Children of the Chief and the villagers, hanging out by the bonfire in the church grounds of Longwa, a remote Konyak Naga village situated on Indo-Myanmar border

Two days ago, there was nothing remarkable about the jam-packed, rickety and dirty bus journey along the broken mountain roads from a little border town in Assam called Sonari to Mon town in north Nagaland. But it was only until an old man climbed into the bus and sat next to the driver facing the crowd. Instantly I knew he had killed at least one man. How did I know that? Because of the dark tattoo on his face and the necklace with brass faces adorning his chest. He wore colorful beaded ornaments around his neck. His ears were pierced with long animal horns jutting out. He wore a headgear that was decorated with wild boar’s teeth! Never in my life had I seen so many vestiges of slaughter on one person. He was a Konyak Naga Headhunter.

Konyaks are the largest of the 16 tribes inhabiting Nagaland. Located in the mountainous regions of northeast, they are spread across Nagaland and Arunachal in India and Myanmar. They come with a history of brutal headhunting and animistic culture. Severing heads was a common practice amongst Konyaks until as recently as 1940s with the last reported head hunting in 1970s. Capturing an enemy’s head was the rite of passage for boys to turn into men, capturing the head symbolically represented capturing the enemy’s spirit. Only a person who had successfully hunted a head was given the prestigious facial tattoo.

A day after I reached Mon town, I headed to Longwa, one of the bigger and traditional Konyak villages. The first glimpse of the village made quite an impression. Sitting atop a ridge of a far ahead mountain, Longwa commands a grand view of the valleys and mountains around. Naga villages were strategically built upon hilltops and ridges so that they could monitor enemy activity and impending raids. Konyaks were known to be the fiercest of headhunters and raids between villages were quite common. Neighboring villages were raided to command authority and acquire land.

Konyaks are still ruled by hereditary chieftains known as Anghs. When we arrive at Longwa, as per the tradition we first visited the Angh as soon as we reached. I could recognize the Angh by the turquoise blue beads he wore below the knees. A necklace with brass faces was hanging around his neck, however he wasn’t a headhunter. He had inherited the position and the necklace from his father, who was a headhunter. The practice of polygamy is prevalent among the Anghs and chief here had several children from many wives.

Proud hunters. Earlier, human skulls were also part of this elaborate display, but since being "civilized", the human skulls are gone but the animal skeletons still remain

Hanging out with the children as they warmed themselves around a bonfire in the vast church ground was a surreal experience! The fire quickly died down as the darkness descended upon us bringing a deep chill along with it, the stars came out and filled the sky. I walked down the road that goes through the village. In the darkness, one of the Chief’s son pointed towards the mountains in front of me and said that is Burma and hidden inside those forests is the Burmese check post. I chuckled, wondering if I had to take his words with a pinch of salt. Earlier that evening, I was told the house of the Angh is longitudinally split between the two countries and that the international border actually cuts across the house and the village! The joke around here is that the Angh dines in India and sleeps in Myanmar. I wasn't very convinced of the border story.

House of the Village Chief "Angh", it lies half in India and half in Myanmar. The international borders cuts across the house longitudinally!

Later that night, we huddled ourselves around the kitchen fire inside Wanlem’s traditional bamboo house, accompanied by her family. Wanlem was my host in Longwa, a young Konyak lady who is the caretaker of the rest house. Accompanying me was Aching, a young college boy from Mon acting as my translator. Very few people speak English and even fewer speak Hindi in the remote parts of Nagaland. Nagamese is the script-less language spoken predominantly in Nagaland, which is a mix of Hindi and Assamese. While Wanlem and Aching conversed and I couldn’t follow their conversation, I took to admiring the bamboo structure. I couldn’t get over the fact that these houses were so vast. Every house was decorated with hordes of skeletons of hunted animals and birds. Skulls of Mithun, a bovine species found only in certain parts of North East adorning the walls and was a prized possession along with hornbill beaks and feathers.

