A sense of achievement

One of my favourite films of all times is Love Actually, and the most memorable line for me goes something like this:

'Having one's brother as Prime Minister really does put your life into a harsh perspective. Today he stood up and fought for his country, whist I made a papier mâché lobster head!'

Today my achievements have been more along the lobster than world-changing lines, and yet the feel-good pang would suggest otherwise. What did I do? I hand washed 8 pairs of knickers, 2 bras and some of Giles' boxers before breakfast, made and laminated 8 clocks with movable hands for class 2's lesson on telling the time, and devised a few fun chemistry teaching ideas not involving chemicals!

At home I'd have allowed the washing machine to take care of our under crackers, I'd have emailed my computerised clock design to the reprographics department along with a brief for colour printing and plasticising, and all my chemistry lesson resources would have been sourced from a cupboard of exciting reagents. So why am I grinning after such hard work for so little apparent gain?

Well, I think it's the acceptance of our new lifestyle. The world within which we find ourselves is very simple; most people work to survive. What we might consider a necessity at home is the epitome of luxury to them: An egg for breakfast; a daily wash; a clean pair of socks... They're made of different stuff out here.

What I realised today is that achievement is relative: the buzz is felt regardless of the position of your achievement within the hierarchy of world-changing stuff.

I think we can learn a lot from this nation who has so little... It's all about looking and what you've got and realising why you're lucky to have it, not striving for the ultimate buzz, or trying to pack super-human efforts into every single day. No one can change our fast-paced western world, but I for one will try to remember the refuge of simplicity, and take pride and pleasure in the most basic things.

As for the washing machine, I have a feeling that novelty value alone will win us over pretty quickly when we return, but Giles' insistence on our relatively new water-saving bathroom bucket, well shes there to stay!

27 Oct - Singilila Ridge Day 6: Gurdum to Darjeeling

Morning:

We're on the other side of the suspension bridge now, having crossed further upstream. Around us, thick virgin jungle, although the path is a well maintained track. Regular stones augmented by concrete reinforcement where necessary, moss covered bridges and in places seemingly elevated from the steep wet jungle floor like a causeway, it's testament to local endeavour to maintain communication between remote villages which still in the 21st century don't have road access. It's also clear that tourists almost never use it, and the locals only rarely.

We find ourselves distracted momentarily by four or five monkeys who fearlessly leap through the canopy below us to our left. Suddenly, Ajay stops, surveys the mossy rocks and then frantically, almost panicked, flaps his arms around, seemingly to ward off some invisible foe. The aggressor is in fact a two inch flying bug, which he reassuringly informs us can kill with its bite. His reaction leaves me surprisingly shaky, but we yomp on, considering the raw wildness of where we are. As we near our final stop, Rimbik, Kanchenjunga's icy peak bids us farewell through a deep wooded valley to the North. We sidle around a 2 foot poisonous snake and emerge from the jungle into pretty terraces of maize plantations. From there, on to a bowl of particularly welcome Momos in Rimbik itself, which looks surprisingly like a frontier post in the wild west...

Afternoon:

The journey back to Darjeeling, as with all activities involving Indian transport, is tortuous, breathtaking, and eventful. Winding our way along the never ending bends of the Himalayan 'foothills' West of Darjeeling, we climb and drop thousands of metres through stunning tea terraces, run down villages and deep gorges. Every 100 yards for four hours we negotiate drainage gullies (there to cope with monsoon rains), and between them bump through the ironically juxtaposed sleeping policemen and huge potholes. We cross one rickety suspension bridge so narrow that our wing mirrors clip every single one of the uprighht supports. The structure creaks, groans and sways, and the tell-tale chunks of missing concrete where numerous vehicles before have misjudged the entrance to the bridge speak volumes of the way things are just done out here.

Sarah and I ride seatbeltless shotgun in the front, enjoying the ride but certainly not relaxing as we skim past vehicles coming the other way on a route clearly designed for pack horses.

