Trek to the Living Root Bridge of Nongriat
An arduous footslog that led us to the Shanghri-La of the East Khasi Hills.
At the onset, let me tell you I am not an avid trekker. While I definitely would love to indulge if I get a chance, trekking isn’t something that is on my must-do list whenever I plan to travel. The last time I challenged myself to do something of this sort was on the Goumukh trek that starts from the pilgrim hamlet of Gangotri to the mouth of the Bhagirathi river. The 31 km trek at 4132 m from sea level threatened to suck the remaining breath out of my soul since I wasn’t accustomed to heights, acclimatization, and daily walks.
November of last year, Rupam, my friend of 28 years, asked me to plan a trip to Dzuko Valley. While we were planning out the itinerary, I took a fall during one of my assignments and had to postpone the trek. This April, after wrapping up our short film: Ekaki, we finally decided we would plan a trip. To where we could go was the question. We had no idea until Pranjit joined in, and he suggested we could do the trek to the grandest of all root bridges in Meghalaya: The Double-decker Root Bridge in Nongriat. Done! Rupam created a WhatsApp group where we would keep track of our bookings. Instead, if you peek into it now, you will find everything–from memes to pictures– but not bookings. Finally, Rupam and Pranjit concluded that this trip would be an ‘adventure,’ devoid of any advance hostel bookings or car rentals. Lord, Have Mercy!
Almost all our hesitation vanished when the taxi we booked from Shillong took its last curve and entered Tyrna village. The Sun was already on its descent, and its final rays glistened on the moist slopes of the great Khasi hills. Thanks to the previous night’s rainstorm, the panoramic view of the hills was dotted with myriad small and large waterfalls. It was like living in one of those Indiana Jones films where the treasure hides in the most absurd yet extremely fairytale location. We bid goodbye to the taxi and prepared ourselves for the downhill marathon.
The 3.8 km Nongriat trek begins from the Tyrna village, and the first of those 7100 odd steps, more than half of which are absolute concrete, starts right at the door of a small shop with a fascinating name: 4 Bro’s ‘N’ 2 Sis’s Shop. The trail snakes beneath light canopies of deciduous trees. Ascending travellers drenched in sweat would seldom stop and look at us. “Which reasonable mind intends to make a journey this late?” they would have pondered. It was 3:45 pm when we started for the two-hour-long trek. We had an hour of daylight left. “But little do these poor souls know that adventure and speed are the other two components that run in our blood apart from haemoglobin,” Rupam’s hysterical laugh violently echoed across the valley. Under the watchful eyes of those furious waterfalls, we finally managed to cross half of the trek in less than 30 minutes.
Pranjit, an athletic and adventure-seeker, was constantly tapping his smartwatch, now drenched in his sweat, to check his calorie count when suddenly he screamed, “hanging bridge ahead!” This was where I lost my sanity. I had never been anywhere without first checking the route, and here I was in front of a bridge that looked like a long mesh of coiled cables without me knowing anything about it before the trip. I looked down, and there was a rivulet carrying angry, swirling waters from the nearby hills. During the dry season, people can easily walk over its rocky bed. As soon as I touched the ancient-looking arch entrance of the bridge, my acrophobia woke up from its deep slumber. By the time I stepped foot on the flat iron bars, Pranjit was halfway down the bridge, walking as if he was on his morning brisk walk. The advantage of having a suspension bridge in a valley like this is that it allows strong wind to pass through without damaging the foundation. Soon enough, this advantage turned into a disadvantage for me, as I could see the water under my feet, gyrating around rocks and making a violent whooshing sound. I asked Pranjit to slow down his pace as the bridge had started to move with the three of us on it. A few meters from this one, another bridge, albeit a larger one, was there that could fit two-person walking side by side. I crossed both the bridges with my arms on the railings, as my acrophobia triggers the moment I see heights.
Around 4:50 pm, we reached a little root bridge from where the Nongriat village starts. The sky had turned into a hue of charismatic blue and dark shadow. The final ascent was difficult as I was carrying a heavy backpack. I asked the duo to go ahead and find a stay as I found a rocky slab to sit on and grab my breath. The only drink we had other than water on our way was lime juice, sold by small shops on the trail. I dropped a few spoons of sugar inside my water bottle from one of those shops to keep my glucose level on track.