The next morning I woke up with a huge spider next to me in the rundown rest house but I couldn’t care less when I was waking up to views of cloud filled valleys, green mountain ridges and witnessing one of the most fascinating indigenous cultures! It was a Sunday morning and many of the villagers were heading to the church. Every Naga village today has a church. The Naga people were animists to begin with but after the arrival of Christian missionaries, almost all of them have adopted the new religion save for very few, like Wanlem. When I asked her if she would go too, she nodded vehemently saying she doesn’t like the church.

The slow process of converting the animist tribe to Christianity started somewhere in the early 1900s. Today most of the Nagas have converted, left their headhunting ways and are staunch followers of Christianity. Every village has a church, like this.

Wanlem had something planned for us for the afternoon, she wouldn’t tell us what. Aching, one of the Angh’s son and myself, three of us followed Wanlem diligently as she navigated through the mountain trails around the village. We left behind the village houses and kept going higher. Apprehensive, I asked Aching if he knew where we were headed. He didn't. Finally, we arrived at a small patch of land with brilliant views of the mountains of Myanmar and India. At the center of the open patch was a small concrete structure, the border pillar! Carved into the structure, was written “BP 154, 1970-71”, one side in Hindi and the other side in Burmese language. It was true, the international border did cut across the village and the Angh’s house! Fascinating as it was to me, it didn’t matter much to the Konyaks though. They woke up one day in 1970 to the news of the demarcation but how do you split an age-old community suddenly between two countries? They are free to move within the two countries to visit other Konyaks villages.

On our way back from the border pillar to the village, we came across Pangshong, a 76 year old former headhunter waiting by the roadside. His face was covered in a beautiful dark tattoo that seemed to be fading with every passing day. Later I find out he had claimed seven lives, today the older generation has resorted to smoking opium, chewing betel nut and reveling in the glory of the former days. These people are the last generation of headhunters who had severed heads before the barbaric practice was banned. These old men will take to grave with them, the traditions, stories and the famed tattoos! To put it in simple terms, it would be the end of an era - of brave warriors, rich culture and violent times.

Pangshong, a former headhunter - took seven heads! Only those who have successfully hunted a head would receive the prestigious facial tattoo. His was the last generation of headhunters before the practice was banned. He is 76 years old. These men are old, vanishing fast and will take to grave stories of headhunting.

But the Konyaks have made a rather long and remarkable journey - from living in times of inter village feuds to a more peaceful time of friendship across borders. After flying back home, just out of curiosity I tried searching Longwa on Google Maps, what I saw brought a smile to my face – a border line cutting across the village!

More stories from Exotic North-East:
Going Offbeat in Meghalaya & Learning Interesting Things
Notes from Nagaland : The beginning of an Adventure

"It was 5PM. It was pitch dark. And I was all alone."

I knew the airport was 17kms far from the city of Dibrugarh, Assam. As I landed I was apprehensive about finding my way to the city, I hadn’t arranged for transport. But luckily I found share autos waiting outside and I promptly got into one. In front of me were green fields and in the far distance were faint traces of mountains and clouds.

We drove alongside the famous tea plantations, they grew on flat plains. It was new to me; I had only ever seen tea plantations growing on mountain slopes of Munnar, Ooty, Coorg and such. It was almost evening and young boys and girls in school uniforms flooded the streets and railway stations. We passed by a surprisingly high number of railway stations between the airport and Dibrugarh. I guess the local trains were quite popular, the road ran parallel to the tracks for most parts.