As I look through the windscreen, I notice, stuck to the inside, the image of the Dalai Lama. I rest more comfortably in the knowledge that if we are catapulted forwards to an untimely end, it will at least be in the best possible company!

Pictures:

The wild wild west: Rimbik...

Suspension bridge time. Who needs structural engineers anyway?

A mossy bridge in the jungle. Sarah is putting her trouser legs on after advice from Ajay!

Morning tea before trekking... There were two in the bed...

The Dalai Lama seems nonplussed by traffic problems as we return to Darjeeling.

26 Oct - Singilila Ridge Day 5: Srikhola

We are sitting on a balcony (sic) of a hotel deep in Himalayan jungle, the sun is out, and the water gushes down through a maze of huge rocks, eddying and falling in the mesmerising way as only wild water can. Just downstream, there's a suspension bridge, held up by fraying wires. Gaps in the roadway across are roughly covered by segments of tree, and the whole structure moves as if more than an inanimate construction. It epitomises where we are: functional, roughly beautiful and used. Joining us as we stroll onto the span, groups of West Bengali tourists, up from Calcutta, in their best tracksuit trousers, shirts and cardigans, all snapping happily away. The ability to compose is absent, but they're clearly having a lovely time, enjoying it every bit as much as we are. As Sarah says, "beautiful India", and that indeed is where we are. Stunning, captivating, and precious in its ability to resist the development of mankind.

At that point we realise that those badly attired Indians are after the same thing as we are when we head to the South Hams or Norfolk Broads: escaping the rat race to somewhere still pure, natural and untouched.

Pictures:

We met this little chap on our way down. Don't worry, he's only about 12 inches long and immature.

Sarah surveys the bridge.

Looking upstream. Beautiful.

25 Oct - Singilila Ridge Day 4: Molley to Ghorkey

A fluorescent hurricane lamp highlights the dark smiling faces of the guides and their Ghorkey-based colleagues. We've spent the day descending, and are now in a beautiful Alpine hamlet beside the river after which it's named.

Seated around the table are Melanie and Beat, our Swiss partners in this escapade, who are equally enthralled by the scene before them.

There's Ajay. He's toothy with big fat lips, and like some caricature from the Beano, it's as if he never grew width-wise into his height or his shoes. His laugh is as unique as ever as he enjoys banter with his mates.

Behind him in the shadows is Tshering (spelt it wrong earlier!) who I am pretty sure hasn't taken his clothes or shoes off for the past four days. His smile is bright white in the darkness, but shy and removed. For all the singing and jocularity, he remains in his chair behind the crowd, shunning attention. Perhaps he is self conscious of his age and status as a fledgling porter. His hoodie is pulled up over his head, further hiding him in the shadowy background.

We don't know the next three chaps, but they're all singing away, adding percussion with their hands: it's a song about not forgetting each other despite a parting of ways, sung in a hypnotic, soft Nepali tongue. It's beautiful and lovely, so liberating.

Finally there's Pimba, Melanie and Beat's guide. His carefully manicured hair, which would look better with a pin-stripe suit, is hidden by a trendy Salamander buff. There's no doubt that he's not the city type; baggy North Face trousers and a zest for the countryside he knows so well. He's the natural leader, initiating the songs and guiding the others when the words aren't quite remembered. He's, they're all, a great friendly person. Eyes alight he turns to us for an English song.

"What shall we do with the drunken sailor..." Oh well.

It would be remiss to not tell a little of the morning. From Molley we climbed early to see the clearest views yet of both Kanchenjunga at 5am and then Everest, her sisters, the Three Sisters and all the way from Bhutan to Annapurna in much higher definition due to our being 20 clicks closer. We're yet to be bored by this simply outstanding backdrop, and once again a challenging but superb walk was had from Molley to Phalut for lunch before a wonderful 15km descent into Ghorkey through yet more Rhododendron woodland, ancient oak and, for the first time, wild Marijuana trees...

