Outsiders?

January 8^th 2014.

Travel has kept me in a fairly continuous state of motion since I left Kathmandu in late November. I’ve been through the less touristed regions of Northeast India. This glob of Indian states is pinched off from the mainland, the majority of which is nestled in between Myanmar and Bangladesh. Connecting this ball of states to the mainland is a narrow stretch of Indian territory which extends from Sikkim like an outstretched arm. This sliver of land skirts the southern border of Bhutan, and stays north of Bangladesh.

These states are culturally, ethnically, economically, and ideologically distinct form the mainland. Even most Indian’s don’t know what to make of these states. The disparity between reality and popular opinion is exactly as one would expect given such a wide gap in understanding. From West Bengal onwards, I saw the evolution of the “we vs. they” mentality which sets the northeast states apart from the mainland.

For the umpteenth time in my travels, I resumed the search for the elusive “they”, “them”, “those-other-people” of the world. As per usual, I was told to expect danger, hostility; to beware the savage tendencies of localities. Like ghosts stories, tales about “they” can be found in cultures around the world. As all travellers eventually discover “they” do not exist. In-group/ out-group mentalities are merely phantoms in the mind.

I was told to expect bizarre and undignified customs. I was told that I’d be looked upon with suspicion for being an outsider. And, once again, I found only hospitality and mutual wonderment instead. I’m beginning to understand that humans are neither inherently good nor inherently bad. We have natural inclinations towards both polarities. Throughout our life we learn the consequences of expressing either side.

However, it seems to me that humans have an innate disinclination to understand other groups of people. We have a natural impulse to form separate groups, and this creates a need to erect psychological barriers towards understanding. Historically, these come barriers come in the form of myths which are based on a hyperbolized picture of reality. In order to dissolve these barriers it is important to be discerning. One must try to see the both what is false about certain stereotypes, and also which parts are based on truth. What was the likely origin of the stereotype, and how did confusion arise? What functions does the stereotype serve?

In truth, both Girish and I detected an air of aggression in the far-flung Naga village of Lungwa, which sits astride the Indo-Myanmar border. Arriving mid-day on a preposterously sized motorcycle, we made an unexpected, and unsightly landing. The village sees only a few tourists a month in peak season, and almost none arrive by surprise. We came on Christmas day, armed only with smiles and a vague sense of what we were doing.

Most of the village was gathered outside the large, central Church. Mission work has been a primary source of development in much of Nagaland, and Lungwa was no different. Although our presence created quite a stir, nobody approached us. People’s faces were both mocking and glad. Most kept their distance, and everyone seemed shifty and uneasy. This caused Girish and I to be standoffish too; to act shiftily, and uneasily.

With some effort Girish was able to inquire about the possibility of accommodation. We were told to ride uphill towards the chiefs house. Adjacent to the chiefs comparatively large abode was the only guesthouse in town – a lonesome, dilapidated building which spent most of its time locked-up and in a state of accelerated decay. There was a single mainland Indian stationed in Lungwa, and he was charged with managing the government run guesthouse. The chiefs son located him for us, and asked him to unlock the guesthouse. Giving us the keys, he wrapped up his brief explanation of Lungwa:

“This side is India, that side is Burma. Please don’t go into Burma.” And then he left.

Later that night Girish and I went into Burma to have dinner at a locals house. It was only when we were finishing up our sumptuous meal did we find out that we were technically in Burma. It was an accident; a mere technicality. I don’t think anyone would have minded. But, that is how I spent my 30^th Christmas. 

The following day we saw what little there was to see in Lungwa. For the most part, the people maintained their scoffing, sour demeanor. In a radical departure from the norms of India, nobody tried to talk to us. We were treated as outsiders. Girish was seen as a foreigner, too. The woman who had kindly cooked us dinner the night before asked Girish several times where he was from. After several lengthy conversations in good Hindi, she was astounded at Girishs’ insistence that he was indeed an Indian.

I found the general idea of where I was and what I was doing to be the most appealing aspect of Lungwa. It was a grand experience. We had talks with the chief, who still has sway over the villagers.

“Whatever the chief says, we do.” Quipped one of his contented subjects.

I asked the chief what he thought about the presence of the church, and what it has brought to Lungwa.

“Nothing but good.” The Chief said.

There isn’t much that needs doing in Lungwa, so the chiefs powers are not far reaching. Our meeting with him quickly turned into a high pressure sales situation. He sat uninterested and passive as a seemingly endless amount of tribal jewelry was laid out before us. The prices started high but fell quickly, and Girish and I picked up some good travel treasure. I joked with the chief that I would like to buy his cowboy hat – a flashy leopard print number, made of polyester. He laughed jovially but eventually declined, returning to his headphones.

“Eminem. Very good.” He said, pointing to his music player.

We left Lungwa shortly after breakfast, and pressed onward towards our next stop. Only in Lungwa did I see a substantive kernel of truth regarding the behavioral stereotypes of Naga people. As usual, the most likely explanations are socio-economic, developmental, or geo-political. Lungwa is a seriously out of the way place, and the conditions there have either fermented or maintained a distinct Naga culture. The people in Lungwa have about as much in common with India as they do with the Zimbabwe, and perhaps that was once true for all of Nagaland. As Girish and I toured the rest of the state, we met with nothing other than overwhelming hospitality, and supremely positive engagement.

