KOLCATA. 26.10.2006 - 30.11.2006.
The sultry climate enveloped us as we stepped on to the tarmac, it had been six years almost to the day since our first visit to India.
Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose International Airport, Kolkata, was our first port of call after a lengthy air conditioned sleepless flight and the beginning of our first stay in this city.
The plane flew over flooded fields, crossed the huge serpentine Hooghly River and out of the window I could see sizeable cube shaped buildings that appeared to grow out of the jungle below.
We waited for the bus to pick us up with the rest of the passengers and ferry us over to the arrivals terminus, though it probably would have been quicker to walk the short distance.
The airport used to be called Dum Dum Airport after the deadly exploding bullet used in the Boer War. These terrible bullets were manufactured in the area until they were eventually banned. The name was changed to Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose International Airport.
Known as Netaji, meaning leader, Subhash Chandra Bose was a fierce and popular leader in the political scene in pre-independence India. He was the president of the Indian National Congress in 1937 and founded a nationalist force called the Indian National Army. He was acclaimed by many people as a semi god, akin to the mythological heroes like Rama and Krishna. Even today, Bose continues as a legend in lots of Indian minds.
Bose was outspoken in his anti-British stance and was jailed eleven times between 1920 and 1941.
This is also where the classic Enfield Bullet motorcycle originates.
We pick our stuff up off the carousel and decide to look for the left luggage room.
The tactical traveller would probably agree that this is not such a bad idea when visiting India.
Quite often in the past, in the heat and mayhem that is frequently associated with a place like this, we have found it much easier and more comfortable to operate with our hands free of luggage. Also by making the return trip we get to see even more of the city.
The left luggage room is outside the main airport building and across the road. Two enthusiastic taxi drivers lead the way over and we find a small dim room packed full of large sacks stacked together with a small table in front of them. A man is sleeping on top of the table. This is his home.
“Yes?” said a disembodied voice.
Behind the table is another man sitting on a chair.
“We’d like to leave these bags until later this evening please.”
“Okay.”
He hands to me a small yellow ticket.
The airport is twenty kilometres outside Kolkata city centre. The nearest Metro station is Dum Dum, about six kilometres away from the airport. We choose to take a taxi there and then connect with a train to Park Street, which is close enough to the area where most of the budget hotels are found on Sudder Street.
The taxi driver drops us off at the roadside just below a little passage leading up to the Metro station, and not having enough Indian rupees to cover the fare, John reluctantly hands over ten pounds sterling which the driver is cheekily demanding. John knows already that this is a maximum one hundred rupee (about one pound and thirty pence) journey. No wonder the driver was so enthusiastic at the airport.
The unabashed fleecing of westerners seems to be almost a tradition here.
The Kolkata Metro is the first of its kind to open in the whole of India and we were both impressed with the short time it took to cover the distance to Park Street. It was designed by the Russians and inaugurated in 1984, trains operate every few minutes on the north-south line. It’s very inexpensive to use and travelling the whole distance of the line costs just a few rupees.
Emerging from the underground station I can see throngs of hawkers lining Chowringhee, all are male and indiscriminately thrusting their wares on anyone that happens to be passing by along the pavement. They are desperately trying every trick in the book to make a sale. Here one can buy cheap watches, lighters, old coins and medals, food, books, magazines, clothes, toys, cigarettes, and colourful useless plastic junk.
We wandered for a while in the stifling heat, this way and that soaking up the atmosphere, until eventually becoming lost in it all.
Begging and hawking is a problem in Kolkata.
There are more people begging on Sudder Street than on the incredibly busy Chowringhee. Here along the side of the street the human pulled rickshaws are parked, the wiry thin barefooted wallahs jingle their small hand bells at passers by to attract their attention and maybe earn a few rupees from a fare.
Life is extremely tough for these guys, many of whom sleep in their rickshaws.
During the monsoon when the streets of Kolkata are flooded waist deep in water, the human pulled rickshaw becomes one of the key methods of getting from A to B. This is the reason why it is the only place in India where they operate.
The men who do this for a living are friendly towards us and not at all bitter about their standard of existence, at least on the surface they’re not. It is saddening to see them pulling smartly dressed tubby school kids around.
Many rickshaw pullers die young.
