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. 

An ode to the molagha bajji

In its plain avatar, it is a thinly gram (chickpea) flour coated large chilli, deep fried in a sizzling wok of oil to a crisp, served up on an old piece of newspaper that aids to be a throwaway serviette, while acting as an effective blotter that soaks up the excess oil from the fritter. Yet, especially come the rains, there’s nothing that’s more drool worthy to warm your innards - both stomach and soul.

Growing up in Chennai in the 80’s, before the advent of the desi pizza and burger that first stirred the winds of western aspirations, a Sunday outing meant a trip to the Marina beach, where after letting the waves wash up to the knees, beyond which even the waves backed down in obeisance to propriety, one trundled back with sand crusted feet to the lure of the bajji carts. Strings of the long light green chillies hung down like shapely garlands both serving as decoration as well advertisement.

This molagha bajji, deep fried in the ration-shop palm oil that gets used repeatedly, trans fats be damned, is redolent with the special added flavour and texture of a few grains of beach sand that just can’t be avoided. But for those of us who have tasted this slice of heaven, no other bajji can stake claim to be better.

However, the reason that kindled my fingers to tap out this ode was a visit to ‘Thindi Beedi (pronounced Beedhi) at VV Puram in Bangalore where after stopovers at various other cities, I now reside. I lived for a while in Gurgaon before this and nearby Delhi is a mecca for street food and I had set out to see what Bangalore had to offer. The street is fairly non-descriptive at least during the day; but come the evening and it’s a bustling 200m of sweets and savouries, chaats and chinese and authentic kannadiga oota. It is here that I encountered what is

arguably one of the best molagha bajji or chilli bajji that I’ve ever had. Once I managed to shove my way to the front of the raucous crowd around the shop all shouting and pointing to the various bajjis of their choice, I point to my choice of the humble chilli bajji that lay innocuously to the side of its richer cousin, the capsicum bajji. The chef here, with no lesser flair and finesse than Gary Mehigan of Masterchef fame, deftly picks and palms a precooked bajji, adroitly slices open one side of it, smears a dollop of masala potato paste into its innards, garnishes it with a sprinkle of finely chopped onion and then ends with a flourish of a squeeze of lemon to seal in all the flavours.  He then slices it down to bite sized bits, wraps them in newspaper and sends me off on one of the most delightful culinary experience I was to experience. What can I say? Masterchef would have been speechless.

Over the years I have come across various avatars of this humble chilli bajji (or pakora as it is called above the Vindhyas.) The stuffed version is the most popular with it being filled usually with potato or sometimes paneer (cottage cheese). A recent trip to Chennai had me visiting a newly opened gastro-pub near the Besant Nagar beach. Here the humble molagha bajji had upgraded to a most ‘gastro’ suitable version, and so was filled with cheese and served in a tall beaker-like apparatus, suitably arranged with accompaniments. Pretentious as it may have been, not to mention expensive, it did taste quite good; actually pretty good with a shot of gin to accompany. Interestingly, the still humble original version was available just a few meters across the road and on the beach.

BTW. Did you know that this chilli, which we know as bajji or pakora chilli is actually called banana chilli or banana pepper? Guess it must be the shape that inspires the moniker; thankfully has no taste of banana. I have trawled through the omnipotent Google to find the origins of this tasty fritter, but failed to find any. If anybody does know, please do share. The banana pepper or chilli does not seem to have any geographical ties to any place in particular, have come across recipes using it from Europe and Australia. Being not spicy but veering towards slightly sweet in its yellowed form, a number of western recipes use it for pickling in brine.  

Talking about recipes, I have tried making the humble desi chickpea-coated chilli bajji a number of times at home, but failed. I just can’t get the batter to stick to the smooth skin of the chilli; it always slides off and forms a puddle of batter quite resolutely away from the chilli. And the chilli just cooks to an uninspiring brown limp thingie which even I wouldn’t eat, let alone the rest of the family. I have tried adding cornflour and rice flour, but no avail.

And just for this, I do have an added degree of respect for the effortless way that the street and beach cart cooks dish it out – the amazingly crisp and thickly batter coated molagha bajji nee pakora nee fritter. 

Brindavan Express – bringing back the romance of day train journeys

Living in Bangalore and with family in Chennai, the Bangalore-Chennai trips was something I did often; but usually by the Shatabdi.  Recently, a last minute programme during Christmas had me doing the onward by bus and return by Brindavan Express as nothing else was available. 

