Decisions in Old Delhi (November 23-November 25, 2008)

After breakfast, the German man and I part ways.

I wander the streets of Old Delhi, probing shops, trying to find cheap Kashmiri pashmina shawls and a place where I can exchange books I've read for ones I haven't. I am looking for a shawl similar to the one a Pakistani friend of mine gifted me in college, the kind with hand-stitched embroidery embellishing the corners and borders. I learn that Old Delhi, such a touristy place, is probably not the place I will find a good price. In fact, although pashmina shawls are probably cheaper in India than in the States, they are still more expensive than I had expected. After trying on some real (and expensive) pashmina shawls, and interrogating the salesman about discerning an authentic pashmina, I find another salesman selling cheap, wool shawls that have embroidery similar to what I had been looking for in pashmina. They are clearly of much lower quality than I would have hoped, but he takes me to his upstairs room and shows me his whole selection. I try on a red and black one, and as he has no mirror, he uses my digital camera to photograph me so I can see how I look.

I bargain hard and he offers them to me for the incredibly low prices I had requested (I think Rs. 400 for the two of them). I didn't think he'd give me that price, and I realize I don't really want them, so I say, "No, never mind, I've changed my mind." He says, "No, you can't do that." I think I've violated a rule of bargaining here, and begin to feel guilty. He begs me to buy the shawls. I will be his first sale for the day, and he's having a slow day. If he can sell these to me, it will guarantee he'll have a good day. The first sale is always a lucky one, he indicates. I buy the two shawls, justifying the purchase by telling myself they'll make good gifts for my mother and Nonna, or at least keep me warm as I travel. Only thing is, they're pretty thick and bulky (compared to pashmina).

I look for some books, but I can't find anything. I cannot remember if it is today or the following day, but one day while I am eating my thali lunch, a parade starts up in the main street of Old Delhi. It is a Sikh festival, and the Sikhs bring their communal kitchen to the streets for all to enjoy. There are brass bands and groups of school children marching through the street in parade fashion. A bus comes through decorated with strings of flowers. The Sikhs have prepared food dishes to share with all the people lining the streets of Old Delhi--chole bhature (spicy chick peas with maida flower fried bread that puffs up like a bubble), and others. Crowds surround some men giving out juice boxes and food. A good time is had by all, but the streets are left to bear the brunt of the festival.

Later in the day, I bump into the German guy. He tells me he's left a note for me with the front desk staff at our hostel. When I get to the hostel, I ask for the note. "Think about it. Do it. You may not get another chance," it reads. Of all the people to give me such advice, he must know something about not getting another chance, I reason. This is the kind of serendipity people come to India for, the kind of coincidence I had heard in other's experiences, but hadn't yet experienced myself. I've been waiting for this all along. Something outside of myself to direct me. My inclination to stay in India for another three months is gaining validity.

Now, I must insert here, that I think I was in Old Delhi for approximately two days and three nights, before I headed off to Gurgaon for Thanksgiving and R&R at Austin's Google guesthouse. I cannot recall the exact order in which the aforementioned events took place, and in what order they occurred.

In any case, I believe it was on the evening of my first day in Old Delhi, after the shawls and the Sikh festival and the note, that I had another serendipitous encounter. I returned to the cute, comfortable cafe where I had been treated to breakfast that morning. I sat alone, looking around at all the travelers who had others to talk to, or who were reserving places for friends. I felt alone, but strong. In came two travelers. They tried to sit down, but another person said, "these seats are reserved for friends."

"Sit here," I said, "I have no friends." I guess I was a little down on myself. They sat across from me, and I recognized American accents. I hadn't talked to an American in a while. Although I was a bit sick of talking to travelers by this point, I asked them where they were from, how long they'd been in India, when they were heading home, etc. They were both originally from San Francisco, but the woman was currently residing in Oregon and running her own travel and outdoor recreation business. They had come to India for a friend's wedding. "I'm leaving early tomorrow morning," the woman said, "but he's..." Stephen was his name. Turns out he was scheduled to leave with her, but contemplating extending his flight.

I told them I had the same quandary. I couldn't believe I was meeting someone even more indecisive than myself, someone who would wait just a few hours before his flight to change his itinerary. He said he felt that he hadn't fully experienced India, that he was still waiting for some spiritual inspiration, the thing people come to India for. I think that for both of us, the decision-making process brought us into our first serendipitous moments in India. For me, these were with the German man and Stephen, and for Stephen, it was with me. I told him about my experience with the German man, about how with his advice, I was leaning very strongly toward staying another three or so months in India, and fulfilling my goal of staying at an ashram and visiting spice gardens. I think this was the mirror Stephen needed to look in, to learn that his soul also wanted to stay a bit longer.

He decided that night to call his airline and change his ticket. He told me that it was because of his meeting with me that he was able to make this decision. I divulged that now I felt very responsible for his well-being and positive experience in India, but he assured me that it was not my responsibility. He seemed very happy about his decision and promptly made plans to leave some of the heavy luggage (for example, a bike kickstand) at the hotel so he could travel light.

I stayed one more day in Old Delhi, and probably met up with Stephen after his friend left on her scheduled flight. But I cannot remember exactly what I did on those days in Old Delhi.

I do know that Stephen was a wonderful person to have in Inida. Although we did not meet up after Old Delhi, we kept in touch via Facebook messages, offering each other our joys and struggles, our doubts and assurances about our decisions. He thanked me many times for helping him fulfill his personal destiny and deepen his spiritual journey in India. He sat in a 10-day Vipassana meditation course and made good friends with a Keralan family who owned a guesthouse. He ended up staying in India maybe 1-2 months longer than I, but we still kept in touch.

