Pokara is a major tourist destination only rivaled by the Thamel district in Kathmandu. The eastern side of a huge lake is devoted to surprisingly expensive restaurants, guesthouses and knickknack shops. It’s by far the most expensive destination we’ve been to in Nepal and also the noisiest. Traffic is less than Kathmandu but at night the bars and dance halls open and thump out loud techno rock until 11 pm. So after the serenity of Bandipur this was a bit of a comedown. On the other hand, we are now so close to these mighty peaks!

There was a group of young trekkers who for some reason or other we found irritating with their southern Californian accent, at the Organic Café where we were eating breakfast. In the midst of this mood, a young woman sat down beside us and Gerard in his usual fashion found a way to start a conversation with her. Just as we had decided that all trekking/paragliding/rafting “privileged” kids should be dismissed, this interesting girl from Scotland had a completely different effect on us. She chose to come to Nepal to do her PhD thesis on widows. With her limited Nepalese she interviews widows in remote villages; but oftentimes she still needs an interpreter because of all the different dialects. The women welcome her into their homes which are often just a tent with no electricity or running water. One of the hurdles is the food they offer and she must eat –and then invariably get sick.

She’s already realized that in spite of all the stigmas attached to being a widow, in some cases these women are better off – their husbands may have been drunks, abusive physically and sexually, molested the children etc. Surprisingly (or perhaps not) one responded that she now had more freedom. In some cases, they are able to go to work and feel empowered by their independence. In her thesis she wants to make the point that some of these women are not as bad off as she initially thought and has already run into resistance from NGOs who would rather treat all widows in one uniform way.

She’s not sure the impact her thesis will have or if she will even be able to publish it, but it was inspiring talking to someone who’s now been here three times (four months each) and is drawing her own conclusions. Being away from Scotland so much she admitted was a little hard on her social life. So much for developing an attitude towards the under-30 group traveling in the third world!

To find something of interest in Pokhara, other than taking a boat out on the lake, you had to leave town. So in the morning, before the clouds started forming over the mountains, we took a taxi to Sarangkot, a high ridge looking straight out over the valley to the mountain peaks beyond. Most go there for sunrise, and by 10 am we had the place to ourselves. During our stay in Nepal, this is the closest we’ve come to the peaks and we hope the pictures capture a small degree of the power of the Himalayas.

Later we rented a boat with oarsman to take us out on the lake for an hour. It was very peaceful in the afternoon light. Sitting at the foothills of the mountains, Pokhara is a pleasant place to while away a couple of days.

The next morning we caught our predawn bus to another small hill town called Tansen. We had paid the price for reserved seats on the tourist bus, but when we arrived at the bus station, we were motioned to a bus that was a far cry from what we were expecting. The seats were dilapidated and crowded together, and like any local bus it stopped continuously to pick up and leave off passengers. There were only three other tourists on the bus but a tourist bus this did not make! As we pulled out of the parking lot, Gerard caught the rising sun.

The description in our guidebook made Bandipur sound like it was worth the energy to get to this out-of-the-way hill town – although we began to wonder when the bus connections from Kathmandu were much more complicated than need be – and then we had to catch another local bus up the hillside. We were dropped before the town was yet in view and dragging our suitcases along a path through the fields to our guesthouse was challenging. But when it finally came into view our spirits lifted!

The Depeche is an old farmhouse which has been lovingly restored in a traditional style and painted in burnt ochre with black trim, as is the rest of the town. Out of our window, the Himalayas stretched from east to west. In the morning, the mountains float above the mist in the valley, like a mirage in the sky.

And when we walked into town we realized we’d made the right decision.

The town center has a distinctly Mediterranean feel. In front of small restaurants tables are set out on the pedestrian-only thoroughfare. At night, louvered windows partially open to reveal a bright blue-painted ceiling with lacy curtains blowing in the breeze. It looks like something out of a Fellini movie. Everywhere, the locals are welcoming and don’t seem to mind you invading their simple lives. Bandipur is a fine example of 18^th C Newari architecture (a unique style of brick work and wood carving rarely seen outside Nepal) that the town is now trying to preserve. Crumbling buildings have been restored as hotels and restaurants, and in the center there is no motorized traffic. But not easy to get to, Bandipur is still relatively undiscovered. Though geared toward tourists, they are just not here yet. Paragliders are the exception – from Australia, England, southern India…even Nepal, they come carrying their huge packs of paragliding gear on their backs.

As we’ve mentioned, the vast majority here in Nepal are trekkers and all of the trekking talk must have had a subconscious impact on Gerard: “I guess we must take some kind of trek!” he muttered. So one day we got moving early and took a turn off the main road signposted for the village of Ramkot. A French couple with a young boy had done it a day before and assured us it was no problem – a mere 2-3 hours to the village!

After an hour and half into this “country walk” Gerard is flagging, wondering what had possessed him to do such a thing. “If there’s a road out of this town we’re taking a taxi back!” Two hours into the trip I could see Gerard getting more tired and it’s up to me to divert his attention if we’re ever going to get there. I remind him the French couple had not only done it with ease, but carried their five-year old son most of the way. (We later found out that they actually hired a porter to carry Metteo!)

Meanwhile the scenery was spectacular, even though a mist had settled in the valley below. Finally we caught a glimpse of the village in the far distance. Gerard couldn’t believe we had so much further to go…but we made it! A beautiful little hill town with no electricity…and no road! Only one sign for a hotel and of course it was up another hillside.

But at the top was an amazing view of the mountains, and the most basic facsimile of a “hotel” – three cell-like rooms, no electricity or running water. The menu consisted of two dishes, which we ordered with great enthusiasm. As you might expect it took a long time to prepare – a pressure cooker of rice cooked down in the village was brought up.

Even though the meal was so simple it tasted very good. Two hours later, feeling somewhat refreshed we started the long road home. Things were going quite well till we came to a fork in the path…and took a wrong turn. After 20 minutes of climbing higher, it was clear we were no longer on the right path. Gerard insisted, “We’re not going back!” so there was no alternative but to fight our way through the jungle back to the path below. The terrain was treacherously steep and the undergrowth tangled and thick. But once we’d started what else to do? Eventually, with only a few bumps and scratches we joined the path below. Now Gerard is really tired and there is still a long way to go. One hour turned into two, and the end continued to be nowhere in sight.

Finally as the sun was setting on the Himalayas, our guesthouse came into view. So much for the two hours up and two hours back, we had been hiking all day! Ready to collapse, we ordered dinner, but the boy announced emphatically, “Today is my birthday. I don’t want to work!” Another 20-minute walk back into town with our flashlights to get something to eat. Even though I was very tired, for me it was one of the best days of the trip. But when I asked Gerard “Wasn’t it worth it for the great view? He replied, “Well, if you’re asking me if I would do it again, the answer is NO.”

The only other guests where we were staying were the aforementioned younger French couple with their son. Aurelien had done a lot of traveling ten years ago but now has settled into landscape design and obviously found his niche as a landscape architect. His website has pictures of his projects in Marrakech, San Tropez, Nice, Belgium and Miami. His wife is taking advantage of a six-month sabbatical that most French employers give every ten years. Aurelien continues to work remotely while they’re traveling, first in Nepal, and then to Thailand, Indonesia and Bali. However, man proposes and God disposes! Now with the political unrest in Bangkok they’re trying to sell their airplane tickets and figure out where to go instead. India might be a second choice and since he knows Agonda they parted saying, “We may see you again in January in Goa!” If we weren’t running short of time, this is definitely a place we could have whiled away several more days. Not to mention time for Gerard’s aching dogs to recuperate!

