MOL_Where the Mountain Stories Are: Tripping through North Bengal in the Winters
This one is a slow one. As I have been lazing through the hills and dooars of North Bengal, so many stories stick with me. And most are slow, as stories they may drag forever and seem real as the pieces come together. Maybe, these stories were meant to be slow in nature.
Like that of Bhutan across the border, inter-twining as
lives and cultures intersects in a region that certainly counts as remote for
both countries. Across Parengatar lies the hills of Bhutan and what is probably
a gleaming pothole free road. There are excellent medical services and people
protect their forests. And it is with them that the villagers of Parengatar
would trade millets, seeds and other items of general use. The lament that this
trade got disrupted during the COVID and the border crossing never reopened but
also that such traditional forms of trade are now meaningless with the global
spread of the market economy. Most story tellers are yet to explore the impacts
on our collective heads post these diseases that made us all slightly
different.
From Parengatar and the Kholey Dai festival where stories
were the flavour of the season, one entertained the self by glancing in any
direction. Stories everywhere, of the Teesta and its continuing impact on the
average psyche, of the realisation that climate screaming is true and the world
around them could change really soon. There were other stories, one that of a
giant jhula, strung from four tall bamboos, tied to one another and joined with
a heavy bole, where adults could relieve their childhood without fear of
judgement and ended up appropriating the space more than the bewildered
children, forced to wait for their turn.
Kholey Dai is a festival of harvest and hope, a celebration
of the ripening of paddy and the joy associated with its bounty as the village collect
the threshed paddy and separate the multipurpose hay. Out here, a group of
Mallus from Gangtok along with locals and the organisers used hay in the most
extensive manner possible, including writing the word Kholey Dai, as stall
construction, as curation elements, as stage props and finally, when in the
cold, most people would gather around the stage, as a comfortable and warm
support for our tired bums.
Such stories and that of bamboo. For Bamboo is everywhere.
Moving slowly through the countryside, in myriad totos and some trains, the
influence of bamboo takes mythical proportions. For they are used everywhere
and in everything, providing all sorts of support to desperate communities and
to well heeded profiteers. But my bamboo story is that of the straw for sipping
Dhongru, or the mysterious millet beer. As the top layer of rotten beer is
sipped in loud, the sea of millets can deter even the most ardent fan. However,
the straw is precisely used for this purpose for it creates a mesh type
protection at the bottom and forces through more of the liquid into one’s
thirsting throats. Through this magic bamboo straw, we could somehow taste Dhongru
during the festival.
Predictably, my eyes started hovering towards the many
familiar faces in what was now an obviously mongoloid dominant landscape. Faces
I place from childhood, ingrained as childhood memories are. Obviously from
Jharkhand, I speak to various Oraons, Mundas and other tribes folk who tell
stories of their frequent encounters with elephants, living as they are when
their ancestors were brought in, at the borders of the ever-shifting forest. Wage
rates hovering in the 230-250s, but with the almost certain guarantee of a pay
check at the end of the month, lakhs of tea-tribes as they are known as
continue to live in the dooars, land which even to the most untrained but seen
from a high point was probably meant to be this giant jungle in nature’s design
book and not the increasing fragment of heaven and hell that it has become for
all wildlife and thousands of unfortunate humans, who may be as bewildered as
the would themselves and reach in the only way possible to a poor human,
fightback and so the circle of violence and reprisals continues in the dooars.
In the Mouchuki bungalow, way above Samsing after a long
deserved but tiring walk from Suntalekha, I entered upon a paradisaic world
where nothing else existed but the jingle of occasional goats, whispers of
women going uphill to harvest or that of the bungalow caretakers who have an
active opinion on all issues currently plaguing the planet. It was a silent space,
and the constant hum of silence makes stories hard to gather. But some stories
came into view.
Stories were made when I tumbled downhill and in a spurt of fast
walking, the impact of which is being felt to this day, I managed to get on top
of a local jeep and drove to Chalsa sitting atop that vibrant jeep and the
diverse country it took us through. Video calling friends as the tea gardens
flew past, I got a ring side view of morning affairs in the many houses along
the road.
Lataguri was a special one. The place booked had ceased to
exist, the money lost, a tired soul, a fatigued body and finally an auto that
took me to this strangely wonderful resort that hosted shady business with
aplomb. I got a separate veranda and spent the next two days wondering if an
elephant would finally breakthrough. A lone teak sapling, growing fetishy fast
was snapped into two and the telltale signs of elephant passage was visible.
