Sikkim fi-li-li

Anita woke me up at 4:00 in the morning, as she had taken to doing the previous three mornings to look at the weather. If there were clouds, we slept, if it was clear we would catch a ride up to Tiger Hill, where, when the sun rises you can see Mt. Everest.

But instead of looking at the weather, she sat on my bed and whispered, "goodbye my friend. I came to say goodbye." And then they were gone (but they came back for breakfast, to make the goodbye hard all over again) and then they were gone again. And Esther, Scott, and I hiked down the hill and caught a jeep to the state of Sikkim.

I'm not really sure how to begin to recount the past four days. But I'll start with this: a few days ago Esther and I were walking through a trail in the middle of the Himalaya mountains. We heard there was a waterfall to be found on the other end, and as we were walking I realised that I had no idea what the date was, I had no idea what day of the week it was, and except for a general guess provided by the sun, I had no idea what time of day it was. I was just in the wild, and it didn't matter and it was wonderful.

The jeep rides are a trip unto themselves. Scott caught one a few days before and the driver had gotten out every few villages to take a shot of who knows what, and pretty soon was trashed and driving a jeep full of ten people quickly around the mountain bends. Scott said at one point the jeep lifted off onto just the two side wheels. Two wheels! You would think that was a big deal too if you could see these roads! They're tiny, steep, windy, and often running head on into a jeep making his way back down the other direction at equal speed.

Our driver certainly wasn't trashed. But he did stop every few villages to cram more people in and pick up a package of beets or socks or sack of pigs to take to someone's sister or uncle a few villages away. And after one stop, he certainly had liquor on the breath. But luckily it didn't affect his driving as much as his singing. All the Sikkimites (Do I call them Indians? They seem a people unto themselves. Mostly they speak Nepali, a few speak Tibetan, and even fewer Bengali) started singing a trekking song:

Resam fi-li-li
Resam fi-li-li
U rera jahm khii
dara ma bahnjahn
Resam fi-li-li

which a song about a sari silk blowing in the winds of the mountains and the valleys, over the forrest. However, by the end, when we were shouting it at the top of our lungs, the words were changed to, "I am a monkey, you are a donkey, resam fi-li-li"

And then we arrived in Yuksom. Where I can safely say I ate the cheapest food of my life, and then spent the coldest night of my life. Burried in a small village, deep in the mountains, winter approaches, and you dread the moment the sun goes down. Because the temperature quickly goes with it, and it takes every wool scarf you have to maintain body heat. The locals, however, say "this isn't cold. Cold is still coming." I have to admit, though, I am happy I won't be there to see "cold."

So we bought a deck of cards and rolled ourselves in blankets and bought huge pots of spiced tea and distracted the cold away.

But here is something. And it's important to me, so I will share. In the middle of the woods (which Sikkim is - beautiful mountain woods) night always terrifies me. As the skies get darker, I can feel my body getting tenser and tenser. A fear of the claustrophobia of the night. So dark that you can't get out and so big that it swollows you whole. So I sat there, in the stars and the darkness, waiting for the fear to start tightening around my muscles and chest. I waited and I waited. And it never came. Not once. The dark fear that has been with me for the past five years is suddenly, without pause or pomp; gone. I seem to have outlived it. Or lived it away. Which I guess is what you do with fear? And I don't know what to make of it. Only how wonderful my nights will be. From here on.

The next day in Yusom, Esther and I hiked up to see some old palace ruins. We took the high trail (as up is always better, sarah) and came to a small cluster of huts on a mountain ridge, overlooking the whole valley. We tentatively walked forward, not wanting to disturb the homes, and a trail of kids came out and marched behind us, laughing and giggling, all the way to the ruins (which turned out to be a very small pile of rocks). The kids circled us, up high there on the mountains and a very small one looked up at us and said, "dance please." We looked down at their dirty smiling upturned faces. "Dance?" I said, "I don't know any dances." They stared at us. I shook my hands a bit. "Yes, dance!" they smiled.

So what can you do? When a kid tells you to dance, you really need to dance.

When all else fails, there is always the hokey pokey. Which, I admit to doing. We made a circle and hokeyed pokeyed, and it was a hit. Esther and I sat down laughing and the kids (who live at the top of the world) sang and danced their Nepali songs while the sun shown down and the valley collapsed around us. in. perfect. happiness.

Later we hiked down to the waterfall and lay on rocks in the sun. And soaked it all into our skin.

The next day, Scott opted to go for another "walk" (I guess that's what Australians call miles and miles of mountain packing) while Esther and I caught another jeep to Pelling. Where we found the old ruins (legitimate ruins!) of the ancient capital of Sikkim. We sat among the stones and bricks looking at the mountains and the hills and in the distance we could hear the gongs and chants of a Tibetan Monastery echoing through the forest.

We made our way (via "shortcut" by the way, shortcut means "climb this mountain the most difficult way possible") up to the monastery where young monk boys were practicing their kung fu and football skills. Inside were elaborate pictures and carvings - one wooden pagoda replica inside was said to have taken five years to carve.

Then we made our way back to our guesthouse where a fire was going, and the staff had brought in Millet beer for us. Millet beer is the alcohol of choice in the mountains. It's served in these large wooden/bamboo mugs (that look like mini-barrels) and millet is put inside and hot water is poured over the top. You sip the beer through a bamboo straw (so the millet doesn't come up) and it tastes a bit like Japanese Saki. Which means I didn't like it, sorry, but they lit the fire outside and we all gathered around and played guitars and drums and sang songs late into the night. Until Mynos got too drunk and it was time to leave - but that's another story.

And now I'm here. Back in Darjeeling - beautiful Darjeeling where the tea is good and the wool is warm. And I wish I was back in Sikkim. Looking at the stars.

I'm in Darjeeling for three days. Esther and I were going to go to Bodhgaya (were Buddha achieved enlightenment) but when we tried to make the tickets today, we found there's no direct train, so we'd have to take a five hour jeep ride, two ridiculously long train rides, and then, then, then, still catch a bus. So no Bodhgaya. At least now. For now we will drink tea and drink the mountain and then head back to Calcutta.

oh calcutta.

I only have two weeks left. That can't be right, can it?