The north-east of India is, in its own realm, beautiful, strange, fascinating and taxing.
When someone left all the wondrous animals in Assam and taught its people the best use of bamboo, he must have stopped the local clock on his exit. When gentle clouds first touched Meghalaya, they must have graced it with a blessing, “Dear, you would rock.” When god wished to keep Arunachal unsullied, he placed it on a pedestal and severed the roads leading to it.
December 01, 2006 – January 01, 2007
The desire to visit the north-east of India was strong, and the decision to do so was unanimous. But how long would one need to get a reasonable understanding of a place, much of which is so shrouded in mystery? How many of us have friends who are from there? What information one gathered from the internet (the only source of news apart from first-hand accounts which compelled us to take it seriously) was still very rudimentary. As we listed the places to visit, it became apparent that we could in fact make a minor yellow pages directory. It was only then one realized the enormity of a task such as this.
The north-east is a place not just blessed with natural beauty. An integral and critical facet here is the lives of various tribes who inhabit the land. Presence of a wide range of flora and fauna, delicate relationships with neighbouring countries, a complex mix of neglect and largesse shown by the central government and cultures so different from mainland India were just a few other points to ponder while chalking out a workable schedule. And of course, the most important of all, how long to skip work?
It was thus decided that a month was the least one could spend in learning about this strange land of ours and the most the boss would let you stay out of office. In such an arrangement, there were just two of us left with enough permission from work to travel when the first train departed Bangalore – me and Nagaraj. During the course of the month, we delighted at the advantages of traveling without a large group and despaired at junctures where two more people could have helped cut costs.
Bangalore - Kolkata
The Yeshwantpur Express leaves at 7:30 PM and reaches Howrah after 36 hours. There is another train that leaves Bangalore City at around 11:30 PM and heads straight to Guwahati via Kolkata, after some 50+ hours of travel.
Having chosen the former purely to gain some rest after a long travel, it came as a surprise to see almost the entire S10 devoid of Kannadigas. In fact, apart from the caterers and myself, there were no obvious south-Indians in the bogey. Not that it mattered as I spent almost the entire journey lying lazily in my upper berth, thus missing Tirupathi, Vijayawada and Vishakapatnam. However, I did notice that the train travels in different directions to and from Vizag.
Naga, on the other hand, was to take a flight from Chennai.
KolkataI learnt from the IRCTC website that there was a Rail Yatri Niwas at Howrah. At around 8 in the morning, I went straight to that place. The procedure to get a room there is complicated, but seemed fair. It goes something like this:
a. You can get a room for just one day.
b. You have to have an arrival and departure ticket to and from Kolkata.
c. Check-out is strictly at 9:00 AM.
I registered my name at 8 and got a double room at 9:30 AM for Rs. 350. Naga was to arrive in the evening. I had a bath and went out towards the Howrah bridge for a walk.
It soon became clear that at Howrah, going for a walk doesn’t quite imply an act of leisure; it becomes a compulsion. If the storm of heads walking toward the station wasn’t scary enough, how about train-loads of red-flag wielding activists shouting slogans? This was Kolkata – a small, crisp glimpse.
From the balcony, one could see the Hooghly river allowing frequent ferries to wade through it, even as the Howrah bridge towered over. There were people everywhere onto one side of the station. The other side was less infested and I took a stroll away from the traffic. Not since some sepia-toned period film had I seen such old buildings. They would and should have crumbled long back, but not for nothing do they give an impression of aristocracy, even in decline. This was old Britain, pre-independence India, with enough protests and struggle thrown into the cauldron of city life. A taxi parking lot resembled eerily the garage in Martin Scorcese’s Taxidriver, more Eastman-coloured buildings with run-down restaurants, a deserted street leading to a well-maintained Rail Museum. There was at least one passenger arguing with a taxi-driver at any given point of time. Policemen tried to make peace, but they had there work cut out. Some drivers would park their cabs and go for a walk while the parking lot got jammed by incessant taxi arrivals. My seat at the Yatri Niwas balcony was worth more drama than a high-priced ticket at any cinema.
The Howrah bridge had been decorated with lights quite recently. There are two colours of lights that play alternately for a period of some three hours. It looks quite beautiful, but in red-flag Kolkata isn’t this a travesty?
The next day, Naga was caught photographing one of Kolkata’s rickety buses. His crime: he shot from the Howrah bridge. Now, it is just impossible to read the one and only sign prohibiting photography on the bridge. Unless one knows where the sign is, one can’t read it, and hence, the two policemen on guard found two sitting ducks in us. However, just to show that a hundred rupee note works the same in any state, be it communist, communalistic, monastic, pedantic, aquatic, static, whatever… as long as its in India, I got a handshake from the happy cop as he let us go directing us to College Street. What’s more? He let us keep the photograph; a hundred rupees for a photograph of a bus which itself might be worth less than that.
What a start to the tour. I had known so little about Kolkata, let alone the north-east!
Kolkata - Guwahati
The Kamrup is the most popular train to Guwahati from Kolkata. It goes all the way to Dibrugarh, but since it travels via stations like Barpeta Road, it takes a long time. The Saraighat, on the other hand, is a direct, super-fast train to the Assam capital. It’s a no-nonsense train that stops at only 10-11 stations and makes the journey in 17 hours. For some reason, it is less favoured.
In my many years of traveling in long-distance trains, I haven’t seen a lonelier route than that of the Saraighat’s. It passes via Shantiniketan and New Jalpaiguri, but what is it that is so dark and gloomy in between. There was hardly a light for long, long distances, and with the train itself three-quarters full, it didn’t look a very safe journey. As if this wasn’t enough, a co-passenger scared as saying this is a dacoit-prone area. We were told to shut all windows and we wondered if it was the naxals or the Ulfa or some ISI related group. Just then, someone suggested that the train was entering Bihar. There you go, that’s a riddle solved.
GuwahatiThe one abiding memory of Guwahati that I have is that of a street-vendor selling some insects as raw materials for food, along with a live reptile – a snake.
After some misunderstanding and a few uncomfortable moments we ended up in a government guest house. Here our skills in communication were put to a rigorous test. I pride in the fact that I can speak good enough Hindi without a visible accent. But what if the guy you are talking to cannot?
