ze mall rats

all words as a rule are stimuli that trigger distinct responses. and for me, 'mall' is followed naturally by pavlovian thoughts of crowded escalators, neon lights, bright shop windows, sneakers squeeking on overpolished floors and the general din of humanity. in essence 'mall' for me has always meant - trauma. so why were we traveling some 6500kms across land, water and mountain to rendezvous with pearly j at a mall exactly?

my worst instincts were partially vindicated when at the appointed hour we arrived at the mall. some 8000 people were gyrating to the sounds of o-bey thy master! master! master! curious coincidence. but we'd just walked into the closing act and the ensuing brouhaha of the annual darjeeling carnival.

when the dust did settle a few hours and many misadventures later, i discovered 'mall' according to the dictionary alternatively means a public area set aside for pedestrian walks. in darjeeling they mean this and not that (forum, garuda, sigma, etc. on another note have you noticed the mall special BMTC bus?). here it's a biggish round clearing flanked on one end by a string of shops that show off overpriced trinkets and on the other by a deceptively gradual slope that disappears into the fog. trees poke out of the fog and red cheeked boys and girls run about when not giggling.

the mall is the best place to do the darjeeling do. that would be - nothing. sit around. sip on another cup of tea. hide from the world behind your newspaper. fight for more space on the standard government issue park bench. and think profound deep thoughts as you watch the cutest ever kid discover the simple joys of a skipping rope.

my first and last memory of darjeeling is of the mall. it will forever reside in a special place in my head. it's where you'd dig your hands deeper into your woolen gloves. contemplate another cup of tea in all earnestness. watch the horses trot across with another load of bong tourists. stretch your mountain weary limbs. yawn with the dogs.
you've arrived.

a tiger tale

darjeeling is an old crossroad. for centuries its dark dank staircases have echoed with the footfalls of myriad people going up the mountains, running away from occupied tibet, coming down from the mountains and the odd nutjob just passing through. and if you ever sift through the primordial sea that flows in and out of darjeeling with every tourist season, you'll agree there is no lower more despicable form of life than the bong tourist.

bongs ask each other, bedecked in garish woolens - gloves, mufflers, sweaters and the ubiquitous monkey cap, "chowmein kaabe?" the locals scoff at the sheer crassness of the hordes, refering to them in a cheeky take as 'the tuurists'. bongs either don't care or they're too obtuse to care. so they plunder on, in their tour bus upwards to tiger hill, while the rest of the world chooses to take the picturesque walk.

every dawn atop tiger hill bongs live the maxim that they are generally obnoxious. while everybody else looks westwards in hushed wispers at dawn, waiting for the kanchenjunga to set itself ablaze in the first rays of the sun refracting through the earth's atmosphere much before the sun itself makes an appearance, the bong twats look eastward over stoves of boiling tea and to the accompaniment of raunchy bollywood hits belted out on the over bassed system of their tour bus. and even as on the western edge of tiger hill, seasoned travelers with their weather beaten faces watch awestruck as an entire mountain seemingly in midair turns an azure gold, the bongs choose to dance and whistle when the sun makes another routine appearance much later on in the east. it's a chasm that all bong pretensions to being cultured will never bridge.

fresh air among other things messes your noodles up. while the odd mountaineer is pushed to try and assail the unassailable, common tourists who've been breathing the air for a bit, show certain unmistakable signs of pleasant eccentricity too. one german took to climbing tiger hill day after day in a seemingly pointless routine. and when he tired of that, he took off to bangladesh. to catch the general elections and the ensuing chaos. the local folk smile wide toothy unaffected grins into cameras. the sun plays hide & seek all day plunging darjeeling into alternating cycles of pristine chill and sunny optimism.

everytime i've traveled, i'm met with the certainity that there is a simpler truth to life that still needs discovering. that afternoon in the one room eatery enroute to tiger hill, as i watched pearly stuff herself with another vegetable momo and browne make a finer point on ducks, swans and annoying birds in general, i knew i was one step closer.

darjeeling dekko (slight return)

massif. is a truly wonderful word. to the uninitiated it could mean anything. my first impressions were of a slightly mean dog. and then when enlightenment comes, you cannot agree more. there is no other word than can aptly describe folded up earth towering above the haze, the clouds and pretty much everything else with an air of mischeivous defiance. massif. and ever so briefly when the sun breaks through the living fog that envelops darjeeling, a veil lifts to offer a lifetime's view of kanchenjunga. Or kangchen dzö-nga, khangchendzonga, kanchenjanga, kachendzonga, or kangchanfanga depending on your religious, political or sectarian affiliations. massif.

darjeeling - the land of the thunderbolt. while most people are quick to dismiss this very quaint town as touristy, a dump and such, a second more studied take is essential. for beyond the shanty slums and the touristy avenues are breathtaking views of the mighty himalaya. inhabited by mountain folk who really are the nicest folk. the restaurants serve up an imaginative ouevre. from momos to hot dogs. and a million stories breath around every corner in collective unison with an overaged narrow gauge train, the 100,000 odd people who call darjeeling their home and the horses who offer rides to overfed bong tourists.

to be at peace, is easily achieved in darjeeling. the excuses and opportunities are many. you can choose to sun, the favourite local pastime - moving with the somewhat elusive sun as it traces a path across verandas, narrow cobbled lanes, myriad staircases and markets bustling with colourful woolens before disappearing behind the himalayan wall. or alternatively you can soak in an entire edition of the very badly written local newspapers at keventers over endless cups of hot coffee (not tea?!?) in accompaniment to the nearby clock tower's half hourly reminder chimes.

to be at peace, our top recommendation, second only to a night of debauchery at the local drinking hole, joey's pub, is an evening walk to fuji guruji's peace pagoda. over layers of typically buddhist silence, a half initiated monk belts out on a drum, fuji guruji's idea of transcedental meditation. followers are expected to follow, keeping beat on little drums that are handed out to all visitors to the pagoda. this strange almost taiko scene is set against walls plastered with standard buddhist motifs - dragons, demons, gods and in keeping with fuji guruji's nippon origins, messages condemning the nuclear bomb. and you have to leave your footwear, your sense of time and every last concern with the world at the door.

if you add it all up, it's the people that make darjeeling charming. father kinley, rector of a century year old school, where the browne brothers schooled (above), takes the boys out on a country wide trip every year. stops at nightclubs are part of the annual routine. and father kinley negotiates entry for the many boys (lots of stags essentially) with a well honed name dropping act. he tells the bouncers from bangalore to bombay, "i'm father kinley. a jesuit priest. and these here are my boys who'd like to take a look inside your fine club."