Tiger Hill, Darjeeling

PAST LIFE MEMORY

As a small child growing up in London, England, I had yearned to visit the Himalayas and often had nighttime dreams of living in one of these small mountainous villages in several of my past lives. My most vivid recollection is of being an itinerant merchant, a family man who travelled constantly, only rarely seeing his family and reconnecting with his neighbours.

At that time, I had been responsible for transporting gems, semi-precious jewels, animal skins and cinnamon bark on a convoy of yaks, through the Eastern Himalayas. We travelled only when the passes were free from snow during the summer months. We would then connect with caravans that had journeyed south from the famed 'silk road'. And I would exchange my goods for herbal remedies, books and writings of the skills and knowledge that had originated in China and Tibet. And, most importantly, I would return home with textiles, including the much requested most magical silk.

In my former lifetimes, I must have often witnessed the sun rising over the Himalayas. And now, as an adult, in this lifetime, the morning after our auspicious shopping trip in Darjeeling, Mom and I were to witness the Himalayan sunrise together. It was almost like a rite of passage for me. We had awoken at 3am to enjoy a cup of tea before accompanying the rest of our family on the dark, slow and bumpy jeep ride to Tiger Hill, which lies further along the torturous mountain crest, only 11 km from town.

TIGER HILL
Every cloudless morning, crowds gather at Tiger Hill, a vantage point of 8,482 feet, to watch an uninterrupted view of the sun rising over the entire Himalayan mountain range. We arrived at our destination about 4.30am, surprised to see a few dozen land rovers and jeeps already parked beneath the stone-built viewing platform. It was so cold, I was glad of my heavy sweater and ski jacket, especially when the wind blew across us on the open platform atop the elevated tower.

Sunrise in the tropics happens very swiftly, and the mere anticipation of its splendour had everyone twittering with excitement. All eyes were glued to the east, and gradually the crowd fell silent.

I have heard that, instead of silence, some Tiger Hill crowds now greet the dawn with Buddhist chants. While that would also have been wonderful, we, in our silence, shared a sense of reverence, much like a communal prayer that everyone knew by heart and whispered in their own native tongue.

How very blessed we all were to share such a wonderful spectacle of Nature that day. It made the hair on the back of my neck stand up, and not just because it was cold there! I remember thinking that this trip to the Himalayan 'cradle of the gods' was the perfect way to thank the Creator for all of my blessings in life.

SUNRISE OVER THE HIMALAYAS
We watched in awe as the pitch dark of night was replaced by a shimmering grey that silhouetted the mountain range, stage-lighting them for Nature's next scene. Suddenly, the eastern sky brightened and the features of the tall mountains became sharper, till we were able to distinguish one mountain from another. Then a blinding beam of sunlight blazed through the clouds, bathing the most easterly mountain peaks in a soft pink hue. Within seconds this rosy glow had spread westward across the entire range. Sunlight illuminated the snows atop each separate mountain peak - and it was dawn.

A collective gasp arose from the crowd and then, filled with joy, we all applauded, for we had been privileged witnesses in the first scenes of an epic play. That our universe provides this marvel on a daily basis is the real miracle, and one that I had so often taken for granted in Canada. Now, since seeing the sunrise over the Himalayas, I have become much more aware of the daily treasures, such as clean air, sweet water, and loving friends that fulfill the promise of joy and beauty in the lives of everyone on the planet.

Sadly, we had been unable to see Everest that morning, because there was just too much cloud to the west, separating us from it. The crowd began dispersing soon after sunrise. Some vendors lingered, selling glossy 4 x 6 inch photographs of the sun rising over Everest to those of us who had not actually seen it that day. I will always remember the silent reverence of the crowd, and the feeling of awe that permeated my entire being, at seeing the sun rise over the Himalayas. Even without spontaneous applause and a Hollywood soundtrack, the effect was unforgettably spectacular.

We descended the tower and then tried to distinguish our jeep from the 40 or so identical vehicles that had been parked, higgeldy-piggledy in the roadway below. In India, order and neatness seems to be optional, even - or perhaps especially - when driving or parking a vehicle. In the Himalayas, the air feels alive and fluid and, somehow, more highly charged than the air at sea level. Perhaps that is why the first light of dawn here is always greeted as a magnificent event?

Our return trip in the early morning light permitted us to see what we had only felt in our bones during our outward bound journey to Tiger Hill. The road back to Darjeeling wound through heavily forested mountainous terrain that only occasionally allowed us glimpses of the broad ridge upon which "the Queen of the Hills" is built. This treacherously narrow road led us past many heavily gilded roadside shrines, that had been liberally festooned with prayer flags hung by grateful, or hopeful, travellers and pilgrims.

PRAYER FLAGS
For centuries, Tibetan Buddhists have planted prayer flags outside their homes and other spiritual places. Inscribed with auspicious symbols, invocations, prayers and mantras, prayer flags blow in the endless winds of the high mountains, carrying their beneficent vibrations directly to the gods.  Prayer flags are said to bring happiness, long life and prosperity to the flag planter, as well as to those in the same vicinity. So I felt very safe whenever our vehicle past by a temple sporting several hundred flags.

Students of Tibetan Buddhism and other pilgrams travel vast distances for the honour of studying at Darjeeling's monasteries. Others are content just to breathe the hallowed air of this special part of the planet. Having experienced only a small part of their epic journey, myself, I could more easily appreciate exactly why travellers felt so awe-inspired about this region.

Long before my trip to Darjeeling, I had enlarged a photograph of the sunrise on Annapurna Mountain, which is also part of the Himalayas. The picture, taken by a friend during her walking trip through the mountains in Nepal, had captivated me during her slide-show. It shows a cavernous valley, totally veiled in clouds that resemble windblown lakewater, from which the snow-capped mountain rises. The dawn sun paints both the clouds below and the mountain tops beyond in a myriad soft pinks and greys. Somehow I felt an immediate kinship with this mountain. 30 years later, it is still special to me and is thus mounted in pride of place on my living room wall 

BHUTIA BUSTY GOMPA

photo by kind courtesy of:  
http://www.tripadvisor.in/LocationPhotos-g304557 w11-Darjeeling_West_Bengal.html#19513746

Darjeeling is home to many exquisitely and elaborately decorated monasteries, constructed in remote locations where monks can meditate in peaceful isolation in the idyllic surroundings.

Our jeep made a detour to visit one such monastery on our return from Tiger Hill. The Bhutia Busty Gompa is a fortified ecclesiastical place of learning, a sacred place that is part university, part monastery. Here students learn about and practise the doctrines of peace and love while enjoying glorious views of the Kanchenjunga peak.

The monastery, originally called the "Place of the Thunderbolt", has had a long association with Darjeeling, which itself translates as "Resting Place of the Thunderbolt".  Mt. Kanchenjunga, the third highest peak in the world, forms an awe-inspiring backdrop for Bhutia Busty Gompa, which was destroyed by an earthquake in 1934, but preserved and restored to its former glory by the King of Sikkim because Bhutia Busty Gompa is one of the branches of the Nyingmapa sect's Phodang Monastery in Sikkim, run by the red sects of the Lamas who are the original owners of the monastery.

