Round the World Journal
by Matt Donath
Oct 18. Short but hellish (oops, I guess hellish becomes redundant now) bus ride into Maneybhanjyang. One hour just to get out of the Darjeeling traffic. Thirty minutes to weld (with a blowtorch under a running engine and passengers aboard) a large chunk of the undercarriage back onto the bus. Ninety minutes of stop and go along winding roads to travel a few kilometers.
Back on the trail again! Sybil needed a great deal of persuasion to return to trekking. She's less than thrilled when the route starts out as a jeep track. Spirits rise after the trail quiets down and the jeeps disappear.
We break for lunch (return of the dahl bhat) at the Sailung Tea House in Megma. Sybil persuades the owner, Pradeep Tamang, to unlock the local gompa for us. At first, I'm only mildly enthusiastic about seeing yet another temple. However, this place has an amazing collection of 108 rare Bhutanese/Tibetan statues that are definitely worth both extra effort and donation to see.
We're hiking along the border, crossing back and forth between Nepal and India. No one minds border crossings here. We wind up spending the night in the Nepalese town of Tumling at the Shikhar Lodge (highly rec) where Aneala runs a clean and charming guesthouse.
Oct 19. As today is a special festival day for canines, Aneala gives her dogs a treat of rice and milk. Every dog we see today wears a garland of marigold flowers.
Dreary and drizzling, we have few views during our hiking. On Aneala's suggestion, we head directly for Jaubari, skipping a jaunt through the national forest on the Indian side. At least we think we're skipping it! The jerks at the Indian Forestry Service have needlessly moved the checkpoint ahead of the turnoff for Jaubari. We try in vain to explain to these petty Indian bureaucrats that we want to go to the Nepalese border, bypassing their forest. No dice -- they want their baksheesh. So, we pay a 40rs bribe to Mr. Dambar Bahadur. Turns out the local government had recently declared a larger chunk of this area to be national forest land. Sounds admirable, but the only result is that they now have an excuse to collect money from foreigners.
Inexplicably, Mr. Bahadur mistakes us for Japanese! All the more curious because I'm not wearing my homemade "army" hat and we're hiking with a blond German companion! Mr. Bahadur seems content with his error when I tell him we're from Singapore.
At one point we miss a turn-off and start heading the wrong way, deeper into Nepal. A boy hails us and points to a sign: Illam! Yes, the same town we wanted to visit in eastern Nepal! We didn't realize this trek would take us in the same area.
After misreading another sign for Kalpokhari, Sybil and I wind up begging lunch at a makeshift teahouse. No one speaks any English here so we laboriously look up the word for soup in Nepalese. Our unhelpful hostess serves up two bowls full of dried, inedible meat swimming in unbelievably salty, spicy brine. Sybil can't stomach any of it and I can only choke down the "broth." "What kind of meat was that?" asks a disgusted Sybil. "From the last trekker who tried to eat there," I reply.
Soon after, we discover the real Kalpokhari and meet three of our trekker pals, happily eating noodle soup. As Sybil says -- "nice for them!" Then we have a stiff 6k climb up to Sandakphu (3636m) where we stay at the Sherpa Chalet (a big step down from Aneala's but still OK).
Our climbing efforts are rewarded with tantalizingly brief but stunning glimpses of the tremendous mountains in the area. From here we can see four of the five highest mountains in the world: Makalu (8481m), Lhotse (8501m), Kanchenjunga (8598m), and Everest, which appears the smallest since it is further off.
Oct 20. Early in the morning we are treated to about 15 minutes of clear blue skies and perfectly unobstructed views of the mountains. Then the clouds and fog drift back, like an unpleasant memory that can't be pushed aside. We enjoy another 15 minutes of sunshine around midmorning, raising our hopes, only to have them dashed when the drizzling fog returns.
In good weather this trail to Phalut would be enchanting. Twisted rhododendrons vie with moss-covered fir and oak trees. Karst-like rock formations decorate peaceful meadow pastures. Sparkling streams tumble down into twisting hidden valleys. However, in this unseasonably cold and damp weather, we're often miserably uncomfortable.
Our nadir comes about six or seven kilometers from Phalut. We huddle together in the doorway of a roofless, deserted hut, trying to escape a torrential rain. We later learn that this ruin was a government teahouse, destroyed by Gorkaland separatists in 1986. A friend's most recent Lonely Planet guide lists this place as functioning!
We're not having fun. After lengthy debate we decide to bail on Phalut and make for the nearer Mollae. On the way there, the rain somehow manages to find a way to come down even harder. We're completely drenched and looking for any kind of shelter. The government Trekker's Hut appears like a vision before our rain-soaked eyes. Unfortunately, all we find here are locked doors, two barking dogs and some chickens. We head up the trail a bit, thinking there's more, but find only a long muddy path heading down into forest.
Deciding that desperate measures are called for, we return to the government hut and I dexterously spring the bolts on a window with a long, bent stick. We crawl through the window and try to dry off. Just as we're helping ourselves to some cookies, a man walks in, very perplexed as to how we got inside.
He turns out to be a very nice guy named Lakpa. Sympathetic to our plight, he whips up some tea and noodle soup. Before too long, almost a dozen young people, traveling between Nepal and Darjeeling, show up. Huddled around a wood fire in a tiny kitchen hut trying to keep warm, Lakpa cooks dahl bhat while we try to extend our Nepalese vocabulary. We learn about everyone's castes and religions. Surprisingly, not all of them are Hindi. Some are followers of an Indian charismatic leader while others are some sort of Christians, carrying a Nepalese Bible.
