India (Part 2)

Feb/Mar 2000

On day 100 of the trip, we flew back from Colombo, Sri Lanka into Trivandrum, India. A week later, suicide bombers would hit Colombo and a rush hour shoot out commence with 24 dead. Good timing or what? I had my first official weigh in and at 86kg, discovered that I had lost over 20 lbs. in weight since leaving England.

I read that on my birthday in Sri Lanka, someone had decided to commit suicide by laying his head on a railway track. The body was decapitated and the head flattened. All the passengers got out to take a look. The body was apparently taken to hospital for an autopsy. I wonder what the cause of death could have been? I can also imagine the doctor saying �Nurse! Just slip the head under the door as you leave�.

We had three weeks to cover the East coast and would move very fast. A week would be spent in the state of Tamil Nadu visiting temples, then up to Calcutta and the far north for some trekking. Jo was constantly feeling under the weather with a throat infection that wouldn�t go away and other ailments.

Returning to India, we realised how crowded and dirty the country was after Sri Lanka and the beggar population suddenly reappeared. The incessant noise of the place hit us immediately - bus horns, traffic, crowds etc. Our eardrums had forgotten all about it. But on our first bus ride to Madurai less than an hour after landing, we had seven hours of ear splitting noise. The driver seemed to have rigged up a train horn on the bus and drove with it constantly, like Casey Jones, to get through the cows wandering around, villagers drying corn and rice on the road itself and any moped, cyclist or pedestrian in the way. My head was buzzing by the end of the ride which was through flat scenic agricultural land. On one lake, a large flock of pink flamingos dramatically stood out against the greenery.

When we arrived in Madurai, we discovered that it was flooded. The streets were awash with water from an early monsoon lashing. We also discovered that they had built a new bus station 10km on the edge of town which meant getting a local bus back. Then I lost Jo as well.

Jo had been suffering from stomach cramps all day and had to dash off without warning to any toilet she could find. Meanwhile, I found a local bus, got on and saved Jo a seat. The driver eventually showed, jumped on, honked his horn and started the engine. Oh no, I thought, Jo is missing, so I jumped out of the front door as the bus left. Jo was nowhere to be seen. She had no Indian money, no map and no idea where we were going to stay. After searching the bus station, she was nowhere to be found so I jumped on another bus to the centre. I had got puzzled looked at the station when they asked where I wanted to go. "Nowhere. I have lost my wife!". They thought I was joking.

It was chaos downtown with a foot of water everywhere and rising with the constant rain - a godforsaken place to stay in. I checked into a hotel, found an Internet cafe and left her directions. Later that night, I rechecked my mail, to find she had changed money and checked into a hotel just up the road. What had happened was that as she came out of the toilet, she saw the bus leaving and ran and jumped on via the back door, at the exact moment I jumped out of the front. We had not seen each other and she was convinced I was still somewhere on the crowded bus. Much arguing with the conductor that her �husband must have paid�. When she reached the centre, she realised that I was missing. The wonders of email saved the day again, but her hotel reception would not let me see her because they thought she was a western prostitute and I was her 'client'. So we had to wait until the next morning to be reunited.

No Indian state is more dominated by its temples than Tamil Nadu, where temple architecture catalogues the tastes of successive dynasties, and testifies to the centrality of religion in everyday life.

�One of the oldest cities in south India, Madurai is an architypical Hindu City, a swirl of life revolving around its mighty Meenakshi-Sundareshwarer temple. The name Madurai means 'sweetness' � (Rough Guide). They had to be joking. In the sun, the streets had started to dry but it was just a quagmire of mud. We decided to do the sights and get out of town fast.

