Arriving in Guwahati
Paltan Bazaar outside Guwahati railway station is the archetypal picture of chaos of an Indian railway station terminal. A state-owned airconditioned bus brought the three of us - Jose, Sachin, and me - from Guwahati international airport and deposited us at the chaotic bus stand, which rubbed its dusty shoulders with Platform One of the railway station. Immediately, the August heat and humidity of most cities on the plains hit us. Our t-shirts cleaved to our backs, drenched in sweat. I admired Sachin for his resilience. If I had his long locks of hair, I would've been hopping mad. On the other hand, however, with my bald head, I was a mobile solar panel, and I had no idea where in my large rucksack had I buried my damn cap!Jose stridently declared that he was going to find himself some chilled beer before we boarded the bus to Tezpur. At that point, none of us knew that we didn't have to go via Tezpur to Bomdila. All we had to do is go to the Guwahati Inter State Bus Terminus from where we could have taken the overnight bus straight to Bomdila. On the return leg a week later, we smacked our foreheads when we returned to Guwahati on that bus.
There was nothing international about Guwahati's Lokpriya Gopinath Bordoloi International airport. I declared that the ISBT at Kashmiri Gate in New Delhi was far better. Jose had seen the abbreviation on a hoarding somewhere - LGBI - and remarked that this was ostensibly an inclusive airport. Took us a few minutes to figure out what he meant, because we were searching the airport for the Arunachal Pradesh Tourism office where we could get our Inner Line Permits (ILPs) made. For the convenience, however, of not having to troop to Guwahati and go to some government office and spend half a day over there, we had to cough up extra money though. Comes to the same thing, the boys said. Go to Guwahati, locate the office and spend time waiting for this would be excruciating. Save us the trouble.
"Going to Arunachal Pradesh?" asked one of the men who was simply there in the office, doing nothing. He probably didn't know where he was to be asking such an obvious question.
"Are the roads good?" I asked. The man turned to another sitting next to him, wearing what looked like a Himachali cap, and chuckled.
"Roads? Good? It's the rainy season. You'll be lucky if the roads still exist."
Our ILPs were already paid for and stamped, so there was no looking back now. Although, we exchanged worried glances. Should we have gone to Meghalaya instead? I got a few text and video forwards from a colleague in Bangalore. The Assam flood of 2017 had inundated most of the state, even the Kaziranga Wildlife Sanctuary. The video showed a rhino running amok on what was allegedly a highway in assam. Yes, a rhino, not cattle or goat. And there are rhinos everywhere in Assam. Stone rhinos, graffiti rhinos, red rhinos on the neon signboards at petrol pumps, miniatures on dashboards of buses. Our worries dissipated a little after we found the low-floor, airconditioned bus that transferred us to Paltan Bazar in downtown Guwahati. All highways fully open, assured the bus conductor.
We got the first glimpses of the Brahmaputra river as the bus neared the state capital. Boats and ferries of all shapes and sizes were anchored to the riverbank. After getting off the bus and stretching our weary limbs and backs, we walked about a little in the marketplace looking for a decent place to eat. The moment we stepped out the bus stand, Jose had shown me this huge Signature Whisky signboard outside a rundown building, which announced a bar on the first floor. After looking around, we gave up the search and decided to go to this bar, although Sachin and I weren't keen on drinking before a four-hour bus journey. So while we washed down our lunch with fresh lime sodas, Jose had two beers that got him going - literally, all along the journey for the rest of the day. Whenever the bus stopped along the way, he jumped out, bounded across crowded roads and watered roadside walls, trees, or ditches.
"Wow, this place is not so bad after all!" we remarked after the bus trundled out of Paltan Bazar and made its way out of Guwahati. There were the same shopping malls, brand showrooms, bistros and restaurant-chain outlets along the way like the ones we saw in Bangalore or Mumbai. So there was nothing for us to gloat about. Yes, there are these airs that travelers from popular metros have when they travel to 'exotic' or seemingly 'less privileged' and 'laidback' towns. After we exited the city and cruised down the fine highway, the rolling green hills appeared. It rained intermittently making the landscape even more beautiful. We saw motorcycle tourers cruising past on their Royal Enfields and Harleys, even on KTM Dukes much to our pleasant surprise. Eventually, saner riders had begun to discover modern, refined motorcycles instead of the unreliable, rudimentary machines that riders go ga-ga about and feel 'macho' on. Jose was seated in the seat in front of us, next to a pleasant lady who was intrigued and amused to see us. She pointed towards the hills on the right and told us that those hills were part of Meghalaya.
"Such a fine, wide highway, no?" I exclaimed. A few kilometers later, I realized that I'd spoken too soon.
The villages that our bus trundled through weren't impressive. Neither was the pit stop restaurant, a ramshackle structure that served nothing more than maida chapatis, watery dal that looked like some leaves and tomato skin boiled in water, and some rotten pickles that didn't look even slightly appetizing. We quietly munched on the chapatis with milky tea, which wasn't refreshing either. If this was the only kind of food available on the route, we weren't happy. We bought a couple of mango juice bottles and packets of chips and returned to the bus once again, which we were slowly getting fed up of.
