Two Words to Share

Yesterday was the final day for the 10th graders. They'll be at home from here on out because they need to focus on studying for their national exams coming up toward the end of September. Another testament to how the entirety of 9th and 10th grade - the cream of the crop, the golden years of St. Joseph - are spent toiling in boredom with accents of anxiousness, pouring over the least stimulating and under-engaging of content, all under the guise that a high grade is the aim of education. Hence why I get a lot more out of helping to teach the 6-8th graders who use a supplemental English curriculum from a series of books that have such enriching literature and thought-provoking, critical-thinking questions. Suffice it to say, the 10th graders were energetic by the time their final day rolled around, coupled with nostalgic reflections of their past years at St. Joseph's. They stormed classrooms shouting, hollering, and cheering, thanking teachers all the while. I suppose Uttom's thanks was being picked up off the ground and tossed in the air. Mayhem.

Luckily, I had given my final parting words to the grade the day before when they were a bit less wound up. Perhaps it made a difference to a select few. I wrote the content down in an article that Uttom and the Language Club will publish in a newsletter-like collection and distribute throughout the school. I was really proud it it. It came easily. I guess there are some things you just have such direct access to and awareness of, you can sit down with little preparation and throw it down on paper. Perhaps that means I've been attempting to teach such ideas all along...

"As I was sitting in the final class that I would have with the 10th graders today, I wondered what would be the best message to leave them. After almost a year-long experience together, what could I say that would be the most important to remember? I decided on two simple words.

By now, I bet many students have heard me proclaim my favorite word in English: “however.” What is “however,” aside from a glorified “but?” Its purpose to me is to demonstrate difference – to show contrast. This seems to be one of our most crucial thought processes. If learning has something to do with new ideas, it must also have something to do with different ones, as new ideas are different from the ones we had before. Moreover, the beauty of a classroom is having more than one person in it – and therefore more than one idea to share. As we are all unique, our opinions and perspectives are unique too. This means that sharing our thoughts and ideas in class is useful for everyone. Many students must have also heard me speak about how, for example, there is so much diversity in the US that I would never really be able to predict how another “American” thinks or lives. A related instance would be a question like this: “Matt Sir, is it hotter or colder than here in the US?” The answer I would give is that it is neither. The whole country couldn’t possibly be one or the other. There are some places which are colder; however, there are some other places which are warmer. This distinction, this difference, isn’t possible without a member of the “however” family list (other famous siblings include “contrastingly,” “on the other hand,” “although,” “even though,” “in spite of,” “despite,” “alternatively,” and “yet”). This diversity among places and people – which exists here in Bangladesh too – is a gift. It allows us to hear, see, and think about something new, something different from our own small world. “However” shows us such differences. It shouts right in our face that there is another side of the story coming; up next there’s another way of looking at the same situation – something different, something new. And thus our perspective expands; our minds have some new material to chew on.

In many conversations I have with people here about the US, I have seen a good amount of frustration at times. This is usually due to me not being able to give a concrete conclusion like someone might be searching for. As I may have explained before, there’s no way I could make claims about America as a whole, any given American, or frankly anyone else other than my close friends and family, or any place other than where I grew up. My own experience is quite a small piece of the pie. Such lack of knowledge is not unique to me; none of us really knows for sure about other people and how they think and act. However, I believe that we are usually way too quick to react to the world as if we actually do know it. For instance, one may make a claim about a whole country (eg. “The US is very wealthy” – it’s not – the government is actually swimming in debt) or a country’s people (eg. “Bangladeshis eat rice” – nope – not everyone does). It’s a blessing but also a curse that we understand the world in such a broad and categorical way. It can be surprising how much more precise and defendable ideas become when words like “all” and “every” are replaced with words like “most, “many,” “some,” or “generally.” However, we haven’t quite hit on the second important word in my list of two. In the effort of honesty and accuracy, many of the conversations I have with people get decorated with that rather disappointing word, that rather inconclusive word, that rather halting word: “perhaps.” “Bangladesh is a beautiful country isn’t it?” – Perhaps. “In the US, so many people like McDonald’s hamburgers, isn’t it?” – Perhaps. “Life means enjoyment” – Perhaps. “More money is better” – Perhaps. “Life means studying, determination, and hard work” – Perhaps. “Good marks show that I’ve learned a lot in school” – Perhaps. Perhaps “perhaps” is my second favorite word in English. So, what really is “perhaps” besides a fancy “maybe?” Perhaps “perhaps” is the urge to think and examine rather than to conclude and move on. Perhaps “perhaps” is the demonstration of the unknown. Perhaps “perhaps” is the introduction of new possibilities. Perhaps “perhaps” is the acknowledgement that the world is a much larger, more confusing, nuanced, and complicated place than you or I could possibly understand. Perhaps “perhaps” shows that at a given time, our opinions, beliefs, and ideas are just as likely to be right as they are to be wrong.

I smile as I write this. I’m no English teacher. It seems to me that I’m a Thought teacher. It just turns out that English class is the perfect place for some deep thinking. It’s rather silly that after all that thinking, what we’re left with is a “however” (what about some different thinking) and a “perhaps” (what about the thought that our thinking was all wrong – that there’s another possibility here). Enough about English, what about school as a whole? Perhaps many think that school is about gaining knowledge. However, perhaps school is just as useful and even more interesting if instead it’s about turning knowledge inside out – examining it, questioning it, and blasting it apart from all sides. So my fellow thinkers, do with knowledge what you will, and keep some of your most useful tools close at hand – your howevers and your perhapses."

Northeast India

Hopefully you'll excuse the extended hiatus. I've become incredibly disillusioned with blogging an experience that continually seems to become harder and harder to articulate, as well as increasingly more vast with each passing day. Under the weight of what is now half a year of stories, troubles, and joys, it's been a most difficult task to rekindle the energy to sit down and attempt the seemingly (now more than ever) insurmountable task of encapsulating a rather bulging experience. The following is a detailed account of my two week holiday with Keith last December/January through the NE Indian region, less frequented by tourists. I'm not quite sure what I'll do with the proceeding 6 months, but at least something at this point is better than nothing, and as life continues to motor on, following through--in at least in some way--with one's intentions sounds just about where I need to be...

I seem to keep coming up against situations that force me to think about how to deal with larger systems that extend beyond our individual interactions. For instance, when I come across stereotypes that all Americans are smart, beautiful, wealthy, and many times sexually loose/promiscuous, how do I respond? Even if I put effort into it and explain my perspective, many times it seems to do no good, as if stereotypes are carried by a stronger current than an actual person-to-person interaction. It’s pretty easy to tell when someone is simply not understanding an idea that’s trying to be communicated. And it’s not unique to Bangladeshis or those who may not know English well. I believe we hear things through our own perspective to such a degree that more often than not, someone talking at us really just ends up reifying and strengthening our own thoughts and opinions, not those of the speaker. With subjective judgments constituting a perception of the surrounding world, everything around us is a manifestation of the mind rather than an objective representation of the external. Studies must show that our attention during conversation is more often than not elsewhere than dealing with comprehension of the speaker’s words. For better or worse, how we understand what’s around us has a permanent subjective bent, all too often clouded in preconceptions and ideas about the way things should work in order to make sense with what we think we know already. Out of respect, perhaps we play the game of a conversation as if the speaker’s words are actually the focus of our consciousness without physically acknowledging its more whimsical and turbulent stream. For whatever reason--perhaps due to simple behavioral tendencies, perhaps because of a lack of full comprehension of my words (even in people whom we would both deem fluent), perhaps due to a different cultural context where the same idea would rather be expressed in a different way with different words--subjective content of the Bangladeshi 'listener' seems to become apparent in one way or another. Eyes can glaze over, followed by a spouting of an entirely different topic or a regurgitation of a relevant preconception contrary to the point I’m trying to make in addressing stereotypes. Eyes can even remain bright and attentive, but then you might realize that you could be saying anything at all and it would likely make no difference, as perhaps the simple nominative fact that “I’m talking with an *American*” is the major cause for attention, not the content of my speech. Again, experiences like this have told me more about myself than whatever a Bangladeshi is. Conversational consciousness, and by extension perception of our world, are things that perhaps we all share, although cultural context entirely shapes their content. There is no way I can claim that I don’t possess these same perceptual dances that perform in the way a subjective consciousness would, for the sake of its own coherence, for the sake of consistency with ideas and preconceptions that are *thought* to be true. It’s just that now I can see these processes—which we all play—from a different angle, and indeed, it’s a revealing one.

Preconceptions and stereotypes color behavior as much as they do conversations. And again, responding to such strongly embedded currents is both difficult and problematic. For instance, Keith, Christy, a Bangladeshi temple friend, Thomas (a newly-arrived couchsurfer from Croatia), and I were scouting around a massive historical park in Dhaka searching for places and monuments for a Bangla class assignment. The Victory Day (the anniversary of Pakistan’s surrender to Bangladesh in 1971, marking the end of the 9 month liberation war) holiday crowd was thick in the area, and their energy high and at times carefree to the degree of being rowdy. In one particularly claustrophobic minute or two, Christy was groped twice. She physically responded to the second incident by getting him in a headlock. If I had been closer to the situation and realized what was going on, perhaps I would have physically retaliated against him too, but the crowd and commotion prevented me from knowing for sure what was going on. Fantasies swirled in my head afterward about the prospect of me retaliating against his unacceptable act by also responding in a way that would make him a negative example to others. The point is that we want to get the message across that such harassment is not ok. Yet the question always remains if there is actually anything that can be done against such a widespread system. I glimpsed that guy's face as we were pushing our way out of the crowd, he didn't look like he learned a lesson as much as he looked like he had smugly accomplished something. But who knows. The question is, how hard do you try to fix this and communicate yourself because a) to what extent do our actions have any real effect on the larger system (the real problem) that produces the behavior and b) how do we even know his impetus for the groping? If he groped Christy because he takes advantage of opportunistic circumstances when they arise despite the nationality of the victim, that's different than him doing this because of Christy’s foreign nationality coupled with the idea that things may not transpire negatively because of the cinematic conceptualization that white women are sexually loose anyway. If that WERE the case, you have a whole different can of worms to contend with, not only the equal treatment of women and suppression of harassment, but also the perception of foreigners on the whole is at stake. In thinking about how to respond, we also need to acknowledge that our thoughts in one way or another emerge from our specific histories and contexts that shape tendencies in us over time; so, to what degree is it our American-instilled individualism and equal-treatment initiatives that is voicing itself when we boil with anger at such an occurrence because we feel like we HAVE to do something about it? To what degree are such initiatives applicable in this context? Women here are TAUGHT to be passive regarding sexual harassment. Whether this is right or wrong becomes blurry when we consider that by retaliating against harassment occurrences, a female potentially opens the door for future revenge by the culprit, possibly even amounting to reported cases as severe as rape and death. Additionally and more likely as well as direct, there is the image of the female and of her family to contend with. A court case for abuse and getting the police involved, as an example, might be perceived as a substantial taint on the female's image, and by extension her family as well. Even if the abuse were not her fault. For such reasons, no wonder women are taught that the better part of valor is passiveness. But of course that changes nothing. To upset this system, who knows what is required, and who knows if direct retaliation is the best course of action. Then again, who knows if action is even the best idea; my opinions (like the importance of a woman’s vocalization) are as relative as the contrary opinions many here have about the way things should work. And whether admitted or not, such interactions I have with the flow of things here are the result of globalization, a trend that has its own set of complications and issues. Related to this are judgments of value placed in line with a development paradigm that asserts a progression of attitudes, behaviors, customs, and beliefs parallel to how things have played out in other places. The problematic point emerges when we consider that perhaps development trends for one area are most appropriately informed and transformed by the culture and context OF the area, not from ideals and tendencies that emerge from entirely different contexts, peoples, and indeed, other sides of the world.

So, suffice it to say, such a situation must have been quite the experience for Thomas from Croatia. Despite the commotion and crowd, and despite this being his first day outside of Europe, he surprisingly never became overwhelmed. He also surprisingly walked from the airport to Baridhara where he called to find out where we were, followed by a successful navigation of transportation across the city alone. The next day he, Keith, and I went out for lunch. To complete his introduction of the area, Keith suggested that we take him to Movenpick, a Swiss ice cream parlor which had become a popular hang-out among us Fulbrighters. We continued walking down the busy Gulshan road even after we saw that Movenpick was closed; the colorful bright yellow and purple walls of Wonderland emerged in front of us another block down. Keith and I both knew upon sighting it that Thomas’ visit to Dhaka wouldn’t be complete until he sampled the outrageous rides there, including the thrill simulator for both 80s-style roller coasters and batlike flights through repeated blair witch-esque shady forest scenes, the dancing mouse mascot amidst a museum-like display of a primitive nomadic hunting tribe, and the walk-through 3D zoo containing large bulging images of foxes, lions, camels, dinosaurs, and cabbage. On our way to Wonderland’s real life zoo to visit the monkeys and turkey living there, we passed a store that we had made fun of during our last visit. Amidst popcorn stands, rides, souvenir shops, bumper cars, video games, and soda stalls, this small corner shop looked like it sold solely microwaves. We were both nearly past the store, giggling all the while, when I stopped and paused for a moment. I needed microwaves. We were moving from our place in the Baridhara enclave across the city to a new apartment closer to the school we’d teach at. Completely new and unfurnished, buying kitchenware and the like for the flat was on our list of things to do. I stepped in the store to at least investigate the prices. I was sat down and showed a multitude of various houseware items that I could get free of charge if I purchased a set of pots and pans. Evidently the place sold much more than microwaves. With their special offer too good to pass up, we (and several helpers) ended up walking away with an entire set of new pots and pans, a 2-place natural gas burner for them, a set of silverware, Tupperware containers, a toaster, a water heater, a water filter, a water pitcher, a blender, plates, glasses, and last but not least, a microwave. The total came out to about $350.00 USD. With the set of pots and pans already being listed at a price of $250.00 USD, I’d say it was a pretty good deal. The special combination offer with the pots and pans, we found out later, was a special offer for Victory Day. They had 10 sets available, and 8 had already been purchased from the day before. I guess whatever bizarre amusement-park marketing tactic that this brand had actually worked; we made quite a purchase. Interestingly too, had Thomas not showed up from Croatia, we wouldn’t have decided to show him Movenpick, if Movenpick had been open, we wouldn’t have decided to then go to Wonderland and from there take advantage of their special and get just about all the necessities for our apartment in one place. You never know how things will play out I guess. Perhaps if the zoo at the corner of Wonderland had no turkey, it wouldn’t be nearly as interesting, and I wouldn’t have suggested to go. Maybe this was the turkey’s doing.

The fact that soon our Bangla class would end and that I’d be moving to a completely new area never quite struck me. I could intellectualize that; yes, I need to study for the final that’s coming up; yes, I need to pack my things because they all need to be moved across the city; no, you won’t be having Suranjan’s delicious cooking every day anymore; no, you will not be living with all these people that you’ve come to know over the past few months anymore. Aside from Keith that is. Maybe it was how comfortable I’d become where I was in Baridhara, maybe it was how unknown and different my life would be starting from the turn of the year, likely it was a simple lack of time to sit and think; for whatever reason, the sense I had about my last night there, our last class, our final, and our last meal cooked by Suranjan didn’t seem as final as they really were. Every once in a while though I could hear a small voice in the back of my mind: “get ready, not only will the turn of the year present incredibly new challenges, but also the next 2 weeks of holiday vacation will likely turn out to be an adventure like you can’t imagine.”

I spent the afternoon after our final baking again. We Fulbrighters were having a final gathering that evening themed with Christmas crossed with reflections of the past 3 months, and any decent party obviously is graciously accompanied by a fresh batch of apple dumplings and pumpkin pie. Cookies were attempted but didn’t go too far, the small size of the oven combined with a lack of cookie sheets stood as an obstacle. The cook at my friend’s house where I was baking was also friends with our cook, Suranjan, and evidently they must talk about me all the time. Despite us being several blocks away from my apartment, he was able to tell me all about my favorite foods and how much I usually eat of each type of dish. It’s no surprise that Suranjan would discuss me with his friends, I sure did keep him busy; we had also become pretty good friends through the dozen-or-so lazy Saturday mornings that I would spend watching him prepare his magic, taking notes at each step in the process. He sure did bend over backwards for me over the past three months with all the special dishes I’d ask for. Whether or not I’d request foods, he knew that I’d eat a ton at any given lunch and made sure to have ample food on the table everyday despite the outrageous volume of food I’d consume compared to the others. Olinda, Keith, Laule’a, and I agreed that I’d pay about three times as much as each of them for food, but in all honesty I probably was eating about 3 times as much as not one of them, but all of them combined. Hey, if you make it that delicious, I’m going to eat it. With all that said, I was sure to give Suranjan an abundantly healthy tip on our last day; it’s comically certain that if I had not been there that semester, Suranjan would have had only about a third of this semester’s work on his hands.

Evidently my baking this time around was just as delicious as last time. That evening as I was arranging things in my room there was a knock on my room door. Keith had just come back from doing something in the city and had sampled the leftovers. I opened the door and was greeted with wide gazing eyes and a jaw-dropped mouth, a fistful of pumpkin custard in one hand. Keith went on with astonishment about how it was more than likely the best pumpkin pie he’s ever had. Bangladesh is a funny place to learn how to bake. No measuring cups, no temperature markings, few ingredients, and a mandatory march across several blocks to even find an oven.

