Leaving Darjeeling, April 15th 2011
Bags are packed for next 2 days of travelling onwards – jeep to Bagdogra, flight to Delhi, overnighter at Y’s in Delhi and then early BA flight back to GB...It’s early still here – dawn is freshly pastel outside. The jeep drivers 7 flights below are chatting and yelling to each other.
We had a wet final day in Darjeeling yesterday. The unseasonal weather we bring to the places we travel! Having tried to go to the Post Office and Bazaar, we found both closed, due to the Assembly or local elections that are taking place. Loud megaphoned political messages (a free Gorkhaland or at least separate State status is universally desired here) were being broadcast across the town yesterday and large rallies were happening down at the bus stand, with significant police presence. We walked further downhill to the Botanic Gardens, dreading the walk back uphill with our achey limbs - “Oooooh, my knees” as Miss Cow might say - after the trekking excesses. The Botanic Gardens are another vestige of the British presence here – fabulous trees, rock gardens, orchid houses and hot houses full of flowers, all lovingly maintained.
Throughout this region, we’ve been really struck by the gardening – banks of marigolds, pansies, geraniums - flowers outside almost every house and the efforts to reduce rubbish seem heroic in comparison to other areas of India we’ve visited (Bins! A strong pro-environment conservation message! An effective ban on plastic bags!) However, toilets...I think my worst toilet of the trip award goes to the Botanic Gardens public toilets. Fortunately we’ve all perfected a no-touch, backing in carefully approach to the use of lavs in India by this stage in the game and that the hand gel has lasted till now. WD says the fact that it’s taken till now to find a truly disgusting toilet shows that India is making progress in some directions. I disagree and say that we’ve purposefully avoided the grimmest establishments with the children and that our expectations have been pretty low from the outset.
Walking back uphill, of course we got caught by another storm and ended up sheltering in another dark teashop (exacerbated by the inevitable power cut), drinking cups of chai with other wet individuals and schoolboys eating samosas. I think it would be hard to imagine, from an English perspective, the number of people (I counted at least 17) who can pack into one of these establishments, cramming onto benches and stools in a space maybe 6 foot square, along with the gas rings, hot oil and candles...
Eventually the storm cleared and the sun came out and the mountains loomed out of nowhere, magically and in complete crystal clarity. The children were determined to spend their last rupees at the tourist stalls along the street next to our hotel – a very little pocket money (or rather bet winnings) has gone a long way here. We’re amused by how different they are in their purchasing – M has bought yak knit wear, L has bought a Chinese-made (oh the tragic irony!) Tibetan solar-powered prayer wheel and W a metal Sun God image....And then we were allowed to go up to Observatory Hill, the highest point in Darjeeling and a shared Hindu/Buddhist holy place. The prayer flags were so thick that there was barely a view to see. There were some aggressive-looking Macaque monkeys (with posters warning of monkey trouble) demanding chapatis with menaces and the WPs were keen not to spend our last few days in India sourcing Rabies vaccine, so we beat a hasty retreat.
WD had promised me a drink at the Club (or at least the Windermere Hotel, “The best colonial hotel in the world” according to the Sunday Times) for our last family night in India. Amazingly they let us in – on another occasion in our past lives pre-children, WM and WD were bundled out through the kitchens of a similar establishment in another hill station, to prevent us from sullying the atmosphere for a private party. Anyway it was funny to sit on the chintz sofas watching the sun set on Darjeeling and on our trip, toasting ourselves with huge gins and ginger ale (for the children). The hotel was a complete time capsule but artfully uncontrived – the fusty interior décor reminiscent of grandparents’ decaying sitting rooms, with photos of am-dram and Christmas meals of the past. No one was playing the upright piano in Daisy’s Music Room sadly, and we endeavoured to explain a gramophone to the children. We arrived as the afternoon tea (bone china and cake under a net cover) was being cleared up by a woman in black and white Agatha Christie maid’s attire. Quite who stays in this immaculate piece of nostalgia (for $300 per night and up) is unclear – based on our observations, rich Indians from Bangalore and Japanese tourists.
I can hear the children waking up next-door (W fell asleep into his macaroni cheese last night). 6 O’clock Indian time = 1.30 am GMT. I’m anticipating some tricky adjustments, and not just our internal clocks, when we get home. Bear with us. We’re really excited to be coming home (Keith!) but the last 5 months have transformed our ‘normal’, as we’ve adjusted to travelling as a family and being in India, and we’re simultaneously really sad that this Special Time (aka WD’s Sabbatical) is drawing to a rapid close.
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