Taking tiger mountain

Your correspondent, reporting for duty!

Darjeeling

It’s a given in India that any tourist attraction you visit will have thousands and thousands of people in attendance. So, when you wake up at 4am, hop into a jeep still half asleep, start driving up a steep and rocky hill, you should not be surprised at the thousands of people that greet you. And, it should be added, that most of the tourists are in fact, Indians. White faces are few and far between.

No condition is sufficient to stop the almighty Indian tourist (even the non-touristic ones).

Now, in any sane country there are likely to be systems and process in place to ensure that people are not overly inconvenienced and that various resources – including people’s time – are put to their most efficient use. For instance, ski reports tell us when the weather conditions are insufficient for snow sports; we might learn on the radio that Saturday morning football is cancelled, or that there has been an accident on a local highway. Hardly a tough ask, one would say.

India has its share of weirdness, and also its share of natural and man-made wonders – perhaps more than most, on both counts, one would say. It has been well documented by now (see previous 28 blog entries) that there are many puzzling and bizarre things in India, as well as its rampant peculiarities. This said however, we can expect reasonable knowledge about fog delays at airports, information concerning the trains, and other matters concerning large numbers of people and their travel arrangements.

So, it would be fair to say, India is organised enough to informed the masses of what they need to know.

Darjeeling, apparently, didn’t get the memo.

THIS PHOTO WAS NOT TAKEN DURING THE SIEGE OF TIGER MOUTAIN

We didn’t exactly awake with relish, for we’d gotten to bed rather late, and the air was still chilly at 4am in the morning. Nevertheless, it was with a deeply suppressed but rapidly rising anticipation that we greeted our driver at the foot of our hotel, and began the journey upwards. In pitch black darkness we rocked and rumbled our way up Tiger Hill, soon joining the convoy of jeeps, trucks, and other cars (easily unfit for such a purpose). Whilst the mist and darkness surrounded us outside, our cosy little car began fogging up, and we were treated to a half-dozen endlessly repeating tracks, including “My Heart Will Go On” by Celene Dion, “Whisky Lullaby,” Dear God” by Avenged Sevenfold, and [enter catchy dance tune], all marvelously enjoyed by our stumpy little driver.

We bought a ticket amidst the cluster-fuck of confusion, and continued upwards to the tip of the mountain, where we were to see the great and almighty sun showering its early morning orange glow on the white snow of the Himalaya’s. You can understand the anticipation.

The site itself was more akin to a crowd of people clambering for the prize at the top of a three storey building. The building itself was utter crap, and had three ‘tiers’ which offered various degrees of viewing comfort out a clear plastic window, which of course, spanned the panorama of the room. The bottom level was utterly crammed with people; standing room only. Our room on the second floor was also crammed, but people were seated in little plastic seats, and the top room featured lazy-boys of the type you’d pay gold ticket prices for (...wankers). Just outside the building were a big crowd of people slammed up against a railing, braving the gold to get the pure, outside view. All up there were perhaps three to four hundred people around, half of which had a crappy Nokia cellphone that took 1.3 megapixel pictures to capture the moment. And of course, this being India, there were people hanging off every ledge, jumping over every railing, and standing on any platform that would support a human body.

The conditions are set for a magic mornings viewing.

It was probably about 5am by the time everyone was in position, snapping photos and occasionally letting up spontaneous but short-lived bursts of surprise. Sunset was set for 6:15am. Great. Only an hour and fifteen minutes to wait. Naturally, I bought a few cups of chai tea and sipped on that.

You might think, by now, what an abomination: confused, chaotic crowds of people, all clambering for the greatest view in the world. Well, not so bad really, just an uncomfortable position to put up with until your view presented itself in magnificent glory.

Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you, the morning was utterly freezing – probably about 1 or 2 degrees – there was a ghostly fog closing itself in on us, and thick, dense cloud covered any mountain we might hope to see. So much for the view.

So, there were about a hundred people outside braving the freezing conditions staring into a thick blanket of pure white, another couple of hundred people across three floors staring through a window at a thick wall of white, and three bemused Kiwi’s laughing and enjoying the site of it all.

