After 23 hours the train finally pulled up to Kamakhya Station. Chaos ensued. The station was a greater distance from Guwahati than I had expected. My head swam in the heat and clamor while the bugs swam in my intestines. I hefted my bloated self and exited the train. I wavered along with the flow of pedestrians as they filtered through the station. Abhay, the Air Force man from my compartment was walking along with me trying to help. He needed to be somewhere but was concerned about my worn health and my obvious disorientation at Kamakhya station. I tapped on my phone but my plans to utilize Uber were instantly dashed. All the app could do was tell me over and over that, “Oops, something went wrong.” At times like this an automated computer was not going to be able to help. I saw a “tourist information booth” and told Abhay that I would just inquire at the booth. We parted ways to reconnect when I made it to Shillong later on.

Unfortunately the “tourist information office” turned out to be absent any staff whatsoever. I called my airbnb host Hironmoy and at his suggestion I brought up the Ola ride-hailing app. He walked me through booking a cab. Soon a call came from the cab driver and he did not speak English. I called Hironmoy back, he asked me what side of the station I was on. I didn’t know. Apparently the train tracks divided the streets and it was no easy feat to drive across them. I asked for help around me but no one seemed to understand English. Meanwhile the cabbies were hustling something fierce. I managed to sufficiently ignore their incessant hustling. Hironmoy canceled the first Ola car and arranged for another one on “this side of the station.” After 24 hours traveling my journey wasn’t over. I had not had a proper meal to eat in more than a day. I had not slept properly. I had not showered. I was sick with an intestinal infection. I just wanted the journey to be over.

Drained and sweating in the tropical heat, I used what remained of my energy to scan the cab’s numbered placards for the car number Hironmoy had arranged. Finally the cab came and I hustled inside. We soon whisked away from Kamakhya station and down a clay country road. Jungle seemed to be all around. In time it gave way to buildings and eventually a dense urban environment. This was Guwahati, “The Gateway to the Northeast.” Even in my addled state my strong first impressions still register.

The air was fresh and the sky, when not raining, was a beautiful light blue. The city was cleaner and more organized than any I had been to in India. There was little trash lying around. The roads seemed relatively ordered and tidy. The buildings and development around had bet set to a higher standard than most of what I had experienced in India. Many of them actually looked finished and not decayed. There were even cement troughs alongside the roads to direct rainwater and prevent flooding. Signage and the billboards around looked more professionally done. There was more order to the traffic and less belching exhaust. I noticed that the motorcyclists, always bountiful in number, were actually wearing helmets! The city spread out and was much larger than I had been expecting. As we drove along I noticed some American chain restaurants such as Dominoes pizza, Pizza Hut and a KFC. I was astonished to notice signage for coffee houses and craft-brew pubs. I would skip the beer but a good coffee was an enticing prospect.

The city was hilly, misty and rainy... and a little chilly. It felt a little like San Francisco to me. Soon the cab's progress slowed and we began crawling through the traffic. I noticed differences in the styles of the surrounding architecture. There were well-executed multistory buildings with different styling that I can't quite articulate. Looking through the cab window at the people and buildings I perceived a business-minded, western appearance. It did indeed feel more like Thailand than India.

The cab finally pulled up to a nook where Hironmoy’s airbnb was. I would not have imagined anything to be there. But back from the house along the road stood a four story building under construction. I learned later that this was to be guest house accommodation in the future. For now I was booked at the single story apartment along side Hironmoy’s house. It offered a hidden sanctuary sandwiched within the densely developed area. Soon my host was welcoming me into the apartment. Within it was cool and tastefully decorated with cultural icons, such as a dagger, from Northeastern tribes. There was a large bedroom with two beds and overhead fans, a separate bathroom with a working hot water heater, a hall sitting room and a kitchen stocked for my use. The surrounding plants and buildings shaded the apartment and kept the temperature down. In the kitchen was a bonafide water filter and an assortment of cookware waiting for use. Hironmoy’s apartment could not have been more welcome or more needed. On top of this the apartment was rented for $11 per night.

Seeing the state of me Hironmoy noted that it was urgent that I pursue proper medical treatment for the bugs that were messing with my intestines. He immediately took me to see his friend, a doctor at the hospital downtown. When we got to the hospital and I met with the nurses and then the doctor, I relaxed a little when I realized that I was going to get the care that I needed. The doctor actually took the time to see me free of charge. He prescribed Flagel and some antacid for my ailing midsection. The entire treatment, meds included, cost me about 500 rupees ($8 at the time). I am indebted to Hironmoy, his doctor friend and whoever else had been watching over me. Later on Hironmoy chastised me for sacrificing my health in order to reduce the waste I was producing by buying bottled water. He was right- the safe and healthy route was single use plastic with no form of waste management. The backpacker water filter that I had brought with me did something, but not enough to ensure water potability. I have since opted for the large 50 gallon jugs, or when mobile, liter bottles, despite the fact it creates litter for which there is almost no solution. It’s a hard situation. Contribute to trash or risk your health.

