Mist is seeping into the narrow gulley in fat swirls of dense grey and swallowing mountains in its path. Whatever nonsense they might feed you in romantic novels, it is not a pleasant sight. And certainly not when it’s tracking you 15 kilometers away from civilization in a dark forest that is claustrophobically closing around you. The path gets narrower at every step. Soon I am pushing away coarse leaves that are lashing at my bare arms and slapping me in the face. “I don’t think this guy knows where he is taking us,” I mumble. “Tell him if you dare,” Manoj, my trekking partner (also husband), grins and moves on sending another slap of shoots in my face. Ruprukhrul (which means beloved in Tenyiedie) Kechu our 25 year old Naga guide, good looking, short and slim - in faded jeans, light blue T and rugged jungle boots - has disappeared in the thicket somewhere ahead. Maybe he'll grow on me but at this moment I don’t feel much love for him. I can hear the swish of his dah (kind of sword) slashing at the undergrowth. An Angami tribal from Vishwema village, he has told us that his forefathers were headhunters who would bring back enemy heads as war trophies and hang those outside their hut. I keep my doubts to myself.
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This is our third attempt at Dzuko valley. Since it is 17 km one way; it is a destination for those who dare. It surpasses the Valley of Flowers in its sheer range of wild flowers, it is said; prime amongst them the Dzuko lily that doesn’t grow anywhere else in the world. Attempt one has failed because we can’t get a guide or a car and the area is believed to be a hot bed of NSCN cadres, who have been known to take hostages. We also have no idea if the rest huts in the valley, where trekkers spend the night and get some food, are active. The Nagaland tourism number keeps ringing and no one answers our email. Time is precious since. We waste day one investigating and after getting an assurance that there is peace between the Army and NSCN these days, we zero down on Ramesh Sangma of the puke yellow Maruti Alto and furtive eyes; and Kechu of the steady gaze and headhunter ancestors.
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Day two. Starting by 5.30 am, we drive down to Vishwema village and then up the hill to the start point of the trek, the Alto groaning its way past patches of wet mud and rocks. Soon, it starts to rain. A slow agonizing drizzle falls silently around us. An hour later, Kechu jumps out of the car, eyes narrowed. “Baarish nahi rukega,” he declares, glaring at the clouds. Manoj is ready to give it a try but the ugly mist, the chill and the thought of walking six hours through the jungle drenched to the bone scares the hell out of me. Swallowing my pride, I say I can’t do it. The two men prove they are gentlemen first and give in. Gloomily, we bite into our cheese and cucumber sandwiches and ask Sangma to turn the car back, telling him we shall return next year. We no longer have two days with us.
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This is our third attempt at Dzuko valley. Since it is 17 km one way; it is a destination for those who dare. It surpasses the Valley of Flowers in its sheer range of wild flowers, it is said; prime amongst them the Dzuko lily that doesn’t grow anywhere else in the world. Attempt one has failed because we can’t get a guide or a car and the area is believed to be a hot bed of NSCN cadres, who have been known to take hostages. We also have no idea if the rest huts in the valley, where trekkers spend the night and get some food, are active. The Nagaland tourism number keeps ringing and no one answers our email. Time is precious since. We waste day one investigating and after getting an assurance that there is peace between the Army and NSCN these days, we zero down on Ramesh Sangma of the puke yellow Maruti Alto and furtive eyes; and Kechu of the steady gaze and headhunter ancestors.
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Day two. Starting by 5.30 am, we drive down to Vishwema village and then up the hill to the start point of the trek, the Alto groaning its way past patches of wet mud and rocks. Soon, it starts to rain. A slow agonizing drizzle falls silently around us. An hour later, Kechu jumps out of the car, eyes narrowed. “Baarish nahi rukega,” he declares, glaring at the clouds. Manoj is ready to give it a try but the ugly mist, the chill and the thought of walking six hours through the jungle drenched to the bone scares the hell out of me. Swallowing my pride, I say I can’t do it. The two men prove they are gentlemen first and give in. Gloomily, we bite into our cheese and cucumber sandwiches and ask Sangma to turn the car back, telling him we shall return next year. We no longer have two days with us.