I may have done this journey during my college days, but have forgotten it in the annals of time and upgraded train journeys and discounted flights, so was in for a rude shock.  I had pictured the 2^nd class sitting as the one with the usual compartment layout, but with a luggage rack above instead of the berths; was taken aback at the suburban train (local train) layout. And was soon for a bigger shock when I saw that a reserved compartment held no such pretentions as people thronged in at every station and occupied every standing and sitting position, including the floor space in front of the bathrooms.

Squished between the open window (thank god for a window seat) and a rather corpulently endowed lady on the other left me little wiggle room for comfort. A barely 6 ft long x 11/2 feet broad thinly cushioned seat was to hold 3 people; it held 4.  Bags and baggage liberally occupied the 1 feet leg space between my seat and the one opposite, hung from hooks and the narrow luggage rack above and squeezed into every nook and cranny available.  All in all it was cosy, euphemistically speaking. 

But once I looked beyond the discomfort, I started taking in the cacophony of life around me – pulsating, animated, and effervescent – something that one would never find in the almost sterile cocoons of the air-conditioned shatabdis.  Idlivadaipongaaal sellers reminded people that the train had no pantry cars. I must admit that the leaf and paper wrapped packages of the south Indian staple breakfast did look a lot more appetising than the affectations of an English breakfast with plastic wrapped slices of bread and little packets of butter and jam that is served in Shatabdis.

The jamboree started in earnest an hour into the ride. Roasted groundnut sellers raised octave in synchronisation with hot ginger cardamom tea sellers. The childrensbooks-colouringbooks-moralstorybooks-numberbooks seller, who intoned his wares in the same order and tune every time had parents perking in interest; the children preferred the nodding doggies and ingenuously put together plastic helicopter drones. Mobile holder stands, earphones, chargers I hues and variety of shapes added to the melee.   

The blind and handicap singers duo was not far behind – their repertoire was truly eclectic – effortlessly moving from Hindi to Tamil to Kannada. A single clap, a defiant stare and a synchronised thrust of a bony hip and outstretched hand that demanded attention and remuneration had people scrabbling for the scarce loose change in the times of demonatisation, to appease the transgenders; non-payment would have earned a tongue lash and wrath in equal

measures. Somebody brought in shallots to sell. Why would someone buy shallots on a train!! The mami in madisara thought it as a good idea, and so did the couple with 3 kids in tow. Shallots were followed by green cooking bananas. The combination I must admit is mouth wateringly appetising; guess the ones who bought it thought so too.

Once again, I was flummoxed at why someone would need to buy purple kanakambarams  (firecracker flower) in the train. Why ever not seems to be the repartee.  Traditional South Indian ladies do love flowers in their hair.

At rupees 150/- not only could I travel 350 kms from Chennai Central to Krantivira Sangolli Rayanna railway station in Bangalore, I wasn’t bored for a single second. There was drama, entertainment, music all packed in a 7 hr (yes, the train is invariably late) capsule.

And it has done so for 53 years now. The Brindavan Express train was introduced in 1964 as the first intercity express in the southern Railways.

I guess the Brindavan Express is going to feature more in my travels. Trains especially the day journeys are certainly alluring - they pack in so much more than just getting one from point A to point B. It’s the epitome of travel romance – next up, a day bus journey. 

Goa - a monsoon walk

Turns out I wasn’t the only one who thought of it. My flight which actually landed 10 minutes ahead of schedule, ultimately reached the parking bay 20 minutes later. That’s how crowded the airport was.  This apparently is standard because the Goa airport is actually owned by the navy and is open to civil aviation only after 12 in the afternoon. So all commercial flights arriving that time are actually either circling around like buzzards or waiting patiently in line on the runway to find a parking slot.

Having made an impromptu plan for a holiday, I put my finger on Goa,

presuming that it was off season, hence less crowded, hence cheaper. Nope, wrong again. Goa tourism has been promoted as an all-weather destination for a while now, the romance of frolicking on the beaches in the rains being especially irresistible. So my hi-end hotel reservation rates were equally hi-end (but less than half of what it would be in season.)   And I must admit, the decision to splurge on a good stay was well worth it – the Lemontree @

Candolim is one of the most charmingly designed places I’ve stayed in – Portuguese colonial architecture, gorgeous painted tile work, stained glass windows, wrought iron balcony balustrades and all. The food and service

was equally charming too (but go only for the free breakfast buffet. Lunch and dinner is really pricey.)

Staying @ Candolim was a good idea, because it is one of the nicer stretchesof beaches in Goa, clean, expansive and not crowded; at least the stretch right behind the hotel was, as there weren’t any beach shacks there - so it was just me, a few other fellow monsoon beach trawlers, a few fishermen casting their nets from the beach (deep sea fishing is banned in this season) and lots of really friendly stray dogs. If you go in early enough and there is no rain, you could even have the whole sandy stretch to yourself.    And a lovely vast stretch of sand it is.

