The Sikkim Diaries – Part 4 (March, 2025)
Bordering on Unprofessional
After a couple of days of embracing the lack of planning, I began to wonder whether I was ‘wasting’ time.
I was sitting in the same café on MG Marg, enjoying the same Tibetan bread, and thoughts started to creep in about whether I could be “doing more.” Was I fearing familiarity, or just excited to discover more? Regardless, I consulted Yogen’s annotated map and cross-referenced it with Google, wondering what else I could explore.
As I weighed my options, a familiar face sat at the table next to me. We hadn’t actually met before – but we both did a double take. “Another white person,” I thought. Given everything I’d been told about Sikkim – and the near-empty arrivals book I kept thinking back to – it felt strange to see another European traveller here. Naturally, we struck up a conversation.
Marion was a French researcher studying tourism in Sikkim, spending a couple of months in the region to explore how tourism affected local communities and indigenous groups, and evaluating the state’s wider tourism strategy. It felt like a perfect coincidence.
We bonded over our early experiences of the region and shared how we had both ended up in this otherwise overlooked destination. It also led to a conversation about our travel plans – or, in my case, the complete lack of them.
As a researcher, Marion had planned far more than I had, yet we both faced the same problem. Many of Sikkim’s border regions were inaccessible without a local guide and – for some reason – without a second traveller. As a result, she had been unable to visit various tourism sites close to the Chinese/Tibetan border alone. Suddenly, we found a solution to her problem.
I had just become a +1.
We returned to a tour agency Marion had previously visited. The host looked surprised when she emerged with another foreigner, but we quickly agreed to arrange a trip for the following morning. We would head to Tsomgo Lake, a sacred lake whose changing colours apparently predicted the future.
We secured an additional permit that allowed us to travel even closer to the India-China border, and we were assigned a guide – Sushila (or Sushi, for short) – whose job, it seemed, was to keep us out of trouble.
The early start brought chilling temperatures and near-zero visibility. Having come from Kolkata, where the air was thick and humid, I was unprepared for the sub-zero temperatures that Marion and Sushi seemed perfectly comfortable with. I emerged from the hotel wearing my classic 2000s Newcastle United drill shirt.
Sushi’s silent but shocking glare warned me that I hadn’t packed enough layers. I didn’t have any – but I did have a bright idea. I ran back upstairs and returned moments later wrapped in the spare blanket from my bed. It would have to do until we reached the summit, where I could rent something more appropriate.
As we climbed higher, the car struggled with the altitude in much the same way I did – shaking and slowing as the steep climbs brought freezing temperatures. I kept myself occupied by gazing out of the steaming window, looking out for distractions as we navigated increasingly winding roads and disappeared into thick mountain clouds.
We passed military checkpoints, bunkers, and convoys of freight trucks – a clear reminder of the strategic importance of this route as we approached the Chinese border. This road, known as the Nathu La Pass, was historically a crucial trading link between India and Tibet before it was closed during the Sino-Indian War.
China and India still have ongoing territorial disputes in the north east and north west, but China’s formal recognition of Sikkim as an Indian territory led to the reopening of this route in the early 2000s. Border tensions along this route had eased, but the increased military presence suggested that trust was still in short supply.
The road felt increasingly dangerous, with narrow blind corners and towering trucks turning every bend into a one-sided duel along cliff edges. It turns out that the Indian government is aware of these dangers, and our spirits were kept high by the absurd road signs dotted along the route that reminded drivers to stay cautious.
Deciphering these became our main source of entertainment, as confusion and laughter warmed the temperature of the car. Here are some of my favourites:
BE MR LATE NOT LATE MR – It’s better to be late than to die.
SAFETY BEGINS WITH S BUT STARTS WITH YOU – A spelling pun that even Vorders would appreciate.
LISTEN TO YOUR INNER VOICE – Why is this road sign telling me I’m a failure?
DRIVE LIKE HELL AND YOU WILL GET THERE – Driving safely is actually the unwritten 11th commandment.
SAFETY AT ROAD IS SAFE TEA AT HOME – Slow down if you want some PG Tips later.
DON’T WATCH HER BEHIND KEEP SAFETY IN MIND – Only be a pervert when stopped safely at a red light.
DARLING I LIKE YOU BUT NOT SO FAST – I mean, come on…
It turns out that in an attempt to control speed and encourage road safety in Sikkim and other Indian border states, the Border Roads Organisation – or, hilariously, BRO for short – have turned warnings into entertainment.
The best part is that every sign has the word BRO pasted in capitals at the top, making each warning sound like a stoned teenager discovering wordplay for the first time. The Ministry of Defence might take border security very seriously, but at least some of them can have a laugh.
Sadly, our arrival at Tsomgo Lake was an extension of the terrible driving conditions. Not only was it freezing, we couldn’t even see the lake. We wandered through the snow in hope that the clouds might lift, but eventually gave up and resorted to sledging down icy banks and throwing snowballs into the fog. It quickly descended into childish chaos while other disappointed visitors stared blindly into the crystal white abyss.
We returned to the car, covered in snow and out of breath, and Sushi sheepishly apologised for what she described as a disappointing visit. But I couldn’t help thinking back to Tenzing. Once again, Sikkim had reminded me that nature was beyond my control, and for perhaps the first time in my life, I found myself appreciating that.
It was the people that made the difference. Sikkimese hospitality had delivered – Sushi’s warmth and humour had turned disappointment into something more memorable. Marion and I had already forgotten about the lake.
An Organic Introduction
Back in Gangtok, we visited another beautiful hillside monastery, before navigating down the increasingly steep suburbs that put my knees to the test. I looked out over the multicoloured capital and spotted a local football match being played at one of the most scenic stadiums I’d ever seen.