It was a short journey to our next destination, Dulikhel, but not an easy one – beginning with dragging our suitcases down the hill over the uneven cobblestones to the main road to catch the local bus. “No problem,” the guesthouse patron told us “they go by every five minutes all day long (200 in total). You’ll easily get your cases on!” Well, there were a lot of buses, but where did our bus halt? As each bus pulled in, we had to yell “Dulikhel?” They were all filled and overflowing, so we ran after one that stopped long enough, pushed our way on and stood jammed in the aisle for most of the one and a half hour journey. In the crush, a lady gave us a warm welcoming smile, as if to say, “Don’t worry, it will be all right” – and it was! Arriving in Dulikhel we had to haul our cases for a couple of miles up a steep and busy road leading out of town, continually asking people for directions to our guest house which was not sign-posted.

The guidebook described Snow View as a ‘blast from the past’. Anyone who traveled in third world countries during the 60s and 70s would understand. The guesthouse is BASIC…but clean and adequate. The family who live below and cook vegetarian food for us, straight from their garden, are wonderful. For us that makes up for any lack of mod cons. After the hubbub of Bhaktapur it’s so quiet and rural – but 5,000 feet up decidedly chilly at night and we sleep under a thick quilt with plenty of layers of clothing.

As I lay in bed that night barely warm enough and unable to sleep, my unoccupied mind flashed back over many business trips. So easy – I just boarded a plane, and on landing, hailed a taxi which took me to my Marriott/Westin/Hilton hotel (very comfortable but completely indistinguishable) – I was there. Very different from today’s brief but complicated journey. But I realized that I would much rather stand on a crowded bus and drag my suitcase up a steep stony road for 20 minutes etc. than have to endure the stresses and strains of business travel –giving a presentation, last minute preparing the night before, running to Kinkos before it closed to make slides (before we could use laptops) business meals with people you don’t know and wouldn’t otherwise choose to spend the evening with – and so on. Of course, there were trade-offs and exceptions – interesting places like Israel, Bosnia and Brazil, on occasion establishing a relationship that went beyond business – but these were not the norm. The conveniences of business travel did not make up for the angst. Putting that all to rest, I finally drifted off to sleep.

Unfortunately, clouds have been gathering for a couple of days, and here in Dulikhel where the mountains are supposed to be spectacular – once again they’re shrouded.  Sadly familiar of Sikkim last spring. We climbed 1000 steps up to a temple. Nice view of the surrounding hills and valley, and just the glimpse of a mountain peak. But the next morning, the sky had cleared and we were able to make out the long range of mountains stretching across the horizon. Walking down a country lane above the valley for a mile or so, we sat for hours on a grassy mound enjoying the view. Not a sight we tire of easily.  I try to hold the feeling of the power and stillness of the majestic Himalyas.

From Dukilhel we had to return to Katmandu before continuing our journey eastward to Pokhara. The local bus was crowded but cleaner and more comfortable than our overall experience with buses in India. Back in Katmandu, paths coincided with our Australian friends yet again before they were leaving Nepal. We had a leisurely dinner where they gave us the highlights of their trek in the mountains. Next morning we joined them for tea on the flower-filled rooftop of their guesthouse and they continued to talk about their apprehensions of going back to the workaday world. Then they loaded their backpacks and we waved them off in a taxi to the airport. Before heading home to Australia, they had one last stop in Bali at a luxury yoga spa with classes that are supposed to help open the third eye. If it works they promised to let us know!

In the evening, looking to find some magic potion that will cure Gerard’s sinus infection and insistent cough we head down side streets. Helpful shopkeepers direct us rightside.. downside…inside outside…I have no idea where we’re going – neither does Gerard but with his stellar sense of direction, I know he will find his way back. Leaving the tourist lights and activity, we’re in winding dark alleys, so familiar to the medinas in Morocco. And then hidden away behind half-shuttered doors is a pharmacy still open – behind the counter a young girl who manages to retrieve from a wall stuffed with unidentifiable packets and packages, an asthma inhaler and cough mixture – neither of which include much in the way of directions for use.

By now it’s late for dinner but I want to visit the little Tibetan restaurant one more time. It looks closed because the power’s out, but when we step through the curtain, the girl is welcoming and even though they’ve closed the kitchen, says, “For you, we will be happy to make thupka.” She remembered us! Once again, Gerard’s knack of making an impression paid off!

The next morning before light, we hauled our cases through the dark streets to the bus terminal to start the journey to Bandipur. As an easier alternative to the local bus, we’ve prepaid and reserved seats on the tourist bus for Pokara, even though we’re only going two-thirds of the way. But when we arrived at the “terminal” there was a long line of 30 or so almost identical tourist buses on the side of the road. How on earth would we find our bus? Crossing the street, we just happened to arrive right beside “Swiss Travel – the one we were looking for!” So it was easy after all. Seated in the back of the bus, we were surrounded by Chinese – the major tourist group in Nepal these days. A young Chinese girl across the aisle exercised her limited English to address Gerard, “Are you retired?” Guess it’s pretty obvious! The only other westerner on the bus was a boy from Los Angeles, pursuing a degree in Development Studies, and doing an internship in Patan setting up services for HIV patients (still a relatively small group in Nepal). He was taking time off with his girlfriend from Slovakia, (he’d met while at college in Switzerland) who was visiting for a couple of weeks. After studying in so many overseas, locations, we asked him if he’d return to LA to live. He said emphatically, “No! Somewhere in Europe would be preferable.” When the conversation steered toward our travels in the 60s, he admitted he was very envious; not just the lack of internet, but not even a guidebook; relying on fellow travelers for basic information about your next destination. He smiled and said, “I wish I could have done that.” We bid them farewell as we got down in a very dusty and unremarkable town called Dumre to catch a local bus up the hill side to Bandipur.

The election is now over but not forgotten.

In Kathamandu we were awestruck by Darbar Square and the ancient structures throughout the old town. But then we went to Patan and the Darbar Square there was even more exotic, and walking through the town revealed so many enclosed squares and courtyards only accessible through small portals. Now landing in Bhaktapur, most of the town, not to mention three major squares, was built between the 14^th and 16^th Cs.

And even many new buildings are built in the Newari style of the period with the same workmanship and artistry, demonstrating the Nepali pride in their culture. To encourage local people to build in the traditional style, the municipality is in fact distributing grants for woodcarving, brick and tile work. We can’t imagine any other city in the Valley that will surpass this. Gerard with his love of antiquity is in his element!

Bhaktapur is reputed to be one of the ten cleanest cities in Asia and we have been dulyimpressed by how many trash cans are located around the city and people actually using them. The brochure advertised the city as being traffic-free, but this is not true. Like India, it’s obviously impossible to enforce things like traffic rules in Nepal. Most of the vehicles are motorcycles, and “one lungers”, tiny tractors with one piston engine that chug by early in the morning to deliver to the restaurants and hotels, or pick up trash.

Our guesthouse, the Khowpa, is an antique right in the middle of the old town just off the main square. The ceilings are barely six feet tall and the carrying beam even lower. But it’s cozy and clean, the patron is wonderfully helpful… and best of all it’s reasonably priced in an otherwise high-end market.

