Written Tue 26th Feb, 2002 in Darjeeling, West Bengal, India
No, I haven’t just become two centimeters high and jumped onto a model railway, although at times yesterday it certainly felt like it. I refer, of course, to the world famous ‘Toy Train’ narrow gauge railway from Siliguri to Darjeeling, the hill station in West Bengal famous for its tea plantations.
It has long been an ambition of mine to travel this route. Just as well, since the experience of getting to Siliguri and the beginning of the Toy Train trip itself were something of a trial – in these situations it is very useful to remind yourself about the ambition being fulfilled, which enables you to appreciate the significance of the moment and the immediate experiences which could otherwise be rather depressing.
I had traveled overnight by broad gauge train from Varanasi. Despite having a reserved berth, I found it occupied by four people – altogether there were thirteen people in an area of eight berths. These people apparently had the reservation up to Varanasi but were actually traveling to Patna, capital of Bihar state, some four hours distant. There’s not a lot you can do when presented with such a situation, so they found space for my bags and moved up to make room.
After Patna, the space situation was resolved and I got into friendly discussion with my remaining fellow travel companions, all heading to Guwahati, capital of Assam. The train was running later and later, which was very good news for me – arrival at New Jalpaiguri, or NJP, the junction for the toy train, was scheduled for 2:35am and the Toy Train doesn’t leave until 9am. Having made sure the bedding wallah would wake me on arrival, I went to sleep. I dozed fitfully, though, worried that I might miss the stop. But at 3am we arrived at Kishanganj, some three hours late by the timetable. So I rolled over and went back to sleep knowing I had plenty of time.
Only 25 minutes later, I was woken by the wallah who also wanted my bedding, and told me it was only 20 minutes to NJP. I queried this, knowing full well that no Indian train covers 87km in 45 minutes and suddenly makes up two hours of its schedule. But what could I do? He’d woken numerous others in the carriage and they were all packing up their things. Of course, he’d made a mistake – it was another one and a half hours before we arrived, time I could and should have spent on much needed sleep!
NJP is a large, busy and well lit station – just as well as I hadn’t relished the prospect of hours waiting in the cold and dark. It was actually surprisingly warm, even before sunrise, and there were plenty of stalls where I could get a refreshing chai and a boiled egg.
I decided to investigate getting my ticket to Darjeeling immediately – this turned out to be another feat of organization, planning and Indian Railways bureaucracy. I started by asking in an office marked ‘Ticket Collector’. This was a rather musty room with a few wooden desks, an old-fashioned phone, and the station announcer’s microphone. I picked one of the four men working there and asked him where I should get the ticket. He took me out and up the stairs, then pointed the way to the main station entrance and ticket office. This is a couple of hundred metres walk across a large footbridge which crosses the miniscule 2-foot gauge Toy Train tracks, then a wide expanse of metre-gauge tracks full of oil tankers and other freight trucks. Coming down the stairs, I had to negotiate my way through all the touts trying to sell me a taxi or jeep ride to Darjeeling – when I finally made it to the ticket window, I was told that I couldn’t buy the ticket here and had to go to the ticket collector’s office on platform one – from where I’d just been sent! So, laden down, I might add, with the full weight of my backpacks, large and small, I trudged all the way back to my starting point and tried a different guy. Now I got the correct answer, which was that I had to come back to this office at 8am.
Having killed another couple of hours hanging around watching, reading, writing, eating and drinking, I showed up again at 8am. A computer printout was ceremoniously produced confirming availability of first class seats, and the guy promptly wrote out a message to the ticket office requesting that they issue a ticket. He signed this and, crucially, stamped it with an official Indian Railways stamp, and explained that I needed to go back to the ticket office and present it so I could buy the ticket, then come back to him. This I duly did, and clutching my ticket, a duplicate form filled in by the ticket clerk, I came back to be issued with yet another duplicate form (referring, of course, to the serial number on the first form), a combined effort of two men, now confirming my seat reservation – and costing me an additional 25 Rupees, despite the first form showing a 20Rs ‘reservation’ fee as part of the charge. Still, as the whole journey was costing me the princely sum of about four pounds (US), I wasn’t too concerned.
