Maanav Jalan recounts an exhilarating trip to Myanmar beyond Pangsau Pass on the border with Arunachal Pradesh
THERE’S SOMETHING enchanting about the misty mountains of Arunachal.
Resounding with the wails of invisible birds, Arunachal Pradesh is a land of unassuming calm. The winds gush and the mountains quiver and its people seem to be completely unrelated to the Louis Vuitton-flaunting inhabitants of the malls and spas of Delhi. And being here and experiencing each mountain, turn by turn, is more intimate than anything else.
I knew this from my previous escapades and so when my father proposed that we visit Pangsau Pass, perched on the Indo-Bhutan Border, I agreed without much thought.
It was an overcast day, and at the viewpoint at the pass, mist had descended. The asphalt road ended here; ahead lay Myanmar with sploshy, muddy roads. A pin-tailed green pigeon flew across and a flock of black bulbuls gaggled somewhere in the mist. On sunny days, a lot of Myanmar is visible from the viewpoint. I was glad that it was raining though. The border seemed so much more romantic with Myanmar inaccessible, lying hidden by the clouds. And the road ahead was not one that most cars would dare to challenge.
We were quite helpless. We desperately wanted to go ahead to the trade market at the pass. And then somehow, I can’t seem to remember how, we came across the infinitely resourceful Deepak. He promised us a passage to Burma in his Maruti800. The car spluttered and raged and made an admirable effort, but when smoke from the tyres made visibility much less than what is desirable, we finally gave up.
Deepak wouldn’t let us go without showing us the Pangsau Market though, and immediately a pickup truck showed up, loaded with footwear to sell in the market. The three people squashed inside it were evacuated, and we scrambled inside. A very bumpy ride led us to the Burmese checkpost, where three (very camera shy) guards made some crosses against some lists and we were across. A burnt building and an abandoned jeep, war remnants, stood stoically behind the guard hut. We were offered paan and denied photographs and herded ahead (politely). Nobody has time for nosy tourists.
The market lay behind a graceful curved path which gave beautiful views of the Lake of No Return. Such a grand name! Non-native troops had struggled with the leeches and the mosquitoes here, and many had died. I wonder what it was called before the English christened it. With umbrellas flicked open and cameras aflutter, we waltzed into the market. We were half (full) expecting intricate handicrafts – red shawls with black embroidery, varnished cane vases. Instead we were greeted by rubber footwear, cheap soap and stinky tiny dried fish. We searched for wooden Buddhas. The fair hill tribals with high cheekbones sell wooden Buddhas. Presumptuous? Of course not!
The women had sandalwood paste smeared on their cheeks and the most intricate cane baskets with them. At the eatery at the market, many such women were busy making delicious looking dishes. One had a big ball of cooked noodles which seemed to have been squashed together, and now she was tearing the strands of the incredibly glossy noodles apart. Rice and noodles served with leafy salads and pork seemed to be the hottest selling dish on their menu. I tried using chopsticks. A boy of five with a punk hairstyle was faring considerably better.
While trying to not get my camera wet, yet trying to capture every moment with it, my eyes suddenly fell on a basket of plums. If there’s anything I would get out of bed to get my hands on, it’s a bowl of sour plums. And these plums were a bit different from the usual red ones. These were an unassuming green on the outside and a mild orange on the inside and so utterly, face contorting-ly sour. This was perfect. Tart plums, noodles and rain.
After being herded back to the truck (politely – nobody has time for nosy tourists), my sister (yes, she was also there) and I decided that we wanted to stand in the back of the truck instead of being squashed in the front. Deepak wasn’t hard to convince. And so suddenly, we found ourselves being bashed around in the back of a truck in Burma with a stranger in the driver’s seat. And as the winds whistled undecipherable secrets in our ears, we made our way back to the asphalt road. An eagle flew across the sky as we were almost at the border across which winds, rubber footwear and eagles flew.