Hornbill - Nagaland through a window. And a door.

You hear three kinds of stories in Nagaland. The war stories: Bloody events of the World War II pithily documented in bullet points put up on flex boards in the war museum. Or easily conjure up your own heartbreaking ones from the evocative epitaphs in the war cemetery right in the centre of capital Kohima (‘Leslie, As long as life and memory last, I will always remember you. Dad’). There are the underground – or ‘UG’ as the locals say – stories: Stories of gentle extortion narrated with a benevolent helplessness. And there are the valiant, mythological ones which have become folklore. The last of these is usually the source of the names of villages, mountains or festivals. The Nagas not just have stories for every bend, they love sharing them too. A conversation with a local will hardly be bereft of some anecdote about the cunning Apvuho or reference to the heroic Pulie. As much as they are proud of their imaginative pedigrees, they are also revel in being perfectly hospitable to the point that a happy guest is considered nothing short of a respectable asset, which will increase your station among neighbours and friends.

A colourful turnout

In Nagaland for the Hornbill, I had decided to take my experience one step further by not making an advance hotel reservation; I wanted to stay with a native. But the tourist influx surpassed all previous years – filling up every hotel and listed homestays – it so turned out that I wouldn’t have got any place to stay. If I hadn’t lost my pen, that is. Amidst all the scurrying on the inaugural day (“Photographers, please leave the performing arena, now!”), the ducking (“Photographer with the long hair, you are blocking the VIP view.”) and the dodging (“Hoo-ha”), my pen fell out. It was an expensive Swiss Army Pen, bought just the previous day from the airlines which has the habit of making perfectly unwanted things seem eminently useful and sexy. This list also includes a ‘can cooler’ – a contraption which looks like the decapitated limb of Terminator, really. Handy if you happen to lose your way in the desert, still stagger on with a can of cola.
My profuse thanks to the kind soul who returned my pen started a conversation which ended in me checking into the one spare room in his sprawling house late that evening. It was his son’s room who had, at the last moment, announced that he wouldn’t be coming for this year’s instalment of Hornbill. I was their first ever guest. They were not in the homestay business and my expectations were to be kept to the barest minimum.
“Don’t worry uncle,” I assured him. “I just need a roof over my head.”
“And you will be like one of our own sons,” uncle said. Perfect.
“You will eat with us,” said the aunty, his wife. Couldn’t be better. “But come back not too late at night.” Well, ok.
Thus, as luck would have it, I experienced firsthand, the famed Naga hospitality and got to stay at not a hotel. There were 11 children in the family – from the youngest teenager to a mother-of-two in her late 30s – ensuring that I had no dearth of companions. Whether I wanted to go to the festival, check out the Night Bazaar, groove to the rock concerts, trek up the nearby hills, binge along the meat trail or quaff rice beer from every single morung (tribal dormitory) representative of the 16 tribes set up at the festival venue, I had an accomplished ally.

The festival is a show of unity

Ambitiously touted as the ‘festival of festivals’, Hornbill is yet to make a serious impact on the reveller map. Most of the non-Naga faces were the camera-toting, national and international media workers, militantly pursuing that perfect shot. One old English lady was laboriously coaxing a Reebok-clad, spear-wielding boy to let out a war cry when I arrived at the venue. She let out a series of high pitched shrieks subtly hinting at her dream shot to the daftly smiling youth and his clansmen. After what it seemed like they had their fill of fun, the youngster stood up and said in perfect English, “But we don’t have any more wars, madam.” Looking a bit dejected, the lady began to walk away, muttering a hurried “thanks anyway” when the lad motioned her to wait: the entire tribe stood up, clanged their feather-adorned spears, tilted back their headgears decked with boar teeth and together let out a series of bloodcurdling war cries. Not wanting to miss this great photo-op, almost every camera in the venue had surrounded the group in seconds and flashes went off more furious than a Pirelli calendar launch.
The Hornbill festival, in addition to its frenzied energy of motion, twirling colours and vibrant notes, holds several layers of relevance in the life of the modern Naga. With over half the population depending on agriculture, all the festivals are related to harvest cycles. Each of the 16 tribes has its own festivals through most part of the year, but they all come together for Hornbill. Though not easily discernible to the outside eye, each tribe member is distinguished in their own way from other tribes – could be in the coloured goat hair that ornament the spear or their daos (traditional knives), bamboo headgears plumed with wild orchids and hornbill feathers and wild animal teeth. There are serious attempts to portray the gala as a show of oneness to the outside world – a display of solidarity among clans that have a long history of being at loggerheads with each other. Generous gifts and kind words are exchanged, intertribal interactions are greatly facilitated with harmony, peace and ultimately progress as long cherished goals.