The tea plantations growing on plains around Diburgarh, Assam

Once we entered the city of Dibrugarh, the green countryside transformed into a dusty town that seemed to be in a strange flux. I stopped in front of the only hotel I knew, Hotel Raj Palace and I got myself a room for 600Rs. I was relieved; I thought fun times lay ahead. The hotel was situated on the banks of Brahmaputra, between the hotel and the river, was a slum. I walked down to the river, through their houses despite strange glances and children screaming me at me “Bhoot” (meaning ghost in hindi). It was strange to see the mighty river flow gently knowing what ravages it had wrought upon whatever came in its way. One thing that didn’t occur to me was the time zone disparity that far in the east. It was barely 4.30PM and it was already getting dark! I had to rush back to my hotel because by 5PM it was pitch dark.

If you are wondering why I chose to fly into Dibrugarh in Assam than Dimapur in Nagaland, you’d find your answer if you look at the map. Dibrugarh is very close to north of Nagaland. And I wanted to visit north Nagaland for that is where the Konyak tribes reside. So the next morning I changed two shared vehicles to reach a shady looking town called Sonari, very close to the Nagaland border. This journey took me through the remote border villages of Assam, where houses were built on stilts and water flooded almost everywhere. The road was always lined with green fields or tea plantations on either side. People kept getting into the mini bus to Sonari, so much so that the bus was tilting to one side. A little girl sat in my lap and the lady in front of me had live birds in hidden in her bag. I knew because they were making noises and moving constantly. Almost all of the people were chewing tobacco.

Very luckily, after confusing quite a few locals around and getting confused, someone directed me to the Nagaland State bus stand in Sonari. It was 1 in the afternoon and the conductor was quite puzzled looking at me with the backpack asking for a ticket to Mon. I asked him for a window seat and he gave me one. The bus to Mon had to be one of the dirtiest buses I have ever been on, but at that point I had no choice and frankly I didn’t think the ride would last long.

This is the busstand at Sonari, Assam and there is only bus per day to Mon, Nagaland.

The bus was almost empty save for few men in few seats, it was worrying. Few women boarded the bus soon and that comforted me a little. After 15kms, we crossed the border at Tizit and I officially entered Nagaland. The bus was relatively empty until then and at the border, it was packed to full. Sonari to Mon, Nagaland is just 54kms on the map, but the roads were so bad and through such mountainous terrain that it would take almost 4 hours to reach Mon. The bus passed by remote villages and I got to see the famous Konyak elders, who were headhunters of the previous days. 

After few stops, a Konyak man with a tattooed face and traditional attire complete with strange skeleton jewelry got into the bus and sat near the driver. I couldn’t take my eyes off him! I wondered how many heads we might have claimed and what stories of terror he might have known. The gentleman sitting next to me wasn’t looking like someone from Nagaland, he talked good Hindi too. Sometime later he tells me, he is a Rajasthani businessman who migrated to Nagaland 16 years ago! I was surprised to see how people migrate to such far away unknown lands for better opportunities. Later in Mon, I observed more than half the shops in the market were run by people from Rajasthan and Bihar! For now, the bus was still traveling at snail pace negotiating the steep slopes and broken roads.

Mon town plunged into darkness, from the roof of my hotel, I could see the milkyway!

It was almost dark by the time bus arrived at Mon. Situated along the mountain slopes, Mon was a town only for namesake. I walked towards Paramount Guesthouse, one of the only two hotels in Mon. I stood in front of a huge seven storied building, of which two floors were of Paramount Guesthouse and the rest were office spaces and empty portions. The building was locked and there was no one around. Luckily my phone caught signal and I called up the lady who owned the guesthouse. She asked me to wait while she’d send someone to open the hotel for me. While I waited, the one thought running in my head was that the whole damn building was empty and that I’d be the only occupant that night! Again! Nope, not even a receptionist at front desk. With this, it would be three times I landed in a place where I was the only tourist around and the only occupant of a hotel. A young girl opened the lock and showed me my room but the light wasn’t switching on. She informs me, recent rains had caused damage to power lines and whole of North Nagaland has been living without electricity for the past two days and also that it is highly unlikely that power would be restored tonight. It was 5PM. It was pitch dark. And I was all alone.