R Burman was a cook at the guest house and for all his good intentions he spoke more Assamese than Hindi. The first task was to convince him that we were vegetarians. “Nimasi?” he asked. “Haan, haan, vegetarian, maas machchi nahi.” Delighted that he had understood, we waited for electricity. The power condition in the north-east is ridiculous. There are frequent cuts and here, the overhead tank at the guest house had gone dry.
After some time, Burman-da came back, “Soti soti machli chalega?”
Somehow, we settled for a breakfast, lunch and dinner of Dal and Bhaat (rice).
Luckily, we met Mr. D.C. Bora, who had formerly worked in Arunachal Pradesh. Our plan for Arunachal had been very skeletal and he was a godsend at that time. He not only gave us vital travel information, he also suggested a few hotels.
The next day, we were ready to leave for our first significant stop, Manas National Park.
Manas National ParkGeneral Ticketing:
Entry per person – Rs. 20
Entry for a vehicle – Rs. 300
Camera – Rs. 50 for still cameras.
Food: Provisions to be bought into the park. The forest dept. has a cook stationed there.
Vehicle hire charges – Rs.1000-Rs.1200 per day. Fuel extra.
Accommodation – varied, needs to be booked
Elephant ride – Rs.100 per person
Barpeta Road is approximately 130 kms from Guwahati by bus. We paid Rs. 70 per head for the morning trip which lasted three hours. The mini-bus cramped you for space and it was generally crowded. But as we would learn later, this was one of our better journeys.
At Barpeta Road, there is a forest department office where we had to report and book tickets and accommodation.
Manas spreads into Bhutan and has been declared a World Heritage Site. It is well-known for its bio-diversity and was a frequent haunt of wildlife lovers in the past decades. However, it had been closed for some time in the 90s after Bodo insurgency. The problem started in 1988 and lasted till as long as 2002, when insurgents ransacked the national park, cutting trees, butchering animals and even killing people.
The forest department, in 2003, aided by the militants’ willingness to make peace, drilled into them the importance of conservation. This has become such a success now that erstwhile insurgents have become guardians of the national park. While we sat at the office talking to the affable Deputy Field Director, Mr. Ritesh Bhattacharjee, a couple of rough looking men came and chatted with him for sometime and left. We were told that they were former militants who had charted a different path for their lives now.
No one is allowed to walk to the park from the Barpeta Road office, which is 44 km away. It is imperative to take a vehicle to the park’s gates. Thus, we were led to Paresh Wari, a rotund, funny-looking, but smart chap who would be driving us in his Tata Spacio till our stay in Manas. We were to pay Rs.1000 a day, plus Rs. 500 for fuel.
We bought some provisions from the market and Paresh tried to hide his dejection when he learnt we were vegetarians.
The road to Manas National Park from Barpeta Road cannot be worse. In fact, where was the road? The vehicle moved like an involuntarily waltzing elephant on embers of coal. To the gates of the park, it is a journey of around 20 km. From there to Bansbari, where we were put up, it was a 24 km torturous path. To ease our mood, two peacocks came suddenly on our path and flew away with great splendour. Manas is famous for the golden langur and the pigmy hog. It was also once known for the rhino. But that and tigers were among the worst hit by the Bodo problem. The pigmy hog, apparently, is extinct. After the peacocks, we saw few langurs staring at our vehicle from the trees. At first we delighted at the thought of having seen the golden langur so soon. We were later told that they were capped langurs, and the golden ones could be seen only on the Bhutan side of the Manas.
That night, we were taken on a night safari by a guard, Das, and Paresh Wari. We soon realized that Paresh was a nuisance. He would cough, talk, laugh, gargle and spit; nothing in whispers. Despite him, we saw few hog deers at night. The only thing he could think of when he saw the deers was, “Yummy! How good they would be to eat.”
The Indian and Bhutanese sides of the national park are separated by the Beki river. The night we stayed at Manas was a full moon night. The river glistened and gushed, while the mountains on the Bhutanese side formed a delightful outline in the background. We were told that the next morning, we’d get to do the elephant ride, and quite possibly row over the river into Bhutan, with requisite permission from authorities there.
As Paresh made more irritating noise about the 24km journey to the front gates for the elephant ride, we had to cough up another Rs.350 for fuel. “We don’t get fuel here, so I have to pay more,” he said. Bullshit! That’s all we got that morning. The mahouts hadn’t been informed beforehand and as a result the elephants weren’t ready. We instead saw few more peacocks on our way back to Bansbari. Unlike Kaziranga, Manas isn’t as popular. Hence, there are no regular elephant rides.
We came back to our room and waited for Das to get us permission to visit Bhutan’s Manas. Meanwhile, a group of Bengali engineers had come to the park. They became friendly with us and soon we were chatting. “Would you like to river-raft with us?” one asked. “Well, not quite, we have to be in Guwahati…” or something to that effect, I mumbled. “Are you saying you want to miss this opportunity to river-raft in a national park, which you cannot do anywhere else in India?” another of them said. I was taken aback by the intensity of his. I had not known him for more than five minutes and he was talking with such interest that it shook me. I guess as time moves on and I look back at that day and remind myself of that offer, I will kick myself.
However, at that time, it was a proper decision as buses from Barpeta Road to Guwahati stop after 3 PM and they were to raft at 1 PM. This effectively meant that we would have had to stay another day at Manas – not a bad proposition had it not been for time.
The Bhutan entry was finalized and we were rowed over the river by an oarsman whose family hailed from Allahabad, and who spoke very much like a man from UP. The famous question here everyone was asking was, “Golden mila?” Apparently, the goldens, or the golden langurs, had retraced back into the deep of the forest a couple of days back and weren’t to be seen. It was another disappointment as all we saw was an angry gaur.
The gaur was so lonely that around twenty visitors kept staring at it with wide eyes and long lenses. Having taken a couple of photographs, I moved back. A local guide kept staring at me all the while. I didn’t understand and kept walking back while the others were still stalking the poor gaur. This guy came up to me after a while and asked, in all seriousness, “You are so tall, yet you ran away from the gaur?” If only I had the gift to deliver some smart-ass answer. The idiot!