Gorumara National Park is honestly an epitome of the word
park, for it is but a park and that shall remain the harsh reality. 80 sq. km,
ringed by a circle of conflict driven fire, angry villagers and tired forest
squads. The landscape is often described as the best managed division in North
Bengal but I’m beginning to doubt all self-congratulatory tones nowadays. The
completely smooth operator of the resort I was in, arranged his own vehicle
graciously and arranged a hurried visit to the Medla watch tower. Now, it was a
lesson worth experiencing. With the northern boundary of this longish park cut
by a highway and a railway line that offers beautiful views of the forest. The highway
we took was another matter, for when the diminutive bus driver decided 2 up the
ante, we just zip through the dense forests of Gorumara National Park and
resort Lataguri no time. Wonder thinks about the speed management techniques
employed in southern Indian park such as Nagarhole, Bandipur or Mudumalai and
so on they could be useful in managing the speech of drivers and other vehicles
in the forest of this region.
Widely praised as one of the best managed divisions Gorumara
national park officially occupies a critical space in this entire landscape. However,
telltale signs of conflict are everywhere especially along the southern border
as we drive along the canal and then take a lift into Ramsey landscape weather
squad forest driving score is there something sometimes known as is often
employed full time due to continuous exchanges of volatility between humans and
elephants
reaching that one story that I remember is that of adivasi
guide who was so well informed so trained with extremely poor pronunciation
vocabulary and grammar do but he was well trained and he was eager to learn
more wish that we could be able to taken for mountains of life another aspect
of the management of resources in Gorumara is the rather engaging role of JFMC or
joint forest management committee as they are involved in ensuring that the
guys are given provided on kaise get to own money every day.
Lataguri was also marked by this infamous flyover that is
always in the state of getting ready like most like was in India. The flyover
apparently has a gap in the middle which is visible and one for India few days
back 2 bikes with 4 people 4:00 in the morning drove stunt and it was only in
the morning when there 200-part body so found along the railway tracks below
what's flyover kind of is haunted.
Listening to old Hindi music making me nostalgic as the lazy
days passed by, I explored the town of Lataguri for two whole days and then
took a bus and then a train to Hasimara.
Which brings the discussion back to conservation yet again.
The railway route cuts through the Chapramari forest like a
slice. In many ways, also through Gorumara. The slice is impressive for the
railways is one institution which still takes its entire existence seriously.
The line is sanitized on both sides for as much as 3 metres each making the
crossing a gargantuan task for the unfortunate animal. This corridor is
officially stressed if not altogether damaged. And I am not considering the fault
lines caused by highways on all sides.
This region of the dooars is still under [population or
feels so due to the tea estates but conflict seems to be all around. Our
elephants are in some deep shit.
The train takes one through some glorious vistas especially
of the Bhutan hills and lends to itself a very romantic air, one broken by occasional
outbursts of forests that somehow seem disconnected yet when looking through
google earth, makes you aware of the several interconnected forest patches that
ensure continuity of habitat, inspite of the numerous linear blocks that they
face.
On a high, the train whizzed through the Jaldapara National
Park offering brief sketches of the grasslands within and the many rhinoceros
who have made this park their home. Through all the poetry, one couldn’t help seeing
the other side of the track, which was almost always under human habitation,
acres of paddy offering themselves as subjects of intense conflict. And as the
train turned towards Hasimara, the disjointed parts of the dooars shriek their
acknowledgement through all the beauty.
The beautiful dooars is a broken-down version of what it
once was, a vast sub-tropical paradise with few parallels across the world. A
perfect blend of climate, geography, altitude, and rainfall made this landscape
a forbidding jungle with only the toughest humans daring to occupy these lands.
Even as the toto took me southwards, it was obvious that the eastern boundary
of Jaldapara and Chilapata is home to an even faster highway, one that carries
fast goods into Assam.
Chilapata forest is an astounding piece of natural beauty,
driven by high amounts of rain and having the comfort of being protected from at
least one side, overlooking the Jaldapara forests. And the results were clear.
The Torsa river surprisingly resembles Nile in the ancient books or a grand
delta. The entire river basin was a riot of water and tall grasses, enough to
hide elephants. And as far as the eyes could see, the grasses and this precious
river habitat, one that is almost impossible to now witness, were alive and
happy in the distance. High protection must be the reason here.
