14. A Jungle Paradise: the Northeastern States

(Map page has been updated with the places I've traveled)

Darjeeling

After spending a good, long time in Ladakh, then a jaunt along the Ganges, I headed uphill again to Darjeeling. The first evening was lovely, and I really enjoyed walking around the steep hill station. But although I had an umbrella, it rained 3 days straight and was predicted to rain several more. So not keen on the prospect of going to Sikkim and trekking in the rain, I decided not to wait and instead move on to the Eastern States. I'll have to post other photos of Darjeeling, but for now, this was the view out my window:

View out my Darjeeling guest house window towards Kanchenjunga, the 3rd highest mountain in world - on the first evening. It was cloudy and rainy for the next 3 days and I could hardly see a thing, although the liquid movement of the clouds was interesting. I decided to move on.

Guwahati

The gateway to the Northeastern States is Guwahati in Assam. As it turns out, Guwahati was having its own problems with rain and flooding, so it took me a short flight to get there as trains were blocked. When I arrived, the city was floating. Guwahati looked like this, and I had to take a (bicycle) rickshaw 30 m over a puddle to get to my guest house front door.Very sadly, up state landslides and flooding eventually killed 40. 

Guwahati flooding when I arrived.

I had planed to head south to Cherrapungee which I'd read had unique living tree root bridges. Because of the rain, however, we heard that the road to Shillong was closed due to landslides. So as usual, I wandered the town. I really enjoyed the planetarium and its short documentary on astronomy and "colliding galaxies" narrated - according to the credits - by Robert Redford, but our version actually overdubbed by an "Inglish" narrator. I also wandered down to the Brahmaputra River, a rare case of an Indian river named after a male god.

Decaying idols on the banks of the Brahmaputra River. This river originates in far western China, flows east, then cuts down and back west in India. It eventually merges with the Ganges and flows into the ocean in the Kolkata / Bangladesh delta.

The following day the road was reopened and I took a shared taxi to Shillong. Along the way we saw dozens of landslides covering sides of the divided highway still being built. Not a big problem for Indians: just cross to the free side for a few kilometers and avoid oncoming traffic. You can see that the soil is very clay-ey here, which does not distribute water well and lends itself to erosion.

Shillong

I really liked Shillong. It's called a hill station, like Darjeeling, because it's at elevation. It's green, relatively quiet, and as I found out, quite pretty.

"Commit No Nuisance Here". That's telling 'em, Shillong!

Pretty Ward's Lake Park. Besides families, this is a hangout for coy young couples who on any weathered day partially hide behind umbrellas to make out.

The best part about Shillong: its clean, Rambla-like, pedestrian-only esplanade off the central Police Bazaar. First of all, the absence of constant honking is undeafening. The street is alive with fresh fruit & vegetable stalls, colorful clothing shops, craft vendors, wonderful start food of course, and lots of happy Meghalayan people!

Another quirky corner of the Shillong esplanade.

Although the Meghalayans are better than most Indians at not littering, this downtown river shows just how pervasive and persistent the trash is (zoom in on the bank at right). All the tourists, including me, get very frustrated with the apparent indifference Indians have to casual littering, from cigarette buts to 2L water bottles to roadside car relics and everything in between. The only way I can rationalize it is that for centuries and centuries, on the street Indians drank out of repurposed clay cups and ate out of bowls made entirely of leaf (these are still in use by street food vendors and really cool and environmentally-friendly). Throwing all this stuff aside was natural and not detrimental in long run.

Plastic changed all that. Plastic's "for ever". You see it accumulate on every road, street corner, park and waterway (see above). But so are customs handed down generation after generation. From what I can tell, most garbage treatment is either dumping in piles on city fringes or directly beside city streets, or burning everything together as walking around most towns at night you smell a mix of paper and plastic toxins released from smouldetring garbage piles.

Modi's new cleanliness campaign sounds great, but without public garbage cans, recycling programs that go beyond paying people in select cities to pick through mixed and disgusting garbage for plastic bottles, and a revolutionary change in public attitude, India will remain mostly filthy and this will continue to contribute to widespread sanitation problems. Sorry to say, that's what I see.