Built between the 16th and 18th centuries, the temple complex is one of the largest in India. We had to take our shoes off before entering the confusing maze of shrines, sculptures and colonnades. There are supposedly 33 million statues (who counted them?), mostly on the dozen towering 'Gopuras' that are built around the complex. These Gopuras are like mini skyscrapers, layered and covered with Walt Disney-like plastered Indian religious characters painted in bright pinks, blues and yellows. It was dedicated to Meenakshi 'the fish-eyed goddess'. There was a large elephant that blessed you. You put a rupee coin in its trunk and it would then tap you on the head and drop the coin into a basket by the owner. Good money-spinner! It was certainly spectacular with a large sacred pool dominating the centre and lots of holy men performing rituals.

Outside the temple, we met a tailor and visited his shop to have some shirts made. These tradesmen work very quick and cheaply. After measuring us up, we were told to return two hours later, by which time he and his team had sewn 2 shirts for me, one for Jo, for about $4 each. Excellent value.

An express bus took us two hours north to Tiruchipalli (Trichy). This bus driver had the same kind of horn as the last one, and sitting at the front of the bus, we couldn't even talk. I ended up stuffing toilet roll into my ears just to survive. I have no idea how they tolerate the volume. They must be deaf.

The ambience of Trichy Junction (on the outskirts) was completely different to Madurai. No one bothered us - not even rickshaw drivers and we were able to walk to a lovely hotel 5 minutes away. In the evening, while we chatted with the locals in their shops who were all very friendly and helpful, a large convoy of honking open trucks rolled up in the centre of town. Crowds jostled to get near the main one, which contained the Ruling Party Candidate called Periyasamy who was campaigning. His supporters laid hundreds of feet of huge firecrackers on the roads and let them off all at one. It was like a bomb exploding and a fantastic effect of noise, smoke and light.

Trichy train station was the tidiest we had seen in India. They had litterbins and people were actually picking up rubbish. The platforms were immaculate and there was no one sleeping on them. There was a sign on the wall with all ticket discounts available which was endless. Some examples were: unemployed person travelling to a job interview, the accompanying parent of a child who had received a bravery award and non-infectious lepers. Polo team horses and ponies got a 50% reduction.

The centre of Trichy was dominated by looming sandstone Rock Fort which towered 80 metres over the bazaars and huge sacred tank. A cobbler squatting by the roadside, repaired Jo's worn out sandals for 45p. After another elephant blessing, we climbed up the red and white painted steps, cut into the rock to the simple temple on top. From here, there was a magnificent view across the whole region including the huge 'gopuras' of the Ranganathaswarmy and Jambukeshwara temples, rising from a sea of palms in Sirangum a few kilometres away. (No I couldn't pronounce any of these names either).

This temple complex is another of the largest and liveliest in India, engulfing within its walls, homes, shops and markets (and lots of beggars). Enclosed by seven rectangular walled courtyards and covering over 60 hectares, it was mostly built in the 14th century but one of the gopuras had been completed as late as 1987 (so India has it cowboy builders as well). It was different from any other temple we had seen, but not as ornate. As with Madurai, the site did not meet our expectations and we only spent a couple of hours there.

Nevertheless, it was good to get back to Indian food. There is so much variety here. Endless stalls frying things, fruit sellers, and bakeries. The cafes get labelled 'veg' and 'non veg'. At vegetarian places you tend to just get 'thali' - rice, dal (like a soup) and a few veg curries all of which you eat with your hands by scooping up the rice and dipping it into the dal. It is labelled as 'Meals ready' outside and costs virtually nothing. (This was sometimes short for 'Meals ready to throw up again' in some places). 'Non veg' at triple the price usually means chicken or goat plus the non-veg stuff. Tap water or tea are the only drinks available. We lived in these places until we became bored senseless with rice. Occasionally we would find a cheap restaurant with more variety (masalas, tikkas, madras curries etc).

I was very disappointed to discover that menu spellings had drastically improved. The only strange dishes I have seen are: 'painapple juice', 'porched eggs', 'scrumbled eggs' and 'qualiflower cheese'. I also saw 'snakebar' and a couple of clothing shops - one called 'Bum chums' and another called 'Shaby Dresses'. Things like this make long bus rides pass.