We returned empty handed, but with few breathtaking photographs of the boat ride. We met a group of four oldies who had been staying at Manas for the past two days. One of them, Mr. Sen, a Bengali from Tripura, took special interest in our tour plans. He suggested us the Namdapha National Park in eastern Arunachal. This involves a trek of 27 km to the park from the forest office at a place quite exotically called, Miao. Here was a man who could so easily have ignored us, but who not only gave us ideas but also promised to give us his visiting card. But for some reason the cook had misplaced some 200 visiting cards of Mr. Sen which he had given him especially for us before he went for a walk. They surely couldn’t have eaten it!
Manas was a wonderful experience not so much for the wildlife we saw, but for the possibilities it put forth to us. People like Mr. Sen, the Bengali engineers and Mr. Bhattacharjee will inspire, always. The moonlit view of the Beki and the entry into Bhutan were special memories. The Bhutan part of the national park was frequently visited by the King and he took special interest in it. The difference between the two parks is glaring. The trees that have been cut and the animals that have been butchered are part of horror stories that shouldn’t be repeated. The good news is, they might not be repeated.
This trip also taught us to travel in a group of four to cut costs, and make sure that one asks the exact terms of the taxi hiring charges. Paresh charged us for two days even though we had used his vehicle over a period of 24 hours. We hopped onto one of the last buses to Guwahati and this time, he took five hours to traverse the distance between Barpeta Road and the capital as the bus trudged remorsefully past Pathshala, Rangiya and Nalbari.
Inner Line Permit and “enough is enough”
Every time we went back to Guwahati, we felt dejected. There is an air about some cities that draw you to it. Guwahati doesn’t have it; maybe it isn’t a city meant to keep visitors interested. But somehow, something contrived to demoralize.
Our return from Barpeta Road late in the evening meant that there was no way we could get the Inner Line Permit (ILP) from Arunachal Bhavan, for traveling inside Arunachal, on that day. In fact, the possibility of getting it the next day wasn’t great either, as none of our local contacts in Guwahati knew about the ILPs. If we weren’t able to get it the next day, we were doomed, as it was a Friday and like all good government offices the Arunachal Bhavan shut shop on the weekend.
As luck would have it, the Tripura Bhavan was 100 metres away from where we stayed and no one knew where the hell its Arunachal brother was. Amazingly, it wasn’t a local Assamese who gave us the answer, but a call to Bangalore made the difference. A friend who had earlier traveled to Arunachal was kind enough to tell us that the office was at a place close to Commerce College and closer to some Uncle and Aunty shops. Thank god, he was dead right!
At the office, a place as inconspicuous as one can have, we were told to come back in the evening as the Deputy Commissioner was away. Regardless, we needed to fill two forms, one each for the Bomdila-Tawang sector and the Pasighat-Along-Ziro-Itanagar sector. The forms cost Rs. 5 each and since we weren’t there for business, they approved us for a 15-day tourist visa. This cost Rs. 30/person for the two sectors. Naga, meanwhile, was convinced that there was a faster way to get the ILPs. So he set about setting up the official. After hearing, “Dekhiye na sir, kuch ho sakta hai toh,” multiple times, the babu relented and asked for chai-pani. Eureka! But we were dealing with Arunachal, a state so different from the rest of India. He took the fifteen rupees that Naga gave and said, “Shaam ko aa jayiye, miljaayega,” and went back to work.
Disappointed at wasting fifteen rupees, we began walking the streets. It was such a depressing walk that we were to be overwhelmed by a nauseating attack of home-sickness. We searched shop after shop for an English newspaper, and found one after ten or so failed attempts. There was a zoo on the Barua road which we didn’t want to visit, but given the boredom, we thought we might just as well have a look. It was closed. And then there was the creepiest part of the walk. A guy was selling something on the roadside. I was accustomed to fish, chicken and animals far bigger than us, but a live snake? It was brown and had no texture worth remembering. It wriggled slowly around the constricting, shallow, circular container. It wasn’t dead but nothing much was alive in it. It was that one significantly yucky moment when I felt terribly empty in my stomach and flooded in the throat. Thankfully, the throw up was avoided, or rather as I would find later, postponed.
The only place everyone suggested us to visit in Guwahati was the Kamakhya temple. Urban myth or mainland ignorance, all I knew about the temple was some exotic black magic story. But given the window of time we had in Guwahati, we simply had to give it a miss. That whole day, we had roamed the streets of the city and at each street realized there was nothing much of interest. This only added to the pain, literally, in the leg, back and figuratively, in the neck. We hadn’t seen the Kamakhya either, and if we failed to get the ILP that evening, it would be one lousy weekend. The tiredness, the sickness and the pervasive depression, when we came back to the guest house, brought out the desire to return, if nothing else happened.
For a trip like this, it must be said that more than the travelers it is the people they meet who chart the route of journey. At various points on road, we were diffused and empty, but someone from somewhere would come along and boost us up. This was one of those days and what transpired in the evening left us elated.
It started with Mr. Bora at the guest house. He not only assured us that we’d get the ILP in time, but he also painted an inviting picture of Arunachal, a place where he lived eleven years. He, like many other Assamese we had met, was extremely polite and friendly. He was also the only one among his colleagues who didn’t look incredulous when we mentioned our tour plans to him. And as we were to find out, his information was true and up-to-date.
Slightly refreshed, and after bidding goodbye to Mr. Bora, we optimistically carried our baggage to the Arunachal Bhavan at around 4 in the evening. We were told that the Deputy Commissioner had been in the airport for a long time as his Chief Minister had been visiting. The good news though was we would get the ILP by around 6. So what do we do for the next couple of hours at that nondescript hencoop? “Chat and have fun,” Devi Kamakhya herself must have blessed.
It was one of the most enjoyable parts of our stay in Guwahati when more and more people gathered around the building to get their respective ILPs, and with nothing else to do, they began to chat. The first to speak to us was an Assamese marketing executive who had spent his childhood in Nagaland and was a regular visitor of Arunachal. His wry sense of humour was a delight as he made fun of the government and when he was serious, he was pertinent. He was the one who gave us the idea of visiting Aizawl and Shillong, the first of which we had to shoot down for lack of time.
