Another blissful sleep followed by a resentful wake up. Matilda knocks on the door. Are we going to leave she asks? She is clearly concerned that her only guests are still here. We reply that we had a great day yesterday and intend to stay for a few more days. She asks for our passport details in case our embassies contact her. I restrain myself and take a short hot happy shower before piling on my piles of t-shirts and two pairs of trousers. I am enjoying not wearing my kuta, or having to wrap my body up in a scarf and camouflage my blond hair. The hills are clearly far less conservative than its lowland capital. We walk out to meet Sherab and Jake at a cafe they claim is famous for its breakfasts. We stand at the door which is only slightly ajar and a small servant quickly ushers us inside. Sherab and Jake are already seated with pages of Tibetan script laid out in front of them. My friends tease them they must be CIA spies. I laugh too loudly for the owner quickly motions me to be quiet. She is clearly concerned that her disobedience of the 'indefinite' strike will be alerted by my merriment. We talk in subdued tones. We eat porridge and drink milky chai, sweetened with golden sugar. Jake drinks coffee. Apparently, just a few days before tourists would be queuing for a seat. The cafe must be losing a lot of revenue and I wonder what the owner really thinks of the GNLF tactics? We profusely thank her and duck down back out through the shutter which has now been pulled down to mask the partially opened door. Sherab offers to take us to the monastery where he lives. It is only a short walk away through quiet streets. The echoes of distant chanting can be heard, but from the distance they sound more like shouts from a children's playground. Sherab's monastery is beautiful. It is tiny, with a small temple welcomed by a patch of green grass and a frame of bushes. His room is even more simple than Jake's with a stone floor, a door which doesn't quite shut and a tiny table/shrine. We sit on his single bed and I ask permission to look at his pile of books. My attention is immediately directed to a tiny publication by Nepal's Kopan Monastery: The Four R's. The coincidence unnerves me as this is the one Buddhist practice which I am familiar with and which has helped me more than any psychologist ever could.
A twenty one year old ex-Italian monk who also lives at the monastery phones Sherab. He is concerned by the change of events. We walk to the monastery's kitchen and sit with its four Tibetan monks, one ex-Italian one and a Chinese student of Tibetan. We are asked if we want to share the daal bhat that they are eating. We decline. The ex-Italian monk tells us he is leaving to Nepal. He says that overnight the 'situation' has become much worse, with rumours of violence spreading. The monks are concerned that their food supplies are inadequate. Shouts from outside begin to filter through our conversation and one by one the table disbands and moves to the edge of the garden. Below the monastery a large crowd has gathered around a small police stall. Unlike yesterday it seems unorganized and much more passionately voiced. Within minutes wise Sherab has packed a small rucksack and Jake is patiently seeking the advice of his teacher despite the intermittent mobile reception. The lack of information, the access to food and transport and the immanent departure of our remaining new foreign friends seems to tell us it is time to leave. Reluctantly, for I love this place and feel spoiled for seeing it without the 20,000 other tourists.
We make our way back to Andy's, passed the shouting crowd. One tire has been lit and is blowing black noxious smoke into the crowd. A protester bends down and uses its flame to light his cigarette. Although the crowd are clearly more vocal than yesterday, the atmosphere is far from threatening. Smartly dressed women, with painted lips and gold earrings link arms next to men in their distinctive tweed jackets and leather shoes. We squeeze through the mass, find Andy's, throw our clothes into the bags and meet Jake at the main bus terminal.
There are no buses. In fact there are no vehicles at all. Within the short time it has taken us to pack Sherab has already left with the Italian ex-monk and the Chinese student of Tibetan. A crackly phone call tells is that they have caught the last jeep. We ask about transportation to Siliguri and are given the reply: 'impossible'. We turn to discuss our options but are called over towards a crowd of men in the middle of which stands a parked jeep. Our bags are thrown on its roof and we are thrown inside. An intense debate surrounds us as the remaining seats are quickly occupied by locals. The doors are reopened and we are shouted out. Our bags removed from the roof and the driver tells us 'impossible'. Confused we stand and passively wait for a solution to appear. Within minutes it does. Our bags are replaced on the roof and we are replaced inside. It seems the GNLF have given their consent to a final jeep of 'tourists' to leave Darjeeling. The all important word of exemption is scribbled on a sheet of paper and the front seat passengers optimistically try to glue it with nothing more than condensation to the inside of the windscreen. I fish around in my rucksack and find a tiny roll of tape. It works and our labeled 'TOURIST' jeep full of four 'tourists' and about nine locals careers out of the square to stop a few meters later. Our driver jumps out and begins negotiations. A few minutes later a shutter is rolled up and our jeep reversed into a closed shop which in more peaceful times is actually a petrol station. Off we go; speeding down the hill, breaking only to cruise around the hairpin bends and floating through the encompassing mist.
The first 'check point' emerges. The jeep slows and the GNLF approach. It is a group of women. They approach us, look at our 'label', look at us, and then wave us on. The second check point is not quite so easily fooled. It consists of a wooden bench upon which sit a line of tweed jacket wearing men. They tell our driver than no vehicles are allowed past. They politely explain to us, that although we are clearly 'tourists' the rest of our jeep clearly are not. They apologise for any inconvenience but cannot let us continue. We will have to return back up the hill we have just sped down. Some more words are exchanged and our jeep does a 360 degree turn and much to the confusion of the 'tourists' we continue towards the plains as the GNFL return to their bench. It seems this literally was the 'bench mark' as after this I just had to reveal my blond hair (much to the amusement of the old man sitting behind me) and we were waved down the hill.
