In the second of our series on road trips, Minty Clinch braves
tumultuous traffic to explore the hill stations of West Bengal and
Sikkim
©Richard Dunwoody
A train makes its way through the traffic in Darjeeling
The streets of Darjeeling
reverberated to the sound of honking as the traffic surged, spluttered
and stopped. The pedestrians flowed more freely than the vehicles, a
peacock tide of saris, old-fashioned school uniforms, agricultural
workers in golden wellies, stray dogs and goats. A day much like any
other, except one of many hands hard to their horns was mine.
Self-drive rentals for foreigners are new to India and almost unknown
in West Bengal. Back in the UK, friends sounded appalled at my plan for
a fly-drive trip to northeast India. I explained that I would have an
expert co-pilot in Richard Dunwoody, three times champion steeplechase
jockey-turned professional photographer. As a double Grand National
winner, he is expert at squeezing fast-moving objects through narrow
gaps, a spatial awareness talent that is vital when driving in India.
We
had flown to Siliguri, an hour north of Calcutta, where our car was
waiting – not the classic Hindustan Ambassador I’d originally envisaged
but a Toyota Innova, a wimpy-sounding people-carrier. Richard took the
wheel for the drive to Darjeeling, self-styled “Queen of Hill Stations”.
An altered flight time meant a 3.30pm start – inconveniently late, as
it would be dark within two hours. The rally driver-style route guidance
manual we had been given was equally inauspicious. “Turn left at end of
Airport road”, it stated unequivocally, beside an arrow pointing right.
Helped by a Garmin GPS device, we completed the 98km journey to our
hotel in Darjeeling’s maze of alleys in five hours. “A foot of space on
either side is the most you can hope for,” said Richard, by now a master
of close shaves on mountain roads shared with narrow-gauge railway
tracks, in the face of dark clouds of pollution and blazing headlights –
or no lights at all. Naively, I believed this was the worst Indian
driving could throw at us. I was wrong.
High on the euphoria that accompanies a journey unexpectedly
completed, we settled into the New Elgin Hotel, one of the former
Maharaja of Cooch Behar’s many summer residences. The rulers of the
Princely states during the Raj often favoured furnishings lifted from
English Victorian drawing rooms – lustrous red brocade, polished walnut,
gleaming brass – and His Highness was no exception. Outside, a pair of
Siberian Samoyed dogs frolicked in gardens as immaculate as their fluffy
white fur.
The next morning we began our pursuit of Kanchenjunga, at 8,586m the
world’s third-highest mountain and part of a vast massif that is the
focus of tourist activity in the region. Mark Twain, a visitor on a
global lecture tour in 1896, described the spectacular terrain as, “the
one land that all men desire to see and having seen once even by a
glimpse would not give that glimpse for the shows of the rest of the
world combined”.
The views are at their best at first light, so we rose before dawn to
join other peak spotters on the nearest strategic hilltop. The show
began at sunrise, with the great mountain taunting us with fleeting
appearances of razor ridges and remote snowfields wreathed in swirling
mists.
Darjeeling’s other star attraction, recognised as a Unesco World
Heritage site, is an 86km narrow gauge railway built between 1879 and
1881, an engineering feat that includes three loops and six
“Z-reverses”. Originally used to transport tea from the Himalayan
foothills to the flatlands of West Bengal, the “Toy Train” now makes two
daily 8km circuits to Ghum, at 2,258m the highest station in India.
Pulled by a vintage British-built steam engine, it puffs to a halt on
the spectacular Batasia Loop, looking up at Kanchenjunga.
After his white-knuckle introduction to night driving on the first
journey, Richard decided we should complete all future stages before
darkness fell. Sound thinking, especially as it was my turn to take the
wheel for the 95km drive to Gangtok, capital of the former Himalayan
kingdom of Sikkim. I foresaw a baptism of fire on the rain-lashed
mountain road, its surface reduced to bare rock in places by the recent
monsoon; but on the upside, I reasoned, it was Sunday. In a region that
has retained so much of yesteryear British life, that would mean light
traffic. Wrong again; but, as the kilometre signs passed at snail’s
pace, I had time at least to absorb some basics.