Tree in Shillong Botanical Gardens.

Maghalaya is primarily Christian. Unlike Hindus, they bury their deceased in graves, although the plaques are in the local dialect. This photo was taken on an excursion in the nearby forest.

Cherrapunjee

From Shillong, I headed to Cherrapunjee by shared Sumo, which is basically a rugged, 3 bench SUV. I booked one night at the Cherrapunjee Resort near the living tree root bridges. I booked only one night because the resort cost $42, about 4 times more than what I've usually been paying. This was 2 days hence, but I figured Cherrapunjee would be an interesting enough place, I would find a cheap place in town, 18 km or so from the resort, but close to an "Eco Park" and some caves. I stayed in a simple guest house highly recommended by TripAdvisor and many subsequent travelers I met. But somehow, for the first time in 2 months traveling, I managed to piss off the guy who runs it. He said "I don't like the way you talk". His little Suzuki was tricked up and painted in army camouflage, and his on-the-side repair business was called HARD CORE, so I really regretted this. I kept trying to make it up to him, I even offered to pay a little extra for the room, but he refused saying "money can't buy some things, you know." Anyway, he was helpful, he hands out a photocopy of a good set of hand-drawn, maps and even a one page dictionary the local Khasi language.

"Cherrapungee - the rainiest place on planet earth!" Almost 12 meters (39 feet) per year, 15 times more than Toronto. I had brought an umbrella from Darjeeling plus my raincoat, but as chance would have it, the monsoons having just finished and a bit of luck, it didn't rain on me while I was there.

While visiting the caves in upper Cherrapunjee (the plateau  the jungle and looking down towards Bangladesh) I befriended a bunch of grad students from Guwahati. As I'd walked the road so far, they were kind enough to offer to drive me with them to a couple of other spots like this lookout to the "Seven Sisters Waterfall".

The next day I threw my backpack in a tuk-tuk and headed to the resort. It was nice, bit I'm always a bit uncomfortable being waited on hand and foot - like when servants carry your backpack to your room and dish the food onto your plate. Anyway, since I was only there for a day, I asked about how to reach the tree root bridges right away. Even though it was already 11 AM, the manager showed me a circle route that passed several of the Khasi villages on the way to the two notable bridges. I headed off with my trusty Maps With Me GPS app, although none of this area is mapped in either OSM or Google, so all I could tell exactly was where I was in a big, green blob on the map. Not too useful, but the instructions I got seemed sound.

After walking 5 kilometres to Tyrna, I began descending the 3,500 steps from the plateau into the valley, passing through Myteng, I came upon the jungle village of Nongriat, next to the famous "Double-Decker Bridge".

Nongriat has one "restaurant" where I stopped for a cold drink and a tasty noodle soup. The proprietor was a small, super friendly man named Byron. I later learned his Khasi name was Mahloong, meaning "Little Uncle" which he got by being the most knowledgeable and enterprising of his 10 siblings of which he is the youngest (4 since died, so Byron says "I'm now number 6!"). Byron told me he ran the homestay, and they had rooms at only 200 rupees a night (~$4). Byron gave me more info on the nearby bridges, a better map, and told of guests who stayed were shown where the hidden pools were off the main path.

While having my cold drink and soup, I befriended Byron's oldest son Frankie.

As Byron spoke, I began to get more and more excited. Refreshed, I walked one minute from the homestay and found this:

Me swimming in the pool of the Double-Decker Bridge. You can read more on the living tree root bridges elsewhere, but Byron told me that the people of this village were good farmers who lived on top of the valley. But they lost a war with another village and were relegated to the bottom of the valley among the rocks and where crop growing isn't possible (don't feel bad - Byron began listing the dozens of wild fruits and vegetables that grow in the forest, so many he didn't know the English word for half of them).

These people were good with plants and learned to plant a particular type of rubber tree next to spots on the mountain streams where the banks were close together. Then, they would wait 30 to 40 years and begin laying the long roots on top of hollow tree trunks lain across the river. The living roots grow and grow until they reach the other side and begin 'tying' themselves to the opposite tree roots. The lain trunk guides are then removed and the roots get thicker and thicker, growing stronger with age.

