MELINDA BELL - BIO
Melinda began a new life chapter in her fifties when she began paying more attention to drinking tea.Her favorites are Darjeelings, Oolongs, and the occasional brisk blend.
She was a journalist in her twenties and early thirties and continues to write articles for publication.She earned several awards in journalism from the New Mexico Press Association in her twenties. The last half of her career life was devoted to part-time editing projects, teaching English 101, and working with abused women.
She has studied in an MFA program and is writing a memoir about her stepfather.She and her husband live in the Pacific Northwest.
ONE CUP OF TEA IN INDIA - Melinda Bell
A few of us from our meditation center in Portland traveled to India November 2007. I'd never gone to India before and knew little about this country. Many of us don’t realize it has the highest population of any country in the world, even China. My stepfather, with whom I shared a close bond, used to tell me of his two sojourns in the hill town of Darjeeling during his service during World War II. I have a receipt that shows that Sgt. Little bought Darjeeling tea for his men for a few rupees.
Four of us landed in Delhi around midnight in ever-present, thick smoke and stayed the night in the city before flying to Bagdogra Airport in Siliguri, West Bengal. We planned to meet at a conference in Siliguri upon our return from the hill town of Mirik, north of there. Gowri, a friend who hails from Madras, flew in to join us, and we—Dora and Bill, Gowri, Adele and I—stuffed ourselves into two vans, one of which looked passable. The other one looked as if it had been taken from a junk lot. We headed up to Mirik right away, thus bypassing Siliguri, where our conference would be held a few days later at the Hotel Cindrella.
On the way I kept gasping in the front seat. Yes, the sights were gorgeous, cows and goats along the roadsides beautiful or cute, open-shed businesses along the road colorful and welcoming. But I wasn’t used to being so close to the dashboard, going that fast. In India, at least in West Bengal, drivers go as fast as they want and use their horns to do the rest.
After gasping about six times, then laughing and trying to be a NICE PERSON UNDER STRESS, I was at last directed to the van with friends Dora and Bill in it, seasoned travelers to India. They sat in back, unperturbed. Their rig was a sturdier looking one, and there was more “protection” between us and the road, it seemed—at least, nothing had been removed or yanked out of the dashboard. I noticed there was still no seat belt, but what the hay. Having a sturdy dashboard is the illusion of a lifetime.
Soon we passed an Indian Army base, then a few little monkeys, and proceeded up a series of graduated hills along the Teesta River to Mirik. This I found to be pronounced in different ways, the most common, a kind of quick chirp: Mrrkk! We passed hills of beautifully groomed plants, reminding me of Japanese gardens, as we climbed ever higher (looking over ledges and ever upward). These bushes were camellia sinensis, tea bushes cultivated by individuals, each leaf snipped by hand. The thin trunks of tall evergreens intermingled with the green floor of tea plants. Even this late in the fall, the hills held various shades of green, and the day was bright, with continual views of blue sky and clouds from overlooks that were obstructed by no barriers of any kind (gulp). As we reached much higher elevations, we felt cool. Mirik itself sits at about 1767 meters, more than 5000 feet.
Colorful homes in hues of mauve, lavender, blue or yellow clung to the hillsides we zipped around on narrow roads, where younger folks, often in Western clothes, walked with adults here and there or along the sides (or, if you prefer, dangerous edges). Pedestrians got honked at quite often, and even got crowded to the sides. The Rig of the Road is boss. At last we arrived at the Ratnagiri Hotel in Mirik, where we unloaded our gear and suitcases from the top of our vans, and Mr. Milan ushered us in. Since we were there by mid-afternoon we got to pick our rooms. I chose the warmest one, warm from many windows and a sunny day. There was a Zen view, so to speak, of Bokar Monastery, a Tibetan monastery with gilt peaked roofs.
We organized ourselves and began walking uphill to the monastery along a very narrow road past shed-front stores, homes and panoramic views. We passed lots of gardens and a mini-farm on a steep hillside. Cats and dogs lay around, satisfied and peaceful, it seemed to me. I smelled sandalwood, smoke, spices. Occasionally a Tibetan monk would fly past, or a French person—most of whom would immediately recognize Dora and Bill and stop in their tracks. We met a lovely woman, Tsewan, on the way up, at her home. A former elementary school teacher, she runs a kind of boarding house, where Westerners stay when they go to visit the monastery. It happened to be the festival of Diwali all over India, and thus in the early evening there was much loud chanting and drums, fireworks, and happy talk. We kept meandering uphill.
The next day I had a really sad morning. I ordered oatmeal at the best hotel for Western breakfasts, and it was really thin and watered down and slightly gray. I was trying to be a NICE PERSON UNDER STRESS, however, and thus put on a good mood so that people would not think I was inflexible or a BAD TRAVELER. I did have two very nice eggs. We were served standard bagged tea, probably because I didn’t look hard enough at the menu. But drinking tea in the Darjeeling District was not always as I expected, I found.