The next morning I awoke early to offer support to Christy; she had scheduled the vet to come at 8:30 to euthanize her cat, Chum Chum. She had found the white kitten on the street and his rambunctiousness was a playful addition to the apartment until he was accidentally stepped upon and shortly thereafter fell off a bed. Not being able to walk afterward didn’t affect his cuddliness, as his favorite place was always nestled as close to you as possible. A few weekends ago Christy had gone for the weekend, and I had looked after him. During that time he started walking again rigidly. Our hopes were crushed when suddenly for unknown reasons he became completely immobilized again and would cry in pain throughout the night. Our deliberations about putting him down returned and after a few days of seeing his pain the choice was evident. I walked into Christy’s apartment as Christy and Keith were walking out of her room followed by the vet. With red eyes Christy said nothing but “the deed is done.” We wrapped Chum Chum-his tail hair eerily standing on end probably because of rigor mortis--in a cloth and placed him in a basket. Keith and Christy went off to a ghat in the city to release him drifting off into the river.

Coming to my senses of everything that needed to be accomplished in just one short day, I started out early into the city. I was heading to a passport office where I would try to get a 'change of exit permit.' Since Keith and I had bus tickets going to Calcutta by road, I was in conflict with whatever who-knows-why law that claims I have to leave the country by the same mode I came. Although we wouldn’t for sure know whether or not I’d be checked for a change-of-route permit, I didn’t want to take the chance of being turned away at the border, especially since the entry point closest to Calcutta (southwest of Bangladesh) was supposed to be the most strict about it. In any case, I spotted the office on my map, walked to the bus station, and found a bus that would go past it by asking some people. I may have actually only mentioned “passport office” to a few souls. As the bus continued through thick traffic, I drifted off to sleep. I emerged from a dream due to a few distant shouts. The bus was stopped and someone outside was trying to get my attention. As I turned to face the bus’ interior, it was a surprise to be greeted by every single person on board offering a piercing stare. Disoriented, I somehow managed to figure out that the bus had stopped in front of the passport office. Jolting upwards, I hurried off quickly so people wouldn’t be delayed any longer. As I stepped off and the bus pulled away the question jumped into my head…how did that guy know I was going here? And then I got more confused. These buses sometimes don’t even stop fully for people to get on and get off, yet we had all stopped simply for that drowsy foreigner sitting in the back.

The passport office was confusing. Not only were there multiple floors, but I couldn’t quite figure out exactly who I needed to talk to. And I wasn’t about to wait in a long queue just to be advised to go to a different one. I skirted my way around the en-caged waiting windows by going up a floor, going to the other side, and coming down directly into the processing office. I guess that was me being assertive? Eventually I found the right guy and found out I needed passport photos and photocopies. Sigh. Out to the bazaar about a 40 minute’s walk away. It turned out ok that I had no idea where to go; one of the first shops I poked my head into had a customer that owned a shop specifically for photos. With a wide smile and a giggle she ushered me over to the shop as well as accompanied me to the nearby photocopier. While waiting for the photos to develop, a heavy-set man approached me and interrupted another conversation I as having to introduce himself. Guess he was kindof a big deal. I think he expected me to be a ton more excited than I was about the fact that he works in the US. So what work do you do? Pesticide manufacturing. As you might imagine I offered no congratulations.

Back at the passport office it was lunch break and the office was empty. I guess this was turning into an all-day event. I had to pack literally all of my things and leave Baridhara for Calcutta in the evening, but what had to be done had to be done, and all I could do now was wait. Lunch break was over, I was the first in line to offer my documents. And then they needed to be processed. Yep, definitely an all-day affair. I was past the point of being nervous and trying to hurry things along. What would be, would be, and I was having a good enough time watching the office and its workers go through the day. A woman who appeared to be from a far eastern Asian country sat beside me as she waited to receive word on her visa extension. After about an hour of silence, I felt compelled to at least say hello. And what country are you from? North Korea. Bam. All of my attention beamed at her. A lot of my energy had to be invested in keeping my exploding curiosity in check and inhibiting me from overwhelming her with question after question. This still had to be a normal conversation. And the last thing I wanted to do was make her feel abnormal. My pass came. I absentmindedly set it down on the table next to me. It wasn’t at the top of my priority list anymore. Funny how things change like that. The conversation went great. She owns a Korean restaurant which I actually pass by every time I go to pick up mail. I remember her saying that she has seen many foreigners in Pyongyang. When I asked her if people there like Americans her face adopted a somewhat theatrical expression like a teacher would give to a grade school student who offered a wrong answer to a math problem. Combined with a bit of a smile; we both knew the flavor of the answer. “Not sure,” she said, “…with the war and all.” The honesty was refreshing; rightly or wrongly I took positive remarks she’d offer about the country with a grain of salt…not because I *know* what it’s like in North Korea of course, but because I knew it was possible that she was taught to offer certain responses to certain questions to people like me. Who knows. When I asked her where her business profits went, she said that it goes to improving the business and the upkeep of the building and worker’s payments, but that if she 'liked' she could also contribute to projects of the country. I also remember how insistent she was about the commonality between the North and the South, same people, same food, same language. Her suggestions of the likeness between the two countries certainly didn’t echo the recent military activity in the area.

As the sun was setting I gathered up my things (being sure to tuck that silly pass away in my pocket carefully) and bid her a warm farewell, feeling somewhat like an ambassador for whatever reason. I walked away with a fascinating feeling of excitement combined with the satisfaction of being exposed to something that had previously been so completely distant. I arrived back at the apartment with enough time to throw a few large things in the taxi that Keith had hired to take him and his belongings to the new apartment in Mohammadpur across the city. I knew I wouldn’t have time to get everything of my own there, but it was no problem because Christy had poked her head in to see what I was up to and offered for me to keep my stuff in her room before I even thought of that idea. It’s always a treat when Christy is around; with a contagious smile and giggle, she always has something either witty or insightful to say, along with endless captivating stories about the great deal of time she’s spent in Africa. When I think of Christy two instances pop into my head: her habit of slipping candies into my shirt pocket, and that one time she asked me randomly during a conversation after lunch if I wanted to cut her hair. “But I’ve never cut hair before.” Without hesitation Christy replied, “Wanna try?”

Keith and I deliberated over the phone about whether or not he should come back to Baridhara from Mohammadpur with the taxi and pick me up before going to the bus station or whether we should just meet each other there. Since neither of us knew exactly where to go, I was relieved that I had convinced him that it’d be best to swing by me first. We’d pray that we could get to the bus station in time. I remember starting out my travels in India 5 months ago similarly with Melissa; we almost missed our first train. (And now that I think of it, I flat out missed my flight to Chicago before I flew onward to Delhi). In any case, I resorted to stuffing my things in bags and shoving them in a corner of Christy’s room rather than actually going through and packing. I left our apartment still decorated for our Halloween party, cobwebs covering the place. Rasel, our groundskeeper, said he’d be able to take care of it. With some quick goodbyes to John, Christy, and the helping hands in the apartment garage (Biz and Laule’a had already left for the US), I made it outside just as Keith arrived, and I piled into the taxi with my two bags of stuff for our 2 week trip (mostly clothes, I expected we’d be in some pretty cold places). As we were about to leave, Christy handed us a bag she had prepared from the Christmas goodies her Mom had sent with her boyfriend who had arrived from the US earlier that day to travel with Christy during the holiday. Chocolates and colorfully-iced sugar cookies hit the spot. And just like that, I was moved out of our place from the last 3 months, finished with Bangla class, and on my way to an adventure through NE India with Keith.

It sure did help having a taxi drive us so we didn’t have to contend with asking around for the city bus stand. Although knots grew in our stomach about making the bus on time, after we had arrived we found out the bus would be an hour late. After eating a plate of noodles at a Chinese restaurant, we boarded the international Green Line bus heading toward Calcutta. The interior was the most comfortable I’ve ever seen a bus have, with soft beige leather seating, soft lighting, nearly flat reclining chairs, and ample leg room. It smelled of a fresh hotel room. Sitting in the back, Keith and I had a good view of the back bus window behind us. One half of it was heavily cracked and bent inward, being prevented from shattering by smudgings of black tar. Somehow it wasn’t very noticeable, but I did make the mental note of contrast to everything else beautiful about the bus. Keith and I feel asleep relatively quickly, the cushy air-suspension absorbing all shocks from the road, making it feel as if we were gliding on air. We loaded on and off of a ferry but I didn’t notice. Then the baby. Oh my God. That kid. Piercing incessant shrieks continued for at least 45 minutes, the shrillness shooting up your spine with every cry. I guess there’s not much more to do but sit, I mean, what can you do? Toss it out the window? I considered the possibility. Don’t get me wrong, I know I’ve had my share of tantrums as a child. What that probably meant though is that I deserved a few more tosses out the window.

On a related note—and perhaps it’s an inappropriate generalization—but children from more advantaged backgrounds always seem to cry harder. I haven’t seen children in poverty cry like that for…no reason. It’s all too easy to notice dissatisfaction, whining, and wailing tantrums in children dressed up like frilly dolls in shiny shoes, begging their jewelry make-up moms and smart suited dads to go back to that toy store we just passed. That kind of behavior amongst children in poverty only seems to happen if…well…I don’t remember seeing a kid in poverty as unhappy as some of these chubby whining brats. Now think about who we call privileged. Although I’ve never lived in poverty, I am well aware of the problems associated with satisfaction sought through consumerism. I guess that means that all that glitters is not gold. And unfortunately with consumerism on the rise in this rapidly developing country, we’re all looking for what glitters, for what the “privileged” own. What that ends up amounting to is a combination of unrealistic goals and failed expectations. The finish line is disguised as a new purchase, but hidden under the glittery veil is the contorted, wailing face of a fashion child, tears rolling down chubby cheeks, a show that suggests there is simply nothing worse on this planet than to have my demands not met.

So the next morning the bus stopped at Benapole, a town on the border at a crossing that is heavily frequented between India and Bangladesh. I noticed when stepping off the bus that my feet barely fit in my sandals; when I looked closer, they were visibly inflamed. It was a curious condition to have, and interesting to look at. It must have been caused by being reclined--but not flat--for so long, perhaps 14 hours? We spent some time talking to locals and looking around while we waited for a jeep to take us to the actual border. It was exciting to feel close to India. Familiar Indian chip , cracker, and cookie brands filled small snack shops, and seeing these yielded the first wave of realization that soon I would be back. The process of crossing the border itself was rather confusing, shuffling between places to fill out forms, pay exit taxes, wait, etc. I wasn’t too excited when our passports were walked off for a few minutes with by some official; to whatever degree though, you just need to go with the flow. And if you’d rather have things work out another way, humbly go about it; if trouble emerges, you play the most helpful card of all: the unaware and apologetic tourist. We were ready to play this tactic during, really, most of the next 2 weeks. I would have been ready to claim my ignorance then if someone had caused a fuss at me walking right past the customs x-ray machine (I always do that), but no trouble. I would have been ready to claim ignorance at the desk official stamping our passports if he requested a change-of-route permit (to exit by land but having come by air) if I hadn’t had the patience to wait at that Dhaka passport office the day before, but I had that form tucked away in the pocket just in case. The official was beaming at us and barely paid much attention to our passports; he was more interested in the fact that we were there and, most especially, that we knew some Bangla. Small talk isn’t my thing, especially when you receive whoops and hollers for simply saying “How are you?” To me, that got old about 3 months ago. Good thing Keith is a great chatter. So, I let him do his thing, a common theme during the next two weeks. And it worked like a charm. I guess a card better than “dumb tourist” is actually “small talk Bangla.” Yep, I bet a few silly sentences made more processes easier for us than we realize. In any case, the border official continued beaming at us without requesting my change-of-route permit. I guess it was a ‘right place, right time’ thing or perhaps I took Lonely Planet’s warnings too seriously that this border was notorious for change-of-route hassle. Then, right past the Bangladesh gate and into India we went.

- India-Bangladesh Benapole border

The entry process on the other side was equally disjointed; our passports got stamped without us knowing, then we requested to go back to the office to have them stamped, the guy ushering us through this got mad because we didn’t trust him, etc. We were surprised to see that everyone on our journey to Calcutta needed to buy another bus ticket; the one we had gotten only went as far as Benapole. Rupee-less, a few USD I had tucked away in my pouch proved useful at an exchange booth. We bought some oranges (which would also be a theme the next two weeks), and boarded the bus to Calcutta.

After a brief stop at a tasty roadside dhaba for lunch, we arrived in the busy city later that afternoon. We decided to head to Keith’s friend’s house where he had last left his auto rickshaw. What we were hoping to do was pick up the vehicle and head north to the Darjeeling area, then go as far east and south as we could, circumnavigating Bangladesh, until we found a border crossing that would allow us to enter without a carnet pass for the vehicle, the reason why Keith was denied at Benapole coming to Bangladesh 3 months ago. One of the workers on the bus was heading in the same direction, so we followed him to a shared taxi stall through all sorts of streets and markets, clipping along all the while. It was bewildering to suddenly be absorbed in Calcutta’s familiar energy, this time accented by the occasional Christmas decorations like massive paper mache golden bells hanging outside shopping malls and Santa Clauses in shop windows. I guess store owners here knew the Christmas season has become the perfect marketing technique. The street food was also highly visible to me, morsals not as readily available in Dhaka. No time to snack though, our guide was booking along. The smells of incense, the spicy, salty, tangy taste of that street food I had been craving, even the array of sweetness and pungency in Indian paan reflected a difference between India and Bangladesh that for me is hard to miss. Keith offered the perfect word: more sensual. Bangladesh had its own interesting and unique facets, but I could certainly sense that there was a part of me that was now charged with excitement to have been awakened once again.

The driver of our shared taxi ride to the south of the city chatted so loudly and jovially that it was difficult to figure out whether or not he was joking. After a quick stop at an ATM, Keith and I were walking down an open road to the house of his friend, Pajarini. Night had settled in and it was difficult to see too far ahead, just the brick walls with painted mobile phone service provider advertisements immediately to our side. Keith commented how it was strange to be walking down the exact same road in the exact same city (Calcutta of all places) on Christmas Eve for the second year in a row. He had been here before because he, Pajarini, and many others were spending their winter holiday driving north up through West Bengal conducting projects based on anti-human trafficking (of which India is one of the most grievous offenders in the world).

Pajarini had just arrived from a trip to Sikkim in the far north of India. Lacking phone reception in those mountainous areas, we had been unable to warn her of our arrival. The events that followed somewhat confused me. Pajarini became remarkably frustrated that we had arrived unannounced; after we explained that we didn’t expect to stay, just to see where the auto rickshaw was that Keith had left there 3 months ago, she disappeared for a few minutes and with little apology in her voice explained that she didn’t know where it was. Evidently it had been removed from their garage (maybe for space reasons) and then removed from the street because of legal parking issues. We were all unaware of where whatever pound it could be at or even if it was still in one piece. Something also about how her father might know but he was unreachable until tomorrow? Keith remained remarkably unphased and offered no flavor of demand that we figure out its location. My eyes gazed back and forth between them, trying to figure out what the story was. Keith turned to me at one point and said “Well, you win some, you lose some.” Evidently our journey had suddenly completely changed: instead of driving around Bangladesh with the goal of entering the country, we were now on the scout for whatever transportation came our way for whatever destination struck our whimsy for the next 2 weeks.

After an hour or so Pajarini became confusingly interested in spending time with us during our night in Calcutta despite the work for something she had to do. However, with no strings attached to the south of the city anymore, Keith and I took a shared auto rickshaw to a famous temple he needed to visit again. Over a meal of street Chinese fast food (varieties not found in Bangladesh that I was keen on getting my hands on) we decided to see if we could make it to a noteworthy church for a Christmas Eve service. The famous St. Paul’s Cathedral was renowned to be inconceivably crowded that evening. At a church we stopped at that was preparing for a singing service in an hour, I suddenly realized how driven I felt to access the music that this season had without fail brought forth to me every year until now. I wanted the carols, I wanted the hymnals, I wanted the organ accompaniment. Although I was fairly certain that such a desire was impossible to be fulfilled, feeling that craving was a really powerful experience that, looking back, was just as exciting.

One of Keith’s other friends, Sanjit, from a year ago met us at that church and after chatting for some time we decided to head to a larger church, St. Thomas, for their midnight service. The service was indeed crowded but at least there were seats available. The interior was massive and wide; many hundreds of people were inside, although it was difficult to see everything past the thick stone ceiling support columns that we sat near. I did spend quite a bit of time admiring the loft in the back, large enough for a choir and the first pipe organ I’ve seen in South Asia. I think I heard it faintly playing when we had just entered, but unfortunately for the rest of the service its music remained absent in favor of the blaring electric keyboard imposing its hip hop tinny beats that might make you want to move your hips from side to side. At least the choir had one or two nice numbers, none of which however satiating the desire I had for a semblance of traditional music. So I spent my time gazing at various congregation members. It was jarring to see that Christmas Eve church service’s garment-of-choice was just as easily a sari as anything else. As I noticed the dozens of foreigners present (a startling sight; I probably hadn’t seen this many foreigners in one place since being in the US) I wondered what kind of longed-after Christmas customs they were feeling the need for, if any. The three of us having nearly fallen asleep several times throughout the service, we left before communion.