Earned all his teeth

“For many years our people referred to any place outside the north east as ‘India’,” said a young government veterinary doctor. “But this is gradually changing.” I had befriended this dashing, well-read young man at a disco which was open only for one night – the night of the opening – the authorities had ordered it shutdown the very next day itself. “We still feel isolated from mainland India in many ways,” he continued. “There are not many development projects in the North East compared to other parts of the country. So can you really blame our youngsters migrating to the metros in thousands? There is no scope for enterprise, so can you blame us for coveting low-paying government jobs?” There is something about Nagaland that make you nearly miss the incongruity of a bunch of adolescent boys putting up a ‘Men at Work’ sign on the road. Here you become used to little girls hunching over loads of firewood and still cheerfully smiling at you. You don’t know whether to be flummoxed by the dapper labels or be impressed by the casual ease with which they are flaunted. There is a heady bewilderment when that lass coyly smiles at you on the street and when you return with a longing smile she bursts out laughing.

Dressing up dude

Mustering up huge reserves of willpower, I decided on a culinary break from all the smoked pork, sticky rice cakes, pickled meat, fish wrapped in banana leaf, soya beans curry and of course, rice beer. Uncle’s ‘hunter’ son offered to accompany me up a trek to the nearby ‘Puliebadze hill’. My stomach was feeling and beginning to look like that of the sow in the sty below my room – the sow that kept charging into the asbestos walls at full speeds, get knocked over with an ear-shattering clang and wail full throttle for 20 minutes – every day at exactly 3:00 a.m. So, on the morning of the third day of the seven-day festival, I started up this ‘unlisted’ hill. The Mount Saramati, at 3.840 metres is the tallest mountain, followed by Japfu Peak (3.048 metres) and Mount Pauna. While each of these is a few hours’ drive from Kohima, the Puliebadze is only a few minutes’ drive – 8 km till the Jotsoma village, where you park your vehicle and begin the climb. Story: Pulie was a brave farmer who fought a serpent which used to eat up all his harvest. The serpent swallowed Pulie and he became a spirit. When Pulie’s family came looking for him, they could only hear his voice which kept going farther and farther. The family realising what had happened, kept a chair in the field, told Pulie ‘to be seated’ – Pulie-badze – and left. History: In addition, this verdant hill sides had also been witness to some gut-wrenching battle scenes during the Second World War when the Japanese troops attacked Kohima, to expand their ‘Prosperity Sphere’. I suggest you get your fill of this history from the war museum before you begin the climb so that you don’t deprive a soaring imagination as you pant your way up – for me, I took out my dao and told, sort of unkindly, to my hunter buddy to pretend he was a Jap.

Top of Puliebadze Hill

Standing so conveniently close to the town, access to the Puliebadze is easy and it offers a decently strenuous 3-hour trek. But strangely you won’t find it mentioned on any of the travel brochures brought out by either the tourism department or the many hotels. Then, strangeness in various avatars – ignorance, humorous, affably arrogant, outrightly weird – is one thing you get used to in Nagaland. From the top you get a near perfect aerial view of Kohima ‘village’ – which the locals proudly proclaim to be the second largest village in Asia. The sheer spread of this ‘village’ will be at par with that of any bustling town or a fast growing city making you wonder why it is called a ‘village’. “Could be that we are still surrounded by forests?” My hunter companion offered helpfully. But the cover is giving away fast, I wanted to point out to him. A few more Hornbills and Puliebadze Hill could be Puliebadze P.O., Kohima. My fears didn’t seem to be unfounded as on our way down a different route, we saw a road was being bulldozed through the serene green cover cutting trees over a hundred years old, all the way to the top. My hunter pal donned on the strangeness, in its blissful, ignorant cloak, pointed out to me a chunky green caterpillar that was swelling its way across the new road. He had earlier taken his dao saying that wild bisons were frequently spotted on Puliebadze and I had felt an adrenaline rush; I packed my dao too. But the closest we came to the elusive bison was a fly-crusted dung and my hand reached towards my dao till my host announced that it was at least a day old. So he seemed to be happy being able to show me some kind of animal, he took it and carefully placed it on a leaf and the caterpillar happily curled itself around a tender bud. A hospitable Naga is a happy Naga. And a happy Naga makes everybody happy. Strangely, suddenly, I felt happy too.

