I hoped to ride the steam train both ways between Kurseong and Darjeeling, and maybe take it back up again when I moved to Darjeeling. Since it was supposed to leave at 6:40 a.m., I got up early. I arrived at the station in good time and bought a ticket (11/-) -- a practice I'm not sure was followed by many of my fellow passengers -- I never saw anyone collecting tickets.
There was an actual steam engine, with steam up, at the station, but it took a great deal of to-ing and fro-ing before the train was ready to depart. The engine went forward and back to pick up a luggage van, then again for the two (second class) carriages, all the way out of the station and back to get the carriages on the right rails -- and then it went out again solo to attach itself to the other end of the train. After all this activity we actually left at 7:05.
If you want to get to Darjeeling fast, if you need a toilet every couple of hours, or if you object to cinders in your hair, this is not the train for you. But my imagination was caught by the idea of riding one of the last steam trains in the world, by riding a train down the main street of an Indian town, by living a piece of history, and I enjoyed (almost) all of the four hours it took to reach Darjeeling. The most interesting engineering challenges are further down, but we did go round the Batasia Loop, just short of Ghum (the high point on the line at 7410 feet), where the line crosses over itself and which now has a Ghorka war memorial in the center.
This train is also called the school train, and school kids, in assorted uniforms, duly showed up to ride it. I'm not sure how many made it to school on time, as we spent a long time sitting beside a water tank, apparently while work was done on the engine. Most of the boys got off and started walking, getting back on later by running alongside and jumping for one of the open doorways. The five girls in my compartment, in pale blue with white hair ribbons, had just abandoned the train when the whistle finally went -- they rushed back on in a storm of giggles.
The railway line and Hill Cart Road intertwine up the mountain. Very few trains use the rails these days, but they don't go to waste. They are handy for walking on, out of the traffic (forget pavements/sidewalks), for sitting on -- while chatting, or trading, or washing dishes or clothes using water from the pipes beside the tracks -- and I even saw one man pulling a little cart with wheels that matched the gauge of the train.
I got quite lost in Darjeeling, and spent some time wandering around the bazaar before orienting myself on the Lonely Planet map and finding a nice place for lunch. I spent what little time was left before the 3:00 p.m. return train on the 'net. But when I showed up at the station there was no train in evidence. Canceled. And if the engine and carriages didn't go down to Kurseong that night, they couldn't come up the next morning. After I got through congratulating myself for having ridden up that morning, I realized that as a result of getting lost I knew how to find the shared jeep/bus stand. I could at least get "home".
This time the bus didn't leave until it was full -- by Asian standards. I had the aisle seat across from the door -- not a good place as the space beside me was jam-packed with standing passengers -- we were halfway to Kurseong before I actually saw the doorway. Still, for 22/- I could hardly complain.
The next morning I switched from impoverished backpacker mode to wealthy westerner, and took a solo jeep up the mountain. At 500/- ($10) it was quite a jump from the train and bus, but I could take photos whenever I chose. I did feel a little guilty at adding to the pollution. John had told me that 50 years ago you could see all the way to Bagdogra airport from Kurseong (40-50 miles), but now there was haze even when the clouds weren't down.
The jeep crawled through the Darjeeling bazaar and clawed its way up the hill to the Windamere Hotel. The petite lady with the Scots accent who greeted me was most concerned -- my reservation had been canceled three days earlier by Geo Ex's Indian representative. Geo Ex had wanted to handle my trip from Phuntsoling all the way to Darjeeling, but gave up on me when I insisted on riding the train up the mountain, and I made my own reservations for Kurseong and Darjeeling. I never did find out why this one was canceled. But the hotel still had a room available -- a very nice room, it turned out. Ten minutes later I was sipping Darjeeling tea on the terrace.
Geo Ex had tried to talk me out of staying at the Windamere, but while I could see that someone who wants a cookie-cutter, international, it's-Tuesday-so-it-must-be-Darjeeling type hotel would probably miss the point of the Windamere, for anyone with any knowledge of the history of British India it is an absolute must. It's a living museum, dating back to the days of the British Raj, when Darjeeling was a summer retreat.