Why two bridges here? Because the lower one gets soaked with spray during the monsoon season, so they built a higher one.

By this point, especially given the number of excursions I'd been told were available down in the valley, I was falling in love with this place. I decided I would return after my night at the resort up on the plateau and stay at the homestay for a night or two extra (this is why I don't like having train booked well in advance!). Oh, I just had to climb back up the 3,500 steps, walk back 5 kilometres, and repeat tomorrow. Because I'd started late in the day, my extended chat with Byron, and get mixed up looking for the path to two pools on the map, and because the India has only one time zone so in the northeastern states the sun goes down by 5:30, I was heading back up the stairs in the dark. Luckily I had my headlamp!

The day after returning to Nongriat, I hiked up the step path opposite from Tyrna (it would be sorta in the upper middle of this panorama) towards Mawlinkhat and got this mesmerizing view of the valley. Visible through the humidity to the far left are Nohkalikai Falls, over 1,000 feet high. In the dip near the right tree, the plain of Bangladesh is not really visible through the haze. We could see it on other days though. Even with the panorama, none of my photos capture the steepness of the first. Over the railing here, it drops vertical about 300 metres.

At the top of this hike, I reached the village of Mawkawir. I found the only tea stall and had a bowl of rich and chicken (in the valley was one of the few times I had meat on my trip, as a few pieces of meat were a staple for the Khasi people) and a chai. Within minutes I was surrounded by about 20 elders and kids, most of whom didn't fit in the frame of this photo. We had fun exchanging the few words in my Khasi dictionary.  I had words to say "Gud. Fuwd." which everyone laughed at once they understood me.

Hidden pool no.2.
I was the only tourist staying at the homestay then, so I gently began to learn more about the family. I made friends with Jery, Violet's (Byron's wife) brother. Also living with them was her 77-year old father, who, besides carrying around baby Jesephie on his back while Byron and Violet cooked dinner, still regularly carried on his head a huge bin of palm leaves up to sell at the 8th day market. Apparently a couple of years ago he had singlehandedly carried a refrigerator down the 3,000 steps to the homestay (for guests' cold drinks - ouch). Keep in mind all these people are barely 5 feet tall and thin as rakes, but clearly super fit. The father was gentle and always smiling. Although he spoke no English, he always greeted me warmly and wished me well on day excursions.

Anyway, I digress. Jery was kind enough to bring me to his land one day and showed me these hidden pools (that's Jery on the rock to the right). I was absolutely mesmerized. Also, all ambitions to hike all through the hills began to evaporate. Jery and his friends were avid soccer players, and when I told him I had coached my boys, he pleaded with me to stay 5 more days to play with them on Sunday.

Me swimming in hidden pool no. 1. Jery took this picture. We had many personal talks while spending the day at the pools. The pools are very deep in spots. I was able to dive off that big round rock in the middle one time, about half the height of the diving rock we jump off of at Gull Lake.

Me swimming in hidden pool no. 2. I took this picture a day I was there alone. I tried positioning the tablet on a high rock and setting the 10 second timer, but I gave up on that approach when I rushed down from the perch, slipped on the muddy rocks and almost crashed badly. So this is a still from a short video I shot instead. Safely.

The next day, I accompanied Byron into town for market day. He told me it is a big deal for the people from all the nearby villages, and it sure was. The market area covers a huge area in Cherrapunjee, with vendors grouped by type - vegetable sellers here, fruit sellers there, meat & fish sellers here, spice & grain sellers over there, goods like sandals in this nook, etc. While there, I heard a shout of "John!" It was Erez, an Israeli I'd met in Darjeeling who was interested in also visiting the NE and had followed up on an update email I'd sent him from Shillong. He said he was here for a night. I said "you may want to stay longer - it's incredible!" He stayed 4 days.

The day we went to market, it was hot and Byron (in the black shirt) preferred to sit on the roof than stuffed inside with up to 13 others in the Sumo. I was in the middle of the roof (the technique is to put one of your sandals between you and the metal roof rack) so I took this short video which gives a better view than a photo of traveling twisty mountain roads ON an SUV.

