CHAPTER IV.
A start was next made for the Himalayas in a northeasterly direction, seldom traversed by persons going to that section of the mountain country. I was the only white man on the train, and in view of few European travelers taking this route no provision had been made for food. The third-class coaches were packed with natives. We passed through the opium poppy growing country, the sugar-cane and indigo fields, and, further along, reached the jute-growing country in Bengal. The train had left Benares in the morning, but it was twelve hours later before food was available.
At a place known as Katihar I had to remain a day in order to make through connections. One of the sub-stations, located a short distance from the railway track, was alive with passengers, but no one seemed to really care when the trains came and went. Natives eating rice, wheat cakes, bananas, sticks of sugar-cane, thick pieces of candy, rolls like crullers, smoking the hooka (a long pipe with two bowls, through one of which, containing water, the smoke from the tobacco or hemp passes to the stem), gambling, begging; the big Kabuli—who looks like a storm in silent mood—offering for sale alleged rare coins; women with one to three very small children, all untidy and dirty—such is life in India.
The train left Katihar in the evening for Silliguri. An Englishman got in the same coach, and I was much pleased to have a white man with me. This train was not lighted by electricity, and there were doubts about the oil in the lamp being of American brand, for the light went out before we reached the second station, and when the train stopped the Englishman could be heard shouting from the coach for some one to relight it. The trainman had got no further than the rear of the train, when the lamp gave a final flicker. The Britisher again began to shout, but the train was then moving. The three following stops were a repetition of the first, and, the Englishman finally admitting his defeat, we stretched out on berths for the night. Most trains in India have berths in the passenger coaches, but every one furnishes his own bedding. The next morning found us at Silliguri, and in front were spread out the Himalayas. From here a start was made up the mountains.
The Himalaya Mountains rise abruptly out of the flat plains, a striking contrast to those of other countries. One would expect the base of the Indian mountains to be at an altitude of 3,000 to 6,000 feet, but Silliguri, located a few miles from where the ascent begins, is only 400 feet above sea-level.
The interior of the Himalayas is reached by means of a train of small cars, drawn by a ten-ton locomotive over a two-foot railway track. There are three classes of travel—first, second and third. First-class fare is 12 cents a mile, second-class 6 cents, and third-class 3 cents. These fares include a very small baggage allowance. First- and second-class coaches are of the compartment type, third-class having curtained sides, with bare-seated benches across. The schedule is ten miles an hour, either going up or coming down the mountain.
The engine soon starts up an incline through a row of trees on both sides of the track, with every seat in the coaches occupied and the baggage car filled with luggage. The narrow train turns to the left, then to the right; another sharp turn, and puff, puff, puff, as a bend in still another direction is made; down a decline next over culverts spanning rippling brooks and under turnpike bridges, then up, when the grandeur of the great range begins to unfold. Down grade again, the train stopping, after traveling but a comparatively short distance, at a precipitous wall. Backing out over a switchback—there being five of these on the mountain railroad—we next creep up a steep, serpentine grade. Houses above and houses and huts below, surrounded by semi-tropical growth and cultivated ground—there being little rock in the mountain—with stretches of low brush, laid out in regular rows, below us, appear. A house and huts have been built in these bush-like tracts of land; these are tea gardens. A screeching whistle diverts the passengers' gaze from downward to forward—we were pulling into Kurseong, the halfway station, where some passengers get off and others board the train. The locomotive, being supplied with coal and water, again begins to puff, puff, puff, up a steep grade for a short distance, then eases down a decline. The mountain is now so steep that the narrow train can worm its way no longer about the side, coming to another switchback. Backing out and again ascending, a silver streak is seen, far below, winding over the plains—the Teesta River. Above, the sky appears to rest on green mountain-tops. Upward the little locomotive climbs, seeming to make sharp bends at every hundred feet. The mountainside has now become a great tea plantation, and through the hazy atmosphere the plains are but dimly seen. The sky, which from below seemed to be resting on the point now reached, is further beyond. Approaching an ever-receding horizon at distant outposts from time to time leads one occasionally to fancy he were bumping his shoulders against the arch of the sky at sundry points of the outer circle. The narrow train laboriously continues upward, while passengers direct their gaze down gaping caverns, on the rim of which the railway track sometimes rests. Further on, the grade gradually reducing until traveling on a short, level stretch of road, the train stops. We have reached Ghoom, the highest point on the line, where more passengers leave and others get out of the coaches to stretch their legs. Oh! a great white ridge, high above valleys and tea gardens—it is Mount Kinchinjanga, whose summit seems to intrude far into the sky. What seems like trespassing on the sky's domain is explained when the height of the mountain is made known—28,156 feet. The train again proceeds, but down grade now, still winding and twisting—not over a quarter of a mile straight track along the route—until a sharp bend is reached. Then, as far as the eye could reach, the high, white, stalwart peaks of the Himalayas were revealed in their grandest form. Further on the train stops. We are at Darjeeling, the end of the mountain railway, 50 miles from Silliguri.