The Bhutia Busty Gompa is known for its exquisite library on the top floor which houses a number of Buddhist books plus a rich collection of books on Tibetan culture including The Tibetan Book of the Dead which attracts tourists and visitors.

PRAYER WHEEL
Inside and to the right of the entrance doors of Bhutia Busty monastery is a huge, elaborately carved golden prayer wheel to which I was drawn like a bear to honey.

A Buddhist prayer wheel is a hollow metal cylinder, often beautifully carved, mounted on a rod handle and containing a tightly wound scroll printed with a mantra. According the Tibetan Buddhist belief, spinning such a wheel is just as effective as reciting them orally.  And at 8000 feet, where the air is thin, being able to pray while conserving your breath really is a blessing.  Prayer wheels come in many sizes: they may be small, attached to a stick and spun around by hand, medium-sized and set up at monasteries or temples, or very large and continuously spun by a wind or water mill.  

photo by kind courtesy of
http://www.transitionsabroad.com/publications/magazine/0711/

In Tibetan prayer wheels, the mantra (prayer) is Om Mani Padme Hum, which invokes the powerful benevolent attention and blessings of Chenrezig, the embodiment of compassion. It is printed in an ancient Indian script or in Tibetan script, usually on the outside as well as on the scroll inside.

I was truly delighted to have this opportunity to commune with spirit in what felt, to me, like a familiar manner. While others in our party admired the artistically decorated Buddha and other artefacts in that monastery, I remained, grinning like a demented child as I spun that great wheel clockwise 11 times.

THE NUMBER ELEVEN
In numerology, the number eleven is said to be a Master Number associated with transcendental knowledge, the refinement of ideals, intuition, revelation, artistic and inventive genius, whose promise is fulfilled when those carrying the number work with a more practical partner.

Eleven is a higher octave of the number two, the natural number of partnership. It carries psychic vibrations and has an equal balance of masculine and feminine properties. Because eleven contains many gifts such as psychic awareness and a keen sense of sensitivity, those who vibrate to its energy have also to be aware of its negative effects. The innocence and trust of those carrying the eleven vibration can invite treachery and betrayal from secret enemies, though even these setbacks and adversities often create opportunities for Elevens to further develop their inner strength and purpose. This is true whether 11 represents a person's name or their destiny.

In Western Astrology, the eleventh zodiac sign is Aquarius, sign of brotherhood, liberty and truth. It challenges us to recognize and express our own individuality, integrity and truth. In my own personal astrology, Aquarius is my Ascending sign as well as the Sun signs of both of my children. Further, my given name of Christobelle adds up to eleven, as do my middle name of Lorraine and my birth surname.

When I was a young child of 8 or 9, I had questioned my Mother about the spelling of my first name, and was told that she changed it so that, numerologically, it would equal eleven. When I pressed her for more information, she reluctantly divulged the story about the holy man who had shown up in the hospital and given her a Reading concerning my life's path, shortly after my birth in Bombay, India.

Needless to say, I wanted to hear more about that, but Mom has always steadfastly refused to divulge any details, saying that I would find my way through and to my destiny, if it was meant to be.  
A later blog episode, entitled, "A Convoluted Beginning" will tell you more about the holy man who met my Mother within 24 hours of my birth.

44 years after my birth, whilst in this beautiful Himalayan setting, turning the largest prayer wheel I'd ever seen, felt so familiar I realized that the past, present and future had all converged for me.

My life had travelled full circle.

I had finally come home to my sacred mountains.

Is it any wonder that, despite my culture-shock, I could not cease smiling through my tears during my time in the Himalayas!

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SECTION 2 Chapter 1 Eskdalemuir Escapades  takes you on an earthy yet spiritual journey through the convoluted and serendipitous adventures, that led me to Buddhism in this lifetime.

Mt. Kanchenjunga Experience

MY CAMERA
My camera was the only real casualty of my getting up close and personal with the tiger in Darjeeling Zoo. It had flown from my hand and smashed itself apart against a stone wall, during my fall down those concrete steps. The film (this was before digital cameras) forcefully ejected itself over a fence and then bounced into the lair of the Himalayan wolves, constructed below and beyond the tiger enclosure. My encounter with that roaring tiger fresh in my mind, and with my camera now rendered useless, I decided to allow discretion to be the better part of valour, and left the film right where it was!

No photograph could make the events of that day seem any more alive to me than the sheer terror that had permanently sealed the memory of that tiger roar into my brain and body. Later on, I did, however, conclude that those leopards, tigers and bears might not be the ONLY endangered animals to be found in Darjeeling Zoo. Tourists be forewarned!

THE STREETS OF DARJEELING
Everywhere in Darjeeling one encounter steep inclines. Only the mall area boasts a rare expanse of flat terrain, where vehicles and people have room to manoevre, and crowds can gather for important meetings. Political slogans were spray painted on every wall, in English as well as Hindi, or one of the several other dialects spoken there, including Bengali. Most slogans demanded independent rule for Dorje-Land, the original name for Darjeeling.

The market place featured sturdy stone buildings with storefronts on one side of the street, and the city's retaining wall on the other side. On Market Day, itinerant merchants created colourful booths against these thick walls, from which they sold everything from brightly coloured silk scarves and hand-made semi-precious jewellery, to heady tropical incense and spices. You could also sample the tempting and tasty local foodstuffs! And could even purchase the second hand fleece jackets and hiking boots of those who planned on permanently leaving the mountains or who were generating sufficient funds to buy a plane ticket to return back 'home'.

Being located in the stone buildings, the more permanent stores were able to lock up their wares and so offered more expensive and luxury items, like authentic silk Tibetan wall hangings and prayer flags, richly decorated wedding saris and exotic textiles, Himalayan gem jewellery and curve-bladed knives called kukri. Everywhere you looked you'd see something creatively unusual and marvelous to behold.

I found the energy of Darjeeling a fascinating juxtaposition of restrained English architecture and amazing artistic talent that seems to flourish in these mountain inhabitants. This street seemed like a great place to people watch. photo by kind courtesy of: http://images.travbuddy.com/4703_11808892175447.jpg
This photo shows a common method of transporting water in Darjeeling. So Mom and I were intrigued when a tall wiry elderly man, wearing nothing more than a threadbare shirt, shorts and worn-out sandals, traversed up the hill, with 27 (we counted them) empty one-gallon drums precariously strapped to his back.

We knew he was collecting water for his family because, during the afternoon, all the hotels would regularly cut off the water supply to their guestrooms, so that the locals could fill up water containers for use in their own homes. With one gallon of water weighing 8lbs, that old man would potentially have had to carry a staggering 8 x 27lbs = 216lbs back down the hill. That's about the weight of an American football linebacker!

We have no idea how - or if - he got back down that steep hill, but I prayed that the old man would commandeer a yak, or  some energetic youngsters, to help him carry his water back home!