Then there was a Cipla employee who, maybe because he was of our age, came across as an unbelievably level-headed guy. He was not just forthcoming with views on everything north-eastern, he was the only guy we met who would ask us to visit Majuli, the river island near Jorhat. “You will understand Assamese culture there,” he said.
And as I and Naga were talking in Kannada, a nun excitedly stood up, “Oh! Kannada maathaadtheera?” She was a Mangalorean who was working with jail inmates in the north-east. Having been in Nagaland for seven years she had learnt Nagamese, a language very similar to Assamese, and had presently been stationed in Assam.
Quite immediately, we realized an undercurrent of tension. The north-east has seen an alarming rate of conversion to established religions, mainly Christianity. The businessman had spoken intensely about this trend and next to him was a woman who had left her family in far-off Mangalore to play an indirect part in missionary work. However, the bigger tension for everyone was the ILP, and thankfully, there were no moments of discomfort over religion there.
As everyone chatted, they also kept a close look at the cars that would come down towards the office. This wait was at least enjoyable and when the officer did come at around 6:30, there was a sense of satisfaction. We got the permits in a jiffy, two each for us, and we bidding farewell to all the others hoping to find a bus to Dibrugarh, the port city of Assam. If we’d thought the drama had ended for the day, there was this young lisping man who wouldn’t let us off so cheaply.
Among the people waiting for the ILP was a young man in his twenties who spoke to nobody but had been listening to our conversation. Since we had enquired about buses to Dibrugarh, he had taken special interest. He was working for a travel office and had been sent by his boss to get a permit for one of the customers. While we were leaving, he offered to get tickets for Dibrugarh in one of his buses, only because he wanted to escape the ire of his boss for taking so long to get the permit. There seemed no reason for us to be tentative and we went with him.
He took us by a mini-bus towards Paltan Bazaar, but not exactly to Paltan Bazaar, and this was the problem. With our luggage hanging around our shoulders, we followed him through narrow lanes and shady characters. Naga spooked. He thought we were going to be mugged. Even though I wasn’t nervous, I was beginning to get tired of walking with the luggage. Sensing our worries, the fellow would occasionally stop and say, “Darna mat! Main aapko bus ke paas leke jaaonga, tab aap bologe kaisa seat diya hai,” or “aapka dost dar raha hai na, mujhe maalum hai.” The reason why I was confident that his worst crime could only be idiocy was because in the mini-bus, he had cleared his seat for an elderly gentleman; a sign I always felt suggested good upbringing. But the idiot could have taken an auto at some point instead of letting us carry the heavy luggage!
Finally, we were there, at another narrow lane crowded with private buses. The boss predictably lambasted his employee for being late, but mellowed when he saw the two of us. We got a decent bus and at around 9 in the evening, we left for Dibrugarh.
Dibrugarh-Oiramghat-PasighatDibrugarh is a port city, towards the far-east of Assam. The problems that the people here (and in Tinsukia) have with the ULFA are understandable. This is a Hindi dominant belt and resembles any small town in north India. In fact, almost all the businessmen we met were non-Assamese, and like all of the north-east, army presence is large. One such north Indian led us to Hotel Kusum early in the morning as the bus ride had lasted just 8-9 hours over the 477 kms.
The hotel had advertised a package ride which included the ferry ride to Pasighat. This had been the most important reason why we opted for Pasighat as the first place of visit in Arunachal. Sadly, the bookings had finished at the hotel and we had to go about reaching the port and taking a ferry by ourselves.
We checked out in two hours and took a waiting jeep to the river bank. We had been told by Mr. Bora that there was actually just one ferry a day to Pasighat, and all the rest that plied the route ended up at Oiramghat, a place 27 km from Pasighat. As luck would have it, we missed the direct ferry.
As we boarded, paying Rs. 70 per person, someone loaded a car onto the boat. Apparently, crossing the Brahmaputra was a shorter and far cheaper way of traveling from Dibrugarh to Pasighat. Driving the car would require a round-about, rigorous travel ordeal. Here, one could pay Rs. 1200 and finish the journey in 8 hours. Well, you pay only if you do not have connections with the Assam government!
Mr. Gogoi, the man who had boarded with his car was a young man on a business trip. Since it was a relative of his who was handling the Assam government’s ferry business, he was traveling free. An affable fellow, he began rattling on about his many businesses and the opportunities he was trying to create with his marketing company in the north-east. Meanwhile, the ferry was floating blissfully through a narrow stream of the river. A few ducks and migrant birds looked up from near the shores, fishermen boats would occasionally glide past, few hamlets appeared from time to time, one neelgai surprised us with its sudden appearance and quick disappearance and at various points, men, women and children just stared blankly at our ferry, or so we had learnt to think.
I have to say that this ferry ride is one of the highlights of north-east. The calmness of the river is shattered by the reverbs from the boat’s engine, but the sheer experience of traveling with locals in such a vehicle is pleasing. However, it must be said that the return journey (which apparently takes less time since its downstream) could also be a good option.
We had been thinking furiously about the subsequent stretch from Oiramghat to Pasighat. It would be 3 in the evening by the time we reached Oiramghat and how were we to go to Pasighat? Why bother when Mr. Gogoi and his car is around! He offered to take us to Pasighat. From the friendliness he showed towards us, we had seen this offer coming, and admittedly, we had at times worked quietly towards achieving this free lift.
After reaching Oiramghat without any alarms and after watching the locals, through amazing dexterity, transfer the car from the boat to the road, we enjoyed what was to be our only comfortable ride in Arunachal Pradesh.
As if to prove his long reach in bureaucracy, Gogoi was received by an Education Secretary of Arunachal, whose presence meant that nobody would check our permits at the checkpost! The casual and carefree life of the state was visible immediately as Gogoi rode from Oiramghat to Pasighat via a place called Rani which would host Pasighat’s new airport. The humour of the Arunachal bureaucrat was complemented by the unhurried way of life. It was a very enjoyable ride till we reached Pasighat, by which time it was dark; at 4:30! The two bid us farewell at the Hotel Siang (recommended by Mr. Bora and a sister hotel of Kusum). We could only get a single-bed room, and the receptionist looked unnecessarily glum. As the Education Secretary had said, “Welcome to Arunachal”.