Mahananda Express to Old Delhi (New Jaipalguri-Old Delhi, November 21-23, 2008)

I usually book my train tickets online and it has overall been very convenient. At the time of booking a train from New Jaipalguri to Delhi, the only open train I can find is the Mahananda Express, which travels this route every day of the week. Little do I know, it also has a reputation to be one of the slowest trains. I am scheduled to depart at 11:15am on November 21, and arrive at the Old Delhi station at 6pm on November 22. That's already a 31 hour train ride. In the middle of the night, I wake up and realize we are often stopped for long periods of time. It seems the Mahananda Express is no "express" at all; it must have a low priority on the tracks. We stop for long periods of time on and off throughout the journey. The train ends up arriving at the Old Delhi station about seven hours late, at around 1am, making the journey a 38 hour ride.

I don't mind a slow train. I really love train rides, just sitting back and enjoying the scenery, both outside and inside the cabin. And getting through books I want to read. Time stops when I am in transit, and I like the opportunity to relax.

I cannot recall who shares my cabin. It may be a mother and her two daughters on the long bunks, and a man on the short window bunk, with a few bunks to spare. Somehow the conversation turns to dance, and I learn that the mother is a classical Indian dance instructor near Delhi--maybe in Chandigarh. I ask if she can recommend places to study dance in India, and she says she can teach me! I am too timid to ask how this might work--fees, housing, other logistics. But I politely say that would be nice, though I might be leaving the country in just four days. I also have a conversation with the older daughter about Bollywood. I tell her my friend's co-worker at Google is the cousin of Deepika Padukone, one of the biggest heroines at the moment. Smart and mature, she says, "Eh, these things pass. In a little while, there will be someone new." At one stop, the mother and daughters meet some relatives on the platform. The relatives hand them some fresh food. The younger girl looks like she's crying because she had to say goodbye to her relatives so quickly. The man at the short window bed offers us bananas throughout the trip, always saying, "take, take."

I cannot recall if I am confusing train trips, but I believe that at one point the mother and daughters disembark. The short window bed man stays on. This might be a memory from another trip, or it might be from this trip. I also remember sharing a cabin with two men who are apparently powerful members of the Indian police. They tell me that if I need anything, they can help. Near the end of the trip, they seem to drink some alcohol and get a little tipsy. The higher-up in the police force keeps inviting me to his mother's village home. He says that 70% of Indians live in villages, and if I haven't been to a village yet, then I haven't seen the "real" India. He says his mother will treat me like a daughter. It sounds interesting, but I am much too wise by now to accept such an offer as a single female traveler. Luckily, I have an excuse because I have a flight scheduled to leave the country in a few days.

The other memorable passenger from this train ride is the only other Western traveler on my train car. I avoid talking to him for the first part of the journey. I am sick of small talk with other travelers by now, repeating questions such as, "Where are you from? What have you seen? How long will you be in India?" But then, maybe halfway into our journey or so, after having stepped out on the platform and staring out the open door for a while, he comes and sits across from me.

"This train is so slow. We're already so late," he complains to me. "Yeah, this is India," I reply. This short sentence is often used by travelers and Indians alike as a comprehensive explanation of situations here. He doesn't seem placated. I can tell he needs someone to complain to, and that someone is me. He says he's taking the train back to Delhi because he has to go to a travel agent to pick up a refund on a flight that was canceled. This is another thing he's angry about.

At one point in our conversation, a very young newspaper wala sells us the newspaper. I don't know the real price, but I am happy to pay the five rupees he requests. I reason that if he is ripping me off, I don't mind because I am supporting a child who's working rather than begging, and it's only five rupees. But the Westerner across from me argues with the mere child. "It's really supposed to be three rupees, but you blacked out the price on the front. I'll only pay the real price." Then the man brushes the child away. At another point I give a child who is sweeping the cabin a tip, and the man again shoos the child away. "Sometimes you have to tell 'em to fuck off," he says, "Sometimes it's the only way to get 'em away."

I am certainly not impressed by this man, but it's nice to be able to talk to someone, and I have nothing else to do, so we continue our conversation. I soon realize that the conversation is basically one-sided, that this man doesn't want to listen to my India stories, and merely needs to voice his. I learn he is from Germany and has just started receiving his pension, and so decided to revisit India. He had been here many years ago and wanted to see how it changed. He looks young to be receiving a pension, so I ask how this was possible. "My medical condition," he says, "I went to the doctor and they filled out the forms, and the government approved."

A little later in the conversation, I ask him what his condition is. It may seem like I am asking very personal questions, but I find that travelers usually open up to each other because we'll probably never see one another again. "AIDS," he says. I am a bit taken aback, although I do my best to hide this. He is the first person I've met who I know has the disease. I always thought I'd meet a person in a third-world country with AIDS, or in a shelter or something. But he looked so normal. Which is, of course, the point. AIDS is not obvious.

I continue to probe whenever I feel this is appropriate in the conversation. He says he worked in Japan as a young man, learning how to translate Japanese and German. He seems very intelligent. The type of person who is maybe too intelligent to know how to interact with others. He says he believes he contracted AIDS sometime while he was traveling in Asia. I'm thinking he got a bad blood transfusion or stepped on a used needle. He didn't find out he had the disease until maybe 10 years after being infected.