I felt a strange mixture of emotions. As the coolness of the air was replaced by a warm humidity and the fog lifted, I didn't feel relieved but rather annoyed that I was 'exempt'. Just like in the Occupied Palestinian Territories I was able to be 'freer' than the local people, whose land I was a guest. Moreover, I wanted to learn more about the Gorkha's demands. I still had unanswered questions about the apparent support for the cause despite the self-harm in the methods. I still wanted to walk around the tea gardens, visit the monastery's and talk to Tenzin about why he can't return to Tibet.
We arrive in Siliguri to be told that there is a strike in retaliation to Darjeeling's strike. We ask if we can catch a jeep to Sikkim, 'impossible' we are told...
A twenty one year old ex-Italian monk who also lives at the monastery phones Sherab. He is concerned by the change of events. We walk to the monastery's kitchen and sit with its four Tibetan monks, one ex-Italian one and a Chinese student of Tibetan. We are asked if we want to share the daal bhat that they are eating. We decline. The ex-Italian monk tells us he is leaving to Nepal. He says that overnight the 'situation' has become much worse, with rumours of violence spreading. The monks are concerned that their food supplies are inadequate. Shouts from outside begin to filter through our conversation and one by one the table disbands and moves to the edge of the garden. Below the monastery a large crowd has gathered around a small police stall. Unlike yesterday it seems unorganized and much more passionately voiced. Within minutes wise Sherab has packed a small rucksack and Jake is patiently seeking the advice of his teacher despite the intermittent mobile reception. The lack of information, the access to food and transport and the immanent departure of our remaining new foreign friends seems to tell us it is time to leave. Reluctantly, for I love this place and feel spoiled for seeing it without the 20,000 other tourists.
We make our way back to Andy's, passed the shouting crowd. One tire has been lit and is blowing black noxious smoke into the crowd. A protester bends down and uses its flame to light his cigarette. Although the crowd are clearly more vocal than yesterday, the atmosphere is far from threatening. Smartly dressed women, with painted lips and gold earrings link arms next to men in their distinctive tweed jackets and leather shoes. We squeeze through the mass, find Andy's, throw our clothes into the bags and meet Jake at the main bus terminal.
There are no buses. In fact there are no vehicles at all. Within the short time it has taken us to pack Sherab has already left with the Italian ex-monk and the Chinese student of Tibetan. A crackly phone call tells is that they have caught the last jeep. We ask about transportation to Siliguri and are given the reply: 'impossible'. We turn to discuss our options but are called over towards a crowd of men in the middle of which stands a parked jeep. Our bags are thrown on its roof and we are thrown inside. An intense debate surrounds us as the remaining seats are quickly occupied by locals. The doors are reopened and we are shouted out. Our bags removed from the roof and the driver tells us 'impossible'. Confused we stand and passively wait for a solution to appear. Within minutes it does. Our bags are replaced on the roof and we are replaced inside. It seems the GNLF have given their consent to a final jeep of 'tourists' to leave Darjeeling. The all important word of exemption is scribbled on a sheet of paper and the front seat passengers optimistically try to glue it with nothing more than condensation to the inside of the windscreen. I fish around in my rucksack and find a tiny roll of tape. It works and our labeled 'TOURIST' jeep full of four 'tourists' and about nine locals careers out of the square to stop a few meters later. Our driver jumps out and begins negotiations. A few minutes later a shutter is rolled up and our jeep reversed into a closed shop which in more peaceful times is actually a petrol station. Off we go; speeding down the hill, breaking only to cruise around the hairpin bends and floating through the encompassing mist.
The first 'check point' emerges. The jeep slows and the GNLF approach. It is a group of women. They approach us, look at our 'label', look at us, and then wave us on. The second check point is not quite so easily fooled. It consists of a wooden bench upon which sit a line of tweed jacket wearing men. They tell our driver than no vehicles are allowed past. They politely explain to us, that although we are clearly 'tourists' the rest of our jeep clearly are not. They apologise for any inconvenience but cannot let us continue. We will have to return back up the hill we have just sped down. Some more words are exchanged and our jeep does a 360 degree turn and much to the confusion of the 'tourists' we continue towards the plains as the GNFL return to their bench. It seems this literally was the 'bench mark' as after this I just had to reveal my blond hair (much to the amusement of the old man sitting behind me) and we were waved down the hill.
I felt a strange mixture of emotions. As the coolness of the air was replaced by a warm humidity and the fog lifted, I didn't feel relieved but rather annoyed that I was 'exempt'. Just like in the Occupied Palestinian Territories I was able to be 'freer' than the local people, whose land I was a guest. Moreover, I wanted to learn more about the Gorkha's demands. I still had unanswered questions about the apparent support for the cause despite the self-harm in the methods. I still wanted to walk around the tea gardens, visit the monastery's and talk to Tenzin about why he can't return to Tibet.
We arrive in Siliguri to be told that there is a strike in retaliation to Darjeeling's strike. We ask if we can catch a jeep to Sikkim, 'impossible' we are told...
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