On the street outside Sanjit suggested that we go to one of his friend’s Christmas parties, and seeing no issue, Keith and I happily tagged along. This girl’s apartment was at the top story of a multi-story complex and boasted a roof-patio--lined with hundreds of potted plants--from which you could gaze all around onto the massive residential area. The apartment itself hosted likely hundreds of chatty people, a booze table that people couldn’t seem to get enough of, and a loud flashy dance floor. Seeing alcohol was completely striking; I had grown 100% accustomed to its absence in Bangladesh, and even if I saw an advertisement on the street side for alcohol in India, I would do a double-take and ask myself silently if they were allowed to do that before reminding myself that it was indeed legal here. Any time I went down in the apartment I didn’t seem to meet anyone interesting, so I spent most of my time on the roof, as did Keith. Moreover, there was a huge bowl of Chinese spiced chicken pieces and sweet and sour sauce there that I had no shame indulging myself in. Our host surprisingly spent much of her time there too, all of us chatting with the dozen or so friends up there. Most were in college and had just come back from their semester for winter break. Several were attending universities in either the US or Canada. It was interesting to compare an experience like this to the experiences I would have with my friends during winter break in Wexford, more than likely in our basement sharing stories over cheese, chips, and sliced turkey breast. Despite obvious differences here, I wondered what winter break meant for these guys, if we looked forward to it in similar ways, appreciated it for its social time and break from schoolwork perhaps. Growing tired, I fell asleep on the canopied bed (yes, on the roof) as conversations continued beside me. Eventually there was a stir to figure out where Keith, Sanjit, and I would spend the night. Although we were offered to stay there, we eventually thought it most comfortable to head back to Sanjit’s house where there was space for us in his room.

I drifted slowly out of sleep the next morning. I bet a small side-of-the-mouth grin came upon my face at some point in time. This wasn’t like any Christmas morning I had ever had, that was for sure. I opened my eyes and woke up to see that Keith and Sanjit had already left the room. As I slowly stood up, feet tingling to be stood on again, I stepped out into the living room and glanced at a newspaper on the coffee table. The name on the front was unfamiliar to me, and I became confused as to why it wasn’t titled “The Daily Star” like I was used to seeing in Bangladesh. Within about 1.5 seconds my confusion led me to believe I wasn’t in Bangladesh anymore but another country. But then I became more confused…how had I made it to another country? I reasoned that I was in India but a tinge of confusion still nestled itself in the back of my mind. That was a weird 1.5 seconds. Christmas morning and you entirely forget where you are. After the fact, it dawned on me that what had been so confusing was lack of memory of a plane flight. Of the four times I’ve entered India, this was the first I hadn’t flown in. Similarly, it didn’t quite subconsciously register that I could have left Bangladesh without a flight involved. Calcutta and Dhaka were then drawn tangibly close in my mental geography because I had actually traveled the distance rather than flown; flights are funny limbo-like LaLa land things, you’re neither here nor there nor anyplace at all, just in transit.

I was the last to eat breakfast. I think it was roti flatbread and chickpea salad. Tasty, but comically different from the stocking chocolates and grandma’s nut roll that Christmas morning usually brought. I remember the water I used to shower with from the bucket being icy cold. By the end of the next two weeks, the sensation of pouring cups of piercingly wintery water over my dry, warm body would be something I’d grow accustomed to. After a quick conversation with Sanjit’s parents and several ‘thank yous’, Keith, our bags, and I made our way onto the raucous street outside. Keith wore a green and red elf cap, a contrast with our surroundings that I couldn’t help but giggle at. Every once in a while a squealey kid would dash up to us and shout “Merry Christmas!”

Eventually we found our way to an autorickshaw which took us to the main intercity bus stand. There we found out (and easily so with the two men that fiercely guided us as soon as we entered the bus stand gate) that the next bus to Siliguri (from where we could go to Darjeeling) left in the late afternoon and traveled overnight. Keen on seeing as much of the tourist-neglected northeast India as possible, heading north to the Darjeeling area seemed like an obvious first step, from where we’d head eastward above Bangladesh. After buying our tickets we both decided to spend the afternoon separately in ways that—now that I think about it—reflect our individual interests. Keith made his way to a temple that he heard about from one of the Hindu holymen that reside at the famous Kali Mandir in Shahbag, Dhaka, and I made my own way to scout around for some chaat street food. Our unique but succinct interests comically emerge in contrast from time to time. The other day we both looked at the same honey jar. Keith saw that the company name was that of a long-ago holy prophet; I saw that it was brewed from the pollen of mustard flowers. Perhaps one of the most telling exchanges we've had, both brief and profound, I remember having some time ago: "You know Keith, I think I really can understand your interest in these spiritual endeavors, spirituality is food for the soul, you know." "Funny you'd say that, Matt, because I'd say that eating food is a spiritual experience."

I first took the subway to a station near the massive St. Paul’s cathedral so I could at least get a glimpse of it (my curiosities had grown since hearing the day before how famous it was during the Christmas season). After a stop at a food vendor that I remember having visited before during a previous bout in Calcutta, I found my way to the cathedral’s front gate…jam packed with several hundred people. Maybe they were kept from entering to ease congestion from the cathedral's actual main grounds. Whatever the case, I was fine simply viewing the massive white cathedral from a distance and imagining an organ inside. Evidently the planetarium is also the place to be on Christmas day; I noticed just as many people waiting to get inside there as I walked away from the Cathedral. The Christmas mood was slightly broken by a guard violently shouting at a crowd member. Meandering in the general direction I thought the bus station was, and aided by random people I felt like asking, I weaved about the sidewalk’s thousands of shoulder to shoulder passers-by, going who-knows-where to do who-knows-what on their day off, maybe just to peruse through the dozens of sidewalk shoe, handbag, and toy trinket vendors. I remember stopping at an orange juice stand before making a call to Mom, Dad, and Eric. Although it was early in their morning, I knew they’d be up because their plan was to visit a homeless shelter in Pittsburgh to feed breakfast to the people there. Mom was whipping up dozens of eggs, Eric was lazily emerging from sleep, Dad was getting ready for work, and I was threading my way through tiny spaces between hundreds of Calcutta’s sidewalk goers. Merry Christmas!

Before going back to the bus station I made a quick stop at a shoe store I had been in before. I was wearing the pair of cushy rubber sandals I had bought from there 2 years ago, but since then the cush had worn out. Despite searching across Bangladesh in the same brand name store, evidently this particular store in Calcutta was the only one that carried the model that had become my favorite. Just where I had remembered going, right in the back right-hand corner of the store, 2 dusty pairs of my sandals remained on the bottom rack, probably still there from 2 years ago. Normally I’m all about trying new things, but this size and model fit like a glove. Who knows, in another two years, after the cush is worn out again, perhaps I’ll have to go back to my shop in Calcutta to get the last remaining pair.

Keith and I met up at the bus stand just before it departed. Unfortunately Keith had spent the day in traffic and only got a few minutes to see the temple (however it turned out to be a good time for him to get caught up on reading). Our bus was the first sleeper bus that I’d been on; the interior was two levels of flat compartments on each side of the aisle, each compartment sleeping two. Keith and I were up on the top in the back corner, with a good view of the outside perched up there as we pulled away. It’s a fascinating feeling reclining flat like that on a moving, turning, bouncing bus, and for quite some time I couldn’t keep from giggling. At that time it was normal Christmas hours in the US, and I phoned the grandparents along with an aunt and uncle before the phone ran out of minutes. Exiting Calcutta from the north, we passed by the city’s developing high-rise, gentrified suburb area. Keith talks all the time about how India is developing like crazy, and that area proved it. There were whole minutes at a time that I couldn’t keep from gaping at some of the massive housing complexes, some even resembling skyscrapers. The area was sprawled out, eerily contrasting with the density of Calcutta. It seemed like the whole expanse was just made for the periodic housing complex, shopping complex, and of course, billboards the size of football fields to aid the propagation of this new area’s product consumption. Too bad this sprawl is what we think of when we call an area ‘developing.’

That night it was difficult to sleep. Eventually we were outside of Calcutta’s road system and rocketing down less-maintained spotty roads. I could say the bus was bouncing or bumping over the road’s holes, but it’s more appropriate to say banging and slamming. Our jarring and jerking was so severe that I was more concerned about keeping my head from rocketing into the ceiling rather than staying in one spot in the compartment. Additionally, our window would slide open in the commotion easily, letting in gushes of frigid air. I laughed pretty hard at my sorry attempts to put on any clothes that I could get out of my bag, in the darkness of a compartment that was too small to sit up in, being thrashed around all the while and constantly off balance. The experience was somewhat like riding a roller coaster all night, one specifically designed to toss you about in a small, dark, cold space. In all honestly--despite the horrifying (yet accurate) description--it was a complete blast and also was pretty hilarious at some points. Towards early morning I became too fatigued to care anymore and drifted off to sleep for a few hours. We stopped briefly at a town for a bathroom and breakfast (aka bag of Indian Cheetos) break. Squeezing out of the compartment, I got each leg one by one onto the aisle, completely trashed with bags thrown about from the night’s journey. I must have looked just as messy emerging from the bus, hair all over the place, several layers of clothes inside out, and more and likely not able to walk completely straight. When I boarded the bus again, I was surprised to see a family with several small children in a compartment, snacking on a small breakfast. Never once during our night adventure did I hear crying. As a matter of fact, despite the small children, the only sound I remember aside from the bus’ banging were my periodic giggles. Perhaps the kids were knocked unconscious? It’s just silly that our air-suspension glide-on-a-cloud bus ride from Dhaka to Calcutta was accompanied by murderous shrieks from a child on board, but our shockless demon thrasher bus had a family with children content enough not only to stay completely silent, but to give me wide smiles as I glanced at them on my way back to my compartment.

- The sleeper bus

A few hours later we had arrived in Siliguri. Parked right next to our bus was a jeep getting loaded up for a trip to Darjeeling, and we conveniently tagged along. Riding out of Siliguri, the terrain quickly rose steeper and steeper, until the rode couldn’t go straight anymore but curved back and forth, the vast scenery opening up on one side of the jeep, then the other after another turnabout. We stopped at a small restaurant for lunch. Over rice, red vegetable curry, and the best onion slices I’ve ever tasted, our drivers enthusiastically introduced us to our first phrases in their mother language, Nepali. Our jeep ride continued up and up and up winding roads with ever-far-reaching mountain views visible. During the whole stretch of road we were on, there were always small train tracks as well, curving their way. Initially, this small British-installed train route, the Darjeeling Himalayan Railway, was the main way to get to Darjeeling. I think the tracks are too badly damaged to use for the whole trek up to Darjeeling, but we certainly saw the train running in Darjeeling itself, I guess providing transport within the city as well as serving as a tourist thrill ride.

Darjeeling itself rests on terrain just about as steep as our jeep journey, but somehow it’s an entire city. Riding along the road, every once in a while you’ll catch a glimpse of the mountain face opening up past the cracks between buildings. The roads wind about shops, guest houses, colorful flagged temples, grey brick homes, colonial structures like a stone church with a steeple, and even a shopping mall. Jeeps are the vehicle of choice, powerful enough to traverse the hilly areas, but accompanied by choking paths of diesel exhaust in their wake.

Our drivers welcomed us to Darjeeling by buying us tea at the jeep stand, a warm delight in the air cold enough to see your breath in. Shortly thereafter, we decided to meet some of their friends and ride further past the city into the hills for more tea and great views.

Eventually darkness settled in and our drivers were on their way back to Siliguri; we exchanged numbers though with some of the people they introduced us to and we agreed to meet for dinner after Keith and I found a place to stay for the night. Scouting around several places we eventually settled on one of the oldest guest houses (if not the oldest) in town, graced with colonial architecture like tall paned glass windows, creaky wooden floors, and stone fireplaces. Our bed was deeply comfortable too, with thick blankets.

Just outside at the plaza-like intersection sporting a big fountain in the middle, we met up again with 3 new friends we had met through our jeep drivers. That evening we went to a restaurant that Keith knew about for dinner. It was late and the power to the area was off so I remember it being quite dark. At the restaurant we sat in a private booth, although there were only 1 or 2 others there in the restaurant anyway. In dim light Keith and I sat on one side and the 3 girls on the other. It was a fascinating exchange; the girls kept silent most of the time but giggled quite a bit. Keith mostly just kept smiling at them and asking periodic questions. I remember soaking up the uniqueness of the situation. Not only were our three friends girls about our age (normally you only come across other guys when traveling in South Asia), but their facial features suggested a heritage more in line with Mongolian ancestry rather than what I had traditionally considered ‘Indian’. Moreover, they were dressed in jeans and makeup, not the traditional female attire and salwars that you usually come across, and they adopted a somewhat reserved demeanor, contrasting with the active and sometimes rambunctious energy that I was used to throughout the rest of the country. There in that dimly lit restaurant with sink water stingingly frigid (again, where are we?), making tiny conversation over Tibetan-influenced food, there was no way I felt like I was still in India, or South Asia for that matter.

After a chilly walk back and an invitation for breakfast at one of the girl’s houses the next morning, Keith and I went back to the room, also brisk, like the interior of a locked up quaint museum in the middle of a winter night. After throwing on a few more layers of clothing, crawling into that large cushy bed under those heavy blankets couldn’t have felt sweeter.

I had slept so deeply that I was confused when I woke up the next morning, sunrays shining in through the curtained, majestically tall windows. After reminding myself of where I was and finally forcing myself from the warm folds of the bed onto the icy wood floors, Keith emerged from the bathroom having already showered. And stepping into the bathroom afterward, a look of deep concern must have flooded my face when--running my hands under the water filling the bucket--I realized the hot water was gone. All that was left was the water deeply chilled from the cold night before. But I hadn’t showered in a few days, and that evening we were planning on leaving Darjeeling, so I knew it’d be best to take advantage of the shower while I had it. Gritting my teeth and grimacing, like getting into a pool step by step, I poured a little bit of water over part of my arm, then more of my arm, then my shoulder, etc, etc. Shivering and stiff, I soaped myself off and rinsed. After the body is already wet, the rest of the shower isn’t that bad. Suffice it to say, I was happy to put on some clothes afterward.

I was stopped in my tracks at the first step out of our room onto the stone walkway that led back to the lobby. A massive mountain view extended forever, with much of Darjeeling visibly looping around part of the range. In the far distance to the right, you could see the mountains extend upward toward the sky becoming white with snow. The highest ice-capped peak among the range is named Khangchendzonga, India’s highest peak and the world’s third tallest mountain.

- Views from the guest house room

Our three friends met us and directed us to one of their houses, just a five minute talk away. Descending down some steps, we entered into a concrete home with 2 rooms, a kitchen, and a bathroom under the stairwell. Just big enough for the 3-or-so mothers there and several children. The two or three windows of the house were on one face and offered a magnificent bright view of a mountain valley range; the other face of the house was built into the steeply sloping ground. I watched Paro, one of our friends, over her shoulder in the tightly packed kitchen as she prepared the food, frying eggs and tossing spices (like chili and ginger) and chopped tiny potatoes into heated oil. While I was in the kitchen, Keith was in one of the bedrooms talking with the ladies. Of course, when I say talking, I really mean mostly smiling and laughing; Keith and I only knew a few words of Nepali (the common language) and no one really spoke Bangla. No wonder there is a movement in Darjeeling to form a state separate from West Bengal; as you can imagine, the place sure didn’t feel like the same state that Calcutta was in. Actually, the area must be more similar to the neighboring country, Nepal, than to its own state in India.

Keith and I were served and ate alone at a table in one room. Breakfast included the spicy, gingery potatoes, a bowl of vegetable soup, a thermos of hot water, and an endless supply of grilled egg sandwiches. Good thing I was hungry. Think of grilled cheese, but with fried egg, and instead of cheese, yak butter. I slathered that stuff on like I didn’t even care. When they saw I liked it, they brought out a whole 2 liter jar of it. The yak butter was firmly solid and brown in color; it had a warm, mellow taste that somehow reminded me a bit of coffee and was accented with a faint caramel-like sweetness. After dumping a chunk onto a fresh warm grilled egg sandwich, it would quickly melt, sending milky brown rivers through the crevasses and down the sides. And the sandwiches kept coming, and kept coming. Keith started to give me his after a while. Again, lucky I was hungry, I must have had about 5 of them.

- Our breakfast hosts

With full bellies wallowing in a heavy greasy richness that I knew would satisfy me for the rest of the day, the 5 of us walked down the street to a temple on a hill top. In a striking convergence between Hindu and Buddhist faiths, incense lingered, deity temples sat, and clanging worship bells chimed all beneath tens of thousands of colorful prayer flags strung all across the area from hundreds of tied ropes having no particular order.