Baden-Baden, Germany—where one can walk about the splendid grounds for half a day and need not be exposed to the sun half an hour—had appealed to me more than any other place visited during my journeyings until Darjeeling was reached. Here in the State of Sikkim, India, 20,000 feet below the grandest mountain range in the world and built on the woody sides of a lower range, are seen rippling streams on their way to a parent river; attractively laid out tea gardens on steep inclines; a panorama of dwellings spreading out to all points of the city; deep, wooded valleys on either side, with rivers coursing these, flanked by flowering orange groves; parks, botanical gardens, and shady paths cut on the hillsides; observation points and splendid vistas; then, seen through the blue atmosphere, over low mountains, valleys, hills and trees, Jalapa La Pass—17,000 feet above sea level—the route through the Himalayan fastnesses to Lhassa, Thibet; and, now seen and then unseen, as the many-shaped clouds flitted over and away, the noble galaxy of white mountains, half circular in form, to the front and to the right—Darjeeling can claim and deserves a better description.
Everything seen in the mountain city was different to the plains. The Bhutias, of decidedly Mongol cast—strong, lighter in color than the plainsmen, with rosy cheeks—were numerous, and it was good for tired sight to get away from slender, half-starved looking men, and women without eyes. Living in this section is another sect, or tribe—the Goorkhas—admired by all white men for their bravery and feared by natives. The water here was fit to drink, a luxury in India, and the air was free of the humidity of the plains; the haughty Bengali could be seen at nearly every turn, strutting about bareheaded, his hair tidily brushed; and well-groomed European military officers were galloping about the hillside roads and paths on spirited steeds.
The Bhutia woman is the "horse" or "ox" of Darjeeling. Like the Mkikuyu woman, she carries her loads in a basket, a strap fastened to each side, which loops on her forehead. Few level paths or roads are found in that section of India, but the Bhutia woman can carry two maunds (160 pounds) in weight up from tea factories miles below, and the same amount of coal, provisions, or supplies from the cities to the settlements on the mountain-sides and down to the valleys. She appeared as strong as a Zulu woman, but not so big. The country is so hilly that wagons can be drawn over it only in few sections. Bhutia men are employed at ricksha work or carrying palanquins. On account of the steepness of the surroundings, three Bhutias are required to pull and push a ricksha—one between the thills and two at the back of the vehicle. Seeing the Bhutias wearing boots was something unusual in this country. Brakemen, engineers and firemen employed on the mountain railroad do not wear shoes, and the same applies to natives engaged at the same occupation on the plains.
"Coolie, Sahib?" or "Coolie, Memsahib?" if man or woman, is the language of the Bhutia woman when seeking work. Going toward the market-place, one of these strong women, with strap about her head and basket held by the ends, will approach a person and quietly say, "Coolie, Memsahib?" "Yes," was the reply one received from a lady on her way to market. The Mongol woman followed, engaged in knitting socks. After vegetables had been bought, the Bhutia woman sidled to the dealer, turned her back, when the grocer placed the vegetables in her basket; but she kept on knitting, apparently unconscious of what was taking place. One will not look back to see if she is following when leaving a stall; but at the next vegetable stand, in another section of the market, the Bhutia woman would be standing a short distance away, still knitting. Every time articles were bought she turned her basket to the dealer, had these added to the earlier purchases, and when the marketing was finished she followed the memsahib to her home, emptied the contents in the kitchen, received four cents for her work, continuing with her knitting, as she zigzagged down a steep incline in the direction of the market district. Bhutia women are very unassuming in their manners. Some save money, but most of this is spent on jewelry. Discs of gold as large as the bottom of a saucer may be seen depending from the ears, and large silver or gold bangles are worn about the wrist. This weakness for display, however, often proves their downfall, as they are sometimes found dead along the mountain paths, stripped of every ornament.