Witnessing this old man's quest for water made me very aware of my own carefree use of water in Canada, and how very precious this resource is.

Frozen Waterfall in Manning Park photo copyright 2009 Christobelle H.


By complete contrast, our own access to clean, safe water in Sinclair Hotel was easy.  Here, I also thoroughly enjoyed the tasty curry dishes served in the hotel dining room.  It was the only time of day that the five of us would gather to tell tales of our separate adventures in this Queen of the Hills.


Although the decor was simple, and we each helped ourselves buffet style, the meals were always fit for a king. Each region of India features a different type of curry dish, always vegetarian or featuring mutton or chicken.
UNEXPECTED REUNION
True to form, my angels guided me to one of those glass-fronted stores in Darjeeling wherein I was to experience another magical encounter. Mom and I were on a hunt for Himalayan jewellery, in particular turquoise and semi-precious gems such as garnet and amethyst.

While I quietly studied the pieces that lay behind locked glass cases along one wall, my Mother sought help to purchase a kukri - the curved-bladed knife that is commonly found in these mountains. The store owner took Mom to a hidden display case at the back of the store, and left her to browse the knives he kept there. Then he returned to his seat behind the counter that separated the front from the back of his store, while I selected my purchases.

Eventually I spied a ring so unusual that I was curious as to how it had been made, and so approached the store owner. Upon seeing my face, this stranger immediately greeted me as if I were an old friend, saying

"Ah, so you have returned, at last!"

There was nobody else in my section of the store, so my jaw dropped in sheer amazement when he addressed me thus. I assured the owner that I had never before been to Darjeeling, and  thus I certainly not have been in his store before that very day.  But the man was adamant

"Yes, yes, I remember you well, though it was some 40 years ago" he insisted.

Since I'd been only 5 years old in 1953, I assured him he was most definitely mistaken and suggested that he had perhaps recognized my Mother, who had, by then, emerged from the back of the store. But he merely shook his head and corrected me,

"Not 40 years ago, 14 years ago, in 1979. Do you not remember me?"

Frowning, trying to remember, I recalled the major events of 1979.

* Mike and I had lived in Burnaby, Canada then

* I had been studying at Simon Fraser University while holding down a part-time library job

* We'd taken my 12 year old daughter and her adopted teenage brother to Disneyland that year - by bus (definitely NOT a sane travel option!)

But we had most definitely NOT visited India, nor could I remember meeting this store-keeper on any continent?

Seeking clarity, I studied his face more closely, and immediately found myself in an alternate reality as both the store and his demeanour shimmered right before my eyes.

In one instant, I was conversing with a jolly, well fed, middle-aged merchant in a Darjeeling store. Then, in the very next instant, the store had metamorphosed into a somewhat familiar garden of roses, shaded by tall rhododendron trees.

The storekeeper's ruddy complexion and theatrical mannerisms had also transformed into the placid and beloved countenance of the Buddhist monk who had filled my apartment with pink roses all those years ago. I was so surprised that I could only blink and gasp, hardly believing the evidence of my own eyes. And it didn't help that the very instant my vision clarified, the vision abruptly vanished, which left me wondering if I had imagined it all.

Once again the cheerful store-keeper stood before me, asking of my experiences since arriving in Darjeeling. And though I had many questions of my own to ask him, I politely and, as briefly as I could, told him about my dawn encounter with the young monks, about my zoo visit and the tiger's fiercesome roar the previous day.  Feeling more relaxed by this time, I also told him of my melt-down at the Telegraph office just before that afternoon's thunderstorm.

The store-keeper listened patiently, encouraging my tale and occasionally laughing with me. When I had finished, I moved towards the jewellery display, intending to ask for more information about that ring. But the store-keeper persisted:

"But you have not yet told me about the mountain"

"Mountain? What mountain?" I stammered, by now truly perplexed, for we were truly surrounded by mountains.
"Kanchenjunga" he insisted - referring to the mountain comprised of 5 Himalayan peaks, that was clearly visible from the city of Darjeeling.

As if a veil had lifted, I was shocked into remembering.

That very morning, while my family slept, I had climbed - alone - to the roof of our hotel which featured an unparalleled view of the entire Himalayan mountain range, including, on a clear day, including the magical, mystical Mt. Kanchenjunga.

The previous night I'd set my clock to 5.30 a.m. in order to watch the sun rise over the highest mountains in the world. And I'm glad I did because it was an incredible experience as the colours of dawn reflected on the peak of Kanchanjunga, the planet's third tallest mountain. But along with the soft golds and pinks of the sunrise, I also saw a face, quite distinctly, hovering over the mountain itself!

The huge, shimmering face was totally unfamiliar to my western way of seeing, yet my soul had accepted the vision as truth, not releasing its memory to my consciousness until the shop-keeper questioned me. Since I had been totally alone on that roof, and had not even consciously remembered what I had seen until he had asked me, how could HE have known? unless...he was indeed an angel, or my flower-power Buddhist monk

 Tibetan turquoise & coral bottle opener photo copyright 2009 Christobelle Patrick

The shop keeper then walked to the display case beside the jewellery and brought out this bejewelled silver bottle opener
"Did the face you saw look like this" he asked, pointing to the business end of the bottle opener?

I studied it for a while and then just nodded, staring at the man in complete amazement.
"That is the Spirit of Kanchenjunga" he assured me. And since I had seen it with my own eyes, I had no choice but to believe his words
 

Quartz ring from Darjeeling photo copyright 2009 Christobelle H
Needless to say, I bought that bottle opener, plus a few more trinkets from this man/monk including this ring, an irregular chunk of clear white quartz to which were attached three semi -precious gems, a green tourmaline, a turquoise and a garnet, each set in silver. The garnet and its setting broke off within a month, leaving only the tourmaline and turquoise staring like a third-eye and a cheek jewel in a trapeze-shaped alien face.

Tibetan Bell from Darjeeling photo copyright 2009 Christobelle H

This is the bell that Tibetan Buddhists carry and below is the dorje that accompanies their bell. Dorje photo copyright 2009 Christobelle H
Symbolically a dorje represents the 'thunderbolt of enlightenment,' that abrupt change in human consciousness which is recognised by all the great religions as a pivotal episode in the lives of mystics and saints. I'd been experiencing a lot of that since my arrival in this place!

The Bell and Dorje, or thunderbolt, are inseparable ritual objects in Tibetan Buddhism. They are always used in combination during religious ceremonies. The Bell held in the left hand, representing the female aspect as wisdom; the Dorje, held in the right hand, or male aspect, as method. Together, they represent union of wisdom and method, also called the attainment of Enlightenment.

For Buddhists, the transformative enlightenment experience it is what occurred to the historical Buddha and to all those who experience kensho-satori, the dropping away of 'self'. The Tibetans call this "the Great Death" to distinguish it from that physical one. Dorje is also a common given-name for men in people of Tibetan culture and it is of utmost importance in the fight for autonomy in Dorje-Land. Reference: Encyclopedia Britannica

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SECTION 1 Chapter 7: Tiger Hill, Darjeeling experience the sunrise over the Himalayas and a visit to a Tibetan Monastery

South Asian Culture Shock

Our trip to this mountainous region of Bengal proved difficult for me in many ways, all of them cultural.