After all this effort, I needn’t have bothered – there were only ten people in the first class carriage which seats seventeen, and one of these was a French lady who got on without a ticket and was able to pay the traveling inspector – he still filled out both forms, of course, and charged both reservation fees!
The Toy Train arrived a quarter of an hour before departure – three small blue carriages, first class in the middle, hauled by a 118 year old steam engine called ‘Queen of the Hills’. Disappointingly, a diesel engine arrived separately to pull the train, and we set off on time. The first few kilometers are not very pleasant, wending through the filthy squalor of Siliguri town. But as soon as we left the town, we began the climb up through the forests. The line runs alongside the road for practically the whole route, but at almost every bend the track crosses the road to get the maximum curve and greatest distance – trains don’t generally like steep slopes. Every time we approached a crossing, and quite a lot of the time in between, the driver would give a loud blast of the horn, just to prove to all the Tata trucks that his horn is louder than theirs and that they have to get out of the way!
Occasionally, the road was too steep, so the railway line might dive into the woods and loop round to gain some height. There are also a number of Z-shaped switch-backs where the train stops, a guy jumps out of a little hut to change to points, and the train reverses up the slope after some sharp blasts on the guard’s whistle. At the other end, the same happens and we continue forwards.
This continued for four hours, as we inexorably gained altitude, and the scenery became more and more spectacular – try as I might, I know it will have been impossible to do it justice on film.
At Kurseong, somewhat over halfway but still 30km from Darjeeling, we pulled into the small terminus station with three parallel tracks and loops. It was now raining a bit – the first rain I’ve had since arrival in India six weeks ago.
Then, an unmistakable sound – a shrill blast on the whistle of a steam engine, wending its way down the main street of the town, within touching distance of the roadside shops and booths. The down train reversed back into the station too, and the engines swapped over. According to the ticket inspector, the other diesel engine is under repair so they are having to use one of the old steam engines – shame! There were four or five men clambering over the little engine, named ‘Mountaineer’, filling it up with coal from baskets which they carried on their shoulders. As steam pressure built up, it sounded more like a small jet plane than a steam engine, until the safety valve gave way and a huge blast of steam poured out in all directions.
Replete with chai and other necessities, we jumped back on when we heard the warning blast of the whistle, and backed out ready for the climb. This was the biggest thrill – very little can beat the sight, sound and smell of a small steam engine gallantly trying to haul its train up impossibly steep slopes. With the rails wet from the rain, the engine was slipping badly, with a sudden wheel-spin in between the more regular heartbeat-like puffs. At one point, the slipping was so ferocious that sparks flew where steel wheel met steel rail in fury. But the skilful crew struggled bravely, one man standing on the front of the engine and sanding the rails by hand. Timetabled arrival at Darjeeling was 3:30pm, but the inspector said it would be 6:30pm before we got there – now I could see why.
For the next few hours, there was the constant delight of even more beautiful scenery, the sound and smell of our gallant little engine, and the smiles and waves of the people of this mountain region. Even when the sun came out and the rails dried out, it was still very apparent how much effort it took to pull the train up slopes which at one point are as steep as 1:20. Steam engines are truly alive – the power and the struggle is much more intimate than with a diesel, and I found myself willing it on every time I could hear and feel it slip and try to regain grip.
We stopped a number of times to take on water and sand – passengers would disembark, then we would all scramble for the doors as the train pulled away again. Of course, the speed is so low that this was never a problem, and for much of the upper portion of the journey, local children would run and grab the door handles and hitch a free ride.
Now as I sit in my room in a Darjeeling hotel run by a Tibetan family, with prayer flags fluttering on the pole on my balcony, I can look out and see Kanchenjunga, at 8598m the highest mountain in India and third highest in the world – at least I could this morning, its hidden behind clouds now.
But I can also hear the far-off whistle of a steam train which reminds me of yesterday’s fulfilled dream and proves the old traveler’s adage – The Journey Is The Destination.