I am just baffled by how this could happen to a person. Later, I ask if he knows more specifically where he was infected. "Thailand," he says. Oh. Sex industry, I realize. Wow. This is the first person I meet with AIDS, and I am sorry to say I have no sympathy for him. He has complained to me, acted uncaring toward street children, and now I learn that it was his own risky (and, in my mind unethical and disgusting) behavior that caused his situation. Writing this now I feel terrible. But at the time, I was just stuck with this gruff man talking at me.

We continue talking. He says his antiretroviral drugs are working the way they are supposed to. He got an early pension because he needs to take mid-day naps and tires easily at work. But he doesn't seem to be in a terrible situation. Yet, he will not tell his doctor about his India trip until he returns to Germany. And one of his medications is supposed to be refrigerated, which traveling in India does not allow. He says he has three chances to relapse, and this hasn't happened yet. He'll get his blood tested when he returns. He also thinks he contracted Hepatitis B while traveling, another thing to deal with when he gets home.

The train is so late, it's looking like we'll be arriving at the Old Delhi station past midnight. I am beginning to be worried about navigating Old Delhi alone to find a hotel, so I ask what the German man's plans are. He thinks he'll just sleep at the traveler's room at the train station, or in the station waiting room. I don't want to do this, and finally I convince him to split a rickshaw with me to get from the station to Old Delhi. I call a hotel listed in the Lonely Planet and make a reservation--two single rooms--for us. Then we go to our bunks and sleep for the beginning of our second night on the train. We are woken up at around 1am to disembark. I try to bargain hard for a rickshaw, but at this hour in such a touristy destination, we have little luck. Because we got in so late, when we arrive at the hotel, our rooms have already been occupied. The hotel owner recommends another place and promises we'll get the same price. One of his workers walks us to the second place, probably owned my the first owner, or by a close relative.

We are given two rooms--one cheaper room on the first floor just across from the reception desk, and a much nicer room upstairs. Somehow the German man manages to get the nicer room, and I am stuck with the noisier reception area room. He goes up to sleep and I double-check on the prices to make sure they're really the same rate. Not surprisingly, both rooms are more expensive than the original hotel--especially the upstairs room. I bargain hard to make sure we only have to pay the first price we were quoted.

The next morning I see the German guy (I cannot remember his name) and he thanks me for getting him a beautiful 400 rupee room for 200 rupees, which he will stay in for the next few days before his flight. Apparently he had heard my bargaining. He says he'll buy me breakfast as a thanks, and we head off to a nice cafe he remembered from the first time he was in Old Delhi.

At breakfast I divulge my dilemma. I don't know if I should leave with my scheduled flight on November 25, or if I should extend my ticket and study yoga at an ashram and see more of India. Thanksgiving is coming up and I am getting a little homesick. It will be hard to be away for Thanksgiving and Christmas. But I have this nagging feeling that there is still more for me to do in India... I haven't accomplished all I had set out to do...

Sightseeing in Darjeeling (West Bengal, November 18-21, 2008)

I end up spending about five days in Darjeeling, which is more than I had expected. There are many sights on the Darjeeling tourist list, and I am determined to see most of them. My arrival and departure dates are quite rushed, so I suppose I really only end up using three of the days for sightseeing. The other two days are for moving in and out.

First, I take a two-hour tourist "joy ride" ride on the Toy Train, and visit the train museum en route. The British are credited with directing the construction of the Darjeeling Himalayan Railway, or Toy Train, in the mountains of Northern West Bengal. Its inaugural journey was in September 1881, and it is one of the few hill railways still operating in India (India Lonely Planet 535). Without it, the region would have been geographically and economically disconnected from the rest of the country. Thus, although the British presence in South Asia was detrimental in many ways, colonization also resulted in important development projects that had a positive impact. Despite their oppression under British rule, many Indians today seem to retain a subtle sense of reverence for the Crown.

I also visit Observatory Hill, which was the site of the Dorje Ling Monastery (the city's namesake), and is sacred to both Buddhists and Hindus. Today, devotees of both religions come to a temple in a small cave to honor Mahakala, a Buddhist deity and an angry form of the Hindu god Shiva. I arrive at dusk and am a little confused as to where the interfaith temple is located. There are a few other worship spaces on the hill, a labyrinth of prayer flags and devotional bells. A Hindu man eagerly offers to take me on to the temple. Although I should know better by now, I tell him "no money," and because he concurs, I decide to follow. He shows me that, indeed, this is a site for both Hindus and Buddhists--pointing out the iconography and small sculptures unique to each religion. He then walks me through a Hindu prayer, dabs color on my forehead, and shows me now to tie a special knot with a red string, which he advises me to use to pray for my family. As we are walking away from the temple, he asks if I want to buy some marijuana. I didn't see that one coming! Apparently at the other worship spaces, it is common Hindu practice to smoke weed. I tell him no and walk away. I circle the hill a few times, hoping for a nice sunset view and photo opp of the Himalayas and Mt. Khangchendzonga, but this is not to be had.

I cannot recall the order in which I visit the next sights (it has already been six months since I was in Darjeeling), but during the next couple days I visit the following:

I walk quite a ways from my hotel, through Chowrasta, Darjeeling's town center, and to the Tibetan Refugee Self-Help Centre. According to my India Lonely Planet, this refugee center, established in 1959, "comprises a home for the aged, school, orphanage, clinic, gompa and craft workshops that produce carpets, woodcarvings, leatherwork and woollen items" (536). Not listed are the village toilets, my first stop. A sheltered, long, shallow trench (rather than the usual deep hole in the ground), they definitely make my "worst toilets" list for the trip. Things get better as I visit the craft workshops, however. Most of the Tibetan artisans are willing to let me photograph them, and I get some great photos as they spin yarn, some on bicycle wheels.