The hotel room was indeed what I expected. So it wasn’t a shock to find no bed sheets, blankets, hot water, towels, toilet roll or chairs to sit on. In fact it brought back several memories of the previous trip. The really low budget rooms might be described as being similar to en suite jail cells. Still, not bad for two hundred rupees (two pounds fifty) per night each as we agreed that all we needed was a place to sleep.
Downstairs, taking turns to ceremoniously sign in and fill out the sections of the hotel ledger book which all guest houses in India seem to have. An enormous hard backed book consisting of different columns requesting tourist information such as where one has come from, purpose of visit, where one is going to next, passport number, visa number, address in India, ( this generally means current or last hotel address) when one will be leaving and when one is going back to wherever it is that one came from in the first place. One thing one didn’t have to do six years ago was fill out a foreigners registration form, which one has to do now.
Many believe that Calcutta got its name from the Bengali word Kalikshetra, meaning “Ground of the Goddess Kali”. Others match the name to the Bengali words for lime (kali) and burnt shell (kata) since the area was noted for the manufacture of shell lime.
In 1690, Job Charnock, an agent for the East India Company chose this place for a British trade settlement. The site was carefully selected, being protected by the Hooghly River on the west, a creek to the north and by salt lakes two and a half miles to the east.
There were three large villages along the east bank of the river Ganges named Sutanuti, Gobindapur and Kalicata. These three villages were bought by the British from local landlords. The Mughal emperor granted the East India Company freedom of trade in return for a yearly payment of 3000 rupees.
Before the British came it was just a village. The capital city of Bengal was Murshidabad, sixty miles to the north east of Calcutta. In 1756, Siraj-ud-daullah, Nawab, meaning muslim land owner or prince, of Bengal, attacked the city and captured Fort William. Calcutta was recaptured in 1757 by Robert Clive when the British defeated Siraj-ud-daullah on the battle field of Plassey.
In 1772 Calcutta became the capital of British India and the first Governor General Warren Hastings moved all important offices from Murshidabad to Calcutta. Till 1912 Calcutta was the capital of India.
The British moved the capital to Delhi in 1947 and Calcutta became the capital of West Bengal.
In 2001 Calcutta was officially renamed Kolkata.
It is the end of October and the sun sets at around five o’clock at this time of year in West Bengal. We picked up our luggage from the airport and brought it back to the hotel after handing in the yellow ticket to the same fellow we met earlier at the left luggage place.
Kolkata looks like a very different place after dark.
The crazy incessant traffic principally consists of ambassador taxis resembling the mighty wave of a yellow tsunami. Surfing on this wave are dangerously overcrowded buses and the rest of the traffic. It is survival of the biggest.
The noise is deafening as it all rolls by seemingly unstoppable once in motion, bringing with it the sound of a thousand blasting horns while simultaneously subduing the roar of the roadside hordes. The daily papers usually have several horror stories bringing news of terrible crashes causing injury and fatalities. Indeed the traffic is one of India’s biggest killers.
The Indian style of driving is very different to that of the west. It is fundamentally aggressive and everybody seems to be frantically competing to get in front of the next vehicle, regardless to their and everyone elses peril. Somehow it all works.
The city, one of the largest cities on this small planet of ours appears only to rest for two hours in twenty four. This happens at around 3am, suddenly everything stops. Daybreaks and everything starts up again with a vengeance.
With thoughts of taking a train out of Kolkata on Tuesday morning John and I concur that we should get our tickets sorted out today.
Together we amble down Sudder Street in the morning sun, taking a right on to Chowringhee and then on to the esplanade of the Oberoi Grand Hotel where as usual the masses of hawkers are all gathered. There are some 250,000 unlicensed hawkers here and the local corporation has just recently painted a line on the pavement, allocating one third space to them.
“Hello,” said a boy in his late teens wearing western style jeans, t-shirt and baseball cap on the wrong way round. “You are coming from?”
“England,”
“England, oh England my favourite country!”
I’ve heard these well rehearsed opening lines before, and am prepared for what’s coming next.
“You come look at my shop!”
“No,” I said. “We have to get train tickets.”
In retrospect this was a silly thing of me to say, because now John and I are being surrounded by the rest of his band and they know where we are going and what we plan to do. As we carry on walking towards the railway ticket booking office I know they will not leave us alone until they get what they want and the situation gradually becomes more uncomfortable by the second. They are trying to pester us in to submission.
An hour passes inside the cool, comfortable air conditioned surroundings of the booking office.
