Darjeeling, India

Saturday, June 29, 1929

Little did I think I would be here a couple days ago—but I’m glad I came, for a trip through India is not complete without it. Took the 9:15 PM train last night and had nearly a whole car to ourselves—for once the train was uncrowded. Even with these advantages, luck was against me and I didn’t sleep well. Must have been because I was lying on my fountain pen or a cake of soap in my pocket, and was too sleepy to take them out; or perhaps it was because I had too much room. When I finally got up this morning and brushed a foot of cinders off me, I discovered the train was passing through some very interesting country—more like I had always imagined India to be like. There were jungles galore on both sides of the tracks, with much high reed grass and many swamps and marshes. Recent heavy rains had flooded many fields and swamps, had overflowed swift streams from their banks. Much of the land was under cultivation and it seemed as though no cow would have a valid excuse for not being fat—but they evidently have some stall [problem?] for they are said to be poor specimens of cattle today and very much like the old heifers of some years ago. These cows give but a quarter the milk the old Bengali cows used to give. The bamboo and thatched roofs of native huts appeared once in a while—all nearly hidden by the tall grass. Wild animals are to be found in abundance here—tigers, lions, panthers, rhinos, and many elephants.

About now we began to wake up to the real merits of a weekend ticket. Some are for fast trains, but ours was cheaper—and for a passenger train, which means a good old local, and for 350 miles. At one station we got some bread and native fire to eat on it, rather Frank did. While I was at the last car looking for the bread man, the darned train pulled out. We would be in the first car, and I had a hot chase up ten cars and off the platform into the country before I got it.

At 11:30 we pulled into Siliguri, the end of the broad-gauge line. From here we took a little play-train 51 miles up into the Himalayas to an altitude of 7,000 feet—Darjeeling. Had to buy another ticket for 2/10/0 or $1.00.

After seven miles the train began the steep ascent, often a grade of 1 foot in 29 feet. The hills were covered with a wild profusion of tropical plants luxuriating in the moist atmosphere. There were real jungles—and impenetrable to man. Up we wound, always twisting and turning. The scenery was great until we got up in the clouds at about 2,000 feet. From there on we were in the mist most of the time and so missed all the gorgeous scenery en route. The train made four loops and about three times had to back up a grade where there was no room for a turn. At 7,400 feet we reached the top and dropped down a few feet into Darjeeling. The clouds drifted apart about this time disclosing a series of huge steep hills, one behind the other, the last we could see being somewhat higher than Darjeeling, and all a vivid green. Beyond these lay a long line of snow mountains ranging in height up to 28,163 or near it, the peak of that height being Kanchenjunga [my best guess; Hall left the name blank]. But clouds obscured all of this great line of Himalayan peaks. Ahead, Darjeeling nestled on the side of the mountain, its light buildings, hotels, and cottages contrasting vividly with the fresh green background.

Leaving Mort at the station with the blankets and knapsack, Frank and I set out to either find the bandstand or a cheap place to stay. The Superintendent of Police happened to be at the station and spoke to me, offering to help us. He took me to the Soldiers’ Club near the station and fixed it up with his friend the manager to put us up there for 12 annas a night and for 2/8/0 including five meals if we so wished. But the hitch was that only soldiers are allowed here, so the Supt. whispered that we were to be sailors—and sailors we have been—durned good ones to hear me talk about it. The subject comes up once in a while in spite of our efforts to can it. Then I spiel on about us being seamen on the S.S. Clairton, docked in Calcutta. As luck would have it, the manager has a brother visiting here who is a customs officer in Calcutta. He is going back on the same train as we are and is rather inquisitive or I miss my guess. Asked me about the boat today and how we got leave to come up here. Almost had me in a hole, but as it happened the Captain is an old friend of the family and thus we got our job and by reason of this old friendship we get leave where the other seamen don’t.

On the way back to the station the clouds parted for just a minute and far off, as if looking through just a little hole in a wall of clouds, I saw a perfect snow peak. A minute and the white billowy mists had blotted out the Nepal peak.

The Soldiers’ Club is a nice place—built three years ago—has very comfortable beds and real sheets on them. The food is good and very cheap. A British Tommy stationed in Jubblapore has been very nice to us and almost like a child in his enthusiasm over doing something out of the ordinary. Showed us his picture album and a wool bedspread he is knitting [looks like it’s crocheted to me]. Says all the boys knit here to pass the time. The life of a British soldier in India becomes extremely tiring—as one put it, “we put so much in it and get nothing out of the country.” After spending seven years in India, they are always plenty glad when the time comes to return home. There are two more here who we have been with, one of whom belongs to the Scottish Regiment in Delhi. (Of course, we have not been anyplace in India except Calcutta and here.) He has lots of humor and the three make a tamashe. Their Cockney vocabulary seems to hinge on two words—bloody and (censored). Never is a sentence complete without the use of one or both at least once. Mort suggested they might be adjectives or verbs, but I think they are habits. All Tommies monopolize them, even those in Gib.

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