On paper, the drive from Itanagar to the vibrant Ziro Valley was a mere four-hour journey, and I had dreamed of a peaceful, picturesque drive. But four hours later, I was nowhere near my destination, bogged down by torrential rainfall and uncertain of this adventure that I had taken up. My driver—a young, anxious Deep Dey—was visibly upset and shivering. We were driving through a thick jungle, loud thunder with high-pitched insects as our only companions. The first time is rarely so pleasant (neither of us had ever been to Ziro Valley before) and hardly do people travel to the valley in June; the roads during the monsoon are hard to navigate and prone to landslides.
Some seven hours later, an uphill drive finally brought us to Ziro. Tired and in need of some hot tea, we checked into a quaint homestay run by the local tribesmen. It was only after a bit of rest, did I realise that my dream had indeed come true. The Ziro Valley, covered in the rich foliage of pine and bamboo, was well worth the slippery slope of a drive. The stormy grey of the sky had turned to a soft blue, the dust had washed away giving way to a wide variety of green— nothing had ever been better.
The Ziro Valley, covered in the rich foliage of pine and bamboo, was well worth the slippery slope of a drive. The grey sky had turned to a soft blue, all of it looking like a dream.