Pig's head soup - a meat vendor on market day.

On the return journey, me and Erez stuffed into the front seat of the Sumo, my right leg on the driver's side of the gearshift. Erez is about 6'2" otherwise there would be four in the front.

I eventually stayed 8 blissful days with Byron and family in the homestay. My biggest daily decision became "do I hike or lounge?" duh - NO! and then "how long do I swim before drying in the sun? how long do I dry in the sun before moving to the shade to read my book?" then "how long do I read my book before going swimming again?"

I thought, like a couple of others Byron told me about, I might just stay a month and forego a lot of traveling to come in the south of India. Or I need to move on. All the villages have electricity amazingly (and apparently more reliable than Leh and even Delhi) and so I sent an email from Byron's phone to tell my loved ones everything was more than OK but I'd be out of touch a bit longer. If I had been volunteering and felt more useful I might have stayed longer. But my trip was not about idleness. It was about exploring and discovering.

Byron would often repeat "we have everything we need here! I have the forest, I have my family, I am kept busy with the homestay, I love my wife so much, why should I want to live in the city?!" Byron had grown up in Shillong, and after meeting Violet and being introduced to her family and Nongriat ("the first time they offered me cooked frog, I lied and said I wasn't hungry. But now I like frog! [smile]), he spent several years in mini-careers at a restaurant, as a nature guide, and a teacher of languages, all to prepare to opening the homestay. He had now lived in the village 8 years and was slowly being accepted although, even though I think he is the village's most successful entrepreneur, as an outsider he had still not been invited on the village council yet. "Maybe in 2 more years" he said.

Freddie (~4 years old, and hasn't been to school yet so didn't speak English), me and Frankie (8 years old and super helpful for the homestay. His ambition, according to Byron, is to "take care of the tourists, like you Papa".)

Rocks and water study, at one of the pools.

Another living tree root bridge. Note how even the special tree's branches from above are strung down to support the bridge.

Rainbow Falls. Of the 9 tourists who stayed at the homestay (7 more came within a day after Erez arrived - including a very intelligent Indian filmmaker married to an Italian ex-pat importer, two Swiss, and two Kiwis, all less frenetic and hip than the backpack bunch I knew from Delhi, plus a sold-everything-and-came-to-India,-man! NYC dude - we had interesting global dinners together), I was the only one fortunate enough both to find the falls and get there at the right time to see the rainbow (see photo). Many other daytrippers would stop by the homestay for a drink or a meal. The homestay is very popular, despite the dearth of info on TripAdvisor and Lonely Planet.

Byron playing one night on the veranda - is there anything he can't do?!? He and his friends grew up on CCR if you can believe it, but his staples now were Bob Dylan, Bob Marley (Redemption Song), Beatles (Let It Be), and some Khasi folk standards. I have audio if anyone wants to hear.

Huge butterfly that stayed on the veranda the whole day. I have many other wildlife photos from my trip, too many for this entry. Maybe I'll make a 'page' with them from all places.

I don't know where else to put this: After the first night, we found a dead rat the cat had killed and left on the doorstep. Byron said "it's good she kills rats. If she starts to kill chickens, we will kill her and eat her. Khasi are practical people."

The next night, I heard a rat where Jery and I were sleeping. We brought in the cat but she didn't like the open hunt and ran away. We shouted for Byron, who came in with his mini-machete. In one shot, he decapitated the rat. "I should have been a cat!" he exclaimed as he carried off the carcass.

Jery eventually convinced me to help the older players learn some drills. Based on what I'd seen, and the rough state of the pitch, we go through 3 or 4 drills on ball control and passing technique vs. shooting technique. We also learn warm up exercises.

I do stay to Sunday, so I can join in on the weekly game along with one other tourist. It's such fun. Some of the older players clearly have speed and raw talent. Half the players have cleats, the rest play in bare feet on the sometimes gravely soil. I beg to play a position on the grassy side, which feels good on my feet, but I slip, fall and get deeked by many times!