But the eastern part of Chilapata is not so lucky. It is surrounded
instead by a giant web of habitations and fields, with both wildlife and humans
living in close proximity of each other. A few elders point to the fact that
the quality and quantity of fodder available inside the forests has
deteriorated. At the same time, reiterate some forest officials that the number
of elephants has increased over the years due to better management. Not after
the truth, I was awed at the ingenuity of the big elephant in breaking down
barriers. Even on the day we were there, an elephant had knocked down a
strategic pole, otherwise protected by electric fences and somehow managed to
enter the village. Night brought more events. A gaur decided to enter the camp
and the dogs decided that they would have none of it. So, after an hour or more
of cacophony, the mighty gaur suddenly decided that he had enough of messing up
with the local dogs and decided to return to the forest.
Chilapata still operates through few homestays and small resorts, lending a highly rustic haze to an otherwise regular safari, one where the driver takes you hunting for a large mammal. Unlike Kabini where everyone runs after the tiger, apparently the gaur is the most prized animal. The vital corridor that Chilapata is, there is a sense that while it protects the eastern bank of the Torsa, the forest itself is plagued by conflict in its eastern boundary.
No story of any forest is now spoken in joy or fondness. It
is all about conflict and sad memories and destruction and encroachment. I
found it surprising that most of the people with these memories were themselves
of the generation that destroyed much of the forests and yet they fondly
remembered the old forests. Perhaps, a human’s primal connection to the wild
remains unbroken.
By now it was apparent that the magnificent Dooars is just
another massive conflict zone that is deteriorating further as the days pass.
The entire landscape is broken into smaller forest patches. As urban sprawls
spread horizontally, one worries at eh state of the remaining forests. It is
all about connectivity between the remaining forests for if connectivity goes,
it takes away chances of healthier populations in the future. Right from
Siliguri where forests border both sides of the road as one drives towards
Sevoke, Mahananda sanctuary, Neora Valley National Park, Chapramari, Gorumara,
Jaldapara, Chilapata, Torsa, Buxa and further are all remnants of once dense
forests.
Travelling eastwards, the railway tracks leading upto to
Rajabhaktawa inside Buxa remind you of better decisions that could have been
taken while planning lines through forests. The railways contributes itself as
a giant-sized animal killer, in forests across India and especially through the
Terai region.
Buxa Tiger reserve is unique for revenue settlements inside
the park means the mushrooming of small homestays and an occasional resort that
thrives on the mass tourist. All sorts of business go on inside and my memory
of taking a rather hectic walk, marred the visit to Buxa fort. The fort itself
had been a prison once and looking at its location, just loved the idea of anyone
being stuck here during those days when connectivity was minimal.
Large teak plantations welcome you after the entry ticket to
Buxa is bought and you sit on a blocked auto. Entire compartments are full of
giant teak, likes of which one sees only in Kerala. But the question of why
Teak is still growing here is a question that will never find a good answer.
The presence of villages such as 28th Mile,
Santalbari, Jayanti and others inside the reserve, ones relatively modernised
by the impact of tourism, yet distinctly rural, meant that outside elements
could easily enter into partnerships to create wildlife tourism options. It
also meant that a free for all situation exists in the landscape with resorts
and homestays mushrooming everywhere in the region. I left soon after.
Jayanti was another matter. Manoj dada, Mohan dada, Budo,
Milan and his family, various snacks shops and a lot of riverbeds to walk
around, Jayanti and especially Milan’s homestay made the stay memorable here.
Fairly non-descript, the village is the remnants of what was once a bustling mining town. Dolomite was extracted from the mountains opposite and transported by train to be further processed. This probably would have meant a lot of fear and astonishment amongst indigenous wildlife who most certainly either went extinct or moved away. The town is a textbook case of poverty. Even the rich look poor here. The more fortunate ones have opened homestays or at least a room or two. Many operate small grocery shops which amazingly, from the perspective of an urban elite is astonishing as most of these shopkeepers earn not more than 7000 per month. That leaves the many men who have nothing to do. Sometimes breaking rocks to lay roads inside the forest, sometimes acting as guides, without much agriculture to call their own, sometimes taking casual visitors to the Chota and Bada Mahakal mandir, but mostly playing cards under the big tree opposite Neelkanth homestay. Such is the life of the people of Jayanti.
