2/2/17 – 2/6/17
Be weary of any Indian who says “just a little up”. It was getting dark. We had battled valiantly through 7 hours and 80km of war, including 6k feet of climbing on an endless road that seemingly had a series of bombs dropped on it before a bull dozer came through to scrape away the excess. Physically, I was done. Drained. Empty. Destroyed. Mentally, I was far more desolate. I was the living embodiment of the road. I placed all my hopes on a village that I would soon learn was only 3 huts with 1 shop that hopefully would sell Maggi, but was already closed for the night. Looking up to the village as I approached from 2km below, I spotted a bus. It was already 5pm and light was rapidly escaping. In 30 minutes it would be dark. Completely dark. I knew definitively that I would not make the final 9km climb to the next town where hopefully food and lodging would await. I sprinted, as much as one can sprint after that kind of day, with an 80lb bike. It was the same bus that passed us nearly 2 hours ago down at the river crossing. Expecting to see a typical over packed Indian bus, instead it was empty. Underneath the front axle was a man covered head to toe in grease, only the whites of his eyes remained clean, trying to work around the grease that was pooling up around him that was draining like a fully opened garden hose just above his reclined head. Evidently the steering went out. Not a good thing on this road, a road that had claimed another victim. I watched the driver turn the wheel side to side and give a thumbs up, indicating that it was fixed. This was comforting considering the next 9km of single lane, broken, winding road cut into hill side that we still needed to ascend to reach the village. Either way, it still seemed better than camping on the side of the road and eating peanuts, or worse yet, trying to cycle that same road in complete darkness for the next 2 hours. This is Nagaland. I have only been here for 3 days and it was winning, defiantly telling me I’m not strong enough either physically or more importantly…mentally. Each day we cycle as long as our bodies permit before shutting down, then allow a leap of faith that we will find a place to sleep…some place, any place.
Crossing from Assam into Nagaland was like crossing into a different world, much more so than even in Arunachal Pradesh…and it happened definitively at the border. There is no food, no lodging, no water, and almost no people. The roads are a mash of broken pavement and permanently set shale marbles that would shake the fillings from an elephant’s teeth…if an elephant had fillings. In India they probably do. Everyone here seemingly eats their weight in sugar annually. Any segment of tarmac, even for 10 meters, and I’m immediately pointing my cycle towards it, if only for a momentary reprieve. I’m convinced that after my first day of cycling here that I’m effectively 2” shorter due to the repetitive, jarring spinal compressions. The roads do not go around any mountains or through any valleys. There is a seemingly unlimited array of mountains running east to west. We are traveling north to south so each day we arduously claw our way over each subsequent ridge. The development of Nagaland makes Assam look like Manhattan and Arunachal Pradesh, Denver. Arunachal was striving for tourism and development. Nagaland makes no such efforts or claims. Just as the Holiday Bungalow in West Bengal became the standard for sub standard lodging, the roads here will be the new standard. They are crippling and uncompromising.
We stopped for a quick lunch on our first day. The family who owns the small eatery graciously gave me 1 bunch of bananas (17 total and about 4lbs), that I gladly tucked in my bag, ignorant to what lay before me. The road abruptly began to lurch upward, and I quickly regretted the extra weight. We’re traveling south and the temperature is noticeably hotter. In fact, it’s hot. About 80F. I passed 2 broken down trucks as I began my first ascent into the Nagaland mountains. One with a blown axle and oil flowing out of the hub, the other a cracked radiator. Along the side of the road I see a woman gathering water from a murky dammed up trough paralleling the road. I have no idea of the source. Children who appear to be aged 8-13 walk the roads with rifles slung over their shoulders. All of the villages are at the tops of the mountain peaks, likely to guard against invasion, yet making it difficult to obtain water for farming or basic living. I have not seen any running water for that matter, only barrels of collected runoff. This is just life and nobody knows any different. It’s Nagaland. I had yet to fully comprehend what lay in front of me in this primitive and rugged place. Traveling through Nagaland has further made me aware of the value of basic needs. Food, water, and shelter. All of these here have been difficult to obtain on a daily basis, but once they were met, it provided an almost immediate mental reset. I have enough. We take for granted so much as a western culture and it has truly brought so much into perspective for me. By the time I dug into my bag for a banana however, it was puree.
The people here love paan. It is a preparation combining betel leaf with areca nut and tobacco. It is chewed for its stimulant and psychoactive effects and seemingly has replaced cigarette smoking. It is essentially the chewing tobacco of India. The final combination is red in color and when chewed turns a person’s mouth red, like it is full of blood, as if they had been punched. Their gums, their teeth, their entire mouth. The spit, which is everywhere, looks like large, fist sized splashes of blood. There are signs in many places that read, “No Spitting”, but are seldom obeyed.