“Can I help you?” said one of the two ticket officers behind the counter.
We sit down in front of the counter. John begins to explain that we want two tickets for the Kolkata Guwahati Kanchenjunga Express and we proceed to fill out the reservation forms with our personal details.
“Oh, sorry sir, is not possible to travel on this train” said one of the officers after tapping a few keys on his computer keyboard.
“What? Are you sure?” said John.
“Yes sir, this train full. Is not possible.”
“Can you check again? We don’t want the air conditioned car, just the second class sleeper.”
“Okay.”
I groan.
The ticket officer checks his computer again and after studying the screen intently for a minute or two suddenly changes his mind.
“Okay sir, is possible.”
And miraculously we get our reservation.
After buying our tickets for the Kanchenjunga express we remember the group of hawkers that tagged on to us earlier that morning, so we try to slip away unnoticed out of the front door of the railway reservations office. Unbelievably, they are still outside waiting for us to come out.
It was mid afternoon when we finally parted company with this group of con men after being dragged around certain parts of Kolkata in the fierce sun during the hottest part of the day, eating lunch being closely scrutinised by them and yes, you guessed it, inevitably conceding to have a look at their shop which was a tiny place tucked away down a back street.
After being offered opium by the boss immediately on entering, I unwillingly bought a silk scarf after painfully haggling the price down.
It is unpleasant to feel obliged to haggle for something one doesn’t want to buy.
We decide to see more of Kolkata on foot and walk along Chowringhee to the vast Maidan, a field where the people of Kolkata gather just to hangout or to participate in one of the many games of cricket or football that happen all over the grassed area.
The Maidan also plays host to a race track for horses, a ladies only golf club and I believe the army also uses it to play polo. Alongside the Maidan run smooth wide tree lined avenues not unlike the Paris boulevards.
Some people are riding on horse back across the plane surface and parked by the road side are several flamboyant if not slightly ridiculous looking horse drawn carriages. Covered in shiny silver decorated metal with matching parasols, these as far as I can gather are being used as taxis.
From here the views back across to the city are impressive, the business district and the huge tower of the Tata Company building stand out amongst other high rise blocks.
The sumptuous marble Victoria memorial stands in beautifully maintained grounds just over the main road from the planetarium and St.pauls cathedral. Surrounded by a spotless garden with water features, the monument harks back eighty five years to the British empire.
Walking together back along the avenues towards Park Street, the light has already disappeared and now we can see the dust and pollution in the headlights of the traffic.
We decide to visit a well known place on Park Street now called Oly Pub, formerly the Olympia Hotel. The place consists of two bars, one downstairs and one upstairs, the latter divided down the middle by steps in to a little gully. As far as I know, this is the only place in Kolkata where you can get delicious buffalo steak to eat alongside a cold beer. It’s also a good place to relax and try to get a handle on the rapid pace of the city.
Before we get there, a man and his wife holding a small baby accost us. The man begins to explain in the street how he and his family are from Bangladesh. The man has been offered a job working for a non governmental organisation based in Kolkata whilst in Dhaka. He explains how he had managed to scrape together just enough money for train fare for the three of them, only to discover that when he arrived here neither the job or the organisation existed. He was then robbed by a gang of men with a knife held to his neck on Howrah station and his wife almost raped until a group nearby noticed what was going on and intervened just in time. However, all their possessions and money were lost in the attack. If this wasn’t bad enough, his wife also has HIV. The man is clutching a small red holdall containing toiletries that Mother Theresa’s volunteers have donated, this is everything they possess between the three of them. They desperately need money to get them a ticket back to Bangladesh. Thinking that this might possibly be part of an elaborate scam, John reassures me by reckoning that it is genuine enough to warrant a small donation towards a train ticket. The man is very grateful and said that he was going to be staying on in Kolkata to continue his search for work after he had seen his wife and child safely on to the train back to Dhaka. I thought that this is a courageous thing to do after everything that had happened already in such a short space of time. We left them and went on our way.
Inside the busy Oly pub the buffalo steak is great and the small dark rexine covered sofa seats and Formica covered tables are comfortable. The place is dimly lit and hot and stuffy which adds to the buzz. Upstairs, grey jacketed waiters casually hang around a counter until someone calls them over to a table. The atmosphere is charged and the door downstairs never stops opening and closing as people come and go constantly. Ambassador taxis whiz along park street and the many good restaurants in this area are very busy. This is the place to be in Kolkata.