After the Refugee Center, I continue walking quite a distance in search of Happy Valley Tea Estate, the only Darjeeling tea plantation listed in my guidebook. En route, I take a break at some roadside stands selling Darjeeling tea. Not knowing how long I'll have to wait to find a proper restaurant along my walk, I'm happy to satisfy my hunger a stand that prepares fresh vegetarian momos for me. The savvy saleswoman also prepares samples of tea for me, and I am sold on the silver leaf tea. I buy a nice box for Austin, who has been such a gracious host in Delhi. I also buy a cheaper bag of green tea to take back home.

I continue walking on my way, asking for directions to make sure I don't get off track. I am determined to see a tea plantation here because Darjeeling is famous for its tea. According to my India Lonely Planet guidebook, "The tea bush was first brought to Darjeeling from Assam by British planters looking for a way to break China's monopoly over the tea trade. Credit for the discovery of tea as it's drunk in the Western world should really go to the Khamti and Singpho tribes of Assam, who first introduced British explorers to the healing powers of fermented tea leaves brewed in hot water. Darjeeling produces around 25% of India's tea, including some of the world's finest brews...Teas from estates around Darjeeling and Kurseong (also marketed as Darjeeling tea) regularly and justifiably achieve the world's highest prices" (535).

I finally arrive at the Happy Valley Tea Estate, only to find that I am late for the unofficial tour. A friendly employee, however, lets me inside and doesn't even accept a tip! Although the machines have shut down for the day, I still get to see the withering trough, where high-speed fans reduce the moisture content of the leaves, before they're rolled with heavy rollers to force the remaining water onto the surface. The rolled leaves are then fermented in a high-humidity chamber to produce their distinctive flavor. Fermentation is stopped by passing the leaves through a dry air chamber, which reduces the moisture. The finished tea is sorted into grades--unbroken leaves are set aside for Golden Flowery Orange Pekoe teas, while broken leaves end up as Golden Broken Orange Pekoe, Orange Fannings and Dust--and then graded by expert tasters. Low-grade leaves are blended into household teas, while the best leaves are sold to international tea traders (India Lonely Planet 535). I also see a few women working in a separate room, finishing off their leaf sorting for the day. After visiting the tea plantation, I continue on my way back to the center of town and to my hotel.

Another day I walk from Chowrasta to the Padmaja Naidu Himalayan Zoological Park and the Himalayan Mountaineering Institute. The zoo was built to conserve and preserve Himalayan fauna, including Himalayan black bears, red pandas, snow leopards, Tibetan wolves, and India's only collection of Siberian tigers. It is quite impressive in that the animals are caged outdoors, in a rocky and forested natural environment.

The Himalayan Mountaineering Institute is near the zoological park. Although this is not my main interest, my Uncle Mike and brother are both climbers, and they have piqued my interest in the sport. The Institute, founded in 1954, both provides training to some of India's leading mountaineers, and hosts the fascinating Everest Museum, which traces the history of attempts on the world's highest peak. Next door is the Mountaineering Museum, with a relief model of the Himalaya, dusty specimens of Himalayan fauna and more historic mountaineering equipment (India Lonely Planet 536). I am especially interested in the history of attempts at Everest, captured in historical documents such as newspaper clippings.

On my third day in Darjeeling, I am surprised to run into the Czech Buddhists I had befriended in Sikkim. We plan to tour Darjeeling together the next day, but they have to book a flight to Nepal as the overland route is temporarily closed due to flooding. Instead, I tour myself and we plan to meet up in the evening to see a Bollywood film. Unfortunately, I am running late and so I go to the theatre alone, hoping to run into them.

I enjoy the film Dostana, which is Hindi for "friendship." It is a comedy about two Hindi men living in Miami who pretend to be gay in order to convince an apartment owner to rent an apartment to them. The owner hesitates because here niece lives in one of the three apartments, but because they are gay, she allows them to rent. Predictably, they both fall in love with the woman, named Neha. What follows is a series of funny scenarios as they try to win the girl while juggling their fake identities. Although the plot is unoriginal, it makes the Hindi film easy for me to understand. I enjoy the music, dancing and humor very much. Apparently, this is the first Hindi film that addresses homosexuality.

I am disappointed to miss the Czechs at the theater, so I walk to their hotel, hoping they will be in the dining area. Luckily, the two Katkas are sitting at the table, and I am able to deliver the box of sweets I bought for them. Soon, the rest of the Czechs come into the dining area, and I am able to hug them all goodbye one last time.

The next day I leave my Darjeeling hotel and take a 2.5 hour share taxi to Siliguri. I am a little worried I will miss my train, as the car isn't filling up quickly, and we have to slow down to pick up travelers along the way. But the driver assures me I'll make the train. He leaves me off in Siliguri, and I take a share rickshaw to nearby New Jalpaiguri, where I will catch my train to Delhi on the same day. At this point, I am still debating whether I should extend my flight, which was originally scheduled to depart Delhi on November 25. I don't want to miss the train, because it might be a few days before I can book another seat, and that would be cutting it close to my flight.