It’s quite fun entertaining oneself for an hour or so waiting for something that you’re not going to see, and which you busted your ass to get to. I suggest: selfies, photos with locals (whose the bigger attraction?), pushing through the crowd at whim, finding new places from which to view the blanket of white (railings, edge of open-air staircases), marvelling at the shitter, and taking bets on how many days it would be before you actually saw any anything at all. May is the month, I’m told, so that would be… about 150 days.

You get to a point where you call it – ‘we won’t see anything’ – but evidently for some people that takes a while (hope, I suppose) because they didn’t depart until the morning light had well and truly come, and the fog had only gotten thicker. We watched them slowly peel off.  

My name is Terry John Richard Taylor. I am a knob.

I did what any self-respecting tourist would do. I bought ten postcards (for a buck) and promptly threw them in the bin when I got back to the hotel. I normally never buy postcards, or other tacky tourist things for that matter, but for once I thought, if I’m not going to take Tiger Mountain, I might as well buy a postcard. 

Look at that happy chappy in the beanie and red jacket

Enchantment in room A10

Darjeeling

After our butt-reaming in Kolkata, it was with a sense of renewal that we boarded our flight to Badogra airport, which itself is 700km north of Kolkata. We left the yellow ambassadors and exhaust stained buildings behind, and flew north, to a place we didn’t really know much about, but had heard good things. The most common refrain was that Darjeeling was a place to chill out and get away from the intensity of everyday India.

We got a private taxi from the airport, which was at sea level, and immediately felt the fresh cool air and the warmth of the sun. We drove along flat roads with nice scenery on either side, and began a slow ascent up a winding hill, eventually driving to 2,000km altitude, the scenery getting more stunning the higher we climbed. The driver navigated the road with skill; had any of us been driving I don’t think I’d live to tell the tale.

Darjeeling is known as a hill station, and as you approach the city (approx. population 100,000), we saw all the houses and buildings nestled in and amongst the hillside, which itself was covered in thick forest. Needless to say, the building standards were a far cry from Wellington. In the event of an earthquake, I don’t think a single structure would survive. The streets were narrow, but wide enough for a truck and a few motorcycles, with two to three storied structures on either side. It felt cool riding into town, and after a bit of walking around we settled on the Dekeling Hotel.

It was here that our period of enchantment began. The people at the hotel seemed a world away from the people we were used to dealing with (and a million miles away from Kolkata). They were nice(!), friendly, spoke good English, gave you a fair deal, weren’t in your face, and were just generally lovely and pleasant. Figures, they were Nepalese, a people who have been through a difficult past, and seemed to respond to this with kindness and humility. The room we secured was at the top of the hotel – the attic – and we had to crouch over just to get in the door, and indeed, walk around half the room! It felt like being in Alice in Wonderland, especially given the fact Ben and I are both over 6 feet. Somebody bought some tea in (picked and packed in Darjeeling) and pointed out to us the view from the window. It was above anything else in the city, which seemed to slope treacherously downhill, and far off in the distance, when the cloud cleared (if only for an moment) you could see the deep snows of the Himalaya’s. It was a magical moment.

Our enchantment in room A10 continued when we hit the streets. The air was cool but not chilly, and people just enjoyed being out and about, operating at a leisurely pace. Our spirits lifted even higher when we realised we could feed the three of us (not small boys, by any means) for less than five dollars at any one of the many family run and owned restaurants, and enjoy the most delicious Nepalese food. The best places to eat, I found, where the small, hole in the wall type restaurants that no one had heard of, and largely consisted of kids and the rest of the family. We were normally the only ones dining, and the whole place could usually only fit about six people. We also dined at some more upscale restaurants, which were also delicious, and naturally, had more varied menus.

We would browse around at the markets and shops, and marvel at the magnitude of counterfeit goods – pretty decent quality stuff too, all things considered, and all from Hong Kong. I bought some imitation Adidas running shoes for about $30 which have since served me well. We also found ourselves in a tea shop, and watching the last over of an India vs NZ ODI, in which an Indian batter smashed fifteen off the last over to tie the game – what a match, and what a moment.

Later in the afternoon I went for a run by myself (having not convinced the other guys (yet) of the benefits of running). I ran up the hill past everyone coming down, trying to show off a little, and got to the top completely out of breath. It hit me: we were at altitude, and it was definitely harder to breath. Even walking up stairs I would get short of breath.