We’re both a little surprised at how expensive food and lodging is; a country poorer than India, yet prices are higher. Initially an entrance fee to Bhaktapur of a whopping $11 each was irksome, but within a short time we could see where the money was being used – to maintain the historic building, keep the city clean and encourage traditional crafts.  Money well spent!

Walking tours in the guide book trace a zig-zag route through many of the neighborhoods, each peppered with little squares and temples. In Taumadhi Tole, the second largest square, the most imposing temple is reached via a huge stone staircase – at regular intervals a pair of statues either side of the stairs guard the temple. The representations are fiercer the higher the stairs but conversely smaller in size: on the first rung are a pair of human wrestlers, then elephants, gargoyles, demons, until on the top step is the frightening god Kali. Another temple houses a god that is so ferocious that no one, except the priest, is allowed to enter inside. There’s always a group of people hanging around the doorway making offerings to the deity   or perhaps like Scout in To Kill a Mockingbird they can’t keep away even though it’s so scary!

The 1936 earthquake caused much damage in Nepal. We’ve noticed a lot of cracks in the old buildings – one leans so much it looks as if it will fall down. Why don’t they repair when they’re doing so much new building with such care? They reply, “Why bother? We’ll wait till after another earthquake when the building completely falls down and then we’ll rebuild.”  You have to love the logic!

As the obvious takes place on the street, the more private home life can be seen on the rooftops spread across the city. Women wash clothes…dry their hair…children play…roosters in cages crow night and day. In the early morning light, a grey haired lady in a beautifully colored sari carefully waters her plants from a large brass bowl. When finished, she touches the empty bowl to her forehead in gratitude, or perhaps prayer?

At dusk the snow-capped mountains turn from white to pink to lavender.

One of the biggest challenges here (other than getting a decent meal – Nepalis eat a lot of meat especially buffalo and eggs are classified as a vegetable) is to stay attentive and absorb as much as possible of all the fine historic architecture laden with exquisite wood carving. One of the best examples is the Peacock Window.

There is such a proliferation of one magnificent building after another that we have a tendency to stop looking and became blasé about our surroundings, and look no further than the end of our nose. This place definitely deserves repeated visits to take in more than on first glance so we’ve decided to stay several more days. It’s very exciting to discover a town you feel you could come back to numerous times and still find it fascinating.

On Election Day everything came to a standstill. There was no traffic and no garbage pick up… the peace and quiet were the tradeoff for other inconveniences it caused. From the long lines at the many polling booths around town it seems everyone is voting. Our patron proudly says, “Democracy!” as he shows us his ink-stained finger indicating that he’s cast his vote. Despite the boycott and strike, an estimated 70% voted adding insult to injury to the marginalized Maoist groups. So the pendulum swings – 8 years of getting little or nothing done, they had to go.

There’s a strong mood of anticipation – and a surfeit of police security wandering around with their batons. Some unrest was reported (25 injured throughout the whole of Nepal) but nothing too serious. In the evening everyone gathers around the polling booths where young people are counting the results from printed sheets. For those who can’t read, each candidate has a symbol – a tree, a drum, a hammer and sickle etc. It takes over three days for all the counting nationwide to be completed manually. Meanwhile men gather around computer screens displaying the TV news from Kathmandu waiting for the results to be posted. Finally the breaking news – Congress has slim majority over the Communists while the Maoists have taken a severe beating.

It seems like most of the people who come to Nepal are trekkers, especially so in Kathmandu which was crowded with them, coming and going. We love the mountains but the time for trekking has come and gone for us – we don’t have a lot of shared experience with these people. But Bhaktapur is not a place you come to stock up on mountain gear; it appears to us people stay here breaking from trekking, to absorb a town that is renowned for its traditional arts and crafts.

Several interesting people we’ve met in our age bracket (give-or-take) have all been in Nepal 20-30 years ago and are now retracing their steps. A spry Irishman just off the boat from Tipperary, retired and spending his winters here teaching teenagers English. But he realized that public school children who had no kindergarten were starting with a huge disadvantage than those who went to private school and attended kindergarten. So now most of his time is taken up with establishing public school kindergartens across the city to narrow the gap. We asked him if he was lonely. “No way!” he says, “Nepalis are so friendly I have more than enough social interaction.”

A Canadian has returned with his son to see how much Nepal has changed in thirty years. But who we’ve spent the most time with is an Australian. Michael, a computer programmer for heavy industry, was last here in the early 80s. Quitting his job, he has come back to Nepal and trekked up as high as 5,100 meters. Later he’ll move on to India. Gerard and I gave him a few ideas for his itinerary based on places we know and love. Hours spent sharing memories of our travels to common places decades ago – Yugoslavia before Tito’s death, East Berlin before the wall came down….long discussion over breakfast in a restaurant that could be a NYC diner with its checkered tablecloths, bustling waiters and coffee-brewing aroma; while out of the window we enjoy a spectacular view of ancient Bhaktapur temples that is worlds away from NYC.

Michael leaves Bhaktapur before us. It’s unlikely we’ll see him again, but you never know. He says, “Traveling is saying goodbye.” Yes, it is but so isn’t living – nothing is permanent, we move on – obviously at a slower pace in our daily life than when traveling – but we always have to say goodbye. As we say goodbye to Bhaktapur, even though we may return, we will never see it again for the first time.

Close to Kathmandu, conventional wisdom is to visit Patan for the day. But eager for change, we decide to spend a couple of days. It is less of a tourist destination meaning fewer conveniences for Westerners.  But the upside is that once the tourists and buses have come and gone for the day, we have the place relatively to ourselves.

Patan’s Darbar Square has some of the finest collection of Newari temples and palaces in Nepal. With a long Buddhist as well as Hindu history, the stupas date back to the Buddhist emperor Ashok in around 250 BC. Even more interesting is the myriad of squares and courtyards we discovered down the surrounding narrow streets.

Sanu’s Homestay sounded good on tripadvisor but in reality it was a dump! Not only beside a busy main road, to make matters worse they were digging up the sewer line right in front. Not a pretty sight or smell! So we sat in the taxi cab and called around for an alternative while some biting insect made a meal out of Gerard’s back. Why do they always ignore me? I’d post a picture of the trail of angry red welts but Patan is more interesting.

Only Norwegian House had availability. Situated in a rather surreal area dominated by expats, diplomats, NGOs and charitable organizations, it’s a hostel for young Norwegians who are doing volunteer work here. The bakery café where we eat breakfast is staffed by young deaf mutes and the restaurant further down supports women in small business.

Finding restaurants with vegetarian food was difficult and sharing a bathroom with several young students not ideal, so we decided to stay only a couple of days and then push on to Bhaktapur.

The hostel manager persuaded us to take a taxi because of the infrequency of the buses due to the strike. Further she commented looking at our suitcases, “You’ll never be able to get on!” Sure enough, as we left town, we passed a couple of overflowing buses with a slew of men perched on the roof.

We were excited to go to Nepal. A new country – although not so different in many ways from where we’ve been in northern India. Nepal and India are similar; yet they are also very different. One big difference is that Nepal didn’t suffer at the hands of the Moslems as India did and its heritage has remained largely intact.