Once again both of us struggled to comprehend why there weren't scores of mountain bikers taking advantage of these simply epic pieces of single track, and we arrived with very sore knees from the steep descent wishing we had been doing the same. Straight from that to making our own momos and all was set for a great night of celebrating Dusshera, eating far too much and sharing songs over a glass of 'HIT'!

Pictures:

Morning Kandchenjuna, another 5am start.

Sunrise well below where we were standing, a realisation of our elevation.

View of Ghorkey after a tough 15km decent.

Momos in the making... Delicious!

24 Oct - Singilila Ridge Day 3: It was like Christmas morning....

Waking up at half past 4 in the morning with a knot of excitement in my tummy is something I used to save for Christmas time. Dad has many stories of coaxing us back into bed with the promise that the fun could wait just a few hours longer...

This morning, however, Dad wasn't about and so my tingling toes (wide awake too thanks to the luxury of an unexpected hot water bottle which was presented at bedtime last night) twitched with excitement at the thought of our 5am wake-up call. Would the mountains be visible this morning? Was the 190 degree view really worth the trek up here to 3636 metres? Would Giles be able to tolerate my excitable state for much longer? At last, 5:10 and the tap on the door, accompanied with: 'Sir, sunrise' arrived. I bounded out of bed, put on every layer I could find, struggled to find my glasses and within 10 seconds of walking out the door of our drafty little hostel we found ourselves speechless at what we saw: a gigantic snow-covered panorama stretching as far as the eye could see. The initial hues of dark purple and blue transformed into fiery reds and yellows as we scrambled a few feet higher up to a viewpoint which presented Kanchenjunga's most famous angle: the Sleeping Buddha. From left to right her peaks resemble a magnificent horizontal human-like profile.

Kanchenjunga can't fail to dominate the skyline, she's just so close, but from our privileged viewing platform we can see much more: a perfect ridge of Stegosaurus-like peaks boasting 5 of the 6 highest peaks on earth. On the far left is Annapurna, our hiking destination in just over a month's time; out to the right is Bhutan's highest peak of 7800 meters; but of course the highlight was the very top of the world, Everest, who appeared to grow as the sun rose from the valley below. Words (unlike Giles) actually fail me, and I just hope the attached shots go a small way to help illustrate what we saw. Of all the places I have been in the world, this comes the most highly recommended to you all. Come and walk the Singalila Ridge!

And walk we did... The day certainly didn't go downhill from here. Loaded with porridge and Tibetan bread we set off for our destination: Molley, just 16 kms away. We were walking along a path, paralleling the Himalayas, and in relative warmth to enjoy the changing faces of the mountains as the sun and cumulus cloud rose. The foreground's rolling landscape was spectacular enough, but raise your head a few degrees and peaks continued to wow. Fortunately the grassy ridge was forgiving enough on the feet to allow the subconscious to drive, allotting precious time to absorb what we were seeing on the horizon.

By lunchtime the clouds had engulfed the giants but the atmosphere was no less impressive. The fog made for an eerie climb to our lunch spot where we were greeted by the chilly bleat of a 3-day old goat kid. Fortunately she wasn't on the menu and instead I enjoyed a cuddle as we ate yak's cheese Tukpa around an open fire. We weren't in any kind of restaurant, but simply within a small hut owned by one of Ajay's friends. Rows of cheese hung overhead, and when we enquired about the value of the stock, we learned that the owners were sitting on a relative gold mine! But, out of choice, they went about their simple lives where survival in the mountains is the priority, and no wish for material wealth beyond their shack and livestock was apparent.

A stiff post-lunch climb at altitude was made harder still with bulging cheese-filled bellies, but just 4 km later we reached Molley. Cold, foggy and rather run down, we retreated to our room for the latest round of Canasta: my new favourite card game taught by Giles and won by me! A perfect end to a perfect day...