Arriving in Darjeeling, aka Gorkhaland (West Bengal, November 17, 2008)

In the early morning, I take a share jeep from Yuksom to Pelling, where I pick up the bag in which I had left the majority of my stuff with the kind folks at Hotel Kabur. From Pelling, I take a short ride in a share jeep to Geyzing, a transit hub where I catch a third share jeep to Jorethang. Here, I have a quick lunch of vegetarian momos, a Tibetan dumpling with spicy red sauce which I know will be harder to come by in less Buddhist parts of India. I find the share taxi to Darjeeling, climb into the front seat and wait until the taxi fills to capacity and we are able to embark on the two-hour journey to Darjeeling, West Bengal.

After arriving in Darjeeling, I climb a huge hill, following a maze of crowded, narrow streets that weave between homes, restaurants and shops. The lower portion seems to mainly appeal to the locals, and as I climb, I see pockets of markets and streets geared to the tourists, likely climbing the hill for a panoramic view of the Himalayan backdrop, and especially Mount Khangchendzonga (8598 meters). I have also found that the higher, more strenuous the climb, the cheap the hotel.

I follow the advice of the Deepen and Deepesh at Hotel Kabur an find the hotel they recommend, near the top of the hill. After comparing this to a few other hotels, I decide on it because of the price and the functional hot water heater for the shower. Darjeeling, like Sikkim, is cold, and I want to be sure I will have access to hot water, even if it is only during certain times of the day. Other than this, there isn't much special about the hotel, except for a very helpful young man (perhaps the owner's son), who draws me detailed maps to facilitate sight-seeing in a city with very confusing paths and roads. There is also a nice restaurant near the top floor.

Even though we are not supposed to do laundry in our rooms due to water shortages--and are instead supposed to pay someone to do our laundry for us--I manage to continue washing my own clothes. It is something have done throughout my journey not only to save money, but because it is the little bit of work I have to do while traveling, and I grow to enjoy the daily routine of bucket washing my clothes, stringing a drying line between chairs or window frames, and hoping my clothes dry reasonably quickly.

According to my India Lonely Planet, "the Darjeeling area belonged to the Buddhist chogyals (kings) of Sikkim until 1780, when it was annexed by the invading Gurkhas from Nepal. The Gurkha's aggressive territorial expansion led to growing conflicts with the British and, after several battles, the East India Company gained control of the region in 1816. The company then returned most of the lands back to Sikkm in exchange for British control over any future border disputes.

"During one such dispute in 1828, two British officers stumbled across the Dorje Ling monastery, on a tranquil forested ridge, and passed word to Calcutta that it would be a perfect site for a sanatorium; they were sure to have also mentioned its strategic military importance in the region. The Chogyal of Sikkim (still grateful for the return of his kingdom) happily leased the uninhabited land to the East India Company in 1835 and a hill station was born. Forest gradually made way for colonial houses and tea plantations, and by 1857 the population of Darjeeling reached 10,000, mainly because of a massive influx of Gurkha laborers from Nepal.

"After Independence, the Gurkhas became the main political force in Darjeeling and friction with the state government led to calls for separate state of Gorkhaland in the1980s...A compromise was hammered out in late 1988, which granted the newly formed Darjeeling Gorkha Hill Council (DGHC) a large measure of autonomy from the state government. Although this appeased some Gurkhas, the breakaway Gorkhaland Liberation Organisation (GLO) and its armed wing, the Gorkha Volunteers' Cell (GVC), have continued to call for full secession" (530).

Indeed, the Gorkhaland independence movement is still very alive today. I had heard from other travelers that during the month preceding my visit to Darjeeling, local people had organized a series of Gorkha cultural events. They used these as a peaceful protest demonstrating their unique culture compared to the rest of West Bengal, and as an argument for independence. When I was in Darjeeling, I came upon an ongoing hunger strike in Chowrasta, the town center near the top of the hill. At this time, a group of girls from a school were participating. I also saw numerous Gorkhaland flags flying high, Gorkha independence slogans painted in public places, and even Gorkhaland license plates.

Yuksom (Sikkim, November 15-17, 2008)

We arrive in Yuksom in late afternoon and have lunch. While the Czechs go to Sikkim's oldest gompa (monastery), Dubdi Gompa, I use the Internet at the Community Information Center to write mom and buy a train ticket to Delhi so that I don't miss my flight in the case that I decide against extending my plane ticket.

We stay at Hotel Demadzong. It is actually colder here than in Khecheopalri Lake, but I have three blankets, so I am warm at night. I take a lukewarm shower and then crawl into bed the first night. I had planned to meet the Czechs at a restaurant for dinner and for a beer, but it turns out everything closes at 8pm. I am so tired and cold that I don't meet them later at the hotel bar/restaurant.

The next day, we wake up and have breakfast at the hotel restaurant, as the Czechs had arranged it the previous night. The food served is not nearly enough, and so we go across the street to the restaurant at which we ate the previous night and extend our breakfast. I order an apple pancake in addition to the banana-honey porridge I had at the hotel restaurant. The apple pancake is amazing! The Czechs eat a lunch-like breakfast--ordering chop suey and much else.

After breakfast we walk together to Norbugang Park, which contains a prayer house, chorten and the supposedly original Coronation Throne (Norbugang) where the trio of Tibetan holy men were crowned the first chogyal of Sikkim in 1641. In fact, according to the Lonely Planet, the word Yuksom means, "meeting place of the three lamas." We visit the prayer house first and find a giant prayer wheel inside. We not only spin it, we hold onto it and let it drag us across the floor (clockwise, of course) as if it is a playground game. Sacrilegious, yes. The throne is not that impressive, but we are excited to spot the governor of Sikkim and his entourage walking through the park. The Czech Buddhists decide to meditate at one end of the park, and Katka and I decide to go on a hike while we wait for them. We start heading down a hill, but stop because we don't want to have to hike up again. We return to the site of their meditation, and notice some locals sorting a wheat-like crop nearby. We try to ask what it is, and I think they say it is millet, used to make the local brew.