Also, we looked forward to meeting up again with an Australian couple we befriended last spring in Darjeeling. They have now been traveling for nearly a year. Unfortunately we only had one evening with them to hear about their travel and the kind of impact it’s had on them. Barbara, a school teacher on sabbatical and Jim, a scientist, confident he’ll get another job when he returns. It’s not always easy for the most compatible to get along when you’re traveling together but Barbara says the experience has brought them closer. She’s also enjoyed being no one other than herself…not a school teacher, nor a mother – just Barbara. Feeling a different person she doesn’t want to just slip back into her old life when she returns. As the Buddhists say: “Before enlightenment – chopping wood and hauling water. After enlightenment – chopping wood and hauling water!”

Little did we know we would arrive here in the midst of a Congressional Assembly Election, and how it would impact our stay in the Kathmandu Valley. Out of a disproportionate 124 parties vying for seats, there are 3 major parties: Congress, Maoist and Communist. 33 splinter groups decided to boycott the election and call for a ten-day general strike for reasons not completely clear to us. The first day of the strike, the shops are all shut and there is a near total ban on transportation (creating a wonderful peace and space on otherwise busy congested streets). But by evening, some shops have reopened, and by the second day many have. Over the next few days, the transportation ban is eased, theoretically allowing tourists to come and go, but some public buses are firebombed. No deaths are reported, but several passengers are injured, some critically. We tried to get information about how serious the strike is and how dangerous it is to ride the buses but no one can give us a clear answer.

All of this has limited our mobility and caused us to stay longer in the valley than planned. The days prior to the election we saw people lining up to get their voting cards. The young patron in the CD store says he won’t vote.  He doesn’t like politics – not surprising in the circumstances. But he claims voter turnout is more than 50% even though there’s so much contention. This morning we read that the border has been sealed for 72 hours, during the period of the election. Jimmy Carter, looking endearingly fragile, has arrived to oversee the election. Though without buses running many are prevented from returning to their home town to vote – it’s hard to see how it can be anything close to a fair election.

A museum in Darbar Square revealed something of Nepal’s disturbing political history. In a bloody massacre in 2001 the king and queen and eight other members of royal family were shot by the crown prince who then turned the gun on himself, for reasons unclear. Suspicions center on the old chestnuts: India and the CIA. But we’ll never know. The crown prince’s brother became king. In the museum, I devoured endless photographs of the last three generations of monarchs their wives and children. Particularly haunting were the larger than life portraits above the reception desk in our hotel of the murdered king and queen looking serene and innocent.

Meanwhile a Maoist insurgency that began in 1996 and lasted a decade brought the country to its knees. Development stalled, tourism dwindled and Nepal’s media was described as the world’s most censored. In 2006 the king dissolved the government and called a state of emergency in order to crush the Maoist rebels. After weeks of protest, the King reinstated parliament and the Maoists and government officials signed a peace accord ending centuries’ long rule of monarchy.

Enough of the politics already!  Nepal has three major religions –Hinduism, Buddhism and Tourism! Hinduism and Buddhism are uniquely intermingled – they even worship at the same temples. It helps that Buddhism is not strictly a religion but is focused on philosophy and a code of morality and neither religion is interested in conversion. In fact our friends in Delhi made the comment that Buddhism is an offshoot of Hinduism anyway.

So many temples…so little time… But the ones that distinguish themselves the most are Swayambhunath, (commonly called the monkey temple for obvious reasons) sitting high up above the city, reached via an arduous flight of stairs. Nepal’s recorded history rises from the fog of antiquity. Emperor Akbar allegedly visited Swayambhunath in 250 BC, but the earliest confirmed activity is 450 AD. Ancient carvings are crammed into every square inch. It’s predominantly a Buddhist shrine but in the midst of it is a Hindu temple.

Even more impressive was Boudnath, Asia’s largest stupa, dating by legend back to 600 AD. The first stupa was wrecked by Mogul invaders in 14C; since then it has been rebuilt several times most recently after the 1936 earthquake. The simplicity and purity make it unique. And the thriving life in the surrounding narrow streets and monasteries gives an opportunity to peep into the Buddhist community.

Nepal’s third “ism” is in its full-blown glory in the Thamel district where we are staying – a maze of traffic-jammed streets and alleyways in the old town. It abounds with trekking stores packed with North Face gear and restaurants competing with a range of cuisine – falafel and fried potato roll-up, Tibetan momo, Nepalese thali, pizza and gourmet coffee.  In 1955 Katmandu had one restaurant, the guide-book estimates today there are 2400 shops and restaurants probably many more than that. There are also an abundance of Tibetan craft shops overflowing with souvenirs. Gerard comments that they could stop manufacturing for over a decade and they still wouldn’t run out of inventory! There are also roaming hash salesmen. Gerard is proposed several times a day – “Hash? Smoke?”  is thrown out into the ether so it can be retracted if G turns out be an undercover cop. (Must be that pony tail!) But the hippies are far now outnumbered by trekkers.

Having an aversion to restaurants where a surfeit of waiters hover around, I look for the little restaurants serving the locals. Down an alley we found one behind a doorway curtained with a Tibetan motif.  Two young people man the kitchen at the back of the room, while a very attractive girl serves the handful of tables in the front. The food is limited to Tibetan momo  and thupka (soup) but excellent. While we’re eating,  a Chinese couple walk in who do not look like tourists except for their hiking boots. In a worse position than us they can speak no Nepalese, Tibetan or English. The broken English between the Chinese girl and the Tibetan waitress is so bad it is as if each has a speech impediment. The pathos in two people who physically look quite similar being unable to communicate. It took a lot of creative hand gesturing to indicate that they wanted soup.  The waitress is reluctant to take their Chinese money but they have nothing else. Gerard offers to pay but she says it’s ok. Later we ask the waitress about herself.  Her parents came to Nepal from Tibet 40 years ago. Born here, she speaks Nepalese and only a little Tibetan. She didn’t know if her parents came together or met when they got here. Sad a young person should know so little about her heritage. When we left everyone was all smiles!

We were warned of the pollution of Kathmandu – overwhelmed by an influx of Tibetan refugees, tourists, and traffic. It was indeed very dusty but the pollution was nothing compared with the yellow smog of Delhi. Since we arrived in Nepal nine days ago, the sun has shone brightly, the sky blue and climate pleasant. Interestingly, Nepal has the greatest water resources in the world, second only to Brazil. First time in our travels, that we haven’t had to be concerned about water usage.

As we prepared for our sixth annual return, a friend asked me, “Why do you keep going back to India – to escape from winter?” It was a fair question that caused me to reflect. I’ve shared the personal challenges I face traveling in India. So why do I choose to return?

Well yes, it is a cheap escape…and I tell my friend about the beach in Goa – the endless stretch of white sand, constant sunshine and blissfully warm water. Comparable to any South Seas island resort and a fraction of the price! But India offers much more than a seductive beach experience. Via one of the world’s largest railway networks (71K miles of track with over 7K stations) we have traveled throughout this vast and diverse subcontinent – from the Hindu temple towns of Tamil Nadu in the south, to the cave carvings and paintings at Ellora and Ajunta, the Mogul ruins on the plains of Madhya Pradesh and imperial monuments of Calcutta. And still further north, the steep hill station retreats of Shimla and Darjeeling. The railway ends there but buses can take us further north into the foothills of the snow-capped Himalayas. A country with so much diversity – physically, economically and spiritually – continues to exert its powerful magnetism.