We caught another express bus, and headed for Madras. Among the sights we passed were large rivers with dozens of people washing clothes and hanging them on washing lines that were hundreds of feet long, a religious festival slowly making its way along the road and we saw a movie being shot. The film crew had shut down the road so traffic had to drive down the side of the bank to get past (which was nice).

We were dropped on the outskirts of Chengalputtu and had to get a rickshaw to the bus station for the bus to Mamallapuram. When the driver pulled off after dropping us, Jo realised that she had left her photos in a bag on the floor. Great! How would you ever find the rickshaw again. Locals all rallied and suggested she catch a rickshaw back to the main road. So she did and surprise, surprise, there he was with the photos still in the back. While waiting for Jo, I had got talking to George, a 53-year-old history teacher who plied me with tea. He invited us down to his house for Sunday lunch in a couple of days.

Mamallapuram is a real gem. A seaside town, it is set in a boulder-strewn landscape and boasts some of India's finest rock cut art and has been declared a National Heritage site by UNESCO. It has always been a centre of skilled sculptures from the 5th century and their work influenced much of India (including Ellora which we had visited on the first visit). The bas-reliefs were exquisite. The most famous was in the 'Mahishasuramardini Cave'. The story goes that the Buffalo-god Mahishasura became so powerful that he took possession of heaven, causing great misery to its inhabitants. To deal with such a dangerous foe, the gods Vishnu and Shiva hit upon the idea of combining all the gods' powers into a single entity. This emerged as Druga - the terrifying 'Mother of the universe'. In the ensuing battle Druga caught Mahishasura with a noose and he changed into a lion. She beheaded the lion and he transformed into a human wielding a sword. She fired off a flight of arrows, only to see him turn into a huge elephant. She cut off his trunk, whereupon the Buffalo returned. Now furious, Druga partook of her favourite beverage - blood - 'the supreme wine'. Climbing on top of the buffalo, she kicked him about the neck and stabbed him with her trident. The impact of her foot forced him halfway out of his own mouth, only to be beheaded by his own sword, at which point he fell"(Rough Guide). The Americans had the same problem with Richard Nixon. It all sounds like the ancient Indian version of the World-wide Wrestling Federation TV show.

We had a lovely hotel with a swimming pool and settled in for a few days. The atmosphere was really laid back and it was a magnet for western tourists flying into Madras. During daylight hours, the roads resounded with incessant chiselling by the present day craftsmen who produce stone statues for temples all over the world.

With Jo laid low, I visited George and his family for Sunday lunch. They lived with their 2 sons (23 & 27)in a modest 4-room home (including kitchen) with outside toilet and washroom. He was building a second floor to the house his two sons when they eventually got married and had families. This was not a popular within his extended family and his jealous brother in law was not talking to him. George spent 6 hours a day travelling to work and back. His day started at 4.30am and he caught three buses between 5.30 and 8.30. School started at 9.30 and finished at 3.30pm whereupon he would repeat the journey back. He often didn�t get home until 10pm. For this he was paid about $100 a month plus a travel allowance. During the monsoon period, he often had to stay in hotels by the school because the roads were flooded. He was concerned about his younger son who was coming under peer-group pressure to get married (his oldest son wasn�t bothered yet), and he was trying to find a suitable girl for an arranged marriage, but he was not sure that his son's heart was in it. �Frankly�Ehe said, "With the money it would cost to arrange, I'd rather treat the wife to a colour TV now that they are cheaper".

Sunday lunch was a number of south Indian dishes (3 chicken, 3 mutton and veg, dal and rice) that kept appearing on the table but it was not quite like England. His sons ate first, I ate with George followed by his cheerful laughing wife (who spoke no English) after she had cleared everything away. As a special treat he had bought a bottle of beer and poured some brandy into the glass before pouring the beer (interesting concept!). It was very pleasant to sit and talk with an Indian all day in his home. It allowed you to get past the usual banal questions and actually discuss subjects with proper conversations especially with someone so honest about his family problems. Since an Englishman was a guest, word got around and various members of the extended family dropped in to inspect the foreigner. When I left to go, George insisted on coming with me on the 40-minute ride to bring Jo some lunch. I think they were genuinely disappointed that she had not come, but she was almost throwing up blood from coughing so much.

