The next morning the Jeep left around dawn. I quickly learned that shared jeep rides are punishing for the tall westerner. After about an hour of being treated like an accordion I complained profusely and was granted a window seat in front. Although this meant that the stick shift was now between my legs and my chest was tilted diagonally toward the driver, it was better than the middle row I had been in. I was learning another rule of travel: to accept “better” as opposed to “great,” or “ideal,” was crucial.
I tried to compress my large frame into our mobile can and allow myself to merge with my fellow travelers. The "sumo" driver continued at a blistering pace, sounding the ambulance-like siren with every pass. I shut my eyes as the driver passed on blind corners where the road was only one lane wide. “Ah,” I figured, “Hence the liberal use of the horn.” Ironically, the regular sounding of the “ambulance siren” was the only thing that was helping to prevent our jeep from careening head-on into another vehicle. This seemed to be standard driving protocol, the purposes of the vehicle horn as it is often utilized in India. It is used to say, among many other things, “Here I am,” “I am passing now,” “Hello,” “It’s clear for you to pass now,” “Don’t pull out right now,” “Thank you,” “Up yours’ you jerk,” “What’s up fellow driver,” and many other communications. With the horns being used this much there was very little peace or quiet to be found in proximity to the roads. In fact the unending volley of honks is so audible, some cities, such as Udaipur or Pondicherry, outlaw its use completely. Comically, drivers must employ the old-fashioned squeeze horn used on bicycles, leading to amusing results.
There is a whole culture of the “sumo” shared jeep. The drivers are hot shots and are given free food, alcohol, and room and board due their bringing in tourist revenue. These drivers strut and race around in the jeeps, which they decorate the back windows of with brash labels and sayings, as if they are rappers. Unfortunately, my car had “The Devil is Back!” in big letters on the rear windshield. Pop tunes blared out of the jeep’s sound system, one track followed relentlessly by another. The “devil” lived up to his name and drove hard and fast. Many g’s were felt as the passengers were pushed into each other. I quickly realized that this was a barbaric way to travel. But given the costly private car or dicy night-bus, it was the only viable, “better” option. As the jeep veered up the mountain passes I found myself wondering what had happened before “the devil came back.”
The Devil pushed hard on the accelerator and the sound of the Tata diesel’s turbo echoed off the cliff walls. I tried to crane my neck down to afford some sort of view of the scenery. Due to my height my head was grazing the headliner. This was not creating the most ideal of vantage points. The sounds of the vehicle bounced off deep cuts in the steep hillsides and entered back into through the open windows… along with steady doses of diesel exhaust. “The Devil,” could have been a race-car driver. I braced myself for the turns as best I could. To do this I had to temporarily harvest whatever elbow room I could claim before the g’s pushed the surrounding bodies in again and I had to change position. Because the jeep was designed to accommodate smaller people my head smacked against the roof of the Sumo with each bump. Through it all I was gradually being made shorter. My knees alternated between being slamming against the dashboard and then into the gearshift. This sumo ride was quite possibly the most uncomfortable vehicle experience of my lifetime, even worse than the back seat of the bus in costa rica that had crushed my knees into the seat in front as we bounced on the rutted roads of the west coast.
It was in this painful manner that we jolted out of the plains of northern Assam and into the Himalayan foothills of Arunachal Pradesh. The Devil kept up his murderous pace. A sore spot had developed on the top of my head from the constant slams. I felt a paste in my mouth from the grinding of my teeth. I’m pretty sure the broadness of my shoulders narrowed an inch or two from the constant horizontal pressure. After about an hour of being pummeled and cracked and crammed beyond what my large frame could accommodate I could take no more. I spoke up and made sure that I was heard. The jeep came to a halt.
With great gusto I protested my predicament. I was tired of being treated as a human sardine! It seemed that I was perceived as impolite and perhaps crazy. The driver and the “seating manager” were completely baffled with my words. Enter the cultural disconnect. They saw nothing amiss in the least about the arrangement. In fact, everyone in the jeep seemed to find my protestations inconceivable and looked to each other in common puzzlement. I pulled out my phone and called Biswajit and asked for help. He chuckled good-heartedly and told me that this was how the jeeps were run. In classic the style of developing countries, a vehicle’s capacity was expanded way beyond its engineered limits. The entire pricing scheme of the jeep rides were based on this gross over-assessment to maximize profits. I asked if anything could be done. Biswajit shared that a common practice was to purchase two seat spaces for more room. I gritted the paste of my teeth at this suggestion. This would instantly double what was for me the already over-budget cost of Sumo travel. Not wanting to pay I asked Biswajit about returning to Tezpur as I did not see how I could withstand another mile of this road punishment. At this Biswajit asked to speak with the driver. The two of them spoke in Assamese or Hindi for a bit, the “seating manager” chiming in occasionally. Unlike me they were keeping their cool. During the call, the driver and seating manager made the anticipated request for more money. This set me off. The now familiar anger and paranoia of being the stilted Westerner entered my consciousness with the readiness of an old pain. Here I was way out in the sticks and these guys were trying to bamboozle me for more. But I would have none of it. I stood my ground and insisted there would be no more money.