No, I haven’t just become two centimeters high and jumped onto a model railway, although at times yesterday it certainly felt like it. I refer, of course, to the world famous ‘Toy Train’ narrow gauge railway from Siliguri to Darjeeling, the hill station in West Bengal famous for its tea plantations.
It has long been an ambition of mine to travel this route. Just as well, since the experience of getting to Siliguri and the beginning of the Toy Train trip itself were something of a trial – in these situations it is very useful to remind yourself about the ambition being fulfilled, which enables you to appreciate the significance of the moment and the immediate experiences which could otherwise be rather depressing.
I had traveled overnight by broad gauge train from Varanasi. Despite having a reserved berth, I found it occupied by four people – altogether there were thirteen people in an area of eight berths. These people apparently had the reservation up to Varanasi but were actually traveling to Patna, capital of Bihar state, some four hours distant. There’s not a lot you can do when presented with such a situation, so they found space for my bags and moved up to make room.
After Patna, the space situation was resolved and I got into friendly discussion with my remaining fellow travel companions, all heading to Guwahati, capital of Assam. The train was running later and later, which was very good news for me – arrival at New Jalpaiguri, or NJP, the junction for the toy train, was scheduled for 2:35am and the Toy Train doesn’t leave until 9am. Having made sure the bedding wallah would wake me on arrival, I went to sleep. I dozed fitfully, though, worried that I might miss the stop. But at 3am we arrived at Kishanganj, some three hours late by the timetable. So I rolled over and went back to sleep knowing I had plenty of time.
Only 25 minutes later, I was woken by the wallah who also wanted my bedding, and told me it was only 20 minutes to NJP. I queried this, knowing full well that no Indian train covers 87km in 45 minutes and suddenly makes up two hours of its schedule. But what could I do? He’d woken numerous others in the carriage and they were all packing up their things. Of course, he’d made a mistake – it was another one and a half hours before we arrived, time I could and should have spent on much needed sleep!
NJP is a large, busy and well lit station – just as well as I hadn’t relished the prospect of hours waiting in the cold and dark. It was actually surprisingly warm, even before sunrise, and there were plenty of stalls where I could get a refreshing chai and a boiled egg.
I decided to investigate getting my ticket to Darjeeling immediately – this turned out to be another feat of organization, planning and Indian Railways bureaucracy. I started by asking in an office marked ‘Ticket Collector’. This was a rather musty room with a few wooden desks, an old-fashioned phone, and the station announcer’s microphone. I picked one of the four men working there and asked him where I should get the ticket. He took me out and up the stairs, then pointed the way to the main station entrance and ticket office. This is a couple of hundred metres walk across a large footbridge which crosses the miniscule 2-foot gauge Toy Train tracks, then a wide expanse of metre-gauge tracks full of oil tankers and other freight trucks. Coming down the stairs, I had to negotiate my way through all the touts trying to sell me a taxi or jeep ride to Darjeeling – when I finally made it to the ticket window, I was told that I couldn’t buy the ticket here and had to go to the ticket collector’s office on platform one – from where I’d just been sent! So, laden down, I might add, with the full weight of my backpacks, large and small, I trudged all the way back to my starting point and tried a different guy. Now I got the correct answer, which was that I had to come back to this office at 8am.
Having killed another couple of hours hanging around watching, reading, writing, eating and drinking, I showed up again at 8am. A computer printout was ceremoniously produced confirming availability of first class seats, and the guy promptly wrote out a message to the ticket office requesting that they issue a ticket. He signed this and, crucially, stamped it with an official Indian Railways stamp, and explained that I needed to go back to the ticket office and present it so I could buy the ticket, then come back to him. This I duly did, and clutching my ticket, a duplicate form filled in by the ticket clerk, I came back to be issued with yet another duplicate form (referring, of course, to the serial number on the first form), a combined effort of two men, now confirming my seat reservation – and costing me an additional 25 Rupees, despite the first form showing a 20Rs ‘reservation’ fee as part of the charge. Still, as the whole journey was costing me the princely sum of about four pounds (US), I wasn’t too concerned.