As soon as we got off the bus, we were swarmed by cycle rickshawwalas, whose cycle rickshaw were as creaky and sad as the bus station. We asked them to take us to a reasonable guest house where we wanted to spend the night.
"You are only men, no?" a cyclist asked. For a small fee of twenty rupees, he ferried us to a narrow, unpaved street where there were sorry-looking eateries and shops under rundown buildings on either side. He pointed to one of those buildings, led us through an incredibly narrow, rat-infested alleyway, which could have well been an escape tunnel at wartime, to a "reception" of a lodge, where a disinterested fellow charged us Rs. 900 for a "deluxe room".
What was so "deluxe" about the room? Does it have air conditioning? The man replied that it was bigger, had two double beds, an attached bathroom and a TV. The room was full of mosquitoes, extremely stuffy, and the fans were useless. He gave mosquito repellent machines but we had to step out and buy mosquito mats.
"Tell you what boys," said Jose. "Let's not eat anywhere over here. And certainly not chicken or meat. They might serve us rat meat! Let's scout the neighborhood, find a liquor store, buy ourselves a bottle, and drink ourselves silly, just so that we get knocked out for the rest of the night."
We reminded ourselves that we had to wake up again at 4 AM to board one of those shared taxis to Bomdila at 5:30. That was what one of those shared taxi drivers had told us outside the bus stand. Planning for all this, we stepped out and walked through the sorry neighborhood, asked around for a wine shop, and found a store that said 'Pharmacy' or 'Chemist' on the hoarding outside the shop. I don't remember what we bought over there, but I do know that it was only a half-bottle. We found a shop where they had eggs, so we asked the shopkeeper to make us three omelet sandwiches.
"We'll keep it simple," I said. "Once we enter Arunachal Pradesh, we'll eat good Tibetan food. Momos and Thukpas!"
"I'll only have the chips," Sachin declared. By the time we returned to our 'Deluxe room', we were so exhausted, we barely had a peg each and only a bite or two of our omelet sandwiches.
"Tastes weird, no?" Sachin said and put aside the sandwich. We agreed. Despite the stifling humidity, slow turning ceiling fans, and buzzing mosquitoes, we fell asleep.
There was nothing international about Guwahati's Lokpriya Gopinath Bordoloi International airport. I declared that the ISBT at Kashmiri Gate in New Delhi was far better. Jose had seen the abbreviation on a hoarding somewhere - LGBI - and remarked that this was ostensibly an inclusive airport. Took us a few minutes to figure out what he meant, because we were searching the airport for the Arunachal Pradesh Tourism office where we could get our Inner Line Permits (ILPs) made. For the convenience, however, of not having to troop to Guwahati and go to some government office and spend half a day over there, we had to cough up extra money though. Comes to the same thing, the boys said. Go to Guwahati, locate the office and spend time waiting for this would be excruciating. Save us the trouble.
"Going to Arunachal Pradesh?" asked one of the men who was simply there in the office, doing nothing. He probably didn't know where he was to be asking such an obvious question.
"Are the roads good?" I asked. The man turned to another sitting next to him, wearing what looked like a Himachali cap, and chuckled.
"Roads? Good? It's the rainy season. You'll be lucky if the roads still exist."
Our ILPs were already paid for and stamped, so there was no looking back now. Although, we exchanged worried glances. Should we have gone to Meghalaya instead? I got a few text and video forwards from a colleague in Bangalore. The Assam flood of 2017 had inundated most of the state, even the Kaziranga Wildlife Sanctuary. The video showed a rhino running amok on what was allegedly a highway in assam. Yes, a rhino, not cattle or goat. And there are rhinos everywhere in Assam. Stone rhinos, graffiti rhinos, red rhinos on the neon signboards at petrol pumps, miniatures on dashboards of buses. Our worries dissipated a little after we found the low-floor, airconditioned bus that transferred us to Paltan Bazar in downtown Guwahati. All highways fully open, assured the bus conductor.
We got the first glimpses of the Brahmaputra river as the bus neared the state capital. Boats and ferries of all shapes and sizes were anchored to the riverbank. After getting off the bus and stretching our weary limbs and backs, we walked about a little in the marketplace looking for a decent place to eat. The moment we stepped out the bus stand, Jose had shown me this huge Signature Whisky signboard outside a rundown building, which announced a bar on the first floor. After looking around, we gave up the search and decided to go to this bar, although Sachin and I weren't keen on drinking before a four-hour bus journey. So while we washed down our lunch with fresh lime sodas, Jose had two beers that got him going - literally, all along the journey for the rest of the day. Whenever the bus stopped along the way, he jumped out, bounded across crowded roads and watered roadside walls, trees, or ditches.