Rupam shouted from atop that there was no vacancy in the Serene Homestay, the most favoured place among travellers, and that they were going a little further to find a room. Dusk turned into night. Minutes later, Rupam shouted my name as he couldn’t locate me. I had wandered on a different path for a few meters. “Got a room. Don’t complain now,” he said as soon as he caught hold of me. He led me on a path shrouded in complete darkness. We walked over some roots with wooden ramparts on them. Soon we crossed, Rupam smirked and said, “That was the Double-decker one!” “A what?” I couldn’t believe it. I looked back, and all I could see and hear was a stream with waters rushing over it. He purposefully avoided telling me so that I don’t jitter while crossing. Our homestay was only ten steps from the bridge. The light from the fluorescent bulb on the verandah shimmered as it fell on the drenched bark of the root bridge, revealing the contours of the hanging roots. The homestay was new, and the room we got for ourselves was on the first floor with two beds crammed in it. The owner of Shipara Homestay, Constantine, was a lovely gentleman: short, stout, and kwai-grinder like every other Khasi. Kwai is the local name for the betel nut, known for giving a sense of heightened euphoria to the imprudent ones. He showed me the bathroom and pointed towards the shower.
“See this?” He asked me with a face, expecting a ‘good job’ reply for his hack.
“Shower! Nice. How do you manage the water?”
“Stream water!” he clenched his arms on his chest and showed me how I’d shiver when I take a bath under this.
Meghalayan rivers aren’t perennial, but rain-fed. People like Constantine create rainwater harvesting with whatever little resource they have at their disposal. For now, in the monsoon, there is no scarcity of water. He wisely connected a few pipes with seven L-joints and a tap each for the bathroom, the two toilets (Indian and western-style), the wash basin, and the kitchen. Cold stream water has magical healing power, as it peels off the tiredness from the body almost instantly. We put up an order for our dinner. Con (as in Constantine) didn’t receive his meat parcels that day, so we had to content ourselves with vegetables. Food is significantly more expensive since most items are brought by minivan from Sohra to Tyrna and on the head from Tyrna to Nongriat.
I burnt a cigarette for myself as the duo unboxed their prized possession: a Black and White Scotch Whiskey. Since we had been starving for about 5 hours, we made our way to the stream, where there was a store made of wooden logs that gave us hot Maggi and warm mugs of tea. I burnt another cigarette and moved closer to the stream. Rupam joined me as we watched layers of milky-froth water flowing down the pebble bed and into the river. Back in the room, I poured myself a drink. I couldn't believe the taste when I sipped it neat: the whiskey's grain sweetness with cinnamon and vanilla flavours brilliantly complemented the weather.
An hour later, Con appeared to ask if we were ready to have our dinner. We helped him set the tables in our room and brought the food inside. Con smiled at me and asked: “Would you mind tasting boiled pork knuckles? We made it for ourselves, and we’d love to share.” When we found out we'd be having pork for supper, three of us leapt with delight. Rupam and Pranjit never had pork knuckles before. I did once, back in Germany, inside one of that famous Bauhaus that serves roasted pork knuckles. Con's wife– who had prepared a delicious supper of rice, dal, finely shredded carrots cooked with capsicum, papad, and potatoes with cauliflower–scooped some knuckles and boiling pork stock into a bowl. As soon as they handed me the bowl, I took a sizable sip and passed it to Rupam and Pranjit. It was almost as though we were drinking holy water. By midnight, the dark sky opened its doors. Rain and thunder strikes stomped down the valley. But apart from two or three minutes, there were hardly any power cuts. We called it a night at around 3 in the morning.
Nongriat has its own microclimate. Early morning, water droplets from the ceiling plopped and slid down my cheek, waking me up from my catnap. When I looked outside, I noticed a mass of low-hanging white clouds moving from the root bridge to the valley. By the time I got ready, it was gone. Nongriat is much warmer than Sohra because of its topography. Since it’s surrounded by hills, cold air never reaches the hamlet during the day. At night, mercury does drop, but not significantly.
We went to the same shop by the stream to have our morning dose of Maggi and tea. A new narrative was occurring behind my back as I lit my cigarette. The moment Rupam saw the girl who brought us breakfast in the morning, he instantly fell head over heels for her. What started from there was a story that continues even to this day. For him, it was love at first sight. Our next destination was the Rainfall waterfall, 12 km from Shipara homestay. We had our second breakfast with chapati and potato stew and said our goodbyes to Con and his wife before leaving for the waterfall.
This trek was even more beautiful as we moved through the state’s lowland tropical rainforest. Water dripping down humongous rocks covered in moss, and trees, and warning signs to not pluck anything from the forest never failed to make us realize that we were inside one of the Meghalaya’s last remaining sacred groves. The road got steeper once we crossed the hanging bridge, and that was where I called off my walk and asked them to move ahead without me. I found for myself an enormous boulder to sit on. I pulled out my beautiful pink notebook as a father-son duo from the village started the repair work on a thin root bridge ahead. In front of me was a postcard view that many city people could only fantasize about.