I continued along the Tenzing Norgay road, and soon realised something: the track I was running, and the run itself, was by far the best run I had ever done! Not for the speed at which I tracked (slow), nor the depth of my breathing (shallow), but for the scenery, the feeling, and the sheer exhilaration. On one side was steep hillside leading higher and higher, and on the other, huge mountainous valleys as far as the eye could see, with villages dotted all amongst and in around. As I rounded the corner, the late afternoon sun would cast its eye over a village high up in the hills off in the distance, creating a mirage like image. It was fantastic. Every so often I would ask for directions, and eventually found myself following the train tracks and winding through the town. The locals all looked at me bizarrely, I’m sure, but would almost always offer smiles and waves.

I felt truly privileged to be in Darjeeling. I enjoyed it so much, and had the most amazing time. It felt a world away from India, and in a more practical sense, as if we were in another country. It might as well have been, given the Nepalese and Chinese influence.

In the final analysis, the best thing about Darjeeling was how easy it was to be happy there; as easy as the Himalayan freshness, and as bright as the smiles of the people living there.

Enchantment indeed.

Turkey

With a little help from my friends

This is the legendary MO. A chance meeting - if slightly creepy on my part!

Kolkata

Sometimes in travel you get breaks; a stranger kindly offers you a room when you’re stranded; you catch a ride with someone, or somebody helps you out when you’re lost, or sick. Other times you don’t get breaks, and you’ll be stuck at an airport for 6 hours until the fog lifts, you’ll wind up in a hotel with no air conditioning and no cable T.V., (oh, the agony!) or you’ll catch a bug from something you’ve eaten the previous night. These things you can handle. They’re an annoyance, but they’re part of the deal, the trade. There’s no joy or pleasure with some work to get there.

But there are other times when things happen that you’re not equipped to deal with on your own Such times lead to the inevitable tests of character, the throw-your-hands-in-the-air moment, or the despair of a spirit or feeling lost. In other words, you hit breaking point; you lose your shit.

***

Thankfully I haven’t really had any of those travel moments. Our little episode in Kolkata fell into the annoyance category, but did put a dampener on an otherwise very enjoyable night.

MO flew with us to Kolkata. The coolest thing about Kolkata (before you discover it, so-to-speak) is the amount of yellow Ambassador cars cruising the road, and their spacious back seats. You might as well be in a 1970’s porn film with their interior design, though I assure you I wasn’t thinking such things as we drove through the Kolkata night in one of these cars.

MO checked in at the Chrome Hotel, while we stayed at the nearby Rockstar Hotel (a real shithole) down the road, as the Chrome didn’t have any rooms available. The four of us enjoyed a huge, delicious meal in a downtown restaurant, before heading to the rooftop of the Chrome bar for a drink.

This is where the fun begins.

We ordered four gin and tonics, with the bartending showing us INR1,600 on the calculator. Okay, that’s dear by Indian standards (that’s NZD$8 each) but we can live with it. Mo signed for it (a later point of contention). We enjoyed the drink and the conversation on the rooftop, and sent Swags in to order four more. After about ten minutes, he hadn’t returned, and it was getting cold. By the time we got in, an argument was ensuing. Turns out, the drinks were INR1,600 each, meaning the total bill for eight drinks, four of which we’d drunk and four of which were on the counter, was INR12,000, or NZD$240! That’s NZD$30 for a measly gin and tonic. That, by anyone’s standards, is ludicrous.

The disagreement came over the fact that the bartender quoted us the price for one drink, not all four, as we thought.

We went down to the foyer, and spent about half an hour arguing with management. Our differences were stark. They said we had to pay for all eight drinks, at INR1,600 each, because otherwise they were on the hook for it. Ours was that we were misled in the price, and that we were being ripped off big time.

Deals and cross deals ensued. They said all kinds of garbage, such as Bombay Saphire gin being premium, and that if we went to another place and drunk other types of gin, we would be taking huge risk with our kidneys. Adding to the dilemma was the fact that, according to the manager, the bartender and his manager would be on the hook for the bill, which would be a safety issue for MO, as in-a-sense, they would 'fuck-him-up' if he left the hotel.