Later in the day, I make my way to Dubdi Gompa, Sikkim's oldest monastery, established in 1701. The climb is steep, and there is no resident monk to open the buildings, but I am determined to see the sight. There are some stupas along the path leading to the gompa. Characteristically, the gompa and the newer cubic prayer house at the top of the hill high above Yuksom are painted colorfully. There are few people around, except for three local guys who ask me to take their picture. I am especially proud of a close-up picture I take of a bright green grasshopper clinging to the monastery's vivid red and yellow wall.

That night, we gather at the hotel restaurant/bar and, at the request of the Czechs, the owner has prepared the local millet-based alcohol in a huge pot. He adds hot water to the millet and we sip through thin straws made of wood. He says he won't serve us dinner until we finish all the alcohol, to which he keeps adding hot water. We circle the straws around the room. Finally, we finish the alcohol to the manager's satisfaction and can have dinner. At some point, Beda finds a guitar and plays and sings. We have such fun. Finally, it is time to go to sleep, and I say good-bye to each of the friends who had been so kind to let me tag along on their hikes and share biscuits and meals. They have shown concern for me as a single female traveler, and offer their hospitality if I ever make it to Prague. I am sad to be separating from them, but know I have my own time constraints.

I wake up early the next morning, quietly dress and pack so as to not wake my roommate Katka, descend the stairs to the street, walk to the share jeep stand and wait. I am on my way to Darjeeling today, but the route is not direct. I will go from Yuksom to Pelling to pick up my pack and the bulk of my belongings at Hotel Kabur, then take a short share jeep ride to Geyzing, which is a transit hub, then take another share jeep to Jorethang, another transit hub, and finally arrive in Darjeeling, West Bengal.

Khecheopalri Lake: The Dalai Lama's Personal Chef, Czech Buddhists and Mountain Caves (Sikkim, November 12-15, 2008)

In the afternoon a share jeep that has left from Geyzing picks me up at Hotel Kabur in Pelling, along with two not particularly friendly Australian tourists, and takes us to Khecheopalri Lake. One of the Australian tourists had just finished reading The Road by Cormac McCarthy and is going to donate it to the hotel library (which consists of about five shelves of books), but I ask him if I can have it and he gives it to me. "It looks like a quick read," I say. "It's good. It's depressing," he says. When I later read the book on a train ride back to Delhi, I am endlessly grateful he gave it to me. I am awed by McCarthy's writing as I absorb his post-apocalyptic story of a father and son venturing across a desolate America.

The hike up to Pala's Guest House is up an incredibly steep hill. A boy, maybe 11 or 12 years old, wearing a T-shirt that reads, "Sid Vicious--Drugs Kill," is at the bottom of the hill to ensure we make the ascent. I am surprised that I stay ahead of the Australian couple, who seem to be struggling. I walk with the boy most of the time, but when he asks me questions, it is difficult for me to catch my breath and respond. I am just hoping the guest house is nice, because I don't want to leave the hill and find another after the climb. The rooms are perhaps the most basic I stay in throughout my entire trip. The walls and floors are thin wood, my bed is a slab of hard wood, and I have to ask several times for another blanket, as nights are cold. My light switch is in the room of another traveler, so I turn my light on and off by screwing and unscrewing the light bulb.

Despite the rustic conditions of the guest house, the legacy and personality of its owner makes the stay worthwhile. Pala, born in the same village that is now home to his guest house, lived in Tibet to attend monastery when he was younger. He eventually became the personal chef of the Dalai Lama. He had two previous wives, but they were killed by the Chinese during the Communist Revolution. He then moved back to his village near Khecheopalri Lake in Sikkim, where he now runs the guest house and teaches meditation. He is a lama in the Nigma tradition, which is a part of Tibetan Buddhism. (The Dalai Lama is a lama in the Galupa tradition. The third form of Tibetan Buddhism is Karmakachi. This is information I gleaned from the Czech Buddhists I befriended.) Pala is ethnically Lepcha, which is a tribe from Tibet. He is 82 years old and has fathered 11 children with his third wife. The youngest child is six years old. A lama is a teacher who, unlike a monk, is allowed to have a family.

Almost immediately when we arrive, dinner is served. With the former chef for the Dalai Lama overseeing the preparation of food, all our meals are excellent. They usually consist of bhat (rice), dhal (lentils) and two choices of subji (vegetables). On this particular night, one of the subji is beans and potatoes and the other is greens. There is always hot water in a thermos for making hot chai, and sometimes cardamom pods to add. When it gets dark, I move to the fire, around which other travelers sit for warmth. I chat with the Australians and also meet a guy from the UK who likes to talk. I go to bed early, as it gets quite cold at night.

I am very fortunate to meet a group of 10 friendly travelers from the Czech Republic, nine of whom are Buddhist, and one of whom is a friend and tagging along. With the fall of Communism and state regulations on religion, there is a surge of young people exploring their religious options in the former USSR. Consequently, there are quite a few Czech Buddhist tourists who are attracted to this part of India. The Czechs I befriend all belong to the same sangha back home and Pavel, who has already traveled in India and Nepal, has organized the itinerary for their pilgrimage. They are mainly sticking to the important Buddhist sights, found in Bihar, Sikkim, Nepal and Bodhgaya. They prefer the more natural, peaceful parts of India and didn't seem to have the best experience when they first entered the country in Delhi. Then again, most travelers don't have positive first impressions of the country. That comes after learning how to navigate the touts and traffic, and after making many mistakes.

