In search of a headhunter

It’s one of those things that just doesn’t get out of your head, a kind of a visual ear or brainworm – about a little known Headhunter tribe, living in remote villages in Northern Nagaland. Their pictures show them in, as with pictures of most tribal in India, a lot of beaded jewelry, elaborate headgears and colourful attire – the difference was however, the lethal spears and machetes that completed their attire. Their headgears were adorned with decorations carved from bones, the large pendants that dangled from their beaded neckpieces were skulls, albeit now made of metal, but till not too long ago were very real. The tattooed faces represented not designs but symbolized their prowess of the number of heads they had scalped.

The ‘headhunter tribe,’ is the Konyak tribe, living in sparsely located villages, chiefly across the Mon district in Nagaland. Among one of the last to let go of their fearsome rituals, to embrace the mainstream, the Konyaks are truly the last of the headhunters.

My tryst with them…

began maybe through an article in national geographic or some other travel magazine. Stories such as this abound maybe in faraway Amazonian jungles or some remote jungle tribe in Borneo. Not in India.  To me, one who looked for the off-beaten path, a glimpse into the bygone era, of culture, of long-lost traditions, this was one that just had to be explored. The stories, the faint fear of the unknown all added to the excitement of the journey.

The Aoling festival, celebrated by the Konyak tribe, in the 1st week of April seemed like the perfect occasion to see them in their true colours; a time when they would be true to their roots. 

Getting there…

is arduous. Amongst the lesser developed states in the nation, north Nagaland especially, is time untouched as far as infrastructure is concerned. The warning that ‘roads are bad,’ is an understatement. Bitumen, if once topped the path that winds up the Naga hills, has been long washed away with successive rains over the years. What remains now, is a gravelly path, which offers a bone rattling 2 1/2 hour journey to cover a distance of about 65 kms from the nearest town of Sonari, on the Assam/Nagaland border.  I’m told that there is a helicopter service from Dimapur, once a week. Stay options are also very limited, if any.  Websites do mention to a couple of places; but my contacts there didn’t seem to know much about them. I stayed at a state-owned guest house through a reference.

First impressions…

are often not very accurate. Reaching there by around 4 in the evening on a Sunday, I found Mon town fairly deserted. Shops were all closed. A few youngsters hung around, fairly aimlessly. I was surprised that they were dressed rather fashionably in western attire; a number of them sporting coloured or streaked hair. I recall noticing on an earlier trip to the North East that youngsters here did have a penchant for experimenting with coloured hair and fashion.  Mon was no different. The town was just a cluster of small shops and a few buildings.  Homes were a mix of concrete buildings and Jhoom (dried long grass) thatched huts. A hospital, an SBI bank, a couple of schools, one petrol bunk and a couple of churches complete the town.

There certainly were no signs of any festivities. I was disappointed in more ways than one. This was neither rustic nor offbeat in any way. In fact, it was a really small town, trying hard not to be one, at least in the minds and demeanor of the youngsters who careened upon sporty bikes around the town, hooting and cheering, and wearing the skull neckpieces either in deference or in imitation. No incident of headhunting has happened here in the last 40 odd years.  

The Aoling festival…

proved elusive.  Research before embarking on my trip, had elicited little information about when and where the festival would be held.  All I got was that it would be in the 1st week of April. Turned out that the festival, though the biggest in Mon district, was celebrated by each village in their own manner. There was no particular schedule. The main purpose of the Aoling Festival is to welcome the spring and new year and to pray for a good harvest. The first 3 days - Hoi Lah Nyih, Yin Mok Pho Nyih and Mok Shek Nyih - are spent preparing for the festival. The fourth day - Lingnyu Nyih, is when members of the Konyak tribe dress up in their best colorful traditional clothes and jewelry and spend the day dancing, singing and feasting as a community.  