We stopped at 3pm in a place slightly larger than a village. Translation: there were more than 3 buildings and were at least 2 shops that sold basic life sustaining food items like Maggi. “Do you have roti?” I eagerly asked one person. “Roti is Indian, man. We have puddi” he retorted disdainfully, further proclaiming the proud independence of this forgotten north east state. (Puddi is really just roti that has been deep fried in oil.) Immediately after, we were inundated with the usual questions and curiosity. People here are genuinely kind, but not as forthcoming and open. A simple smile is typically enough to disarm them. After about 10 minutes of answering the same questions, I tried a social experiment. There were still about 7 people gathered around me, mouths full of blood, all patiently, yet anxiously awaiting their opportunity to ask the same question. “Hello! My name is Jerry. I’m from USA. I have been in India for 4 months. I am traveling by cycle for tourism. I am going to Manipur.” Feeling confident that I had effectively covered every possible question in their curiosity and English capabilities, I smiled and began to walk. “Where are you from?” someone in that same crowd called out. “Noooo, no” I replied back, wagging my finger with a laugh and smile. “I already told you. You didn’t listen!” “He is from USA,” another person chimed in, while the group laughed. The experiment worked…sorta.
“Where are you going?” asked another man as he approached, not from this group. Arrrrghhh! So close. He was in his early 30’s, clean cut, well dressed, and most importantly, no paan in his teeth. “Here! I’m staying here!” pointing up to the hill side. “I purchased a home up there. Why would I leave?” I spouted out sarcastically in jest, as the final ounces of sugar seeped from my blood stream. I never know how much English any given person speaks here, so I took a shot at being funny, but really I was the only person who could appreciate that humor. (Yes, its still funny even if I’m the only one who gets it.) Regardless, in 5 minutes I would never see this person again, so I didn’t really see the harm. “Oh really? You funny guy!” Busted. He spoke English. Good English, and he understood sarcasm. We exchanged a little more light banter as I went through my campaign speech again: where I’m from, why I’m here. Shortly thereafter the man faded back into the crowd. I was happy for the unique exchange.
It was getting late and we needed to find a place to sleep, likely another church. We have slept on church grounds the first 3 nights in Nagaland as they seem to be really the only option. I asked a man where the pastor was and he pointed up the road. I walked up to a home, knocked on the door. “Hey neighbor!” the man who answered the door bellowed. It was the well dressed man whom I told that I was buying a home here. We both laughed as I tried to hide my embarrassment. Fortunately I don’t embarrass too easily. “It is getting late and we are looking for a place to sleep for the night. We have camping equipment,” I explained. “You have camping equipment? There’s the ground!” he said jokingly, mirroring my sarcasm as he pointed at the ground in front of his home. Well played, I thought to myself. “If you don’t want to camp, you can stay in my home. Please come in and have tea,” he said invitingly. Finally, an Indian who gets me. The Swiss were slowly warming to my humor but that has taken 6 weeks. This guy got me immediately.
Once inside, we all sat and enjoyed tea and talked about Nagaland. There’s a riot happening in the capital of Kohima and as a result, the government has shut down the internet. The internet is of course the fastest and easiest way for protesters to mobilize efforts (Twitter, Facebook, etc). He tells us that the government in Nagaland is corrupt (shocking) and people are revolting. The highest ranking elected official, the Chief Minister, had his house burned down. Three people were fatally shot. “Are you married?” he asks me, changing the subject. “I was, but it didn’t work out. I’ll try again sometime,” I replied optimistically. “Just like Naga government!” he jabbed back with yet another joke. Touché.
“How come with all your Kentucky Fried Chickens you are vegetarian?” the pastor asked me. Everywhere I have been in Arunachal Pradesh and now Nagaland, I’m looked at with great perplexity why I don’t eat meat. Like Arunachal Pradesh, Christian missionaries descended on Nagaland nearly 40 years ago. Both states operate, proudly, like their own sovereign countries. Most everywhere else in India is Hindi based and thus a vegetarian diet. Conversely, Arunachal and Nagaland consume a diet of almost exclusively chicken and pork. Prior to Christianity, there was local religion dispersed across villages and tribes. There were even head hunters in Nagaland. Yes. You read that correctly. Christianity rolled through and built massive churches in all the villages and converted everyone. They are always at the top of the hill for everyone to see, almost like a beacon of hope. Arunachal Pradesh is about 30% Christian and Nagaland is nearly 100%. Some villages have 3-5 churches ranging from Baptist, Catholic, Christian Revival, to the grand daddy…Don Bosco. Many of the people that I have met in Arunachal have taken Christian names like John and Samuel. The churches in these villages are always the nicest structures and the people have been extremely warm and welcoming. These religions bring money and education for school children. All good things, right? But at what cost? My dilemma is…what happens in 40 more years when all of the people who remember the old way have long since passed? What about old traditions, heritage, the Hindi religion…the things that make them India, have gotten assimilated into western mentality? Why is the goal of this religion to make everyone the same? That is a tragic thought and how culture is lost.