23 Oct - Superlatives and the summit : Day 2 Singilila Trek

The carrot in its translucent carrier bag still came out today, but as Sarah and I yomped up hills, for much of the stunning route it was behind us. We still don't know what's in the box, or even whether it's for us. What got us going today was like four weddings and a funeral: one bad, & four extraordinarily fine!

Let's start with the bad. 5am, although it might have been earlier, and our hosts' dogs decided to outdo the cockerel. Almost tuneful, but unbelievably annoying. If it hadn't been quite so cold I might just have run outside to throttle them. They did serve as an alarm tho', and despite my fears that they were warning of something sinister, five minutes later an annoyingly buoyant Ajay knocked on our door.

"Worth getting up?" I mumbled from under thick layers of duvet and blankets. "Yes, yes, please come!"

Five minutes later and we were fuelled by the most spectacular view of Kanchenjunga: crystal clear and lit by a rising red orb to our right. Spectacular doesn't even start to do it justice, but I'd better save the real enthusiasm for tomorrow. 30 degrees further right, we see, for the first time, Everest, Lhotse, Makalu, the Tibetan plateau and all the way West to Annapurna. As morning vistas go, a 34 year high for me, 31 for Sarah... The energy we felt definitely good point number 1, and surprisingly effective fuel for enthusiastic walking to today's goal, Sandakphu, where the views should be even better.

Then breakfast. Highlight 2. Once you disassociated the ingrained smokey smell, that of lentils in chilli and coriander, closely followed by cooking Tibetan bread lured to gluttony. A spread, no, a feast to fuel the most ardent walker. And thus, unable to resist seconds of all of porridge, bread, and pulses, my determination for the trek ahead grew.

Pride. Pride is normally seen as an ugly virtue. But today I wanted to prove I could carry - to hike independently. Chering, our porter, looked somewhere between abashed and happy as I told him I'd carry the big pack until lunch. So that's number 4. View, breakfast, pride, and the promise of an even better view to come. As it happened we outpaced the pack horses going the same way as us, and Ajay for most of the route (although I suspect he was being kind), and the only movement on the track faster than us was the inimitable Land Rovers.

So I find myself now in the company of the drivers, drinking Tungba (millet beer) and Rhododendron wine. Sarah is tucked up in bed staving off the bitter cold at the 3636m we have reached. The drivers are a jovial bunch, and the same smiling faces we passed earlier repairing an extraordinarily steep piece of the track. The room is dark, lit only by a candle, and the warmth has steamed the windows. There's a sense of companionship that comes from their shared endeavour. What they do with 60 year old Landies is incredible: yesterday's tracks seem like A roads in comparison to what we have seen them tackle today: insane descents, climbs that by foot we struggled with. Skilful underplays it, but as you'd expect, they're modest, quiet and charming. I did ask, but it was very clear that I couldn't have a go!!

Pictures:

Kanchenjunga at sunrise, and the crowds are up to catch their first glimpse too. Can you tell we're enjoying it.

Land Rover heritage lovers eat your hearts out!

Millet beer stored in its traditional wooden containers. You drink it through a bamboo straw!

22 Oct - Singilila Day 1: The Paradise System

It's day one of our Dusshera holiday trek along the Singilila Ridge West of Darjeeling. We've reached our first destination, a tiny hamlet in the hills called Tumling, and we're sitting in a massive farmhouse style Indian kitchen sipping piping hot tea. Time for reflection on a fantastic opening day. We're in one of those places where you are stuck between dumb and over-enthusiastically verbose. We are in a truly wonderful remote part of the world.

From the outset of the first huge climb out from our starting point, Maney Bhanjang, a carrot for our energetic hiking on day one had been hung in front of our noses . Not the chance of a glimpse of Everest, nope, a translucent carrier bag through which we could make out the word 'Glenary's' on the box inside. Glenary's is the famous baker in Darjeeling, and so the contents were likely to be delicious. As it happened, now at our overnight stop in Tumling, neither Everest nor the elusive cake appeared. But that didn't matter.