Outside Mamallapuram, lies a Crocodile farm where they breed crocodiles to release into the wild. Set up by an American zoologist in 1976, it was a great place to wander around. Huge numbers of crocodiles soaked in ponds or sunned themselves with their large mouths open (500 'babies' of about 2m in length were confined to one pool and slithered around on top of each other). There were many varieties from all over the world - American, Australian, Asian - all endangered. Some were 8m long - real monsters. Did you know that the sex type of crocodiles is dependent on incubation heat. Above a certain temperature, the eggs produce males, below it, females. Not a lot of people know that. They also had a clinic to remove venom from poisonous snakes to provide the serum for snakebites.

We were sorry to leave Mamallapuram. I'd recommend it to anyone. I had even bumped into an Englishmen we had met in Sri Lanka. Madras beckoned and a lengthy train ride.

Madras is India's 4th largest city with a 6 million population and it stinks. Really smells. Near the centre we passed over a river with a shantytown built by the side. The water was polluted and black, like an oil slick. There are real water shortages here and I was surprised to see people still using hand pumps in the street in the centre of town while the cows ate the rubbish. There was little to see; just a few old buildings left from the British Raj painted in an earth red colour. When things got done properly around here! The train station did however have an efficient ticket reservation office for tourists.

The 'Howrah Mail' express train left at 10.30pm for the 24-hour ride north to Bhubaneshwar. We had bunk beds by the aisle and it was the most comfortable train ride we had had on the trip. Smooth, fast and air-conditioned in second class, we were able to order food, which was brought to our beds (sheets and blankets provided). The $35 price brought unaccustomed luxury. We rolled through the state of Andhra Pradesh which was just endless agricultural vistas and had no sights for us to see.

Bhubaneshwar in the state of Orissa at 11pm was a rude awakening. All hotels were closed or full. Chased by barking gangs of dogs, we trailed around for 90 minutes before finding a cheap Indian hotel. Cold water & squat toilet for 90p each. We made a daytrip to Puri and Konarak by the coast.

Orissa is one of India's poorest regions by the Bay of Bengal on the east coast. It is a densely populated 'rice-bowl' heartland which has often been ravaged by floods and famine. The last time it hit the news was last autumn after a 'super-cyclone' devastated the place and it was declared a world 'emergency area'. During the day, we saw a lot of the damage. Miles of fallen trees blown over like matchsticks, every roof taken off every shack, the bumpy roads washed away in parts so the bus had to crash down a sandbank and back up where the surface (a generous description since I couldn't feel my backside after the ride) reappeared.

Puri was disappointing - a sand-blown town (most of the sand was blown onto the main road which was not fun for the human rickshaw riders on cycles) which contains the famous 'Jagannath Temple' (Jagannath was Lord of the Universe). Built in the 12th Century, this soars out of the narrow packed streets like some kind of "misplaced space rocket"(Rough Guide). It is one of the four most important religious sites in India called 'Abodes of the Divine'. This made it off limits to Non-Hindus so we were left standing outside like poor relatives.

