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) 

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