PasighatIf the most important tourist spot is a horticultural college, the town mustn’t be too much fun. That was precisely how Pasighat was; a town with absolutely no desire to attract tourists (even offbeat ones), with a small market and a decent bakery to show for near the empty bus-stand, I won’t recommend this for anyone who is looking for a rocking night out. At seven in the evening, the market and the bakery were shut, and I wonder if the already empty bus-stand had been infested with ghosts.
Our hotel receptionist, a young man in his late 20s, had been quite cold thus far and looked utterly officious. We had asked him to book our tickets with a Tata Sumo operator for the following day, for Along, a town in the West Siang district (Pasighat is in the East Siang region). “Don’t worry, we can do it tomorrow,” he said, in a rare moment of professional sloth. In the night, at around 8:30, I was walking down the most brightly-lit part of the town, the hotel corridor. Trying to strike a conversation with the only guy in sight - the receptionist - was proving a hopeless affair, even though he never looked irritated at my questions. Just then, we were joined by a local Arunachal resident, who had booked a room for his friends. Kaling Panyang, was his name. This was my first meeting with someone ethnically from Arunachal (the receptionist didn’t look a local), and it was to prove fruitful, for it gave an opportunity to understand the people of this state.
Panyang was running a computer training center. After the receptionist had introduced us to each other, he began rattling off advice after advice. I thought it must have been the drink, but from what I was to see during the next week, he had been absolutely right in what he said. The gist of it was something to this effect, “If you are here to just tour the state, everybody will help you. But if you are dishonest, people here will not tolerate it.” And then he gave me his address and phone number, asking me to call if and when I was in trouble, “I am not a don, but if you get into some trouble, not of your making, give me a call. People would at least know that you have someone here in Arunachal and might let you go.”
Out of PasighatPasighat’s mention in the internet was more or less thanks to various tribal tour website. The Pasighat-Along-Ziro-Daporijo-Itanagar route is a relatively popular stretch for foreign tourists keen on learning about the many diverse tribes of Arunachal. The other reason why Pasighat was on the net was because of the annual Siang River Festival. This was a government initiative which too hoped to draw in tourists.
The receptionist, after the previous night’s conversation, had become friendlier. So much so that he woke us up in the morning to give this amazing news that there were no Tata Sumos for Along that day. In fact, there were no Tata Sumos for anywhere that day; all because there was some sort of a meeting of its drivers that fateful Sunday morning. Since the Siang River Festival was still a couple of days away, the thought of spending another day at Pasighat was crushing. It is perhaps like any small town in India and is home to the Adi tribe. A new airport is coming up 10km away at Rani, and of course, there is that horticulture college, which everyone recommended us, (albeit reluctantly) to visit. The thought of staying in Pasighat was simply not appealing. The lazy previous evening at the market where everything moved in slow motion, if at all it moved, and the dull lights and the meat bazaar had left us with just one thing on our minds – when is the next Tata Sumo out of here?
The receptionist sensing our hurry, ran out to the bus-stand and returned with the bad news that there was no bus, either, to Along. However, there was one to Itanagar, which was about to leave soon. We saw this as a lifeline and ran, with bag and baggage, to the bus-stand. The receptionist too ran with us volunteering to hold a bag and brought us to the state bus-stand where the Arunachal Pradesh State Transport (APST) bus to Itanagar was about to take-off. He got into trouble with the helper of the bus as that guy wouldn’t put our heavier luggage on the roof of the bus. The conductor though seemed a reasonable man and he asked the helper to help us. The only reason why he wouldn’t put our luggage on top was because he had already tied the rest of the stuff and didn’t want to re-tie them. With no option left, he chose the middle path, he just place our two bags somewhere without tying them.
Our seats were right at the back and as a parting shot, the receptionist apologized to us for the problem with the luggage and added, “Uska complain karoonga.”
The bus trip to Itanagar at Rs. 170 per person was anything but comfortable. A journey of over 8 hours, like much of the public transport in Arunachal, this bus too had a dicey rear suspension. To add to it, the driver was game for a bit of good old highway racing. The only problem was, given the inconsistent smoothness of the roads, the bus jumped regularly and us, at the rear, had the same feeling people have when they are on a rollercoaster, except, we hadn’t asked for it. Every time the bus went up in air and landed safely, we looked back, to see if any of our two bags had fallen down. This happened for a significant distance. Later, convinced that the bags had seen the worst and they were safe enough, we looked at taking care of ourselves.
The conductor of the bus somehow resembled a schoolmaster. I was curious as his Hindi was far different from the locally spoken one and he looked like a north Indian. I was right and wrong. He wasn’t from Arunachal, but he wasn’t from the north either. He was a Malayali, from Trivandrum. For 36 years, he had been working in this far-off state and I was reminded of this quite complimentary joke.
A sea-diver is gobbled up by a whale. When he enters the beast’s belly, he finds that a Nair has already opened a tea-stall there.
The bus somehow went from Arunachal to Assam and back to Arunachal, via North Lakhimpur. At the border, we were asked to show our Inner Line Permits and soon we entered Naharlagun, Itanagar’s twin-town.
Itanagar
Itanagar is one of the most picturesque capital cities in India. This was a jack-in-the-box as like any other capital city we expected it to be bustling with commercial activity. Luckily, we got a hotel right next to the bus-stop. The Blue Pine is one of the best here along with the Arun Subansiri. Blue Pine, also, is inexpensive. At Rs. 340 a day, we got a very decent room.
The most famous landmark in this town, at least for outsiders, is the Ita Fort; a brick-layered structure which gave the city its name. There was also a government museum which was supposedly very good. However, with sunset following our arrival, there was not much scope for visiting such places.
After more than a week in travel, we needed to recharge our wallets and in the evening we headed up the main road and found this Sunday to be very quiet. Shopkeepers had taken the day off and there wasn’t a lot of traffic on the roads as well. We found almost all the major ATMs here and retired for the night. And of course, we booked our tickets at a Tata Sumo booking counter for the following morning, for Ziro, a town 130km east of Itanagar.