Katka is Pavel's girlfriend, and she has brought her friend, also named Katka, and the only non-Buddhist in their group. Beda and Mira are two of the more boisterous members of the group, often cracking jokes and drinking alcohol. I didn't know Buddhists could drink so much alcohol, but I suppose culture overrules religion in this situation. Beda, Mira, Katka and I spend maybe two nights talking and laughing around the campfire as the other Czechs couple off to bed. Alena and Tomas (I think, but could have been Dan) are a couple, but I cannot speak to them much because they don't speak English. Dan (or could have been Tomas) is a nice guy who is very precise with the photographs he takes. There is one other couple, but I am sorry I didn't record their names. They are on a slower travel schedule and will spend more time in Sikkim and in South Asia.

The next day (November 13), the Czechs invite me to hike with them to important caves where famous Buddhists have meditated. Apparently they had tried to get to the first cave the previous day, but had become lost in "the jungle" in the dark, and so decide to attempt it again with a guide. The guide is the same young boy who led me up the hill, presumably Pala's son. Our first hike is to Guru Rimpoche cave, where Rimpoche, an important yogi/lama in the Nigma tradition had meditated. Pala has meditated in the same cave for three months at a time. The hike to the cave is quite a surprise for me. We go through jungle-like forests, with walking paths no wider than two feet and having a steep drop-off on the edge, and with ground that is often wet, slippery and not always dense or stable. I am impressed that the Czechs were able to navigate the jungle the previous night, and now understand why they kept calling it "the jungle" in their retelling of how they got lost. I find that going down is more difficult than going up for me because I am so afraid of slipping and falling. I am surprised I am able to keep up pretty well, however. We return to Pala's guest house for an excellent lunch, similar to the previous night's dinner. Our breakfast this day had consisted of a Tibetan pancake (my favorite of Pala's creations), fried egg and sliced potato with a light sauce.

After lunch, Pala leads us to the next cave, named after Mela Ripa, the most famous Tibetan yogi. As legend has it, when Mela Ripa's father died, people wanted to steal the belongings of him and his mother. At his mother's request, he began to practice black magic and was successful at killing his enemies. He then realized what he had done and began to practice meditation. He became a very good ascetic and had to practice very hard to make up for his tremendous sin. Because he ate only nettles, he is always depicted as having green skin. As with the Guru Rimpoche cave, there is a small opening through which to go further into the cave. We go in and out the same hole at Mela Ripa cave, but Pala comes out a different, more challenging hole.

On our walk home, Pala leads us to the home of one of his village friends. We are invited into an attached room where there is a fire pit and cobs of corn hanging densely from the ceiling. Two men are performing a Nepalese healing ceremony, dancing ecstatically throughout the house and outdoors. Apparently a sick person died recently and they need to purify the area by doing this. We are given chhang, a local alcohol made out of fermented millet. I take a sip and decide to stop, trying to pawn my cup off to one of the Czechs who is willing to drink it. We hike back to Pala's Guest House and chat over dinner and around the fire.

The next morning (November 14), we gather for a breakfast of fried noodles with vegetables, tossed with spongy chunks that are either yak cheese or eggs. The Czechs invite me on yet another cave excursion, and once again I tag along, completely oblivious to the challenging hike that is to come. Today we are headed to Green Tara cave, the most famous in Khecheopalri Lake. According to my Czech Buddhist friends, Green Tara is an emanation of the Buddha's energy field. She gives people a kind of wealth--that is, she gives them what they need so that they are satisfied. Doma is the Tibetan name for Tara and means "to liberate." The color green symbolizes a strong connection with animals. Since it is the most well-known cave, Pavel (the unofficial group leader) erroneously reasons the route leading to it will be the easiest. In actuality, it requires a 500 meter ascension at a pretty steep grade, and a 500 meter descent to return. Our guides are Deepen, the twin brother of Deepesh, who owns Hotel Kabur in Pelling, and Deepen's girlfriend Chudy, one of Pala's daughters. Near the cave, Pala has a small building that is a meditation center. We return to Pala's Guest House in the afternoon for a great meal of dhal, bhat and subji.

At night, we sit around a fire and Pala tells stories. I have a difficult time understanding because his English is so broken. The Czechs seem to be able to understand better because they have a background in Buddhism. Deepen sometimes translates. One lesson I do understand is that being clean inside, as opposed to outside, allows one to rise up. At one point Pala picks up a red coal from the fire, juggles it between his hands, and then places it in his mouth for maybe one minute, maintaining a placid expression on his face. The Czech Buddhists tell me this is a technique used to warm the body, especially during long meditations in the cold mountains. The coal meditation unites the internal fire with the fire from the coal. Since this is our last night, Pala gives us a farewell gift of a locally-brewed alcohol made of vegetables and rice. As with the chhang, I don't drink more than a few sips.

The next day (November 15), we plan our departure. I am torn between hiking to Yuksom or sharing a jeep. Seven of the Czechs do the hike from Khecheopalri to Yuksom, but three of them and I share the cost of a jeep. We also take many of the hiker's bags with us. The ride is only about two hours long, but on very rough roads, so the driver needs to backtrack to Geyzing to get more oil before picking us up, and this makes the ride expensive (Rs. 1400 total; I pay Rs. 225). I do regret not having done the hike, but I chose not to for good reason. I was afraid I would have slowed everyone down. Also, I was sore from the previous two days of hiking and didn't want to get sick or hurt.

