completed this post on Darjeeling when my bag containing my trusted netbook and my memory stick, along with other valued and quite valuable belongings of mine, was stolen during a train ride quite late into the trip. Having lost all my writing and all the photos I had taken till that point, I had to rewrite this post from scratch (my notebook was, thankfully, spared) with the scarring experience on the back of my mind. I am tremendously grateful to my dear travel companions, Kenneth, Leo, Xue Wei, and Anna, not just for allowing me to use their photographs for my blog entries, but for standing by me during a difficult two days or so as I struggled to forgive myself for a quite uncharacteristic, momentary lack of vigilance. I was very moved when, in an effort to cheer me up and provide me with a means of penning my thoughts, they surprised me with a fountain pen (I had lost mine with the bag) and a notebook. This blog post, for all that it is worth, is wholly dedicated to them.

Red Pandas at the Darjeeling Zoo

(Photos courtesy of Anna, Xue Wei and Kenneth)