Finally one of my fellow passengers had mercy on me, or just wanted to get where he was going. He generously gave up his seat in the back row for my spot in the front. I thanked him profusely for this gesture and he nodded in response. Things seemed better for a while… until we stopped on the roadside and picked up another passenger. The new addition crammed into the back seat and the torture started all over again. I groaned and worked on my homemade tooth paste. I didn’t say anything as my head slammed into the roof again, rattling my jaw. What a morning this was turning out to be. About one and a half hours later in we stopped at a roadside shack for breakfast. I immediately extricated myself from the metal cage and distanced myself from the vehicle and passengers. I tried to straighten what was left of my back and knees. I avoided the driver, seating manager and passengers, under no illusions that I was on good terms with any of them. As far as I was concerned the sentiment was mutual.
At this point I had traveled on my own in India for about two months and had fancied myself the rugged traveller. But traveling in Arunachal Pradesh was proving to be much harder and much more primitive that I had imagined. Well, the pain was not without its rewards. The scenery was stunning and unspoiled.vThe roads wove through a pristine river valley with ultra-steep hillsides that were thickly populated with trees and jungle vegetation. In my mind the land and the lingering mists resembled images I had viewed of China, not of any India I had imagined. The hillsides were so steep that looking down out the jeep window only afforded a view of the tree trunks leading to the river below. Such a gander usually brought my heart halfway up to through my throat. The trees were dense and I could not see where the trunks emerged from the earth except on the opposite side of the river valley. The dirt roads threatened to collapse into these valleys at any time. There was evidence of this having recently happened all around. Far below I caught glimpses of branches of a mysterious brown river. I could not help but think of the potential fun and danger that lurked there. There were no proper rafting companies, kayak rentals or fly-fishing expeditions here. And, I might add, there were no helicopter evacuations either. If there were, where would one be evacuated to? Adventure called on the river below but it was likely to be one’s last. Occasionally little farmsteads, tea shops and villages appeared along the road. Out through the valley it seemed that rice was being grown in terraced plots beaten out of the jungle. Many of the buildings that we passed had thatched roofs, wattle-mud walls and frames of unfinished logs from the forest. In some places there appeared structures of brick and cement and tin sheeting but for the most part the use of thatch, rock, mud and logs prevailed. This sustainably-developed and relatively unspoiled environment was the sort of thing I had come to see. My guess, reader, is that it is what has drawn you here as well. Crammed in that mobile torture chamber I silently cursed my sense of adventure.
The realization was dawning on me that the higher in the Himalayas one goes and the farther out one strays from the well-worn tourist path, the more difficult and expensive the going becomes. I had fancied myself a modern day Indiana Jones but conditions were proving to be too much for me. This could be referred to as “travel overwhelm.” I had bitten off more than I could chew. The absence of tourist infrastructure was rearing its sizable head. Out here quality, variety, availability and affordability of food, transport and accommodation were practically non-existent. There were few if any choices. Among other things this simplified making travel decisions. In many cases there were no choices to be made. Additionally, in this environment the ability to communicate in English, or even Hindi, was also gone. A sort of primitive survival instinct entered my being. I was coming up against a hard truth that one simply cannot have the pristine natural surroundings absent the cancers and vultures of tourism without the hard knocks of the Sumo on the rough, dusty tracks.
Apparently much of the land of the Northeastern states had not officially become part of India until late in the twentieth century. Much of the land is still disputed by China. Additionally, tribal communities of these lands had gripes with the central government. These were what I understood to be some of the reasons for the considerable Indian military presence throughout the area and for the required “Protected Area Permit.” Bouncing along in the jeep I could not get over the deep blue sky, the lingering mists, the sea of greenery and the endless mountain ridges above. The valleys were carpeted with so much greenery, the trees so dense, it was a wonder there was enough water, soil and sunlight to sustain all of it. As the jeep gained elevation the looks of the people became more “Mongolian” for lack of a better term. Hair became darker, Eyes shifted to more of a north asian slant, skin became a ruddier tone, almost a pinkish brown that flushed in heat and cold. Hindi and even Assamese gave way to strange other languages that I could only assume were tribal. In truth the land I was ultimately headed for, Tawang, was not that far below the Tibetan border making the area feel almost more Chinese than Irvine.
