Nagaland

Written July 6th

After 7 wonderfully productive (and enjoyable) days in Assam, I was very sad to say goodbye to the first-class staff of Pratham Assam. This morning the State Coordinator, Ashok and I, drove from the heavy tea-growing city of Dibrugarh to the smaller town of Golaghat. In Golaghat he put me on a bus to Dimapur, Nagaland where I would begin a short stay visiting Pratham programs there.

On the 2-hour bus ride I remembered some of the things I had heard about Dimapur. Though it was the business center of Nagaland, it was also supposed to be a pretty forgettable town. Ashok had also mentioned that the town would close at dusk and that I shouldn’t go out alone in the city at night.

When I asked him why not, he told me that after dark there were only drugs, prostitutes, and crime in the streets. I told him that I’d seen too many kids summer camps in Assam and that I wouldn’t mind visiting an “adult summer camp” at night in Dimapur.
He didn’t think that was funny.

In the back row of a rusting, rickety bus, I stared out onto the green fields of Assam. After about half an hour the sun began to set and I realized that I’d arrive in Dimapur after dark.

My mind drifted and I imagined the worst Dimapur might look like at night—dogs howling in the empty streets, all homes and shops shut, while roving bands of prostitutes partied with drug dealers, all to the sounds of vandals smashing cars and lighting trash cans on fire—well, maybe this was a little extreme. I mean this was India not John Carpenter’s Escape from New York (plus there aren’t any trash cans in India…). Debating these thoughts in my head, I soon fell asleep.


[The poster from John Carpenter’s 1971 Escape from New York]

Before leaving me on the bus, Ashok had found a man on the bus that was also going to Dimapur. He introduced me to this Hindi-speaking stranger (in his late twenties, short and dressed in all black) and told me to go with him once I reached Dimapur. An hour later I awoke and noticed we were arriving at the Nagaland border (Dimapur is a border town).

The bus came to a stop and I grabbed my bags. I stepped down onto the side of a dark dusty road that was eerily quiet. I found the man in black Ashok had spoken to waiting impatiently for me. We made eye contact and he briskly started walking away. I jogged to catch up with him and after a couple of questions discovered that the bus did not go directly to Dimapur, but stopped outside the town. I asked the man with no name if he had a mobile phone (because mine wasn’t working… http://inschoolandlearningwell.blogspot.com/2008/06/airtel-nowhere.html) and he tersely replied, “no.” The man in black moved quickly forward, taking the longest strides a short man could. I followed him towards Dimapur town, while keeping my eyes out for trouble.

15 minutes later we came upon a phone booth and I called Honang, a friend and Pratham ASER Associate, who I would be staying with. We agreed to meet at a football pitch on the outskirts of town. I hung up the phone and continued walking with my impatient companion.

We reached the unlit football pitch, and stood outside waiting for Honang. All the shops were closed by this point and the only life on the streets were irritated street dogs looking for a meal and a couple of small groups of men sitting on motorcycles smoking cigarettes, laughing quietly to themselves. A traveler with bags alone with an impatient, short man, I stuck out like a Punjabi in Nagaland (which I was).

“Where is your friend?” asked the stranger in black, I’d met only minutes ago—who was now my only crutch. “I can’t wait here, I have to move.”

“Where are you going?” I asked, trying to stall.

“I live Far away, I’ll reach by 1am.”

“How will you get there.”

He patted his legs, “walking.”

I contemplated a 4-hour walk in these rough conditions and noticed that the motorcycle crew was eyeing me eagerly… I clutched my bags tight, and looked off into the distance for Honang.

TO BE CONTINUED...

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