Too soon, we had to leave Mirik as uprisings were going on in the hills of the Darjeeling District because of political issues with the Gorkha leaders. There was going to be a strike the next day, which meant taxis and buses could not use the roads. Only private vehicles without tourists could drive along unhindered (stopped and possibly arrested). Business would be stopped. Shops and probably restaurants would be closed, and a lot of low-income people were going to get hurt financially.
We consequently left Mirik a day early, to avoid trouble, and arrived at the luxury Cindrella in Siliguri the evening of November 12th. It was quite warm, and while we were standing around chatting in an elegant marble room with tall ceilings, the kind you see in movies, with ceiling fans and an elegant reception desk at least fifteen feet long, Dora and Bill ordered the five of us marvelous drinks in tall glasses—freshly squeezed lime sodas, either salty or sugared, for those in our party. Cold and piquant and just right!
Outside my window the next morning were Myna birds and smoke, palm trees and construction noise. Siliguri is not in the mountains. It’s in the terai. I put up my window screen soaked in permethrin.
One day during the seminar in Siliguri we crowded into three buses and were driven up to Bokar Monastery in Mirik for a bounteous Tibetan lunch followed an hour or so later by a hearty dessert tea. The strikes I mentioned had lasted only one day, and thus our passage was unhindered. Once the steep approach to Mirik began, we soon passed the Gopaldhara Tea Estate, its white colonial-style buildings with green trim spreading down the hillside. Employment in the tea industry is ubiquitous in the Darjeeling District.
During the tea at the monastery, which was generous—especially on top of our banquet of Tibetan rice, noodle and bread dishes—the Abbott presented each of us with a box of Darjeeling from the Gopaldhara estate. The gift of this tea was a lifesaver because during the time I’d planned to shop and play in Darjeeling, another strike would be enforced the very hour I arrived. More on that, later, though.
The Darjeeling District comprises lowlands—the terai—and highlands, and is diverse, and opportunities abound. But in groups we mainly drank simple bagged tea—sweepings. Only when one was out and about, having time to look for restaurants, did one enjoy the tea the District is so famous for, its eponymous tea of different subtleties and varieties. After our tea at the monastery, many of us lounged around the courtyards and byways within and took pictures. Young laughing monks chased each other—some were quite small, maybe as young as seven. It was my pleasure to meet a young Hindu woman who came proudly through the gates with her parents. She was practicing her English, which was very good, and let it be known that her name was "Beauty." She was, indeed, a beautiful fifteen-year-old.
On November 22 a second strike had been called for the Darjeeling District. In Siliguri, seminar folks were getting ready to travel home. Many participants, such as Nanoosh from France with her long dark braids, and a lean Brazilian fellow who was a student of the Dalai Lama—had to cancel their plans for their day trip to Darjeeling. They had to get home right away and couldn’t hang around waiting to travel into the hills; jobs awaited, full schedules, families. Their planes would be leaving Bagdogra Airport imminently.
That morning, as more people left the Cindrella Hotel, I tried to figure out how taxis work. Outside, a shiny red rig with “Tourist” in the window was parked beside a palm tree. I joked uneasily with some of the French when I saw it. What a way to die, I thought. I actually muttered, “Tuez-moi”—“Kill me”, and they laughed.
I’d already made plans to stay at the Cindrella until November 25th, and as a kind of compromise I’d planned a tour (‘Circle A’) in the Siliguri area with help from the hotel manager, Mr. Das Gupta. It would include a stop at the Makaibari organic tea estate. I’d already gone into the city by canvass ‘camion’ and bicycle rickshaw alone—a crowded, chaotic, yet sociable experience, but didn’t share this with the manager, who was organizing my high-Rupee trip. The tour was set, mainly for the countryside, but many of the destinations slated for the "Siliguri area" were, in fact, in the District hills, and thus I wasn’t going to be able to see many of the sights, especially the Makaibari tea estate, after all.
But around six that night I got a call in my room from the front desk: Strikes for the next day had been called off! I could go to Darjeeling after all. Luckily the taxi Mr. Das Gupta had ordered for me was a small, unobtrusive Tata Motors compact. Not like the shiny red “Tourist-Come Get Me” rig. I clasped my hands in ‘Namaste’ to all the desk staff as I left at 9:30 a.m. the next day.On the way to Darjeeling, I whizzed through Kurseong (Kur-shong), a marvelous town hugging the side of hills. For those of you going for the first time, I’d recommend Kurseong as a place to buy tea, rather than Darjeeling. It's a quaint, colorful town and I noticed a Catholic school among its offering of schools and religions. Kurseong is prettier than Darjeeling, with well swept roads though town, and there's a wonderful Tibetan-owned traveler's lodge/restaurant of strong wood construction overlooking the hills, where they serve the most marvelous Darjeeling tea (of course). I went in, sat near the kitchen for company and asked a young man for a pot of tea. (Of course, it’s one of the few countries in Asia where English is a main language, and thus I didn’t usually have communication problems, as I had in Spain.)