Rajesh dada, dressed in shorts and a short-jacket
combination at all times, surprises you when he announces after a long interval
that he is the owner of the establishment. By now, the guest probably has
checked in and finished their lunch when finally, the room boy mentions that
the diminutive person talking a while back is indeed the owner. Something about
Manoj dada was off. Was it his behaviour, which was impeccable, attitude which
was welcoming, nature which was all giving or his ambience. His ambience gave
the smell of death. One could not yet place it till on the last evening; one
finds out that he is an incorrigible alcoholic. That solves the riddle, at
least. His ambience was off.
Anil perplexed me beyond imagination. Hardly interested in guest
relations, I was thankful that he finally gave the room to me. Guest relations
notwithstanding, his housekeeping skills were impeccable for the room at the
Very Last Cottage was neat and clean. I landed in the middle of a harried Anil
who perhaps was the epitome of the good life for me. His wife had had an accident,
and this meant that she had been out of commission for weeks. The guy in
question had to wash clothes and cook food, which he remined me several times
and several villagers also reminded me several times.
Finally, when I glanced upon the unfortunate wife, faced
with an entire village’s agony of seeing Anil do extra work, she seemed like an
angel out of the woods. Strong minded, she literally gave up the walking
support in the three days, I was there. Starting with slowly climbing down the
very steps, where she fell from for the first time after the accident, she was
determined not to mess up.
Slowly climbing down, sitting in the sun, having her hair
combed by her neighbour, walking around the whole day, slowly starting to cook
the next day and finally beginning to walk without support, it felt my life
revolved around her for a while.
Dada was another matter. Busy bee that he was, he was up
with utensils early on and went around the village distributing milk from the
many cows and calves that he had. He had that ancient Mongoloid master’s
ambience and spoke to me about several things, God and beyond. We met one
afternoon while I was on a call, and he said that what else can one do but live
life daily. He also lit dhoops every morning, lending a strange ambience to
this very last cottage, at the edge of the forest, where elephants occasionally
walk in and walk out with a trunk full of salt and flour and barking deer are
seen walking around. He spoke about God matters and called me one too. When I
explained that my idea of God would ideally stem from that very first creature
living in the sea, whether in the form of a plant or animal and then the
creature finally lending itself to growth and all that is around us which we
see now, I would say that God was that creature.
Dada agreed with his wise face, piercingly small eyes and a
gentle smile and went back to the forest, roaming with his cows and goats.
Just when I thought that Jayanti will not cease to surprise
me, it continued so. Since I had forgotten that Jayanti is known as the queen
of the Dooars, busy as I was in the affairs of the village, a walk beckoned me
to the very edge of the clean water flowing down from the hills.
From this angle, Jayanti River with the bald granite
mountain providing an ancient sense of character to the region, the river
sparkled gently. Running fast through the rocks, almost touching the ground,
every tourist fell on one’s knees to take that impossible landscape image. All
will fall for such is nature. When we seek to see ourselves separate from
nature and merely enjoy its delights, natures cease to unfold its spread of
magic. It leaves us with the more outward manifestations that nature decides to
share, one that shows us only glimpses of its deep essence.
The sparkling river took me upstream where a narrow gorge guided
me further into the dense valleys. The river, spreading and thinning at
different times was a constant companion and its silvery white water ran
through one’s sights, cooling them forever perhaps.
Gorges rose on both sides and a largish hornbill flew from
one perch to another. The return traffic was thinning as well as darkness was
soon to cover the land. But walking quickly, through some boulders and then
some sand and finally, a rather anxious stretch covered on both sides by lantana
like bushes, making one an easy target for any upset elephant.
It all opened up to a wondrous magic land as the Jayanti’s
bed narrowed through the gorge. A bamboo bridge to cross as thew gusts hit you
straight at the face. And then a Maggi shop. After a visit to the stalagmite
formation of Chota Mahakal, drinking some sulphur laden water, one crawls back
to the Maggi stall, run by a bunch of wild people from Lepchaka. The lady, in
question was tough and the men were tough as well. Everyone was busy setting up
a brand-new hut for the upcoming Shivaratri season and they showed me around
one of the huts. Each hut was a shop firstly and behind, were a number of
tenting mattresses, upon which slept the gang. There was also an inside room
next to the dorm of boys where the lady could sleep. Sitting, chatting with
them, I finally left in the dark.