Although I had been born in India, and raised by parents who were both born and had grown up in India, I spent my formative years in UK. Naturalized as a British citizen, I had attended British schools, and when not in school uniform had always dressed in Western gear. I also felt most comfortable in the company of my British or European friends and was, by 1993, a peculiar mixture of Canadian and British in my daily habits and social customs. Yet, despite my British heritage and experiences, my spirituality and way of seeing the world was a lot more Eastern than Western. I was - and am still - a living, breathing example of the East-West dichotomy.

DORJE-LING

Such cultural disruption is well known to the Tibetans, who inhabit this region of India. Many of whom fled their homeland after the Chinese invaded in 1959. Several of the higher Lamas settled in Darjeeling, setting up monasteries there, which is why this city of 250,000 souls has such a strong Buddhist presence

photos by kind courtesy of http://www.tripadvisor.in

The original name for Darjeeling was Dorje-ling. A dorje is the Tibetan word meaning both thunderbolt and special stone or diamond, and ling is the Tibetan word for holy place or monastery. So the story goes, a monk once meditated for several days or weeks next to a dorje on what is now Observatory Hill, thus making this place sacred so that now both Buddhists and Hindus freely worship there. Townsfolk named their mountain top home to honour the sacrifice and dedication of this monk.

The ruling British overlords had changed the spelling to Darjeeling in a prior era, effectively erasing any holy references that might offend Western visitors. These also oversaw the building of houses, hotels and infrastructure - roads, railway, schools, sports arena, zoo, electrical, plumbing and postal systems - for the comfort and use of those who frequented this "Queen of the Hills" as an escape from the unforgiving summer heat of the plains.

Since 17th Century, especially since the industrialization of United Kingdom, the average Indian has generated and donated vast amounts of wealth for the business aspirations and families of the invading British. Such generosity was rewarded by the Indian being treated as a second-class citizen, as a servant in his own land.

In addition to usurping his national wealth and manipulating his creative genius for their own commercial benefit, the British also sought to impose their western social values on a land with more than 20,000 years of culture. And that particular blow to India's pride was designed to demoralize the country as a whole, rendering its people more easily controlled.

While India undoubtedly benefited from the new technological and industrial benefits that its alliance with Britain brought, a less arrogant and self-indulgent invader might have taken the time to train the Indian in every aspect of the care and management of their own railways, post offices and road systems.

Evidently Britain had expected to usurp India's vast resources for their "common" wealth for all time.  Thus, when Gandhi led the country to Independence and the British abruptly left India, in August 1947, the departing British left behind a railway and road system, plus a British style government.  But this infrastructure had no strong Indian hand at the helm. 45 years later it had thus devolved into a parody of its imposed glory.  Gone were the spic and span militaristic days of British rule.  In its place were broken water pipes, fractured road surfaces and archaic business practices that had once royally served a system long since abandoned.

The city of Darjeeling had, nonetheless, felt very "English" and familiar to me, in an historical sense.  Despite its occasional political instability, it is ideally set up for tourism, having numerous outdoor opportunities including world-class mountain trekking. The stunning scenery and laid back lifestyle attract visitors from all over the world.  Though located in the foothills of our planet's tallest mountain range, Darjeeling is still over 8,000 feet above sea level.  And the rivers that rage through its mountains are extremely rapid and often dangerous. That is why one is permitted to go river rafting, only after one has provided a signed waiver of responsibility and left the name and phone number of one's next of kin! 

The gentle values of the Buddhist refugees now permeate the city so that Darjeeling very quickly makes you feel welcome and a part of that community. But, after nearly 50 years of corporate neglect, services like reliable plumbing, dependable scheduling and the postal system, that we take so much for granted in the West, became fractured and broke.

In the true spirit of Buddhism, as each social service became inefficient and insufficient, the Indians in charge laid emphasis on sharing resources like fresh water with everyone. Thus, each day, after the needs of hotel guests had been met, the town's hotels would graciously allow the townspeople to collect fresh drinking water from their pipes.  Perhaps it takes a crisis for man's humanity to emerge?

JUST THE FAX, MAN

Despite my willingness to learn the lessons that assailed my psyche in Mother India, my physical health had steadily deteriorated since my plane had landed there earlier in the month. I was tired all the time, and heartrendingly homesick for my Canadian home, family and friends in Canada. I missed my husband and 12 year old son so much that I cried myself to sleep each night.

My travelling family was so concerned by my emotional decline they to decided to send me back to Canada early rather than risk a complete health breakdown by my remaining for the full duration of my planned trip. So it was that my Mother and Aunt began to make arrangements to expedite my departure from India. First on their agenda was to fax pertinent details to our travel agent in Bombay.

A simple affair, right?

Perhaps, but just NOT in Darjeeling.
Simple is just not as easy in the hill towns of the Himalayas.

As recently as 1993, any fax out of Darjeeling could only be sent via the town's grand telegraph office which was located in a huge stone Victorian mansion, located a dizzying 129 steep steps carved into  the side of the mountain. Trainee Mountaineers might not mind this climb. But ordinary folk, with ordinary leg muscles, must really have to WANT to send a fax, just to venture up there.

Mind you, from the telegraph office portico, the view of the city and surrounding mountains, was a truly magnificent reward for one's valiant efforts.

"It's called CULTURE SHOCK!"

My Aunt, Mother and I arrived at the Office around noon of the very next day, ready and eager to send the fax, before scouring the town for souvenirs. Unfortunately, the two all-male staff at the post office had no clue how to work their precious new fax machine. And, since they weren't about to admit that fact to  mere women, it took the four of them three hours to TRY to figure it out. Only at the end of their work day, would they admit defeat and allow my Aunt to show them how to send our fax before the next ice age began.

During that long and tedious wait at the Telegraph Office, my emotional meltdown became more difficult to suppress. While Mom and Auntie alternately argued with and cajoled the Bengali staff, I waited  for them on the only available seating - a simple wooden bench provided in that foyer-cum-waiting room.

A very patient Australian traveller shared the bench, whilst awaiting the arrival of his international phone call, to be routed into a private cubicle in the waiting area. He noticed that I was crying quietly but incessantly into my Kleenex, and gently pronounced: "It's called culture shock! And it's quite common when you first visit Asia." I could have kissed him both for his timely identification of my tearfulness and for his compassion in reaching out to me.

MOUNTAIN STORM

At that very moment, a mighty clap of thunder rattled the tall windows in the huge stone ediface. Running outside, the Aussie traveler and I were treated to the magnificent spectacle of a full blown (pun intended) Himalayan electrical storm. The raindrops were so heavy and the winds so persistent that I was grateful for the partial shelter of Darjeeling Telegraph Office's grand Victorian columned portico.

Aloud, I wondered if perhaps the monsoons had arrived early. But my companion assured me that such spectacular rainstorms in the Himalayas were the norm. Copious lightning bolts seemed to dance alarmingly close to us as the thunder rolled on and on, echoing throughout the hills that surrounded this rain-drenched sprawling mountain top city.

