Darjeeling, August 27

Darjeeling, I am back in my Darjeeling. It is quite cold here, especially compared to the hot, sweaty rice fields of Bengal or the Terai far below the lofty heights of Darjeeling. World famous for her tea plantations, 2134 m above sea level, Darjeeling is nicknamed the ‘queen of the hills’. The old lady is perched on top of a green mountain ridge, surrounded by rags of mist and cloud. Her toy train, her gothic cathedral, the Himalayan zoo with its red pandas and snow leopards, her tea emporiums, her Tibetan refugee centre, her botanical garden, the memorial to Tenzing Norgay, they are just some of the attributes that give her a sense of former grandeur. And talking about grandeur: she has a spectacular backdrop with (weather permitting) a panorama of the third highest mountain in the world: Khangchendzonga, the abode of demons.

Darjeeling is a hill station, founded by the British Raj and the size of a small city. The colonial rulers from Calcutta built their villas and cottages here; their schools and railway station. This was where they moved to in the hot season, to escape the heat of the Bengali plains. British architecture is still visible everywhere, but it is crumbling after more than half a century of neglect. Tea pavilions, cottages and wooden store houses alike seem to fare badly under Indian rule. Yet how I like Darjeeling! She gives me air to breathe after the smog, heat and dust of Kathmandu.

Not that I dislike Kathmandu, a city where I always seem to spend more time than planned. It is, after all, an interesting place. The guesthouse was infested with bugs though. There were ants in the sugar pot. There were fleas in the beds. And then there were a couple of Canadians, who hung around in the guesthouse all day, doing nothing. Sometimes they were chanting hare Krishna songs (it doesn’t make for very cheerful music). Sometimes they were doing yoga on the roof. I tried to talk to them, but got little reaction. One boy, who never wore shirts, gave me a look as if he was stoned, or I was mental. Or both, I don’t know. There was also a girl, more talkative, but she seemed to have personal problems. I asked her what she was doing in Kathmandu. She replied ‘At the moment I am just being’. I asked ‘aren’t we all just being?’ and she didn’t seem to like that, for that was the end of the conversation. Later I found out that they had already been staying in the guesthouse for five weeks before my arrival. Fortunately I had more contact with my Belgian neighbour. He is a 38 year old antique dealer who hunts hidden treasures in Indian bazars. In the process he travels all over the Subcontinent. He had just found out that Kathmandu is not the place to look for any good deals, but got ill and had to stay longer than intended. I advised him to go to Darjeeling because of the healthy climate. He left a couple of days before I did. I met him again in Darjeeling, where he looked much better than before. The fresh, clean air had indeed helped him recover.

None withstanding the pollution, bugs and other minor annoyances, I felt a bit sad leaving Kathmandu. A last ride to the monkey temple. A last visit to Nepali friends. Even a last stroll through Thamel. A last encounter with the touts.
‘Hello my friend. You want smoke.’ (Do I really look that deprived)
‘Yes rickshaw.’ (Er, no.)
‘I have hashish.’ (I bet you do, have a good time with it)
‘Hello. I remember you. Come to my shop.’ (I was 100% sure I didn’t meet the guy before)
‘Yes! Listen.’
A man in rag-like clothes stood in front of me. He made a shrieking noise on some kind of small string instrument. Sometimes I can’t help talking back. I know it is useless and probably unethical too, but it gives you back some of your human dignity that was taken from you while being treated as a walking purse.
‘That sounds terrible! Please stop following me or stop making that noise.’
‘Ya?’

Now this last exclamation needs some explanation. In English slang, ‘ya’ is usually an abbreviation of ‘yeah’ or ‘yes’. However, in Kathmandu, where uneducated street vendors learn some basic English by repeatedly shouting annoying standard sentences to tourists, it has a different meaning. ‘Ya’ is uttered by the little vendor, beggar or wannabe student who does not understand your English, but dares not admit it. This because incomprehension is failure, and thus impossible in Nepali culture, where saving face is more important than honesty (or personal and public hygiene, for that matter – but that is a different topic). So the little man says ‘ya’, therewith saving his face but illustrating the tendency towards lies and half-truths so embedded in his entire nation.

I had reserved a seat on a night bus to the Indian border, and even after reconsidering carefully chose to show up at the right time in the bus park. I don’t usually reserve bus seats, because I rather deal with the drivers or their side-kicks directly. That way, you at least know what you get for your money. The following story will probably explain why that makes sense. I had asked the travel agent, of course, what the bus would be like. In response he pointed at a poster of a big, brand-new, luxury and spacious German vehicle, that was pinched to the wall behind his small desk. It looked way better than anything I’ve ever seen on a Nepali road. Naturally I didn’t believe the man, but I didn’t want to press the matter. As long as I got out of Kathmandu.