It took me a long hour and the shadows of the gorge above
were of different forms. I could sense the pull of the giant boulders and rock
faces. The Buxa range of Indo-Bhutan is also a part of the ancient rocks of the
Himalayas. The ancient folds, running mainly along an east-west axis, were worn
down during a long period of denudation lasting into cretaceous times, possibly
over a hundred million years. During this time the carboniferous and Permian
rocks disappeared from the surface, except in its north near Hatisar in Bhutan
and in the long trench extending from Jaldhaka River to Torsa River, where
limestone and coal deposits are preserved in discontinuous basins.
Dolomite was also mined here. In the 5 days that I stayed in
Jayanti, made umpteen friends and ate well. I could also see the poverty flying
all around, another victim of development.
Finally, after a night of some awesome karaoke, I left for
Cooch Behar after saying bye to everyone at Jayanti and then on a long bus
drive that cut through beautiful forests and then ran parallel to a railway
track that must surely seen a lot of blood. For what role does a railway track
have inside the remnants of what was once extensive forests. Finally, the usual
ultra hustle of Bengal became apparent as we entered and never left Alipurdooar
as traffic, houses, villages and ponds all merged with one another.
Cooch Behar is a place that was always in my imagination. Traces
of memory remain from the early days when the mention of Cooch Behar was in
reference to some far-off places, and I was not aware of the kings and queens.
Later, as I read about the kings and queens and their many guests, curiosity
grew. With the invitation of the Bhatiyali singers for Rivers of Life, my
imagination ran, and I imagined Cooch Behar to be rising out of forested sub-tropical
paradise with giant trees all around and a mist oozing out. Adding to the
millions of rivers of my imagination, I imagine people going about their daily
lives in boats. But perhaps, that happens a few kilometres downstream of Cooch
Behar as the various Himalayan rivers merge with the Brahmaputra.
Staying in a city where voter ID card is the most prevalent
form of identification, I ended up watching Dunki, going to the palace and
getting sufficiently impressed by its dreamology, walked here and there and
finally, after a surreal encounter with an auto rickshaw driver in the middle
of the main junction of the town, and after what was a relaxed conversation, I
left for Sevoke the next day.
Journeys are made out to be just as they are experienced and
in that cold winter morning as the auto rickshaw driver took me far away from
the city of Cooch Behar and dropped me at the bustling railway station, there
was not much but mist around.
Assured that it is going to be a cold and cold journey, I
was seated at peace when many many kids from the nearby village jumped on to
the train. It being the first of January 2024, these kids were all headed to
Sevoke as I was. However, I was not aware that Sevoke evokes picnic like
emotion for this is what these kids were upto.
As the kids poured into the train, I was covered by young
girls who did not care a damn for rules or behaviour. They chatted with me as
though we knew each other and in no time, we reached Sevoke which was 3 hours
away. Saying bye to them as the bus moved to Kalimpong, knowing that I will
never see that one particular kid in specific, the one who was sitting opposite
me, I felt that all is good in this world where one can still talk to one
another.
My stroke of movement continued as I reached the road, asked
a Fauji who directed me towards an incoming bus. Within moments, I was on the
way to Kalimpong through the newly destroyed Teesta.
Sitting in the back row, the bus glided up the hills, it was
one of those glorious journeys that seem to happen to us humans when we are in
a positive mood. Reaching gently, I found a beautiful homestay, Flower Patch
and settled in. A walk to Yin Yang, then some good chowmein and finally, back
to the homestay, I was ready for the day.
Tea kept pouring in as it has been over the past 20 days. I
never did realise that Tea is such as integral part of my life but all
together, the tea, the view and some good old ancient stuff kept the homestay
happy. It overlooks the Teesta and all the associated valleys that reach down
to Siliguri.
A bald patch on one of the opposite hills speaks of a long-lost landslide or perhaps nothing. But no one I spoke too, could conjure a cultural link to the that strange looking mountain.
The evening went by and after a few forays to the roof and
the open viewing deck, I settled down to wearing an inner coat, one that held
me in good stead through the night. My time in Kalimpong was done.
Next morning, a walk or two, breakfast in the form of a
terrible dosa, booking my shared jeep to Icche Gaon Fatak and bye to amazing
hosts at the Flower Patch, I walked through a crowded and water starved
Kalimpong, and after securing a lifer, I actually sat in the front window seat
of a shared jeep that took me through crowded towns and villages, each
invariably looking like an extension of the other. And then, I was dropped at
the Icche Gaon Fatak.