Indian Railways are convenient and cheap – even before applying the 50% discount for females over 62! With an estimated 25 million passengers on any given day, the problem is getting a seat. We now need to book well in advance for 2AC reservations which diminishes much of the spontaneity of travel. But we can travel huge distances for very little money. The initial prospect of a three-day journey is daunting…36 hours on a train? For sure, there’ll be dirty toilets, disruptive children, and loud snorers. But the upside is a spontaneous admittance to Indian culture. We literally live with our fellow passengers, sharing food, stories and sleeping alongside each other. Porters supply us with clean bedding and take our order for meals – soupy dhal and rice that we try to balance on our knees. And constant entertainment is provided by chai wallahs, food vendors, performing transvestites and beggars.

To say India is overcrowded and noisy is an understatement. Approximately one-third of the size of the U.S., India has three times its population. This explains some of the frustrations – the infernal delays; the dirt; the continual cacophony of car horns, barking dogs, political rallies and religious gatherings with loudspeakers. In fact the Indians love to employ loudspeakers for any and all occasions! India is the second most populous country in the world, next only to China. And with the current population growth – India is set to leave China behind by 2020 – it’s not going to get any better.

On the other hand, there is so much beauty: in the kaleidoscope of color among the travelers waiting on a grimy train station, the fragrance of jasmine embedded in a woman’s long hair, a simple act of kindness from a stranger assisting a bewildered foreigner. The warmth of a people who believe in generosity even when they have nothing to share. This is the paradox of India. I don’t just come here for the beach, but for experiences that might teach me a thing or two. India with all its confusion and corruption presents a great lesson in waiting – and ultimately acceptance. And while waiting, life can present itself: slowing down enough to be able to watch two children play with a plastic bottle, or the smile of a fellow passenger.

Indians love to talk. Gerard, who can have a conversation with a lamppost, is even outdone by the candour of the Indians who quiz him on American politics, and why everyone in the U.S, needs to own a gun. On my side, growing up in a household where conversation was awkward and impersonal (a favorite lunch topic was the weather), Indians can be direct in a way that is completely alien to the British. Initially it was quite stressful when virtual strangers would ask me: “How much money do you make?” or “Why don’t you have children?” But over time their directness has worn off on me and I find myself inching toward becoming more straightforward myself.

So much diversity within India is a continual source of fascination and often bewilderment. It’s amazing that in such a large country as India there is any semblance of unity. Among today’s 1.2 billion people, 22 major languages are spoken in as many as 1,500 dialects.  But India is one nation despite many and sometimes violent separatist movements that are likely to erupt anywhere and at any time. And while India represents the largest democracy in the world it is imbued with political ineptitude and downright corruption. We encounter constant examples of this: Where are the funds supposedly appropriated several years ago to clean Dal Lake in Srinagar? Why do motorbikes continue to roar through the narrow lanes in Varanasi upsetting shopkeepers, terrorizing pilgrims and tourists? When I asked a restaurant owner, “Why don’t you all get together to pass an ordinance against loud motorcycles in the lanes?”, his eyes widened as if I was talking in a foreign tongue! “And who’s going to enforce it?” Any attempt to create a law would be nullified by a bribe. Bribery and black money are integral to doing business – to merely surviving – in India. Corrupt politicians continually walk away scot-free, and get elected yet again. They enjoy all their privileges without being held accountable for their duties, the dereliction of which goes unchecked.

Corruption exists in politics everywhere, but in the west we still believe in the democratic process: the illusion that we do have some control and can hold those we elect to represent us accountable. In spite of the odds, there is still a 10% higher turnout in elections than in the U.S.  and from some of the conversations with younger people there’s a growing sense of urgency to elect a government that is actually accountable to its constituents. If they are going to compete with China in the decades to come, they know well that they have to get their house in order. It reminds us of the enthusiasm of the youth in the U.S. in the ‘60s.

India’s inherent spirituality has always been a pull for westerners who want to rediscover a personal relationship with our Source, whether we call it Higher Power, God, or science. Religion lies at the center of daily communal life. Birth, death and cremation take place on the street, constant reminders of our own immortality. We enjoy the fact that everyone is open to discussing religious issues and spirituality, whether they believe or not. And at any moment, we can wake to a combination of Hindu chanting, Islamic mosque calls and Buddhist horns and gongs. But all this diversity has worked against national unification.

Hinduism dates back at least 3,000 years and is practiced by 80% of the Indian population. It has no founder or single creed and intellectually supports tolerance toward other religions and does not try to convert. The second largest religion is Islam. Despite living side-by-side for centuries, there has been an underlying tension between the two communities that at times bubbles to the surface. Monotheistic Islam is rigid and simple; while Hinduism has literally millions of deities and a profusion of doctrines, sects and ceremonies. Moslem rulers differed in their treatment of their Hindu conquests: Akbar the Great (1542–1605) was concerned about all his citizens and abolished the special taxes other rulers had levied against non-Moslems. But the pendulum swung the other way with his great-grandson, the tyrant Arungazeb, whose message was “convert or die”. The British “divide and conquer” policy further fueled communal strife by favoring Moslems politically and placing them in higher places of .power. The British found monotheistic Islam easier to understand, while Hinduism baffled them. Consequently, when Calcutta was the seat of British imperialistic government, the British favored Moslems over the Bengali Hindus for political power.

Today, Moslems and Hindus will deliberately fuel the fire. A Hindu parade for example will go by a Mosque during prayer time with the band playing. And Moslems will slaughter a cow in eyesight of Hindus who hold the animal sacred. The friction between Hindus and Moslems is very disturbing. It seems they’ve dug themselves into a hole with no way out.

But on the other side of the coin, we’ve witnessed over and over again the welcoming nature of the Indian people not just toward visiting foreigners like ourselves but toward each other. Traveling from Varanasi to Delhi, we sat in a train compartment beside a Hindu family with two young children, and a Moslem youth on his way to school in Delhi for first time. Moved by the emotional farewell with his parents, the young mother of the Hindu family soon became his surrogate, and for the thirty-hour train ride he was absorbed into their family. In the same way, we were appointed grandparents to her two young children and were not only invited but expected to share the food they had brought.

For the most part, we choose to spend our time in country areas and small towns where we can avoid the crushing population and accompanying extremes of poverty and wealth. Hi-tech centers like Bangalore and Ahmedabad are bloated with new-found affluence manifested in high-rise office buildings, gated residential communities, glass palace shopping malls with convenient “pray-while-you-shop” temples and Styrofoam Shiva statues. But constant traffic jams, potholed roads and crumbling trash-strewn sidewalks demonstrate that city infrastructure has not kept up.

India is still home to one-third of the world’s poor and the largest slums in Asia. The poor live alongside the affluent, in tin roofed shacks beside rat-infested open sewers. Those who aren’t fortunate enough to occupy a slum dwelling, try to set up some semblance of home on the street or in doorways. So many people, so many families staking out their pitiful spot on the curb – some seem to be getting by, while others look like they won’t make it through the night. The family living on the street in Calcutta, in a tiny cave, once a sliver of a shop. It seemed impossible for all three to lie down in the space. But one morning, the woman sitting on her haunches looked up and gave me a wonderful smile saying “Namaste!” Poor in materials perhaps, but not in spirit. Oh, the hours I laboriously spent packing my small case with all the luxuries it was so important I bring with me and didn’t think I could do without!