After the game, the quiet Khasi are surprised when I walk around and high five everyone and repeat "good game. good game."

They had semi-wild chickens. They would wander around feeding during the day, then climb up this ramp to sleep in the tree at night to avoid prowling mangoose.  Byron said even if they don't sleep at home, their chickens always laid eggs in their basement.

A lovely time every evening, especially when I was alone with the family. Here the grandfather and Byron are cooking while Violet helps the kids with their homework. Violet is also a teacher in the next village of Mynteng. Violet was very shy at first, and I wondered if she actually understood English. But after a few days, and seeing how safe and happy her kids were playing with me, she eventually opened up. By the end, when I would bring dirty dishes or when I gifted them some heavy fruit from the market, I was touched she would say "oh, thank you uncle" with a gentle smile.

The Khasi are matrilineal. The youngest daughter inherits the family property. Only love marriages, no arranged marriages. Children take on her family name. And there is no caste system.

This is from the roof of the sleeping building, which Byron was in the midst of expanding, workers hauling sand and gravel up the steep steps from the river beds at the Double-Decker Bridge. When all the other tourists arrived on day 5, I volunteered to give up my room and sleep on the roof with Jery. I woke up in the middle of the night after the moon had gone down and saw the most beautiful stars. Staying 8 nights and having all home-cooked meals, I spent a total of about $60.

Serenity (6, and after whom the Serene Homestay was named), Freddie, me.

Me and my surrogate family: Jesephie, Violet, me, Serenity, Frankie, Freddie and Byron. Yes, I am gigantic. Byron was very talkative and normally smiled a lot. Here maybe not because the paan he regularly consumed (a mix of palm leaves, lime paste and beetlenut - the tall trees in the background - have done a number on his teeth. He used to drink too much when he lived in Shillong and Cherrapunjee, this was better he thought).

  Thank you so much!!

13. The Sacred & Profane: Ganges Holy Cities

More pictures this time! 

Funny prelude: while passing through Delhi, I had lunch with a man I'd met at Moustache before traveling to Leh. He was back where he'd grown up to dispute an inheritance land settlement with in-laws. He told us he'd been waiting 6 weeks for a court process to complete. It turns out they simply needed a copy of a document made, but the court photocopier had broken. Since documents can't leave the courthouse once a trial has begun, they had to wait 6 weeks for a repairman to fix the photocopier before they could proceed with the case. So India! This is a great example of the type of situation I run into almost every day.

On my way between the northwest of Ladakh and India's Northeastern States past Bhutan and Bangladesh, I traveled from Delhi along the Ganges (still avoiding Agra and the Taj Mahal). I visited many of the Hindu holy cities before reaching the hill station of Darjeeling. Each had its own particular character, verdant and hippy Rishikesh charming me with its high walkways suspended over a still small and fast-moving Ganga / Ganges, Hardwar providing a remarkable Ganga Aarti fire ceremony every evening, and the tranquility and history of sitting under the tree in Bodh Gaya where Siddhartha first attained enlightenment. Varanasi provided the most noteworthy experience for me, which follows.

Rishikesh

View from my guest house of Laxman Jhula bridge over the Ganges.

Boy selling flower petals to launch into the Ganges.

Local (sufi?) sharing a morning chai with me at a tea stall.

Typical Rishikesh street, filled with yoga studios, handicraft shops and cafes.

...buuuut, this is India after all.

Me with one of the feared red monkeys. They take a look into their eyes as aggression and will attack, but I fooled him with my front-facing camera!

Hardiwar has a bigger nightly celebration of Ganga Aarti, but the one in Rishikesh was special. I found the chanting more communal and melodic, and something about the enthusiasm of the man in red as he waved his burning thing around was very moving.

Hardiwar

Hardiwar's version of the Ganga Aarti.

We had to move off the bridge, but I was lucky to get right in the middle of the crowd and directly opposite as the ceremony took place.  While this went on, people continued to bathe in the Ganges and float the little 'boats'  with flowers and a candle down the river.

Bodh Gaya

Monks at the Bodhi Tree. This is an actual descendant of the original tree that Siddhartha (Buddha) sat under some 2,600 years ago.