At one point the manager said “I cannot guarantee your safety outside the hotel,” and for some reason, reasoned with MO that he was from Switzerland, a country that specialised in making knives. He was a sleazy sort of chap, the type that steals small amounts of liquor from spirit bottles to sell on the side, and proclaims to be a god-fearing Catholic. What a dirtbag.

We eventually cut a deal, finished off the remaining four drinks, then arranged to meet up in a few days in Darjeeling, all the while feeling slightly worried about our friend MO.

To make matters worse, the next day, after sleeping in the Rockstar Hotel, and waking early to catch a flight, I felt itchy bites all over my ankles and lower back. Bed bugs – yuck.

We didn’t get a break in Kolkata, really, and it really soured the experience, but in time we made peace with it (more about this later). All I know is that, it would have been much worse without a little help from my friends.

(full credit to RS, and MO for his coolness under fire, not to mention generosity)

The curious case of Christopher King

Varanasi

I tell a small fib sometimes: visiting India has always been a childhood dream of mine. The truth is, visiting India has never really been a childhood dream. The country didn’t cross my mind until sometime in my early twenties.

What I really wanted to do was visit Varanasi, and the reason I wanted to do that was because Brad Pitt’s character in “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button” went there. In my favourite sequence of the movie, Benjamin is washing his clothes and shaving on the River Ganga as his daughter Caroline narrates a letter he wrote to her over the top. The sequence is very moving, and ever since seeing it, I’ve wanted to visit Varanasi. I’ve now achieved that goal.

Our flight to Varanasi was delayed by six hours due to fog in Delhi, and I began worrying that our ride wouldn’t be there when we arrived. Our guesthouse was an hour and a half away from our guest house. You can imagine my relief when a sign with my name on it greeted us outside the airport. Not quite Benjamin Button, but close enough.

Varanasi is said to be one of the oldest cities in the world, dating back to 5,000 BC. On the drive it, it certainly feels very intense, and very old, and it’s a noticeable step-up in intensity from the places we’d been previously.

It was dark by the time we arrived, and after settling in to our Guesthouse (located right on the river with some amazing views) we walked along the Ghats beside the river. Naturally, we were soon offered drugs. We declined.

After a while we came across probably one of the most intense scenes in life to date – the burning Ghats. At the Ghats, they literally carry dead bodies down from the city and place them on beds of wood for cremation. By the time we got there, four of five fires were burning, and you can imagine our unease at seeing charcoaled bodies right in front of our eyes, still burning away. For the record, a body on those beds is eventually reduced to a lump of heavily charcoaled meat; not pleasant. The searing heat of the fires, the smoke watering your eyes, the smell of burning bodies – all these things combine to create an unforgettable, if disturbing, experience.

The next day, after a sleep in, we had breakfast, and spent the afternoon walking up and down the Ghats. They are a whirl of activity, with people doing all manner of things. The most popular Ghats is full of tourists and hawkers, and you quickly want to get out of there. Walk further along and you’re amongst normal life again, with people washing clothes, bathing themselves, or just hanging out. As you walk along the Ghats, the view looking back looks really amazing, as all the colours of the buildings on the banks, and the multitude of steps, plus the river flowing beside it, give a psychedelic feel to the place.

This one is called... "Yobin and the cow"

I watched a burning ceremony for about one hour in the afternoon. First the body is washed in the water. Then the wood is stacked up, the body placed in the middle, and then the fire stoked from beneath using straw, cloth, and other kindling type material. The fire smokes heavily at first, and heats up over an hour or so until it becomes an intense furnace capable of cremation. Watching the body heat up at first, then begin to darken, you really can’t do anything but wonder in silence. I have an image locked in my head I don’t think I’ll ever forget – that of flesh melting of a human skull into the fire below. What you see in movies doesn’t even come close. By the time I’d walked further round the Ghats, had lunch, and walked back along the scene, the body has severely reduced into a slab of meat resembling a human chest. All the while, other bodies are washed and prepared for cremation. At any one time there are four of five fires going.

The next day we took a break from the intensity of it and watched New Zealand play India at cricket. We smoked them, thankfully, and enjoyed a day lazing around in the Guesthouse and going out when it suited us.