The walk to several Gompas (Buddhist monasteries), and then up onto the Singilila Ridge itself was fantastic. Sarah and I both thought we could imagine Postman Pat in a slightly more beefed up van traversing the track we hiked; like a higher version of the Yorkshire Dales. Earlier we had found ourselves marching through an ancient oak woodland, watching the chilly wind ruffle the beard-like lichen on the old trees' knurled bark. Postman Pat on the track maybe, but here, more Frodo.

Using the track to ferry those slightly less energetic than us, a pair of ancient Mk 1 Land Rovers. To see them scale seemingly impossible gradients, tackling rocks and switchbacks was nothing short of impressive. The locals call them 'King of the Hills'. At lunch the ponies laden with goods spoke of an earlier part of the track's history, but in fact, the Landies plying their trade maintained and evoked tradition.

Our guide for our 6 days of trekking is Ajay. He's tall, lanky, and a Nepali Buddhist with the most unashamedly distinctive and awful laugh. It's infectious through its absurdity, and regular as he picks up, with his limited English, our jokes. Round his neck he wears a Rudras Mala nut, a Buddhist talisman which he is keen to point out is a 5 ringer, low quality, in keeping with his humble status in society (the high quality ones only have 1 ring).

We reach the first Gompa, where he guides us to a line of 20 or so metal prayer wheels; and for me, a revelation. As I spin the wheels and think about all those friends and families who are going through tough, uncertain, or interesting times at the moment, I realise that in my own atheistic way, I am praying. Not to God, but instead simply using this lovely tactile device to distract me from myself for a moment. Let's hope that my thoughts might just make a difference.

From here we move to a giant prayer wheel further up where Ajay insists that we must pray for good weather for seeing the mountains. Ironic really that his devoutness sees such comparatively selfish wishes.

Up to the next Gompa, 5km or so later, and he takes us upstairs to a beautiful display of the various fates which might await man should he sin while sentient. He tries to explain that this is the 'Paradise System', but I'm afraid that the title is about as far as I get. In front of us, intricate models: leopards dressed in human skin tear at men, other more perfect effigies of humans are joined in intimate union. It's an extraordinary, but stunning piece of iconography.

We reach our destination for the day, and we find ourselves in the kitchen where I started. A massive cup of tea later, and we head for perhaps a glimpse of Kanchenjunga. Another 500 feet up, and we are treated to everything great about vertical landscape: orange tint on the peaks as the sun bids goodnight, the silhouette of the knife-like ridge that we will traverse tomorrow, and below, way way below, cloud lying in dark green valleys. We're so excited.

Pictures:

The kitchen at our Tumling lodge. The food was quite outstanding.

The Landie in its natural environment. This one has been doing this since 1954!

Tumling and the first tiny part of the Singilila Ridge.

Sunset over Kanchenjunga. We'll spare the superlatives for the really great views of it!

Just before we go...

Sorry everyone, meant to attach these to the previous blog....

Finally this morning the fog gave way for an hour to reveal the unbelievable backdrop to Darjeeling. Oh, and we went to the tea plantation that supplies the finest tips to none other than Harrods. Out here the cost of a cuppa... 10 rupees at most. Bargain. Ciao followers, more news from Sandakphu in a week from now.

Much love, S&G xxx

A feast for the eyes...

In a couple of days from now G and I are off for our first real trekking adventure out here. We will take a jeep across to Darjeeling before embarking on the Singalila Ridge trek, a V-shaped route of about 100km which parallels the India-Nepal border.

We'll be reaching a maximum altitude of 3636m at Sandakphu, the very spot where Colonel George Everest surveyed the Himalayan skyline to determine the highest peak to climb. How did he know? It was the first to explode into shards of red light when sunrise broke over the range. Fingers crossed we'll be seeing the very same sight, although it's Kangchenjunga that will really dominate the walk for the 6 days, just 400 meters lower than Everest's mighty 8850!

We are expecting to be able to share some spectacular photos with you all, so before what we have taken so far gets completely trumped, enjoy the attached, a few of our favourite and most emotive so far!