Longwa Village…

was the best bet to see some festivities, suggested someone, as it attracted the few tourists who did visit Mon.  Located practically on the Myanmar (Burma) border, its claim to fame was the headman’s house that allegedly straddles the border line; one half of the house being in India and the other in Myanmar. No festivities here either; but the headman’s house is virtually a mini museum giving wonderful insights into the lives of the Konyaks. Children scampered around everywhere, some obligingly posed and even sang for me, while the women were engaged in making handicrafts. It’s a great place to pick up beautifully strung, elaborately beaded neckpieces and carved figurines; and surely it couldn’t get more authentic. You could even pick up one of those the metal skull necklaces and headgear.

While strolling around, waiting for the headman to grace us, a gentleman sporting jeans and jacket came around to greet us. I almost walked past, when I noticed his official badge – ‘headman,’ it said. He couldn’t have been more ordinary looking – young, slim built and dressed, well, just like any of us. I must confess, I was taken aback and disappointed.  But I was ambivalent in my thoughts. Was I being obnoxious in my wanting them to be still following their tribal ways, to satiate my curiosity. On the other hand, me being from an advertising background, wondered how else would they attract the tourists? Surely tourism was a way to economic prosperity. The eternal conundrum of us not wanting them to change vs. them wanting to just move ahead was present here too.  

A drive just a little past the village gets you to the fenced India-Myanmar border, complete with guard post and strangely, liquor bottles strung on the fence. A good photo op.

Mon Village…

was where I found my holy grail. The festivities were in full swing as a prelude to their annual sports fest. The dais was replete with men and women, all in their traditional best. The village elders proudly wore their finery, the youngsters followed suit too. As the only outsider, I was honoured as a guest and invited on stage, much embarrassed and elated at the same time. Here was a group of people, portrayed to be fearsome and xenophobic, who guarded their terrain and traditions with a zeal that bordered on fanaticism, welcoming me with warm handshakes, and giving me a front row seat in their midst.  The elders spoke only Nagamese, but some of the youngsters spoke English and Hindi, and enthusiastically took me through their history, culture, their lack of opportunities, their wanting for progress. 

This was followed by lunch at the headman’s house. Being predominantly vegetarian, the array of meat dishes, gave me not much opportunity to try the local cuisine. “We eat anything that crawls or walks,” explained an army captain, who originally from the village, was the guest of honour for the day at their sports meet. But I did try the sticky rice, which was their main dish, and a dish made of some wild beans. It was spicy and I did enjoy it. The complete absence of any sweet dishes was conspicuous. They apparently use very less or no sugar in their cuisine. Even their tea was black – no milk, no sugar, and brewed till jet black. A joke that the people of Mon were darker than the rest of people in Nagaland was attributed to the tea. 

 

An amazing day with the most amazing experiences…much more than I could have imagined or dared to hope for.  But sadly, the true headhunter was still missing.

Mon town…

Day 4 is when villagers from across Mon district gather as a community to sing and dance and give praise and obeisance to Wangwan – the divine spirit, seeking blessings for crop prosperity the following year. Aoling or Aoleang is also a time to mark young boys and girls into adulthood.

The whole town and villagers from over a dozen villages had gathered in the town central ground to mark the festivities. Riotous colours mingled with warrior accessories; comely girls flashed their beaded finery; elders proudly carried their tradition on their shoulders and head with ceremonial headdresses and sashes. Ritualistic drumbeats on a long, hollowed bark thumped in tune with low chants and singing, while the feet kept time in a rhythmic shuffle.

The ceremony and celebrations lasted for just a couple of hours. The memories though would last me a lifetime.

Reflections…

No, I still didn’t find my headhunter. Maybe on another day, another trip. Maybe their facial tattoos that marked their passage of right as a headhunter has faded with time, along with the fierce traditions of scalping their enemy head in their fights for territorial rights.

Today their fight is for something else. For the Greater Nagalim, a country of their own. Double barreled rifles have replaced the spears and machetes…the youngsters seek their own passage of right. The advent of Christianity and conversions had given them a new path forward into the 21st century world. Yet deep down still runs the blood of the true Naga – the headhunter, albeit in a different form will survive.