Thousands of men and women are employed picking tea leaves during the season. The tea is picked from the bushes mostly during the monsoon season, as the new leaves sprout fast during rainy weather. They work in wet clothes much of the time, but the mountain natives are hardy, and pay little attention to such discomfort. Men tea-pickers receive eight cents a day and women six cents. Hut rent, garden, and medical service is free. Over 3,000 bushes grow to the acre. Sunday is a big day with these mountain natives; every one working on the tea plantations for miles around comes to town—Bhutians, Thibetans, Nepales, and other tribes—when the market-place and bazaars literally swarm with them. In the Darjeeling district are 60,000 acres of land under tea cultivation, and the output is nearly 20,000,000 pounds a year.
The Goorkha is what is known as a "hill man," and is small-built. He carries a short sword or long knife in a sheath at his side, but will not show the weapon. It is an old maxim with the Goorkha that blood must be drawn every time he unsheathes the knife. Were he assigned to duty by a captain, and a colonel wished to pass, the Goorkha would not allow the superior officer to go through the lines if he had not received orders to do so by the officer who gave him his assignment. He acknowledges only one order—that of the officer who gave it, be he high or low. Where the big Sikh would run or surrender under a galling fire, the Goorkha, knowing no fear, would advance and win a battle. His highest aim in life is to have marked after his name when dead, "Died in action." When mobs gather and a riot is threatened, if Goorkhas are assigned to the scene and instructed to quell it, every one seeks cover when it is announced, "The Goorkhas are coming." Indians well know the Goorkha order will be followed. He is the policeman of Darjeeling.
"The only supplies that reached the starving people of India during the famine were those sent from the United States," was the refreshing information gathered from an Englishman when touching on Indian matters. The supplies he referred to were kept from native officials and looked after by American representatives. Men get rich in India during famine years through selling relief supplies at a high figure—sent to be distributed free to the starving. Very few high-caste Indians have any feeling for the suffering of a poor or hungry native.
One eats five times a day in India. Tea or coffee is brought to the room generally before one is up; breakfast is served from nine to ten o'clock; luncheon at from one to three o'clock; tea at from five to six, and dinner from eight to nine o'clock. Band music, bioscope, and other amusements take place, but are finished before dinner. In hot countries Europeans bathe from one to three times a day.
Along the bank of a river, stream, or pond may be seen dozens of Indians doing their washing, and clothes spread out on the grass to dry. They are soaped and rolled together and juggled in the hands of the "dobey," and the next stage sees the same fellow slamming them, with all his strength, against a rock. One would look a long time for a washboard in India.
Mount Kinchinjanga (Himalayas).
Center Peak in circle, Mount Everest.
(Photo, Burlington).
Darjeeling, India..
A trip was made to Tiger Hill, six miles from Darjeeling, from which point of observation is seen the summit of Mount Everest, rising to a height of 29,002 feet, located in the State of Nepal, India. The space intervening between this point and Everest is over 100 miles, and only a tip of the apex of this, the highest mountain in the world, appears to view. But even a peep at that premier pile of earth, rock, ice and snow will partially satisfy the heart of one who yearns to see nature's best in its varied forms. Everest, as seen from Tiger Hill, is flanked by a peak on each side, both of which appear superior to the king of mountains; but that delusion is accounted for by the two plainer-appearing sentinels being much nearer to the point of observation than the center white peak, Everest. It is hard to believe that, if Mounts Cook, Ruapehu and Kosciusko were placed one on top of the other, the combined height of the three Australasian mountains would be lower than the dome of Everest; or that, if Mount Aux Sources was lifted on top of Kilimanjaro, these African mountains would be only slightly higher than Everest. Also, that if Jungfrau was raised on top of Mount Blanc—two prides of the Alps—Everest would be only a few hundred feet lower than their combined height; and were two of the most noted mountains of the Western Continent—Shasta and Ranier—piled one on top of the other, the culminating point of these would be several hundred feet below the climaxing point of Everest. Then, from the corner of the eye, while focussing the gaze on Everest, an imposing white pile of grandeur—Kinchinjanga—second only to Everest, tempts one to divert his view to its plainer seen and noteworthy proportions. About Kinchinjanga, which rises its icy dome 28,156 feet above sea-level, clusters a noble family of sons, the Hercules of mountains. Janu comes first, towering to a height of 25,304 feet; Kabru next, 24,015 feet; then Simolchun, with 22,270 feet to its credit, and Pandim, 22,017 feet. There are still other noble peaks in the Himalaya range, plainly seen from this viewpoint, that appear small when associated with the greater monuments of nature's buildings.
