The general what’s-it-ness of it all…Part III

During the last week of March, I was quite busy running around. Sunday and Monday I attended a conference in a smaller town called Kalimpong, about a two and a half hour drive from Darjeeling. You have to drive over and down some hills (that, again, we would call mountains in most of the US), along the Teesta River, and then back up to the town. It’s a nice drive. This is a photo of the tea estate you drive through on the way down. The road was actually pretty crowded, we were just the second in a long caravan on their way to either Kalimpong or Sikkim, the next state north. They use the same road until you reach the river, which is a bit of a monster. Not this time of year, since it’s the dry season, but imagine it about 10 times larger once monsoon starts:

As we were driving to the conference, a friend of mine told me that it is very auspicious to make a wish, say a prayer, etc., while crossing this river. You can also chuck a 1 rupee coin into the river to make it even more powerful. Rivers are very holy things since they come from the mountains which are themselves the abode of the gods. So I always think of something when driving across, and only once did I toss a coin in. That came later in the week and was accompanied by some very amused Bengali tourists asking me what the deuce did I think I was doing. Fantastic. I’m sure that will make it into the family holiday letter (not my family’s, but theirs). The road is actually in quite good condition compared to that of the city. It was a great drive, lots of sun, good conversation, and no rain!

I took the same road to Gangtok, the capital of the next state north (Sikkim), a few days later to visit a friend and do some research. The state is restricted for foreigners, and so I had to go get a permit the week prior. This involves trekking down about 30 minutes down the mountain and into the district magistrates office, which is not easy to find even when you know where you’re going. I don’t know how tourists do it. You then stand at a window, the man looks up, sees the shiny whiteness of your face, then silently hands you a form. You exit the line, fill it out, get back in line, and he stamps it. Then you trek all the way back up to near the top of the hill to the foreigner’s registration office. There, a man is supposed to stamp your form and then fill your name in a little ledger. However, since I am a resident of India, the man decided that I was not allowed to go to Sikkim. I said, “Sir, that’s crazy. I can’t just stay in Darjeeling or the state of West Bengal for the whole year. I also work in Delhi.” To which he said, “but, you can’t go anywhere.” Uh…this could be a problem. I tried logic, I tried smiling and chatting. But nothing. Finally, I called another man over and he told the other guy he was crazy. Then tried logic. Then chatting. Then he just stamped my pass for me and said “go, its fine.” Great, grand, wonderful. You would think this ends the saga of the pass. But, oh, no. No freaking way. This is India after all! So you have to walk all the way back down to the office at the other end of the world, get in the same line, and then finally your permit is issued. I also wore the wrong shoes that day and ended up with blisters between my toes and on the bottoms and sides of my feet. I got home that night and decided that Sikkim better be the greatest place on earth or I’d ask for my money back. Wait, I didn’t pay anything for the permit. Maybe I’d ask the permit guy to rub my feet. Whatever, this place better be freaking great.

The trip to Sikkim didn’t start well. I hadn’t been feeling great, and should have probably postponed my trip. But the friend I was meeting was heading into a month long silent retreat the next week and that would kind of defeat the whole purpose of me going. So I sucked it up and got into the share taxi. Share taxis are those you take when you live here long enough to stop wanting to spend tourist prices for everything. I actually prefer them for most purposes. For example, a tourist taxi (which means you get the whole jeep to yourself) from Siliguri (town in the plains) to Darjeeling is about eight or nine hundred rupees. A share taxi is, during high season, 100 rupees max. During the rest of the year, you can make it there for 40 rupees. So my trip from Darjeeling to Sikkim cost me a total, on the share taxi, of 125 rupees. However, it means sharing a jeep with at least 10 other people. As I said, I actually like them because they are a great chance to meet people. It does, however, mean zero personal space. On the trip back I had an adorable young man who fell asleep and leaned on me the whole time. Good thing for him he was cute and totally non-threatening. Just wait until you get some geezer who coughs and spits sleeping on you, then you hate yourself for not getting your own taxi.

Anyway, so I’m crammed in a taxi with all these people—although I was in the ladies seat by the window next to the driver, so you only have three people in that row—and we start out. The driver thought it was totally hilarious that I could speak Nepali, so he kept talking when all I wanted to do was sleep. We hit traffic coming out of town, traffic at the next town, and then once we cleared the traffic we stopped. Directly across the hill from my house—well, down the thousands of feet ravine and back up from my house. The driver cuts the engine, opens the door, and disappears. Seriously, there is NOTHING around on this road. Nothing. Not even a tea shop. When the deuce did he go? I’m looking at my house in the distance thinking, “when will this bloody driver get a flaming move on?” The Bengali tourists got out and started taking pictures. Of my house. Well, Darjeeling to be more precise, but I’m sure my house was in some of them. Very tiny of course, but there nonetheless. I’m watching them, thinking how much they must be enjoying the coolness of Darjeeling compared to the gawd-help us awfulness of Kolkata. Still sitting. I check my phone. No calls, no messages. Clearly we’ve entered a time warp in which no one loves me enough to call. Stupid friends. I bet they are at home, drinking tea and laughing about not calling me. Still…sitting. Am just about to throw myself down the ravine, when the driver reappears. And does nothing. Sitting, tra-la-la, sitting. I grab the door handle, prepared to jump, when he starts the jeep and starts off as if nothing happened. Luckily, I have cultivated the kind of calm that one can only achieve while living in India. There is so much chaos, and so much ridiculousness that calm acceptance is the only option to throwing oneself down a ravine. Or in front of a bus, if no ravine is to be found.