Beggars are a constant presence in India and we admit to developing a thick skin to most of them. But every once in a while one is so pathetic that it’s like a stab in the heart. The grossly deformed man sitting outside our hotel in Shimla, unable to move except by crawling on his limbs supported by a wooden board, his foot stretched out in front of him, a huge swollen purple stump. But if that wasn’t enough, we realized he was also a deaf mute. Later in Hyderabad a shrunken little man, unable to do more than sit among his rags and his own filth against the wall of an alley. In the dim light he was barely visible, his brown form merging with his surroundings – as if he has grown out of the dirt. He didn’t appear to be able to walk and one hand protruded where his forearm should be. He could barely stretch it out to receive coins. Moments later, we saw a young Indian man walking his pet dog, snow-white and healthy. A stark contrast…

The children of the poor have endured more hardship in their short lives than anything I can imagine, and I’m fascinated by their innocence and resilience. Beggar children performing cartwheels between the cars in Delhi, boys swaggering along the tracks at railway stations looking for discarded treasures among the garbage and rats. I want to take their pictures, get to know them, fathom how they can find any enjoyment in so much hardship. Others fortunate enough to find work are grossly underpaid. In Hyderabad, a girl works alongside her mother repairing the highway.  Both dressed in saris, they’re digging up the road by hand and carrying away the rubble in baskets on their heads. A girl sweeping the ghats in Varanasi puts down the bag of garbage she is dragging and eagerly poses for my camera. I capture her disarming smile – but my problematic camera loses the picture. (perhaps the most personally revealing of the entire trip!). Too often, I can get caught up in the minutia of life – worry and complain about the little things that don’t go my way. For a moment of time, these children help me to refocus.

Everywhere we see young children supplementing the family income or even supporting themselves independently. India is reputed to have the largest number of child laborers in the world. Despite a landmark law of 2010 that mandated all children between six and fourteen years old to attend school, an estimated 28 million are still working instead. Employed in shops, in kitchens, on farms, in factories and on construction sites; they pick cotton, sweep streets, and work in industries such as precious stone cutting and fine embroidery. Back in 1952, India’s Mines Act prohibited anyone under the age of eighteen from working in coal mines, but children continue to be the main source of labor today. With no formal schooling, there’s little hope for these children to rise above a very basic quality of living. The hi-tech revolution remains beyond their reach and the gulf between poor and rich continues to widen.

I’ve described at length many of the disturbing facets of India – so the question has to be asked again why do we keep going? To experience its totality, we must embrace both the good and the bad. And there is so much that is good – above all the strength of spirit of the Indian people demonstrated in their generosity, laughter, music and faith.

The country is full of paradoxes – luxury and poverty, dirt and beauty, gentleness and violence, modernity and antiquity. Despite the hi-tech revolution and tidal wave of consumerism engulfing modern India, its ancient mystique still lurks in the crevasses of crumbling temples, along the ghats of Varanasi, and at the Calcutta flower market under the Howrah Bridge. So much culture and history in the dust beneath our feet! We’re not alone in finding it easy to fall in love with India – during our travels we’ve met many others who like us made an initial visit, and then continue to return over and over again. To those of us who are attracted, India can become addictive. As a friend succinctly put it, “India is a state of mind.”

After giving up the idea of heading further north, put off by the weather and reports of incredibly deteriorating roads, we went to a neighboring village. Rumtek is a lovely peaceful little hillside village with two active Buddhist monasteries. We watched the monks chanting, accompanied by horns and conches. It was just before lunch and as they served food to the monks, we were included! On the monastery grounds we found a very basic but squeaky clean guesthouse. After complimentary chai, we settled into our room with attached bath. Going in to use the toilet, it partially registered to me that the water tank had a slant. With a typical heavy hand, I still proceeded to flush –  and the whole tank came off the wall, water splashing everywhere! When Gerard came in to see what the commotion was, the look on his face brought me back to a similar incident that happened in our early years.

On my first trip to Tunisia, we stopped in Gabes, a southern coastal town, for several days. On our way to the beach one morning, I had an urgent need to use a toilet, so while Gerard waited on the street I dived into a café. A crowd of men were standing around a television watching an international soccer game. There was a lot of excitement. I was directed to the bathroom. To my surprise, this dusty town was sporting a newly renovated western style bathroom, with a sparkling white porcelain toilet and washbasin, shiny new fixtures. Totally unexpected in southern Tunisia. Above the toilet sat the water tank with a long dangling chain (just as we had back in England in the old days). Having relieved myself I reached up and yanked on the chain expecting water to gush into the toilet. Instead, the tank flew off the wall, crashing into the washbasin below, totally demolishing it. Apparently the water tank had not yet been properly secured to the wall and my yanking was too much for it. In one short moment, Kali (the Lord of Destruction), in the form of myself had done its work. In a state of shock and disbelief, I opened the door expecting a mob of irate Tunisians descending on me. But to my wonderment, it was as though nothing had happened. Holding my breath, I hustled myself through the soccer-absorbed fans. Still in disbelief, I told Gerard “We’ve got to get the hell out of here!”  “Why?…What?” Just keep moving…..” WHAT?”  “I’ll tell you in a minute.  Get away from this street!” In the refuge of the palm trees down by the beach, I related my story as he listened with gaping mouth and bulging eyes. For the remainder of our stay in Gabes, we made sure we never went anywhere near that street!

Meanwhile back in Rumtek Gerard, the Guru of all things mundane, got out his Swiss army knife and was able to clip the water tank back on the wall –albeit temporarily. The rest of our stay was less eventful. Early the next morning, in bright sunshine, we walked out to the other monastery and arrived just as the monks were again chanting before eating their breakfast. Beautiful countryside and so many spring flowers along the way.

We left Sikkim for Siliguri a few days early to meet up with our British friend Jonny who we’d missed in Goa this year. We’ve developed an increasingly close relationship with him over the past few years as he’s dug himself out of a deep hole physically and emotionally. He’s very open with us about all that he’s gone through, the more so for being a Brit! The following day, the Australians we kept running into also joined us, and by sheer coincidence were on the same train back to Delhi. A day of rest and relaxation in an upscale hotel with a good restaurant was just what we needed before starting our last train ride.

The Rajdhani Express is a cut above the snail mail “express” that we usually seem to end up on. Clean and comfortable with frequently supplied meals and snacks Being in their early thirties they of course didn’t know who that was, but immediately pulled up pictures of her on their smartphone. We have shared train compartments with so many families in the past years but these two girls were extraordinary in their maturity at such a young age. Spending the twenty-hour journey with such a lovely family was a perfect end to this year’s trip.helped the journey fly by. Our carriage companions were a couple from Assam with two engaging girls of four and eight.  The older spoke perfect English, and had the mannerisms of a young woman. Gerard was fascinated and told her parents she looked just like a young Natalie Wood.

