The Assam hills look, from afar, like rumpled green velvet. Rain clouds rub their grey bellies across the summits. A kind of wet heaven. A water world. Streams. Creeks. Springs. Swamps. Gushing rivers. The air is heavy with moisture. A billion leaves drip. Nothing stays dry.
We toiled up steep paths greased with mud. We teetered across whitewater rapids atop mossy logs. We poled across silted currents on makeshift bamboo rafts. Armies of leeches sucked at our blood. We threw pinches of salt on them, to make them fall off. Our local walking partners, young Karbi boys, carried razor-sharp machetes. I’d feel their blades against my sweaty skin. Walking behind, they were scraping the back of my neck, scraping my arms, delicately flicking the bloodsuckers off.