The next day on Sudder Street, crowds of homeless people gathered forming a long orderly queue. They are waiting for a free meal which is being served on the street. Every Sunday without fail this happens in Kolkata. As I walk by, a man in the line makes a gesture for me to come over and join them but I just smile and carry on.
It is the Indian winter and many of the people I spoke to in Kolkata complained about the cold. They found it funny and strange when I tried to explain that it is hotter over here at this time of year than it is during some of the hottest English summers. Thirty three degrees, probably hotter, the sweat pouring off both John and I as we walk.
The homeless people here sleep on the streets, or in some kind of makeshift tent made out of tarpaulin.
Not like in Mumbai when from the aeroplane on the approach to the airport the wooden shanty slums were clearly visible for kilometres, appearing like an enormous patchwork quilt right up to the airport perimeter fence.
Here, many don’t even have a blanket to sleep under and just curl up in shop doorways by the road side or on the pavement. Those with blankets covering them make it impossible for one to tell if they are dead or alive.
Round the corner from Sudder Street stands a huge office building, just like any other large office building really, no fancy architecture, the sheer size of it catches the eye. As we stand looking at it in the road we notice something different about it from the other buildings. It is completely covered in bamboo scaffolding. All eleven storeys of it, roughly lashed together with rope. The people working up there on the scaffolding, no safety ropes, nothing to protect them in case they fall off.
THE KANCHENJUNGA EXPRESS.
Tuesday morning 5am, we checked out and left the hotel in a taxi to Sealdah Station to catch the 6.45am Kanchenjunga Express to New Jalpaguri. The clock on top of the red and yellow striped station building read 5.28am. Rows of yellow Ambassador taxis were lining up outside and even at this early hour just before daylight there was plenty of action. Our twelve hour journey was about to take us from Kolkata, north through West Bengal over the River Ganges and very close at times to the border of Bangladesh.
I fetch some delicious hot sweet chai from the stall on the platform and we drink as we wait for the train to pull in.
On another platform a train has just arrived and people swarm all over the place, many carrying huge baskets on top of their heads as they run along. We have tickets for second class sleeper and usually the names of the passengers are printed out on paper and stuck on to the side of the corresponding carriages by the door. It is a surprise to see that our names are not listed when the train eventually appeared. This causes great confusion. As we are debating what to do, a porter wearing a red tunic suddenly whips Johns rucksack up on to the top of his head and starts off down the platform to find the right carriage on our behalf. We chase after him breathlessly and even at this time of the morning I break out in a sweat trying to keep up with him. I thought it unusual how effortlessly the porters throw rucksacks on to their heads. Must be force of habit as the bags are obviously designed to be carried strapped to peoples backs. John tips the porter and we sit down on the blue Rexine covered seats inside the compartment, which matches the colour of the coach.
We share the compartment with a group of daily commuters going to work. As soon as the train begins to roll out of the station, one of the men produces a small cloth package. He begins to unravel it, revealing two decks of cards. His friend sitting opposite then uses the piece of cloth to cover their legs, making a surface to put the cards down on to as they play a game for small change. They all seem to be happy, one man is singing and there is a bit of Bengali banter between them. All of them are immaculately dressed, real Indian nine to fivers.
As the train begins to pick up speed leaving Kolkata, I order a portion of boiled egg for breakfast off an old man wearing jam jar spectacles. He carries with him a metal bucket and newspapers.
He puts his bucket down on the floor and proceeds to take the shells off my boiled eggs, then holding them in a little piece of torn newspaper covers them with pepper. Beautiful, really beautiful. Here is an old man doing this for a living on Indian railways. This would never happen in England, not like this. Handing the eggs over to me he has an unexpected sneezing attack. He struggles to look away as he sneezes. Everybody else in the compartment can not fail to notice and begin to laugh. I pay ten rupees for the eggs.
Two hours in to the journey, the commuters leave the train swiftly and silently. I can’t remember the name of the station.
Up and down the train the chai and coffee wallahs constantly ply their trade, other vendors sell peanut masala and different passengers come and go from our compartment as the day goes on. A man materialises, he carries a strange musical instrument and is wearing robes, his long hair drapes down over his shoulders. He stands for a moment in the carriage before suddenly bursting in to song, plucking away excitedly on his instrument and wailing incomprehensibly. I watch the impromptu performance which carries on for about ten minutes. Then abruptly it stops. He stands for a moment expecting money for his turn but no one even looks at him. This doesn’t appear to phase him at all and he just shuffles silently away. A few minutes later we can here him striking up again in the distance further down the train.