Puri provided us with another lesson in Indian bureaucracy. I had to change some money at an Indian bank for the first time. With moneychangers you are in and out in minutes. No questions asked. Here is a simple ten-point guide when dealing with banks.
1. Battle your way to the counter, get redirected to another counter and then from there to the counter in between.
2. Hand over your US dollars and passport.
3. The bank clerk then spends 5 minutes filling out forms, taking down passport details.
4. He passes you a form to list your details , passport, home address, Indian address, favourite colour and signature. Disbelieving your signature, he tells you to sign the form again (er, excuse me, but I gave you cash not a travellers cheque, what difference does it make?)
5. Clerk gives you a token with no 399 on it and says go to cashier No 14 around the corner.
6. Find cashier 14 with 20 Indians all around it watching a digital number display which says 53. Assume it will take hours.
7. Numbers flash up at random. Next Number 379. 399 appears.
8. Battle your way to front. Give clerk your token. He then calculates $200 at exchange rate on a piece of paper (obviously banks cannot afford calculators)
9. He then gives you cash in bundles of 10 rupee notes. About 400 notes! So many, you cannot get them into your money belt.
10. Leave bank and wade through a crowd of beggars who know you have just changed money.
You have to love India don't you, or it would kill you.

The Indian Government has recently announced that it intends to give every person an email address within 5 years, accessible from computers in post offices. So expect 1 billion new email addresses coming your way soon. Personally, with the state of post office bureaucracy that I have encountered here, I can't see it working, but they are certainly investing in the future.

Konarak temple was a vast improvement on Puri. Standing imperiously in its compound of lawns and casuarina trees, this majestic pile of oxidising sandstone is considered to be the apogee of Orissan architecture and one of the finest religious buildings anywhere in the world. The 13th Century temple is all the more remarkable for having languished under a huge mound of sand when it fell into neglect 300 years ago. It was designed as a huge chariot with 24 exquisitely carved stone wheels on the sides. There is also some extraordinary erotic sculpture of amorous couples (don't try some of these positions at home folks!). The ornate carvings, which covered every inch, were spectacular and different from anything else we had seen in India. Well worth the detour.

The next day we caught a 5.30am train to Calcutta. More bureaucracy. You couldn't get on without a ticket and the ticket office did not open until 6am. Finally the conductor relented and found us seats in ordinary second class for the 8-hour journey. Up till now, we had been comfortably sealed in posh second class carriages which did not allow anyone to enter. In normal second class you are bombarded with a relentless procession of hawkers walking up and down the carriage yelling out and pushing buckets in your face. To name just a few - tea, coffee, fruit juice, fruit, sweets, omelettes, fried food, newspapers, coconuts, nuts, chocolates, boiled eggs, batteries, cuddly toy. Then there were the beggars - blind people being led by children, mothers with filthy babies and a man with no legs dragging himself along the floor (how did he get on the train) - it's a fair leap up those stairs). It was relentless and noisy. Small children dressed in rags aged 6-10 would periodically crawl along the floor with a brush and sweep up the litter around your feet. If you gave them a rupee (good service, I thought naively), they let their mates know and there was a small child under your feet every five minutes until I threw them off the train - head first!

Calcutta has an image of poverty stricken chaos -but it seemed very western in the centre. It was the showpiece capital of the British Raj and was the greatest colonial city in the Orient with its 19th Century trading boom. But 20th Century mass-migrations of dispossessed refugees and the work of Mother Teresa has given Calcutta a grim reputation. We were only passing through, since we'd have to return on our way to Bangladesh in the summer.

From the Howrah train station, we were able to catch a ferry across the Howrah River to the centre instead of using the congested Howrah Bridge which looked like it was built out of Meccano pieces. There were human rickshaw pullers here without bicycles - they pulled a carriage along like a horse with small running steps. It didn't look like much fun battling with the gridlock of buses, taxis and cars, but they come into their own during the monsoon season when 3ft of water in the streets stops everything except them. The policemen in Calcutta were dressed in smart light blue uniforms, round white helmets and lots of chains. They looked like remnants from the 'Village People'. As we passed one, we would break into 'Young Man!' and 'YMCA'. Which was probably why, when we asked one for directions he merely replied "Get a rickshaw".

We were in the state of West Bengal now and to reach the hillstation of Darjeeling, we had to catch the 13-hour overnight 'Rocket bus'. It is called this, because despite the dismal road surfaces, the tactic is to drive as quickly as possible over the potholes. It was like spending a night in a cocktail flask getting shaken and stirred.

