Trekking Singilia NP
I upgraded my train ticket out of the riffraff of third class and into the alien freezer of an aircon class that typically didn’t fit the full length of my frame. I passed through Calcutta in just a day (to return later) and booked a night train to the hill country of Darjeeling, renound for its views of the Himalayan and its famous tea. Calcutta had been an admin day, a day I occasionally set aside to take some deep breaths and play ball with a frustrating bureaucracy. One such task was to find somewhere to fix my digi camera, which after dropping it 2 months ago finally died. I know, I know… no more pics 
From Siligiri station a 2 hour jeep ride took us into the hill station proper, the road prominently featuring on every bend a warning to slow down. In typically goofy English they read ‘if you are married divorce speed’ or ‘speed kills but thrills’ and countless other (forgettable) wisdoms. I wanted to do a bit of trekking up here and stretch my legs out after having them crossed.
Two Eerish girls, Cella and Michelle, and myself teamed up, and made preparations for the hills. After a false start (when Michelle left her passport in storage in Darjeeling and the park guard made her go back to get it) we left Manybanjeng on the first leg of our 5-day trek. The general route was a lowish altitude track that zigzagged along the Indian/Nepali border with views that punched up to Kanchenjunga, the world 3rd highest mountain, and to the colossal Himalayan range. The first day served up a soupy broth of low cloud that steamed below us and quickly rose in the afternoon and cut our visibility to about 10 metres. But for me it was a fog of dreams, taking us further Out There, along a cobbled path that I thought, even before Cella said it, must be something like Ireland. Every now and then a furious fluttering of prayer flags clued us to Buddhist Stupa’s on a nearby high point.
Our first night was spent at Tongla as planned, about 10km from Manybenjeng. We’d decided against a guide and since I was the boy had the map and was the fastest walker I became the defacto guide, to the indifference of the girls. We carried our own packs, which to all our credit were pretty small. Sitting in the hut’s kitchen we were all pretty happy with a good first day, the dorm room we had to ourselves and the big servings of Dahl Bhat and Chapatti that kept on coming.
Two other groups highlighted the brilliance in the simplicity of our preparation the next day. Booking from the UK, a couple of Pomes had organized 2 horses, 3 porters, a cook, a guide, and (an obligatory) boy. A bigger group of Germans likewise had all the extras including Leki poles, a few more cooks, and tents. They could keep their tents, because on arriving at Sangtapu I was glad for my lodging. Day two had been brilliant for views but a bit of an uphill slog where I even took up Michelle’s pack for a bit. The previous nights gale lifted the cloud to expose the beauty of the Himalayas. The long climbing path lined with Gilligan sized Rhododendrons bloomed without shyness. Only (ahem) once did we go off track when I got a bit keen with the sherpa shortcuts that presented themselves here and there, and got one wrong.
The thin curtains let the light flood in early next morning and only the biting cold put second thoughts into our minds about jumping out of bed and heading up to the viewpoint, closer again to the big mountains. The day ahead followed an isolated but flat road at 3600m. We had planned to reach the corner of Nepal, West Bengal and Sikhm but we were forewarned that a school trip had booked out the minimal accommodation up there. Well stocked with chocolate, lunch, chocolate, extra water and chocolate we followed the same route to Phalut, but detoured at a point to Molley. A Sherpa tipped us onto a minor path that lead off the exposed ridge on which a few wooly yaks grazed. We’d kind of cut a corner on the map, meaning we’d shave a day off the trip.
By cutting back into India, the valley inside opened up, at first gently with small streams and wild flowers, and then completely revealing plunging terraced agriculture. In a day we steeply descended 1000m passing through Sri Khola, where a Hindu women reminded us of the difference in warmth and kindness the Sherpa people had given us. But also here the people were working hard, and the kids especially found us intriguing. One small rustle in the bushes and out popped a wee guy, maybe five, with a basket strap over his head and carrying a load of firewood bigger than he was. Later we encountered a shuffling human bush laden with leafy bamboo, like a tree in a pantomime.
The final day had been punishing on our knees coming down, and Michelle’s coloured up with the swelling. But we were all pretty pleased with ourselves, finding our own way and with no one else setting the tone. Most importantly for me I got my calling from the Himalayas. They impressed me from a distance, but as with most things and me just seeing isn’t enough. I knew I wanted to be closer. I wanted to walk among giants.
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