Later on that afternoon a group of eunuchs (yes eunuchs) get on the train to beg. Transvestite eunuchs wearing bright coloured saris wandering up and down the train, begging. John and I have seen this before some six years earlier on a train outside Mumbai in Maharashtra state.
There’s plenty of folklore surrounding these unusual travellers. I hear that when they ask you for money, this they do by fixing your gaze and then clapping their hands in your general direction, you are supposed to give them a few rupees because if you don’t, they put a curse on you. This apparently scares the wits out of young Indian men and if they are unlucky enough to be accosted they usually cough up a few bucks if they can afford it. Many Indians are pretty superstitious. For example, the time a man refused to hire us one of his cars because it said in his horoscope that it would be a terrible mistake.
This time John and I are unlucky enough to be accosted and I must say it is very disconcerting when the eunuchs get close and start pulling at you and hoisting up their saris to reveal, well, nothing.
Later on whilst reading the paper, John points out that the government of West Bengal is actively trying to recruit these eunuchs as tax collectors!
The train trundles steadily across the broad River Ganges in daylight and we know it wasn’t far to go now until we reach our destination.
Darkness has arrived by the time we reach New Jalpaguri station.
Mosquitos and other flying insects are entertaining themselves under the strong lights of the railway foot bridge above the platforms and as we make our way down the steep flight of stairs to the station exit we know there won’t be a problem getting a taxi as in the large car park there must be fifty at least waiting.
Quick as a flash, are in the back of an omni taxi, which is a bit like a little van, speeding off down the road in to the darkness.
New Jalpaguri is a major rail head for connecting to the far north east of India and it is also a good place to get off for Siliguri and acquire 15 day permits to enter the state of Sikkim further north. From Siliguri Junction one can take what is commonly known as the Toy Train up to Darjeeling, which since 1889 was pulled by tiny steam engines on a small gauge track until they were replaced by diesel engines fairly recently due to cost cut backs by Indian Railways.
The taxi driver takes us to the small town of Bagdogra, about 15 km away from Siliguri. Here there is a small airport handling domestic flights to places like Delhi and Calcutta. We have no idea where we are going to stay and when the taxi driver suddenly pulls in through the front gates of a hotel it is a relief. It saves us the trouble of having to hunt down a room. It is like the driver has somehow managed to read our minds.
The room is great, air conditioned, clean and new so we immediately check in.
Slightly travel weary after the 12 hour train trip John and I relax in the bar eating lovely spicy butter chicken and cooling down with a cold beer.
We rise early the next day in bright morning sunshine. Time after breakfast, to get our permits and move on to Sikkim, mainly because there isn’t really anything for us to do in Bagdogra.
The original plan is to take the scheduled helicopter service to Gangtok the capital of Sikkim. This can be done in a day by first going to the airport, getting permits and booking a flight to Gangtok, followed by checking out of the hotel in the afternoon and the 30 minute flight. Easy! Or so we thought.
An auto rickshaw takes us to the airport which is a short trip from the hotel.
The rickshaw turns on to a long new airport approach road and flies along at great speed.
The driver waits in the airport car park for us as we venture inside to see if we can get hold of the permits. Bagdogra airport is a small, smart new place shared with the Indian Air Force.
You have to pay a small fee for a ticket to enter the airport if you don’t have a valid ticket for travel, so that you can pass the army security guards without any hassle. Once inside we are disappointed to find out that it is impossible to get our permits here.
The only thing we can do is to go down to Siliguri and get them there. Okay. We can still make the afternoon flight we’re told.
We hurry back out of the airport, across the car park and jump in to the waiting auto. “Siliguri please!” I say and the driver shakes his head. With him not able to speak English and my Bengali being non existent, he explains with great difficulty and long delay that we have to change vehicles in Bagdogra.
After paying the 35 rupee parking fee we are flying down the new road again, this time in the opposite direction. It has now become a race against the clock if we want to leave for Gangtok today. We pull over to the roadside where all the auto rickshaws are gathered and transfer to one with the word taxi painted on the side of it, then off we go speeding down the road towards Siliguri 20 km away.
