India! I was excited, and a little apprehensive, as the yellow jeep drove through the Bhutan gate into Jaigaon. People on the Intrepid tour kept telling me that India was different, more challenging. Questioned, they talked about the noise, the dirt, the crowds. I could say the same about London, but no doubt it's a matter of degree. But I was glad that I was slipping in through the back door in daylight, instead of flying into Delhi airport in the middle of the night.
Garab had taken care of the exit formalities in Bhutan, at Rinchending, 5 kilometers above Phuntsoling. In Jaigaon I got out of the jeep and filled in the form myself, watched by posters advertising Bhutan. The bank was still closed, so we headed out of town towards the West Bengal plain.
At first we drove through tea plantations with women picking leaves from ordered rows of low bushes, carrying the leaves in bags suspended from head straps. Tea gave way to rice, and teak forest, and Jaldapara National Park (protecting the one-horned rhinoceros). This was an agricultural region, and my guide agreed that the people were not very well off.
I saw goats again, very small ones, and of course cows, although unlike the cows in Bhutan, which roamed free, these were mostly staked. I have started to differentiate countries by how they treat dogs (I've seen virtually no cats) -- hardly any in China, a lot of miserable ones in Thailand, and a great many sleek and lazy ones in Bhutan. Apparently Buddhists won't kill dogs, but only Mahayana Buddhists feel an obligation to feed them. I saw quite a few in India, in good condition. In Bhutan the dogs seemed to sleep a lot, and I encountered none of the aggressive ones, and few of the fights, that I had been led to expect.
We passed a number of villages -- thatched huts or square concrete buildings -- the architecture uninspired. Preparations for Durga Puja (a major religious holiday for Bengalis) were already underway, with bamboo frames going up in most of the villages to hold the image of the goddess.
About two hours into the drive I started to feel the magic of India touch me. What I noticed most was the magnificent, extravagant diversity -- plants, animals, people, clothes, not to mention religion and gods. Men wore everything from western shirt and pants to a low-slung sarong. While women wore either the sari or shalwar suit (like the Pakistani shalwar kameez, but cut differently and often with short sleeves), the colors and fabrics varied wildly. I was surprised to see a few women wearing the sari without a blouse underneath.
As we entered Siliguri -- one long bazaar -- the guide told me that the region was a center for technical education, but that it was hard for graduates to find jobs. Siliguri was my first sizable Indian town. It was certainly noisy -- driving in India, as in most of Asia, involves a lot of honking horns. Eventually I decided that there must be a language -- "Look out", "I want to pass", "Forget it" or "Hold on" or even "Thanks". If you're a pedestrian it means "Look out, you're about to get run over". The town did seem somewhat dirty, but again, so do many Asian towns -- even Bhutan had a trash problem, although Garab had a scheme for solving the problem that I hope he can get implemented. Crowded -- definitely, especially with cycle rickshaws, mostly standing idle.
An attempt to change travelers checks at the Bank of India was unsuccessful -- the only person who handled that kind of transaction was out. A money changer round the corner put my TCs under ultraviolet (?) light before accepting them. He charged only 50 rupees (with an exchange rate of 45 rupees to the dollar), but presented me with a thick wad of 100 rupee notes.
The guide left me at Sinclair's Hotel, and I immediately headed out to check on the "toy" train, otherwise known as the Darjeeling Himalayan Railway and a World Heritage Site. I was in Siliguri only because I wanted to ride the train to Darjeeling, but the guide had told me that it was not running because of landslides (caused by the monsoon rains). A diesel runs the whole way from Siliguri to Darjeeling, and a steam train from Kurseong, halfway up the mountain. I planned to ride the diesel to Kurseong, spend a couple of nights, and then ride the steam train on into Darjeeling. It took a four person conference to translate my destination to the rickshaw driver and his price to me -- 10/- to the Siliguri Junction Railway Station. The man in the booking office told me that the train to Kurseong was running and I could buy a ticket in the morning. Great!
After a stint on the 'net I headed back to the hotel for a swim in the pool. It was only after I was floating blissfully in cool water (Siliguri was hot and humid) that I remembered that Indian women are reputed to swim in their saris. Even in a one piece I was probably displaying too much skin. I decided not to worry about it, but then was driven from the pool by the onset of dusk and the likelihood of mosquitos. (I only remembered to start taking my anti-malarial pills after getting bitten the night before.) My room had AC, but it was noisy, so I slept with the quiet and very efficient fan instead.
Next morning I took a taxi to the station, only to discover that the narrow-gauge train was indeed not running. I was still intent on going to Kurseong -- the landslide was between Siliguri and Kurseong, so the steam train ought to be running. I shouldered my pack for the first time since Karachi and considered my options. Since the shared jeeps outside the station apparently wanted to go to Darjeeling but not Kurseong (maybe it was my pronunciation), I headed for the bus station just down the road. The train to Kurseong would have cost me 122/- in first class or 13/- in second: the bus would cost 25/-.
I acquired a helper as soon as I entered the bus station -- he took me to the right ticket window and then to the right bus. I could tell from his smile that I had over tipped him, but it was useful information for the future, and besides, I had yet to acquire any small coins. I had what should have been a good seat behind the driver, but although I am smaller than the average American, I am larger than the average Indian, and something hard dug into my left buttock for the whole trip. I was pleased, and somewhat surprised, when my left leg still worked after I got off. I discovered that my method of boarding the bus was eccentric. It appeared that the approved method was to hang around outside the station and wait for the bus conductor to solicit your custom. I also realized that the seat next to the driver is less desirable than it might seem -- four people and the driver occupied a space meant for three, plus they all had to move when the engine needed attention, as it was under the seat.
The road up the mountain ran beside the railway, which was definitely out of commission in a couple of places. There were a number of hopeful admonitions to the drivers that are clearly ignored. My favorite: "If interested in survival, don't look for fast arrival." "Hurry Burry Spoils the Curry" was posted across from the Kurseong Tourist Lodge where I spent two nights. I had a paneled room with a balcony -- and an early morning view of distant Kanchenjunga. I met an Australian couple there -- apparently the only other westerners in town. Helma was originally Dutch and John British. John had been a student in Kurseong from 1949 to '53, and was spending a month pursuing research into his old school. The town then had four schools, now it has 72. It is overrun with kids -- in British style uniforms -- every afternoon.
Kurseong seems to be a good base for visiting tea plantations, or for hiking, but I was there to ride the narrow-gauge steam train to Darjeeling. Would it run?
Sent from Bhubaneswar, Orissa, India, Oct. 20, about Siliguri & Kurseong, West Bengal, India, Oct. 10 - 12
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