And the music flows

Though the only disco in town had been unceremoniously shut down (“So much of nonsense happens when people get drunk,” as I was informed by a sternly smiling cop who was posted outside the closed doors. “Our people don’t know when to stop unlike you people from outside.” I wanted to tell him that he couldn’t be more way off, at least about me.) but not much dent had been made on the gaiety all around me. Alcohol, like in every State in the country where it is officially banned, was freely available here too. “What do you have?” I asked the chap behind the counter of a shop right in the centre of the town. “What do you want?” He asked me. Then, these shops mostly pander to the needs of the tourist – the Naga still loves his native drink. Each time I invited uncle to join me for a drink he came with his own bottle of rice beer. And it took much (drunken) cajoling to make the younger lot to join me in the case of Foster’s that I bought at the rock concert venue at a sky high price – they were already high on their local brew.

A young reveller in the Night Bazaar

For every Naga, rhythm is in their blood and music in their genes. Almost every girl sings pretty well and boy strums the guitar. Throw in a little bit of marketing savvy and you have a music group. Nagaland could possibly be the one State with the largest number of performing music talents. Exports have gone as far as Delhi and Bengaluru and set up lucrative bases there. Attend any church service and you wonder why the music is not out on the shelves: the singer sends you to raptures on the high octaves like an accomplished soprano and the pianist plays with the flourish of Yanni. Little wonder that the rock concert was indeed the star attraction of the Hornbill Festival among the local youngsters. The stands which were largely empty during the fashion show during the earlier days of the festival were packed to capacity during the concert night. “Did you come for the fashion show?” I asked a youngster. “No,” she replied with a straight face, “that is for people like you. As you might have noticed, we don’t actually use any of those jute bags or cotton trousers.” She was right – she as well as her entire group were turned out in what looked like a strict dress code: skin tight jeans, shiny leather jackets, checked Puma shoes and a Pashmina shawl casually draped around the neck. Some also had the oversized knitted hats worn on Derby Weekends.) Belt out any number from those doing the latest rounds in the metro pubs – ‘Rise up’ by Yves Larock or ‘Baby’ by Justin Bieber – and you have a sing-along crowd. Their skill and knowledge of music can only be matched by their love for it. Coming back from the concert with my brother (yeah, every guy is your brother under the circumstances...) the ‘guitar guy’ as uncle called this son, I was taken to a side road a little away from town. My brother was bristling with excitement and it was 2:00 a.m. I was happy too that I still could make my date with the suicidal sow. Well, maybe he has somebody... Our bike halted near a cheering group standing around in a square space illuminated by four pairs of headlamps from four parked cars. Right in the brightly lit up space, two guys were slugging it out, with bare fists. One already had a bloodied nose and kept staggering over to the other brawnier chap for more sickeningly thudding blows to the chest and the stomach. Beneath all those beautiful faces and charming wardrobe was angst, directionless and unaddressed. And of course, there was ‘I gotta feeling’ by Black Eyed Peas in full blast from one of the car’s nerve numbing woofers.

Remember your steps...and we shall be remembered

‘Window to Nagaland,’ announced the entrance to the venue and the Naga Bazaar did full justice to this proclamation. Those menacing daos which came in different shapes, so deftly handled by the performers at the opening ceremony were on sale here. Plumed headgears, ornamental spears, wooden masks...you could convert your experience to solid memories here. The heavy spiral bangles made of brass were a particular hit with the female foreigners who discussed with their male companions if it went well with trousers or flared skirts. And then the best pairable shade. School children picked up bamboo pen stands while housewives compared the merits of a square coaster over the round ones. I picked up pickled meat for later that night. “The Night Bazaar is only about food,” complained a foreigner. I brought this up to the attention of a young office bearer with the Kohima Chamber of Commerce and Industry and he asked me, “What more do you want?” The possibility of having all-night pubs was next to nil going by the prevalent social and political atmosphere. “Even this Night Bazaar is nothing short of a victory for us,” the official explained. “We had to show the world that we are a peace loving people and all the tourists coming here are our guests and they are safe in our State.” Yes, when it is about changing kind of well ingrained (mis)conceptions, a Night Bazaar, even if it was all about food, was a good start. One of the main streets was cordoned off for this food fete with both the sides taken up by youngsters from church organisations, formal groups or just a bunch of friends, selling the omnipresent momos to specialist dishes like smoked pork axione (pronounced ‘aah-hi-onay’) to bamboo vinegar and bottled rare herbs. While the main venue was at Kisama, 12 km from Kohima town, the Night Bazaar was right in the town itself. “It was part of our plan to shift some of the action to the commerce centre,” offered the KCCI official.