After observing a puja for a while, we descended the steps and were back on our way through the busy Darjeeling streets, lined most noticeably with gift shops, quaint eateries, and tea shops. I noticed several other foreigners too as we walked to a Tibetan cultural center I had read about in Lonely Planet. Perhaps because of the visible Buddhist aura of the place, I was struck with the desire to gather more information about their Tibetan language classes. From there we walked to the outskirts of Darjeeling’s main area (although temples and random shops dot the main road for tens of kilometers outside of the city) to a famous large Buddhist gompa (basically monastery) where 300 monks reside. As we ascended the steep concrete walkway up to the main gompa, we passed a few robed monks, about our age, scurrying their way down to the main road to catch the smoky, whistling, diesel toy train heading in the direction of main Darjeeling. The main meditation hall at the gompa was the largest and most colorful I’ve ever seen. Being able to fit hundreds of people, the hall consisted of lined desks, a massive Buddha statue (accompanied with various other idols and accessories) on one side, and large square columns in the middle of the hall directing your gaze upward at the towering ceiling. Every inch of ceiling, wall, and pillar space was covered in ornate colorful paintings and mandalas, an accent of red reaching every corner. We spent some time at the gompa’s canteen over fried noodles and tea. At one point I halfway ascended some steps outside to glance at a rooftop soccer game being played amongst maroon-robed energetic teenage monks. I tossed the ball back up at them on my way back down; it had rocketed off the roof, ricocheted off a wall, and finally stopped in the canteen’s courtyard.

Back at the main road, we didn’t feel much like paying for a jeep back into town. Our deliberation only lasted for some time; a truck with 2 large black plastic water tanks in the back stopped, and we asked if we could join them into Darjeeling. With only one road having two directions, we knew it was headed where we were going too. Keith and I offered enthusiastically to climb in the back truck bed with the water tanks and leave the space in the actual truck for the girls. Our open-air ride was a blast and offered much better scenery of the mountains and town than you get crammed into a diesel jeep. Briefly taking out the camera to record the ride, I was sure to keep my hand over it; every once in a while at a bump in the road water would slosh its way over the top of the tank and splash us.

Back in Darjeeling we stopped for tea at an English breakfast eatery. Before leaving Darjeeling, might as well take advantage of a tea opportunity. Especially when the restaurant is on a rooftop overlooking the area and also offers pistachio/almond milkshakes. On our way back to the house where we had breakfast (having left our bags there), we stopped at a gift store to pick up a string of prayer flags (now gracing my room in Dhaka), and Keith visited an ATM. While waiting, I slipped into a bookstore and found a whole display of Dalai Lama books. After how much I had enjoyed some of his previous books (such as The Universe in a Single Atom) during my time at the 10-day Buddhism and meditation introduction in Dharamsala, I was keen on picking a few more up. Along with a book about the grand theory of the universe by Stephen Hawking. Paro stopped us at a street food vendor where her grandmother was working. With a beaming aged face, she offered us fried vegetable patties and battered chicken legs. After some heartfelt goodbyes and offering our best wishes for our friends’ beauty school education (of which Paro missed a class or two to roam around with us), we gathered our bags and went to the jeep stand to meet our drivers from the day before who we had called to meet again. The girls accompanied us all the way until we were driving away. As we approached the jeep stand, Paro bought me some paan for the journey; she had seen me chewing it before.

Although Keith and I were the only passengers in the jeep initially (excitedly getting the front row too), we picked up more passengers on our way out of Darjeeling until the jeep was full. Darkness descended and soon all that was visible was the headlit windy, rocky, dusty road in front of us, faint specks of light from the mountain basin to our side from distant houses, and the flashy music player in the dashboard. Rather early on in our 3 hour journey, one of the tires flattened. It only required a 20 minute stop at a roadside wooden repair shack where the wheel’s inside rubber tube was glued and patched in 2 places, the second we found by submerging it under water to see where tiny bubbles came out.

Back in Siliguri (and back on level ground after having descended from the mountains), the jeep drivers took us to the city’s bus stand. We were looking for a way to get to the capital of Assam, Guwahati, in our first bout eastward over the top of Bangladesh. Buses didn’t leave until the next morning, so we got directions to the train station (New Jalpaiguri) and caught a shared auto rickshaw there after bidding our jeep drivers goodbye, who we had become good friends with during our trip. We were able to get a ticket for Guwahati, but they weren’t selling sleeper class. Because it was overnight, we pressed the ‘TTE Officer’ for a class change. After the train had arrived he told us some empty berth numbers and just like that, we had a flat surface to lie on for the night. Although for some reason the man in the berth under me requested that the compartment light stay on because his mother was sick, and despite the cold, I slept quite well. I always seem to sleep well on trains. It also helped that I bundled up with several layers of shirts and several layers of pants.

- The top of a train extending into the distance, taken from an overhead walkway

In the early morning Keith suggested that we get off at the station just before Guwahati, at Kamakhya, in order to visit a famous but less-foreigner-frequented Hindu holy site, one of the 52 Shakti Peeths. We heard it was about 7 km from the train station, so we decided against the overpriced auto rickshaws in favor of walking. On our way, a shirtless Shadhu (Hindu ascetic holy man) approached us and with fiery energy and a booming voice rambled off a monologue about something. Although it was in English I couldn’t understand. He accompanied us on our journey to the temple. After about half an hour of walking, we faced the road leading to the temple area, ascending up a low mountain. With our bags becoming heavy, the bus that we caught up to the top was certainly welcomed. As we got off the bus, it wasn’t difficult to see which way the temple complex was. This place was heavily visited by Hindu pilgrims, and people were channeling themselves to the entrance, up a gently stepped marble walkway lined with colorful shops selling puja items like thread bracelets, small clay lanterns, incense, and multitudes of various crumbly sugary prasad candies.

- Keith and the sadhu

Upon entering the temple complex, our shirtless sadhu bolted ahead of us, following the queue line for the main temple but scurrying past the people patiently waiting—of which there were hundreds if not thousands—in a line that was not moving. Although we think he expected us to follow him, neither of us was interested at the time. For the next 3 hours or so Keith and I split up to pursue what we wanted; I remained around the area of the shop where we left our stuff to read, try to nap, watch people, etc., and Keith went into the temple area to take care of business that although I forget now, I remember it being important and having something to with a part of the temple deep underground.

After that we explored a bit outside of the main temple part. Descending the marble walkway a bit, Keith’s eye caught some small old temples that he had heard about. I felt like it’d be best for me to wait with our stuff on the stone steps for some time while Keith stepped into the temple. I remember a talkative and engaging girl with chewed white coconut pieces stuck in some of her teeth approach me and ask a few energetic questions. Keith emerged and struck up a conversation with 2 sadhu holy men relaxing in the temple’s courtyard under a tree, preparing their chillum pipe. Soon Keith waved me over and we all met. Keith also suggested that I visit the two small stone temples there and explained that they were devoted to egolessness. His tone, not his words, somehow explained the uniqueness of the temples. Both were similarly, but neither had a structure that I’d ever seen a Hindu temple have before. After walking through a main pillared flat stone area, you entered into a dark room to notice dim flickers from faint candlelight about 20-25 feet below ground level deep inside. Carefully descending dozens of steep steps, barely visible, finally you reach the bottom, a hard-to-describe dim chamber with a sitting area, puja accessories, and a small water pool. Suffice it to say, an appropriate-feeling place to think about ego loss.

After re-emerging and chatting for some time with the sadhus, the aged sadhu dressed in green pants, an orange sweater jacket, and a yellow bandana suggested we visit a nearby temple dedicated to Ganesha. Although maybe eccentric, his simply-hearted friendliness was as much a part of his face as his wrinkles and one-toothed mouth. And his sporty yellow bandana. Taking the recommendation, without any alternate goals in mind, we ate some lunch at a nearby place and found afterward at the Ganesh temple a long motionless line. I felt happy to soak in any experience that we were going to have, and plus our sadhu—sitting at the base of the steps watching our bags—was really excited for us to visit it. Waiting in line reminded us of being at an amusement park, and you could tell how devoted these people were around us to be so patient for so long. At a few points in time the faint mantra chanting and bell clanging from the temple was pierced by desperate screeches, eerily reminiscent of a human baby’s, coming from a young goat being taken to the sacrifice block. No one flinched at the audible blunt chop that ended its cry, although I wondered if any were as uncomfortable as I was. Kamakhya is known for its number of goat sacrifices, a symbol of its venerated god’s fertility, especially during holy times. In the main complex, dozens of goats can be seen roaming around or tied loosely to poles. The majority of Lonely Planet’s commentary on Kamakhya actually is about the sacrifices, and describes the interior of the main temple being warm and sticky with fresh blood. Keith had a disbelieving “what?” look on his face when I told him that, he hadn’t seen that inside the temple; perhaps Lonely Planet was being a bit overdramatic for a flashy tourist pitch. In any case, on some level I think the holy meaning of the sacrifices is lost through the eyes of foreigners and perhaps that’s why the place doesn’t see too many Western guests.

Before the main part of the Ganesha temple, we passed the sacrifice block, entrails and skin pushed off to one side, which was back-dropped by hundreds and hundreds of incense sticks poking out of mounds of ash as well as a huge floor space solely dedicated to tiny clay oil lamps that devotees would light. In the main temple, you would go up one by one to a colorful indent in the stone wall at ground level. The entire area was showered with orange flowers and pedals. You’d bow down completely on knees and elbows, forehead at the ground, and a holy man would quickly chant a prayer and slap you on the back with his open hand dusted red from having applied so many powdered red streaks between the eyes of every guest. Stepping past the three seated men chanting in sync, you were outside in the daylight and the show was over. For me an interesting experience, for a devotee probably a lot more deeply meaningful.

After thanking our sadhu (who was waiting as patiently as if he’d only been there a few minutes) for watching our bags, we all decided to visit the outskirts of Kamakhya to see more noteworthy temples and spend some time at our sadhu’s home. At his tin-sided one-room home nestled in a small neighborhood amongst trees and a nearby stream, we chatted for some time and eventually decided to cook dinner as darkness was falling. I watched and somewhat helped him prepare the meal, a modest but hearty rice with spiced potatoes cooked over an open wood fire. During that time Keith went with a one-legged jovial sadhu to more temples. After dinner, our sadhus accompanied us back to a small family-owned guest house near the main temple, and after putting our bags down we watched some TV at a nearby house with about 8 of their friends who were training at the temple. Making our leave after a half hour of conversation, our sadhus said they’d meet us again tomorrow morning. Sitting on the bed to relax back at the guest house, I asked Keith about the other temples he visited. He said they were really nice, but he had a strange encounter with another sadhu that was presiding over one of the temples. He said they didn’t exchange many words but he did remember that in a cautionary tone, he told Keith that not everyone was to be trusted here.

Keith had misplaced his bag (containing a book and his glasses) at one of the temples, so before bed he decided to go look for it. I remained in the room and read a little bit after chatting for some time with the friendly shopkeepers my age next door. After a few minutes, I answered a knock at the door to greet Vishnu, the 12-or-so year old cleaning boy who had welcomed us into the room when we first came. Vishnu had lots of questions about me and America and had a wide playful smile and carefree giggles during our conversation which somehow progressed because Assamese and Bangla were so similar. He asked if I had any Greenday songs when we talked about listening to music; that was his favorite band. Finding a few on my iPod, I let him listen to a few. I suggested that I go to bed soon because I was tired; Vishnu insisted we both walk to the main temple and continue talking. Enjoying the light-heartedness of our interaction, we accompanied each other to the temple, now much more calm in the night without hundreds of chatty people swarming about. He said it’d be nice to go into the main grounds to roam around; it certainly seemed so compared to the daytime, and I hadn’t really seen much of the main area. I couldn’t figure out why Vishnu insisted he stay behind, perhaps because he wanted the experience to be more reflective for me or perhaps he had some obligation at home. In any case, I walked around some, chatted with some college students hanging out, looked at some goats, and returned back to the room tired enough to fall asleep right away even before Keith returned.

In the morning Keith tried to wake up early to beat the crowd to the main temple; he was interested in seeing a part he hadn’t made it to the day before. I poked around the area of our guest house, showering, cutting my nails, talking more with Vishnu who was just as excited and friendly as the day before, meeting the family who owned the guest house, talking a bit with our yellow bandana sadhu who came by before going to his carpentry job, buying incense and mustard oil for our yellow bandana sadhu that we’d gift him later that day, and playing badminton with the adjacent shopworkers and some kids in the street, which for some reason was a complete blast despite the sun being in my eyes. Amidst all that, I gathered my stuff together but noticed that I couldn’t find my iPod. For some reason I wasn’t as concerned as I could have been; perhaps Keith picked it up and it was with his stuff or perhaps it was buried in with my clothes in my bag or in some pocket I forgot to check in my backpack. Vishnu and the son of the family owners flurried about the room searching for it when I told them I thought it was missing, even going through all of my stuff themselves and crawling under the bed. Perhaps it would turn up later.

The guest house owner’s wife made a delicious lunch for Keith and me. Keith was still in the temple area, so I ate my portion and talked a bit with the family’s son, Vishnu’s age. Despite how young he was, he was very fluent in English and told me about the good education he was receiving at his private school in Darjeeling (I remember seeing one private school there that looked like a miniature Hogwarts; you can imagine--amidst the mountains--it was quite striking). The wife spoke to me a bit too, but in a disconcerted way, as she saw that Keith and I were spending time with the yellow bandana sadhu, and she advised us against interacting with him, as she said he was not a good man.

As I was finishing, Keith returned and started his lunch; Vishnu came in from his room in the back and started chatting with us. When the attention was off of me, I slipped outside and snuck into Vishnu’s room to look around, on the off chance that he had taken my iPod and that it would be somewhere I could find. I had no idea what I’d say if he came into his room to find me going through his stuff. After glancing around, I started checking underneath stuff. Lifting up the cushion to a small chair beside his bed, I found the black case of my iPod. Shocked and breathless, I checked around a little more for the actual device and then heard that people were stirring inside the house; Keith had probably finished lunch. I stepped outside of the room and met Vishnu face to face as he was coming in. Without breaking eye contact, I lifted up the case so that we could both see it. Immediately he started talking and pointing in the direction of our yellow bandana sadhu, doing carpentry work nearby. It seemed he was blaming him. The wife heard the commotion and stepped into the conversation; after seeing my case, with astonished eyes, she started talking fiercely at Vishnu. Assuming that he knew where the device was, I asked him several times “Where?” He went into his room and rummaged around bit, then went into an adjacent room and came out with it. Very sternly and with disappointment in my voice I said several times to him “Very bad, Vishnu, very bad.” Our yellow bandana sadhu came over to see if Keith and I wanted to roam around more. I asked him where he was the night before. “At my house, where we were last night,” he said with a confused look on his face. Then I told him about how Vishnu was accusing him of the theft, I suppose claiming that he was framed. Sincerely and honestly he explained how he was a holy man and how everyday he prays and does puja, claiming that he would never steal like that. By the time I turned around to see where Vishnu was, the wife had gone back into his room and started talking to herself with a great deal of concern in her voice. Vishnu had disappeared, the bars of the bathroom window pushed to one side. We all spent a good deal of time deliberating about what to do and called the owner about it too. I hoped that Vishnu didn’t face punishment that was too severe. If he were found, I imagined that the owner of the house could offer some rather extreme physical reprimands. Explaining that we understood his poor decision and that he was just a kid, we hoped to prevent the wife from thinking that we were wrong in coming to stay at her guest house, which we seemed to suspect due to how many times she apologized.

Back in the room I put more pieces together. Perhaps the night before Vishnu didn’t want to roam with me in the temple because he went back to the room to take the iPod. I couldn’t remember if I had locked the door; the temple entrance was just a 10 second walk away from our room. I didn’t notice that it was missing until the morning because I had fallen asleep as soon as I got back afterward. And then a more chilling realization dawned on me. Keith’s sadhu’s omen from the night before. I had never heard a Hindu holy man offer advise like that; more likely it would have been something like don’t eat cows or love one another as your brother or have devotion to your god. Never had I received a cautionary warning about the trust we put in others, and never before in South Asia had the trust I put in others been violated. The coincidence, to many, would be indisputably linked.

That afternoon Keith, our yellow bandana sadhu, and I reconvened at our meeting place from the day before, at the courtyard of the egoless temples. Another aged sadhu joined us from yesterday; his clothes were white and his hair was tied in a small ball up on top of his head. He spoke with a great deal of presence and sometimes in conversation his eyes would drift upward, as if seeing nothing at all. After I offered, he also drank a whole liter of water from my bottle without breathing. After some time, our sadhus left and Keith revisited the dark depths of the egoless temple. Content with observing everything around me I came to know the aged rounded temples juxtaposed against the shops and simple but busy activity of Kamakhya town and the children playing games and having carefree territory wars around the courtyard. To simply sit and observe. To sit and think. To be.

Darkness descended and Keith emerged from the egoless temple chatting with a few others that had come out with him. After introducing me, his friends started writing down a few places that we could see in Assam. Ready to head out into another adventure, Keith and I boarded a jeep that took us to Guwahati station. The mental images of the egoless temple grounds, and our friendly yellow bandana sadhu, were still sharp in my memory.

With the most carefree and high-on-life attitude at the train station, we looked at a map on the wall for a location farther east. Lumding looked nice and central; we could go south from there if we wanted. Lumding also sounded happy. Lumding it is. Again, sorry folks, you can’t reserve a sleeper class ticket for the overnight journey, just a general seating one. No matter, Keith and I knew what to do. We found the TTE office with little difficulty, and the officer told us to return after the train arrived. Although he wasn’t there when it did, we eventually ran into him on the platform and he told us some numbers that were open.