Itanagar-ZiroThe journey started at 6 in the morning. There are apparently two routes to Ziro – a long one and a short one. The long one is what buses take, whenever they decide to take, that is. The shorter road is not exactly a road, as we were to find out. It was built by the BRO long time back to facilitate their other operations in the region. Now, it had become a haven for these Tata Sumo drivers. In fact, to correct a more basic flaw it isn’t Tata Sumo that is popular here, but a closer cousin called the Tata Spacio. After this trip, I began to grow a pet hate for either of them.
Itanagar comes under Papum Pare district – a rare occurrence where a capital city itself is not a district. Ziro comes under the Lower Subansiri district. Like it is in other places of Arunachal, districts are generally named after rivers. Tribes here are basically of the Abu Tani descent. Nyishi or Nishi and Apathani are more prevalent here. Nyishi are predominant in Itanagar, while Ziro has a significant population of Apathanis. The most interesting aspect of Arunachal is that these different tribes have languages far dissimilar to each other’s and hence have to converse amongst themselves in Hindi.
We were joined in the car by a couple of Nyishis. One of them became friendly and began to talk about his tribe. Apparently, Nyishis either work as cheap labour or, as our co-passenger, harbour hopes of entering politics. Their level of education is not as high as that of the Apathanis or the Monpas of Kameng. Even though we were told that Nyishis were less friendly than others, we found them affable enough.
Most tribes in these areas carry a sword around their hips. They don’t use it for any martial art purposes but apart from serving tradition, it helps in cutting bamboo. Older Apathani women have a distinct appearance. They wear circular nose plugs and tattoo their faces. Tagins and Hill Miris are the other tribes in the Subasiri area.
I had just begun to enjoy this ride when after about an hour of mountain driving, I felt dizzy. After years of travel on plains (even long distances in Tata Sumos), this was the first time I felt sick. Gradually, the nausea built up. My head was spinning, resultantly, the gut wrenched and I began to cramp. This was the first real attack of dizziness I had had on a tour and Ziro couldn’t come quick enough. For the last hour of the trip, my condition worsened, but keen not to look haggard, I took a requested for a window seat gasped for breath. That didn’t help as I felt dehydrated. My stomach constricted, my fingers involuntarily moved, cramped, eyes appeared to retract into a shell as I feared a black out. The milestones on the side of the road became my best friend as I counted down the distance. Every reduction made me feel better, but in the time between two milestones, my guts seemed to push upward until my throat grew congested. When it read “Ziro, 10”, I threw up, and luckily, on the side of the road. Pride had taken a royal beating, but I thought 10 km was a lot of time to hold on.
If only I had known that it was 10 km to the old Ziro. I realized a minute later that had I kept the nausea at bay for another 200 metres, I’d have been home and dry.
Beginning at ZiroIt was to be a trend that continued throughout the rest of the tour. Whenever travel was hard, it was worth the troubles. At Ziro, we lodged at the Blue Pine, again. And like at Itanagar, it was a terrific place. Costlier, at Rs.470 a day, this was the best hotel in Ziro. It was important to narrow down the cause of the sickness, and I felt it was a combination of a lot of issues. I realized that not having traveled on such terrain before – in a Tata Spacio-like vehicle – I should have had something at the odd looking eatery on the roadside where the driver had stopped.
I slept the rest of the afternoon and Naga, meanwhile, went on a walk. He didn’t return for quite some time. Just as I was beginning to think of ways to report missing persons, he came jumping, pleased as punch.
He had been to a tribal village some 7 km from the town market. It was called the Hong village. He had met a young man there whose etiquettes particularly impressed him. Apparently, that fellow had been trained in eco-tourism and he showed Naga the way his mates were preparing for a festival. So stunned was he by this civilized tribe that Naga bought a muffler for Rs.300. He had also tasted the local drink, Apang.
What interested me was that the Hong village had been mentioned in the brochure of our hotel, which also had mentioned a tribal tour website. I soon realized that that village must have been one of those which come under package tours. Visitors are brought to Ziro, lodged at Blue Pine and are showed the Hong village where the tribes display their traditional routines. This eased my envy a bit. I’d have been devastated had Naga met tribes who didn’t expect tourists!
Ziro - the jewel of ArunachalWe had hoped to stay in Ziro for a day, and return to Itanagar. We ended up staying for three days, and they weren’t enough. I tried to recall if I had ever seen a picture-postcard-like scene before. I presume the road to Tsoro was the first.
Naga had been told that the Tsoro Lake was a beautiful place to visit. But this isn’t a tourist-infested place and we would have to find it by enquiring at every corner of a street – a good omen that this would be a terrific experience. As we walked away from the market and towards the Tsoro, we found a grave, right in the middle of shops! It would have been surprising even if it was just an ordinary grave, placed as it was in the middle of a fairly busy market. But it had more – an epitaph worth preserving. It declared that that man had been killed for no fault of his and he was waiting up there for his killer to join him. The language was very filmy and it had an air of innocence around it which told us that this was a place quite different from the rest of India. We weren’t wrong.
We walked past the taxi-stand, a government school, a private school and a few houses to exit the daily hustle and bustle. Ahead of us, a boy and a girl, in their school uniforms walked hand-in-hand. They pulled out their umbrella as it began to drizzle. We, for our part had to take care of our cameras.
Polite enquiries got us very helpful replies. The locals as well as people from the CRPF were forthright in giving directions. Somehow, we reached a vast expanse of land, uninhabited, but easily the home of gods. The view that day, under the grey clouds, was supernatural. On either side of a narrow path, there was a flowing spread of grass, of varied, vibrant colours. On one side were mountains covered by lush green forests, and on the other, a small stream passed through. Further left of the stream, in the grasslands, two cows grazed quietly. Picture postcard!
Our cameras wouldn’t agree that this was a perfect scene. They wished there was more light. It didn’t matter to us as we walked on past one hillock onto a residential area. The closer we got to Tsoro, we realised there might not really be a lake there. However, we did come to a point where some construction was going on, on the side of a stream. A Mithun looked clueless at us and didn’t move an inch to either side, with fear in its eyes. No wonder it was scared to bits, as it normally ends up on dining tables here.
On our way back to the hotel, two school-going kids came up to us. They were curious to know if we were doing a survey there. One of them was well-off and went to the private school, while the other had to make do with the government one. They told us about the natural Shivalinga, some three kilometers from our hotel and also the local museum, which was just few minutes from where we were.