From my vantage point, I could see the rivulet's frothy white water become a vivid blue as it calmed down after going through the rapids. Weathered stones and pebbles tell stories of a time before human civilization. These were my thoughts when the father, Cho, came up to me and asked why I didn’t go with my friends. Cho, a septuagenarian, spoke about the forest, the river, the trees, and the turmoil caused by humanity.
Cho rolled a cigarette and took a deep drag before speaking again. “The process of building a living root bridge, or the jing kieng jri in Khasi, dates back to almost 200 years old. For this, we select a few suitable rubber fig saplings. There are two reasons for choosing this specific plant: one, they have aerial roots for tying, twisting and shaping; and two, they are highly elastic. Constructions of the bridges are only allowed in areas where locals worry about mobility due to yearly river floods. In the next step, we would plant the good saplings on either side of the river. Once matured after 15-20 years, the trees let out aerial roots. We put a bamboo structure on the side so that builders like me can go and pull these aerial roots to tie them together. It would still need a few more years for nature to kick in and start the weaving process by itself.” What he referred to as the weaving process is nothing but anastomosis, where roots and tendrils fused into each other and form a super-strong structure.
Even though Cho was entrusted with restoring all the root bridges on the path to Rainbow Falls, he was concerned about the status of the double-decker bridge. “Nobody follows the only five persons at a time on the bridge rule. If you go to Mawlynnong, you’d see overstepping has destroyed a part of the bridge.”
Cho mumbled a few words while adjusting the bag over his shoulder. I took my seat above the boulder and jotted down his words. His son, who had a leg deformity, now sat beside me. He grazed his hand inside his bag and took out a packet of tobacco and thin rolling paper. He meticulously rolled a cigarette and turned towards me, and offered to make another one. The tobacco was so strong that I had to let out a violent cough.
Meantime, the duo were back from their wanderlust. Lovestruck Rupam wanted to gift the girl a drawing she would remember for the time to come. In a short while, our ‘Picasso’ completed his caricature, and we moved towards the double-decker bridge. Rupam offered the girl his drawing, and it was a sight to behold as they smiled and blushed together. “I was looking at nearby branches for someone who could have thrown poison darts at us for what you did just now,” I said jokingly. We asked her for three bowls of Maggi, which would be our last meal before the back-breaking ascent.
At 3: 45 pm, we started our trek. I did take a walking stick, but I had to throw it because it was tremendously slowing me down. Once we completed 80% of our trek, I asked Rupam and Pranjit to fasten their pace and see if we could manage a vehicle back to Sohra, since everything closes down after 6 pm (on summer days). Walking up a hill with a 45-degree slope wasn’t easy. I had to sync my steps with a 1-2-3-4-rest rhythm.
At 5: 50 pm, I reached Tyrna village and raised my arms in the air. I wish I could describe how I felt back then in more detail. As we took our seats in a shared Maruti 800, I asked my friends: “10 years from now, would I be able to enjoy the majestic nature the same way I’m witnessing it right now?” As the Sun and the Tyrna town vanished behind a curtain of sandy cliffs, our car passed through a rocky archway towards our next destination: Sohra.
Suggestions:
If you are on a budget, travel in a shared Sumo from Guwahati to Shillong (₹300). From the Shillong Municipality Board office, take another shared Sumo to Sohra Bazaar for ₹150. Shared taxis run from there to Tyrna for ₹150. Direct taxis from Shillong cost around ₹2500.
It is advisable to stay for a night in Nongriat than do the whole trek at once. If you intend to do the latter, hire a private taxi from either Shillong or Sohra.
Carry your own water bottle with an ORS solution to help you manage dehydration.
Avoid carrying plastics that can easily litter. Although the village has waste disposals made of bamboo everywhere, locals need to carry the dump from there to Tyrna on their heads. If not, it gets buried in a small landfill, causing serious environmental degradation.
Avoid staying in the Tyrna village. They are expensive and give you nothing in terms of comfort and view. There are numerous homestays in Nongriat with basic amenities. Prices range from ₹1500 to ₹3000.
Living Root Bridges are a feature of the local animistic beliefs. All they want us to do is marvel at this joint-creation of nature and humans.
Splendid storytelling!!!
Memories are the best things in life. Thanks for beautifully transforming those in your wonderful words.