I glanced at the ‘to and from’ board on the train’s side and was surprised to see that it had come all the way from Delhi. It must have taken days to get here. Its final destination sounded familiar. Tinsukia. Yes, I had seen that a few hours ago when Keith’s egoless temple friends were jotting some locations in Assam down for us. As we sat down on the train, our spontaneous energy still buzzing, I suggested that we consider taking the train to its last stop. Opening up the Lonely Planet map, we were amazed to see that Tinsukia was at the farthest northeast stretch of Assam. It didn’t even look like trains extended beyond it. We asked where the our-age guy next to us was going. Tinsukia. Do you have family there? No, I’m going to Arunachal Pradesh. I hadn’t heard of the place. Keith’s eyes widened. Arunachal is India’s northeasternmost state, deep in the reaches of its tumorous northeast extension surrounding Bangladesh. The foothills of the Himalayas start at Arunachal’s border and rise higher and higher to the eventual shared border with China. Well, the border isn’t quite shared. China claims Arunachal as its own and Google Maps even lists it as part of the country, its cities listed in Mandarin. Keith explained to me how he’s always thought of Arunachal as this far away neverland, unreachable due to travel time but holding undiscovered natural beauty as if under lock and key, as it’s so unknown, especially by the tourist community. Another reason why it was unreachable and under lock and key crossed my mind. Lonely Planet claims that it’s impossible for foreigners to enter Arunachal without a special permit only issued in major cities. Although the place isn’t dangerous, perhaps India simply wants to keep tourism down in the state in order to keep further political disputes over the region with China at bay. “So what?” said Keith, “If we’re turned away, we can just head back south, there are plenty of other places to see anyway.” His logic made sense. “The worst that could happen is that if we’re caught, we’re turned away and we see someplace else. If we’re not caught, we see Arunachal.” And with that, our itinerary projected itself into neverland.

We became good friends with the smiley our-age guy going to Arunachal, asking him about his home and what he thought of the state. He gave us the names of several places too: Roing, Anini, and Tezu, and told us that from Tinsukia you could get a bus to Roing. Soon enough we passed Lumding, up to which our ticket was reserved, and legitimate ticket holders boarded, taking the berths we had. Throwing on several layers of clothes and taking my pillow I scouted around the train for a place to sleep. Before I resolved to sleeping on the floor (an option that I’ve done before but didn’t get away with very clean) I spotted some empty berths in a compartment. The 2 loud middle aged Delhiites were more than happy to offer an extra berth and swarm me with booming conversation. They also gave me a bag of cornflake/golden raisin/spicy tangy masala snack food that is now on the top of my priority list to find if I’m ever back in Delhi. I also interacted with 4 much more timid but giggly Nagalanders on holiday, all at one side of the compartment. If they told me they were from China itself I would have believed them, but Nagaland is another state in NE India, south of Arunachal and even further east than Assam. They said I needed to visit their state, but I knew that a permit was required to enter there as well.

That night I slept deeply (again, the train does it for me) and had no qualms about lazily emerging from sleep the next morning and just…relaxing. Tinsukia was the last stop, so as long as the train was moving, we were still on our way. Everyone else in the compartment had gotten off. But then, someone tapped at my leg. A suited official requested my ticket. I can’t remember whether I had my ticket or not, but whether or not I had it at the time I knew that it wasn’t valid anyway, we had only reserved it up to Lumding. Keith is the smoothest talker as they come. Perhaps he’d be able to convince the collector that we didn’t realize the situation (again, what are we going to do with those silly ignorant foreigners?). I directed him toward Keith, a few cars down. Suddenly getting nervous as if we should avoid the collector at all costs, I jaunted my way toward Keith after a few minutes to tell him that they were looking for us. Perhaps the playful excitement of being where we ‘shouldn’t’ at the prospect of entering Arunachal Pradesh had already absorbed itself into my attitude. Keith could tell I had too much energy when I scurried up to him, hood covering my head. I stood for some time by the doorway, watching Assam pass by. After some time I returned to the compartment; the collector had come by and Keith had paid the penalty fee, amounting to about as much as the ticket would have cost to Tinsukia from Guwahati anyway.

The Tinsukia station was simple and sounded a jingle whenever an announcement was made that I wish I could remember because its happy tune put the largest smile on my face. Saying goodbye to the our-age guy on the train who first gave us the idea of going to Arunachal, we made our way to the bus station and got a ticket to Roing that would leave at noon, about 3 hours later. Keith had some fried egg and warm flatbread, akin to an egg taco, for breakfast at a small nearby food place and told me about his first trip to India, including his overnight stay in a slum beside the Taj Mahal and his deathly illness in a desert town in Rajasthan during one of the hottest times of the year. That morning we decided to split up again, Keith went to hang out at a temple in town and I explored around a bit, visiting an ATM, trying to phone the parents at a phone booth (internet was nowhere to be found), finding new headphones (I hadn’t pushed Vishnu to return the headphones, one ear was broken anyway), searching for more tissues (my nose was riddled with congestion and our tissue stock was already low), and conversing with some middle-aged men at a tea stall (Bangla was actually still understandable this far in Assam’s northeast). After eating an orange and getting some paan for the journey, Keith and I met up on time and settled into our tiny bus seats. As we exited the city I started listening to some music that I had had playing in my head the past few days: Renaissance and Baroque excerpts from my Music History I class last year at Muhlenberg.

Rice paddies and wide leafed trees suddenly gave way—as well as the road—to a massive grey dry dusty expanse. The bus rocked severely back and forth in the dust divots and uneven surface of this anomalous landscape. I remember the bus window frame jolting and creaking separately from the window itself at some points, suggesting that the structural integrity of the bus frame had really weakened over time. Keith and I said nothing. We both knew we were in a very different land. We also didn’t know if we had crossed into Arunachal Pradesh yet. When I saw that people weren’t looking (I hate drawing attention with cameras) I took out the video camera to try to capture the strange sensation of riding on a bus through an area comprised entirely of dry dust, with no road to speak of either. How did the driver even know where he was going? Soon after I started recording, Keith lowered it with one of his hands, murmuring to me that we should keep a low profile.

The bus stopped at a river, small enough to see the other side. It made sense now, the dusty desert was a massive river basin and it was dry season. In summer as the Himalayan snows would melt, massive runoff would probably expand the river to fill the whole basin, so wide that we must have already been driving 20 or 30 minutes to reach its middle. The bus wasn’t going across, but everything else was. Everyone piled out and men started taking down the massive burlap sacks that were tied to the roof. You could see through the burlap that inside were large amounts of onions, garlic, potatoes, and the like. The remoteness of where we were going struck me even further, its food having to be supplemented via the roofs of passenger buses. On the boat I noticed that Keith has talking with two giggling girls; on the other side of the river he introduced them to me: Selma and Pinky. Selma’s older brother, Rohim (Pinky’s husband,) also met us. They were going home to Roing because they had spent a day in Tinsukia shopping for new clothes to celebrate the approaching new year. Getting back on a new bus, having been loaded with all our stuff from the old bus now on the other side of the river, Keith told me that they invited us to stay the night at their home.

It was a good thing we now had a place to stay, darkness was approaching and we still had a while to go to get to Roing. The dusty basin gave way to fields of yellow flowers and periodic trees. Snow-capped Himalayas were hazily visible in the distance, dividing the yellow flower fields from the sun-setting sky. In time, outside grew completely black aside from periodic lights from houses or shops. What was out there? I remember smelling faint wafts of smoke probably from campfires burning some kind of wood I’ve never smelled smoke from before. It affected me so strangely, its dry and simple smell, combined with gusts of cold wind from outside, steeped me in strong feelings somewhat described as loneliness, independence, remoteness, uncertainty, and self-reliance. Such a feeling somehow wasn’t of me either but of the whole area, and it was coupled with the deep unknown of a black and legally-forbidden area.

I put up my hood and rested my head on the icy window. The bus stopped and the lights came on. I didn’t give a notice until stern voice from the aisle next to our seats asked for a pass. The hair stood up on the back of my neck. I glimpsed to see a uniformed man with Mongolian features facing us. I turned slightly to keep my face out of sight and let my body sink into the gloomy possibility that perhaps our bout in neverland was now finished. Keith’s calmness and gentleness was soothing. “What pass?” He gave the man his passport and he started flipping through it. After a few seconds, he returned the passport and continued checking the passengers for what I think were inter-line passes. Whether or not they were required by Indian nationals, it appeared as if some people offered them and others just shook their heads. Before we knew it, he was off the bus and we were moving again. Keith and I exchanged looks of confined astonishment. Was that the border? Are we now in Arunachal Pradesh? Was he looking for the tourist pass that we actually didn’t have? Why didn’t he press the issue? Was it because he didn’t want to go through the trouble of whatever followed passlessness? Was it because he thought Keith was Indian (people think he’s Kashmiri all the time, especially when he’s bearded), and perhaps because he didn’t see my face and hair he assumed we weren’t foreigners? Had he not seen a US passport before and therefore not understood that it was foreign? Did we even need a pass?

Questions continued to swirl in my head for some time. Suddenly Pinky, Selma, and Rohim stood up and with smiles indicated that it was time to get off. A few seconds after that, the five of us were standing along the silent road in still darkness, soon thereafter following Selma and Pinky’s excited directions through a path off the road and to a fence bordering the grounds of where they lived. The moon was absent, but the stars shone in multitude across the sky.

Their house is part of a ladies hostel compound for a technical institute, as Selma and Rohim’s mother is the groundskeeper. Although there was lots of space and several single story hostel areas were connected together on the grounds, no one was present except their family because it was holiday break for the institute. Their house, made totally of cement, contained 2 bedrooms, a kitchen, a bathroom, a shower room, and a multipurpose seating/eating/chopping-up-chicken-for-dinner room in the middle. Because the power was off, our only initial idea of the place was via my mobile flashlight, a few candles, and a single really bright light bulb in the bedroom where we all were welcomed. Selma’s rosy-cheeked mother brought out orange and apple slices for us and--because the ambient temperature was shiveringly cold--it was accompanied with warm water. I remember asking if I could shower (being quite dirty from our journey), but the family refused to let me, as it was so cold. Selma in no time began talking with us, so excited that she’d stutter over words. Pinky sat in front of us all on the ground and would frequently offer laughter to the conversation with great volume. On the other bed at our side sat Rohim, his younger brother, their mother, and Dibra, a 19 year old Nepali boy who was a family friend. Dibra sat quietly to the side, a delicate grin constantly on his face rimmed by his grey hooded sweatshirt, and he would periodically offer friendly gazes at us as well as discreet comments of disbelief to the family that we were actually there.

- Selma ..................and Pinky

After talking in detail with each other about the days happenings, the conversation moved out the back door and around a small campfire that was being used to cook chicken legs. After being seasoned with spices (including a tasty portion of cilantro), the chicken legs were unbelievably delicious; I remember Keith and I actually laughing at each other in disbelief. Keith couldn't remember more tasty chicken in his lifetime. Shortly thereafter, dinner was served, consisting of ginger-accented boiled vegetables, rice, and a chicken and potato dish. After I bundled up that night in almost all the clothes I had (a comical sight for the family), Keith and I took the bed in the first bedroom and fell asleep with quiet smirks on our faces combined with a lingering astonishment--we had actually made it to neverland.

-Karim and Dibra

The next morning after a breakfast of ramen-like noodles and fried rice, Rohim, Karim (Rohim’s brother), Dibra, Keith, and I set out to explore some of the surrounding area. We walked for 3 kilometers alongside the main road to get to the central part of Roing, a walk that was just slightly uphill the whole way. The foothills of the Himalayas rose up in front of us, just beyond Roing. Roing itself is a small town, easily walkable from one end to the other. The colors that the town makes me think of are grey and light blue; perhaps from the buildings’ paint. After stopping briefly for some biscuits and paan, we took an auto rickshaw to a flat rocky road that led to a metal bridge crossing a stony river basin maybe 30 or 40 feet under the bridge at its deepest point.

As we approached the basin, dusty stones at our feet gave way to a view that made my jaw drop. Even though we were at the level of the bridge, the small river, maybe averaging 20 feet in width, that ran under the bridge was completely 100% crystal clear. The rocks within the river were just as visible as those outside of it. I scurried down the steep boulder-lined basin to get a closer look (although the others were easily faster than me; I wasn’t used to scaling large rocks). My astonishment never ceased. It didn’t take Keith and me much time to decide that we’d go swimming. It also didn’t take Keith much time to declare it his favorite river of all time. In nothing but underwear, the water was piercingly cold but easily adjusted to once you were submerged. Plus the shocking beauty was gripping enough to take your mind off any distraction. Obviously completely pure (coming from the mountains, untampered with), and with Rohim’s encouragement, I took several gulps from my hands and as I swam. The river was only maybe 4 feet deep in the middle and was lined with pebbles of all sizes, from fine to big enough to lay on. Swimming underneath the surface--even without goggles--the visibility extended all the way up the river to where miniature rapids descended, about 60 feet away. Keith and I found small clay lamps in the river (probably from some puja) that we salvaged and now use in our rooms in Dhaka. Swimming up to the small rapids, I ducked completely underwater and let the current carry me down the stream to another set of small rapids where Keith was lying flat on a large rock, relaxing under the sun. The sensation as I glided in the current and glanced all around the stream’s pebbled bed was that of flying gently. Rohim, Karim, and Dibra didn’t get in but stood smiling widely as they observed my continual disbelief and out-loud laughter that I could possibly be a part of nature this pristine.

Our experiences of nature continued, as after drying off we ascended a sharply steep series of hills and eventually made it to a still lake that reflected the dense trees surrounding it. From there Rohim led the way on a small walk through the forest, clearing denser portions of our path with a machete. Upon entering the forest, he spotted some berries that looked like small hard green raspberries and—making a long ‘o’ shape with his mouth and raising his eyebrows suggesting the berries’ importance—explained to us how they were rather rare to find and that they had various benefits if eaten, such as treatment for coughing. Keith had one as we continued forward and after some time mentioned to me over and over how he couldn’t wait to see what my reaction would be if I had one later. As he tried to describe the taste, my curiosity grew.

Soon thereafter we came across a large patch of banana trees. Rohim explained to us how the huge leaves could be used as plates for food and that we’d use them for our New Year’s dinner that evening. Dibra and Karim began collecting them and rolled them up into a large bundle. After the banana tree patch, there was a small opening in the forest’s density that you could peer through if you climbed up a small hill.

The view was magnificent, the Himalayan foothills rising up on the right side, expansive green, flat, treed land to the left, and our crystal river winding its way in between. Although the river was very narrow, it rested in a grey rocky basin that had a much larger width—at some parts maybe even hundreds of feet. Because it was winter season, the river was small and clear, but during the summer when the snow from the Himalayas melt, the river swells massively, even enveloping the bridge we had walked over. Of course the rains from the rainy season also pay their contribution. It was surreal to imagine this river as one of the initial tributaries to the large rivers in Bangladesh that eventually empty into the Bay of Bengal through the delta. The Buriganga River in Dhaka is certainly not as pure as this water was to say the least.

As we descended back to the path that surrounded the tree-reflecting lake I remember a high-pitched electronic sound ringing with a constant tone as if coming from a broken speaker. Although it sounded like an electronic appliance, Rohim told us that is was being made by birds in the trees. When we got to the path, Rohim had found some amla fruit on the forest floor that we all shared. Amla was also available in Dhaka (although arguably not as fresh); they have the diameter of a quarter and have green skin, juicy apple-like flesh, and a large pit. The initial taste is extremely bitter and sour, but after 30 seconds or so it becomes simply sweet, catalyzed by taking a sip of water (a 'magic' trick the Bangla teachers in Dhaka had shown us).

I was reminded of the mysterious green raspberry. I popped one in my mouth and walked up a hill beside the lake to pee. The initial taste after biting into it was pungent and spicy. “Unique,” I thought, “but not quite the sensational experience that Keith suggested.” After a few more seconds, what felt like a slight buzzing sensation grew in my mouth. Freezing in my tracks at the strange sensation, I felt the buzz grow into a churning vibration throughout all my mouth’s surfaces. I scurried down the hill half laughing and half shouting. Our friends grinned but also looked slightly confused; Keith was beaming at me with excited eyes as if to say “Didn’t I tell you! Isn’t it crazy!” My face’s astonishment must have been extreme; soon enough it felt as if there were hundreds of furry caterpillars crawling about in my mouth with millions of tickly hairs swirling about. I wanted my friends in Dhaka to experience the magic green raspberry too, but realized their pungency probably only remained fully fresh for a limited time after picking. For myself then for the next day I asked Rohim to find a few more, and using the small clay lamps I found in the clear Himalayan river water for storage, I walked away with 5 magic green raspberries.