When I tasted that tea, savoring its full body, its mild astringency, its unusual flowery notes, the sweet earth, I felt as if I’d reached heaven. The server was looking at me carefully—as if to say, “It’s really good, isn’t it?” I nodded to him, holding the cup to my face as if it were an offering from the gods, which it is. It was extraordinary. I cannot do it justice with description.
He nodded back. We had exchanged precious knowledge.
On the way out I saw a bookcase full of shiny boxed teas in the restaurant and neglected to buy one at that venue while I still had the chance; perhaps I thought I’d be stopping there on “my” way back. I had no idea that two days later I’d be driven back through Kurseong at four o’clock in the morning.
Not far out of town, as well, is the Goodricke tea estate store, but I didn’t have time to stop there. It was the tea of choice of the former abbot of Bokar Monastery years ago.
Just as I arrived in Darjeeling at noon, a business closedown was being enforced. Traffic was turning around as soon as it arrived; there was quite a pile-up of chaos, with cars sometimes nose to nose. There had been an incident with bloodshed in the District. Even the famous Glenary's Restaurant was closed, guarded by Darjeeling city police. Thus I wasn't able to buy much tea during my stay in India. The strike lasted for several days (reminding me of the novel The Inheritance of Loss by Kiran Desai, 2006). Every shop and restaurant in town except two pharmacies and the tea venue at the Windamere were closed. Later I found out that (as in my case) if one were staying in a hotel of any stripe, guests were fed—at least dal and rice.
Once settled in at the Hotel Dekeling in Darjeeling, I walked around Observatory Hill with some watchful, smiling Rhesus monkeys. (I mistakenly thought they were baboons, and mistakenly I thought that smiling meant friendliness.) However, I had sense enough to realize that if I made a wrong move they’d think I was going to feed or distress them, and since I'm afraid of primate bites, I walked on, slow and impassive, as if they were bad men. I managed to find the Windamere Hotel, where I had excellent tea and even cookies, and enjoyed avocado green, panoramic views of the Darjeeling Hills. Inside the Windamere I noticed dark Victorian furniture and wainscoting, the fireplace, and a card table in an adjoining room, and wondered if my stepfather, Charlie, had ever spent an evening there, playing bridge. I do hope so! (He had spent his Army leaves in Darjeeling in 1944-45.)
On the second day, Darjeeling was still in closedown mode. Only the dogs, satisfied to lie in the wan sun, and a few men calling “Baksheesh” were out. Thus, at Hotel Dekeling my Tibetan hosts were serving dal, rice, one other kind of rice, spinach, and one beef dish, rather than the plethora of choices of the day before. Only a few guests remained. (Some had gone to the Windamere.) On that second day, after I ate my dal and rice I asked about plans for a taxi out. I was told I’d be woken at 3:30 a.m. and driven downhill (in the dark). Surprised, I asked if they’d please get an unmarked car. (No red “Tourist” rigs for me.) Then I left for the Windamere again; anyone can walk in and have tea inside or on the patio, but not meals unless one spends the expensive night.
By 3:50 a.m., after mottled sleep over the kitchen, where the hosts were entertaining guests with beef momo’s, I left Darjeeling by private rig with a Tibetan driver, a friend of the hotel people. I had a scarf to cover my head in case we were pulled over. The strike was to resume at 6 a.m., and thus I needed to be home at the Cindrella by that time.
The nice thing about traveling at that hour is that by 3:50 a.m. it's actually pre-dawn, and thus, the budding light made the trip a picturesque adventure. You could see gentle lights in the broad hills, like morning fires. You could also see an occasional pile of sand in the headlights, feel the jog around it at forty-five miles an hour, feel sudden pulls into pits, and notice how close you were to the side of the road with no barriers between it and a drop. A long drop.
I forgot to mention that after leaving Kurseong and the best cup of tea I’d ever tasted, I made a stop at a monastery at Sonada affiliated with our center in Portland. Hari, my taxi driver, did not enjoy this—he may have found out about the impending strike on the car radio. He said he didn't know where it was. After getting him to stop I found it on foot myself, after having walking around a different monastery and gotten lost; poor Hari had to circle back and drive up what looked like a footpath. He’d been enjoying Bengali pop music, which I asked him to please turn down at the monastery. A kind monk in burgundy robes, well spoken and fluent in English, appeared. He showed me inside, opening the huge lock that one sees on many gompas. It was a feast day. About a dozen Tibetans in holiday dress were waiting in the courtyard to resume festivities after lunch. I wonder what kind of tea they had.
Here I apologize for not being more explicit about the politics of the strikes of Fall 2007 and what actually occurred.
But I was a tourist just looking for monasteries and a good cup of Darjeeling.