All the natural agencies of earth, and those under the earth, could not impair the grandeur of Mounts Everest and Kinchinjanga. A fierce attack of wind and storm would only amuse these giants, as the summits would be enjoying sunshine during the day; in the afterglow, from the frosty flakes on the snowy domes, would irradiate soft, golden gleams of light, and at night from these flakes would also sparkle blue-white beams—reflected from the stars above—while the elements would be vainly centering their forces at invulnerable parts below. Lightning could not disturb even a pebble on these climaxing monuments, for ice and snow is so deep on their summits, and for several miles below, that the rock-like, glacial crust would prevent the forked thongs from penetrating to the surface soil. Earthquakes might center their rending powers at these stupendous vouchers of God's greatness, but the result, if any, would be merely deep, wide breaches, so cleaved, mayhap, as to form the design of the Cross or other holy emblem on a prominent escarpment, and serve only to enhance their present nobleness to a greater degree of reverence. And if the fires under the earth should unite to destroy these Colossi of the Himalayas, mustering every vestige of force and centering all into one tremendous avulsion—the fires' fury finally succeeding in forcing vents at the vertexes of these sky-piercing peaks—even then, thus riven, Everest and Kinchinjanga would gloatingly belch from their crowning domes rivers of liquid fire and eject prodigious quantities of flaming rock and scoria, spreading broadcast their sulphurous outpourings for hundreds of miles around, their lurid streams coursing the sides—all of which would only serve to draw people from every section of the world to gaze on the fascinating and appalling spectacle, that would measure second only in widespread flare at night to heaven's own aurora in the early morning.
The term "timber-line," referring to mountains, means the limit of altitude at which vegetation grows. Timber-line in the United States is marked at altitudes of 10,000 to 12,000 feet. On some peaks, this line, often of stunted oaks six to twelve inches in height and one to three inches thick, is as decided as a steel band around a circular smokestack. Here and in Thibet, in an atmosphere refreshed by high, snow-capped mountains, the force of the sun is apparent by trees, and even vegetables, thriving at altitudes of 15,000 to 18,000 feet. Helmets must be worn in the hill regions, as on the plains, to protect one from sunstroke.
The blue atmosphere—the sheen of the sky—in the Himalayas is of a deeper color than that seen on the Blue Mountains of Australia. The only place where a similar atmosphere was observed in America was from Grand View, when looking into the marvelous maw of the Grand Canyon of Arizona.
Vegetation on the lower mountains was different to that of the plains. The magnolia was seen, also the oleander, the chestnut tree, and the oak; but the bark of the latter tree was different in color and shape to that of the American variety, although the acorns were the same.
A large number of British troops are stationed at Darjeeling, and three forts have been built on the sides of a mountain facing Thibet. Not even a goat could get through Jalapa La Pass if the guns of these forts were trained on the noted mountain passageway.
Darjeeling is a favorite vacation center for the people of India, both European and native, in the summer season. In addition to the natural attractiveness of this place, there is also a museum and a library. Splendid mountain trips are at one's selection.
Down the two-foot wide mountain railway we traveled to Silliguri, boarded a passenger train, and were soon speeding over the flat plains of Bengal, with Assam to the east. Palms grow in that section of India, and the limbs at the bottom of the bushy tops had been freshly cut and seemed to be scraped. The native drink—"toddy"—is partly made from the juice of the palm after fermentation, when it is used as an ingredient with distilled rice. Hemp, or jute, reeds were lying in pools of water along the railway track to soften, when the fiber would be stripped from the stalk and later made into rope. Sixteen hours after leaving Silliguri the train pulled up at Sealdah Station, Calcutta, the second largest city in the British Empire.