The minister pulled out a history book, showing photos from 60 years ago. “These are our ancestors. They lived like animals,” he says proudly, yet degradingly. I’m struck by this comment that someone can talk about their heritage and the lives of their grandparents and likely their parents with such contempt. This has been the general sentiment of everyone that we have spoken with.
We are asked by people nearly every place we stop. “Are you Christian?” People’s unwavering faith is fascinating to me. They are truly kind and giving people, but again, like Arunachal Pradesh…at what expense? They seem to believe that Jesus has a plan for them and if they just have faith, everything will be ok. In some ways that is inspiring but in others…not so much, since they seem to have genuine disdain for anyone non-Christian. I’m curious what else the missionaries have brought to the people or taught them other than an ideology and an architectural icon? I don’t know all the details and I’m likely just being cynical because there is such a visible disparity here. The people genuinely have nothing, dress in tattered clothes and live in primitive huts, yet they have their faith. They generally present as happy, however disheveled and unkempt. There is no economy in this area, no commerce, other than lumber. The trees on the hill sides in Nagaland are being mowed down at an alarming rate. Slash and burn. The once dense forested jungle is now bare and brown. Huts previously hidden by the foliage now visibly line the hills. Sunset each night is a pink haze from the rampant fires that permeate the canyons. Orange speckles, like lighters in a rock concert, dot the slopes. Fires burn constantly. All along the sides of the roads, wood is neatly chopped and stacked. We are told that the hills are being burned in order to be tiered and cultivated for crops. It feels however that the people here are cannibalizing their future for their present because they have no other means. It’s truly sad to watch as it is happening in real time. It’s like watching a movie. The rate at which the landscape is being ravaged is unsustainable. In 10 years, nobody will recognize Nagaland, either culturally or topographically…but will they still have their faith? I digress…
Nagaland is truly unique in so many ways, yet uncompromising. My tires, brakes, shifters, and shock are all wearing down on my bike, analogous to my body and mind. I needed to dig deep to find the balance and mental reset switch. I was also starting to see small cracks in the Swiss. They too were getting tired and joked about taking a transport out of Nagaland to the border of Myanmar where we would part ways. But there is always a little truth in sarcasm. Then, it changed. Roads smoothed out and so did my mental state. “Check yourself”, I said in my mind, and “realize where you are and how few people ever get to see this raw beauty. This opportunity only exists for a moment, and maybe never again.” The next few days the road flowed freely along the ridge, never dropping to the river. The miles were going by fast. Too fast. The end was coming too quickly. I thought only 2 days prior that I was ready to be done, but now faced with the end of the road, the end of India, I was not. I feel like I’m losing 2 good friends as well. Initially I decided that I would ride with Ivo and Bridgette for only a few days. A week at most, and then go my own way, my own speed. That was nearly 2 months ago and they have since become great friends. Everyday there are full body laughs with even a few jokes from them. They are even gradually warming to my personality and candidness as well. Baby steps. Life presents so many opportunities. Doors open all the time, and I know I’ll see them again.
Today I passed a woman on the side of the road who was listening to “Have You Ever Seen the Rain” by Credence Clearwater Revival. Immediately I picked up the place in the song and sang along as I rolled by. “It’ll rain a sunny day. I know. Shining down, like water!” She laughed which put a huge lift into my tired legs as I rolled into the final town of Ukruhl where a hotel, with white sheets, internet, and my first hot shower since Christmas awaited. I felt grateful, yet guilty for such indulgence after all that I had experienced. In a few days, I’ll be back in Kathmandu, where this journey started, nearly 6 months ago. From there, I’ll look around for another open door.
Sometimes you gotta take a boat
Pretty sure those planks will hold
Happy birthday to me
Birthday dinner
Ivo teaching a cooking class
Common burning in Nagaland
Zoom, zoom
Another home stay, making dinner with Bridgette and Ivo
Burned and ravaged landscape
Transition from the old way to the new
How to get the bee hive down? With a gun?
There used to be trees
On the bus
Cooking in a basic hut
A tao. The tool of choice in Nagaland
Still some greens remain
Most villages had prominent entry gates
The common mega church
Hmmm…
Another mega church perched at the top of a mountain
Riots and political unrest in Nagaland.
Ok, no photos today?
Always choose the road less traveled
How to split a log.
The making of paan
The secret ingredient in paan. Looks good, no?
Bridgett and Ivo made donuts!
Taking over a shop to make french fries since they only made pork
Of course…
Guilty indulgence before I leave India
Great post – so many comments to make…it’s sad to see the hills being stripped, any correlation with the megachurches, I wonder?