Anyway, we move along fine for a couple of hours (its supposed to be a 4 hour trip) and then…traffic again. By the checkpoint at the border between West Bengal and Sikkim. I have to get out to get my pass stamped and I watch the driver buzz off up the hill. I get my pass stamped, chat for a second with the border guard—its amazing how easy it is to get things done when you surprise people with your language skills. The second I speak Nepali, they go into some sort of trance and things are shockingly simple to get done. They completely don’t expect it and so are hypnotized. I’m like a snake charmer, only with no snakes and very little charm. I run back up the hill, only to find that my driver went off expecting this whole border crossing to take a while. He didn’t realize that I’d been here long enough to know that you don’t wait politely until someone finishes their conversation or work if you need something. You just shove your passport under their nose, smile, and when they do nothing, say “I think I need a stamp in my passport. Please do it now.” I love it. But my speed and awesome efficiency meant that the driver had gone. Probably for tea and a smoke, or maybe a nap. So we waited. Again. Unfortunately, there was no ravine to throw myself into this time. Still…waiting. The boy who accompanies the driver ran off to find him. I was, at this point, considering hot wiring the jeep and taking off. I think the Bengali tourists would have supported me in this effort, but the driver appeared and we were off again. For about 10 minutes…then traffic:

Please…someone…kill…me. So just as we got out of the traffic, something happened. Before I tell you what happened, let me just say that I am a patient woman. I have waited for years for things to come to fruition. I can, on special days, sit and wait for water to boil. But today nearly tested my limits, because just as we got out of the traffic…WE GOT INTO AN ACCIDENT. Honestly, can you believe it? I ask you…is it even possible? The worst part of it was that the accident was barely a fender bender. True, we were rear-ended by a huge truck. And yes, there was a bit of damage. But does that require 30 minutes of negotiations about compensation? There really isn’t insurance here, so the driver had to wait to get the most out of the guy as possible. For the dents and scratches. That I could have fixed in 20 minutes with a hammer and some clear nail polish. But 30 minutes of yelling, clutching of the breast, fists shaking at the sky. I gave up and took a nap, which is not an easy feat when you are at a 30 degree angle up the side of a mountain with men screaming at each other outside your door. But I channeled the calm that comes from years of meditation and experimentation with mind altering substances and slept. Quite well actually. Eventually, the men came to an agreement and we were off. Finally! But wait…we had to stop at the nearest ATM for the truck driver to withdraw money to pay our driver. So stop again. For another half an hour. I have at least 7 more grey hairs from this trip that I know for a fact were not there before I left my house.

I finally made it to Gangtok (the capital), a little shabbier and older than when I left, but otherwise unscathed. Gangtok is actually a very charming city:

Its not as crowded as Darjeeling and all traffic has to clear out of a certain area by 4:45. Fantastic. I’m still not entirely sure it was worth the walk up and down Darjeeling for the permit, blisters, and the 7 gray hairs…but it was a great time.

Unfortunately, what was just an annoying bout of giardia—used to be my favorite of the intestinal diseases/parasites because of its lack of terrible symptoms—became the worst case of my life. I only got to enjoy Gangtok for one day, because by the next I was sick. The kind of sick where you camp out on the bathroom floor for 12 hours sick and then lay in bed for 3 days recovering. And it only took 4 doses of the medicine before I could keep any down. Giardia is so not my favorite parasite anymore. I had to stay in Gangtok for 3 extra days because I was too sick to travel or even sit up for more than a few minutes at a time. Its now been a week and I’m still not 100%. Stupid parasites. Trying to ruin my good times.

Although totally unrelated to my life, I wanted to share the following with you all. This is a box of breakfast cereal that I purchased for those mornings when I didn’t want banana oatmeal or toast. Make sure you read slowly and carefully.

So after all that, you’re expecting quite a lot! Cure cancer and the lot. Pretty impressive. I anticipated lights and choirs of angels singing when I opened the box. This is what I got:

Stale cornflakes with a few almonds thrown in. I haven’t been able to toss them out, just because I expect them to cure themselves of their staleness, sprout pineapples, and wow me again. I’ll keep you posted as to the developing awesomeness of my muesli.

Well, I think that’s enough of an update for now. I’ve been cooped up in my house for days and so have had time to work on this edition. I’m heading to Thailand in a week and a half, so I’m sure I’ll have fun things to say and photos to post after I return.

Hope all is well with everyone and keep those emails and letters coming. I so enjoy both.