I spent the next week recovering from my illness in Guwahati. Gradually I recovered and learned about the new culture I was in. There is probably a better way to put it but I will crudely refer to this as Assamese culture, sensibility and manners. What was notable was how hospitable and respectful the Assamese were to me. I was able to let down the guard I had erected in Bihar. As my health returned I slowly relaxed into my new environment and began to explore the city on foot. I tried to pace myself, only going out a radius of a mile or so and then back. The layout of the city was confusing and not an ordered grid of any sort. As far as I could tell it followed the contours of the Brahmaputra river and its tributaries. It was a lot to take in given my state. When I would get overwhelmed I would pull out my phone for directions home. Within a few days I was venturing further out and resorting to the phone less. I began to dabble in hiring bicycle rickshaws, ola cabs and eventually hopping on busses. I had to do this gradually as I was overwhelmed by the new environment and was easily lost in the city. I did not experience English to be as commonly spoken as it had been in Bihar. Asking directions or trying to arrange an Ola cab usually resulted in failure due to the language barrier. Ola was a counter-intuitive app. After booking, the driver would call me to arrange the pickup, start yammering in Assamese. I would then have to try to find a stranger to translate. This is not the safest way to travel but it is one way to meet people. I had entered the path less traveled.

Hironmoy was a great resource for travel info. This was fortunate since at the time there was little accurate information regarding traveling the Northeast. I wanted to go to Arunachal Pradesh, mostly because of the striking photos I had seen on google maps. I wanted to visit the monastery of Tawang and a mystical outpost I had read about called Mechuka Village. These places had been only a tap away on my iPad. I was to learn that physically transporting oneself there was another story entirely. Arunachal Pradesh and many other states comprising the “seven sisters” of the Northeast (such as Sikkim, Mizoram and Nagaland) require the acquisition of a “Protected Area Permit.” These were not easy or guaranteed to the foreign visitor. But I was earnestly on a Buddhist and cultural pilgrimage, with a history and education to support this, and Hironmoy guided me through the process.

At his suggestion I made an appointment with the appropriate official and rode a cab to his office on the outskirts of Guwahati. I had sort of dreaded this bit or red tape but the meeting went surprisingly smoothly. Again I had the experience of being welcomed as an uncommon and honored visitor. I did my best to honor this privilege and reciprocate the gesture. I mention this because on the road this is not been that common of an experience. It was more likely to happen further out from the well-traveled tourist path, but not so far out that the people feared you, never having seen your kind before. Within a half hour all the necessary paperwork and preparations had been made and it was a matter of waiting about five days for the pass to be processed. The official and I had a nice easy conversation over tea. I strolled out of the building perplexed with how easy it all had been. Was there any rhyme or reason to how things went? With all my research and effort… was I even in control of what happened? I came to the non-western conclusion that I was not.

From the official's office I walked back toward the city, not in a hurry to hop on the bus. I stopped at Govindam, a wonderful and popular sweet shop. I had some honey’ed nut sweets and chai. The shop was doing brisk business, the staff surprised to see me in the crude outskirts of Guwahati. All around were unfinished roads and jumbled, informal shops and tent markets. It was more like the rest of the retail areas I had been to in Bodh Gaya so many years ago, before the boom. Walking the lanes of this area I was not flying under the radar. In some cases people came right out from their shops just to stare at me. Youngsters spoke directly at me upon encountering my sunburned whiteness. On this day I found this treatment mostly flattering. But I was not always ready to be the exotic animal.

In time I found my way back toward the center of town, quite jazzed that the Protected Area Permit might now be on the way. When you are this far out in the world, on your own, doing things like taking an ola cab, finding a translator for pickup, navigating well with officials to secure an opening in red tape, taking the bus around town, you gain a sense of accomplishment. This seemed to re-mint me as an adventurer, what I had been hoping would happen. The majority of people back “home,” had responded with fear and concern for me when I told them of my intended trip through India. But in my heart I knew better. I had experienced it, even if that time was half a lifetime ago, and I intended to return to those adventures. Now, it was happening for real. I am getting goosebumps as I write. Anyway, I was about one month in at this point and my square edges were beginning to wear off. I was opening up to the journey. The land and people were receiving me.