One of the kids promised to meet us at our hotel and take us around the town. We, meanwhile, found the museum on our way back. This was one of the most comprehensive collections of items related to the various tribes of Arunachal: their dress, ornaments, hats, utensils, etc. Maintained very well, this is a must-see. Before leaving, we met Victor, an expert on his state who worked at the museum. He had written books on certain tribes and had studied in Mysore for a significant amount of time. He spoke convincingly about the political and cultural situation in Arunachal Pradesh.
As it was raining, he also dropped us to our hotel in his car. In his one year of working in the museum (he had earlier been in Tezu), we were only the second tourists he had met in Ziro.
In the evening, we set out to see the Shivalinga, a natural rock formation that supposedly appeared all of a sudden during an excavation. We were told that it was some 3 km away from the hotel, but after a while of walking, walk became a trek. A narrow path cut through the forest as we enquired and enquired. One old man said, “It is too far for you. It will take three hours. But we Nyishis reach there very quickly,” and went away. Now it was a matter of pride, so we walked on even as the sun began to close shutters. By 4:30 in the evening, after a few pep talks by some firewood gatherers who promised us that it the Shivalinga was very near, we reached it.
The rock formation can be construed as anything. Some thought it was a Shivalinga and brought in a sizable interest. However, it isn’t quite the 24ft structure it is supposed to be. We wondered if it was just a coincidence that went conversion to Christianity in these regions were rampant, a Shivalinga appeared out of nowhere in 2003.
Conversion in these parts has taken an alarming proportion. Even the educated class is getting converted and the phrase “missionary zeal cannot be more apt. The tribes here worship Donyi-Polo – or the Sun and Moon gods. In Ziro, the first temple for Donyi-Polo is being built, while there are already plenty of churches. The Ramakrishna Mission, across Arunachal, is one organization which is resisting this maniacal evangelism. The nun we met in Assam also confirmed this. Her biggest obstacle, she said, in Arunachal was the Ramakrishna Mission, whose workers wouldn’t allow missionary activity.
Ziro-ItanagarOur next stop was to be Tawang. After going to the Pine Grove near old Ziro, we decided to take a Tata Sumo to North Lakhimpur – from where we could reach Tezpur, which in turn ran daily Sumo services to Tawang. Surprisingly, there were direct Sumos from Tezpur to Tawang, but not from Itanagar. As luck would have it, we missed the last Sumo to Lakhimpur and had to do with one to Itanagar.
This was a memorable journey. We had two seats at the back and were joined by two more – one of whom gave his middle-row seat to a woman. The middle-row had a few ladies – one of whom had come with a grown-up brother who was without a ticket. After much meandering around the Sumo driver, the brother convinced everyone that he had to go to Itanagar with his sister, in that middle-row, even if it meant that five would have to squeeze into that space between two doors.
The front row was the killer – well, it could have been! A couple was to the left and another guy had seeped somehow between them and the driver. He occupied half the driver’s seat. The driver, the man from heaven, sat in the other half of his seat, smoked an occasional cigarette out of the window, handled the steering with his right hand and worked the gears which were now around the pelvis of the guy between him and the couple.
Two minutes into the drive, I had the same symptoms of sickness. This time though I had had enough and forced myself to sleep. It worked wonders as when I woke up, we were in a roadside eatery and chatting with a Malayali family who worked in a school in Ziro. The rest of the drive wasn’t too bad as we landed safely despite the predicaments of the driver and lodged at the Blue Pine.
To Bomdila and then to Tawang
After booking a ticket for Bomdila from Itanagar (this time thankfully in a bus for Rs. 250 each), we had to while away the entire morning in the capital city. We decided to go to the government museum and soon found out that there was a strike by government workers that day. We tried the Ita Fort, and to underline our bad luck, it was closed at the western gate. At no time did anyone tell us where the other gates were – nobody knew it. The western gate had a small area of land with enough bricks to make two walls of a poor man’s cottage. Someone at the hotel had in fact vociferously discouraged us from going to the Fort. “Usse zyada eenth toh bahar mil jayega. Ab kuch nahi hai wahan,” he had said.
The only option left was to watch a local cricket match at the Indira Gandhi Park. It was a rubber-ball match between two clubs and there was enough passion to prove the success of the sport in these areas. We had seen cricket being played all over Arunachal and Assam, and the game was to follow us during the rest of the trip as well.
The bus to Bomdila was uneventful barring an irritant at the seat behind me who wouldn’t let me push my seat back. A poor young maid who was accompanying a young family was sick as hell and vomited all through the night. And at Bhalukpong in the middle of the night, we were asked for our other Inner Line Permit (for the Tawang sector).
We reached Bomdila just before dawn and almost everyone went straight to the bonfire lit by the guys at the transport company. This was the coldest we had felt in all these days. Looking for a hotel was a difficult proposition as nobody had opened shutters yet. A state website had mentioned a hotel called Shipyang Pong as one of the best there. We couldn’t find it and settled for Hotel Passang, which too found a mentioned in the website. The room was clean, but without anything other than a couple of beds and an attached bath. It looked more like a mini-hostel than a hotel, but it would do, for the manager promised he would charge Rs.350 for 24 hours regardless of check-out times. However, there was no food at the lodge.
We were told that there was nothing exceptional to see in Bomdila. “You could have left for Tawang in the morning itself,” the travel agent said. Disappointed, we slept all day long after booking a Tata Sumo to Tawang for the next morning. At around 6:30 in the evening, we got dressed up to the hilt – I had about four layers of clothing on – and went out to have dinner. I’ll never forget what I saw. The once busy street looked haunted. There was not a living being in sight. Everyone had closed down. The street lights were eerie and for a moment we were overcome by bemusement and fear. What on earth is this place? And, do we have to sleep hungry tonight?
The one reason why hotels with “fooding” are an advantage is you’ll find food at least till nine. Ours was a rudimentary lodge. As we turned back in shock, the manager was standing, looking at us. He had been watching us for a long time and noticing our predicament he offered to bring food from his home. We were vegetarians. No problem, he’d get it. We have a couple of ready-to-eat packs. He’ll cook them for us. Can he make chappatis? Hmmm… sure, he’ll make them.
The food was very nice. Thanks, I’ll get you tea in the morning before you leave.
