The road to Mandalay

Our journey began in Delhi. Leaving behind the comforts of Gurgaon, we were heading east on our last Indian train adventure. The Rajdhani express would deposit us in Guwahati, Assam where we would head more south, more east before we hit the only India/Myanmar land border crossing.

My feelings on leaving India were mixed. WhiIst I would not miss the supermodel attitudes of Delhi auto wallahs (they wont start their engine for less than 80 rupees), we were saying goodbye to a chaos we knew not to try to understand; friends and food we loved.

Whilst we had read plenty about the ‘wild’ north eastern states which required special permission to visit until last year, nothing prepared us for this new side of India.

Stepping off the train in Guwahati felt like arriving in a new country altogether. Everything seemed different. Peoples faces and the clothes they wore, a lack of jostling outside the station and pavements that were walkable. The promenade along the Bramaputra river felt like a stroll along the Danube in Belgrade.

Intrigued, we prepped ourself for the 16 hour bus ride through Assam, Nagaland and finally Manipur state from where we’d make our final dash to the Myanmar border. Whilst much of the North East has experienced improved security in recent years, guerilla armies still hold significant sway in the region, collecting informal ‘taxes’ from shop keepers and vehicles on the road. As the raggardy bus pulled out of Guwahati we knew we were in for an uncomfy trip. Throughout the long night, we stopped at many military check points, with the occasional visit from soldiers aboard the bus holding Ak47s that looked older than me. We chugged through dense flat forests and mountains covered in sprawling jungle. It felt like a scene out of that 1980s classic movie ‘Romancing the Stone’, when would the baddies jump out from the jungle? Just after dawn we stopped in a small mountain village in Nagaland. Watching our breath in the cold, the locals wandered in and out of basic mud, bamboo or corrigated iron homes in flipflops. Clearly the descendents of the feared Nagaland headhunters were pretty chilled out.

We were exhausted and glad to reach the capital of Manipur, Imphal, and even more delighted to have an invitation to dinner from the chatty mariner sat in front of us on the bus.

Captain Robin picked us up later in the day and took us first to the allied forces WW2 cemetary. Putting aside our frustrations with colonial history (the last 8 months have arguably been a tour of ‘how not to do it’), both Ed and I felt genuinely moved. Buried here were 1600 men, aged mostly under 30 who died fighting the Japanese over Burma. I can only imagine how terrifying it must have been, the physical and mental toll of close-quarters jungle warfare. So far away from home in such an foreign place.

After a blessing at Robins local temple, we enjoyed a hearty Manipuri dinner (again, so different from the Indian food we know) and then said our goodbyes, desperately in need in sleep ahead of our final journey to the border town of Moreh.

The next morning Captain Robin and his wife kindly drove us to the taxi rank and we pitched in a van with two other guys. Following more army checkpoints, searches and chai stops than seemed necessary, we finally arrived in Moreh and would with a bit of luck cross into Myanmar the next day.

…….

“No stamp, no entry”. Having cleared up some initial confusion about the mandatory Myanmar permits we had had delivered to the Myanmar border post, there was a new problem. Having cheerily waved goodbye to the gun toting border guards of India and traversed on foot across the ‘Friendship bridge’ to Myanmar, it appeared the Indian customs office was closed for a holiday and we were going nowhere without an exit stamp. Leaving our bags with the Myanmar police, we caught a lift back to India and pleaded with the guards who seemed pleased to see us again. They understood our predicament but hadn’t thought to stop us crossing the border in the first place. Instructed on a wild goose chase to find an alternative authority to stamp us out of India, an hour later we found ourselves in the backyard of the Customs Officer’s house. Happy to stamp us out and nonplussed that no baggage checks could be carried out, we trekked our way back to the border and hurrah were allowed into Myanmar!! The Burmese Customs Officer, having warmed to us, called his brother to give us a lift into town and we pitched up in Tamu.

Only 2 miles from India, this place felt so different. Why was it so quiet? Why did everything feel so much calmer? After a very cheerful lunch with a Nepali Gurkha family, we climbed aboard for our final bus journey, the last leg to Mandalay.

Strolling to India

Pakistani hospitality continued to within yards of the Indian border. Our rickshaw driver stopped and waited whilst the border guards gave us tea. Then we strolled through the arena where the Wagah border closing ceremony would be held to much cheering, bravado and blaring Bollywood tunes that evening. Now though, all was quiet and serene.

We were stopped at the immigration desk and asked if we wanted to buy Indian rupees at a terrible rate. We did. 5 minutes later when we naively declared all our cash at Indian customs we were told bringing rupees into the country was illegal and we’d be heavily fined. We’d fallen for the first scam India had to offer.

Happily the customs officer took pity on us (or perhaps decided we didn’t have enough cash to bother demanding any) and after some careful ‘corrections’ to our customs form we were waved through.

Forcing our way through a melee of taxi drivers all vying for our attention, we made it out on to the Amritsar road where we flagged down a cycle rickshaw driver who agreed to take us to the nearest bus stop for 20 rupees and a handful of Lays crisps.

So that was it. Three and a half months of buses, trains, trucks and rusty cargo ships and we’d made it from Dalston Junction to India.

In my mind’s eye I’d imagined coming back to India would be like putting on an old, comfy pair of slippers. ‘You’re practically Indian’ my roommates in Bangalore had told me a few years ago as I ate rice with my fingers and did the head-wobble. Now though, I was most definitely foreign and jittery and wondered if I’d been naive to think I’d ever been otherwise.

In Delhi 24 hours later, having become recipients of the immense hospitality of my old friend Prashant, his flat-mates and cook, and holding glasses of ‘Old Monk’, such concerns were melting away. If re-acclimatisation came with hot showers, delectable food and full mugs, it wouldn’t matter if it took some time, we decided.