Sybil later remarks that we are "worlds away" from these people. However, we all got on very well together, shivering around a fire, eating our rice and lentils. We should have stayed by the fire all night. Even with four wool blankets we're chilled to the bone in our cots.
Oct 21. More cold and clouds leave Sybil feeling unwell. She wants to cut our trek short by two days. Although intent on hiking, I'm not unhappy to head out. Down, down, (1000+ meters) and yet more down we hike. Along one slippery mud track (we're off the "trail" now) we run into two guys driving a herd of shaggy buffaloes. These strange beasties have enormous horns and very long, decidedly un-bovine looking tails.
We often seem to be lost, but somehow emerge into the top of Siri Khola village. A strange woman here starts giving us directions to China! I repel two snapping little dogs with a stick and we find a place for lunch. Heading out of the scenic vertical maze of Siri Khola down to the river, we experience perfect hiking all the way out to Rimbick.
Tramping along the right side of a wonderfully picturesque river valley, we enjoy many superb waterfalls. Flowers decorate the sides of a well-marked path. The doorways in the villages we pass have garlands of marigolds hung on them in celebration of the Diwali holiday. Everyone seems to be playing music, singing and dancing. Pausing at an interesting shrine to a serpent-riding Krishna, I sniff the greenhouse-fragrant air and marvel at this magical Himalayan wonderland.
Just as the clouds shift from wispy and mysterious to dark and threatening, we reach the Sherpa Tenzing Lodge (rec. 0354-59215). Our three trekking buddies are here! Each of us took a different route to Rimbick. Rain hits just as we walk in the door. Perfect!
Oct 22. Just before dawn I heard an amazing bird song. Most birds sing a 2-4 note tune repeated a few times. This avian maestro performed a symphony of a dozen notes repeated 4 times!
A traveler's mood can shift 180 degrees so quickly! Yesterday's elated wonderment has turned to sick, disgusted weariness. Nothing can knock the wind out of your sails like a brutal Indian bus ride.
First comes the standard 45-minute delay for no apparent reason. I think this is done just to set the mood. Perhaps the waiting is to give you something positive to look back at once the tortures of moving begins. Next comes the sardine packing into seats 4cm too narrow for our hips and 6cm too short for our knees. Perfectly useless bolts dig into mashed hips and knees, heightening our discomfort.
How many people can you fit on an Indian bus? I don't think anyone knows because they always seem to find a way to squeeze one more passenger into a bursting vehicle. No matter how jam-packed, the driver will stop to pick up anyone who gives a wave along the road. We have a seat, but people from the aisles lean on us and would probably sit on my lap if I didn't regularly push them back. Our bus's aisles are also occupied by enormous piles of grubby baggage, sticky cartons of pop bottles, sloshing milk jugs, huge sacks of potatoes, slippery oil cans, a pile of insect infested blankets, baskets of wilted vegetables, and some gruesomely dripping bags of meat.
I can smell urine above the nauseating mix of cigarette smoke, alcohol halitosis and partially combusted diesel fumes. The bumpy, jolting stop-and-go ride along twisting serpentine roads starts to take its toll. The woman in front of me vomits out the window. The boy behind me tries to follow suit but doesn't quite get everything out the window. Relentless horn blasting and numbingly repetitive Hindi pop music assault our ears.
When we aren't stopping to let people on or off, the bus hurtles at breakneck speed along a narrow road littered with boulders, pedestrians, toy trains and sacred cows. Rain and fog greatly reduces visibility but our driver stubbornly refuses to turn on his lights. He has a disconcerting habit of turning his head completely around to chat with the fare collector. While rounding one of the many blind turns he's surprised by a small landslide and very nearly plunges the bus off the side of a cliff. Many of his numerous near head-on collisions result in squealing slamming of brakes. After each of these, our driver waits with calm indignation for the opposing driver to back up enough for us to get past.
Two boys break a window in the back of the bus, causing a halt. The driver and fare collector stand around glowering endlessly. Finally, the fare collector chucks the broken glass pane out the door in the road behind us. He probably just wants to spice things up for later drivers. When the boys try to leave the bus about 30 minutes later, we have another stoppage and a lengthy debate follows. Can these boys be bullied into paying some money for the broken glass? Eventually, after much talking and even more standing around, they give up on extortion.
Learning our lesson from past trips, we don't wait for the lengthy delays involved in getting from the outskirts of Darjeeling to the central bus terminal. As soon as we hit town, we jump off the bus and gladly hoof it the rest of the way. All told, it took over four hours to go three towns up the road on a "luxury express bus." We consider it expeditious traveling for these parts.
At night we are treated to Diwali "carolers." Two dozen young locals, along with a few inebriated adults, take over the Aliment dining room to perform traditional songs and dances. Despite the tiny area, the musicians supplement drums and guitars with electronic keyboards, microphones and speakers to produce an ear-ringing effect. They sound a lot better when the entire group sings sans microphonic aid.
Enthusiastic dancing very nearly knocks our glasses off the table, but eventually we are pulled into the fray. Incense is lit on an offering tray of candles, marigold flowers, money and liquor. A softer, almost bluesy folk song is performed and my capricious mood shifts to happy enthusiasm. I suspect India in general is a perfect environment for changing fortunes. One minute you passionately hate the pathetic chaos and filth of this insane place. The next minute you stand in open-mouthed awe in appreciation of a complex society and a beautiful, vibrant country.