Arunachal Sojourn - Part 2

Arunachal Sojourn – Part 2
 
Day 3 – Tuesday, 4 November
 
“Bridges, Orchards, and Bonfire Bonds”
 
The morning light in Dirang had a different quality - softer, filtered through thin veils of mist. We woke at 5 a.m. to a cool breeze slipping in through the window. A steaming cup of coffee, a brisk walk around the property, and a few photographs later, the day had already started to feel special.

 
Since we were staying another night at Hotel Rigsel, there was no rush to pack. After a hearty breakfast, we left for local sightseeing, jackets and mufflers in tow. Five Innovas set off once again, their tyres whispering over the dew-damp roads as the convoy rolled into the valley.

 Our first stop was an iron bridge spanning a fast-flowing river. The water gurgled over rocks, and the chill in the air was sharper near the stream. Cameras came out instantly, laughter echoed between the cliffs. The next halt was a hanging bridge, a rustic structure made of wooden planks that creaked underfoot. It swayed gently as we crossed, adding a hint of thrill to the morning.
 

A short drive later brought us to a charming homestay, where we halted briefly for tea and a bio break. The place had an inviting, rustic feel, the kind that makes you linger a little longer than planned. 

After refreshing ourselves with hot tea and coffee, we walked to a nearby orchard outlet, where a young girl of barely eighteen sat behind a small counter surrounded by baskets of fresh produce,  kiwis, cabbages, beans, and leafy greens neatly arranged around her. She greeted us with a shy smile and offered everyone a complimentary kiwi, crisp, tangy, and bursting with mountain freshness. It was heartening to see someone so young managing the counter with quiet confidence and grace, a small but inspiring reflection of the self-reliant spirit of these hills.

 

We returned to the hotel for lunch, a sumptuous spread, and then regrouped in the lobby at 3:30 p.m. as Sharan had briefed. By now, we had started recognising each other’s voices and laughter. Conversations flowed easily; a sense of community had quietly taken root.
 
The afternoon was devoted to exploring Dirang’s monasteries and market. Our first stop was the Kalachakra Monastery, but the temple was closed, the monks were attending a prayer meeting. Undeterred, we admired the architecture, the prayer wheels, and the surrounding stillness.
 

At the Dirang Monastery, a steep flight of steps tested our stamina. Trek poles were handy; the climb was worth it. The monastery sat like a silent sentinel above the valley. Group photos followed, the kind where strangers already looked like old friends.

 

Only a few, including Geetha and me, showed interest in visiting the local market. The lanes were lined with small shops selling woollen caps, pickles, and trinkets, simple mountain fare. One of our goals was to see if we could find camphor, a handy companion at high altitudes, often used like smelling salts to clear the head and ease breathing. To our delight, we found it, neatly packed and ready for travellers like us. The air was crisp, the shopkeepers polite, and the brief visit felt both purposeful and pleasant.
 
By evening, Sharan had arranged a bonfire. Sparks danced against the darkening hills, Bollywood songs floated through the air, and an impromptu antakshari broke out. Even those who were shy the first few days now joined in.
 
It wasn’t just the fire that warmed the evening, it was the laughter of new friendships.
 
Day 4 – Wednesday, 5 November
 
“Through the Clouds to Tawang”
 
Alarms rang at 5 a.m. The mountain sky was still dark, but the air felt charged,  the day we’d all been waiting for: the drive to Tawang.
 
After a quick coffee and a brisk walk to capture the dawn hues, we packed up, breakfasted, and set off by 8:30 a.m. The road ahead would take us through heights we’d only seen in pictures.
 
The first halt came at Baisakhi, at 11,246 feet. The sun was bright, the wind playful. Tea and bio breaks turned into photo sessions, scarves fluttering, laughter echoing in the thin air.

A couple of hours later, we reached the much-anticipated Sela Pass, perched at 13,700 feet. The name alone commands reverence among travellers. The bright sunshine could not mask the piercing cold. Every thermal layer, every woollen glove felt justified.

We stood by Sela Lake, its still waters reflecting the snow-dusted peaks. It was breathtaking, the kind of scene that stills conversation. Cameras tried, and failed, to capture what the eyes saw.

 
From there, the drive continued to the Jaswant Garh Memorial, a solemn tribute to Rifleman Jaswant Singh Rawat and his two comrades who held off hundreds of Chinese soldiers during the 1962 war. Inside the bunkers and exhibits, silence prevailed. As I read about their bravery, I felt an involuntary lump in my throat.

Lunch was served at the Army Cafeteria nearby, simple, hearty, and served with discipline. Sharing the space with uniformed jawans added a quiet dignity to the meal.
 
Our next stop was the Nuranang Waterfalls, or as the locals call it, Jang Falls. The road leading to it was narrow and under repair, and our convoy had to wait nearly forty-five minutes behind army trucks. When we finally reached, the wait felt worthwhile. The waterfall thundered down a rocky cliff, a rainbow arched across its mist. Cameras clicked furiously, but it was one of those moments best stored in memory.