No wonder they called Darjeeling the sacred place of the thunderbolt!

While it lasted I, was too mesmerized by the beauty and enormity of that storm to feel anything but awestruck. Then, as quickly as it had begun, the storm ended, the sun shone, and my companion bid me a beaming farewell before he quietly vanished from view, down the steep stone staircase that led to the street level.

Not till much later did I realize that my Australian companion had not actually received the phone call for which he'd told me he was waiting.

And wasn't the timing of his appearance rather fortuitous, at the very moment when I was feeling my saddest?  I also found it significant that the two of us had conversed with, and shared that storm, only with each other.  My Mother and Aunt had been so engrossed in their task of faxing information to the city that neither had noticed my companion.

Serendipity?

I doubt it!

I certainly felt much better after that brief encounter than I had done before, because I knew, beyond doubt, that an Angel had comforted me that fateful day. As my courage returned, I recalled that Angels will often employ a loving person's habits or sensitivities to lend hope to other human beings or to pass along to them their special Angelic messages.

Indeed, even my own quirkiness had been so utilized, during my jeep journey up the Himalayas, when my curiosity had inadvertently interrupted the personal toilet of those train travelers. Everyone of us had then enjoyed a much needed laugh, which had helped to relieve the anxiety and fear generated by journey potentially fraught with political strife and danger. (press here to read more about this event in Pink Roses - Part 2 Journey to India)

So I was quite certain that, in the Darjeeling Telegraph Office, the traveller's Angelic self had reached out to reassure me in my hour of extreme need.
As a result, I'd immediately felt stronger and more able to cope! And then he went on his way.

Now that I felt regenerated, I was eager to get on with my shopping trip to the market that day. I was even looking forward to rising at 3 am for our planned excursion to Tiger Hill the following day.

I thus found it quite ironic that this miracle of transformation, created by my emotional response to India, had occurred at precisely the same moment that my trip AWAY from India was being expedited.

Knowing that soul growth only appears to happen by chance, I asked my inner Angel if my experiences in the land of my birth had already been sufficient to fill my soul?

Given the political instability of the region, it was doubtful that I'd be able to return to Bengal again in this lifetime. Yet, my short trip to India, had already been so intense that it had already brought me many important lessons - lessons that would take me a decade or more to fully comprehend and assimilate.

As always, I still had more questions than answers. But, as I was to discover in the days ahead, my Angels had a few surprises yet in store for me, in the Himalayan foothills of India.

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SECTION 1 Chapter 6  Mt. Kanchenjunga Experience  meet the flesh and blood Buddhist Monk who first appeared to me as an apparition in Canada. (press here to learn more about this apparition  in Pink Roses - Part 1) 

Trip to Darjeeling, India

Darjeeling, Queen of the Hills

The first thing I learned was that drinking tea in Darjeeling is a rather regal affair.

Mother and I shared a room in Hotel Sinclair, the very same Victorian hotel in which she and her schoolmates had stayed while visiting that city, six decades before.

Once grandly appointed, those once-spacious rooms had long since been halved, and our quarters now looked decidedly lopsided and care-worn. The hotel's original palatial grounds had also been reduced in size, yet still managed to retain a simple old-world charm and elegance.

Thankfully, all the meals they served were superb, and the informative hotel staff treated us with genuine warmth and courtesy. Also, much to my Mother's delight, the hotel had retained the English custom of afternoon tea, which they served in our room upon our arrival.

photo by kind courtesy of: http://www.tias.com/stores/squirrel/pictures/sil29a.jpg

Our tea tray was magnificent, with bone china cups and saucers arranged on a silver tray complete with a bone china tea service, silver teapot, milk jug and sugar bowl, silver teaspoons and a tea-strainer.

Accompanying our tea were, of course, the requisite English Tea biscuits (cookies). It felt like we had both stepped back half a century to the latter days of the British Raj, when everything and everyone, in India, stopped for tea.

Ironically, the altitude that grows the world's finest tea also makes it impossible for water to boil hotly enough to successfully steep those fragrant tea leaves for a hot and refreshing cuppa.

We soon discovered these tea leaves absorbed so much hot water that they expanded to fill half the huge teapot. So we made good use of that tea strainer. There were no puny teabags in evidence here.

We were indeed in strong tea country!

If you are cold, tea will warm you.

If you are heated, it will cool you.

If you are depressed, it will cheer you.

If you are excited, it will calm you."
~ William Gladstone

Even though we had travelled through some of the world's biggest and best known tea plantations to get here, our first taste of tea was quite unexpectedly disappointing. Fortunately, the grandeur of sharing an elegant afternoon tea and quiet chat with the Grande Dame of our family more than made up for any of my dashed hopes. And isn't the exchange of ideas and information with one's family the true purpose behind the tradition of "high tea" 

Learn more about Darjeeling at:  
http://darjeeling.gov.in and http://www.darjnet.com/darjeeling/darjeeling
 
BUDDHIST MONKS
I slept amazingly well in Darjeeling. The altitude of almost 8000 ft felt, somehow, normal and familiar to me, even though I had never stepped foot on that terrain prior to 1993, at least not in this lifetime. And, despite the rarified atmosphere, I actually breathed more easily here than on the dusty plains of India.

My poor lanky uncle did not fare so well, succumbing to the dreaded and euphemistically entitled "hill sickness", which is altitude sickness combined with Montezuma's revenge. Thus, our whole family took a much needed break during the day after our arrival. The whole family, that is, except for me.

Awakened early by the temple bells of surrounding Buddhist Monasteries, which summoned the faithful to their prayer, I almost gleefully left my bed before the sun rose. Although I am a night-owl in Canada, the dulcet tones of those soothing bells somehow spoke to me, urging me to get up, dress warmly and explore outside the hotel.  Pedestrians were safer in the city than on the road that carried us to it, so I felt the experience worth the risk of venturing out alone.

A brief but plentiful mountain rain had cleansed the streets, and freshened the air overnight. And the long shadows of dawn lent to Darjeeling the mysterious aura of a medieval European village. After my faux pas of the previous day, I was more than eager to photograph the architecture or an unique scene in that magical place.

Camera poised, I was about to shoot a Victorian schoolhouse, when a Buddhist monk suddenly and silently exited from the schoolhouse door. His head had been shaved, and he carried in his hands a dorje and a small Tibetan bell. Only a faded wine-coloured garment over his saffron robes protected him from the chill mountain air. So, when I noted that he wore open sandals on his naked feet, I shivered in spite of myself. 

 photo by kind courtesy of: http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2417/2196342921_14fc6ab3e9_o.jpg
 

This first monk was followed by several identically clad monks, each of whom made eye contact with me and then bowed respectfully before passing by me. They all resembled the monk who had appeared to Mike and me half a world away in Burnaby, some 14 years before.

The resemblance was so strong, it startled me, at first. But then I became so engrossed in bowing back and replying with "Namaste" to each of them in turn that I totally forgot to actually USE my camera to record the event.