Food, beer, music and revelry

Hornbill has been quite flighty when it comes to locations over the years. The first one, in 2000, was held in Kohima itself before it was shifted to its present venue in 2003. Land was acquired to give it a permanent address from two villages – Kigwema and Phesama. The new name is the outcome of an unimaginative coinage of the two names but which fortunately threw up a most apt meaning – ‘new village’. After having seen, eaten, drunk it all at the festival, I decided to spend my last day in Nagaland visiting the Kigwema village, 5 km further from Kisama. If Kisama was the ‘Window to Nagaland,’ Kigwema felt like you are entering through the door. This was Nagaland before the advent of Levi jeans, Bajaj bikes, missionaries and mortar. There still stood houses made from huge planks of the hardest timber with an array of animal skulls looking down from the top. Embers still smouldered in the village square where elders were lazing away the afternoon after a hearty lunch; decisions pertaining to land or property feuds, love affairs, division of a public utility were still taken here. Women sat on porches de-chaffing rice from the granary for dinner. Little girls were bringing in firewood and tending to kitchen gardens – an early initiation into the way things were. Still are, here. As this young lady at the Directorate of Information and Public Relations told me later: “The men were the hunters, they still are the providers in most of the houses. While the house upkeep is a woman’s job.”

A war reminder in Kigwema village

Within each village, there are the khels or colonies. “During the olden days, there used to be fights between the khels,” a villager who worked in Kohima told me over a plate of crunchy sakhothu (rice cooked, dried and fried) and tea. There was a slab erected in 1946 which meant ‘peace was bought between the two warring khels by a gift of cows’. Each khel had its own ghena or religious ceremonies during which members of other khels were not allowed entry. He showed me the stairway made from stones which allowed the villagers to pass by a particular khel without passing through it during the ghena. Bearing testimony to the action this little village has seen, starkly painted with white on a red coloured community hall are the words: Japanese troops arrived at Kigwema on 4-4-44 at 3:00 p.m. during World War II. I tried to find somebody who might be able to remember or reconstruct the events of that day. But according to one account, thanks to the height on which Kigwema is situated, most of the villagers could flee to Kohima before the Japanese troops reached. And from there to Zubza, 15 km further down towards Dimapur, which was the last frontier from where the Japanese were finally pushed back into retreat. So, besides the toll on the military there weren’t many civilian casualties. But my friend from the DIPR shared with me her belief in a conspiratorial tone that the many unnamed tombstones in the War Memorial were those of the brave villagers who had fought back the aggressors standing side by side with the armed forces with their daos, spears and bare hands.

An old house in Kigwema village

A true geographic gem, Nagaland is lushly landlocked by Myanmar in the east, Assam in the north and west and Manipur towards the south. This makes for a vibrant landscape with a climate conducive to tourism and related activities year-round. There are several mountains for trekking up and gushing streams for camping out, throw in a spot of angling and you are in bliss-land. At 2100 metres Dzulekie, 40 km from Kohima, is one such destination. The stream that flows through this verdant rolling landscape has a rare species of Rainbow Trout. If you are lucky, your tracker cum guide will be adept with the catapult and enroute you will catch a wild rabbit which you can barbeque right there, under the open azure sky. Sit by the fire, swigging from that flask and listen to tales of valour, sacrifice or sheer street smart. Don’t forget to check out the starry night as you crawl into your sleeping bag, letting out that gratifying burp. Or if you are looking at more organised comforts, you have the Touphema Tourist Village where you can check into real tribal huts fitted with all modern amenities. The Benreu village is another showcase of ethnicity, but closer to Dimapur than Kohima. However, if you have the time, this place too is worth a visit due to its proximity to a wildlife sanctuary – it is right in the middle of it!
There was this little girl who used to come and call me when breakfast was laid or inform me when hot water was ready for my shower. On my last morning as I was packing, she came and announced that breakfast had been served. Seeing me packing she left quietly and returned with a hot, sticky rice poori, something which I used to gorge on with heaps of marmalade. I bit into the piping hot delicacy and began frantically blowing as it scalded my tongue. My antics sent her hooting. Now, I thought, here was Nagaland in a nutshell – hospitable and happy.