I thought, being Irish, I knew all there was to know about rain. Well monsoon in Darjeeling cured me of that particular delusion. Having had our fill of Kathmandu - temples, pollution, tourist frenzies and diarrhoea - myself and Tanja had decided to give a little piece of India a go before we left the Asian continent. Unfortunately, much of India was experiencing a heatwave at the time of our arrival, with temperatures averaging 50 Centigrade in many places. Darjeeling, however, promised cool breezes and lots of tea, a tempting alternative to the sweltering sauna heat of Mumbai.
Getting there, like getting anywhere or anything in India, was the challenge. The key is to arrive at your chosen destination without forking out every rupee you possess for it - a lot more challenging than you might first imagine. In India, there is a pervading sense that everyone is ripping you off, probably because they are. Having had a rather unsavoury experience on our way from Delhi to Nepal (involving 24 hours on a bus beside a herd of goats that set us down about 100 kilometres from our chosen destination) we were considerably wiser and warier on our second attempt at India.
We took a jeep to Darjeeling from the Nepali border, and travelled up the mountains, through forests, past sprawling tea plantations and tiny Tibetan monasteries, for only twice the normal price. But then, we were informed, it was election day in Darjeeling, which had prompted a jeep crisis of unanticipated gravity. We felt like Joseph and Mary on our way to Bethlehem and were terrified that there'd be no room at the inn when we arrived.
We were almost proven right. Darjeeling is a popular holiday destination for Indians, who escape the summer swelter in this cool mountain city (a bizarre concept for an Irish girl - leaving somewhere hot for somewhere cold for the purpose of a holiday). The result is a roaring trade for hotels, and a possible crisis for two foreign eejits who hadn't bothered to reserve a room in advance. We managed to secure a single room between us in a pleasant, family-run establishment, up a crucifying hill.
Our chosen resting place boasted wonderful views of the Himalayas from its rooftop restaurant. Apparently, they are indeed spectacular, not that we ever saw the blessed peaks during our entire stay there. The monsoon season was to blame. Rain during these times (usually beginning the second week in June but making an early appearance for our benefit) is the most intensely wet experience imaginable. Luckily, Darjeeling being so high up, we did not suffer the humidity that often accompanies monsoon. Instead, we got a week of torrential downpours and it was cold.
The main difficulty, however, was vision. Having left my glasses in Dublin Airport, I had become accustomed to a somewhat less than focused view of the world. In Darjeeling, however, even my myopia could not be blamed for the fact that nothing further than three inches away was in any way visible to the naked eye. Darjeeling, with its glorious views, its hills and valleys, was wrapped in a stationary cloud for the week of our stay, and the rivers that poured from the sky ensured we were staring into white space from the rooftop restaurant for the duration of our time there.
Despite this, being such a spirited adventurer, I did make a few forays into the city, reminding myself as I trudged disconsolately through the sludge, that at least I'd get an article out of this infernal weather if nothing else.
My determination was rewarded. I managed to get occasional glimpses of Darjeeling, which gave an impression of the houses being stacked randomly on top of each other, in no apparent order, somewhat like the Indian filing system. Add to this the babble of the downtown market, the constant honking of car horns, pollution that would poison you even quicker than the water, and an air of decaying gentility in the more affluent areas - a legacy of the British colonists whose penchant for afternoon tea was responsible for the first tea plantation in an area which has since become synonymous with the beverage - and you may begin to form some idea of this small city in the mountains.
For the tourists who flock there at this time of year, Darjeeling has plenty to offer. The most imperative inclusion in any itinerary is a visit to a tea plantation, and the Happy Valley is the perfect option. The small tea bushes of this sprawling plantation span some of Darjeeling's most picturesque hills, and a winding dirt path takes you through the fields to the factory. If you arrive at the right time of the day (naturally we didn't - being such intrepid adventurers, we were doing India without a guidebook, which I can safely say is the most idiotic decision we have made so far), you can catch the tea pickers at work. Otherwise, you have to content yourself with a tour of the factory, where you can watch the process from freshly-picked tea leaf to wooden crate.
Afterwards, you can imbibe some of the freshly plucked tea at one of the nearby homes that house the plantation workers. We had the good fortune to meet a gregarious tea-connoisseur who offered us tea in her living room, and had us convinced by the end of our visit that it was nectar from the Gods that we were drinking. A thorough lesson in the process of tea-brewing ensued that would put Mrs Doyle to shame. Having hypnotised us with her "first flush", "one picking" and "five-second brew" tea terminology, we were easily persuaded to pay some exorbitant price for her tea leaves, leaving us sauntering back up through the plantation only delighted to have been so fortunate as to have in our pockets the veritable Taj Mahal of teas.
Apart from the tea, Darjeeling is dotted with monasteries and pagodas, a zoo which successfully breeds snow leopards but refuses to signpost their whereabouts within the compound, the Himalayan Mountain Institute featuring artefacts, photos and information on various Himalayan expeditions, and a centre for Tibetan refugees, where you can watch the Tibetan craftspeople hand-weaving and wood-carving.
Another tourist draw is Tiger Hill, which involves jumping in a jeep at the ungodly hour of 4 a.m., joining the queue of thousands of other jeeps which make it their morning mission to reach the summit of Tiger Hill before the sun comes up. Well aware that the sun had no intention of making an appearance within my line of vision, I decided to give Tiger Hill a miss. Tanja, who was still recovering from the gourmet delicacies of Kathmandu, was more than willing to be persuaded on this one.
Darjeeling's ultimate attraction, at least for the Indian tourists, apparently has little to do with paltry guide-book offerings. We discovered, on our travels through the city streets, that we Westerners were beating the snow leopards hands down as a tourist magnet. Every white-skinned Occidental we met had similar experiences to recount, of eager Indian holiday-makers clamouring to be photographed with our fair-skinned breed. By the end of our stay in Darjeeling, I was grinning magnanimously at every lens that so much as nudged in my general direction, and was getting quite accustomed to my celebrity status.
Just when I was getting around to forgiving India for its former misdemeanours, it was time to face the transport system again. While my temporary celebrity status had improved my opinion of India, the trains were to drag it down again. But the great train robbery, and our encounters with the chief reservation inspector in Mumbai will require a whole other article. You'll just have to wait - it's the Indian way.