Other than hit all the beaches here’s some other things you can do. Sit at one of the few open

beachside shacks and drink beer while you watch the beach through the downpour; cavort in the choppy grey waters while getting drenched in the downpour; take a slippery trek up the Dudhsagar waterfalls (if the officials allow u to); white water raft on the Mandovi in the downpour; hit the few clubs that are open (usually weekends); Old goa (all weather);

stroll down old quarter in Fontainas in Panaji (wearing a raincoat of course); take the ferry to Divar Island (of Finding fanny fame) and drive around (this drive is awesome anytime); take part in some monsoon-time festivals (there are a couple of

them); try a quad car (or beach buggy, in this case) drive; hire a bike or car and just drive around – the beaches are great, the beer is cheap, the food is awesome. That’s Goa and it doesn’t change – rain or no rain.

Down under Naples

Naples was the fag end of my journey after 10 days of traipsing across Florence, Venice and Rome with a college buddy. And this was one place where I was cautioned about being mugged or robbed; petty crime being a way of life in Italy. But Naples took my breath away, despite holding on to my backpack (which I wore on my front) on to dear life.

Think Italy and you picture the canals of Venice, the imperialistic Rome, the holy Vatican, the

museums, churches of Florence and the vineyards of Tuscany. Not many venture deep to the south – to Naples. Yet this city is one of the most charming, most eclectic, culturally diverse and beautiful cities of Italy.

There’s so much to see and do in and around Naples; you could spend an entire week here and still not do it all. Be it churches, museums, parks, palaces, lakes; or strolling around the ancient city of Pompeii, climbing the Vesuvius volcano or taking a ferry to visit the chic island of Capri.

But what’s most fascinating is not what you see around Naples, it’s what’s deep below the city – an entire another city.

   

As you descend 40 metres deep below the surface under layers and layers of volcanic earth, one goes down in time, almost 2400 years. Here you find a different world, unexplored, isolated by time, but deeply connected with the world above – the underground city of ancient Naples.

 Excavations deep below the surface over the years have unearthed labyrinths of ancient Greco Roman times dating back to almost the 1^st century.  This hidden city beneath today’s city of Naples can be accessed from different places around the city. Some reveal ancient water aqueducts and sewer systems dating back 23 centuries; some lead to ancient dwellings with pottery shards that probably indicate a communal kitchen. One that is accessed through a trap door on the floor of current house on street level, apparently was the place where Nero famously played the fiddle during theatre performances.

The one I visited was a Greco-Roman ruin beneath the 18th-century cloister at San Lorenzo Maggiore. Descending a carefully constructed wooden staircase and almost 40 meters below street level, I found myself time travelling to an era centuries behind the present time. Entire streets and houses have been unearthed here and I found myself wandering and peering into the lives of a first-century A.D. Roman market, a barrel-vaulted shopping arcade, a domed oven of an ancient bakery and a communal laundry complete with tubs and drains.

The catacombs present a surreal synchronicity of eerie silence together with an almost cacophonic jumble of visual imageries – of ancient caves and Roman markets, early Christian burial sites of faded frescoes and colourful mosaics, layered with World War II air-raid shelters, which  some of these spaces were later converted to.

Surreal, compelling and utterly fascinating! It’s one thing to visit museums and see carefully preserved artefacts from ancient times behind thick glass enclosures, but to walk along what was once the street s of the bygone era and among the carefully unearthed and beautifully preserved lives of ancient civilisation is an experience that just cannot be missed. 

Hiking up the Vesuvius

When you’re in Naples, this is just a part of the itinerary, something every tourist here is expected to do. But when you think about it, it just blows your mind – you’re walking up a volcano. Sure it’s dormant, well, as of now. But dormant means it’s still active somewhere below; a sleeping giant just lying low, quietly simmering and may just decide to awaken anytime.

   

As images of erupting volcanoes go, thanks to Hollywood movies, nothing could look more different than this – calm and

peaceful, with a surprisingly huge number of people living at the base and around it in beautiful town houses and villas, like a regular hill station.  As mountains go, this one is barely a bump on earth, a little under 1200m (at least 25 eruptions since 79AD bringing down its height each time.)

A disappointingly well laid out winding walking trail (one would expect a breath-stopping arduous climb), complete with hand rails and kiosk shops selling trinkets and munchies (can it get more placid?) takes you up to the rim.  

Despite the lack of drama, the climb is not exactly easy; the path is fairly steep and takes about an hour of deep breathing, slow climbing, and gets quite damp and chillingly cold as you go up. But the sight from the top on a clear day is an awe-inspiring crater of immense proportions. The belly of the volcano holds no brimstone and spewing fires, at least none that’s plain to see; the smell of sulphur is faintly perceptible.

