Out of India

On my own again. The road from central Varanasi to the train station barely exists and between the near misses with potholes and transport trucks I have a hard time concentrating on the drivers ill-timed questions. Luckily we have picked up a stranger to share in the fun, otherwise I might have begun to worry as we headed further out of town. To Darjeeling I go ... slowly. By the time we were six hours late it was well past the light I had hoped to arrive in and closer to the dark where I was less likely to figure out how to cover the remaining distance to town. I stalked the train looking for the non-murderer types and two women in upper class took pity on me and smiled so I'd know I could follow them. One's husband organized the transport and even bought me food on the way - momos, from Tibet, delicious fried dumplings that I had to concentrate on not gobbling after an entire day on the train.

The train in India. I could write a novel. I won't, or at least I'll try not to; but oh how I could. It's like a three ring circus, and you, right there in the middle of cars packed like cattle and upper class air-conditioned rooms, in 'sleeper class', though sleep is often elusive. At all hours of the night and day, people risk their lives on the sketchy junctions to parade the cars. You can get anything you want on an Indian train - shoes need shining? Feeling cut off from the world of news? Hungry? Thirsty? Need batteries, a flashlight, a toothbrush perhaps? You need just lift your head from your lumpy makeshift pillow to peer over the heads and feet of the four people sharing each bed below you, reach out and trade your 30 cents for just about anything. Sometimes the price gets as high as a dollar - it's always best to confirm beforehand with grand hand gestures and enlisting the help of any one of the people that has been starting directly at you, barely blinking, for as long as you can remember, which, when your train is six hours late, starts to feel like an eternity of staring and makes you start to question your own existence as a human being. Craziness can invade in a second class car of an Indian train, especially, as I learned on this trip, when you are alone. I kept my sanity by hanging out the open doors as often as possible to take amazing pictures of the amazing landscape and beautiful children in the houses near the stations, and life improved for us all when we broke down and spent $4 on new blankets so the cold from the drafty windows would no longer numb us to sleep while still awake.

Darjeeling was very cool - literally freezing actually in my inadequate attire but gorgeous mountains and valleys, a fascinating mix of cultures - Nepalese, Tibetan, and northern Indian - as seen in the diversity of dress, facial features, food and language. I drank a ton of tea, rode the old steam engine toy train, talked to local teachers about their world famous private education system, and walked for hours through the countryside visiting temples in nearby Ghoom. At night there was Joey's - a British style pub decorated for Christmas that warmed us up just enough to brave the walk home and dive under five blankets. Completely different than anywhere else in India (the cleanliness stands out in this distinction, however to be fair I recently read a newspaper article stating that something like two thirds of Indians live in less space than American prisoners. Chew on that.), it was refreshing to be back in the mountains and regroup before hot hot Indonesia.

(I also spent a great day in Kolkata (Calcutta) with some fellow couchsurfers, saw Victoria's monument, the Ganges river that runs all the way from Varanasi, and ate a great home cooked meal before boarding the plane.)