Sunday in Gangtok
The day starts early in Sikkim. Half past six and the first teams of children are already training in the football ground beneath our hotel. They're dedicated, these boys - jogging around in team colours, goalies in green shirts practicing catching, penalties being taken over and over again. Here, in the hills, they play football, not cricket. That's a game for the plainsmen. Each afternoon there's been a football match, which means hoards of taxis in the hotel road, stalls selling the inevitable crisps, a band just in tune enough to make hearing it an almost enjoyable experience, a loudspeaker announcer whose voice echoes over the valley and a rush of hotel staff across the lawn each time the crowds' conglomerate voice signals a pick up of pace on the pitch.
And talking of crisps - the person who can design a biodegradable crisp packet would surely make a fortune here. Gangtok is by far the cleanest place we've been - the streets are cleaned twice a day. In Darjeeling I guess its once, and in Kolkata - probably never! But everywhere we've been there's been a crisp shop every five paces and the resultant litter in phenomenal. Even here the streams are choc-full of crisp packets, multicoloured symbol of a throwaway life.
By and large, Sikkim has got it right. The roads are good (in the main), pedestrians protected by barriers, traffic-free shopping malls and a green policy. But then, Sikkim is rich. Since joining India in 1975, government money has come its way. There's a border that you need a permit to get through, and if you don't have the permit you can't get in. No negotiation. If you don't have Sikkimese citizenship you can get a bank loan, but your rate of interest will be higher than if you were a citizen.
Darjeeling, with its rapidly growing population and lack of space, which, through its tea and tourism contributes far more to the state of West Bengal than it gets back, and suffers greatly for this disparity, must look on its neighbour with considerable envy. After all, but for a series of bureaucratic lines drawn, Darjeeling would still be a part of her prosperous neighbour.
Today, two families asked if they could take my photograph with them - do they think I'm Judi Dench?
The day starts early in Sikkim. Half past six and the first teams of children are already training in the football ground beneath our hotel. They're dedicated, these boys - jogging around in team colours, goalies in green shirts practicing catching, penalties being taken over and over again. Here, in the hills, they play football, not cricket. That's a game for the plainsmen. Each afternoon there's been a football match, which means hoards of taxis in the hotel road, stalls selling the inevitable crisps, a band just in tune enough to make hearing it an almost enjoyable experience, a loudspeaker announcer whose voice echoes over the valley and a rush of hotel staff across the lawn each time the crowds' conglomerate voice signals a pick up of pace on the pitch.
 |
| The football stadium entrance |
And talking of crisps - the person who can design a biodegradable crisp packet would surely make a fortune here. Gangtok is by far the cleanest place we've been - the streets are cleaned twice a day. In Darjeeling I guess its once, and in Kolkata - probably never! But everywhere we've been there's been a crisp shop every five paces and the resultant litter in phenomenal. Even here the streams are choc-full of crisp packets, multicoloured symbol of a throwaway life.
By and large, Sikkim has got it right. The roads are good (in the main), pedestrians protected by barriers, traffic-free shopping malls and a green policy. But then, Sikkim is rich. Since joining India in 1975, government money has come its way. There's a border that you need a permit to get through, and if you don't have the permit you can't get in. No negotiation. If you don't have Sikkimese citizenship you can get a bank loan, but your rate of interest will be higher than if you were a citizen.
Darjeeling, with its rapidly growing population and lack of space, which, through its tea and tourism contributes far more to the state of West Bengal than it gets back, and suffers greatly for this disparity, must look on its neighbour with considerable envy. After all, but for a series of bureaucratic lines drawn, Darjeeling would still be a part of her prosperous neighbour.
Today, two families asked if they could take my photograph with them - do they think I'm Judi Dench?
No comments:
Post a Comment