The Monk and the Angry Taxi Drivers

I had booked, with quite an amount of pride for being so well planned, trains from Varanasi to New Jalgapuri, then to Darjeeling, a return to New Jalgurpuri and lastly onwards to Kolkata. However in the evening, three hours before the first was due to depart, I received a message saying that it had been cancelled.

India isn’t a country that deals well with plans of the traveller it seems. I booked another night at the hostel and studied my options. Martin was heading the next morning to Darjeeling via an early flight, which was still available but costly and the flight went back to Delhi before heading to the nearest airport to Darjeeling. I wasn’t too keen on taking one step back to go two steps forward, so I decided not to go with him and ponder what to do in the morning.

I had caught some more illness in the recent days so I decided to stay in Varanasi a couple more days, during which time Martin, knowing about my doubts to go to Darjeeling, had sent me a message saying that it was amazing and I needed to go there. I booked the same flight he had taken, albeit two days post and followed his tracks.

After the two legs, I arrived at Bagdogra airport in the middle of the afternoon where I discovered that I had managed to leave myself with almost no money and the airport contained no cash machines. Enquiring at the taxi booking window suggested I would be able to withdraw money on the way and pay the driver.

After booking a taxi a monk named Tenzin, who I had conversed with in the taxi queue, asked whether he could join me for part of the trip. He was heading to Kalimpong, a town on the next hill over from Darjeeling to the east, and would be picked up by a friend in a town on our route.

As we drove out of the tiny airport’s parking area, my designated taxi driver took quite an opposition to this idea. Having offered to pay half the fare, I declared that I would not travel without my new found friend.

The driver turned around, got out of the car and marched back to the booking office. I followed, entrusting Tenzin to guard our luggage. On the walk over, my mind wondered briefly whether Tenzin was just out to steal my possessions, which at this point were still mostly clean and usable. Being in India increases the fear of being scammed, even by monks dressed in their trustworthy orange attire.

After many foreign words with accompanying arms in air, a new driver was assigned, who walked over to our original taxi. Tenzin was still there and so he became the most trusted person in my vicinity. We followed our new driver in the high heat, for what seemed like forever in a much bigger car park.

When we finally made it to the car, Tenzin and the driver both seemed unflustered while I appeared to have been trying to solve the country’s water problems by sweat alone.

Our driver turned around and it was as if he hadn’t spotted Tenzin walking with us because in an instant they started arguing. Tenzin explained that the driver didn’t want to stop off, even if it was directly on the route.

Confused, I asked the driver why it was such a problem; we pull over, Tenzin steps out, gets his bags, we all hug him goodbye because we’ve bonded so much during the trip, and we get going again, albeit with slight tears in our eyes.

Ultimately the driver understood very little of this, which was only shocking because he also didn’t seem to take to my acting during all of this. After some more arguing, Tenzin turned to me and said the driver had agreed to do it.

We set off and after a left turn, we pulled up next to a bank. I got out, Tenzin reassured me that they would wait, but as I walked to the ATM, I did question whether him and the taxi driver might be in some form of cahoots. I turned back and Tenzin gave me a smile and a wave. Of course I can trust him!