 Yet, this languid and picturesque volcano is one of the most dangerous ones on earth. The first time it blew to a height of 33 kms, it virtually buried the town of Pompeii, about 6 kms away, under about 20 feet of ash. The horror of its enormity is seen in the amazingly preserved town, excavated centuries later. The entire town, including some of its citizens, caught completely unawares, the bodies preserved intact in plaster casts still eerily remain the way they were.

This is no means a very unique experience. If you are a globe trekker, there are at least a dozen active volcanoes, some having erupted within the last few years that one can climb. But this, by no means diminishes the beauty of the experience of climbing the Vesuvius.

Naples is one of the most beautiful regions of Italy and is one place that you can combine a number of other exciting experiences.  Stay tuned for more.   

Driving holiday to Sakleshpur

The tiny hillstation of Sakleshpur is often known as poor man’s Ooty for being a lot less lofty (under 3500m) a lot less commercial, a lot less expensive ( a number of inexpensive homestay options) a lot less glamorous (no Bollywood shoots happening here), a lot less colder (mild weather)…  But often less is more.  One among one the most diverse biodiversity spots in the world in terms of flaura and fauna, Sakleshpur is quieter, more charming and definitely a lot more  interesting. Historians say the name  Sakaleshapura is condensed from sakala-aishwarya-pura, literally meaning that the place is blessed with all kinds of wealth: Water (River Hemavati); Coffee; Spices – including Cardamom & Pepper; excellent Climate too.

A spur of the moment plan had got a bunch of us women deciding to do a driving holiday to Chikmagalur/Halibedu/Belur from Bangalore. Lack of time and planning (being a long weekend for Easter break) saw us having to revise plans and look for options. Once again chance and a spur of a moment decision (and lack of stay options anywhere in Chikmagalur) had us booking a stay in Hassan (being the closest option to getting to Halibedu) at Riverdale, a Stay Simple (http://www.staysimple.in/ ) resort for a night. Never heard of this before, but never regretted it either. They had a resort in Sakleshpur too that was available and was just an hour odd away from Hassan. The roads were open and we had wheels. So off we went. And the NH 48 from just outside Bangalore (off Tumkur rd) all the way to Sakleshpur through Hassan is a dream drive.

True to its name Sakleshpur is a nature lover’s delight – a panacea for the mind, body and soul. It has something for everyone – luxury plantation stays for just chilling, smaller ones for budget options, B&Bs for bikers and trekkers.

Typical of most hill stations, there really isn’t all that much to do – nature hikes (not too high for good treks), water falls, a number of ubiquitous temples, an old unkempt fort (this was Tipu sultan’s land). Though quite content to just chill, we did chance upon a couple of really interesting things to see and do. One was the Bette Bydeshwara temple, which is a quiet little temple tucked away practically in the middle of the rain forest. Take a short hike up a path next to the temple, and the view from up there is breathtaking. We took a picnic bag with us and made a good morning of it. A small pond near the temple is  also a refreshing pit stop.  The other for the more adventurous is the Green route trek. This is along an abandoned railway line that runs from Sakleshpur town to Subramanya Road station.  Some said that there was a ban on trekking on the track, but it’s worth checking out. This stretch of the track with length about 52+kms has around 50+ tunnels and bridges with length varying from few meters to 0.5km and height varying from few meters to few hundred meters. Alternatively one could just ride a train that runs on the new track (not too many pass this way; but there’s one in the afternoon) between these two stations. And you have one of the most picturesque

couple of hours of train ride you could ever experience.

One thing about a driving holiday is that since you have the wheels, you don’t need an agenda – you could decide to do or not to do something anytime. The trick to a really enjoyable drive is to club the open roads with an open mind. Be willing to be flexible on food, stay, things to do and see. If you are with like-minded people then it works great. You may come across a not very pleasant experience, but what the hell, just drive on.

It does pay to be prepared in terms of a spare tyre or extra fuel (just in case you’re lost in the middle of the jungle and the nearest bunk is 30kms away). BSNL works best in remote areas (Airtel 3g/4g) picked up zero bars. So have at least one phone with a BSNL card.  Do research on routes beforehand, GPS may not always work.  Brush up your local language vocabulary with some essential words (sometimes nothing else works); we knew our resort was near a dam, so knowing the local word for dam helped. Some essential snacks, water to tide you over till you get to some eatery. Get early starts so you have spare time to get to destinations before dark, especially if you are a bunch of women driving alone.

Travel is more about the journey than the destination. 

So just enjoy the ride.