Chasing Waterfalls in the Kingdom of Clouds.
Three days in Sikkim — An eastern Himalayan state in India
“The mountains are calling and I must go.” — John Muir
I never realized that green came in so many different shades. Vistas of blue-green mountains shrouded in misty clouds dominated the landscape. Our vehicle moved briskly, edging close to jutted rock faces and overgrown bushes that brushed past the window glass. It rained non-stop, and the air was fresh and bright. We were headed for a farm stay in Rinchenpong, a village in the tiny Himalayan state of Sikkim in India, and my home for the next three days.
Journey to the kingdom
I was in India for a health and wellness retreat at Darjeeling, a Himalayan town in eastern India, and famous worldwide for its eponymous blend of tea. Sikkim, a tiny state in northeastern India, borders Darjeeling and on the itinerary for my trip to India. The northeast part of India is relatively less industrialized and known for its natural beauty. The capital city Gangtok is a popular tourist destination. I wanted to be close to nature and away from crowds and had booked a farm stay in the village of Rinchenpong in West Sikkim, after reading glowing reviews online.
Thendup, the owner of the farm stay, was in touch with me and had arranged transportation from my hotel to his farm. The driver, Nima, arrived promptly on the morning of my travel. I had traveled in September when the weather could be a hit or miss. It rained heavily. Foreigners are also required to get a permit to enter Sikkim, which meant a longer journey via the border checkpoint town of Melli.
Thick fog blanketed the road outside the town, and rains lashed the windscreen as we headed downhills through dense forests of the Indian Sal ( Shorea Robusta). The fog cleared as we reached lower elevation. The views of pristine forests and cloud covered hills were highly rewarding. We also stopped at a couple of family-run tea houses for the warm ginger-infused sweet tea (“chai”) before reaching Melli. The foreigner permit process was quick, and the officers were cordial and welcoming.
Soon after Melli, the road conditions deteriorated severely. The highway was still under construction, and the rains had turned it into a slushy muddy mess. The 4X4 revved wearily, rocking side to side, as it trundled through a thick layer of slush and mud. After more than an hour of slow-motion prance, we were finally on regular blacktop roads, and we both heaved a sigh of relief. The ride had exhausted us, and hunger struck. We stopped for lunch at a roadside cafe and gorged on a simple Sikkimese meal of steaming rice, pulses, and fried eggs.
After lunch, we resumed our journey towards Rinchenpong. The river Rangeet, a tributary of Teesta, now joined us on our trip. After another three hours of driving through small towns, we reached a fork and veered left towards the village of Rinchenpong. The scene changed dramatically. We had left the river behind. Mountains shrouded in the cloud appeared before us as the road winded through the hill. We were driving on a ridge; a hill face rose sharply on the left. On the right, the land sloped down with trails to small villages below called “bastees.” The hill face would part open at times, to reveal a gurgling stream or stairs winding up the hill. The water seemed to be everywhere, flushing through the belly of the mountain. Forests and tiny villages with clusters of homes appeared when the terrain got flatter. Light wisps of smoke rose from homes in faraway hillsides with terraced fields.
After driving through eye-pleasing scenery, we reached the small village square of Rinchenpong and soon were at the farm. It was late afternoon by then, and Thendup warmly welcomed me.
Thendup is stocky and well built with a permanent smile on his face. He showed me into my cottage that looked like a log cabin. Another family of Israeli ex-pats arrived around the same time. We were the only patrons at the farm tonight. Darkness descended quickly. I retired shortly after an early dinner at the community dining room and was fast asleep.
Road to Pelling
I woke up in the morning to a cacophony of bird songs as muted light streamed into the room. After a delicious breakfast of eggs, toast, and tea, it was time for a day tour, pre-arranged by Thendup. An SUV and a driver waited for me. Bhim, the driver, was short and well built. In his early twenties — he too, like Thendup, was warm and welcoming.
Our first stop was at “Rimbi falls.” Thick mists of spray appeared just as we turned a bend revealing the waterfall that roared down with mighty force. The scenery was unreal — the majestic waterfall on the left enclosed by hills that touched the skies, abundant greenery and a hurtling mountain stream on the other side of the road. At a short distance from the falls, an abandoned suspension bridge over the river looked inviting. I stopped the vehicle and walked over the bridge. Glassy emerald greywater crashed on rocks below. Everything was wet and green and full of life. After enjoying a few minutes of solitude, we headed back on our way.
Garden by the river
Bhim stopped at a tea house near a private orange garden to get breakfast. The garden was open for tours, and I paid the 20 rupee entry fee to check it out. After climbing down a few short stone steps, a pleasant garden appeared with neat rows of orange trees, beautiful flowers, colorful plants, and orchids. The stone steps descended further down below to the level of the river that we had just passed before. Over the next thirty minutes, I enjoyed the serene and peaceful waters and garden, springing over boulders and chasing butterflies. The kid in me was alive again.