Emerging from the bus in dust-blown Siliguri, we found ourselves in the transportation hub that serves Nepal, Bhutan and Darjeeling. The facial features of the locals had changed to Nepalese. From here, we caught another bus up the old mule trail to Darjeeling. There is a toy railway (like the one at Ooty we had ridden on) up there, but it takes 9 hours to cover the uphill 90km. The bus did it in 3 so we opted out of that excursion. There were numerous state government signs on the twisty narrow road like 'Always Alert. Accidents Avert', 'Don't lose your nerve going round the curve' and 'Expect the unexpected!'

Darjeeling at 7000ft, calls itself the 'Queen of the Hill Stations' (as had every other hill station we had visited) but it was like going back in time to visit a grimy 19th century industrial town plopped on the side of a cliff. The kind of place where "It was so tough, we used to sleep in a hole in the road" I knew I was going back in time because they still had signs for 'SkyPak Couriers' - a defunct company that I had worked for, as an International Courier back in 1982!

It grew up both as a Victorian holiday resort and a tea growing area - but it was too cold at this time of year to grow tea. The temperatures plummeted and the town was awash in low cloud, mist, fog, and traffic fumes throughout our stay. It was like living in 1950s London fog. God help the Indian honeymooners who end up here. There were also acute shortages of water and constant power cuts. Most cheap hotels could provide you with hot water as long as you didn't mind getting a bucket brought to your room.

It did have a couple of things going for it. The small zoo contained snow leopards and red pandas. Both are indigenous and endangered species of the area, but are successfully being bred here. The red pandas were very cuddly - more like fluffy racoons rather than the black and white species you always think of. There was also a Black Himalayan Bear amusing itself and some Siberian tigers. I hadn't visited a zoo in years, but when I saw the animals through the fog, they seemed well cared for.

Nearby did Sherpa Norgay Tenzing (he of the 1953 Hillary Everest conquest) set up the Himalayan Mountaineering Institute. He lived and died here. It is now a training centre for budding mountaineers, but also contained a couple of interesting museums about the history of attempts on Everest. There were pieces of kit from expeditions dating back to 1921 and a lot of the gear used in 1953. Another museum was more 'up to date' (it seemed to stop in 1980, because the display of typical gear used to attempt conquests was from the ark). But I found it interesting since we would be heading that way soon.

We had come to Darjeeling to do some trekking. The Singalila National Park sits on the Indian/Nepal border and from the top, on a clear day you can see 3 of the 4 tallest mountains in the world. The 80km trek would take up 4 days and was used as a rehearsal for more lengthy trekking in Nepal.

It started in ManayBhanjang ('man-in-a-gaol') around 2000m with a steep 2 day 31km climb to the highest peak called Sandakphu ('sand & poo') at 3636m (over 12,000ft). Starting at 11.30am we climbed for 5 hours up past Buddhist monasteries, prayer flags blowing in the wind, small wooden villages and trekker shelters. We crossed into Nepal for the night (the officials turn a blind eye) and holed up in the lovely Nepalese village of Jaubari at the 'Everest Lodge'

The village of 100 people was a simple roughly cobbled street with wooden shacks on either side. There was no traffic so cows, goats, chickens and pigs rooted around the street while filthy children played in the dirt. They were expecting to have full time electricity within a year (they only get it in the summer at present from the river dependent hydroelectric power station). Our host, Pason ('Friday' after the day he was born on), doubled as the village maths and English teacher. He had visited the Dhali Lama three years ago and had met Richard Gere (how's the gerbil doing Richard?). We had the lodge to ourselves. The toilet was outside across the road in a small yard. As I approached I heard the familiar grunt of a pig and thought "oh no, here we go again", but it was a neighbours, safely penned up in a sty. We were able to taste our first Tibetan bread: a flat bread that was fried to puff it up. With jam it was delicious. After dinner (Yak, rice and dal), with no lighting, we were in bed by 7pm when it started to turn cold. The wind blew all night outside.

