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| VOGUE SELECTS THE YEAR'S HOTTEST DESTINATIONS |
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| VOGUE SELECTS THE YEAR'S HOTTEST DESTINATIONS |
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SECRET MOUNTAIN One of my favourite stories is told to me on a grassy hill, standing under |
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 neath a curve of prayer flags gently thudding in the wind. In the distance is the Khanchendzonga in all its ferocity, the line of mountains that will always be Kanchenjunga in my head. (It hides from me under a cover of cloud, moving in and out of view, refusing to be photographed.) While beliefs about how the mountain range came to be vary with religion, the one that stays with mw is an offshoot of a tale more familiar. A giant, lying Gulliver-like as swarms of raksha sas scramble all over him, tickling his nose and jumping on his hairy trampoline stomach, which rises and falls with every thunderous snore. The smell of mases of food invading his sleep. A flying monkey carrying a mountain with magic herbs, rushing to the aid of a fallen warrior, while his dark-skinned brother is torn between him and his imprisoned (possibly ravaged) wife. Battle, bloodshed, the fall of the giant. And then, a little-known legend tells us, leftover sanjeevini from the mountain is used to awaken Kumb-hakarna from the dead. Rama tells him that he has been caught up in a fight that is not his own, and asks him to go in peace; Kumbhakarna, in turn, asks to be left alone, to sleep away his yearswithout interruption or culinary temptation. |
Looks, says
Siddhartha, holding up a picture of the mountain range, where
sunlight and shadows play tricks on the eyes. What do you see, he
asks me. I see a nose, a paunch, arms, legs. Khanchendzonga is
Kumbhakarna. Asleep forever, although poople still climb all over
him. By the time I reach Yangsum Farm, I'm exhausted. And I don't know what to expect, What I get is pretty wooden house, with a quiet room and a sunny verandah that seems made for long reads and masala tea. Traditionally, the first night at the village is spent around a bonfire, all the better to earm your bones with. My night, however, is spent huddling under the covers in my rom, whicle dinner is brought to me by amused hots. The electricity is entriely unreliable, but two hot water bottles nestling catlike against my body make me toasty. Dinner is delicious, with highlights being a Bhutia mutton curry whose meat is obligingly crumbling off the bone, and a sinful banana toffee creation for dessert that sticks to my teeth and fills all my cavities. The next morning, I set out for my first walk of the day, around the farmland. There's a tiny village to see, mountains at arm's length, glinting metal off hill-side rooftops, a prayer wall full of crudely drawn pictures and words in a language I cannot read. I am shown the oldest house in the village, which is a marvel of self-sufficiency. A simple working mechanism that minimises waste, a perfetly working world unto itself. Walking through the organic farm (they don't use fertiliser by un-affordability, not by choice) I see turmeric root for the first time-it is fresh |
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and pungent, a shock of colour in the dirt. After a strenuous hour's walk, navigating rocks and loose earth, looking out at incredible views and trying not to fall off first one rocky outcrop and then another, breakfast is a languid affair, with feathery crisp honeyed oats and porridge, fruit and pots upon pots of masala tea.
