

A Black Eagle soars low near a hilltop, the first I have ever seen. We descend steeply to a river, then ascend along the river to Makyan village, arriving at 18:30 as dusk descends. Here, the houses are large with thick elaborate thatched roofs like over-turned boats. Nearly everything here seems to be constructed from bamboo or palm; the walls, the fences, the churches and the schools. Even the children’s jumping ropes are made of bamboo. We eat and sleep in the morung house, which is the traditional men’s club of a Naga village. It also has sweeping thatch eaves and crossed bamboo ornaments with tassels above the entrance. To the right of the entrance is a totem pole and inside is huge drum made from a single enormous tree trunk. Heavy, double-sided, wooden beaters sit on top of the drum. The morung would have traditionally housed all of the young men of the village, who would be constantly ready to respond to any alarm of an attack or an interloper looking for victims. The defences were essential, as the Naga were traditionally raiders and head hunters. The last reported case of head hunting was in the 1990s on the Indian side of the border, but village feuds have continued right up to the present day. The next morning, we have barely packed up the breakfast things when it is time to set off off again to another village, Tsawlaw near the Indian border. There we stop so Howman and Sandra can purchase more artefacts for the CERS collection.


Charlie and I leave to return for dinner with our colleagues just as the food is being distributed. One of the men rushes after us and gives each of us a hot piece of roasted fat-back. It is chewy, greasy and delicious. That night, the others sleep inside the village school, among the desks and chairs, but I decide to try out the new CERS down sleeping bags, setting up my bed outside in the pavilion above the village. The bonfire party in the village below continues late into the night. I can hear the men chatting, and one man continually sings a droning chant, which is not unpleasant to my ear. There are also occasional choruses of yips and yells, which remind me of the Hollywood versions of Native American war cries from the old cowboy and Indian films that I watched when I was a kid in the US. I drift off to sleep finally, but at some point, very late in the dark night, a resounding chorus is issued, seemingly from all the men at once. After that, some men disperse, others stay on even later, talking and singing. What is the cause for this drunken celebration? I imagine that in the past it might have been the culmination of a successful head-hunting raid, or perhaps a male bonding ritual held in preparation for village warfare. Men’s gatherings like this might have been a necessity to ensure that the men fought bravely for their community. In the morning we learn that the celebration was in fact for the completion of communal construction of a new house, which stands out from its neighbours by the colour of its roof thatch, still fresh and green.