Rohim told us about the many more fruits and herbs that could be found deeper in the jungle. Having grown up in Roing and having a mother from the Adi tribal group, Rohim has learned through the years what is edible, what is not, and what all the potential uses for them are. If we set aside a few days for hiking, we would return with so many varieties that several bags could be filled. Keith remarked that their many medical properties, too, were probably largely unknown to those outside this area. Although Keith and I had planned to travel to Anini, remaining in Roing looked like a great opportunity too. We had initially heard about Anini from that guy we met on the train to Tinsukia. The major group of people in Anini is the Adi tribe who has an appearance, dress, customs, and language unique to its portion of Arunachal Pradesh; the state itself contains hundreds of tribal groups and separate languages. Anini is one of the last towns in eastern Arunachal to trickle off as you ascend northward higher through the Himalayas and eventually to the Chinese border. It would take an entire day by jeep just to reach there from Roing, but Keith and I both thought the experience would be worth it. In any case, we knew that we wanted to spend as much time as possible here now that we had actually entered Arunachal, so we came to the conclusion after only a short while that we’d try to get in touch with our new high school in Dhaka to request our first 2 days off, giving us an added 4 days of travel time with the weekend. Plus we knew the journey back to Bangladesh could take days anyway; it was safest any way we looked at it to have more time at our disposal. Two days in neverland versus two days at school—even though they were our first two—seemed pretty disproportionate. Rohim found a softball-sized fruit growing high in a tree near us, and Dibra knocked it loose by chucking a rock at it. The inside had a citrus fruit consistency but was white; it tasted like a sweet version of grapefruit, orange, and lemon all combined.

Climbing some steps leading up a hill next to the tree-reflecting lake, we made our way up to a gazebo perched up on a hilltop overlooking the vast river basin, green lands extending into the distance, and a setting sun. A dozen of Rohim’s childhood friends were up there celebrating the New Year’s Eve with bottles of Kingfisher beer and bags of Kurkure, the spicy Indian version of Cheetos. We spent a good amount of time there talking, and afterwards we got a ride in their jeeps from the lake down the hills to a massive bridge where they would frequently visit. Evidently some perform tricks on motorcycles too; one of them accelerated abruptly to lift up his front end and braked sharply to kick his back wheel up. After the short drive back to Roing, darkness having fallen and chilly air whipping in through the window, Keith and I ducked into several international phone booths before we found one that actually worked. Luckily, Brother Leo (St. Joseph High School’s principal) answered. Also luckily, in his usual warm and content manner, he said that it would be fine to miss the first two days of school and was much more interested in what we were up to rather than being concerned over reasons for our absence. We then also followed up with an email to our contact at the embassy to make sure that our grounds were covered for our extended holiday. While Keith checked the rest of his email, I stepped outside of the internet café and saw Dibra and Karim with a sizeable white box. It had a cake inside that we would cut at midnight to celebrate New Year’s. They said that Rohim had bought it—he was off somewhere at that time getting food for dinner. Seeing an opportunity to somehow pay the family back, I gave them the price of the cake and instructed to give it to Rohim. I knew if I gave it to Rohim himself he’d refuse it. While the three of us were waiting for Keith and Rohim, I remember noting the advertisements on the internet café window for X Box games like the terror-thriller 'Saw' as well as the good amount of business the small caged alcohol corner shop was getting. After our group reassembled, we walked back down the main road from Roing in the night’s thick blackness pierced by periodic car lights and the flashlights of our mobile phones.

On the way back home we stopped by Dibra’s home on the way and met his family, including his brother, parents, aunt, and a few friends that lived nearby. They must have to contend with incredibly cold temperatures especially at night; the walls were only either tin or straw covered in dried mud, all supported with a wooden framework. Although we didn’t share too many words of the same language, they were all more than happy to teach a few key phrases in Nepali as well as share cups of chai and piles of puri (fried flatbread). Their excitement never ceased, and they requested that we come back the next day.

Upon returning back to Rohim and Selma’s house, I remember being struck with deep fatigue—probably from swimming and hiking. After along nap, it was already about an hour before midnight. Our dinner that night consisted of chicken, fish, vegetables, and rice and was topped off with a yellow and red icing cake that read “Happy New Year.”

Despite how spread out and sparse the area was, I remember hearing distant shouts and hollers from people outside celebrating. After cutting the cake we sang songs from their Christian song book. About 20% of Arunachal’s population is Christian, having been introduced into the area through missionaries. The type of Christianity I observed most of there (including many churches) were of Baptist and Revivalist flavors. Although Keith recognized the tunes of some of their songbook songs, everything was sung in Hindi or Adi, their tribal language. Interestingly, Adi language (having descended through time from Chinese and Tibetan) is written with English characters, probably because there was no script before the English influence. Amongst the songs, Selma would offer lengthy prayers, her eyes closed with intention. Speaking rapidly in Adi, she churned through her prayers, at times thrusting her speech with great bursts energy and volume. Pinky and Rohim sat intently, eyes closed, murmuring and at times vocalizing their agreement with the prayer through proclamations like “Lord, Jesus,” and “Hallelujah.” After singing and praying, Keith taught a song that was one of his favorites (and his father’s—a former Baptist minister) called “I Surrender All.” Rohim was especially interested in it, and we spent a good deal of time reviewing the melody and lyrics. Offering my religious musical input as well, I sang selected favorites that I had memorized from the green Lutheran Book of Worship liturgy. “Let the Vineyards Be Fruitful, Lord,” (from both settings two and three) have since become the songs that I share with students at St. Joseph’s if they ask me to sing too.

Although we stayed up late and had long conversations about religion and what it means to us, I was up the next morning early enough to quickly walk into town by 10:30 am (midnight on the east coast). None of the international calls I made went through unfortunately, so I think I sent an email to the parents, and I remember picking up a few pastries from a nearby bakery. After coming back home, we all sat around the campfire outside the kitchen; Pinky was boiling a spinach-like leafy vegetable. Mostly we deliberated over what exactly to do during the day or two that Keith and I had left. Selma had gone to church the night before for the New Year’s service and said that her pastor told her that the road pass to Anini was blocked with a landslide (or was it an avalanche?). Additionally, helicopter services (which Keith and I had been planning on making avail of—a 12 hour jeep ride through the mountains is only about a half hour helicopter flight) were booked for the next few months. The road blockage complication for those in Anini must be terribly problematic, not only for people that need to get back to a Roing and subsequently larger cities, but also for things like food. In any case, that was no longer an option for Keith and me. We eventually decided (with Keith and my assurance that we have adventuresome sprits) that Rohim and one of his friends would guide Keith and me through a portion of the nearby jungle in the Himalayan foothills, that we’d find a place to camp for the night, and that then we’d return the next day. Selma, although sure that she wouldn’t be able to handle the hike, insisted that we go to experience the nature and to enjoy lots of “jungly fruits.”

I stuffed my backpack full with just about every piece of clothing I had, and the four of us set out past Dibra’s house and onto a dirt road that would take us past some sparse village buildings before entering into solely forest. We had begged Dibra and his family to let him come with us, but due to his family’s demand, he remained at home. I remember falling into melancholy after he apologized that he couldn’t tag along. I was excited at the opportunity to spend more time with Dibra during our remaining time left; his flavor of genuine, relaxed personality, as well as his contagious smile, were things that I hadn’t come across before in the same way.

The path emptied out onto a several hundred foot wide flat rocky river basin. It was dry except for a small stream in some places, but undoubtedly would be completely flooded later in the year with the melting mountain snow and ice. After the basin, the path started ascending gently as it led into the jungle. We passed the abandoned tarp tent of a worker who appeared to be in the middle of building 2 large concrete water storage tanks in the ground. For better scenery, we set up our camp 5 minutes further in a small opening right off the path enclosed by the leaves of trees and started to gather firewood. Rohim’s friend and I also went into a nearby orange plantation where we brought back probably over a dozen oranges, a large green papaya, and a few pots that we found in an abandoned harvester’s hut. By the time darkness had fallen, we already had a fire lit for warmth, another for cooking, a space for laying (flattened by dozens of massive banana tree leaves), and were diving into the fresh oranges we had picked, exploding with juicy flavor. We also chose this location because it was near a small stream which Rohim used to clean our utensils and wash the vegetables.

Unfortunately the light drizzle that started as darkness settled in turned into a constant rain. One of our fires went out, but we were able to keep the other lit and use it for cooking as well as warmth, as wetness compounded the shivering coldness that eventually settled in. To everyone’s delight, Rohim’s papaya, eggplant, ginger stew (accented with one or two of Selma’s “jungly fruits” that Rohim came across somewhere) and warm boiled rice turned out delicious, using banana tree leaves for plates. Rohim himself was proud, having never really cooked before, let alone in the middle of the rainy jungle.

Very cold and wet, we decided that it would be best to occupy that tarp tent for the night a few minutes down the path. The four of us fit very well inside, and after bundling up with every layer of clothing I had brought, I rested very thankful that we had found someplace dry to spend the night.

Keith and I both had to get up a few times in the night to pee (I think that cold ambient temperature contributes to this), but nevertheless I slept well into the late morning the next day when we were greeted with the man building the 2 concrete water tanks. For whatever reason, he didn’t need to stay in his tent the previous night and was happy that we used it to stay out of the rain and cold. He also brewed us all a pot of tea which we drank out of cut hollow bamboo stalks.

After tea, Keith and the others smoked a round of their biris, small cigarettes that consist simply of tobacco rolled up in a tobacco leaf. Keith likes them because they remind him of the forest. With a lot of ground to cover, we packed up our things and set off further down the path, passing our old--now very damp--campsite along the way. The path followed alongside the stream that we used the night before which continued and continued as far as we hiked. Once or twice we saw a series of concrete tanks built into the stream that Rohim said were for filtering, especially during the summer and rainy seasons when the water becomes more dirty. Soon we had views of the larger face of the mountain ascending in front of us and to our sides, including a beautiful but rather alarming sheer white rock face that climbed vertically up the mountain, likely the result of a previous landslide.

Rohim’s friend bounced off the path to explore if it were possible to hike in a different direction. Indeed it was, and we climbed dirt that was so steep that at times there were portions higher than me that were almost completely vertical. Tree roots and the stalks of plants became crucial foot and hand holds throughout our hike. Soon the dirt faces opened out onto rolling hills that extended through a large valley, largely occupied by orange trees, between two mountains.

We climbed higher up the valley, snacking on oranges along the way as well as several things Rohim came across, such as the flower used as natural chewing gum—with so many fine tiny pedals, it would form a long lasting hairy herb-tasting ball in your mouth if chewed. We also found a vine-like plant on the ground with furry golden-yellow berries that elicited the same vibrant-swirling-hairy caterpillar circus-spicy mouth buzz that the magic green raspberries had from the day before. Taking a break and turning about, we gazed out over the vast valley containing avatar-like lush green scenery accented with hundreds of orange trees, a massive viney tree in the middle, mountains on either side (including the sheer white rock face), and green flatlands extending into the distance beyond the small opening between the two mountain ranges.

Enjoying the view too much to continue on immediately, Rohim gathered a few fresh ripe papayas from the trees and cut them open with his machete for us all to share.

Higher and higher we went, the terrain getting steeper still as we ascended past the valley and into forested area. Rohim gathered some more edible finds for us, including the moist interior of a plant stalk that had the consistency of a soft nut, a few different types of tree nuts, and a stringy tough plant stalk that, if gnawed on, housed juices tasting like ginger and lemon popsicle. When I felt a piercing fiery sensation on my arm, I hurriedly rolled up my sleeve to find a large ant. Even though I tried to brush it off, it continued to cling tightly. I tried to smush it amongst the cloth, but it remained unharmed. It continued to crawl about, and fearful that it would bite me again, I grabbed it between my thumb and index finger. These were not sissy ants. As I pressed my fingers together, we made eye contact. Yes, its eyes were large enough to see, as well as its spiny, curled pincers which spread wide open at me as if to snarl viciously one last time. Seeing my agitation, Rohim hurried over. He offered an excited “Oh!”, picked one up off of a log, tore its abdomen off, and popped it in his mouth. “It’s really tasty, try one!” With hesitation I ate one too. It was worth getting past the mental reluctance; despite its small size, it was indeed very flavorful and explosively tart.

After just about reaching the top of that portion of mountain range, Keith found a large empty snail shell to garnish the top tip of his bamboo walking stick, we took some rest in the massive ground divot formed by a fallen tremendous tree, and started rounding the mountain face in descent. It didn’t take us long to realize that the steepness of the mountain face we were trying to descend got out of control. Very quickly I realized that this was by far and away the most advanced terrain I had ever tried to negotiate, and very quickly I feared that I was being pushed to the limits of my comfort zone. An adventure was what we wanted, and indeed an adventure was what we got.

Even though there were portions of hill that were so steep you could only slide down them, things got steeper still, and with trees becoming more sparse and the dirt becoming dangerously slippery due to dryness, we decided to head back up the face, continuing to round the mountain, in search of a safer way down. Perhaps it was my high center of gravity, or perhaps my sandals that kept slipping off my feet, but of our group of four, I was having the most difficult time negotiating the terrain. Keith scurried up past me to search for the best path for us, every so often some pebbles rolling down the hill in his wake, and Rohim and his friend remained with me to assist my ascent. By this point in time I was at a simplified yet potent mentality state, where I had completely lost any priority of remaining clean in favor of ensuring my safety by wallowing around with my belly on the ground and clawing into the dirt. The dozens of ants that scurried around and occasionally offered fiery sharp bites would have normally made me flee in aversion, but avoiding them by staying off the ground was an impossibility. In addition to my sincerest efforts, my ascent also required both Rohim and his friend (neither struggling like I was) offering advice on which tree root to grab and when, digging foot holes, jabbing the hill face with sturdy sticks for foot support, and offering occasional physical support by pulling me up when they had a strong enough stance to hold both our weights. Although I felt as if I were crippled, Keith had somehow managed to scale the hill face, machete in hand, and clear out thorns, vines, and bushery. By the time I had reached the top, my mouth was stern and silent, having been pushed beyond a limit I hadn’t before crossed. I was also a bit jealous to have witnessed Keith’s mountaineering ease, allowing him to relax in the lap of a large tree and smoke one of his tobacco biris while I struggled. Underneath all my angry and scared-stiff mental baggage swirling about, I could sense an extremely deep satisfaction and feeling of triumph that I had allowed myself to be pushed so far, emerging on the top of a mountain with a more full understanding of what I am capable of.

The subsequent decent was perhaps less steep, but the most helpful element was the lush moist mud/dirt that you’d sink into as you slid when it was too steep to walk. Several times you had to resort to sliding sitting down; by that time my pants were a complete mess anyway. A refreshing drizzle started and we followed the path carved out by a small rocky stream on much of our way down. Eventually the jungle opened up to a cleared field covered with low grass and small shrubbery, an area evidently having been cleared recently for cultivation purposes. The grade sloped downward gently as we continued through the field, the mountain we had spent the day on rising up behind us. The field was covered with the fuzzy golden berry vine. Popping in several fuzzy golden berries at a time, the overpowering pungency, spiciness, and swirling buzziness that sent the whole mouth in a frenzy of whirling tingles was a rare and novel sensation that neither Keith nor I could get over.

Ahead of me, Rohim inhaled sharply through gritted teeth, stopped in his tracks, and bend down with a concerned face to take his shoe off. He told me that he felt a small sting on his foot; after taking his sock off, a small leech was revealed that hadn’t quite taken hold to his skin yet. Having never seen a leech up close before, with alarm I bent down to my own feet, realizing that they were exposed through my sandals. Indeed, there were a few squirming about that hadn’t yet drawn blood. “We need to keep moving,” said Rohim. “It will be more easy for them to find you if you stand still.” Without a second guess, I rushed forward and hoped that our leech moment wasn’t going to recur. After several hundred feet, out of curiosity I checked my feet again to find that several had latched on. Ripping them off and letting out some momentous hollers, I sprinted forward. Luckily Keith and Rohim’s friend were pretty far ahead of me, so I knew where to go. We stopped at a barbed wire fence to carefully duck underneath and were welcomed with a massive spider web spanning between trees at least my height apart. In its middle clung the largest and most frightening spider I’ve ever seen, completely black except for a bright symmetrical design on its tremendous bulbous abdomen and equipped with spikey thorns on its thorax as well as what must have been inch-long fang-like structures near its mouth. Grimacing with fear as I ducked as low as I could under the web (the shrubbery being too dense to go around quickly), I briefly checked for leeches again before picking the pace back up. Several had nestled in deep enough to draw blood upon prying them off. I suddenly surged with so much energy that I galloped forward, lightly shouting in colorful language along my way. Although I was pushed into a fight-or-flight-like mode, there was nothing single or specific to fight against or flee from, just the entire field to exit.

The field started to thin down as we approached a several-home farming village site. As my pace slowed, I remember hearing spectacular music in my head and singing/conducting along, as if whatever sort of heightened brain activity or effects from adrenaline compounds I had been going through had additionally somehow triggered musical creativity. This was some sort of state that I had never before experienced. Finally having a cleared place to clean ourselves free of leeches (the others not having nearly the amount that I did, most likely due to more appropriate footwear), I ducked behind a straw hut and took off my sandals. I hadn’t really checked under the rim of my sandals covering the top of my foot yet. Underneath lounged several leeches swollen with blood, having had ample time to suck away. As I pried them off, from pin-prick sized wounds where their mouths were emerged small streams of blood. In crosses between laughter and hollering I hobbled over--holding my one foot although both were bleeding--to Keith who was seated enjoying chai with the locals who lived there. How does Keith always seem to find himself in a relaxed position at times when I contend with my most provoking moments? Good thing there was absolutely no pain, a striking contrast to what you’d imagine seeing so much blood. The villagers eyed me and my bloody, dirty, crazed mess of a self as Rohim’s friend took me over to a well to wash my feet off as well as to apply the juice crushed from a certain type of leaf that I think was supposed to inhibit the effects of the leeches’ anti-coagulating saliva. Even after washing my feet off, streams of blood continued to leak. My mentality had been pushed into a place that was so new to me that—along with way too much energy to sit—the best I could do while we finished our tea was pace and giggle. These moments were not my best representation of America; these villagers will have to live with it though, they likely won’t come across another one.