I took many photos from the rooftop of the Guesthouse. One of them was a lone male being rowed along the river Ganga by an Indian man. An hour or so later, I was flicking through my photos, only to find the guy I coincidentally photograph was sitting right beside us. ‘Mo’ (real name Manuel O) from Switzerland became our instant friend, and continued on the journey to Kolkata with us, and would eventually meet us in Darjeeling. He was, and is a top bloke.

I don’t think Benjamin Button would have stayed in a Guesthouse (but he had to stay somewhere, right?), and I didn’t shed my clothes and clean myself like he did; but then again, he is a character of fiction, and didn’t get to smell burning flesh and see human skin melting off a skull. I don’t know if I’m better for the experience, but I’ve achieved a goal I set myself, and if anything, satisfied my curiosity.

The adventures of John T. Swagger

***

The ghosts

Delhi

After our 18-hour train trip back to Delhi, we checked in at the ‘airport hotel’ to spend the night. It wasn’t really an ‘airport hotel’ – it was simply named ‘airport hotel’ and was in reasonable proximity to the airport. It was a dump, but sufficient for our purposes and handy for our any morning flight.

The view from the train coming into Delhi

Late at night, Swags and I went for a walk. First, Delhi airport and the surrounding area was covered in thick, cold fog. Huge construction sites surrounded the airport, so we walked along a very narrow street with construction board on one side on shops on the other side. We crossed the road and walked down an alley. As always, it was filled with people.

I’ve written in this blog about being a ‘celebrity’ and having everybody look at you. I’ve also touched on being an outsider, and how even though I am in the country, I felt like a complete stranger.

Walking down an alley, the strangest sensation came over me. Though there was the usual bustle of activity, people, and food smells, I felt like a ghost. I may as well not have been there. Not a single soul looked at me. People walked past as if I didn’t exist. I don’t know why, but it felt really weird.

And what I though too, was the irony of it. As a tourist, you always want ‘out’ of the tourist zone, to immerse yourself in the culture of a country. In other words, you urge to belong. Then, when you finally get it, when you’re out with all the Indians and no other westerners’, you feel like a ghost.

I don't know if you can ever have it all in life, just as long as your happy with something. 

Trip in the desert, pt II

Jaisalmer

Night descends across the desert and the sand whistles its silent tune of the darkness. The small campfire cuts out from the void, the smells of cooked food carried through smoke and warmth. You stare into the fire, the smoke watering your eyes, the heat warm against your skin. There is darkness all around and nothing but the desert. You’ve recovered from the strains of the day, leaving the night to sing you a soft lullaby.

***

Okay, enough of that crap. The three of us plonked ourselves on the sand after our ride. Isaac had four people with them, mostly teenagers, and a child (maybe they were his friends/family) and the five of them sat around the fire preparing dinner (the goat from this afternoon). They spoke amongst themselves the entire night, speaking softly and occasionally asking us if “yes, okay.”

I tell you, it was the strangest feeling. The three of us sat in a line, wrapped in blankets and beanies, about a metre of two from the fire. I swear, there could have been a glass wall between us and what was going on. I felt like an outsider. I felt like an intruder on their evening, their night, and though I was there, I never really felt part of it. We barely spoke a word, the three of us, our thoughts consumed by the fire. The five of them, a fire, some food, and solemn bonds between them, and us, tourists, outsiders, the differences between us irreconcilable.

We ate more than we thought possible that evening, stuffing ourselves till we could eat more, and didn’t even make it through half of what was there. After we’d finished, there wasn’t much to do but lay down on our blankets, the sand beneath us still cold, and look up at the moon watching over the desert.

The sun was half way up by the time we woke – about ten – and the stupid, munching camels were seated just in front of us. Isaac and co. were cleaning the packing up the blankets and cookware, and we slowly rose to begin the journey home.

The ‘journey’ didn’t last long, and in true keeping with the ‘non-tourist’ camel ‘safari’ within about half an hours riding we were close to the road, and our ride. We took a photo with Isaac, said goodbye to the camels, and slept in the car on the way back. The road was long and straight, dusty and sandy on the outside, and as always, the car sped along the road, as if we were leaving the barren wasteland where tomorrow does not exist.

Our trip in the desert was very weird. Looking back on it, it feels like our time in the desert didn’t happen, for soon we were on an 18 hour train trip back to Delhi. We had a first class cabin for the trip back, the small enclosed walls a direct contrast to the open sky and sandy floor of the night before.