Darjeeling is the jewel in India's crown, but in truth, India can lay little claim to this magical, almost impossible to believe mountain village. Set at a crossroads between Tibet, Nepal and India this pass to another world on Earth is discreetly hidden and protected by cloud-topped mountains, the place is a cultural blend of all that is mystic and intriguing.

All the images of 'far, far away' that such a location cunjours up are met and more than surpassed. But there is more to Darjeeling than its tea and location.

You arrive here via the winding roads from Siliguri, through the tiny villages that seem no more than a handful of shacks building and weather-beaten faces that seem to carry the expression and realisation that this is a kind of paradise: Lazy dogs rest almost corpse-like in the baking sun, wandering chickens with their own reasons, cross the road, women cook and clean in groups for all the world to see, and the menfolk labour. The climb up the mountain by jeep takes around three hours, and you do know you are climbing; the vehicle straining to acheive the steep ascend, and the bends seem never less than 180 degrees. For me, there was the added difficulty of facing the sheer, perfect drop, as my brain tried to calm my phobia of heights.

One of the first thing you notice when you get to Darjeeling is the exessive number of school uniforms. Within minutes Dan and I counted five or six. Part of Darjeelings colour is its bright oranges, blues, red, yellows and greens of its school children groups.

Dan chose our hotel. We are staying at The Plantation: An old colonial hotel; faded and worn, but still holding on to the last images and imaginations of 'The Time of The British' as they describe the occupation here in India.

The hotel is perfectly situated, looking down on the mainstreet of the town. Dan and I sipped our fresh, pure Darjeeling tea as we fondly gazed down on the colourful blocks of schoolkids, and watched the stallholders setting up shop, as we indulged in breakfast on the verandah. Beyond the town, we can see the magnificent sleeping mountains dressed in the finery of lush green trees and topped with the fluffy brilliant white clouds whose driftful days of peace and ease are matched only by those of the hotel guests.

The town hall clock has stuck on 12.25, but it seems to be a time that suits Darjeeling. The days have the quality and feel of a long afternoon, and things close down here so quickly when it gets dark, that early evening has the silence and serenity of a lonesome midnight.

The magical feel of Darjeeling pevades in the way its people - particularly its boys - behave. India has a very high male population; and its very obvious. In Darjeeling, as in the rest of India, its common is see male friends holding hands as they walk down the street together. Not as a sign of homosexuality, its a display of friendship. Here in Darjeeling, the males take the physical signs of affection and friendship further. Guys will walk together with their arms wrapped round each others shoulders or waist. When stood in groups of three or more, you will always see one with his arms around his friend, sometimes resting his head on his friend's shoulder if he is stood behind him. I have also seen, on a few occasions, the act of kissing the back of the friend's hand as the finishing off of a handshake.

All this looks unusual to my Western eyes, but equally unusual is the lack of annomosity and bravado in the atmosphere. I cannot believe that so many schools could exist side by side in such a small community in England - or other parts of Europe - without there being fighting and rivalry. Here, the kids wear their uniform all day and into the evening, and mix with others in the main square. I am convinced that the behaviour of the males here reduces the need for violence and aggression.

I have long held strong beliefs that we are a world that accepts violence before we will accept love. Our TV and Film censors will happily show bullets going into men's brains, but have a man put his tongue into aother man's mouth! I know very few parents who would be more relaxed with the idea of their som coming home from school saying he has beaten up his male classmate than they would if he announced his love for his classmate.

At the risk of seeming to confuse homosexuality with male display of affection, in Darjeeling, we see the pro-affection system works, and the benefits of a tighter, safer community are so apparant you can feel it in the fresh mountain air.

The blends of religion work well together in this setting in such a way that should shame Isreal and Palastine. Hindus, Buddists, Christians, and varient sects of the religions share temples and holy days; respectful of Gods and beliefs that are not of their own. Today is a holy day for Hindus. Their God of Ironworkers is celebrated today. The day was explained to Dan and me, by a Tibetan cafe owner in nutral, but respectful terms. Tibetan Monks respendant in their deep red habits wander through the streets and blend in with the general populace of jeans, T shirts and Sarees. The only disturbing sight I have seen here is to see Tibetan monks, talk on mobile phones, drink Sprite, and most disturbingly, spit on the ground.

But all this, to me, just adds to the unique aura and magical quality of this town: A town of love and affection.

Garito
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