504 Words
India - Take me to the River
I am a West Coast Canadian. My fashion sense could be described as prepared-for-the-emergency-hike look. I get out there. So, when my guide, Mr. Bikshipta Sindhu Doss, suggests we walk down 3000 stone steps to see bridges made from living roots, I try to appear modest about my obviously superior hiking abilities.
We are in Cherrapunjee, India, the wettest place on the planet, (Vancouver's annual rainfall is about 44 inches. Cherrapunjee's annual deluge averages about 470 inches) but today the skies are blue.
Less than an hour later, we have descended 2000 feet and my knees are convulsing so badly, I can't hold my camera. (Back home, weeks later, my husband does the math that I would never think to do. That is; 3000 extra-steep and deeper than average risers, equals approximately 300 stories down, and of course, 300 stories up.) We reach the first of these unbelievable bridges and though the scene could be described as heart stopping, my knees and heart are doing anything but. They are keeping perfect hummingbird-heart time.
Mr. Doss explains that the roots are from a type of Indian Rubber tree (Ficus Elastica). It takes 20 to 25 years to train these roots across these gorges, making a bridge that will not be torn away in flooding and ensuring access for the villagers living at the bottom of this rainforest. I stand on the first one. Where's Tarzan? The roots are twined and twisted to form about a 2 foot wide platform, sides and top deck-rail. I look back to the edge where the source tree uses its remaining Banyan-like snaky roots to hug Volkswagen-sized boulders at the shore.
We cross 5 bridges, including a rusty cable one 45' above a river. The bridges are 50 - 100 feet long. And then we reach our final crossing, a two level double-decker. It is there we picnic on garlic-chili chicken and then begin our return climb. Once again, we wind through the spotless Khasi village, where children run out to laugh and point at the tall people. (Mr. Doss, at 5'5" is a very tall Assamese man. And I, at 5'10" am simply freakish). I try to imagine their trips to town, which would always include these steps.
We stop, partway, panting like dogs. Far below, I see a skinny old man coming up the stones. Soon, he is beside us. He smiles, revealing a few bloody stumps. His mouth, like so many others, looks like it is bleeding, but it is from the incessant chewing of the betel nut.
"Kite," I think he says. Doss explains, "That's the Khasi word for tired."
Yes, I smile back. "Very, very kite."
He smiles again, picks up his pole and hefts his heavy pack up past legs that are no thicker than my arms. His bare feet fly up the rough rock steps. Soon he is gone.
When we finally stagger back to the lodge, I am a very kite, very sweaty, and very much humbled Canadian hiker.
For more info: www.cherrapunjee.com |
