Chasing Dreams

It all started out with Alexander Frater's Chasing the Monsoon. And so I'd spent the last few years chasing Cherapunji. Finally the alarm bells rang. 5: 30 a.m. Time to wake up and finally head to Cherapunji.
The taxi driver decided to remind me of that old Indian Standard Time joke. It wasn't funny. Neither was the birdless morning and the 2 degree cold. It was surprising that I was surrounded by beautiful coniferous forests yet there wasn't a single bird chirping me up. It seemed true that the locals did really devour all that moved. Finally I bundled into the car and started out at 8. The beginning of the journey only added more to Shillong's size and did nothing to lift my spirits.





All that changed the moment we crossed a quintessential pretty, mountain bridge and turned the ridge. A deep valley unveiled itself, typical of Meghalaya postcards. Complete with green from grasslands and forests, right up to steep cliffs that adorned the edges. It still lacked any bird life, but the binoculars did reveal tiny houses perched in remote corners of the opposite vastness. We sped along the snake like road that clung on to the hill side, scared of falling down under. Zigging and zagging from the top of one valley, across the ridge, into another and so on. And then, the first signs of familiarity. What the books had showed, lay just off the road on the side, with the typical Indian view point. Doted by small kids selling cha, biscuits and every other knick knack that the discerning Indian family might have forgotten to bring along. However the sight beyond was anything but ordinary. The valley was beautifully shielded by two massive cliff walls that ran straight to the horizon. The valley fell snug in the middle until it opened up into the plains of Bangladesh. A few waterfalls still hung around. I could only imagine the splendour of this place, post monsoon. It was breathtaking already.
Time was moving a tad faster and I had to rush. After all the point, was my 9 0 clock appointment for river canyoning just passed Cherrapunji town. It was half passed 9 already. We went around the town rather than through it and soon descended another gorgeous valley. Somewhere in this vastness was the little village of Mawshomak and its big significance was the little gully that turned off to Tyrna. My date venue. Hardly 600 metres down a steep decline. The church stood proud and out. Making itself clear in the midst of a jungle of green. We were on the southern ridge of the mountain, having descended a few hundred metres.


It was here I met the guide. I had previously envisioned an ancient tribe with ancient names and was hoping to come back with one of Russel Peter's funny names with a click in it. Meet Wesley. My 19 year old guide from the same ancient Khasi tribe. A short ride further and we started our unknowingly ardous hike.
We clambered down over 3000 steps. Cemented in the name of development. I did develop a pain in the knee. It seemed like we were going straight down. Woodpeckers did call from afar to give me some hope though on the way to the village at the bottom of the stairs. There was but little life despite the lush jungles. At the village I was further surprised as bird calls hung about the air. To my dismay I found little baskets ornately hung from the corner of each house and inside were Ashy Bulbuls. So that's where they all went I thought.

We continued further communicating in broken English. The one of two languages my guide knew. A reminder of the richness of this jungle soon showed, with a Large Indian Civet scurrying about in the village plantation. As it disappeared the guide explained how most wildlife disappeared at the first sight of humans thanks to the rich hunting traditions. The forest and plantations played hide and seek while the only constant was a myriad of butterflies and orchids galore. Descending further, we finally came upon the river. A quiant, quiet spot that instantly relieved all the effort of having made it down. Tall mountains rose majestically on either side. A crystal clear pool lay mesmerizing between large boulders that sheltered this river. Freshening up, I readied myself for 2 hours of canyoning. Which basically entailed clambering from boulder to boulder and rock to rock all along the river.



We set out and I soon felt the magic f all my dreams culminate. This was something I'd been yearning to do. Lush jungles enveloped both sides of the bank. We couldn't see far ahead but behind, the peaks towered over us like a lighthouse, reminding us where we had just come from. THe beauty of the jungle over came the lack of wildlife it showed. Two hours of cliff hanging, wall hugging, jumping, hopping and skipping flaunted the beauty of the river far away from public eyes.



We rested one last time at the end of the canyoning. And I thought of a country song. "Toes in the water, ass in the sand, not a worry in the world got a cold beer in my hand. Life is good today." Perfect though the beer was missing. It was time to head back. Or up as i would soon find out. A wire bridge dangled dangerously over the river. Apparently it was these bridges that were the life line of these tribes. I bravely crossed mindless of the endeavours that lay ahead. Remember those majestic mountains that rose on either side. Well we were headed straight up over 6000 old stone steps. I gave up counting after a few hundred. More because I was out of breath and out of shape. Keeping my eyes down I chanced upon my biggest find of the trip. Scat. Never in my life would I have thought I would be so excited to see signs of scat. Or poop. Or shit. But the couple of samples I spotted was a good indicator of the wildlife these jungles housed. Mysterious cats seemed to thrive here. Though a chance encounter would not materialize immediately.




And so I huffed and puffed, slowly but surely all the way to the top. Over 2 hours and over 6000 steps. I rested atop the stairs, surrounded by lush jungle, as it slowly faded into the horizon. The mighty Khasi hills with all its secrets lay before my eyes. It sure felt great to be chasing dreams.

An answer to a dreamer

There I was at 30,000 feet in the air. Just a whisker above the mighty Himalayas. Whisps of white caught between two oceans of blue. Where the earth and the sky seemed to fight for rights over the beauty of the Himalayas. And in the fight, they stretched her grandeur. Jagged peaks of white that played hop scotch with crowds of clouds. Yet fading into the dark blue ocean of the land below.
I realised that I come alive when i travel. My senses perk up, I feel more alert and more alive. My dreams turn from black and white into colour. And my mind wants to wander. I wonder then if the best place for me to write, would be here. suspended some where in the middle of everywhere.
I dont know if my traveller personna is to do with getting away from people or becoming one with nature. But stuck in the middle of the sky in one of man's true wonders, I have a feeling of both. Of being a million miles away form harsh reality. Yet with a god's view of all of natures beauty.
From here i can barely notice the destruction brought about my man. The missing forests, the killing animals, the damming of rivers. Barely notice any of it. Yet slowly as we descend, it becomes clearer. Nature loses its beauty and charm to the ugly ways of man and his kind. Dotes of dirt and garbage at once signal civilization and development. All strewn roughly to mar the beauty nature once flaunted.




There are but a few places left. Where she, Gaiea, or Mother Earth still runs wild and free. In her own free flowing form, with her own styles and ways. It is here that i feel most at home. Feel most human. Feel most alive.
I hope that these few sanctuarys of truth. These few oasis of what once was. These patches of the way the world was supposed to be. I hope, that these remain for some time, some where down the line. For there needs to be an answer when a dreamer comes a knocking, in the future.