I came to India with three sightseeing goals:  The Taj Mahal, Konark and the Himalayas.  Gangtok was overcast the entire time I was there, forcing me to accept that the few fleeting glimpses of snow were going to be all that I would see.  Kanchenzonga was proving to be a shy hostess.   Resigned as I was to not accomplishing my goal, I awoke early Thursday morning for what was going to be an inevitably long day going back to Siliguri, flying to Kolkata and then taking an overnight train to Bhubaneswar.   I awoke at 5:00 AM to finish packing, too exhausted the day before to even really start packing.  What little effort I could exert on Wednesday evening was spent on a load of laundry in the bathtub.  I had forgotten to send out laundry the previous morning.   That laundry was set out to dry over the small space heater in my room, casting a glaze of steam across the mirrors and windows in the room.   Bending over and carefully hoisting my pack I noticed an unfamiliar glow coming in through the window at first light.    The view out the window the prior day only yielded the slopes across the valley from Gangtok.  Flinging the windows open I finally saw Kanchenzonga.    She was not shy, just mischievous, but benevolent enough grant my wish at the last possible moment.

Five minutes were spent at the window, soaking in each detail of the view.    Finally, regretfully turning to leave, I started the long march down the empty morning streets of Gangtok to the Jeep stand.   My legs were aching and throbbing with each step, the result of my long hike the day before.  With the added weight of the backpack, each step seemed to stiffen my resolve to stay in Gangtok for a few more days, but I had a friend to meet in Bhubaneswar.

The jeep stand was more awake than the rest of Gangtok.  I arranged for passage to Siliguri and went to the jeep for the expected wait for the rest of the seats to fill.  After a few minutes a large crowd of Indian tourists started loading their luggage on the jeep.  Things were going better than expected, until a driver of another jeep drove up started talking to the tourists.  He must have offered a better deal.  The tourists unloaded their luggage from my jeep and started getting in the other jeep.   Realizing that this group was my best hope for getting out of Gangtok in the next hour, I started talking and gesturing for them to stay in this jeep, not having much to pitch since they were exactly the same vehicle.  After failing at that, the driver of my jeep motioned for me to get in.   Angrily lighting a cigarette, he started his jeep and roared out of the jeep stand, just the two of us.   I said “You will go with just one passenger?  I can wait a little longer.”  He shrugged and continued driving.   I guess he realized that on a Thursday morning his best bet might be to meet the morning trains from Kolkata and bring tourists up.   

I also realized that his plan was to pick up some passengers on the way down.   At each occurrence of someone on the side of the road with a bag, suitcase or no apparent goal for the day, we would pull over and he would make his pitch.   Feeling a sense of duty to help him out, I started joining in.  I would lean out the window and shout “Shilly-Gurry, come on, get in”.   This produced more laughs than results, but I felt that I was at least doing my part.  In the end we added 4 men.

Once outside of Gangtok proper, the drivers intent changed.  From focusing on finding passengers he shifted the diesel engine into high gear and started racing down the Teesta valley.   The winding roads filled with traffic and potholes, and lacking barriers in many places had seemed so terrifying on the way up to Gangtok.  Now, it seemed that some Buddhist tranquility had washed over me, because instead of terror, I was filled with delight at the dangerous race I was witnessing.  The Maharasta Motors jeep seemed to be a licensed clone of an Isuzu Trooper.   Its diesel engine was roaring even on the steep downhill slope.  The driver would deftly work the clutch and the gears as he maneuvered around the slower vehicles in front of him.   I imagine the view from the side of the road as we approached and quickly passed would have been identical to watching the Paris-Dakar Road Rally.   We were not passed by a single vehicle the entire drive down.   I estimate that we passed well over 150 vehicles in the 130 km race.   According the guidebook the drive takes 3-4 hours, we did it in 2.5.

Along the way were cheerful and quirky messages put up by the highway department:  “Married?  Divorce Speed”, “Treat my curves softly”, “Enjoy the valley, this isn’t a rally”, and “Faster equals Disaster”. 

Stopping at the border town of Rangpo, I headed off to get my passport stamped while the driver refueled.   On returning there was a new passenger sitting in the middle, between me and the driver.  Unfazed I climbed in beside him and slammed the door as we took off.  This man promptly fell fast asleep, his head flopping over on my shoulder with each turn to the right, and then back towards the driver with each reciprocal turn to the left.

Even though driving down a narrow dangerous mountain road at the very un-India like speed of 70 kph, I was very comfortable and relaxed and able to spend time thinking about the differences between Gangtok and Kolkata.     Apart from size, the two cities offer a stark contrast to each other.  Each seem deeply rooted in their predominant religions.   Gangtok, perched on the edge of a steep mountain has tall thin buildings reaching up like tall pine trees.  Flags flutter from every place likely to catch a breeze.  I have only seen a few pictures of Lhasa, the capital of Tibet, but it looks very similar to Gangtok.   Especially in the views looking down from above the city, with the monastery at the top of the hill, Gangtok seems like a city built in a Tibetan Buddhist style.

Kolkata on the other hand, only 300+ years old seems like it exists to bear witness to the ability of Lord Krishna to take many incarnations.  You can easily see evidence of the early first incarnation of British colonial planning, followed be early 1900’s attempts at becoming a modern city.   In so many places, such as the boat house I photographed on my second day in the city, that there was a rush of exuberant energy after independence that has proven to be too much for the country to sustain or maintain.   Lastly, you see a truly modern city emerging from the chaos of previous versions.  Especially to the east there are new cities growing up in the marshlands towards Bangladesh.   It seems the temple cities of Puri and Bhubaneswar fit this same pattern, reflecting a Hindu order trying to make sense out of the chaos of a British trading post turned into metropolis. 

In the jeep on the way down from Gangtok I wear my winter coat and hiking boots.  As we descend lower and lower it gets progressively warmer.   Bursting out of the canyons we roar across the Ganga plains, leaving the cold breezes blowing through thousands of prayer flags.  My coat becomes heavy and hot, my thoughts turn from the austerity of the monastery with its chanting, drumming music to the land of the durga, the temples with their own variety of chanting and drumming.   There are so many parallels to be found in this country.  The influence of these two religions appears to me to be so fundamentally rooted that I can’t imagine India without picturing the two different but intertwined faiths.

I look over at my driver as he deftly works the gears, calmly purring the diesel engine past school children, rickshaws and lorries.  Is he the enlightened Bodhisattva driving along the eightfold path or is he an incarnation of Shiva the destroyer, roaring down from the heights of Kailisha in his white bull jeep?  Like the rest of India, he is probably an intertwined mix of both.