The thing that turned up at the bus station looked like it was entirely made of tin. It probably was. It also sounded like it was entirely made of tin. To give the tour agent some credit, the words ´deluxe express´ where written on its front window. In Nepal, this means the price of the seats is higher than in ´local buses´. Moreover, a ´deluxe bus´ should not stop everywhere to fit in as many people (or, if necessary, chickens and goats) as possible, making it slightly faster and more comfortable than a ‘local bus’. That, at least, is the theory. However, after five months of public transport in Nepal, I can say from experience any such difference is non-existent.

All things inside the bus had been economised on, including the seats. All things except for the sound equipment. The speakers that blurt out music were still in fine working order, and since they are constantly operating at maximum volume, they must be repaired or replaced regularly. They were now used to treat the passengers to a fine choice of Nepali and Hindi music. The Nepali songs are traditional and up-spirited, yet boring. They are duets, sung by a male and a female singer, who take turns wailing to the rhythm of a monotonous jungle beat. The Hindi music, on the other hand, is of a more modern style. Nowadays, Bollywood´s finest produce a ´hip´ sound that approaches the yelling of monkeys, bleating of goats and barking of dogs, to a rhythm of a jukebox gone wild. It sounds something like this:

(refrain:)
´Meri pyaar wail, wail, wail, wail´
´Mera pyaar wail, wail, wail, wail´
´Ishk, ishk, ishk, ishk´
´squeal, squeal, squeal , squeal´
(mad instruments, of the sort that you would find in cheap electronic pianos but never thought anyone would actually like to use)
(refrain:)
´Meri pyaar wail, wail, wail, wail´
´Mera pyaar wail, wail, wail, wail´
´Ishk, ishk, ishk, ishk´
´squeal, squeal, squeal , squeal´
(more insane instruments, always of the kind you least expect)
Etcetera

The bus made a short stop for diner (dhal, bhat) at 7 PM, in a nondescript roadside bazar town called Ramnagar. I shared my table with a young Nepali man. He introduced himself as Sanjay and told me his brother visits university in Canada. He told me Canada is part of Europe, just like my own country. He told me all people from Canada work very hard. I had to disagree. I asked him when we would arrive at the border. He told me I would be there at 6 AM.

Back inside the bus, I dozed off. Even all of the noise coming from the speakers could not keep me from falling asleep. I never slept well in Kathmandu during the night, and during the day I usually felt tired as a result. It was 11 PM when I was woken by the driver. He turned the lights inside the bus on and shouted something in Nepali. The other passengers started to leave the bus. Then, discovering me, the driver smiled and proclaimed: ‘dinner esstop’. As I had eaten before, this puzzled me. The idea of stretching my legs was welcome though, so I hopped out. I found myself in front of a dimly lit bamboo shag, where food was distributed to some of the other passengers, who had sat down on wooden bunks. A young man who had done a bad job trying to dye his hair, probably to look like Americans (it had turned bright orange instead of blonde) appeared in front of me.

‘You want food. Yes. Welcome my restaurant.’
‘Sorry, I already had diner at the last stop. I’m not hungry.’
‘Yes, I have place. You like rice? You sit down here, you eat.’ (he starts pulling my arm)
‘I understand the concept. Could you let me go?’
‘Yes rice. Dhal. Bhat. Mutton. Food.’ (he points at his mouth and makes a chewing sound)
‘Well, I could have a cup of tea. Do you have tea here?’
‘Ya? Food. Rice. Cheecken. Sit down.’

When I found out they had no tea, I went back to the bus. The orange hairdo seemed horrified and yelled at me. He did not follow me inside though. After half an hour, the other passengers came in, the driver switched on the music again, and off we went. We would make another stop every two hours or so, during which I would wake up, but the reason for these short breaks remained unclear to me. At 5 AM we got opportunity for breakfast in another roadside shag. I washed my hands and face under a rusty pump behind this next debauchery, but the water somehow made me feel more dirty rather than less. Sanjay was there too. He wished me good morning. I asked him how long it would still be to the border. That way, he would not have to directly contradict his earlier prediction. He said it would take another 3 hours. I didn’t believe a word.

The bus arrived at the border at 9:30 AM exactly. It was a relatively easy crossing. None of the border guards wanted a bribe. The Indians were especially friendly and invited me to sit in a huge arm chair while I filled in the necessary three forms and declarations. A short walk from the immigration police I found a bus of the same type as the one I spent the night in. It took me to the transport hub of Siliguri, where I arrived at 11 AM. The temperature was already over 35 ⁰C and even after Kathmandu, Indian traffic seemed intense.

The bus driver dropped me off at the place where jeeps stand waiting in a line for passengers to Darjeeling. When nine people have gathered, the jeep drives off and the next vehicle takes its turn to fill up. This is the only public transport to Darjeeling, due to the bad condition of the road. In fact, the road looked as if it never got repaired since the last time I was here, 12 years ago. When I arrived in Darjeeling, after three hours of bumping and shaking, I felt like a sack of potatoes. The only thing that made me feel better was arriving in my old hotel and renting a big, clean room. It has a large window which allows for a splendid view over the city, the green hills and the white Himalaya in the far distance. Tomorrow I will visit the zoo!