We love Gorkhaland
From First Stop - India in Darjeeling, India on Jan 12 '08
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Darjeeling is unbelievably dark and cold by the time we arrive. The blanket of fog we ascended through rapidly rolls up to the hill station at over 2000 metres and things have a sense of unrealness, like a set of a dickensian drama or such, it is like India, only not some how.
I gauge the time at around 5 - 6 o'clock but the activity dying down in the streets suggests it could be 6 hours later. There are no tourists, western or Bengali, the place feels exhilirating and exotic, although the people seem nervous and hurried in some way, bustling from place to place except without the normal boisterous manner. And everybody looks so different! The Nepali population mixed in with Tibetan and Lepcha people are beautiful, their faces and features aquiline and graceful.
During our ride up from Siliguri in the ancient and overloaded jeep we were haulted at a road block just before the steep ascent began. All the tourist vehicles were made to pull over to one side - when we enquired what was happening we were told the road must be kept clear for government dignitaries coming down from Darjeeling. It was made clear straight away that this was not an act of reverence, there would not be crowds of waving supporters on the sides of streets, rather these dignitaries were more worried about getting hit by bullets than bouquets.
As we made our way up the GNLF and "we want Gorkhaland" banners became abundant, green, white and yellow bunting strung from roof to roof and criss crossing the improbable maze of power cables and telephone wires. The concrete blocks lining the road to prevent the jeep sliding off into the abyss all sported the colours and similar slogans. Lottie astutely analysed the situation decreeing "if they want their own state they should think up a better name than gorkerland, what a stupid name". Well quite dear.
That night amongst the fog we found Kunga restaurant, tiny, wood panelled, blissfully warm and bustling serving up most delicious tibetan/indo/chinese food - big nutter soups and great momos with lashings of chilli sauce. We revelled in this having barely survived on the foul traveller food in Pushkar, Agra, Jaipur and so on. Momo's for the uninitiated are a heavenly delight of mixed veg wrapped in pastry and steamed (similar to Chinese dumplings or dim sum), very cheap and ubiquitous north of Siliguri, they were to be our staple for the next month! Lottie has the recipe and promises to invite you all over for them on our return.
Exiting the restaurant in Momo induced reverie we noticed we were the only ones in the street, and all the lights were off. To be alone in India is rare. In fact when ever you think you are alone, say on a remote beach ten miles from a road, an entire wedding party, hundreds of people will traipse over the horizon and introduce themselves as if to say; See, you are never alone so watch it.... The country is literally teeming with people in the most remote and unlikely places, this is something it is very hard to get used to.
Anyway, alone in the dark and fog and blissfully quiet streets we stumbled home to our freezing guesthouse figuring folk in Darjeeling are just morning people. We didn't pass another soul or vehicle and were shocked to discover the time was a heady 8pm when stumbling into bed.
Over breakfast in the morning we saw our first demonstration for the uselessly named Gorkha National Liberation Front. The old chant "This is what democracy looks like" rang through my mind when seeing the cheery, red faced and all female protesters gather their placards for their lap of the hill station. By noon however things were starting to get a little more edgy. The super busy chowk bazaar by the jeep stand had stalls starting to shut up shop. Buying long johns and other vital warm items we enquired as to the reason "Oh, we shut because the demonstation" came the reply. Well we could'nt believe the cheery wives and daughters we'd seen earlier were going to rampage through Darjeeling pillaging and burning, but best be careful I guess!
We later learned that the demonstration was a little wider than we had thought. Most of the shops would close, as would the small stalls, restaurants, parks, museums, post office, banks, tourist offices even ATM's. This is not a demonstration, it's a strike - "Yes sir, strike" - for seven days. The intended length of our stay in Darjeeling! Great, oh joy, what luck...
Still, at dawn the next day we pulled our selves out of bed, put on our 15 layers of clothing (all the tourists in darjeeling are wearing all their clothes at once to avoid buying thick clothes that will be discarded when coming back down from the mountains!) and fortunately the mountains werent having their Bundh! Just for sunrise before the fog rolls in from the roof of our guesthouse you can see a large portion of the Himalayan range, lit a pearlescent peach colour by the early morning sun were Lhotse (8501m), Makalu (8475m) and Khangchendonga at 8598m the third highest mountain in the world. It's name, and this is a big clue about how cool Tibetan folk are, means "Big five peaked snow fortress". A tad literal but what a name.
During the rest of our time their we enquired about trekking - nothing leaving as it was too cold, looked at the toy train - in its sidings as it too was on strike, went to the botanical gardens and himalayan mountaineering institute - both closed and a pleasant walk to the Happy Valley Tea Estate - recently the factory was demolished to make way for a new one. This last escapade at least provided some entertainment as the JCB that had done the demolishing had then toppled into an adjacent hole dug for the new foundations. All the tea workers had ropes attached to it trying valiantly but unsuccessfully to right it. We watched for half an hour at their oh so happy but futile struggle, then turned and fled when it seemed they were short of hands!
The saving grace of Darjeeling was lots of tea drinking and a winding walk through the breaking fog to a Tibetan refugee centre, followed by a trip to our first proper Gompa in India. The Bhutia Busty Gompa perched on a ridge, (like the whole of Darjeeling) where the delightful caretaker monk showed us around the beautiful gold and silver leaf murals depicting the story of Buddha's enlightenment.
We were forewarned about the political tension in upper West Bengal but it was a pleasure to see such a united community striving for their goals. Since visiting things have gone from bad to worse in Darjeeling with more blockades to come and I fear more suffering for everyday people. We have great sympathy for the hill people of West Bengal and their cause. It is so different an India to the rest of the state that autonomy seems a plausible and reasonable idea.
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With the fog promising to last as long as the strike we cut our losses and headed early to Sikkim and further into the mountains, excited but also daunted by their ever looming presence.
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