It has been 15 or more days since my travels began and this
one was probably as tough to reach as Mouchuki Bungalow near Samsing which was
my first steep walk. A lot of Momo, some tea and some bull-headed determination
and I was on my way. The momentum was enough to carry me all the way above the
crowded marketplace and higher. Finally, at the very end of whatever disguised
for my energy those days, I met an amma who offered me various types of rooms
and to my guiltiest pleasure, I found just the right cottage for all my needs.
Overlooking a hang with the village just below, the cottage opened to a view of
the Kalimpong side of these hills and all I could make out was valleys upon
valleys of mountain sides.
I settled at the Rawas homestay and with amma, dada and
Harikaka, it took me an improbable amount of energy to leave this idyllic
heaven. Idyllic but lazy. By the second night, dada who also owned the place
would place the food beside me and coax me into eating or the food would turn
cold in minutes. Not one to attempt a blanket crossover, I had to struggle
eating every night as the cold set into this hilltop village.
The cat visited me one night and decided to explore all
around. Hardly scared, barely even curious, it just decided to explore as suited
its mood and in no matter, came and snuggled next to me. I was also lazy and
decided against shaking it off, leading to a rather therapeutic moment of human
animal interaction when all the worlds’ sadness seemed far away and all that
mattered was the cat’s soft breathing as its cavity of a heart took heavy
breaths in the cold night.
Days were spent lazing, mostly semi-dozing and doing
nothing. Even the owners offered to send me off on a trek for free, but Hari
kaka knew that I was happier in doing nothing. Finally, one evening, I did go
on this ethereal walk-through palm and cane laden paths, where dense bushes of orchids
offered a continuous shade, I walked deep into the forest path and felt light
again. Light footed and light-hearted, the walk as sweat and chill mixed was a
treat to recall.
As I returned and video played with the dogs, a hot tea and
some pakodas awaited the tired soul at Rawas homestay.
Icche Gaon is not without its peculiarities. First is the
growth of multi-storeyed mega tourism structures where the approach road is
still being built is beyond comprehension. Some establishments use the night to
blast loud music that reverberates perhaps as far as the Mighty Kanchenjunga
itself. Each night was an experience in endurance and as the body finally lulled
itself into sleep, dying thoughts would revolve upon the flavour of the evening
which currently was in the form of Jamal Kudu from a movie called Animal.
Yet, finally, reverse-tripping, I went on a walk rampage.
Starting from Icche Gaon, I climbed up and then down to
Silari Gaon and then through some dense forests, finally reached the
Pedong-Silari junction. Already tired but happy after a good long walk, I was
barely beginning to climb up when a jeep came swooping by. And to my surprise
was going all the way to Samsing, which had been the beginning of my travels.
Atop the roof, hanging to whatever took our fancy and
finally finding myself right above the driver, separated by a thin sheet of
metal. As we froze making the climb from Pedong and drove through well
preserved mountain forests, we sat frozen till the jeep dropped us off at Lava.
I had been hearing of Lava having turned into a tourist hub
and crowded as Darjeeling or Kalimpong, yet it took a walk through its long
winding street all the way to the Neora Valley National Park check post to
understand the impact on fragile ecology. Lava is sitting on a volcano, and I
was not sitting on one.
I continued walking down, all the way to Sherpa Gaon and to
the tea garden which seemed out of place in a tropical paradise that Sherpa
Gaon is. Much like other tea gardens in the area, the true native vegetation of
this lands is forest and agricultural homesteads that are not ecologically
damaging. Wishful think that it is, instead of protection, it is apparent that
the remaining wildlands are rapidly transforming into curated spaces. Tea seems
foreign, howsoever hard we may try to convince ourselves.
I continued my downhill walk and after an eternity where a
good Samaritan driver offered me a lift and then finally, the same jeep that
had brought me from Icche Gaon the previous day, gave me space at the top. All
alone, this journey is memory worthy for I desperately clung to life, sitting
alone on that windy rooftop. Somehow holding onto my bags, I stayed perched as
a pissed bird stares directly at a howling storm and got down only when the
driver asked me too.
Damdim, Oodlabari, walks, a tempo through the Sevoke forests, autos and a last walk to the airport and suddenly all that remained of this moment was memories.