The Ride to Tezpur
 |
| Rain an hour after we left Guwahati. The hills in the background are in Meghalaya. |
"Wow, this place is not so bad after all!" we remarked after the bus trundled out of Paltan Bazar and made its way out of Guwahati. There were the same shopping malls, brand showrooms, bistros and restaurant-chain outlets along the way like the ones we saw in Bangalore or Mumbai. So there was nothing for us to gloat about. Yes, there are these airs that travelers from popular metros have when they travel to 'exotic' or seemingly 'less privileged' and 'laidback' towns. After we exited the city and cruised down the fine highway, the rolling green hills appeared. It rained intermittently making the landscape even more beautiful. We saw motorcycle tourers cruising past on their Royal Enfields and Harleys, even on KTM Dukes much to our pleasant surprise. Eventually, saner riders had begun to discover modern, refined motorcycles instead of the unreliable, rudimentary machines that riders go ga-ga about and feel 'macho' on. Jose was seated in the seat in front of us, next to a pleasant lady who was intrigued and amused to see us. She pointed towards the hills on the right and told us that those hills were part of Meghalaya.
 |
| It didn't rain all the time, although the sky was always grey and brooding. This was probably the last good stretch of the highway |
"Such a fine, wide highway, no?" I exclaimed. A few kilometers later, I realized that I'd spoken too soon.
'Cunt-ry' Roads...
Somewhere near Jagiroad, our bus veered off the six-lane highway into a single lane road that reminded me of Mumbai, for it was as pothole-ridden as the roads in my hometown. The similarities ended there. The vestiges of a bad cloudburst still showed. I thought there were ditches full of water on either side of the road in front of the traditional houses. There were hastily constructed bridges on stilts that connected the verandas to the road. Pigs roamed around the pools of still water. I wondered whether a malaria epidemic prevailed in these regions because of these floods. Thankfully, our airconditioned bus was sealed, unless it stopped at all the villages to take in or let out people - and mosquitoes in the process.The villages that our bus trundled through weren't impressive. Neither was the pit stop restaurant, a ramshackle structure that served nothing more than maida chapatis, watery dal that looked like some leaves and tomato skin boiled in water, and some rotten pickles that didn't look even slightly appetizing. We quietly munched on the chapatis with milky tea, which wasn't refreshing either. If this was the only kind of food available on the route, we weren't happy. We bought a couple of mango juice bottles and packets of chips and returned to the bus once again, which we were slowly getting fed up of.
Tezpur, Finally
An hour later, we crossed the Brahmaputra after sunset and entered Tezpur. It took us nearly half an hour to reach the bus station. We had left Bangalore at 3:30 AM that morning, flown out of Bangalore at 6:10 AM, landed in Kolkata and waited at that airport for about ninety minutes, and then flown to Guwahati, reached Paltan Bazaar a little after midday, and then boarded this bus at 2:30 PM, only to arrive in this bus station at 7:45 PM, which was nothing more than a decrepit shed.As soon as we got off the bus, we were swarmed by cycle rickshawwalas, whose cycle rickshaw were as creaky and sad as the bus station. We asked them to take us to a reasonable guest house where we wanted to spend the night.
"You are only men, no?" a cyclist asked. For a small fee of twenty rupees, he ferried us to a narrow, unpaved street where there were sorry-looking eateries and shops under rundown buildings on either side. He pointed to one of those buildings, led us through an incredibly narrow, rat-infested alleyway, which could have well been an escape tunnel at wartime, to a "reception" of a lodge, where a disinterested fellow charged us Rs. 900 for a "deluxe room".
What was so "deluxe" about the room? Does it have air conditioning? The man replied that it was bigger, had two double beds, an attached bathroom and a TV. The room was full of mosquitoes, extremely stuffy, and the fans were useless. He gave mosquito repellent machines but we had to step out and buy mosquito mats.
"Tell you what boys," said Jose. "Let's not eat anywhere over here. And certainly not chicken or meat. They might serve us rat meat! Let's scout the neighborhood, find a liquor store, buy ourselves a bottle, and drink ourselves silly, just so that we get knocked out for the rest of the night."
We reminded ourselves that we had to wake up again at 4 AM to board one of those shared taxis to Bomdila at 5:30. That was what one of those shared taxi drivers had told us outside the bus stand. Planning for all this, we stepped out and walked through the sorry neighborhood, asked around for a wine shop, and found a store that said 'Pharmacy' or 'Chemist' on the hoarding outside the shop. I don't remember what we bought over there, but I do know that it was only a half-bottle. We found a shop where they had eggs, so we asked the shopkeeper to make us three omelet sandwiches.
"We'll keep it simple," I said. "Once we enter Arunachal Pradesh, we'll eat good Tibetan food. Momos and Thukpas!"
"I'll only have the chips," Sachin declared. By the time we returned to our 'Deluxe room', we were so exhausted, we barely had a peg each and only a bite or two of our omelet sandwiches.
"Tastes weird, no?" Sachin said and put aside the sandwich. We agreed. Despite the stifling humidity, slow turning ceiling fans, and buzzing mosquitoes, we fell asleep.