As the sun was setting, we continued past the village camp along a path, along a creek, and through an orange tree field in order to arrive back to our campsite, having made one massive circle throughout the day. My crazed mental state remained with me. I found a few fruits Rohim had shown us before, slightly larger than golf balls, and ate a few on the way. The pit was large but the flesh so sour and bitter that saliva gushed from my mouth and dribbled down my chin. We returned to the tank worker’s tarp tent, and he had made us a tasty potato curry with rice. I still had so much energy that I felt no other option than to pace around the campsite and up and down the dirt path briskly, plate in hand, as I ate. After thanking our impromptu host and another round of biris, we set off down the path back towards Roing.

Darkness had already settled, and by the time we had returned home after stopping briefly at Rohim’s friend’s house along the way, it was time for dinner. Grimy with dirt and sweat, I knew I needed a shower. There wasn’t light in the small concrete shower room aside from the moonlight streaming in through the window. Somehow the frigid bucket water wasn’t a huge obstacle; I was still hyped up from the day. By the time I was already wet, it was pretty refreshing. Seeing huffs of my breath in the moonlight during the shower was a striking reminder of how cold it actually was.

We recounted highlights of our experience to the family before bed; Selma was particularly excited to hear about it. We showed them samples of berries and nuts we had brought back, narrated the most challenging parts of our hike (specifically thanking Rohim for his help in getting me up the mountain), and didn’t forget about the leech attack. Comically, leeches are pronounced “jokes” in Bangla and Assamese language. During the whole day, the word ‘leech’ actually never came up, just ‘joke’. I pointed at the dozen or so red leech battle wounds on my foot, on the top of my foot, on its sides, between the toes…”joke, joke, joke, joke, joke” here, here, here, here. I turned my foot over. We all laughed. “JOKE!” An actual leech was still attached to my sole, having nestled itself up in my arch the whole hike back.

The next morning we woke up very early; Keith and I had planned to take an early jeep out into the west of the state to see more for a day or two before heading south. Although people were drowsy, Keith and I were sure to give our deepest thanks to the family for everything they had done for us and acknowledged that, even within a few days, we had all become good friends.

At the jeep counter in Roing we were told that actually the jeep would leave in another few hours, so we decided to take a bus instead to Tezu. Dibra, in his usual grey hooded sweatshirt, came by on his bike a few minutes before we left. He had bought me a sweet paan rolled up in paper for our journey.

With the warmest of goodbyes, Keith and I were soon enough on the bus and driving through the heavy mist down the single-lane road, descending slightly all the while, from Roing. The conductor of the bus, although having a really level-headed energy about him, talked at us slowly and sincerely almost non-stop for about 2 hours, even if we ignored him. Keith and I were alarmed to see that, although Tezu was in Arunachal, we had stopped at the border with Assam. At the border crossing we were asked to get off--all the other passengers waiting--to show our passes. A lot of anxiety was projected at us by the guards that we didn’t have the registration paperwork they were looking for, but from what it seemed it was that one guard’s job to have us registered, the one we first encountered in the night on the bus to Roing from Tinsukia. They eventually let us through, but Keith and I were disappointed that our trip through neverland was likely at its end. We became sorry that perhaps we wouldn’t be let back into Arunachal on our way to Tezu.

Shortly thereafter, we were at the reentry border to Arunachal and were asked to get off and report to the border administration office. Soon enough our hopes were restored, the border guard (who Keith tactfully made friends with right away) wrote down our passport information and didn’t seem to know what else to do. In a successful attempt to keep his mind from remembering to check for any sort of required permit, I offered photocopies of my passport and visa as well as a passport photo of my face. I’ve learned to always carry more copies of those things than you think you’ll ever need. It’s like a deal-sweetener for any bureaucratic process.

We got off the bus upon hearing that we were near Tezu and upon seeing a small tasty-looking eatery outside. It was closed, so we took a rickshaw into town. Still hungry, we found Yak Restaurant, a place recommended by the guys that had sat behind us on the bus. At Yak, Keith and I had soup, chow mein noodles, and chicken momos (steamed dumplings). Halfway through our meal, a guy about our age named Santos, in a black leather jacket and jeans sat down at the table (one of four) next to us. We started talking and soon enough he offered to take us around on his motorcycle. We left our bags in his small shoe/clothing store and rode off through the sleepy main road of Tezu to a gas station (except there was no gas) and then to his college nearby, the same one actually that Selma from Roing goes to. The college area had lots field-like land but only one academic building (empty because of break). It was in the shape of a square ring, having about 16 classrooms, with a courtyard in the middle. We talked for some time with Santos' professor and principal--who was really excited that I like paan. Santos’ friend, Vivek, on his own motorcycle came to meet us, and from there, we drove down a small road that led off of Tezu’s main road. Soon enough we were driving through a pristine town containing lots of tall colored flags, green leafy gardens, and small trim white-paneled houses on stilts which created a storage area underneath. The place was a Buddhist Tibetan refugee area, established in the 1960s after fleeing from Chinese persecution. The area, inhabited by about 2000, is divided into 5 camps, each representing different regions of Tibet.

We rode to one end of the camps where we visited a monastery and spoke for some time with a guy about our age from camp 5. Although he was in crutches, he showed us all around the monastery and walked around with us for a bit, also showing us a nearby river, decorated with a few lines of colorful Tibetan flags that ran across it. Being struck with the beauty of the simple, colorful, and well-kept area, I walked back to the center of the camps where Keith was having a conversation with an administrator about how Tibetan villages everywhere are following the Dalai Lama’s initiative to farm completely organically. I remember being struck upon first entering the camps by seeing a sign for an organic farm. The central area of the camps was graced by a small palace, used by the Dalai Lama during his visits. Nearby was a large, colorful monastery under construction filled with robed young monks dutifully preparing Tibetan prayer scrolls to be put in hand-rotated prayer wheels that surrounded the monastery. Santos suggested that we visit the religious leader of the area; his home was right there too. I was reluctant at first at the prospect that we’d possibly be intruding, but the area seemed open enough, as several robed monks sat on a wide porch of the leader's house chatting and surveying the small road in front of them. After being led through the gate, we sat down and started talking with a Tibetan girl about our age who was studying Buddhism academically. She was a wealth of knowledge on her own, but lucky for us she spoke both fluent Tibetan and English and translated some questions we had for the maroon-robed religious leader who sat in our circle too. He was one of the few (I think 14?) who actually studied under the Dalai Lama himself. I guess we were getting our information from the right guy. Over chai and crackers, our conversation continued well after darkness had fallen.

Getting onto the back of our now dew-soaked motorcycles, we rode back into town and to Vivek’s house. Vivek, Santos, Vivek’s father and uncle, Keith and I sat in the living room talking and laughing as Vivek’s mother and sisters had a field day making food and periodically bringing dishes out to the small table, giggling and smiling all the while. I remember Vivek’s uncle being pretty interesting; when Keith had asked about his religious beliefs he got a nasty look on his face and began to criticize how religion is causing so much of the world’s problems and conflicts. I had never heard of a new South Asian acquaintance go into an atheistic and theologically critical monologue; usually it’s a specific religion commonly accompanied by flowery accessories of respect for other religions, universal brotherhood, one God, things like that. Especially in Bangladesh. This is something I always take with a grain of salt; the picture that people would like to paint for foreigners is certainly not always congruent with behind-the-scenes belief, and at the least doesn’t reflect any country entirely, as prejudice and discrimination between religions do exist. In any case, his response was refreshing because of its unconventionality and sincerity. I commented about this to Keith; he said that he had anticipated that response initially from having observed our preceding conversation. I had been totally unaware.

Dinner was huge; it kept coming, it was delicious, and included a lot of unique Nepali dishes I had never tasted before, many having a sour tinge of fermented vegetables. After wrapping up we laid out a thin mattress which covered the living room floor to fit Vivek, Keith, and me. Under the orange mosquito net, making it feel as if we were camping in a tent, I remember Vivek and my conversations being very thought-provoking; however, as the day had been long, Keith fell asleep almost immediately.

The next day we woke up pretty early so we could visit a mountain before leaving Tezu by jeep around noontime. As I lazily stood up I mumbled something about taking a shower, and Vivek’s mom scurried over and ushered me over to the shower room. As I glanced outside from the small hallway I was surprised to see dozens of large metal bowls in the yard containing water. Evidently, the situation was that everyday due to low water supply, their house is only supplied with water in the morning before about 8:30 am. If I were to take a shower, I would need to do it fast before the water was turned off so they could replenish what I used in order to have a maximum supply for the whole day. Going about things rapidly, I think things worked out ok.

After breakfast, Santos came by and we boarded our motorcycles and head out of town through a small, nicely paved road that ascended gradually through bright yellow mustard flower fields, tall tree forests, and vast dry riverbeds.

Soon enough the road started winding about as it got more steep and mountainous.

After about 40 minutes, we arrived at a large bridge over a deep ravine. A small river churned through grey rocks of all sizes, flowing through the valley between two green mountains, coming from way up the mountain range. We took a few minutes to scale down the ravine and dip our feet in a bit.

I was pretty appalled to see some areas in the river area littered with silver paper plates and mounds of unfinished food and rice. Evidently the area is a popular spot for picnic getaways, and evidently it doesn’t matter if we leave behind all our garbage. A few years more of that and it might not be so popular a place anymore. The sort of plague picnic activity at play here is something I see among Bangladeshis too. We all know Dhaka is dirty and crowded, so let’s go somewhere outside the city where the scenery is better. Rolling in with huge buses if the group size is large enough, a previously untouched area can easily become the new holding place for garbage including non-decomposable water bottles and chip bags. It’s kindof like there’s a search for natural beauty; after it’s found, it’s trampled on, and the search continues. Plague.

After soaking in the scenery as much as possible, down the windy road again we went, a break thrown into our descent to stop for some paan. We were also amused by a pig lounging in the shade of a large tree trunk. All of my favorite goodies were in that paan. Later that day in Tezu town I would go on a small search for various paan accessories not available in Bangladesh: menthol cooling gels, sweet and rosy syrups, powders, oils, dried fruits, and various sticky pulpy or dry crunchy mixtures. As Santos and I were riding back we exchanged our small key clip carabiners. It was a fascinating exchange; our net carabiner functionality remained exactly the same, but both of us walked away acquiring something that struck our interests because in each of our relative perspectives, ‘I now have something really cool because it’s from a far away foreign land.’

Back at Vivek’s house there wasn’t too much time to say our thanks and goodbyes; by noon we were in the main intersection of Tezu boarding a jeep that would take us back to Tinsukia. Santos and his sister actually joined us because they were planning on going anyway for some business. Past Yak Restaurant, past Santos’ shop, and into the sparse landscape we went, mostly following the pebbly, dusty, dry riverbeds which made it feel like we were on a unique type of safari. Some rivers we crossed were manageable by the temporary rickety bamboo bridges, but one was wide enough that we needed to board a small ferry to cross it. While we waited in line, we saw several other jeeps and even some transport trucks being boated over.

On the other side of the river, we paused for half an hour for lunch. Amidst the grey, dry, dusty landscape that extended about as far as the eye could see (excluding the flowing blue river through it all) sat several bamboo and leaf-thatched hut-like eateries lined up in a row for hungry travelers just like us.

Despite the remoteness of the location, the food we had was delicious, especially because it was accompanied by the most tasteful array of accessories, arranged circularly in mini tin plates: fresh chili, chopped pungent onion, salt, sliced lime, and a spicy green salsa/chutney.

I looked up from my rice, dal, vegetable curry, fish, and accessories to view grey dusty flatlands under the beating sun (contrasted sharply by the piercing blue river behind us), and then turned to look inside the shaded bamboo eatery with a few other jeep-goers enjoying lunch on long thin wooden tables and chairs. In a moment that was fleeting and relatively unimportant on our routine journey back to Tinsukia, I had a glimpse of paradise.

After a refreshingly easy border crossing into Assam (after which the roads and landscape became more predictable), we arrived back in Tinsukia as the sun set. With a few hours before our train was due to leave to Dimapur (in Nagaland), Santos went off to get some parts for his motorcycle, his sister went to the market, Keith went back to a temple, and I went on another excursion for luscious, perfumey, and sweet paan accessories which led me through some colorful, crowded back streets of the city, a pack of curious onlookers never far behind.

I got back to the train station a few hours early and sat down against a wall in the back of the main entrance area. A man sitting next to me, bundled up a worn sweater, happily accepted some of the paan menthol/spicy fruit powder had just bought; it makes a great breath freshener. We talked some, and after tossing on several layers of clothes and getting out my bedsheet, I fell asleep using my backpack for a pillow.

I foggily drifted out of sleep maybe less than an hour later at the sound of Keith and Santos’ voices; they were sitting next to me and chatting with, to my surprise, the Tibetan camp guy on crutches that we had met outside of the first monastery we visited there. As the Tezu area was a day’s travel away and we had no knowledge that we’d each be at the Tinsukia station at the same time, the meeting was quite the coincidence. Soon enough we got the TTE process started again, finding the office and official to see if there was a possibility to get some flat births for our overnight trip. Eventually the train came; I remember the TTE process being particularly confusing because we couldn’t determine where to go. I was also disoriented from fatigue and deeply, deeply cold, as if I could be wearing any number of layers and it still wouldn’t make a difference.

Eventually boarding and finding places to lie down, I put on every single piece of clothing I had brought and curled up in a birth. The next morning I found myself laughing at how much I had worn as I dressed down a bit with the morning sunlight bringing with it a hint of warmth; I counted at least 10 layers of shirts (including a hooded sweatshirt), 4 layers of pants, and 2 layers of socks. The four of us got off the train and walked right into Dimapur city. Keith and I thought there would have been more of a process for us to enter; this state also required a permit for foreigners wanting to travel through. In any case, we retained the same slightly guarded feeling in the back of our minds that we did in Arunachal, an exciting but also anxious feeling that on some level, we weren’t supposed to be there. Santos took us to the bus stand and bid us farewell; he was off with his sister to pick up things for their business before returning to Tezu. The bus ticket to Imphal (the capital of Manipur, the small state below Nagaland) of rs. 700 (maybe $17 USD) was shockingly expensive. By the end of the day, though, we’d realize that the price was well worth it.

With just about no wait time, we were on the bus and pulling out of Dimapur. The mountains that grew out of the terrain we were traversing were tremendous and never-ending. It was as if the giant lumpy mountain peaks extended throughout the whole state. The landscape was much different than the lush jungles we encountered in Roing and the green forests we found in Tezu; my memory brings up a picture that reminds me of late fall. The bright colors are gone and most everything is brown in hue. Kohima, Nagaland’s capital, sat upon a landscape that was no different. Reminiscent of a Darjeeling-like construction, the whole city (and it was a vast city) looked like it was dropped right on top of these mountain faces from the sky. Although its color reflected the blandness of the surrounding environment, its construction and seemingly impossible existence kept my eyes intently gazing out the window the whole time.

As we neared Manipur, we got stopped more and more frequently by police checkpoints. I’m not entirely sure what they were looking for, but every time they came onto the bus I had a routine of tucking my head underneath my hood and pretending to be asleep. It had worked somehow in Arunachal, and if they would actually check for passes, perhaps we could scrape our way by here too. Keith and I weren’t interested in being forced to turn back or otherwise; exiting Nagaland through Assam before going back to Bangladesh would mean a few extra days on buses.

We stopped for lunch at Mao, the first town of Manipur. Lonely Planet’s section on Manipur is comically brief, barely consisting of a paragraph or two, and, despite Manipur being an entire state, it took up only about a quarter of a page. The guidebook mentioned nothing positive about the place and spoke of the political tensions in the area. Such political issues are most likely caused by various insurgency groups demanding independence from India, as well as response to their uprisings. The bus unloaded for lunch. I rather immediately became nervous. About a quarter of the people walking around the small shop-lined road were blue camouflage-patterned uniformed police (or army?) personnel all armed with rifles. There didn’t seem to be any commotion in the area, as if everyone were going about their business as usual and as if it were nothing out of the ordinary to appear occupied by a heavy-handed military force. Every once in a while Keith and I—while walking around searching for which restaurant looked tastiest—would hear a gunshot echo through the air. Once I thought I heard screaming after one. No one else looked like they even lifted an eyebrow.

Picking a place to eat, I sat down amongst all the empty tables and started talking to the only person nearby, a guy about my age who probably was a helping hand for the eatery. Soon a reserved but seemingly warm-hearted woman brought out rice, boiled spinach, a delicious dal, and chicken. The guy’s responses to my questions were rather brief, he didn’t sport the engaging personality I had been accustomed to, yet in no way did he seem mean or angry. From what I could understand from his answers to my questions, the alarming gunshots that we’d periodically hear were fired as part of a celebration going on that day. I'm supposing that scream I heard was a celebratory one. Before I left the restaurant, I went back into the kitchen to thank the cook, the same woman that brought the food out. The edge of the restaurant that was adjacent to the road touched the ground, but the rest of the small structure was on stilts, and the back area away from the road looked out over hilly areas that reminded me a great deal of the dry shrubby California hilly landscape between LA and San Diego. As Keith and I walked back to the bus, I was surprised to see shops selling various colorful trinkets and food preserves with a loopy language written on the packaging that I didn’t recognize. They were products imported from Myanmar, lying just to the east of Manipur.