1. S&G relaxing in Rishep last weekend. Our viewpoint for the first glimpse of the snowy giants.

2. Early morning flags at Lava's Buddhist monastery, where we were fortunate enough to have a free breakfast with a team of Canadian dentists who are volunteering out here.

3. Kiddies passing the time of day in one of Lava's many shops. All selling the same thing: sweet and fizzy drinks; no wonder the dentists were in town...

4. Beautiful flowers in

5. G in full flow, writing his blog entries in the garden of our home for the night, Rishep.

6. Only in India. A novelty shot for us, but nothing out of the ordinary in India.

7. Dikshit Road...

8. Sunset at the monastery.

21 Oct - Noise

It's 5.30am. It's not silent, but the usual cacophony of traffic, human bustle and barking dogs is for the time being peaceful, yet to stir. From below our hotel balcony the smooth chant of monks encourages the sun above the rim of the valley opposite. It's a stunning start to the day. Behind us, the cicadas make their monotonous din, birds wake with singing, and there's the slightly sleepy sounding voices of old men on the Square above us chatting about nothing in particular around a gas burner, which is heating water for their morning chai. As we leave the hotel to catch a glimpse of the mountains which we hope will be the backdrop to the next 6 days trekking, it's calm outside. Even the huge pack of dogs, heading towards where they reckon the best scraps can be found, are strangely quiet.

It's a different place to daytime India.

It is impossible not to get infuriated by the Indian propensity for tooting, although of course utterly futile. "I'm here"; "get out of my way"; "why won't the car 20 ahead of me just barge through the tragic so that I can reach my destination?"; "I'm here"; "thanks" (although that is rare. More often the toot is an admonishment, backed up in cases of extreme anger by a single flash of the headlights); "I'm here".

The tighter the street of course the more frantic, pointless and regular the tooting: "why are you, man with gas bottle, sack of rice, and 6x4 sheet of MDF on your back, in my way?" Of course there's no pavement. And in these confines, the effect is much louder; painful enough to ones ears in fact that on more than one occasion have I planned a dawn raid on every car in town to disconnect the offending instruments.

Traffic jams are the worst. Patience, good manners, and tolerance are not well drilled out here. In Darjeeling there's an added complication: the 'Toy Train'. This is the 19th century steam engine which hauls passengers to and from Darjeeling up to Ghoom, the highest station in India. It shuffles at walking pace up the narrow gauge track, billowing clouds of steam and smoke, much to the delight of the likes of us. The tracks are set into the road, and of course it has right of way...

Imagine the ire of the drivers in their jeeps, trucks, and cars, incensed by this constraint on their superiority as drivers. But, remember, they have seen this all before; at the same time every day. Yet still they fight this unassailable routine and sit frustrated and hooting in their cars until it passes. It's like telling the British public not to all try to get to the coast at 5pm on a bank holiday. The concepts of consequence and planning are a complete anathema to Indians, and so, day after day, they stand on their horns, and destroy yet further the tranquility of this beautiful place. Incredible.

In total opposition to this, the vendors in Darjeeling's congested market are taciturn. It is, again, a scene that would only happen here. The man selling fake Adidas socks has set up his stall, not as you might think at the other end of the market to the only other bloke selling fake Adidas socks, but instead within arm's reach of him. The same goes for the grocers, butchers, flip-flop wallers, all of them. It's an extraordinary and very vivid example of the totally illogical thought processes which the average Indian has. And there's no shouting each other down, no marketeering as you might expect in an English market. Oh no, they just sit next to vast stocks of unattractive goods, seemingly content to let the chap next to them, their competition, take the Rupees. The insight into the Indian condition continues.

Noise is often a term used in science to describe unwanted signal. It would appear that this description is equally apt out here.

Pictures:

Sunrise in Darjeeling. Peace.
Cup of tea in Chowrasta Square with the old chaps.
Trains. They really are that old!
The market...