First,
honking is the accepted method of announcing your presence to other
road users: it’s a constant decibel assault, but it seems to work.
Second, cars are expensive so, despite appearances, drivers aren’t out
to kill you. Buses and trucks, however, do whatever they like: non
owner-drivers don’t care about paintwork.
Most important, all normal rules of the road are left at the wayside.
If the right hand lane is empty, drive the wrong way up it. You may
think you won’t be able to cut back into the walls of trucks on your
left but you can – and you will often have to.
Following these golden rules, we made it to the Nor-Khill, our second
Elgin hotel, in time for a rapturous welcome from more Samoyeds, a
curry buffet and strong drinks furtively supplied, as alcohol must not
be flaunted on Sundays.
Gangtok has a broad pedestrian main street, with flowerbeds down the
centre, a cable car that provides dramatic views and numerous tour
companies eager to arrange treks into the mountains. With the car at our
disposal, we hit the heights on quiet hill roads, winding up to the
monastery and centre for Buddhist studies at Rumtek and the Temi tea
plantation, its massed ranks of organic bushes and flowering cherry
trees stretching as far as the eye can see.
After another magnificent drive via the Tibetan monastery at Lara on
roads fringed by dense hanging ferns, we reached Kalimpong and checked
into Silver Oaks, built in 1930 by a British jute magnate with a taste
for austere Scottish stonework. The hill station is a poor man’s
Darjeeling, a rabbit warren of steep streets with a rewardingly low
tourist count. The open-air butchers are not a pretty sight but the
Wednesday street market, stalls stocked by farmers from the surrounding
countryside, is colourful and photo friendly.
All too soon, it was time to head down to Calcutta, on 730km of trunk
roads built to British specifications around 1900. In the flatlands,
sacred cows came into the equation, along with cycle rickshaws, wobbly
bikes, deranged bus drivers and what seemed like half the world’s
trucks.
©Richard Dunwoody
Minty Clinch asks for directions in Murshidabad
Expecting
the unexpected became second nature – I had to slam on the brakes to
let three wild elephants cross the road; later our progress was blocked
by a bullock cart and a belching truck approaching us on our side of the
dual carriageway.
We stopped to spend a day at Murshidabad, a former capital of Bengal
during the 18th century. Today the peaceful town is a microcosm of the
Bengali melting pot, a warren of mosques, temples, tombs and “gardens of
delight” competing for space on the banks of the Ganges. The Nabob’s
Hazarduari “1,000 door” Palace, built in Italian style in 1837, is a
museum to linger in, with a circular durbar hall, notable paintings and a
collection of arms. In the run-up to the Diwali festival, it was packed
with Bengalis in bling: many of their family group photos from the day
include the only two foreigners present, posing bashfully centre frame.
And so our Toyota, the honest workhorse that coped with everything
Bengal could throw at it, headed for the ultimate test of nerve and
skill on the streets of Calcutta. Except it wasn’t. With rickshaws and
tuk-tuks banned from the centre and some of the citizens preferring to
walk on the pavements, the traffic ground along much as it would in
London. Triumphantly, we cruised past Lord Curzon’s Victoria Monument,
the Test match stadium in Eden Gardens, the racecourse on the Maidan and
the banks of the river Hugli.
Pulling up at the sumptuous Sonar hotel for a champagne and lobster
celebration, I switched off the engine for the last time. No scratches,
no punctures, no insurance excess to pay. Sighs of relief for sure, but
of regret too, for the end of an unforgettable adventure. Back in
London, fellow road users look at me resentfully as I slice through the
gridlock. Is honking illegal nowadays?
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Minty Clinch was a guest of Road Trip India (www.roadtripindia.co.uk) and Qatar Airways (www.qatarairways.com).
A 10-day self-drive trip including car rental, delivery to Siliguri
airport and collection from Calcutta, half-board accommodation and
guides in Darjeeling, Kalimpong and Gangtok, costs from £1,975. Qatar
Airways flies daily from Heathrow to Calcutta via Doha, from £680 return
14-year-old Alice (right) with a cousin. File photo