After all this effort, I needn’t have bothered – there were only ten people in the first class carriage which seats seventeen, and one of these was a French lady who got on without a ticket and was able to pay the traveling inspector – he still filled out both forms, of course, and charged both reservation fees!
The Toy Train arrived a quarter of an hour before departure – three small blue carriages, first class in the middle, hauled by a 118 year old steam engine called ‘Queen of the Hills’. Disappointingly, a diesel engine arrived separately to pull the train, and we set off on time. The first few kilometers are not very pleasant, wending through the filthy squalor of Siliguri town. But as soon as we left the town, we began the climb up through the forests. The line runs alongside the road for practically the whole route, but at almost every bend the track crosses the road to get the maximum curve and greatest distance – trains don’t generally like steep slopes. Every time we approached a crossing, and quite a lot of the time in between, the driver would give a loud blast of the horn, just to prove to all the Tata trucks that his horn is louder than theirs and that they have to get out of the way!
Occasionally, the road was too steep, so the railway line might dive into the woods and loop round to gain some height. There are also a number of Z-shaped switch-backs where the train stops, a guy jumps out of a little hut to change to points, and the train reverses up the slope after some sharp blasts on the guard’s whistle. At the other end, the same happens and we continue forwards.
This continued for four hours, as we inexorably gained altitude, and the scenery became more and more spectacular – try as I might, I know it will have been impossible to do it justice on film.
At Kurseong, somewhat over halfway but still 30km from Darjeeling, we pulled into the small terminus station with three parallel tracks and loops. It was now raining a bit – the first rain I’ve had since arrival in India six weeks ago.
Then, an unmistakable sound – a shrill blast on the whistle of a steam engine, wending its way down the main street of the town, within touching distance of the roadside shops and booths. The down train reversed back into the station too, and the engines swapped over. According to the ticket inspector, the other diesel engine is under repair so they are having to use one of the old steam engines – shame! There were four or five men clambering over the little engine, named ‘Mountaineer’, filling it up with coal from baskets which they carried on their shoulders. As steam pressure built up, it sounded more like a small jet plane than a steam engine, until the safety valve gave way and a huge blast of steam poured out in all directions.
Replete with chai and other necessities, we jumped back on when we heard the warning blast of the whistle, and backed out ready for the climb. This was the biggest thrill – very little can beat the sight, sound and smell of a small steam engine gallantly trying to haul its train up impossibly steep slopes. With the rails wet from the rain, the engine was slipping badly, with a sudden wheel-spin in between the more regular heartbeat-like puffs. At one point, the slipping was so ferocious that sparks flew where steel wheel met steel rail in fury. But the skilful crew struggled bravely, one man standing on the front of the engine and sanding the rails by hand. Timetabled arrival at Darjeeling was 3:30pm, but the inspector said it would be 6:30pm before we got there – now I could see why.
For the next few hours, there was the constant delight of even more beautiful scenery, the sound and smell of our gallant little engine, and the smiles and waves of the people of this mountain region. Even when the sun came out and the rails dried out, it was still very apparent how much effort it took to pull the train up slopes which at one point are as steep as 1:20. Steam engines are truly alive – the power and the struggle is much more intimate than with a diesel, and I found myself willing it on every time I could hear and feel it slip and try to regain grip.
We stopped a number of times to take on water and sand – passengers would disembark, then we would all scramble for the doors as the train pulled away again. Of course, the speed is so low that this was never a problem, and for much of the upper portion of the journey, local children would run and grab the door handles and hitch a free ride.
Now as I sit in my room in a Darjeeling hotel run by a Tibetan family, with prayer flags fluttering on the pole on my balcony, I can look out and see Kanchenjunga, at 8598m the highest mountain in India and third highest in the world – at least I could this morning, its hidden behind clouds now.
But I can also hear the far-off whistle of a steam train which reminds me of yesterday’s fulfilled dream and proves the old traveler’s adage – The Journey Is The Destination.