Pelling Blues

I’m homesick today. I’m in Pelling, a closed-for-the-winter hamlet in West Sikkim. I’m the only boarder at the Hotel Kabur, which is costing me 200 rupees ($4.00 US) per night, including TV, heater and hot water. When the hot water refused to give itself to me this morning, I cried.

Deepen, the owner of Hotel Kabur (along with two or three of his brothers and a sister), witnessed my breakdown, then had one of his own. Hysteria is a no-no in peaceful, reverent, holy Sikkim. He’d spent nearly 2 hours with me in my room last night explaining all the amazing features of Pelling, his entire family history and his challenges as a hotelier, and seemed off-the-charts-happy for my company. Now, he scurries away when he sees me approaching.

Avoiding me has become Deepen’s adventure sport.

Just traveling around India is an adventure sport. My main modes of transportation are shared jeep rides and domestic flights. When entering the domestic terminal at Indira Ghandi Airport in Delhi (the gateway to everywhere else in India and beyond), flyers are greeted with a huge neon sign detailing how to file complaints about the air service. I assume this because absolutely every flight departing that domestic terminal is delayed by several hours. Information about delays and departure times is shrouded in secrecy.

I can’t fly direct to any of my destinations. All roads lead through Delhi. I can’t take a 2-hour flight from, say Bagdogra or Srinigar, change planes in Delhi and continue on my merry way. Oh no. I have to stay overnight in Delhi. Well, not just me. It’s not personal. Everyone has to travel in this pain-in-the-ass way. I think it’s the only way India can get foreigners to spend a night in Delhi.

(Okay, in Delhi’s defense, I’ve had nothing but good experiences there. Here’s one: Jasbir, my driver back in December, quoted me 5,000 rupees — a helluva lot of rupees — for 2 airport transfers and a full-day tour of Delhi. When he handed me my bill at the end of it all, he charged me 3,000 rupees. And he gave me names and phone numbers of friends in every town I said I’d be visiting.)

The guard at the border between West Bengal and West Sikkim scrutinized my passport and Sikkim permit. He asked where my Indian visa was issued. When I answered, his gloomy tough-guy expression was replaced with a huge, toothy grin.

“San Francisco!” He could barely contain his excitement. “That’s the capital of the U.S.! Right?”

Then he started whistling that song: San Francisco, show me your Golden Gate.

America may be supremely unpopular in the world right now (although that’s not my experience at all; in fact I feel loved, but it might just be the blonde curls). But no one doesn’t like San Francisco.

Sikkim was closed to foreigners for many years, but has recently eased restrictions. You need a permit, though, in addition to an Indian visa. Some of the oldest Buddhist monasteries in existence live here.

The main reason I had to come here is Khecheopalri Lake. Khecheopalri (pronounced “catch a perry”) is a wish-granting lake. Its size belies its sacredness and significance. Legend has it that Lord Shiva (the God of both Creation and destruction) created the lake with his footprint when he walked the earth.

Pilgrams were performing rituals at the lake when I visited. They invited me to join them. They gave me biscuits to feed the fish and incense to place in the sand at the lake’s shore.

I could have stayed there all day. I could actually feel the energy of Khecheopalri Lake. Some places are like that. I’ve been to Sedona, Arizona, and felt nothing. But at that wish-granting lake here in middle-of-nowhere Sikkim, I feel a huge ray of hope.

I’m choosing to believe my wishes, both personal and altruistic, are being granted.