Not that any of those early morning monks had been the very same monk that had visited us in Canada. Though several years had passed, I felt certain I would readily know the special monk who had given us that wonderful carpet of pink roses.

But apart from an ethnic similarity in their Tibetan facial features, I had not recognized any of these early risers. Their garments had been identical, so I felt sure that I had finally the place where an actual meeting might occur. And that realization made me feel immediately very much at home in Darjeeling and brought me a degree of comfort.

for more information about Tibetan Buddhism:
http://tibetanaltar.blogspot.com/

DARJEELING ZOO
Because it clings to the ridges of the mountainous terrain, and is serviced only by a narrow roadway, it comes as a shock to realize that Darjeeling is home to 250,000 souls, several private schools and even its very own zoo.

Situated on the outskirts of the city, Darjeeling Zoo covers many hilly acres, that offer lush treed walkways that shade visitors from the pre-monsoon sunshine. The entrance leads to a meandering walkway that leads up the hillside to the various animal exhibits.

At such a high altitude, even a small incline taxes the heart and lungs, so Mom and I strolled very slowly, enjoying a cordial conversation amid the birdsong and plethera of flowering trees that decorated our pathway. 

It was during that stroll that I saw, and instantly recognized, the same variety of rhododendron tree that had grown behind the apparition of  'my Canadian Buddhist monk'. Only then did Mother inform me that rhododendrons which grow as bushes in temperate climates, flourish as trees in India, and can reach up to and beyond 50 ft tall in the Himalayas.

In England, where I grew up, many public parks and stately homes feature rhododenrons in their formal gardens. My Father, an avid amateur photographer, had loved these showy signature plants so much that we planted several in our own back garden in London. 

Bedford Abbey Rhododenrons, 1962  photo by M.Jack H (dec'd)

Until his untimely death in 1964, Dad had devoted much time and energy to capturing the jewelled colours and rose-like rhododendron blooms on photographic slides. I had always loved their brilliant flowers, which had prompted the ancients Greeks to name them "rose tree", which translates as rhododendron. Now, I was so excited by seeing the taller, larger Indian version of this "shrub" that I could hardly wait to tell my husband, Mike, all about it!
I really missed having him with me on this trip. 

LEOPARDS, TIGERS AND BEARS, 
OH MY!

The Darjeeling Zoo attracts an amazing 300,000 visitors every year. Held in very high esteem in India, it is a sanctuary to rare and unusual wildlife and, since 1986, this zoo has featured a Snow Leopard Breeding Centre.

By 2003, this enclave, which sprawls over an area of 44 hectares (108 acres) had five snow leopards, five tigers, 10 leopards, 6 Himalayan wolves, 27 birds and 93 reptiles and a number of Himalayan bears. Here also lived the only Siberian tigers in India!

While Mom highly approved of the motivations and exhibits of Darjeeling Zoo, she did not want to see the animals there. Like my Mother, I do not enjoy visiting animals in cages, as I would much rather see them in their own habitat. Mom seemed to prefer only my company that day. And, as we happily strolled the grounds together, she educated me about all the different trees and plants that are indigenous to this high altitude area of India.

Mom's French grandmother's family had long ago become wise in the ways of homeopathy and herbal plants, and had bestowed that wisdom on their eldest grandchild. In her turn, Mom had then shared her knowledge with me. I had thus grown up with a love of the grand simplicity of Nature's design and an equally strong respect for all living things - which explains how my two pesky younger sisters actually survived to adulthood.

An avid gardener, my Mother is also a gifted teacher, with a vast knowledge of plants and herbs, both in Europe and in India. So learning from her, directly, on site, was a rare and thrilling privilege. Yet, I was still curious about the kinds of animals that lived at these altitudes, and how they would be portrayed in this particular zoo. Besides, I'd always wanted to see a real live Bengal tiger - up close and personal! 

HIMALAYAN 

MOUNTAINEERING 

INSTITUTE

 photo by kind courtesy of: http://www.darjeelingnews.net/wp-content/gallery/himalayan-mountaineering/himlayan-mountaneering-darjeeling.jpg

After we'd walked around the grounds of Darjeeling Zoo for an hour or so, Mom and I both visited the museum attached to the Himalayan Mountaineering Institute. It occupies a part of the zoo site, so was easy to include in our zoo experience.

Founded by Tenzing Norgay, the Sherpa who spent most of his life in Darjeeling before he led Hillary up Everest in 1953, this Institute teaches - you guessed it - climbing.

Afterwards, Mom really needed a long rest. So I left her on a bench by the statue of that local hero, happily perusing the leaflets we'd gathered during our visit to the Mountaineering Institute.

The rest of my relatives had also gone their own way upon entering the zoo. So, as soon as I was alone, I left the broader pathways to glean a closer view of the zoo's rare and endangered inhabitants.

By now, it was mid-afternoon and most of the creatures were napping, hiding in the shade or curled up behind rocks, in a bid to escape the unseasonally hot April sunshine.

To my frustration, even the larger animals were so far away as to be barely visible through my camera's view-finder. Somehow I needed to get closer to them. But a person simply does not expect to get up close and personal with a sleeping zoo animal!   Unless, of course, that person is me.

BENGAL TIGER
As fate would have it, my path crossed that of the tiger handler who explained, via hand gestures and very broken English, that his favourite old tiger was feeling poorly that day. When I expressed concern and asked if I might meet his tiger, the handler led me to a thick wooden door that provided entry to a covered stone enclosure.

At eye level, a foot square hole had been carved into the door, and into this hole were fitted several stout vertical steel bars, through which I peered into the gloom of the tiger's cell. As my eyes adjusted, I was delighted to see about 9 feet of sleeping tiger fur sprawled across the cool stone floor.

I noted that tiger's paws and claws were enormous, and his jaws seemed very strong, certainly healthy enough to rip flesh from bone. Yet, his breathing did seem quite laboured. While I had hoped to stay longer, the overpoweringly acrid aroma of rotting meat permeated his quarantine area, which not-so-subtly discouraged lingering.

YOU WANT TO SEE TIGER? 

I asked my companion if he had a special name for this magnificent beast, upon which he stared at me in a bemused fashion for a few seconds. 

"This is Bengal Tiger" he replied curtly before shooing me, the ignorant tourist, away from the door separating him from his beloved charge.

I turned reluctantly to leave, when the tiger handler's demeanour suddenly changed and instead, he beckoned me to stay.

He was now positioned about 3 feet to the right of the original tiger door, beside a smaller, 2-foot square cell door situated about waist level and set into the thick stone walls.

"You want to see Tiger?" he asked, in a taunting sing-song tone. "Come closer, come see tiger!"

I leaned forward, next to the smaller door, preparing to, once again, peer into the gloom. But as I waited for a closer look, the handler gleefully flung wide the door and I was immediately assailed by the full fury of the enormous crouching cat whose jaws unhinged and growled at me so loudly that I shook uncontrollably for what felt like an eternity but was probably only a few seconds.