Since the last time we were in Delhi back in January, our Indian family had moved to Gurgaon a rapidly growing suburb of hi tech businesses and shopping malls. But the Mahajans live beside an older neighborhood that is still made up of small businesses and shops. While Gerard helped Bhushan deal with the frustrations of house renovation and “managing” the workers – I went to back to work. My colleague of over 20 years at Yankee Group, Berge Ayvazian, just happened to be hosting a two-day conference in Gurgaon while we were there. It was too much of a coincidence to ignore, and he persuaded me to attend as an industry analyst. Briefly put, 4G World India focused on the opportunity for mobile broadband communications. Gerard thought I was crazy to want to spend our last two days in Delhi holed up in a conference, plus I’d have to go and buy business clothes to wear. But I couldn’t resist playing the role of analyst again and in the context of India. One of the highlights of my job was working in foreign countries, which gave me a unique sense of being more than just a tourist. After four months of living out of a suitcase, it was a change to put on new “business” clothes, and hail a rickshaw on my own and find my way to the Epicentre. And there was Berge up on the stage preparing to open the conference – just like old times! It was good to play that role again. It was already late, but we were on “Indian time” and no one cared too much about keeping to the clock. And to break up the day, there were plenty of chai and biscuit breaks and an Indian multi course buffet lunch (veg and nonveg) that would have put the average American business person to sleep for the afternoon!

On the second day of the conference, Berge asked me to participate with a couple of other analysts in a roundtable discussion. If he’d asked me in advance I would have felt the need to prepare more, but it was an informal ad lib conversation. I was asked to give examples from my own experience of the pent-up demand for mobile broadband service particularly in rural areas (where 70% Indians live) – the young girl trying to watch a movie on a very basic mobile phone; a teenage daughter hi-jacking her mother’s phone to read Facebook; the driver of our shared taxi using his mobile to play music propping it up on the dashboard so we could all hear the tinny sound and see the gyrating performers (whether we wanted to or not). For many Indians, their mobile phone has become their computer. Quite incredible given that when we first came to India 30 years ago, only a handful of homes had a telephone and if they did it was virtually impossible to make a connection. The average Indian had no experience with telecommunications at all.  Today, the mobile phone is a prize possession prioritized over some of the basic commodities of life.

But by the end of two days I’d heard and said enough – with some relief I escaped the air-conditioned convention center, hailed a rickshaw, and returned to the family. They’ve moved to a much nicer house and even though there’s still a lot of commotion, they still made room for us physically and otherwise. And then gave us a very sweet send off. The flight back was grueling via London and New York – but 28 hours later Nicole, who house sat for us, was at the door to meet us. According to her, we arrived just in time and the weather is absolutely beautiful with all of the spring flowers and trees in bloom and the air crystal clear. Quite a change from the mist in Sikkim…and the pollution in Delhi.

Sikkim is a tiny state lying to the south of Tibet, sandwiched between Nepal to the west, Bhutan to the east and China in the north, which gives it the name of “chicken neck”. An isolated independent Buddhist kingdom for centuries, it was annexed by India in 1975 after India realized the country was an important buffer against China.

Although Sikkim is now an Indian state, we still needed entry permits from the tourist center, but considering the bureaucracy in India it was amazingly simple and straightforward. Our journey from Darjeeling involved a two-hour shared taxi ride to Jorthang, an hour’s wait and then another jeep to Pelling. Supposed to seat a maximum of ten people, eleven managed to squeeze in – with another riding on the roof for part of the journey. Three passengers almost squeezed out the driver, who steered with his left hand, while his right dangled out the window holding his mobile. It was even more interesting when he had to shift! Of all the mountain rides we’ve ever taken this had to be the worst road we’ve ever been on.

British/Israeli family we kept meeting, traveling for a year with to children

In Pelling, a small town built on the side of the hill, we continued to wait four more days being teased by the veil across the mountains. Meanwhile, we met some fellow travelers to share a jeep for a day’s tour of the surrounding countryside. Again the roads were terrible but traffic was sparse and our driver careful. It was an interesting tour group – a father and his grown daughter from Israel, and an Australian émigré from Sheffield who left his homeland the same year I did. The disappointing vistas were offset by the conversation in the jeep – Gerard quizzed the Israelis and provoked a heightened political discussion between the conservative father and his more radical daughter.

Along the way, massive waterfalls cascaded out of the mountain side; the sacred KhechopalriLake sat among a dark forest of what looked to be tall cypress and eucalyptus trees; a peaceful tree-lined park, the Norbugang Chorten, contained the Coronation throne of the first chogyal (monarch )of Sikkim. Our jeep clambered up a steep stony path to the large temple complex of the Tashiding gompa. Behind the main temple sat an impressive array of stupas and chortens storing the relics of Sikkimese ghoyals and lamas.

Then on the third night, the mist turned black, a thunderstorm rolled in across the mountains and it poured for hours. Around midnight I looked out and for the first time could see a sky full of stars – the storm had cleared the air. I lay awake…waiting…and at 5 am across the valley the snow-capped mountain range appeared in startling clarity. All this was right outside our window and we’d never seen it before! For the next hour we watched the sun slowly hit the mountain tops, and inch its way down. Everything seemed brighter that morning.

After breakfast we piled into our shared jeep and started out for Gangtok. During the journey, the young Indian couple from Bombay behind us, asked “And where are you from in the US?” Gerard replied, “Boston.” “Boston? We lived in Boston for three years!” A small world! They were curious as to where we’d been in India and then admitted that they hadn’t traveled much in India yet, and asked us for recommendations on where to go!

Unfortunately the one morning of clarity in Pelling was yet another tease. The veil dropped down again, and the hope of it lifting diminishes as the weather deteriorates. We abandon plans to travel north further and are faced with a week to fill before our train leaves for Delhi. Gerard is disappointed but his equilibrium is not disturbed. He purchases a book to read and settles down in the hotel – a little more meditation, a little TV (while there’s power). How many times can you watch the “Bourne Supremacy or Ocean 11?”

But reining in my restless nature is more problematic. No matter how compatible you are with your partner, there will be times when you’re not in synch. Obviously spending months traveling together often with little diversion than each other, can test any couple’s compatibility. And there are times when our communication breaks down, especially when I’ve drunk too much chai! While I’m expostulating on everything around us, Gerard is five steps behind, wondering what the hell I’m talking about!

Or there are situations like this – when we have few options it takes me longer to wind down and go with the flow. I definitely have a more restless nature than Gerard. Even back home he’s content to spend hours and days down in his basement studio painting, while I get on my bike or go to yoga. So it’s harder for me to settle in and just read a book while the rain and hail is pounding at the window.

But if we have to while away our time somewhere, Gangtok is not a bad place do that.It’s surprisingly relaxed perhaps because of all the hills which force traffic and pedestrians to move slowly… But Sikkimis very different from India. Other tourists complain Indians can be intense in terms of shopping and bargaining and comment how they enjoy the absence of that facet with the Sikkimese people. In our experience we’ve never really been bothered by the hassle and bustle of India, but other than just being Buddhist the people do seem mellow. I feel comfortable wandering around by myself in a way that I don’t in other parts of India (except perhaps Goa). Gangtok is also a clean city. Sikkim is environmentally aware and while they haven’t eliminated garbage yet by any stretch of the imagination, there are dustbins everywhere and bill boards with encouraging slogans like: “Good people don’t litter!”

Gangtok may be wrapped in mist, but we have a cozy guesthouse, the Pomra, up the hill above the town. Instead of mountain views there are a variety of birds in the trees immediately outside our window – gold-beaked, white and black-winged; a fat red robin look-alike with an equally pretty song. Tasty Tibetan food is cooked to order and an engaging little man with a mouthful of rotten teeth and a huge grin serves us as if he were our personal butler – he can’t speak English but uses a lot of imaginative gesturing to compensate for lack of words!