With a couple of extremely close shaves on the way we arrive in Siliguri unscathed. After a few interesting manoeuvres down some back streets after asking directions to the place, the driver waits as we enter the Government Of Sikkim Tourism Office. Here we discover that we have to get passport photographs printed for their records.
Out of the office we go, on to the very busy main road to find a place to get them done. Then, back to the office, fill in the forms and just as we receive the stamped permits we’re told that we can’t fly the helicopter in to Gangtok.
Somebody has to stamp the permits at the border.
This I find terribly hard to swallow but I control my grief and thank the elegantly sari clad lady for all her trouble as we leave. Never mind, this is India and sometimes things don’t go to plan. We’ll just have to stay another night in the excellent hotel in Bagdogra. Bad luck, no chopper flight up to Gangtok through the valleys and foothills of the Himalaya. Instead we’ll have to take a flight back down when we don’t need a permit to get out of a restricted area.
The rickshaw driver is still there waiting for us when we come out waving our permits at him and he takes us safely back to the hotel.
The first bit of the rest of the afternoon is spent eating lunch in the shade of the beautifully well kept hotel garden. Waited on hand and foot by our own personal butler, Hotel Marina is the name and it is the best hotel in Bagdogra. It also appears to be the only hotel in Bagdogra.
After lunch we decide to go and explore the town itself. Turning left through the hotel gates puts you on to a very busy road in the direction of Kakarbitta 15 km away, the eastern most border of Nepal, where you can walk over the bridge in to Nepal and pay for your visa in the little office there.
The roadside itself is populated by little shanty style shops and cafes that probably opened at the same time the road was being built.
In the direction to the right of the hotel gates, you can either go straight ahead at the forked junction to Siliguri or round to the right for the airport. At this junction we sit on a wooden bench at a chai stall watching life go by.
Military buildings are strewn all around this area and soldiers can be seen in uniform, the view across the large flat plain opposite the hotel reveals the foothills of the Himalaya sharply rising up out of the ground as if from nowhere. Pigs are grazing on rubbish and men drive cattle or ride bicycles across the fields. Every hour the relative work a day tranquillity is shattered by the unmistakable sound of Indian Air Force mig fighter planes tearing the sky apart, warning Bangladesh of India’s presence, followed by the buzz of army helicopters routinely photographing the border.
The houses set back down the streets away from the main highway are mostly all well built and many have several floors and balconies, the occupants are obviously quite well heeled. All around the town are different types of schools offering an incredible choice for families with young children. No one is begging, people look happy. The pace is a million times slower than Kolkata. Kids say hello as chickens run around in the lanes and it is a very pleasurable place to stroll around.
Back at the hotel in the evening we sit in anticipation of tomorrows four and a half hour journey by road up to Gangtok, the capital city of the state of Sikkim.
GANGTOK.
A beautiful cool breeze blows down from the mountains through the morning heat. Outside the hotel a car waits to take us to Gangtok, five and a half thousand feet up in the Himalayas. We begin by driving out through the built up town of Siliguri, following the tiny track of the Darjeeling toy train for a while until it disappears and we entered in to thick forest, where different army camps nestle amongst the trees. The road crosses the railway line which disappears over what appears to be a new bridge crossing the river Tista.
Eventually you start to notice the ascent beginning to happen, just before the border checkpoint stop of Rangpo to get the permits stamped. Once that is done, the road continues to climb and climb. It twistes and winds its way up through the densely forested mountainsides to reveal valleys and sometimes curious monkeys that look like red faced cantankerous little old men. Over taking vehicles becomes risky business, hairpin bends and blind corners, one mistake can lead to certain death.
A bus full of passengers had recently left the road, killing and injuring several people. That was not something we wanted to dwell on.
Breathtaking scenery, the sparkling river water of the Tista splashes against enormous boulders way down below on the valley floor amongst deep green jungle mountainsides and blue sky with the occasional wispy bit of non threatening white cloud. We stop for coffee.
Then onwards, traversing a bridge at Melli, where the Sikkim state brewery can be found. The temperature drops a few degrees and the air feels cooler and fresher as the climb away from the plains continued.
Finally we reach the first few buildings on the outskirts of the city. We have been here before and it is exciting to be back.