The next morning, we set off in bright sunshine for a torturous 16km, which took us back down a valley 500m and then another climb equal to yesterday. Pine tree forests surrounded us. The gradients got steeper as we ascended. Near the top of the summit of Sandakphu was a sign saying 'No sweat, no sweet' - to which I wanted to add 'No shit'. At 12,000 ft, Jo was already starting to suffer from lack of breath. Sandakphu was a tiny cluster of huts with snow laying around. It started to snow and we had lunch at the 'Sherpa Lodge' while we waited for the weather to improve. It never did. A blizzard raged all afternoon and evening. We were forced to hole up in front of the log fire in the 'cafe' (i.e. small wooden hut) to stay warm.

I wouldn't say the night was cold, but I slept in my sleeping bag, fully clothed, with gloves and hat and two huge eiderdowns on me and I was still freezing. The wind blew so hard outside, the windows rattled and I fully expected Jack Nicholson to crash through the door with an axe yelling "Heeere's Johnny". The water in the inside squat toilets froze as well as the buckets of water next to them. Not fun in the middle of the night with just a candle. It must have been -10'C inside and a wind chill factor to match.

Sandakphu is famous for, on a clear day, giving you a magnificent vista of the Himalayas. Kanchendzonga, the third highest mountain in the world, dominates the view. Off to the left about 140km away are Everest, Makalu and Lhotse. We were lucky. There had been no views up here for days, but last night's wind had blown away the clouds and we had a spectacular view as the sun rose. Was it worth the climb? Jo said "probably".

Our third day was a lovely 21km 5-hour ridge walk along to 'Phalut' the other peak in the range at 3600m. We followed Sherpas carrying baskets of firewood (they get paid 30p a basket). We strolled along a track past grasslands, yaks grazing in the sun and through thigh deep snowdrifts. It was blowing a gale at the isolated trekkers' hut there and we didn't fancy another freezing night up at that height. So we pushed on to Gorkey 13km downhill through the woods, back to 2500m in a valley. It started to snow, then hail, and then pour with rain. We emerged like two drowned rats in the muddy village, grateful for any shelter. At the 'Tek Hotel', we got wooden beds (no mattresses) in a garden shed. That was it! We sat in the hut which served as the kitchen and tried to dry out as the rain poured down all night. More soakings reaching the outside squat toilet.

The sun reappeared for our final 15km down to Rimbak past blooming red Rhododendron trees. Some steep descents and rises around the valleys got us there by noon, only to discover that there was no bus or jeep back to Darjeeling until the next day. We checked into the luxurious 'Sherpa Tenzing Lodge' which offered an excellent diverse menu (we had lived on noodle soup, omelettes and bread for 3 days) and more importantly, a large bucket of hot water to wash with. Luxury. We holed up there for the interim and relaxed. I got to try some of the Nepalese alcoholic specialities. 'Chang' looked and tasted like Yak's vomit. 'Rokshi' was like whiskey in warm water and Tongba was a strange concoction of barley alcohol in a flask with a straw sticking up. You sucked the drink up out of the barley and then topped it up with hot water every few minutes. I think I my head got more of a buzz from all the sucking. We were pleased with our trekking performance. Our packs were manageable and we had covered the 80km in under 24 hours of walking up some very steep gradients.

Jo's throat had not improved, and back in Darjeeling (most of which was on strike when we returned so the whole place was closed), we found a doctor who prescribed a bucket load of pills and lotions. The consultancy fee cost $2. There were still no views in Darjeeling and nothing to hang around for. It was time to head for Nepal and see some proper scenery!

Travel - £39.70
Accommodation - £26.57
Food - £32.92
Other - £97.17
Total - £196.36

Grand Total - £1662.86