The final stretch to Tawang was long but scenic. As we entered the town, the temperature dipped sharply. We checked into Hotel Yangzom, a charming multi-level property with its reception on the third floor and rooms cascading down the hillside.

 Evening was quiet. After freshening up, Geetha & me sat for some breathing exercise, letting the breath and stillness merge. Dinner followed, warm soup, rice, and simple comfort food. Outside, the wind howled gently through the pine trees.
Tomorrow, we would explore the soul of Tawang.
 
Day 5 – Thursday, 6 November
 
“Monks, Memories, and the Sound of Silence”
 
The morning began with steaming coffee, though the sun seemed reluctant to appear. The mountains hid behind a shroud of mist.
 
After breakfast, our Innovas started rolling by 9:15 a.m., the engines humming softly in the thin mountain air.
 
Our first halt was a small monastery marking the birthplace of the Sixth Dalai Lama, the only Dalai Lama to have been born in India. The spot radiated serenity. Prayer flags fluttered in the breeze; the air felt blessed.

Next came the magnificent Tawang Monastery, the largest in India and the second-largest in the world. Spread across a hilltop, it was both spiritual centre and fortress of faith. We couldn’t enter the main hall, the young monks were in the middle of their examinations, followed by a robe-changing ceremony.

We spent time in the museum, absorbing glimpses of Tawang’s history, before heading to the nunnery, and later to the Buddha Park, where a giant statue of the Buddha looked over the valley. The stillness was profound; even the birds seemed to fly slower.

Lunch was at a cheerful restaurant called Taste of Tawang, in the main market. Sharan, ever thoughtful, announced that those interested in shopping could explore after lunch. We picked up a couple of fridge magnets, small souvenirs to carry home a piece of this faraway land.
 
The final visit of the day was to the War Memorial, an expansive complex that initially looked like any other tribute, until an army officer began to speak. His words precise, passionate, and deeply patriotic held us spellbound. As he narrated the stories of soldiers who had fought and fallen in the 1962 war, his voice trembled ever so slightly. It was impossible not to feel a surge of emotion.

We returned to the hotel quietly, each lost in thought. We found some time to do breathing exercise. After dinner Sharan gathered us in the lobby to brief us about the next day’s visit to Bumla Pass, warning us cheerfully to “bring out every winter astra-shastra” we had.
 
It was to be the highest point of our journey, literally and otherwise.
 
Day 6 – Friday, 7 November
 
“At the Edge of the Nation”
 
The morning coffee tasted stronger, as if preparing us for the altitude ahead.
By 8 a.m., a line of union vehicles rugged, well-equipped jeeps with local drivers and oxygen cylinders waited outside the hotel. We retained our same fellow travellers, the easy familiarity of shared seats now firmly in place.
 
Our first stop was Penga Teng Tso Lake  its waters pure, blue, and impossibly clear. The cold was biting but exhilarating. Sharan encouraged us to spend time there, partly to acclimatise to the altitude and partly to drink in the silence. The mountains mirrored themselves on the still water; it felt as though we were in a postcard.

From there began the final ascent towards Bumla Pass, the Indo-China border. The terrain changed quickly. Vegetation thinned, army camps appeared more frequently, and the air grew rarer. Photography was prohibited beyond a point.
 
At the last checkpoint, we were ushered into a large hall - a “bunker,” they called it, where an army stall sold caps and jackets, and a small canteen served hot tea. Within minutes, our group was called to proceed.
 
The short walk to the actual border was surreal. Fifty metres of paved path flanked by snow walls. An Indian army officer greeted us, his voice steady, his pride palpable. “You are now standing at the line that defines our nation,” he said, as the tricolour fluttered behind him. Each word echoed in the crisp mountain air.

No personal cameras were allowed, but the army had arranged something far more meaningful. For those interested, an official photograph was taken by army personnel, later printed and certified by the Garrison Commander to confirm that it was captured at the Indo - China Border on that date. A proud souvenir, no doubt, yet even that couldn’t quite match the memory held within, the quiet emotion of standing there in person, etched deeper than any photograph could ever frame.

On the way back, we stopped at the Sangetsar Lake, better known as Madhuri Lake after a film shot there. Its turquoise waters shimmered under the sun, framed by barren peaks. We unpacked our lunch boxes, eating quietly by the lake, each lost in thought.

 
As the day wound down, some voyagers went to the market, while others joined the cultural and light & sound show at the war memorial, another of Sharan’s thoughtful arrangements.

 Back at the hotel, over a simple dinner, the conversation turned gentle, fewer exclamations, more reflection. The cold outside was fierce, but inside, there was a warmth that came only from shared wonder.
 
That night, as I looked out of the window, the lights of Tawang shimmered below like scattered pearls. I thought of the young soldiers guarding those invisible lines, of the hills that held so much silence, and of how travel sometimes brings you face-to-face not with new places, but with new layers of yourself.

End of Part 2 

continued in Part 3