Our last little story on Meghalayans, before we plunge into the dusty clouds of Manipur.

Bethel

This woman also has a talking name, Bethel – and she is to some point a very picture of the whole khasi people.
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A mantis travelling on Roman’s shoulder

We met no more human ashes, nor voodoo dolls on our way to the cave. The mystic cave turned out to be a hole in a limestone sink, about one meter in diameter. The khasi stayed away from the hole, trying to peep into the vertical hole from a distance.

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On and on, ever turning and turning, and sliding up and down the hills of Meghalaya, we pedal to the East. Towards the state of Manipur, burning in the flames of a revolt. Behind us, in front of us, side by side with us Tata trucks roar they way from the coal mines, huge, rubbed, all heavily loaded with coal. “Give way, you little nuisances!” they horn to us huskily. When tired of climbing up the hills, Roma and Gleb speed up and clutch at the frame of the nearest truck. Tata usually doesn’t like this, but the driver sticks out of the window, looking back at them, smiling and absolutely nonchalant about the road safety.

Road makers greet our peloton

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