The wettest place on earth!

Photograph by Preeti Verma Lal

When I reached Shillong, I yawned about the capital, I kept chirping about the next morning when the car and the guide would arrive to take me to Cherrapunjee, some 56 kms away. I got up even before the sun stretched out of its cloudy sheets and when the car's tyre spun on the macadamized lanes, I remembered my geography lessons. And then! Ah! The umbrella, I had forgotten to take one. "Don't bother, it won't rain." The guide punctured my glee. But I don't want to see a parched Cherrapunjee. I wanted to get drenched. "It won't rain," the guide insisted.

I was still in school - in pinafores and pigtails - when one day the martinet of a geography teacher came up with, "Yes, you. Which is the wettest place on earth?" I looked up to see her day's prey but her long claws were pointing at me. I fumbled and mumbled but just could not lisp a 'Cherrapunjee' at that hurried moment. The wooden duster landed straight on my knuckles with a thud. Whoa! Minutes later in the principal's office the Catholic nun in her impeccable white habit and unusual drawl said, "The wettest place is CHERRAPUNJEE. Would you remember that forever, please?"

Remember I did. But only because of the bruise on my knuckle. I grew out of pinafores and pigtails, worked, trudged, travelled, but I never forgot Cherrapunjee. Never got to see it either.

And then years later one propitious moment the occasion knocked my door. I looked at my scarred knuckle and said yes. Yes, I would go to Cherrapunjee. I knew it was no absent-minded coincidence, and between packing and taking a flight I picked up some information. Cherrapunjee owes its existence to the famed British stiff upper lip. No, they did not prompt the westerlies to lash the Khasi hills. Hundreds of years ago when they reached the Province the names of villages and the accompanying inflexions completely foxed them. Like, the tiny village of Sohra. They just could not twist their tongue enough to say Sohra - so Sohra became Cherra and Cherra morphed into the now famous Cherrapunjee. Get that?

When I reached Shillong, I yawned about the capital, I kept chirping about the next morning when the car and the guide would arrive to take me to Cherrapunjee, some 56 kms away. I got up even before the sun stretched out of its cloudy sheets and when the car's tyre spun on the macadamized lanes, I remembered my geography lessons. And then! Ah! The umbrella, I had forgotten to take one. "Don't bother, it won't rain." The guide punctured my glee. But I don't want to see a parched Cherrapunjee. I wanted to get drenched. "It won't rain," the guide insisted.

Between Shillong and Cherrapunjee, my bones creaked on the bumpy street but when I saw mist hanging like buntings from the sky, I stopped for coffee and whirled at the sight of the hills that wore a green satin sheath and the silence of the expanse that tugged at my heart's strings. It took nearly two hours to get to Cherrapunjee and at the first viewpoint I saw a trickle, a white frothy line cascading down the hills. That's it? I yowled. I was told when it rains, the waterfalls are numerous and their crescendo sounds like the murmur of giggly teenagers. I needed to see the rain, those waterfalls. Thought my SOS to the gods might help. I lay flat on a big black rock, clenched my hands and said a hasty prayer, "Just a drizzle god, just a drizzle. Please". But that day the gods were not gracious, the more I persisted the more the sun got brighter.

"It's not the end of the world, honey," I consoled myself. As I peered out of the window I saw small red strips hanging on the clothesline of almost every home. Drying wool? No. Not at all. What was pinched with clothespin and flanked by cardigans and jumpers was not wool. They were strips of meat being dried on the clothesline. Ever heard that before? Is that how they made beef jerkies?

That was not the only thing that whizzed past my iris that wonderful day. On naked hills, on flat land, in green fields, in the deserted expanse there were rocks - tall, dark rocks standing alone. No epitaphs, no drawings, nothing ornate, just bare rocks standing there for hundreds of years, looking eerie against the cobalt sky. But for the people these monoliths, tributes to their ancestors, stand there as sentinels, warding off the evil eye and ensuring prosperity.

The streets dotted with these dark sentinels led me to the Thangkharang Park that houses orchids, their names ranging from a high-heeled 'Lady's Slipper' to the tangy 'Wild Citrus'; their colors from the white of snowflakes, to the russet of a potato, the amber of the sun and the blue of Paul Newman's eyes. Look at the formation of Lady's Slipper, also known as moccasin flower, and you might get tempted to slip your feet into the dainty slippers (in actuality the orchid's labellum). From the Thangkharang Park, I also looked at the blurred boundary of Bangladesh. I squinted to see another country out of the haze, but it was too far from my ken.

As I scoured around the lanes that cut through the village's belly, I saw piles of betel nut being sorted and stacked in huge wicker baskets. Curious as ever, I tried to sniff the nut for its fragrance. Fragrance? I felt woozy with the nut's stench and almost slipped into what looked like a moss-laden water tank. Helped back on my feet, the site supervisor informed that raw betel nuts are huddled in baskets and soaked in water tanks for months to get that special flavour. Let me warn you: Never touch that tank's water or rip a raw nut for its fragrance - You'll turn wobbly. Whoosh! That odour goes straight up your nose!

It had been hours of walking and my knee was bumbling. I knew I had to see the living root bridges - bridges that are made by pulling the roots and planting it on the other side of the stream or river - the dusky, elderly caves, the David Scott Memorial, the Sohra cremation ground, the Noh Ka Likai Falls but even before I could prattle the 'not seen' list, I was distracted. Next to a thatched hut there was a pile of brown bark tied casually with a string. It looked like cinnamon but I had never seen the snooty cinnamon sitting so nonchalantly with ordinary rocks and a stray pie-dog. If I could buy the entire stack I could turn a millionaire in a jiffy but there were just a few coins jangling in my purse so I settled for a Rs 10 pack. In the kiosk I also saw 'Mama's Non-Veg Bhujia' that has been 'tried and tested in 120 countries'. It looked too trite for such a mammoth claim, so I walked away.

It was getting dark and the guide was pestering to head back. I was still waiting for the rain. "A little drizzle, just a little drizzle…" I was still beseeching. I was not the only one though. In the lanes I was struck by the sight of red and blue plastic buckets queued casually at a water tap. Guess, even the world's wettest place has its humdrum hassles….. Then I saw the gathering clouds and heard a rumble. Did the gods wake up to my prayers? I don't know… Maybe they did. Maybe it rained in Cherrapunjee. But I was miles away!

Published in India Today Travel Plus, May 2005.

Contact: Preeti@deepblueink.com