Two young teams battled it out on an artificial pitch with an incredible backdrop, and I dropped back to watch – taking a moment to analyse the Sunday league tactics from high in the sky. Even the no-nonsense 4-4-2 had reached the remote towns of the Himalayas. Sean Dyche would be so proud.
Despite India’s reputation as a cricket-obsessed country, Sushi explained that football was far more popular in local towns and neighbourhoods. She attributed this partly to the climate – it’s far more accessible year-round – but also to the cultural differences between Sikkim and the rest of India. She didn’t elaborate, but it felt like another reminder of how distinct Sikkim was, this time through sport.
Sushi also mentioned other popular sports such as archery – the national sport of neighbouring Bhutan, where Tibetan heritage also shapes local culture. Until that moment, it hadn’t even crossed my mind that I hadn’t seen a single cricket field – something I couldn’t seem to avoid elsewhere in India. Another signal of Sikkim’s silent rebellion.
When we emerged from the trails, a lonely farmhouse sat at the end of the track. The chimney was smoking and the smell of burning wood filled the air, dissipating into the tall trees that protected it from the surrounding hills. Sushi struck up a warm conversation with the lady working hard in the field – a plot so small it felt more like a garden than a field. She beckoned us over.
Marion and I shyly followed as Sushi greeted her with a warm embrace. She introduced us to “Nana” (“Older Sister”) – her distant cousin – who came from the same village to live and work in Gangtok.
Nana welcomed us into her home and sat us down at her kitchen table with hot milk and biscuits, chatting enthusiastically with Sushi in Nepali. Despite not understanding a word, her warmth somehow made the conversation easy to follow. I smiled when she smiled, laughed when she laughed, and caught Marion doing the same.
Nana proudly showed us her home before leading us into the garden, where cows, chicks and cats paraded between the yard and the surrounding farmland.
Smallholder farming is common in Sikkim, largely due to fragmented terrain and limited infrastructure, meaning many families farm their plots for subsistence, selling their surplus locally for extra income. I was also surprised to learn that Sikkim was actually a fully organic state. This means that even the smallest-scale producers, who would benefit most from increasing yields, avoided pesticides and chemical fertilisers, instead employing traditional and natural practices.
The transition began in 2003, when the state incentivised farmers to move away from chemical fertilisers through grants, subsidies and training programmes. These measures helped offset initial drops in yield as land composition changed, while community-led cooperatives and crop rotation techniques improved long-term sustainability.
The state even gave away cows to supplement income and provide natural pesticides – one of which we had just met in Nana’s back garden. By 2016, Sikkim had become the world’s first fully organic state and a trailblazer for the region – yet another example of environmental priorities at the centre of the state’s identity.
This gradual transition stood in stark contrast to the approach I had seen in Sri Lanka. In 2021, during a deepening economic crisis, the government abruptly banned chemical fertilisers in an attempt to reduce imports and conserve foreign exchange reserves.
The consequences were catastrophic – crop yields collapsed, smallholder farmers were hit hardest, and many households were plunged into extreme poverty and food insecurity. The policy was reversed six months later, but the aftershocks are still felt today.
The contrast in approaches is glaringly obvious. Sikkim’s approach to organic farming was rooted in supporting local businesses and traditional practices, prioritising long-term sustainability and respect for the local environment. Sri Lanka’s was reactive – an ill-informed economic decision masquerading as an environmental policy. Sikkim had placed the environment at the heart of an economic decision, and it was reaping the rewards.
Yak of All Trades
Back in the kitchen, smoke from the furnace lingered in the air, leaving a bitter edge to each breath. Nana explained – through Sushi – that she was preparing dinner. On the menu: yak.
When Sushi translated this, my reaction was immediate – and obvious. Nana noticed my surprise and her curiosity turned into excitement. By now, her husband had returned home, and the two of them were delighted by the novelty of yak to their foreign guests. Despite my British instinct to politely refuse anything offered to me, I gave in once again to Sikkimese hospitality and Nana began preparing a small dish for me.
She worked hard over the stove as we continued with our milk and biscuits, which now tasted noticeably fresher having met their source just moments earlier in the garden. She scuttled back over to the table and proudly placed a full bowl of yak meat in front of me, complete with seasoning and cutlery. I dug in. It was delightful.
About an hour earlier, Nana had been working hard in the field – managing her home, her land, and a key source of income for her family. After a surprise introduction and only a brief hello, she had then welcomed strangers into her home, fed them, and treated them like family.
I was humbled by Nana’s warmth, generosity, and quiet strength. It felt like a story that often goes untold – not just in India, but everywhere. Women like Nana play a central role in households and local economies, often doing work that remains undervalued and underappreciated by traditional economic measures. Across sectors such as tourism, government, business, men dominate the visible narrative while these sorts of contributions by women often go unseen.
We said goodbye to Nana with a genuine sense of emotion, glancing back to see her waving from the doorway of her farmhouse. I left her home with a deep appreciation for her hard work, her hospitality, and her quiet unprompted kindness.
Together, Nana and Sushi had reshaped my understanding of everything I had experienced in Sikkim so far. They were powerful examples of the women at the backbone of life in some of the world’s most remote places – and a reminder that this kingdom’s identity goes far beyond its borders, its kings, its sacred lakes, its mountains and even its quirky road signs.
As we headed back into town, intermittent yawns suggested the day was almost over – but Sushi had one more surprise in store. We climbed what felt like an endless flight of stairs until we reached a balcony bar overlooking MG Marg.
A Nepali band filled the room with music, while cheap beer fuelled strangers dancing and singing into the night – or at least until 11pm, when local laws brought everything to a silent standstill. It turns out that their dislike of honking extends to noise in general.
I’ll let them off. The early night would do me good. The following day was about to bring my biggest adventure yet.