The bus continued, and every time we’d stop at some checkpoint, I’d sink down into the chair, cover up with my hood, and lean my head to one side as if I were sleeping. Both Nagaland and Manipur, like Arunachal, require permits for foreigners, and perhaps the Manipur army/police presence knew about that too. In any case, we made it to Imphal, Manipur’s capital, a few hours before sunset.

We’d all been dropped off at a nice hotel which everyone insisted we stay at. Wanting to explore a bit more before resigning to a hotel, Keith and I started walking in a direction that looked like it lead to more buildings. We were joined by a few guys our age from the initial crowd that had assembled as we had deliberated about what to do after stepping off the bus. Their nice personalities and fluent English made conversation easy. It wasn’t long before one had invited Keith and me to stay at their home, which had a room for guests to the adjacent Baptist church. The father of our host, Koko, was its pastor. We explored around a bit and visited a central part of the city where large concrete buildings sporting wide open spaces had been recently constructed to house the massive market there with its thousands of sellers. In that area, we bought jeep tickets to Silchar in the southern part of Assam where we could catch a train westward toward Bangladesh. The jeep left early the next morning, so it looked as if our tour of Imphal was finished then, additionally because our friends were insistently guiding us back home before it got too late, claiming that the city got too dangerous after dark.

Back at the house we all chatted in the room that Keith and I stayed in, equipped with three beds and lots of extra heavy blankets. After a frigid but refreshing shower, the family served a large dinner of rice, spinach, mixed vegetables, dal, pork, and Indian-style Cheetos. Having worked up quite an appetite I remember having several helpings.

After dinner I met the rest of the family who had been in another room while the dining room table had been filled with me, Keith, Koko, and 2 of his friends. The kids were going to bed soon so that they could be up early the next day for their studies, which it seemed occupied a foundational centerpiece in the way they spent their time. Koko was interested in studying medicine, and as such, has been studying incredibly intensely for I think over a year. One of his review books I fingered through, having a spine width of about 4 inches, was well over 1,000 dense textbook pages. I could vaguely remember some of the content from my Muhlenberg days, but he was in tune with just about every single page. Evidently his familiarity with just about all of science needed to be no less than complete; the competition for medical school admission was next to insurmountable; the entire state was competing for a single slot.

That evening I was so exhausted that I fell fast asleep amongst the chatter and music in our room; the church had an electronic keyboard that they brought upstairs which Keith was glad to finally have access to. Nice keyboards are hard to come by in Dhaka, and even if fancy hotels have a piano, they’re pretty strict about who gets to use it. The next morning we were up pretty early to catch the jeep from Imphal. Keith and I fortunately got the two front seats, so the ride was relatively comfortable, and we had easy access to the fantastic scenery that our whole 12 hour trip sported. Although the distance wasn’t huge as the crow flies, the windy roads through the mountains can make any distance interminable. No matter, the views were nothing less than mesmerizing. Keith and I also had some great conversations, I remember going into some detail about his favorite books, having influenced him a great deal. We also entertained ourselves by keeping a count of how many times we had to stop at a guard station to pay. Some of the stations might have been police, some perhaps informal groups of people that controlled a section of the road. In most cases, the pay was only about 10-30 rupees, and I think it was for keeping the roads guarded and safe. Maybe that’s euphemistic for ‘bribe.’ Whatever the story was, we made no less than a dozen stops, perhaps even closer to two.

At one point in time during our journey, massive clouds of dust could be faintly seen, rising up higher and higher from the direction where we looked to be headed. Eventually we could see that it was being kicked up from the winding dusty road up ahead. Weaving around the mountain faces, dust was emerging from the road for miles and miles ahead of us. The jeep’s 8 passengers let out a sigh as we finally realized that the culprit was a never-ending line of large trucks, probably hauling something for some construction project. The trucks, referred to as lorees, never cease to amaze me. They’re all over India and are used to carry everything. Despite their size, they can negotiate terrain that buses wouldn’t stand a chance against. They’re like cockroaches, colorful cockroaches that is—they’re painted loudly and are usually garnished with dazzling accessories that either flash at you or brilliantly stream off the sides. The compact driver cabin supports several people, probably on the road for days at a time. We certainly got a good look at them; pulling over to the side of the road (a several hundred foot precipice only a few feet away), the line of what must have been no less than a hundred successive lorees creaked and grumbled past us, kicking up dust all the while. Eventually there was enough space in between them for us to sneak forward bit by bit on the single lane road. The dust was thick and decreased visibility as much as heavy fog. The headlights of a loree ahead of us, piercing through the dust, was our warning that one was heading in our path, which was our cue to pull over to the side. After passing several dozen more lorees, they had thinned out enough to keep the dust settled, and we were on our way as before.

We finally pulled into Silchar after the sun had already set. A drunk teenager saw us get out and hollered in our direction, asking where we were from in a welcoming tone, but a belligerent one. Without responding, and after a hearty tip to our jeep driver, Keith and I made our way in the direction of the train station. Several teenagers with loud voices and big smiles talked to us briefly on the tracks, and offered train departure information that conflicted with the train station officer afterward, a confusing and rather unfriendly man himself. He also claimed that there was no place for us to stay at the station, even though we had been told before that there was a guest house there. Not entirely sure what to think, we decided we’d wait until morning, as there didn’t appear to be any more trains leaving that night. We walked outside of the station and asked a teenage girl where we might find food; she had a cell phone against her ear, but wasn’t speaking. Her expression appeared dissatisfied, and she gazed past us for a good 10 seconds until we continued walking, realizing she (weirdly so) was going to be of absolutely no help. Keith mentioned to me how strange the vibe was that this place seemed to soak in; indeed, I too felt a mixture of confusion and lack of comfort. At that moment an aged man staggered past us, groaning, and visibly drunk enough to barely stand upright. Keith and I giggled to ourselves; this was likely the strangest place that either of us had ever visited. One of those loud teenagers on the train tracks offered to show us a place to eat. They drove us on motorcycles to a brightly-lit but oddly-colored Chinese fast food place. They excitedly waited outside for us, even though we offered them to join. The Asian-looking woman at the ordering counter looked to be completely in her own world and apathetic about anyone else around her. She didn’t get our simple order right. The stir fry man looked agitated that I was watching him cook. The food was not good. I couldn’t tell whether to be upset or to simply laugh out loud. The teenagers drove us back to the train station. The waiting room smelled funny and was abnormally bright, but looked like it could accommodate us. Keith rolled out his sleeping bag and I sorted through the storage area behind a small shop outside for some extra cardboard sheets. I didn’t care if I looked silly or crazy; I had no reputation to keep to this strange and confusing environment. We chained our bags to the metal chair in the corner. The cardboard was just long enough for me to stretch out on my back; I covered up with my bed sheet, blew up my pillow, and lastly, tied a thin towel around my head to keep the light out of my eyes. Despite the day of sitting, the unconventional sleeping conditions, and the Chinese fast food that sat strangely in my stomach, I fell asleep easily. At one point in time during the middle of the night, I stirred half awake and peeked under my blindfold to observe the commotion I could hear in the waiting room. Although it had initially been almost empty, at that time it was completely packed and buzzing with chatty travelers. I shielded my eyes again from the piercing lights and, amazingly, fell right back to sleep.

The following morning I remember leisurely waking up and reading a bit. The bathroom in the waiting room had a shower too, so I was able to keep with my routine of showering every other day. I remember reading a little bit before Keith woke up. By the late morning, it felt as if that silly grimy corner in the waiting room was a makeshift home. Keith and I boarded the train for Agartala in Tripura (our fifth northeast state to visit during our trip) that afternoon, and the ride took the rest of the day. Arriving there well after dark, we knew it’d be best to stay overnight there before trying to get across the border into Bangladesh. Preparing to set up camp again in the waiting room there (more crowded than at Silchar, people were legitimately camping out at this place, with mosquito nets and all), the guard offered the empty train as an alternative for us. I couldn’t have been happier. The berths on those trains are not only comfortable, but also not grimy like the floor. I remember being cold and bundling up again with about 10 layers of shirts and several pants, but slept pretty well aside from the mosquitos that I avoided by covering my face with that thin towel. The guard woke us up a bit before 5 am; it was time for the train to start making its daily trips. Keith and I exited the station walking into a heavy mist that settled coolly along the road into town. The sun started to rise and everything adopted a faint blue tint. Our walking journey continued a good while, well after the sun was completely up, and eventually we broke down and decided to get a rickshaw. The city of Agartala borders Bangladesh somewhere, although we weren’t exactly sure how far away we were. I giggled at what I told the rickshaw cyclist: “Take us to Bangladesh.”

Soon we were riding through Agartala town, still cool from the morning. In time the town thinned out and we were riding along a sparse residential road. Keith spotted some parked lorees and said he felt the border was close. I shot a look at him as if to ask “And how the heck do you know?” Within the next five seconds, the horizontal bar at the check post emerged into view from the fog. Evidently Keith knows his border crossings. The rest of that morning we spent eating fried egg and roti bread for breakfast at a road-side bamboo hut stall and then going through immigration with the stamps and forms, the first ones to do so that morning.

The Bangladesh side of the border was more populated; a massive line of trucks sat patiently on the road waiting to get customs clearance. Keith and I hopped on a rickshaw to take us to the border town, a ride that took us along a tree-lined path through rice paddies on both sides that would fade into the distance, succumbing to fog as if we were riding through a big cloud. As soon as we pulled into the town, you could feel the difference. We were only maybe a quarter mile from India, but there was no question in my mind that we had now returned to Bangladesh. Part of it was the familiar mobile phone advertisements, part of it was the different street food situation, part of it was the incessant staring, and part of it was a simple but difficult to describe feeling, a sense that now, yes, we were back. A sigh expelled itself slowly from my lungs as if to think “Oh boy, here we go again.” At the same time though, an unexplainable smile spread across my face.

At the train station it took us quite a while just to figure out when the train going to Dhaka would arrive. The organization of transportation infrastructure is completely pitiful in Bangladesh compared to India. No signboards, conflicting information from people, simple complete lack of awareness about what to do, not a trace of a computerized system in place to help out…how could the Agartala station just a few miles away in India be so new, so easy to use and navigate, and then in Bangladesh, this mess. We also had no way to pay for tickets since we had converted all our taka into rupees two weeks ago. There was no money exchange booth in the whole town, so Keith travelled to an ATM while I waited with our stuff at the station. Then the swarm of people collected. I relocated myself several times to try to avoid being the center of a crowd, but it would always reform itself, and always inevitably with me in the middle. Then the vendors would start to complain that customers were being blocked from their shop. Eventually I found myself outside the station; the only place where the crowd could form and not immediately get in people’s way. Although, now that I think about it, I think the police did have to come and nudge people out of the road coming up to the station’s entrance so…anyone could get in. Yep, back in Bangladesh alright. Where was Keith? A few started talking with me in a loud way that I just wanted to get away from. I think they were commenting on my torn shirt too. I didn’t really care if they made fun of it; just because I’m a foreigner doesn’t mean that I have to be wearing nice clothes. And after the past two weeks, my clothes were anything but nice.

So eventually Keith came and eventually we got on the train, my first train ride in Bangladesh actually. Keith advised that we stay close to the doors of the car we were in; people were likely to fill it up like a can of pressed sardines, and breathing space would likely become a premium. Avoiding the pushing and shoving, I drifted forward into the car itself; Keith remained somewhere amongst the mess of people. A surge of anger flooded me as I walked into the car. It was so typical Bangladesh. The seats were cushioned and made of this tacky red velvet material. As if to make it seem ‘so much nicer’ than it actually was. They slightly reclined and had armrests. Although that took up completely unnecessary space, it wasn’t anything compared to what kept me fuming for about half of the 2 hour ride. The seats were grouped into four, two facing another two, with a small table between them. The number of seats could have been doubled if they all simply faced the front. A handful of people in the car got to sit smugly on those clunky chairs, and dozens and dozens smushed themselves in a hot mess of bodies throughout the aisle and in the space by the doors. Who the hell planned something like that, and why didn’t they take a hint from the Indian cars that can fit so many more people because they don’t try to force in a garish design that might catch people’s eye but simply defeats the purpose of transporting PEOPLE rather than those who specifically have booked their tickets far enough in advance through whatever screwed up and inefficient sorry excuse for a ticketing system that may or may not be functioning at a given time. Or those that actually have the money to get the ticket in the first place. So exclusive, and so messed up. It started to get hot. A kid started crying. And would not stop. There was absolutely no place for me to go, the doors were blocked. More people forced their way on. I gripped the overhead baggage rack with my hands and stared slightly upward. At that moment, a thought flashed across my mind. And immediately, a smile emerged. None of this existed. Whether it’s the idea that everything is lived subjectively (and we don’t have actual access to an objective world), or the idea of quantum mechanics that everything we observe is a boggling fluctuation of energy based on probabilities, or a model of social structures that guide our perceptions and behavior that solely exists in the minds of its propagators, or the philosophical Hindu-Buddhist doctrine of illusory reality, none of this existed. If convincing myself that nothing around me exists is what it takes to lift the spirits out of the pit of doom into which I was plummeting inside that car, so be it. It was a notable event , to be sure. I had left college much less than a year ago adopting a rather solidified materialist mindset, where everything was simply matter in motion, obeying predictable universal laws. Whatever I had been subjected to since having arrived in South Asia half a year ago, my mind had been made up in some way through some means that now my theories of reality had spun 180 degrees in the opposite direction.

I took a look around. I was not thrilled with the situation, but it didn’t seem to matter anymore because the world seemed a whole lot more free and full of possibilities. A few rows down, an open window beckoned. At the next stop, I shoved one leg through, squeezed my head under, and hobbled out of the train and onto the platform. Ok, now to get back on. Getting a foothold on the engine car, I climbed on the roof of the car I had just climbed out of. Several people already up there welcomed me with excited laughs and questions. One had a heap of roped-together newspapers he was delivering somewhere, another few boys were hitching a ride to Dhaka to find work—somehow. One always sees people sitting on the roofs of trains; it didn’t seem like I’d have to deal with the threat of low-lying bridges or overpasses if everyone was up there anyway. Gripping onto a hand-hold for support, I sat smack behind the engine car as the whole train rocketed forward. Although the wind blew fast into my face, it was still no problem to keep my eyes at half-mast to enjoy the greenery, trees, and rice paddies extending forever on both sides of the train. The difference of enjoyment between being crammed into a hot smelly car with crying babies and being on the wide-open roof with scenery and fresh air was completely laughable.

At the station in Dhaka I found it difficult to part with the friendly boys on the roof top. Even during our short ride, we had spoken to each other quite a bit; I knew how difficult it would be for them here, with nowhere to stay and no plan for food or income. Unfortunately, this is the same scenario for countless others too. It felt fresh to be back in Dhaka again, despite the pollution and noise. The familiarity was everywhere: the people, the language, the buses, the signboards, the road routes, the smells. Without the mental tension of a daily routine to uphold and plans to make, the city was simply familiarity, simply a sense of welcome. However, as is the case with any return-from-traveling, the annoyances and frustrations would inevitably arise a few days after, especially after settling into the schedule of trying to teach English daily. I bussed back to my old Baridhara apartment, familiar but foreign, as I knew that I would be living there no more. I greeted the 2 new Fulbrighters there, ready to begin their 3 month language training that I had just finished, chatted a bit, ate all the food in their fridge, gathered up my stuff that I had left in Christy’s room, and hired a CNG autorickshaw to head westward to Mohammadpur, my new home. On the way back to the house I was sure to have the driver stop by a shop so I could pick up a bed palate to sleep on; that was the only necessary thing to have that evening.

Back at the new apartment, Keith was already waiting with our new housemates, Nicholas and Shima, a newly-married Bangladeshi couple. I had met Nicholas coincidentally at a roadside eatery while initially searching for an apartment several weeks earlier. Landlords rarely rent out to single men (those trouble-makers!), so I knew it would be beneficial for us to sign in together as a family (a much more socially-accepted lifestyle). Landlords, guards, and other people we need to negotiate with also don’t speak English well; having Nicholas around as a native speaker sure did expedite things. The cost would be much less for all of us if we split it, and Keith and I could practice Bangla with them as could they practice English with us. Shima could prepare food as if it were a homestay situation, and Keith and I could pay for groceries. They were nice, all parties win, let’s live together.

That evening I unpacked a large Christmas package that Mom had sent. It included a pillow, blanket, and freshly-laundered bed linens. There couldn’t have been anything more perfect for me to receive. I spent a few minutes simply inhaling the freshness of the sheets, the fragrance taking my mind right back to home. I’d unpack my dirty stuff later; I had a day or two to settle in before school started. Laying down, I thought about the chapters that were closing, the life in Baridhara, the daily interaction I used to have with the other Fulbrighters, the Bangla class, the adventurous holiday expedition through northeast India. Where they left off, new chapters seamlessly began, a family-style life, a new location, and my first English teaching experience.