We leave the driver at the lower end of the town in a central car park next to a restaurant called Hungry Jacks. He can’t drive any further in to Gangtok as his vehicle is a private car not and a permitted taxi. Then he has to drive all the way back. I don’t envy anyone who has to drive on that road after dark. Dumping our luggage next to a table in the western styled restaurant geared up for Indian rather than western tourists, we sit down and order two beers. The beer is cold welcoming and refreshing when it arrives. Dansberg - the Sikkim state brew. Not too strong, this is a fine tasting light beer. Then after ordering a plate of pork momo we sit and talk about the drive up here.
Delicious momo, (the first of many) a dish of tasty pork and vegetable steamed stuffed suet dumplings, fiery chilli sauce and soup.
Taking our luggage we begin the walk up to our hotel on steep Tibet Road, one of the higher points of the city.
From the hotel’s large balcony, it is possible to sit eating breakfast looking across to the colourful monastery in the distance at Rumtek 24 km away. The monastery is said to be a replica of the Tsurphu Monastery of the Kagyupa order in Tibet.
Sikkim has a history of Buddhism and was an independent kingdom until it was annexed by India in 1975 after a war with China in the early sixties. A tiny state bordering Tibet to the north, Bhutan to the east and Nepal to the west, it still seems to be very much its own place.
When the Chinese invaded Tibet, His Holiness Gyalwa Karmapa, the sixteenth incarnate of the original Gyalwa Karmapa of Tibet and head of the Kagyupa sect of Buddhism, took refuge in Sikkim. The Chogyal, meaning righteous king, of Sikkim granted him some land to establish a new monastery and hence Rumtek was built. It is an important Buddhist pilgrimage site but visitors Buddhist or otherwise can enjoy it’s beautiful location, after signing in with the armed security guard at the entrance.
Beautiful traditional architecture, carved and painted woodwork, magnificent murals and treasured manuscripts and icons, make Rumtek Monastery a fine example of Tibetan monastic art in Sikkim. It is now the headquarters of the Dharma Chakra Religious Centre and the monastery also offers employment, education and medical help. The old Rumtek Monastery, built during the reign of the fourth Chogyal is a short distance away. It has now been completely renovated.
One can also sit on the hotel balcony, looking south through shadowy ridges down towards the plains of West Bengal and west over to the rice fields on the opposite hillside that strangely enough resembled layers of pale yellow green foam.
The houses and buildings appear in miniature.
On clear days, especially early mornings, the Kangchenzonga mountain range is clearly visible, the snowy tip of Mt Kanchenjunga touching the jet stream, the third highest peak in the world.
We unpack our things in the hotel room and sit on the balcony as darkness descends, all the lights of the bazaar began to glow beneath us.
Six years ago, John and I made some friends here in Gangtok and part of the plan is to return here and look them up, fulfilling a promise. These friends had shown us incredible hospitality last time we were here, taking us out to dinner and even inviting us round to their houses to meet the rest of their families. They are Tibetan. Tsewang (pronounced Chong) used to run a tiny bar cum restaurant that he had named after the Dalai Lama, The Pema La Inn on Tibet Road, just a little further down the hill from the hotel, Sonam Delek, where we are staying. Tenzing ran his own business down in the Lal Bazaar. He sold western style fashionable clothing from a little shop and frequently took long journeys by road and rail to Delhi to buy stock.
We headed off down Tibet Road to the little bar, which is still here, hoping that our friend is still around. Inside everything is the same as it was when we walked in through the curtained entrance six years ago. On the right, two small booths with a table in each and plastic seats. Curtains can be drawn across for privacy and discretion if one so wishes. Another table on the opposite side of the room is out in the open, up against the wall beneath the framed picture of the Potala Palace. On the left, a counter, behind which a man is standing and a photograph of the Dalai Lama stands decorated with a white scarf on top of a shelf.
Through the door to the rear is the toilet and the view of the police station roof from the window, where the police officers can be discreetly observed sitting playing card games, unaware they are being watched. The only difference is that they have introduced a kind of corrugated iron shelter in to the scene. Heaven forbid it should rain thus interrupting one of their card games.
Sitting down at one of the tables, noticed the place was empty except for us. Our friend is nowhere to be seen.
Then another man bursts in from the street and sits down at the table with us. “hello, hello,” he said proffering his hand. “You are coming from?”
“England.” I said.
“Ah, England, yes.”
“He is a parasite.” said the man from behind the counter with the fingers of one hand covering his lips.
“How are you, how long you stay in Gangtok?” said the man who had just burst in.