Picturesque Pelling (Sikkim, November 9-12, 2008)

I arrive the evening of November 9 in Pelling, which is closer (though not as close as I thought it would be) to Mount Khangchendzonga and therefore has more spectacular views. I go directly to Hotel Kabur, which had been highly recommended to me by the American couple, and it is one of the best places I stay my entire trip. I pay only Rs. 250 for a single, and even get a towel, soap and toilet paper. The best part is the hotel's cozy upstairs restaurant, complete with wooden walls and candles on the tables. The owner, Deepesh, is in the process of purchasing a fireplace for it. Attached is an outside deck with gorgeous views of Khangchendzonga.

The owner Deepesh is a very kind Newari man who turns out to have a twin brother, Deepen, who formerly owned the hotel. Deepen now has his own construction company and is building a monastery school for local Buddhist children. The Newa people, according to Wikipedia, are the indigenous people of Nepal's Kathmandu Valley, descendants of citizens of Medieval Nepal. "They are a linguistic community with Tibeto-Burman and Indo ethnicity/race, bound together by a common language, Nepal Bhasa." The two brothers are always coming in and out of the hotel and I can never discern who I've just seen in another part of town, and who I'm now talking to. Their extended family is always coming in and out of the hotel, as is their friend, a local tour guide. All are friendly and Deepesh, Deepen and the guide are particularly helpful in my trip planning.

The first night I hang out in the restaurant. I meet some Americans (who think I am British!). The have just come from Nepal and highly recommend it. I am tempted, but decide ultimately that I'll need to save it for another trip. I order some banana porridge. Around a coffee table are 2 British men (who thought I was French!) with a local who is playing guitar and obviously drunk. One of the British men later confesses that he is their tour guide and he drinks all day long, and insists they drink with him. He's obviously a very happy drunk, if his rendition of "Knockin' on Heaven's Door" is any indication. After conversation with one of the British guys and a honey pancake, which I had been craving, I tuck myself into bed under two thick blankets and one thin one. It is significantly cooler here at nights than Siliguri was.

For my second day, I plan to see most of the sights so that I can finish them the next day and move on. However, I run into trouble when I need to cancel a train ticket I had scheduled for November 11th and no longer want to use so that I can stay in Sikkim longer. The ticket was purchased on the Internet, but all the Internet in Pelling is not working. The hotel owner drives me to nearby Geyzing (he drives over a rock halfway there and needs to stop, while I continue on alone). The train ticket office is not able to help me because I have an e-ticket. I find a share jeep to Tikjuk, where they allegedly have working Internet, but then the Indian men waiting in the jeep with me (they are in Sikkim for an engineering conference) suggest I contact a friend who can cancel it for me. I can't believe I hadn't thought of this earlier! I text Austin and also ask for the number of Phool Chatti Ashram so that I can cancel my reservation with the yoga program for the third time, as I will be staying in Sikkim longer.

Instead of Tikjuk, I ask the share jeep driver to drop me off at Rabdentse, en route to Pelling. Rabdentse was Sikkim's capital from 1670-1814 and is now the site of well-marked ruins. I arrive via a scenic stone trail. The tourist department has kept this site very nice (especially compared to some of the attractions in India). There are great views of Khangchendzonga framed by the ruins.

After Rabdentse, I walk to Pemayangtse Gompa (monastery), which translates to, "Perfect Sublime Lotus." Built in 1705, it is one of Sikkim's oldest and most significant Nyingmapa gompas. Unfortunately, it is getting dark and I cannot go upstairs the main prayer hall to visit Zandog Palri. According to my Lonely Planet, it is "an astounding seven-tiered model of [Guru] Padmasambhava's heavenly abode, hand made over five laborious years by a single dedicated lama" (584). I walk back to Hotel Kabur in the dark.

On my third day in Pelling I hike uphill to Sangachoeling Gompa, the second-oldest gompa (monastery) in Sikkim. I stay here for a while, into the afternoon, talking to other tourists, enjoying the views from a lookout, taking photographs of the monastery and prayer flags, and reading my latest book, "Interpreter of Maladies" by Bengali-American writer Jhumpa Lahiri.

I return to Pelling in the late afternoon. Again I try to use the Internet, but there is a line of people who also want to use it, and only dial-up is working...I go to the hotel and read a bit...then back down the street to see if Internet is working. I sit with some tourists and have a masala dosa (seasoned potatoes wrapped in a thin pancake, with a spicy, tomato-based soup called sambaar for dipping). Then I go back to the hotel. People are having dinner, but I am not hungry after the dosa. The alcoholic tour guide is playing guitar and trying to get people to sing. I leave to use the Internet long enough to learn that a month-long yoga course is, indeed, offered in December at Swami Vivekenanda Anusandhana Samsthana (SVYASA), a yoga university based in Bangalore, Karnataka. When the Internet stops working, I return to the hotel. The tour guide is still singing and wants someone to sing a Sikkimese song with him. For some reason my inhibitions disappear and I sing with him and it is a very fun time.

The next morning I wake up, only planning to go to Yuksom, but Deepen convinces me to instead spend the night at "Pala's place" in Khecheopalri Lake. He mentions Pala will teach meditation, show me some pictures...he says I'll love it...it all seems appealing, so I decide to do so...