And this is just what this group of village homes has done-for four nights and five days (each spent in a different king of Sikkimese, house, with its own particular kinds of cuisine, landscape and architecture, even) you are given something of a crash course in the unending beauty of the place, and a flitting taste of a culture so unlike your own. Because I am skipping my stay at the Lepcha house in Sandyang Lee (no momos for me, sadly), we move on to the Nepali village home, by far the loveliest of the lot. En route, there is a monastery to visit. Rarely seem by anyone but locals, it is home to monks in trademark orange robes (boys, really) who do try very hard not to stare at you. Inside the temple, I am to find the single most surprising image of my entire trip. There is the Buddha, of course, seated at peace, beatific smile in place, and in his lap, straddling him, is a woman with head thrown back in ecstasy. Siddhartha explains to me that the Buddha represents knowledge, and the woman represents skill, both needed in order to attain true understanding. I don't know if I'm convinced. I prefer to think of it as having been created in a more enlightened time, when sex did not equal shame. Radhu Kandu house is a bit of a trek from the road, so you feel like you really have earned your solitude in the mountains. The bathroom is outside the straight-out of a nursery rhyme house on stilts, a fact that is uniformly uncomfortable to all who have stayed here, but such is the price one pays for authenticity. On our long walk to the house, Sid points out various plants to me, and tells me the stores behind them. One fern he uproots has a pod with healing paste, good for cuts and burns. Another, a leaf that produces sap used to paint the insides of monasteries, which turns red with time. There are plants to use as brooms and plants to prevent landslides. There are plants for everything. As for the house itself, it is inconceivable that such a place exists so far from reality as I know it. We walk past a village where orchids crowd verandahs, and rustling ears of corn hang down from the ceilings of wooden houses. The latter is for the local version of popcorn, I am told. I later taste these fat, roasted balls of corn that are probably quite a bit healthier than my extra-butter microwave favourite. There are glass noodles for lunch and mincemeat cakes, fried to a heavenly gold and threatening to barricade my arteries, with thick, soft Tibetan bread. There is nothing to do afterwards but read, walk (carefully) and take in whole lungfuls of air that tastes of mountains. |
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| Find the Sikkim that lives in its villages, where the only traffic goes 'baa' at regular intervals and vegetables don't grow in supermarkets |
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I am sorry to say goodbye to the lined faces that smile at me the next morning,., I don't want to leave these gentle people and go back to the horrid city. But pelling awaits, and Siddhartha drives me to the lovely Mount Pandim hotel. I am sorry to see him go, too, for my next couple of days will be spent alone, without stories. The eccentric Britisher and his Sikkimese wife, who mange the hotel together, are an entertaining couple. He tells me about government conspiracies and UFO cover-ups, she complains about how difficult it is to find good help. The food at the hotel is unremarkable, but adequate. I escape to the 17th-century Pemayangtse monastery nearby, up a steep little hill. The structure is beautiful, and on everyone's insistence, I go upstairs to the very tip to see the glass case which holds a massive Buddhist papier mache project gone mad. The creation is supposedly a depiction of heaven and hell (although the unstintingly garish colours make it all look rather deathly). There is not a soul around, and the loudness of my footsteps on the wooden floors is enough to give me the spooks. If I had the time, I would have visited Khecheo-parli Lake, whose waters are said to be eternally calm, or Tashiding monastery, one of Sikkim's holiest shrines, or even Yaksum, the first capital of Sikkim in the 15th century. Leaving the sweet
little hotel is another wrench, for Gangtok is inevitable. Spend
your time outside the capital: its surroundings hold more interest.
The Rumtek monastery, less than an hour away, is a 16th century
structure with elaborate wall paintings and regular tourists (and
monks who are used to it all and aren't affected one bit). Plan in
advance to get the permits you need for a day-trip to Nathu La to
make a wish at the Baba Harbhajan temple, and to visit the stunning,
kilometre-long Changu Lake. It's a lovely drive, and rhododendrons
will seem almost commonplace by the end of it. |
where the only traffic goes 'baa' at regular intervals, where buffaloes in the backyard chew on the thatched roof and vegetables don't grow in supermarkets. On my long drive back to Bagdogra, passing the swathes of green until the shanties of refugees from across the borders come into view, I feel a pang for the house on stilts, the butt-clenching climbs through hills, the simple food, the hot water bottles in bed. I long for the smell of the mountains and the taste of quietness, while ahead of me, the keening, familiar noise of Mumbai awaits. I recommend Sikkim unwillingly f, for who knows how long we have left before it succumbs to the ugliness of reality? How long before we learn to let sleeping giants lie?
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While we discuss
our plans for the day, I find myself ponderous. Why Sikkim, after
all? Because there are fewer and fewer and fewer places in the
country that are left untouched by the vulgarities of modernity.
Because the northeast will always be a bit of a mystery, and it
isn't easy to find excellent accommodation in places you want to go
to-precisely because commercialisation hasn't reached there yet.
Your want un-spoilt beauty, but you want to be spoilt. If you aren't
a hippy and backpacking holds no sway, how do you explore the yet
unexplored? You want comfort, you want safety, you want comfort, you
want safety, you want to feel like you've experienced some truth.