The Road to Cherrapunjee

The ex-wettest place on Earth; the ex-rain capital of India; a side of India that not even India knows: Cherrapunjee. And that’s my destination.

But how much time does it take to get there? And how can I escape the hectic, tiring India that I know? And – last but surely not least – where can I smoke in airports?

These are the issues that concern me when I desolately wave my mum goodbye as the train leaves the Cluj railway station. It’s easy, I think to myself, it’s just an overnight train ride to Bucharest and from there on it’s just a bunch of flights to get to India… And, once in India, I’ll find a way…

But as I make myself comfortable in the train compartment, the elderly gentleman solving Sudoku starts talking… and so does the young guy sitting across from me. Their polished political discussion makes me cringe and I pray that they don’t include me. But wouldn’t you know it, they are too polite to leave me out of their animate discourse about communist Romania and I have to chip in, trying to look intellectual and attentive. The elderly ex-teacher remembers the outrages of the communist party and the younger one commiserates and contributes with personal stories (although he couldn’t have been more than 3 at the time of the revolution). I excuse myself and jump on the upper bed feeling confident that my counterattack will silence them. Indeed, they retire to their own beds and stillness settles in. Me – 1, train – 0.

As soon as I wake up, the gentlemen start talking again. I can sense that they have been waiting for me to get up so that they continue their war stories. But I interrupt, wondering why the window is badly cracked, in the form of a beautiful snowflake. They are surprised that I didn’t even budge at the loud strike that happened sometime around 3 AM, when some bored people decided that the best way to spend their time was to throw stones at a passing train. Well, I think, good thing I finally decided to take the advice of the older gentleman and not sleep with my head close to the window! Me – 2, train – 0.

Bucharest doesn’t seem such a bad place on a Sunday morning. Traffic is light and the way to the airport seems pretty straightforward. The next 3 ½ hours will pass somehow, if not by talking on the phone with the early birds, then by reading about the Hell’s Angels. But by the time I board the flight, I’m honestly wondering how I will take another 15 hours until I reach India.

Heathrow Terminal 4. Instructions: get to Terminal 5 and wait 5 ½ hours. No probs, I think. The terminal is just a bus ride away and if I get there soon, I can pass the security check, browse the stores and sip coffees and smoke cigarettes. As I discard all the loose change in the tray that is being x-rayed along with my handbag and laptop, I fiendishly plot the safe arrival of a refugee lighter to the other side. I succeed and for a minute I stop brooding over the plane seat I received (somewhere in the middle, crammed between many other people), which will become my home for the next 9 hours. I chase away the thought and look forward to some coffee and a relaxing cigarette. But the blonde untroubled lass at the information desk cheerfully informs me that Heathrow airport DOES NOT HAVE SMOKING AREAS AFTER SECURITY CHECK. It’s as if I’ve just won a race and now they tell me there isn’t any prize to win. Airport – 1, me – 0.

I can’t believe my ears. This can’t be. All these people sitting here, waiting for delayed flights, patience running out, nerves stretched thin… How is this possible?

‘Oh, but it is’, says a nice airport officer, who can see the pain in my eyes.

‘But… isn’t there a way?’ I ask, a spark of hope blooming timidly in my heart.

‘Well…’, she says.

The next thing I know is that I’m being escorted out of the airport through a labyrinth of corridors stretching for kilometres taking me outside to where the bus left me, a heaven-sent for smokers, with only a promise that I will come back, go through security check again and be in time on the other side to board my plane. My spirits are lifted, my cigarettes are puffed and my coffee is sipped lazily under a smoke-shrouded tree. Nothing could make me happier. Well, nothing except a nice shower or at least a change of clothes. But I take what I get. Airport – 1, me – 1 (ha!).

Back inside again, sheltering the same lighter and a sense of victory over the higher airport forces. I board the plane, preparing for some 9 hours of:

-       polite conversation – forced,

-       kindly asking other people to let me out of my seat to use the toilet,

-       fairly new movies interrupted by the captain’s announcement (English and Hindi),

-       airplane food, distinguished for its lack of taste (but, in my case, vegetarian a.k.a. savoury),

-       swollen ankles.

New Delhi greets me with morning heat and angry co-passengers. As the flight was delayed, our arrival in Delhi meant that people lost their connection flights or were simply late to get somewhere and, let me tell you, patience isn’t one of India’s strong suits. But I wasn’t worried. I had about 4 hours to spend in the airport until my next flight to Guwahati. A quick smoke outside the airport under scrutinizing Indian eyes while declining taxi drivers made me retreat in the comfort of the airport. Coffee? Yes! And how well would that go with another smoke… But what do you know? Once you get inside the airport, you cannot go out and guess what? There is no smoking area before security check. Indian airport – 1, me – 0.

I cannot check my bag in for another hour so I gloomily drink my (very hot) coffee feeling very self-conscious about my appearance (and, probably, my body odour). Finally, the time comes when I can walk past security check and wander through the unknown insides of the airport. No points for me here because sipping coffee while smoking cigarettes isn’t any fun while using cash-less ATMs and guessing PIN codes (a story for another day).

The gig is the same: board flight, take seat (window seat – yay!), get food, sip coffee, sleep restlessly, watch ground getting closer… come 5:30 PM spring to attention next to the conveyor belt, wait for bag, get bag....

Well, folks, I know that there are some methods of covering the last 100 km from Guwahati to Shillong: shared jeeps, busses, shared taxis. But I also know that from Shillong there are still 50 km left to finally reach Cherrapunjee. Which means that the only possibilities are to a) either find a guesthouse in Guwahati and spend a night so that in the morning you can get to Shillong and, eventually, Cherrapunjee; or b) find a shared jeep that takes you to Shillong and start looking for a hotel there so that the next day you will be able to cover what’s left of the distance. There are no public means of transportation during late afternoon and/or night. Don’t be fooled! The remaining 150 km mean a long, winding series of bends meandering up more hills, which translates into a 4 ½ hours’ continuous ride.

Already having this information, I opted for the third option: hire a private taxi from Guwahati airport to Cherrapunjee. And this proved to be the right way to go, as at 10 PM I was already chatting with the great Khasi people in Cherrapunjee. Impossible Indian traffic – 0, me – 1 (ha! again!).

So, to sum up: It’s really not easy to get here, but once you have, you’ll hardly want to leave again. Why, you ask. Well…