This 'poorly' tiger was now magnificently ferocious in his expression, having the largest set of teeth and the foulest breath I ever want - or need again - to experience 'up close and personal'

Picture Source: ucumari and Animal Photos
 At first I staggered backwards, but in my effort to turn and run, fell headlong down several concrete steps before regaining my composure. By now, the handler was laughing heartily and I could see actual tears in his eyes.

My own heart was beating so hard it felt like it would burst through my chest. That perfectly healthy tiger cat seemed to thoroughly enjoy his part in their cruel practical joke; so much so, I could swear he was also smiling at my obvious distress!

When my shock finally abated, I was able to reassure myself that, despite my adrenaline overload, the several stout bars set into that cell's smaller door meant I had been in no real danger.

This pair's antics certainly shortened my lifespan by several years. Yet, nothing ventured, nothing gained!

Mother later told me that Indian villagers, who have unexpectedly encountered these beasts in the wild, have often died of sheer fright from the blood-curdling roar and breath of the tiger alone.

Having been there, and done that, I can certainly understand how and why they would literally be scared to death! Luckily, I had had stout steel bars preventing me from becoming this particular tiger's afternoon snack.

To fulfill one's impossible dream, one must first be willing to undertake extraordinary risks - and (for ME) 'communing' with that beautiful, endangered wild creature definitely fitted into that category, despite the presence of those stout bars!

My encounter with a large Bengal Tiger is a story that I will treasure for my lifetime, and hopefully relate to my great-grandchildren.  Let us fervently hope that, when that generation is fully grown these majestic cats will still flourish in India. 
 

Learn more about Bengal Tigers here: 
http://www.indiantiger.org/bengal-tigers/indian-bengal-tiger.html

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SECTION 1 Chapter 5  South Asian Culture Shock  An Angel saves my sanity as we experience a mountain thunderstorm in Darjeeling together

Our Himalayan Adventure

WEST BENGAL 

Our plane arrived at the military airport of Bagdogra in a balmy outdoor temperature of 36C degrees, sixteen degrees cooler than the 'fragrant' steam-bath that was Calcutta. It had already been the longest Wednesday of my entire life, and now that we had arrived, we encountered yet more problems here.

Immediately upon leaving the airport each family member had been processed by an official, who - ominously - wrote down the names and phone numbers of our 'next of kin'. That really made me wonder just what kind of trip we were about to undertake...pun intended.

Stress of a rather different variety rumbled through my gut

Was it too late to turn back?

Our destination was the Victorian hill-station of Darjeeling, then a teaming city of 250,000 souls. But we had yet to finalize the last leg of our journey. We needed to climb from sea level, in the plains of Bengal,  to the 8000 ft. contour in the Himalayan foothills.

Aging jeeps and land rovers filled the airport compound, their smiling drivers cheerily greeting each weary disembarking passenger. Determined that we should all travel in one vehicle for safety, my very tall Uncle and miniature Aunt negotiated a price with a rather too enthusiastic jeep driver, who proceeded to pile our luggage on top of and inside the vehicle.

Then, somehow, 6 adults, including the driver himself, squeezed into the 4 available seats. A dangerous looking man then clambered on top of our suitcases, that were stacked behind us.  We were informed that he was our co-driver.  Yet he faced the rear of the vehicle and carried a loaded Uzi, and extra ammunition.

Um...an UZI?!!....(gulp).....why was he carrying an Uzi?

TOURIST SEASON

My aunt also wanted to know why.  So she conversed intently with our driver during the long run through farmlands of Bengal before the swiftly rising foothills carried us high up into the tea plantations of the Himalayan foothills.

The driver explained that this area of India was threatening civil war.  Apparently radicals in West Bengal territory wanted to break away from centralized Indian government and become independent. To add teeth to their claims, some of those "bandits" laid traps on the mountain roads, attacking, robbing and sometimes killing any traveler from whom they could benefit.

Personally I think someone gave them the wrong definition of the term "Tourist Season"! Much as one might want to, it just doesn't make good economic sense to kill off one's tourists. Yet, that is precisely why there was a man, with extra ammunition for his loaded UZI, squatting in the back of our Jeep, prepared to defend all of us from bandits!!!

Oh heck!

My pragmatic Mother made light of the situation, saying that one sect is always trying to annihilate another in this geographic region. And she should know. Mother had been a child of 7 when she had first attended boarding school at Kurseong, a town we'd pass through, en route to Darjeeling.

She had spent her formative years there, taught by Catholic nuns. In her teenage years, unbeknownst to the school care-taking staff, Mom would sneak out before dawn to meditate at the nearby Buddhist Monastery, surrounded by Tibetan Monks, exotic incense and the ever present prayer wheel. I guess it doesn't hurt to cover all religious bases when bandits occupy the hills behind your boarding school.

DIRE WARNING
But Mother was now crammed between my cousin and myself in the back seat of that overloaded Jeep, as we drove up Hill Cart Road towards our destination.  My face was firmly pressed snugly against one closed window, and my cousin's face pressed snugly against the opposite window. Thus, at each hairpin bend, at break-neck speed on the ill-maintained road, one of us would experience sudden vertigo when the wheels on one side of the Jeep failed to connect with the road!  

Because the road would often be washed away or destroyed by falling rocks, whoever was seated on the steep side would stare straight down the mountain - a terrifyingly sheer drop of 1000 ft. or more.

Adding to this adrenaline rush were the scary large signs, scrawled onto mountainside walls, beneath the fluttering, well-placed prayer flags.  At each turn, they warned, in large capitals - and in English 

"YOU SLEEP YOU SCREAM"

It didn't surprise me that vehicles - and their passengers - had regularly 'gone missing' on this road. Those roadside grave markers I'd seen on some of the more hair-raising turns had had to belong to someone. But their warning came too late since I was already screaming!

In this atmosphere of terror, only an act of will made me appreciate the beauty of the plains of India spreading out below us, like an enormous, dusty Persian rug, as we ascended the mountain. So it was with a sinking feeling that I realized why our jeep was being driven by a speed demon. Nightfall would soon be upon us, even though we were still many miles from our destination.

Being able to see the drop, that lay beneath half of our jeep on most turns, was bad enough. But to contemplate that fateful drop, and the likelihood of an ignoble death far from home, was beyond horrific. 

My mind began racing - and not in a good way!

Didn't bears and huge man-eating Bengal tigers roam these hills at sunset? Were they already licking their chops, waiting patiently for the next batch of gullible tourists like us to literally drop in to be their supper?

MINOR MIRACLE
To calm myself, I asked for a sign that we were meant to survive this real life Disneyland E ticket ride up the Himalayas. And on the very next corner, was my unmistakable sign.

Painted pink roses photo courtesy of: http://www.ghostcircles.com/mike

The bare white wall of a ramshackle, roadside home had been lovingly stencilled with a rose trellis and several pink roses.

Nothing man-made lasts long in India's brutal mountain climate, so old paint would surely have faded, obliterating that delicate art work within a few months. I thus reasoned that those roses could only recently have been stencilled there.

