Journeying into the soul of eastern Bhutan, the path begins at Darranga on the Assam side of the border—a place where the air is thick with the steam of hot chai, the rustle of commerce, and the cadence of everyday exchanges. Yet, this is no crossing point; it is a threshold, where borders soften and stories begin.
Just across, nestled in the foothills and embraced by the distant ripples of the Himalayan mountains, lies Samdrup Jongkhar—Bhutan’s eastern sentinel. One of the kingdom’s oldest towns, it has been a passage for pilgrims, traders, and seekers since ancient times. Today, in an era of conscious travel, it is a place not just of passage, but of connection.
Stepping across, you find the air turning pine-sweet, the breeze bearing the lilt of distant bells and the aroma of ema datshi, Bhutan’s fiery national dish—green chillies steeped in yak cheese, served with soft tingmo or nutty red rice, and a bright spoonful of ezay, the chilli-garlic chutney lingering on the tongue. From the Dzongkha words “ema,” meaning chilli, and “datshi,” meaning cheese, this humble dish is an honest bowl of comfort, a welcome into Bhutan like no other.
From Samdrup Jongkhar, the road unfurls in slow, graceful curves into the folds of Bhutan’s eastern hills and Trashigang—the six-hour passage best entrusted to Bhutanese drivers, steady-handed and attuned to the mountain’s breathing. The road winds through teak forests and whispering ferns, brushes past the scholarly stillness of Khaling, and climbs to the Kharungla Pass at 2,430 metres, before descending into Kanglung, where Sherubtse College stands sentinel beneath cloud-laced skies.
Finally, anchored by a 17th-century dzong, Trashigang welcomes not with grandeur, but grace, with prayer flags fluttering like breath—the multicoloured for joy and healing, and the white remembering those who have journeyed on. Along the ridgelines here, birdwatchers gather in hushed reverence to watch the tragopan—a jewel-toned, elusive pheasant—haunting the rhododendron groves, alongside laughingthrushes, treecreepers, and solemn Himalayan blackbirds.
Eighty kilometres westward lies Mongar, a village steeped in rhythm and craft. Known for its master weavers and an ancient textile tradition, you will witness looms in motion during guided visits. In Mongar, garments are not merely stitched. They are sung into being, with threads dyed in roots and bark and hand-drawn patterns that have been passed from grandmother to granddaughter.
Come spring, if you find yourself in Bhutan in April-May, you will find the Royal Botanical Park at Lamperi erupting in blossom. The Rhododendron Festival then, is like a living tapestry—over 25 species in bloom, each flower a symbol of strength, resilience, and renewal.
Yet this journey is not only one of landscapes, but of legacies. For centuries, this corridor between Assam and Bhutan pulsed with sacred footsteps. In the 1540s, Bhavananda, a disciple of Mahapurush Srimanta Sankardev, travelled through this corridor. Even today, Bhutanese pilgrims journey to Assam’s holy sites like Hayagriva Madhav in Hajo and Sidheswar in Sualkuchi, while Sarthebari’s bell-metal cymbals, reborn as Posang, echo through Bhutanese monasteries, threading two worlds in a single chant.
With Bhutan’s guiding philosophy of “high value, low impact” and the opening of the Integrated Check Post at Darranga in Assam, borders have given way to bridges. The Assam-Bhutan Consortium (ABC) curates journey shaped by story and soul, transforming travel from mere movement to meaning. Some of the most powerful bridges are made not of steel, but stories—the true spirit of cross-border tourism.