Into the Himalayas!

I'm back in Daisy, the Dragoman truck, sweating through the lowlands of Nepal after 9 days of paradise. In this instance, paradise is defined as cold, wet and cloudy weather on top of a mountain. Ah, the Himalayas.

We left Kolkatta on a sleeper train to Siliguri, in the northern part of West Bengal. The goal was to sleep through the journey, and get into town in morning, before boarding jeeps to take us into the mountains, and into Darjeeling for three glorious nights. I say goal - I did not sleep at all. This was due to a few issues. Number one, the compartment was clearly built for tiny people - I'm not a big man, but I wasn't able to fully stretch out, so that meant either crooking my head off to one side, or sleeping on my belly with my shins in the air. Secondly, the family in the compartment across from mine left their light on until 1am, when I accidentally woke them up trying to turn it off. But the biggest reason was this: the I kale in my throat from our last day in Kolkatta had become a nasty cold/bronchitis/flu abomination, and I spent the whole journey blowing my nose and feeling rubbish. It's been almost two weeks, and I'm only now getting over it.

Siliguri itself has little to recommend it: hot, flat and dusty, it's little more than a jumping off point for Darjeeling, but in that it serves admirably. The jeep ride follows the tracks of the famous 'toy train' - the 1890s tiny gauge railroad built by the Brits when they made Darjeeling the summer capital of the Raj (Kolkatta being a bit hot in the summertime). Actually, it doesn't just follow the tracks - the tracks crisscross the road repeatedly, since the road was built effectively on top of the path up the mountain that the tracks also use. The train still runs, mostly as a tourist attraction, but is slow enough that no car (or pedestrian) has ever been endangered by it.

We stopped for lunch and had our first Momos: Tibetan dumplings, much like Japanese gyoza, filled traditionally with pork, but often enough with veggies (tourists in India being notoriously vegetarian). With them, we also had the first honest-to-god spicy sauce we've had on this trip. As it happens, either the Himalayas are the only part of India where proper spices can be found, or our waiters in the rest of the country have been bald-facedly lying to us about the spice level of our food. Not that I blame them: I'm sure many is the tourist who overestimates what they can handle, spice-wise, and I'm sure the charms of laughing at wannabe spice warriors lose something after the 100th go round.

Darjeeling itself was surprising, in a lot of good ways. Firstly, it was cleaner than almost anywhere else in India. The mountain air was crisp and refreshing, especially once you get to the pedestrian zones where jeeps aren't allowed to belch filth on you. The people were all really well dressed, and healthy-looking, and even the stray dogs looked pleasant and cared for. But most astounding if all, we found good coffee. No, let me say that again. We found what is possibly the best coffee in India, and possibly outside of Ethiopia itself. It was at this very modern cafe on the high street, complete with baked goods that were in constant danger of running out, probably because they too were outstanding. The Himalaya Java Company is not messing around, kids.

We were in town for three nights, so rather than give you a blow-by-blow, I'll hit the major points. We visited the Tibetan Refugee Centre, a little farther down the mounting. In addition to picking up some gifts (and a beautiful purple pashmina scarf for Emma), we got to see some woodworking and spinning being done by some of the refugees, as well as see an interesting exhibit on Tibetan history, specifically the bits involving Tibet's brief period of de facto independence before being 'liberated' by the People's Liberation Army. It's interesting to think that Tibet was a theocracy before then, and the Dalai Lama, who is a pretty democratic and humble guy, would otherwise have been absolute ruler of the country. I saw an article later on in Gangtok, hinting that, in order to prevent the PRC from naming (and therefore claiming) the next incarnation, the Dalai Lama might choose not to be reincarnated at all. It would be a big step, but I suspect the Dalai Lama feels that preventing China from legitimising it's colonialism makes it worth while.

The walk back was quite tough - not for Emma, of course, but for the rest of us normal people. Vincent and Emily were left behind while we decided to keep going up past town towards a Hindu temple, from which we were hustled away because we had no intention of taking off our shoes just then. We did manage to meet up with Bex and Jonny, and together we got tea at the Golden Tips tea room. Dear lord, Darjeeling tea is good. Later on, we bought some as gifts for friends and family, and while we couldn't afford the really good stuff, we were able to get some very nice examples of what tea can do.

After three days, it was time for us to push on, this time to a tea plantation called Karmi Farm, owned by Andrew, a Scottish-Himalayan whose highland credentials are obviously impeccable. While there, we had no internet, so our days were spent hiking through mountains. Drinking the surprisingly good Sikkim brew called Hit, and reading obsessively in the cool bright air. Andrew's library was excellent, and we all found something to pore over: for me, it was 'Flashman on the March' - a fake autobiography of a Victorian hero who reveals himself to be a total coward and self-described poltroon during the Abyssinian war. It's part of a series; the general idea is well-researched historical fiction taking the piss out of (while also celebrating) British colonialism. It was very funny, informative, and made me want to see Ethiopia first hand. Just, you know, not in the summertime.

Unfortunately, our time at Karmi farm  was marred by illness. Not just mine - although the splitting headache/nausea/fever was jolly good fun - but Emma's as well. She caught my bug back in Darjeeling, and the jeep rides really ended up taking it out of her. She still did all the hiking, but was way more affected by it than she has been in the past. Since he's going to be hiking to Mount Everest Base Camp in a few weeks, she was a little concerned. I'm sure it's just being sick, and she should be fine in a few days. Stupid illness.

Our last night in Karmi Farm, we were taught how to wrap momos into their delicious dumpling form. While Emma gave it a try, Jonny, Bex and I quickly became obsessed. We ended up wrapping what must have been hundreds of momos, until our hands were shaking, our muscles sore, and our backs bent over. No one wanted to quit firsts, so none of us did. As a reward, Andrew introduced us to Tongpa, the local home-brewed sake. It was interesting, and then delicious, especially with hand-wrapped momos or dinner.

Finally, before heading off to bed, we gathered around the old laptop to watch episodes of 'The Mighty Boosh' - an utterly insane show with some of the most cheaply made, disturbing, yet oddly gorgeous special effects anywhere. It reads like a fever dream, and certain images, such as a threatening eel-obsessed cockney criminal playing a song on the piano about 'Eels' will never fully leave my mind. Meanwhile, Andrew's staff danced and drank in the dining room, in what can only be interpreted as an example of authentic life, as opposed to us silly laptop-watching hooligans.

Our Himalayan adventure was not yet complete: we still had one more stop to make before our journey into Nepal. The next morning, we set out for Gangtok, but that will be another story. In the meantime, I leave you with the following memory, one that will last far after so much else has fled my mind. In a word:

Eels.