It felt like those roses had appeared in that place, just to comfort my cousin and me!

I felt, rather than saw, my cousin's relief as he exhaled deeply upon seeing those pink roses too. I wonder if he realized how incongruous they were in this setting, where most painted flowers decorate not houses but trucks. And almost 100% of those trucks sport lotus blossoms, not roses. Yet there they were, for all the world to see - full blown pink roses stencilled onto a most unlikely trellis in these treacherous foothills of the Himalayas

Now HOW did that happen?!!

Silently, I said a prayer of thanks for whomever and whatever had conspired to create our small, but perfectly timed and most reassuring, miracle. 

MEDICAL EMERGENCY
Photos by the kind courtesy of: www.tripadvisor.in   
From Bagdogra to Darjeeling is only 70 miles, yet despite our driver's obvious skill, our trip still took several hours. The many switchbacks and a narrow road, filled with potholes and cracked by frost heaves, earthquakes and rockfalls,  slowed our progress to a crawl.

The air temperature grew perceptibly cooler as we ascended into the mountains via a cat's cradle of hairpin bends. And, as the air became thinner, I was thankful that I'd remembered to pack my asthma inhaler. It was in my suitcase behind us.  And, just as soon as I could convince the man with the Uzi to move his body off my suitcase, I would immediately access it and all would be well again.

Only one problem presented itself....in rural India, unless you speak the language, it is very difficult to explain an urgent medical need to a very nervous chap who is 'on guard' and carrying a loaded weapon.

Not only was I suffering from a lamentable lack of oxygen, but I did not understand our stalwart defender's language, and I certainly did not want to risk upsetting him. So I quickly conveyed my distress to my Mother and cousin, and after a much heated debate between the driver, my Aunt, Uncle and Mother, it was decided that our vehicle would make a pit-stop on my behalf, eventually!

In retrospect, the driver had been wise to deny my frantic request to stop at the side of the road. With  "bandits" lurking in the hills ready to pounce on travellers, stopping would almost certainly invite a deadly attack. So onward we travelled, my lips turning blue, my fingers tingling and my brain hallucinating wildly until serendipity helped me to save my life. Unfortunately, it did not also help me to save face!

DARJEELING HIMALAYAN RAILWAY

Most people climb into the Himalayas from the plains of Bengal via the Darjeeling Himalayan Railway. Though it sounds like a grand affair, locomotion is actually accomplished by the small blue steam train, nicknamed The Toy Train, that looks, unbelievably, like Thomas The Tank Engine.

This small blue marvel of engineering had faithfully transported paying customers to the hill stations for several decades. My Mother, herself, rode this train when she returned to her private school for term time. And I heard my first stories about the Toy Train as a small child upon my Mother's lap. More about this amazing mode of transportation at www.darjnet.com/darjeeling/darjeeling/travel/train/train.htm

TINDHARIA STATION

Photos by the kind courtesy of: www.tripadvisor.in

We finally arrived at Tindharia Station - a now defunct rest stop, where during the British occupation, travellers paused for a most welcome cup of tea. By coincidence - or design? - the blue toy train, had also stopped there, to take on water before ascending a further 5000 feet into Darjeeling.

Today Tindharia station boasts no impressive tearoom, and, more importantly, no restroom facilities whatsoever. So all the passengers took advantage of the train's water-stop to refresh and relieve themselves. But where to go? There was only one small snack shack available for refreshments and it provided no bathrooms at all.

In my haste to connect with my asthma inhaler and put on some warmer clothes, I had not noticed my surroundings and was thus oblivious to the plight of the train passengers. Therefore, I was totally unprepared for what happened next.

Feeling warmer, breathing more easily, and duly cautioned by Mother not to venture too far, I decided to stretch my legs by taking a short walk along the narrow strip of road. Butted up against the mountain were the train tracks and, between the tracks and the roadside, a narrow ditch which collected the run off from the frequent and copious mountain rains. It was a miracle how anyone could have built a roadway through these steep mountains, much less laid and maintained tracks upon which a small train could traverse.

COMIC RELIEF
Suddenly I noticed that all the men from the train seemed to have gathered, shoulder to shoulder, on the roadside, facing the tracks. I did try to peek between two of them, to see what they were doing. But those two men gruffly elbowed me away and were decidedly unhappy about being interrupted. So I thought perhaps that women were not welcomed at this particular ritual.

Never daunted, I decided to walk to the end of their line-up, where I would squat and take a long-view photograph of the ditch ceremony from an unparalleled vantage point. Only when I got there, camera poised to photograph the event for posterity, did I realize that what I had expected to be a "religious" ceremony was in fact a mass male potty break. Meekly, I rose to my full height, put away my camera and bid a hasty retreat, to the soft chuckles of the few dozen assembled men.

I turned to see my family trying to control themselves, helpless with laughter as they watched me making a complete idiot of myself.

Oh but there was more!!

My embarrassment had only just begun...

I stumbled, red-faced, towards the ladies who had gathered on a tiny strip of unfenced land which dropped off sharply to the valley beneath, after only 20 feet or so. Mesmerized by their colourful saris, I soon noticed that these ladies had formed outward-facing circles, holding the drop of their saris at shoulder height.

Delighted that I was witnessing a dance that would make a beautiful impromptu photograph, I moved in closer, squatting once more, to get a better angle for my shot. Only then did I realize that the ladies and their saris were shielding from view another lady who had needed to relieve herself.

My awe at these ladies' simple, elegant and creative solution to a common problem, was tinged with disbelief and horror at my own sheer idiocy. Needless to say, I didn't take that photo either. 

In less than 10 minutes, I'd twice succeeded in embarrassing several dozen strangers as well as myself!  Though many of the ladies giggled fitfully as I slunk away and quietly resumed my seat in the jeep, head bowed in shame, they had also looked at me as if I was insane. And who can blame them?!

Maybe my brain had been more starved of oxygen than anyone had realized. For I can assure you, I do not make a habit of interrupting strangers who are discretely attending to their biological functions.

Those travellers who had noticed my antics had not taken offence, but had laughed and laughed till tears ran down their faces. And eventually, even I had to laugh at my own stupidity. Indeed, no harm was done, except to my ego. 

Our laughter had filled our lungs with much needed oxygen and raised our spirits for the remainder of our long journey. It was a sure and simple way for all of us to break the tension of  travelling through Taliban country with an armed guard perched upon our luggage. And in the grand scheme of things, what did it matter that my role was to be a clown providing others with a way to forget their troubles for a little while? 


I surely did wonder about the power of this land of my birth, this magical India, that had provided a spiritual lesson of some kind, at every juncture of our journey so far. From pink roses at the airport and on the trellis en route from Bagdogra, to lightening everyone's spirits through my antics as the court jester, our angels had delivered humour along with each test of faith.  
  
We were planning to spend a week in Darjeeling.  
What further surprises would this mysterious Bengal have in store for us? 

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SECTION 1 Chapter 4 Trip to Darjeeling, India   where 19th British in India went to escape the summer heat: East meets West here