About eight punishing hours out of Tezpur the jeep finally arrived in Bomdila. There was just about enough sunlight left for me to quest for accommodation. I did my best t straighten my crumpled frame and went about the task. Bomdila is a hilly town and is topped with at least one large Buddhist monastery. The area felt like how I had imagined Tibet to feel (minus the gun-toting Chinese soldiers). There was a feel to the people around that seemed very different from what I had come across so far. The warmness of the Indians of the Northeastern plains and the principled decentness of the Assamese had both faded. This was a harsher, colder, darker land and the culture seemed to reflect that. I experienced many of the people to be very reserved, wary, even resentful of the pale-skinned interloper. Unlike the other areas I had visited the people did not yell greetings. Nor did they force themselves upon me for a selfie. Instead they often shirked away from me, murmuring the term “foreigner” as if I could not hear it. In many cases they would not make eye contact with me. I realized my fate due to my cursed sense of adventure. I had led to me now playing the part of the clowning traveler that was not necessarily welcome.
The jeep dropped me off at a sort of depot in front of a hotel that I was told was “town.” It didn’t seem like it. All I could see were a few roadside guesthouses and a few other hotels. There was a shop or two and a bottle-shop that offered spirits. I was soon to learn that these liquor stores were everywhere. The factor of alcohol consumption in the community was palpable. “Bomdila?” I asked, questioningly, to a few locals in front of a roadside hotel. They nodded confirmation and then immediately looked away. Awkwardly, I stopped and sat on a log next to the green awning of one of the hotels. I snacked on some nuts, crackers and an orange from my backpack. I could have used a proper meal but… where would I get it from? What ransom would I be asked to pay for it? It didn’t seem that I had time or money for that. Bomdila is hilly, even downright mountainous. I could only really see what was on the current block or on the opposite hillside. It seemed that much of the town was still high above me on the winding road. I did not find the roadside hotels appealing and upon inquiring at one of them, I did not find the prices affordable either. I decided to venture up the road for a place to stay. I had heard that one of the monasteries offered basic accommodation to travelers and to Buddhist sangha. I was a legitimate student of Buddhism and an official Buddhist according to my travel visa so seeking the monetary hostel wasn’t really a stretch. I pulled out my phone, my trusty travel companion, punched in the larger monastery as my destination and asked it to direct me. A blue line indicated a hike of about twenty minutes. I shouldered my gear and began to ascend that was much larger than I thought, in air much thinner than I was accustomed to.
The difference in altitude was expressing itself quite apparently in the heaving of my lungs. I cursed the weight of my pack which had seemed to gain weight with the altitude. My legs wobbled and quivered under the burden and my pace slowed. By now I had been deprived of any sort of decent meal for the entire day. The jeeps always left at dawn and there wasn’t a way to get anything substantial and safe to eat. I had skipped much of the roadside offerings in hopes of avoiding sickness. Now I was wearing my health down. As I slowly stepped uphill I was one of the only pedestrians and a rather conspicuous one at that. Large trucks and vehicles, many of them associated with a military base down the hill, passed me on the curving roads. Retail establishments faded away… I began to question the safety of walking there and to regret my decision to hike to the monastery. But now I was too far above town to hire a car. There were no rickshaw drivers haranguing me with inflated prices like in Bodh Gaya. I never thought I would miss them but I did. There was no choice but to press on.
A woman and her son passed me going up the hill in their micro-van. They had pity on me huffing and puffing under my load and stopped. They inquired in broken English and I confirmed, yes, I was headed to the monastery. They warmly offered to take me all the way there. I was very glad for this and hopped in. It took another five minutes rising and falling through the curving avenues of the monastery before I was plopped at the visitor’s center. With the ascent to the monastery the temperature had dropped at least fifteen degrees. A thick, cool mist lingered among the trees and I shivered. These mists also deadened any sounds around, adding to the magical, spooky feeling of the monastery grounds. I began to understand the lonely peace and solitude of the monastery.
I ducked into the visitor’s center and met Pema, the female proprietor of the hostel part of the monastery. She was quite direct and friendly- I could not help but like her. Within a short period of time she showed me a room, more like a monk’s cell, and rented me an electric heater for an extra ten dollars. Although it was only late afternoon I could feel the cold damp of the mountain seeping through the masonry into the little room. The heater was for me an exorbitant luxury but after the punishing jeep ride that my body had been through I knew the heater would be needed that night. I “settled in” for a half hours or so, letting my new surroundings sink in. It was really quiet. I found myself wondering what monks and bikkhunis had spent their time here. What lives had touched this place? How much meditation, how many religious rituals had been performed in this cold, quiet cell?
I asked about shopping for some essentials in town and Pema offered to take me along with her friend. Just like that, she trusted this strange man from a foreign land. Soon we were strolling down a series of paths and staircases that wound through residences to the market below. In no time we were in some sort of department store and I had the familiar experience of “waiting for the girls to shop.” Once done with that I found a hat and Pema and her friend helped me to buy some groceries to cook in my little electric kettle. Hironmoy had encouraged me to buy it to boil water on trains and in case of emergencies. We then stopped at a little restaurant and I had my first bowl of Thukpa. Shortly we walked back up the hill and I retired to my now very chilly “cell." The hot soup nurtured my battered body and along with the heater, helped me to get through a pretty cold night.
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