Amazing!
In the morning, we left for Tawang, a distance of 181km from Bomdila. After about 20 km, the driver stopped at a roadside eatery. He bought fuel there and filled the tank. A convoy of army vehicles followed; the last of the vehicle in the pack stopped at the eatery and the jawan sold a can of fuel after much bargaining.
At Dirang, 20km further down, a young lady got into the Tata Spacio. She kept staring at us and must say it was strange. After a long while, she asked Naga, “Are you from Karnataka?” She, like many people from this part of India, had studied in Bangalore or Mysore. She had heard us speak in Kannada and had become curious. In fact, there was another guy in the Spacio who had studied in Mysore.
The Sela Pass is among the most critical phases of this journey. Sometimes, because of the snowfall, it is blocked for hours; sometimes days. My first look at a snow-capped mountain was just outside Bomdila when a mountain range, visibly far-off came into sight. But the Sela was the first close experience. The road is treacherous because of the slippery ice, which made our already slow driver go slower. After Sela and Jaswant Garh, the driver stopped at some place close to Jung.
This place had lot many Tzos – animals cross between cows and yaks. I tried Tzo-milk tea. I’ll never forget that taste, even though I want to. I do not have the diction to explain in words the awful feeling I had. There was something so neutral about that drink that it left me not with a bad taste, but with a really bad memory.
I had meanwhile hit upon this nice little idea of carrying a piece of lemon with me to help with the Tata Sumo sickness. As it turned out, my co-passengers needed it more than me and I was to get better at traveling in these vehicles, but only just.
At Tawang, we enquired for Hotel Shangrila, again, recommended by a website. It had closed. We chose Hotel Buddha, the only hotel in Tawang which was purely vegetarian. It cost us Rs.700 a day, but it was tastefully furnished, had a heater, a geyser and given that the first Test between India and South Africa was being played in Johannesburg, a TV with ESPN and Star.
Tawang Monastery
If the Tawang Monastery is magnificent, the story of its origin is fascinating. If the monastery seems like a fortress looking over this beautiful town, it is chiefly because of the defiance associated with its origin. There are two ways to absorb the majesty of this place, and both are important. One is to visit it, experience it. The other is to read about it, acknowledge its history.
To trace its roots, one has to go back to the 17th century or, for practical purposes, refer to Niranjan Sarkar’s definitive book from 1981 – the Tawang Monastery. The 17th century was a time when various Buddhist sects fought amongst themselves. The Gelugpas – one such sect – had begun growing amongst the Monpas in present-day Arunachal Pradesh and one of them, Mera Lama, faced a lot of hostility from the Dukpas of Bhutan. In order to safeguard his and his sect’s interests, he sought advice from the fifth Dalai Lama and decided to build a monastery. He moved to Tawang (it was called Tsosum then), and prepared for the construction. It helped his cause that the Dalai Lama had ordered villages in that area to help in the construction. Mera Lama was given a ball of yarn – the length of which would be the boundary of the monastery. The site of the monastery though, was left for Mera Lama to decide on.
One day Mera Lama went to a mountain, three miles from Tawang and prayed for help in choosing the perfect site. When he began to leave, he found that his horse was not to be found. He followed its trail and came to a spot where a former Tawang king’s palace once stood. His horse was there. This, he thought was divine intervention, and built the monastery at that very place. The name Tawang, in fact, means “place chosen by a horse” – Ta (horse); wang (chosen). It is said that villages that came forward to help build the monastery, took responsibility for some part of it. Whenever “their” part had to undergo renovation, they would do it themselves. However, people from the Lebuchosie area could not come for the maintenance as that place went into Tibet.
The complete name of the monastery is Tawang Galdan Namgye Lhatse or the celestial paradise of the divine site chosen by a horse!
The journey to Tawang, like to anywhere in Arunachal, can be excruciating. But it’s worth it, like it always is, in Arunachal. Even though roads are as well-maintained as they can be by the Border Roads Organisation (BRO), somehow, the weather or the taxi driver contrives to make it an ordeal. After an eight-hour grind from Bomdila (a distance of 181 km), you start a slow climb up the smooth stairway to this heaven on earth. The roads might be narrow, the journey tiresome, but the sight of the monastery towering regally over the town soothes you, as a temperamental sun bathes it in myriad shades of yellow.
One can opt to drive to the monastery, but a hike – over hills and among quiet housing localities – is much better. After much enquiry, we land at the outer gates of this monument. Kids are playing cricket here, within the monastery compound, and everything else is quiet. The sunny day only adds to the atmosphere – it isn’t always bright here. At about 10,000 feet above sea level, the monastery is as a triumph of strategy. Prayer-wheels are placed neatly along the outer walls that lead up to the main entrance. Resident lamas can be seen doing their daily routine diligently while a few devotees can be seen turning the prayer wheels.
The main temple has the Wheel of Life painted on it. This depicts the perceived six realms in which a man can be reborn. At the altar, with a number of divinities, stands a huge figure of the Buddha. Close to it is a photograph of the Dalai Lama. Few rows of seats are placed methodically and during temple service, lamas take their position here.
Next to the temple is the library, and right opposite the temple is the museum. One of the lamas sits at the gate and ushers tourists into the museum. Again, it is well-maintained. Belongings of Mera Lama, artifacts related to Dalai Lamas, Padma Sambhava (an Indian monk from the monastic university of Nalanda) and various deities are kept here. The silence is broken only by a few visitors from the other AP who take every opportunity to take photographs with their mobiles. A smaller room, next to the main temple, has huge prayer-wheels one of which was being spun continuously by an old man.
Mera Lama had a sister who was a nun and since women weren’t allowed into monasteries, a nunnery was built 5-6 km from the Tawang Monastery. It is known as the Ani Gonpa and is situated on another hill. A foundation stone outside the monastery, from where the Ani Gonpa is visible, suggests a plan for building a passenger-ropeway between the two institutions, from one hill to another. There is no other sign of it though.
It was a day of great fortune that the sun was out and the monastery looked brilliant. The very next day, Tawang was engulfed by a dull combination of drizzle-bearing clouds and mist. However, the vast figure of the magnificent monument was still visible, as our bus to Tezpur left hesitantly.