A cascade of bliss
Next on our stop was the Kanchenjunga falls. As our car winded through the mountain roads, the familiar template of Sikkimese country life appeared. Beautiful vistas of blue-green mountains covered in clouds, tranquil bamboo forests, small villages festooned with prayer flags on long poles. Waterfalls and streams greeted us at every turn. The place seemed to be sparsely populated except for the occasional sight of local workers clearing overgrown weed over roadside drains with their machetes and women lugging bamboo baskets of fodder for their cattle. Soon we were at Kanchenjunga falls.
Kanchenjunga is actually two falls. One visible from the main road at the entrance and a second tucked behind the main facade at an angle. A ticketed entry along a narrow path leads to the second falls. Enclosed by hills in a semi-circle, the falls inside drop below into a tranquil pool of water at the base accessible by a rickety wooden bridge. I walked across the bridge into the spraying mist and sat in silence on a rock, enjoying the mighty cascade.
The goddess’ footprint
Soon, we were back on the road, on our way to the sacred Khecheopalri lake. Waterfalls were now a regular feature at every turn, and at some places, the car would cross a screen of water that would slant over from the hills onto the road. Bhim would turn up the windows and slow down to a stop below the screen to get his free car wash. Rice terraces on the hills on the far side, appeared as we drove and contrasted the scenery with an impossible leafy green hue.
The lake is a short walk from the main entrance through an ancient forest and a protected biosphere. Colorful Buddhist shrines appeared along the trail ending on a boardwalk enclosed on both sides by giant wooden prayer wheels. Leaving my shoes at the designated area, I walked barefoot on the bridge to the edge of the lake. Khecheopalri literally means “mountain of blissful heaven,” and native Buddhists believe that the lake is the footprint of Goddess Tara.
After a few reflective minutes of silence, I headed out of the lake area and noticed a small trail going up the hillside on the left. Though a drizzle had started, I decided to climb the path. A series of steps laid in stone led up the hill. Rows of small rectangular orange and red prayer flags flew overhead stretched as far as eyes could see. I climbed up following the seemingly unending flags and steps. After about half an hour, I was at the summit to the most fantastic view of the goddess’s footprint.
Celestial realm
We had skipped lunch, so it was time to fuel up. Bhim drove to Pelling town for some hot coffee and steamed momos (dumplings) followed by some souvenir shopping. Fueled up, we stopped over at the Sangchen Pemayangtse — one of Sikkim’s oldest monastery, established in 1705.
After visiting the main shrine adorned with colorful murals on walls and Tibetan designs, I found a stairway to the right for the higher floors. The second floor had cabinets packed with ancient Buddhist manuscripts and scrolls. The third and the topmost floor has a beautiful seven-tiered colorful wooden sculpture in a glass enclosure that depicts Guru Rinpoches Heavenly Palace and is quite a marvelous work of art.
The farm
It rained pretty hard the next day, which meant we had to cancel a scheduled forest walk that Thendup had planned. As rains subsided, Thendup gave me a tour of his property. The farm sits over tens of acres of land adjacent to a national forest. Thendup, a third-generation farmer, grows spices like cardamom and turmeric that fetch reasonable prices and steady cash flow. Apart from spices, the farm also grows millets, buckwheat, lentils and beans, and some vegetables in a greenhouse.
After a quick shower, it was lunchtime. Perhaps because it was my last day at the farm, Thendup invited me over to the adjoining private quarters for lunch. Over a simple Nepali fare of rice, lentils, and assortment of fresh veggies, I enjoyed Thendup’s stories of entrepreneurship and his personal life.
A long lost friend
Late afternoon the sun appeared, and the clouds cleared. I took the opportunity to visit a local vista point in the village guided by one of Thendup’s staff, Maria. I followed Maria on a narrow path from the back of the property through the forest and magically to the main road. Across the street, a trail laid in stones descended the hillside. We walked down the path that ended on a gazebo at the edge of a cliff overlooking a canyon. The sky was clear, and the sun shone brightly. The air was crisp. Puffs of white clouds floated above. A panorama of beautiful green mountains dominated the horizon.
A bunch of locals had assembled at the gazebo, snacking and chatting, decompressing after a hard day of work. They happily obliged my request for pictures, giggling and laughing all along. Their pure, generous smiles touched my heart.
On our way back, closer to the trailhead, I noticed a bunch of flowers scattered below a tree. I bent down for a closer look and instantly recognized them as the fragrant night jasmine (Cestrum nocturnum). As a child growing up, we had a night jasmine tree in our backyard. These flowers with little orange stems with heavenly fragrance bloomed for a short spell in the fall. The delicate flowers would drop from the trees at nightfall and collect below the tree. My mom would tie a net below the tree every night. Waking up in the morning, I would rush to check our catch and shake off whatever still left on the tree.
The tree had to be eventually cut down to make room for something else. I remember crying hard. The tree was rare, and I never saw one again until to this day. As if reading my mind, Maria, collected the flowers from the forest floor and presented them to me as a keepsake.
I was struck. I was touched. Like I returned home to a long lost friend.
“It’s not the mountain we conquer, but ourselves “ — Sir Edmund Hillary
This story is published in Writers on the Run. If you’re interested in submitting your travel stories, please visit our submission guidelines.
