The Virtual Traveler: High Tea in Darjeeling

A delegation of the British East India Company discovered Darjeeling in 1828. Though, of course, it was never lost.

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I took a plane to Calcutta and then to get that Rudyard Kipling feeling and to get a look at northern India, I took a train northeast to New Jalpaiguri. That only gets you within 55 miles (88 kilometers) of Darjeeling. I could have taken the “Toy Train,” the Darjeeling Limited up to the city but instead I shared a taxi with two young men, very tolerant and helpful Australian college students.

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We wound up and up through the hills—back where I come from we would call them mountains—on a narrow track through pouring rain. The driver chattered constantly about everything that popped into his head—Bollywood gossip, Free Tibet activists (he was all for them) and, once he discovered I was American, the Iraqi war (he was against it). The clouds were close and deep chasms, first on one side and then on the other, opened up without warning but the driver had been carrying passengers up that road for twenty-eight years (he mentioned that) and I had a feeling he could have driven the road with his eyes shut. Naturally the Australians laughed at me every time I yipped in terror.

Darjeeling clings to a ridge in the Himalayas more than a mile high. A century and a half ago the city was a holiday resort, a way for the Colonial British to escape the summer heat of India.  The highest temperature ever recorded there was a hair over 80 degrees. And yet even in the winter it’s fairly mild. I arrived early in September, the tail end of the monsoon season. I wanted to see Mt. Everest, but I was warned I’d picked a bad time for it. All winter long it’s either foggy or raining or both. The weather turns Darjeeling into a mysterious city in the clouds—which is wonderful in itself–but it isn’t good for long-distance mountain viewing.  If the monsoon ended on time or a little early I’d be in luck. If it didn’t—well, I should come back when it’s summertime and the place is clogged with tourists.

It had stopped raining, but it was dark by the time the taxi pulled up in front of my hotel. The Aussies carried my bags up the steps to the lobby and we shook hands all round. I never saw them again.

My attic room was sweet, small and would have been cozy if it had been heated. Oh, well. I’d brought a heavy sweater. I went down to the restaurant on the ground floor and had a Bengali curry, rich and deep orange and did I mention rich? All Bengali food is oily and creamy but I love it.

The next morning I decided to walk to Tiger Hill to watch the sun come up. About two steps outside and I realized my sweater was going to be completely inadequate. I ended up going back up to my room and wrapping the bedspread around myself. I got a couple of startled looks from the hotel staff, but they were all too polite to comment.

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The light sprinkling rain didn’t bode well. I wended my way through the crowded narrow streets, bright colors everywhere fighting back against the gray day.  There were no mountains. There was no nothing but the city, the people, the noise and the drizzle.  Even without mountains it was enchanting. Darjeeling is small and intimate, friendly and somehow every personal and familiar.

When I had walked until I could walk no more, I sat on a narrow bench next to a middle aged woman who had a heavy gold ring in her nose. She was eating momos out of a paper towel. These are little dumplings filled with meat or vegetables or both, that often come with soup. They smelled wonderful and I realized it had been a while since the sturdy English breakfast they serve back at the hotel.  I asked her if she’d bought the momos nearby hoping she spoke a little English. She replied “Hungry there!” and pointed down the street. I thanked her and headed that way.

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I found a small Buddhist temple with a couple of monks out front standing behind a food stall. I had a brief thought about the germ theory of disease, but my doubts vanished when one of them opened the top of the steamer. I ordered six and found a comfortable spot on a low wall not far from some street musicians. Before I’d finished the last one it began to drizzle again and I headed back to the hotel before it really began to pour.  A warm jacket and an umbrella had appeared on my bed with a little card that read “compliments of the management.” Wow.

After that I went out wandering every day. I even paid for a couple of touristy guided tours. I didn’t want to self-guide my way through the monasteries and temples. Some of them are open and friendly with tourists and some of them are very much not. I went back to the little temple food stall several times. Their momos weren’t the best I had in Darjeeling but they were quite a bit above average and the monks were very nice.

The other guided tour I took was through the tea fields which are referred to as “tea gardens” in this part of the world. These “gardens” stretched for miles cloaking the mountainside in vivid green. The British introduced tea in this area in the mid-19th century. They (and everyone else) quickly discovered the climate lent itself to producing one of the most wonderful teas in the world. I’m not much of a tea drinker. Like most Americans I preferring coffee but in Darjeeling I drank tea in every way it was offered from the spicy Indian Chai, to the British version slightly oversteeped and with milk and sugar. I even tried Tibetan style tea which has a little dollop of butter melted on top.  Odd, but not bad.

As my time in Darjeeling drew to a close I knew it was going to be tough to leave. I now had a dozen friends and I was beginning to feel like a part of the city. The second-to-last day I woke to a pounding on my door. 

The excited porter pointed to a window at the end of the hall. I could see a streak of deep blue. Sunrise! I threw on my borrowed coat, and thanking the porter profusely (I always suspected the coat was his) I ran out the door. My lunchtime Buddhist buddies had a small back garden open to the public. They had assured me several times that you could get a good view of the mountains there—when there was something to view.

Even before I got to the temple I could hear the drums and singing. The Tibetan greeting to the morning sun. I ran the last few yards and arrived huffing and puffing to see the sun golden on the top of Mount Kanchenjunga. There were the mighty Himalayas, the roof of the world. Mount Everest was small in the distance, over a hundred and eighty miles away. I held my breath. I suddenly wished I knew the words to whatever the monks were singing as they bowed to the sunrise.  Instead of singing I just bowed with them.