“I don’t know.” I said shaking hands.
“How are you? How are you? Where in England you from?”
“Manchester, how are you?”
“Eh, eh?”
“Manchester.”
“Manchester United, Yes?” he said.
“I tell you, he is real parasite” said the man behind the counter again with reference to the man at our table, who was obviously drunk.
“Yes! Yes!” I said laughing. As this strange conversation goes on, a woman appears from behind another curtain and comes in to the room. After a few minutes of hand shaking and questions the man is eventually thrown out of the bar.
The man and woman turn out to be the new landlord and landlady of the bar. They are also quick to point out that they are in fact Tibetan but had never heard of our friends Tsewang or Tenzing. Before we leave I write down their names and they kindly offer to ask around.
It feels wonderful to be back in Gangtok, the name itself translated literally means hill top. The city is the state capital and the high rise buildings of the centre stack closely up against each other all the way up the hill side to the top of the ridge.
People come here from all over the world to go trekking, which has become extremely popular over the past few years and some to visit a few of the 200 or so monasteries.
The facial appearances of the locals are incredibly different to those of their fellow Indians and they can easily be mistaken by a westerner for being of oriental origin.
I can never tire of walking around this place, the roads are cut out of the hillside and wind up to different levels until eventually ending up on top of the ridge with Himalayan views completely surrounded by dense deep green forest and sheer cliff faces. People on foot can shorten the distance from top to bottom using the steep stone steps connecting the different road levels together.
MG Road, short for Mahatma Gandhi Road, is the busiest part of the city and locatedlower down at the bottom of the incredibly steep Tibet Road, consisting mainly of a taxi infested road that goes round in a loop with hotels, watch repair shops, restaurants, taxis and book shops, leading down to the New bazaar, formerly the Lal Market.
The New Bazaar is now an indoor affair on top of the site where the old market used to be. I preferred the old market which was quite ramshackle with blue tarpaulin topped stalls crammed together in the open air. The New Market is reminiscent of a large concrete multi storey car park that has been temporarily squatted by market traders. The first floor is totally dedicated to fresh fruit and vegetables with many of the women, colourfully dressed, sitting cross legged on the floor amongst the hustle and bustle. The other floors are full of clothes shops.
At twenty minutes to five in the afternoon, a siren is not the warning for everybody to dash in to bomb shelters and take cover but the signal meaning that all traffic on MG Road must leave the area in the next 30 minutes. The main road in the capital city of the state becomes a pedestrianised zone after 5pm. If only England could be like this. London’s Oxford Street will never be the same again.
The taxi drivers who utilize this area all day ferrying people back and forth are now forced by law to move outside of the zone which is cordoned off using cones, barriers and flashing lights. After 5 o’clock people walk freely all about the street without the fear of being hit by a car, the whole place becomes noticeably more laid back and without the constant honking of horns a lot more peaceful.
All the taxis congregate sulkily at the edge of the pedestrianised zone waiting to pounce on customers.
Carrying on along the road past the end of MG Road, then turning to the left as the road forks in two and walking a short distance up a curved hill is the Gangtok Ropeway.
Dizzying views thousands of feet down in to the valley can be seen, either from the hillside or from the cable car that runs to Deorali 2 km lower down.
Sherpa porters are all over the place carrying the heaviest bulkiest looking loads I have ever seen, using rope harnesses. One man goes past with what can only be a sofa strapped to his head! I’ve often wondered how they manage to carry so much weight up and down the city, without collapsing. I’ve heard that some of these guys can carry anything up to twice their own body weight.
The sound of drums wafts up through the city on the breeze as we sit on the terrace of hotel Tashi Delek. It is coming from the Paljor Football Stadium down below where the Sikkim Police are having their annual 11 a-side football tournament. Every now and then there is a roar from the spectators as one of the teams score a goal.
From this hotel terrace we can look back across the city towards the enormous television tower and over to the roof of the indoor market, which is being put to good use by the local people as a maidan.
Young and old people, monks and tourists hang about here playing games of cricket and football. A man is wandering around taking photographs of various Indian tourists, with the high rise buildings of Gangtok in the background. They pose sitting on the wall, straight backed with serious expressions on their faces as he snaps them, then takes their money in return for their addresses to which he will send the developed pictures. This works solely on trust.
We decide to take a walk down to find the Helipad but end up getting lost along the way.