The few sights Gangtok has to offer: a flower shower with a profusion of orchids of many varieties, a Buddhist monastery up on the hill, damaged like many others by the 2011 earthquake but being repaired. The Café Fiction is an espresso bar with a large comfortable bookstore above – the books are a little scarce, but the intellectual atmosphere compensates. It is a drawing point for local writers and poets. The well-informed owner offered me suggestions and then insisted “You must read at least one novel by the Bengali author, Amitav Ghosh”, and he hands me the epic Glass Palace that covers three generations across Burma and India.

With black clouds threatening, we make the daily steep descent to the Mall for lunch, and then ruin our digestions clambering back up dodging the giant rain drops. With all the rain we have a new problem – the hotel’s water line broke far up the hill, and we have no running water for 24 hours. And then the next morning the mist finally clears – Kanchenjunga is almost visible if not for a band of puffy white clouds. But the excitement of the clearing landscape is overshadowed by the news of the Boston bombing. 10,000 miles away, we feel the pain and insult as if we were on Boylston Street.

I had a preconception of Darjeeling – a leafy green colonial hill station, pollution free vistas of tea plantation valleys below and snow capped mountains above, aromatic Darjeeling tea served in delicate china tea sets. But we knew better, having seen contemporary pictures of the town, but still the nostalgic image of 100 years ago held fast in my brain. The harsher reality set in as our shared taxi climbed higher up the mountainside, the haze engulfing the valleys. When we finally got dropped off at one of the many taxi stands in town, the sky threatening rain, we had no idea where to find the fairy tale guest house I desired. Then the rain began in earnest and Gerard grumbled, “You know how I feel about walking in the rain.” So we checked into the nearest hotel that was remotely acceptable, never mind the fact it overlooked the noisy taxi stand and the room had that gloomy brown paint look of a British railway station. It didn’t help when during the night, a mouse nibbled away at my last chocolate protein bar that I was saving for a rainy day. Darjeeling had not put on its best face for our arrival!

But as many times before, a gradual process of letting go has to happen before I can move beyond an initial negative reaction and start to enjoy my surroundings for what they are. The next morning we set off in search of another hotel. As we climbed further up the hill and away from the bazaar bustling with Indian tourists, the sun broke through the clouds revealing the valley below in patches of emerald green, and my mood lightened. We stopped for breakfast at a restaurant and struck up a conversation with a very friendly Australian couple who’ve taken a year off from their careers to travel. When we asked where they were staying, they said, “the Aliment,” and I’m exclaimed, “That was my original choice!” They let us use their phone to call to check for vacancy, and we were in luck!  So we hustled back to our mousetrap, picked up our bags and started the long winding ascent up to the Aliment.

The quaint apple green and blue painted guesthouse is managed by a 70 year old man who claims he has retired from 30 years in the British army. But the British disbanded their army in India over 60 years ago?? He runs the Aliment with the discipline of an army barracks – no clothes washing in the rooms, front door closed at 10 pm. A jolly little man, he sits in his restaurant, recording orders in a large ledger and freely dispensing advice across the counter. One long wall of the dining room is filled with a multi-language library of books, a frieze above the shelves declaring in bold print: “Sorry! Books Not for Sale or Trade”. Instead you can borrow one for a 500Rs deposit which is carefully recorded in the ledger. There are too many books to have been purely discarded by travelers – who knows where he’s found them all – hardback, paperback, in varying conditions and age. While waiting for dinner each night I read from Geoffrey Moorhouse’s Calcutta: the City Revealed, an illuminating account of the history of the city.

The guesthouse would have a spectacular view of Kachenuga the third highest mountain in the world if the air ever cleared. If a view is likely from the rooftop the proprietor knocks on your bedroom door at sunrise to let you know. But at this time of year, that doesn’t happen often. In our six-day stay, he only knocked on our door once and even then to see only the faintest outline of the highest peak through the clouds. We need to return in October after the monsoon rains have washed the air clear.

The hotel restaurant is convenient for dinner, the food is ok but the biggest appeal is the young waiter who has the prettiest face and gayest manner – and if he really is male, he’s still waiting for his voice to change! Gerard and I continue to speculate. Looking for something better for breakfast and lunch, we chance upon the perfect family eatery, the Mystic Mountain close by – no frills home-cooked food (why do they bother with a menu when the same few items are all that’s available – unless you request an hour ahead of time) and darjeeling tea served in a delicate china tea set with a Queen Anne teapot (just as I’d fantasized!).

The Mistyc Mountain is in the midst of a renovation and most of the time we’re the only paying customers – those eating with us are either working on the renovation or family members. I almost feel as if we’re interrupting by requesting a meal. But they’re happy to serve us and on each return visit give us a little something extra – fresh coriander salsa with our papads, cashews and raisins in our porridge… A common practice in family-run restaurants in Morocco once you became a regular customer – but we’ve not experienced this in India before. Over time we get to know the family better – the owner’s son died from a heart attack three years ago during the earthquake that was epicentered in nearby Sikim.  He was only 30 years old. “Slowly, slowly, she says, “We’re putting our life back together again.”

At this time of year, the sun shines most mornings, but by afternoon clouds roll in, the wind picks up and rattles the wooden window frames of our room, and then rain drops spatter the glass. Neither the weather nor our fragile bronchial condition are conducive to trekking too far. But one morning, while the sun’s still shining, we walk to the nearest town, Ghoum. The lanes with their hedgerows and spring flowers would seem like England if we weren’t 2200 meters above sea level. Along the way, we stopped at the Alubari (potato field) monastery. Another morning we make the long descent to the bottom of town and roam around the Botanical Gardens. Amidst tall pines, willows and maples, walkways zizag down to a slightly dilapidated Victorian greenhouse but it’s awash with the color of spring flowers and most prominently, two thick ropes of wisteria in full bloom. On afternoons when it’s not raining, we stroll on the Mall with its Victorian wooden cottages housing tea rooms, a well-stocked Oxford Bookstore and a family-run photographer’s shop that displays 60 year old pictures of colonialists in riding jodhpurs looking in the very same shop window.

They say familiarity breeds contempt, but in this case it’s the opposite; the more we get to know the town the more we like it – the footpaths climbing up the mountain, past little houses fillws with window boxes of spring flowers, a boys boarding sch

ool, a cricket field; the whistle of the toy steam train as it echoes through the whole hill station – nostalgic of an old black and white British movie; the friendly Nepalese immigrants their striking features a mix of Indian and Chinese, the young women with their almond-shaped eyes accentuated with kohl and flowing black hair, the round faced, pink cheeked children in their oversized school uniforms. Darjeeling is famous for tea and its vistas – we’ve had plenty of tea but almost no vistas. Inspite of this we’ve grown very fond of the town and talk about coming back after the monsoon when the mountains are clear.

As a political footnote: The Ghorkas, the indigenous people, have been agitating for an independent state from west Bengal for many years, and waged a particularly violent and unsuccessful campaign during the 1980s. (Inheritance of Loss, Kiran Desai). Even in more recent times, they would throw up blockades stopping traffic from entering and leaving Darjeeling. On our last day, a rally was staged down in the bazaar which resulted in almost all the shops and restaurants in the town closing. The most reasonable explanation we could get was that the shopkeepers were nervous of an outbreak of violence. But in this case, it didn’t happen.