The terrace was furnished with green and yellow wickerwork chairs and tables to match the green roofs and yellow walls of the buildings, it boasted a red and gold pillar-box (post box in American) with English and Hindi script, and even had red fire buckets holding sand and water (backed up by a discrete modern fire extinguisher). I could practically see Edwardian gentlemen with whiskers and waistcoats. Later, as I descended the stairs for pre-dinner drinks and nibbles (actual gin and tonic!) in my somewhat travel-stained blouse and long skirt, I could imagine feathers and a train. On Sunday the drinks period was enlivened by the presence of the last of the British tea planters and a German friend of the Maharajah of Jodhpur.
My room was painted yellow, and the flowered drapes, bedspread and cushion covers all matched. There were lots of closets, and a dressing room with a third bed. There was a black rotary dial phone on the desk in the main room, but I didn't try it. According to the notice in a fellow guest's room, the "intercom system" hadn't worked properly since 1970, and after the last lot of expert repairs "when certain numbers are dialled, three telephones ring simultaneously in separate rooms, causing alarm to guests who value their repose". The bathroom was also from an earlier era, with a footed bath tub, the freestanding sink that is mysteriously fashionable in the US right now, and a cistern that, according to the notice on the wall, had been giving dependable service since 1912.
Aside from a couple of trekking groups, just passing through, all my fellow guests were British. They were all reasonably sedate, unlikely to violate the request on the parlor wall that read, in part: "visitors are requested NOT to take off their footwear, or put up their feet on the furniture, or lie supine on the hearth, or sleep behind the settees, lest unintended offense be given to others".
The first night, at dinner, I chatted with the couple at the next table, and found that the husband was a doctor, about to retire, who had hoped to help in India, but had just found out that he would have to re-qualify. After dinner I met another couple -- a retired lawyer and his wife, a PR expert turned florist -- and Tony, who had planned a trip to India with his wife, but was traveling alone because of her ill-health. They kindly invited me to join them next morning for a dawn trip to Tiger Hill to see the Himalayas reflect the rising sun. Even though this meant getting up at 3:30 a.m. (!), I accepted with alacrity and was rewarded with a beautiful view -- it seemed that the monsoon might finally be over.
There was plenty to see in Darjeeling besides the train and the views -- a good thing, since the views were not always visible, and the train, as I had found out, was not always running. Tony shared his jeep with me again for a visit to one of the monasteries at Ghum, and we walked to the Happy Valley Tea Plantation and the zoo area. The zoo was sad, with insufficient space for the animals, but the snow leopard and red panda breeding programs were more hopeful. The keeper I talked with said that they hoped to release animals to the wild when they had 50 red pandas (they were halfway there) and 20 leopards (they had six). The leopards are magnificent, swinging wonderful, long, bushy tails. The Himalayan Mountaineering Institute and the Everest Museum were in the same area, but I'm more interested in looking at mountains than in climbing them -- snow covered monsters, at least. Still, the Tenzing Norgay memorial was moving. Prayer flags draped his statue, and a new building was under construction.
I thoroughly enjoyed the Windamere, with its spacious rooms, good Anglo-Indian food and attentive service (sometimes too attentive, I was twice interrupted while dressing for dinner by the delivery of a flashlight (torch)). I especially appreciated the flannel-covered hot-water bottle -- a nice nostalgic detail. Still, this was just an (expensive) interlude, and it was time to return to modern India.
I abandoned the idea of riding the train back to New Jalpaiguri -- nine hours -- and took another taxi. I was able to take photos of the (diesel) train just outside Ghum, so I didn't complain when the driver left the tracks at Kurseong and took a different, unfrequented, route down the mountain. Initially we drove through tea plantations, but then through forest with some huge trees and bamboo as thick as my arm. As we descended it started to warm up, and the driver seemed as unhappy about it as I was. It was a long eight kilometers through Siliguri to the NJP station where I would catch the train to Calcutta. At least, I hoped I would. I had been unable to confirm my reservation at Darjeeling as their computer link was down. Riding the toy train had not gone altogether according to plan: I hoped it was not an omen.
Sent from Kolkota (Calcutta), West Bengal, India Oct. 22, about Darjeeling, West Bengal, India, Oct. 13 - 16
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