Procession of junior monks heading God-knows-where. No, wait...

The tired and disabled waiting for the train.

Bus heading to Putna. Free Bollywood movie!!

Varanasi

While sitting in the small nook that is the Blue Lassi, purported to make the best lassies in at least Varanasi, I heard a chanting procession pass by on one of Varanasi's dark, narrow, and dingy streets. I realized immediately this was a funeral in progress heading to one of Varanasi's "burning ghats" (wide sets of steps that descend into the Ganges) where Hindus are cremated to release the soul and enable it to proceed to the next life. This is the most holy act for a Hindu, and Varanasi's Manikarnika Ghat is the most famous and reverted of all the places this is done.

Varanasi street (source: http://static.panoramio.com/photos/medium/96527147.jpg)

Beautiful tree on the campus of Banares Hindu University, a highly-respected university in Varanasi.

So I quickly downed my lassi, tossed the clay cup (the Ganges deposits a LOT of clay silt, and the broken clay is sometimes used to fill potholes, which is better than plastic garbage), and I hurried off in the direction of the procession. As I approached the ghat, several locals shouted warnings to me that only family members could go that way, but I remembered reading that this was a classic tout intended to divert you to a watching spot from which they could charge you a fee. So I continues straight believing that if this was really the case, the family themselves would tell me soon enough. Sure enough, I walked unimpeded past many people and huge piles of special logs (the family is charged according to the type and weight of wood selected, and the science of how much wood is required has been honed over the centuries) right down to where the funeral pyres sit next to the Ganges itself. Here I saw several smoldering pyres with ashes ready to be collected and put into the Ganges, and two more piled high with firewood, awaiting their mortal vessels.

Water buffalo on the Ganges.

I saw a procession bringing a body down to the Ganges on a light, wooden stretcher. The body is totally enveloped in white fabric, and this is covered by many beautiful flowers and shiny gold-colored embroidered cloths. While the chanting continues, the throng dip the body into the Ganges, which, by the time it reaches Varanasi, is pretty filthy I must say (even though many kids are seen playing and swimming in it). Then the bearers remove the decorative cloth and place the body onto the stoked funeral pyre. At once, the stretcher and its mat of sparkling decorations are unceremoniously dumped over into a growing pile of stretchers and decorations in the river, no doubt to eventually be carried away with the current. 

There is some pause before the pyre is lit by one of the attendants, and I had a hard time distinguishing family members from attendants and general onlookers like me. I think there is a family ceremony on top of one of the ghat buildings but I may have missed this between different cremations taking place. Either way, on top of the ghat building where a ceremony was taking place, I could just make out some of the relatives chatting between themselves, and others engaged on ubiquitous cell phones.

Cremation taking place at the Manikarnika Ghat: You're not supposed to photograph the cremations, but I was so overwhelmed I broke the code with a rear-facing selfie.

Eventually the pyre is lit and the wood slowly begins to burn. Based on my culture's practices, I expected some age-old spiritual ritual with all participants standing somberly at attention. Nothing of the sort. Nothing was said, and few people seemed focused on the body slowly being consumed by flames. Even more overwhelming was the fact that a dog happened to be pissing on the pyre while some itinerant water buffalo was chewing on the garlands that had fallen amongst the rubbish littering the site. All this time, I continued to have locals approach me and ask in hushed tones "hashish? you want excellent hashish, Sir?" Even if I replied "no, I'm Buddhist, I don't smoke. Tanya wad [thank you]", they would quickly react with "oh, would you like relaxing meditation, Sir? best price just for you". Through it all, they appear oblivious to the ceremony taking place just a few meters away.

I'm not relaying all of this out of disgust. As different as this ceremony was from something I'd see in North America (remember, I'm traveling to see differences, right??), I was more shocked by the way in which Indians, seemingly without any internal conflict, routinely mix very serious, spiritual matters with totally mundane and crude human activities. This is so Indian. This place is a constant jumble, a kaleidoscope of sights and sounds, of logic and chaos, of tradition and instinct, of the sacred and the profane. You really have to let go, to check your expectations, and to go with the flow.