Mud covered and travel weary, we approached a hopeful porch in the never-once-touristed town of Wakching. We were graciously received, provided a much needed hot meal, a place to stay, and breakfast the following day. Payment was out of the question. A few days later we happened upon the “50^th Year Jubilee” of a local student union. We were invited to join in, and were treated like visiting dignitaries.

The stereotypes regarding the potentially unsavory customs of the Nagamese were, as far as I could tell, mostly based on what they customarily ate. The people in Nagaland are unabashed meat eaters in a country were vegetarianism is a way of life for many. The Nagamese are true gamesmen, and they don’t make arbitrary distinctions about which animals to eat. Some still eat dog, and I would guess that this is the nexus for the prodigious myth making surrounding what and how the Nagamese eat. In neighboring Assam and West Bengal, people were eager to tell me about the dog-eaters of Nagaland. On several occasions it was the first thing people mentioned about Nagaland. When I asked them whether they ate either cow or pig meat, most said yes. However, nobody saw any contradiction in their stance. This is precisely how an in-group/ out-group mentalities begin to form.

In the end, I found the people of Nagaland to be about as normal as anyone I’ve ever met. Sure, some of them ate dog meat, hunted game, tattooed themselves with tribal makings, and drew literal beliefs from unverifiable ancient myths and legends. To me, this is precisely what makes them so normal.

On one of the last days in Nagaland, Girish and I found ourselves riding along an isolated and uncertain track. We were taking one of our famous ‘shortcuts’. Hungry for lunch, we stopped at the first sign of civilization we had seen morning. It was a small bamboo hut which had a few large transport trucks parked outside. Hoping for food, tea, or both we decided to have a look. We entered upon a few truckers playing cards and drinking whiskey in the diminishing heat of late-afternoon. There was some basic food available, which was keeping warm over a small coal-fired chimney.

The youngest guy there, in his mid-twenties or so, spoke excellent English and helped us get as much food as we needed. Girish and I were famished, and he loaded up two plates with rice, vegetables, lard, adding a large hunk of dry-smoked beef from his own prized cache.

He explained that the structure was a hunting lodge, and trucker hang out. It was cramped, but provided access to a large are of game filled jungle. He sat proudly with his single-shot rifle, sipping whiskey and eagerly anticipating the weekend ahead.

“I’m going hunting in there all weekend. I’m going to sleep in the jungle for two nights, under a full moon!” He exclaimed.

His face beamed with excitement, and showed clear reverence for the wild; for Nature. He spoke enthusiastically about what they hunt.

“Just about everything. The best food is out there.”

“Do you eat everything you kill?” I asked.

“We use ev-a-ry part of the animal.” He said with exactitude, clearly proud of his efficiency. “We eat all the organs: the stomach, the liver, the kidneys. Everything. It’s all delicious.” He smiled.

I asked him about it rifle, and he gladly explained how it worked.

“You want to shoot it?” He said, pressing it towards me with no trace of hesitation.

“Um? Fuck-yeah I do!” I replied.

We stepped outside onto an elevated porch, and I fired a single shot at the most menacing tree-truck I could spot. The rifle was an old design. A flint lock ignited some gunpowder, which in turn expanded to accelerate a cadre of lead-shot to great velocity. It went off with a satisfying ‘BANG’, leaving a haze of smoke, covering my forehead in soot.

I exhaled a customary "Wooooeeeee!", and felt surprisingly at home.

We returned indoors, and talked about game. Noticing that we had finished out heaping plates of rice, he asked if we might like another piece of the dried beef. I was so hungry when we first arrived that I had scarcely noticed that what he had given us was essentially beef-jerky. It was, in fact, the best beef jerky I’ve ever had. I told him this and he quickly gave us some more from his personal store. He had made it himself by smoking large hunks of prime beef for hours. The hunks were huge, very crispy on the outer edges, but tender and rouge on the inside. Salted – of course – to perfection.

“Each piece can last for weeks, or months even. It’s all natural too. We don’t use any preservatives.” His face cringed at the thought of modern additives.

After chatting for some time, Girish and I hit the road. Girish exchanged phone numbers with our Naga friend, and he called us several times doing our trip just to make sure we were getting on alright. Throughout our initial meeting I couldn’t help but think I was talking to one of my own countrymen, and a southerner at that. His hospitality, demeanor, and hobbies all bespoke of a true Southern-Boy, from the Good Ol US-of-A. He reveled in hunting, preparing meat, trucking, mudding, whiskey, and good times with friends.

Although he held a college degree, he was currently employed as a laborer in his hometown coal mines.

“Because, right now, I don’t have a choice.” He said in an acid tone, although he chuckled about it.

“West Virginia.” I thought. “This man could be from West Virginia. He could be flown there tomorrow, and he’d fit right in.”

I continue to wonder what that would be like.