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TRUTH BE TOLD, I NEVER KNEW HOW TO SPELL THE NAME OF THIS DESTINATION UNTIL I REACHED HERE. IT ALL HAPPENED OVER A PHONE call; a friend in the forest services suggested that
even if I wasn’t a wildlifer, the place was a must-visit if I ever intended to travel to the far-flung northeast.
Other friends hadn’t even heard about it. That’s the best part about travelling within India, you get to be a discoverer of moments and places and claim some pride. Someone before me had already gone by phonetics and spelt the name as Tippi. Maybe he was a photographer, having exhausted his TP (transparencies) rolls, so enchanted was he by the beauty of the place.
I am definitely tipsy, having soaked in the freshness of Assam’s lush tea gardens during the five hour non-stop drive to Bhalukpong. This is a small foothill border town between Assam and Arunachal on the roaring Kameng river. Small shops and shacks line up on either side of the road where cabs halt before a crossover into a land that’s decidedly distinct, being the home of the Aka tribe.
The origin of Bhalukpong is lost in time. In various times in history, authority has swung from local tribal rulers to the kings of Bhutan and Assam. But none of the foreign rulers interfered in matters tribal, except for retaliatory raids into tribal territory. Even the British declared this area of Arunachal Pradesh as off-limit in 1873.
Untouched by time, you walk into an ancient civilisation where tree people stand tall with wellbuilt shiny chests, their tattooed flat noses and prominent cheek bones proudly declaring their identity. They live in elongated houses made of bamboo, wood and cane leaves on raised platforms, at least six ft above the ground. They won’t be sullied by the human stain of the outside world. But that doesn’t mean they won’t help you out. As I ask for directions, I gather from their sign language that Tippi is about 7 km ahead.
Just out of Bhalukpong, Tippi is another cluster of Aka houses stacked against one another on the banks of the Kameng surrounded by blue hills and a dark, dense forest. As I enter the village, the wind blows fiercely, bending the tall trees and sending a chill down the spine. The Aka children though are unperturbed, skating downhill on wooden boards directly into the traffic, their joy and fun doubling as I hurriedly click pictures. The Akas may be a patrilineal, bow and arrow people but they have a softer side that excels in art as evident in their basket weaving, sculptures and jewellery.
Wildlifers will reel off statistics about the biodiversity of this sanctuary but I take two days to lose myself in solitary splendour at the inspection bungalow by the riverside. It is a quaint little colonial building with a surround sound of wind and white water. If I had been his boss, I would have forgiven the sahib surveyor here for neglecting his job of mapping out the land and losing himself in the forest instead. For it is almost Amazonian in its thickness, layer upon layer of canopies, which you are tempted to unwrap like gift paper.
After a cup of aromatic Assam tea, I take to exploring the banks of the Kameng that become at one with the wild here, gurgling in torrents and gushing in rapids. Undaunted, the Great cormorant swoops over the waters, keeping its eyes peeled at all times lest l the brown dipper poaches into his territory and robs him of his hunt. The wagtails and water redstarts dance around the huge boulders, trying to evade the current, and pick up food for the day.
I hop, step and jump over boulders; nobody has trampled them in a long, really long time and crushed them to shingle. Skirting the banks, I come across trees laden with moss, huge buttresses and tree ferns. But what catches my eye is this beautiful, bright and shiny flower, breaking out from the shell of an old trunk. It’s an orchid I knew little of but it spreads such cheer, with its bright yellow petals thinning out of a deep maroon centre. On the other side is the Pakke Tiger Reserve. I try to scan the foliage through my binoculars but the forest is so dense that my eyes ache from trying to get a sliver of my vision through. I use my other tactile senses. But all I smell is a moist mossiness, all I hear is a din of fireflies, occasionally broken by a shrill bird call. If at all the reclusive tiger has seen me, he has probably retreated deep inside, consigning me to the insignificance of the algae under the rocks. The light dips quickly even though it’s still a good 15 minutes to 4 pm. I will attempt to break the phalanx tomorrow.
There’s still time though for me to visit the Orchidarium. It’s a greenhouse which houses over 500 orchid species and hybrids. Or so says the info board at the entry gate. It is here that I learn that my forest flower is
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