That evening, after fixing up a taxi that will take us back to Dimapur next morning, Manoj drowns his sorrow in a couple of large Old Monks (I empathise with a gin and lime cordial). We watch a trashy Bollywood film and go to sleep, myself wallowing in some guilt. The next morning I wake up to light falling on my face from a gap in the curtains. Crawling out of bed, I blink in disbelief. Back in my St Anthony's, Agra, school days if Sister Maria Goretti had not drilled the evils of swearing in my head, I could have put a sailor to shame 5 in the morning. The unmentionable-words day has dawned bright and clear. I whisper weather update to the sleeping husband, who growls “we are going back today” and buries his head under the pillow; haunted no doubt by the ghosts of the three large OMs. Throwing my shawl around me, I step out in the crisp morning and watch the villages waking up down below. I am shaken out of my reverie by the tread of familiar feet. Before me stands Groucho Max, scowling darkly at the beautiful sunlit valley. “We can go and come back today itself,” he says, testing me; “25 kilometer chal legi?” I answer with a cold stare. At 8 am, we are in the cramped Alto once again, in same company, with paranthas and alu sabzi in our backpacks.
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This time, the Alto whines to a halt just six kilometers into the winding, rocky route. Yesterday’s rain has caused a big patch of muddy slush and a landslide. Kechu jumps out. His boot sinks into the mud. “Gari nahi jaayega,” he declares. It adds two more kilometers to the trek. Sangma asks Manoj for petrol money, promising us he shall return at 4 pm but he is suspiciously avoiding eye contact. Before I can intercept, Manoj has handed him the entire amount. Sangma turns the car and scoots off happily. “He will never come back now,” I glare at my husband. “Learn to trust people,” he says with a saintly smile. Kechu is already up the hill. Manoj slings his camera bag across his back and starts climbing. “Karna hai toh karna hai,” I recite my mantra for tough times and follow.
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There are rough stone steps cut in the steep 70-degree mountainside; much worse than I thought. The rain moist moss covered stones are slippery and I have to use my hands to pull myself up. Manoj stops by at difficult patches and gives me a hand up. Kechu has transformed into a robot on a programmed mission. Using his dah with practiced ease, he cuts a stick for me and - chivalry dispelled with – moves on, not even bothering to check back if his flock of two has, or has not, been swallowed by the wilderness. He has tucked some foliage behind an ear and from up in the slope I can hear the swish of his dah’s shiny blade and snatches of a folk song he is humming. We have been climbing for nearly an hour (seems like a couple of them though) when the climb abruptly ends. Despite the short drinking and gasping breaks I have taken in between, my heart is pounding in my ears and my T-shirt is moist with sweat. I sit down to steady my shaking knees. “To Dzuko,” says a wooden board pointing out a path that will take us into the gulley that will lead us into the valley. We are now skirting the mountain; to our left is another range; down below a flowing nallah. Its faint rumble carries in the air. Accompanied by the call of the cicadas and the rush of the wind rustling through the dark jungle undergrowth it is the perfect horror story playback to the fog that is reaching out moist hands to smack our bottoms as we hurry away.
The endless walk is rewarded by some beautiful sights of the ranges in startling shades of green. The soot-blackened stumps of trees burnt down by the villagers, who practise jhum cultivation, make interesting patterns. About two hours of walk brings us to the rest camp. The valley is opening out now and there stands a young boy with a rifle. For a panic moment I wonder if he is NSCN. But then he smiles and offers to make us Maggi and tea, all prices double since he has carried rations up. I flop down, ready to accept his tempting offer but the men tell me we have to go down another hour into the valley and grey clouds are drawing. If it starts pouring we will miss what we came for. I start moving, visions of piping hot soupy Maggi dissipating in the breeze. We climb down, cross a wooden bridge, climb up, then down, then up then down and so on and so forth. I’m sure you get the general scheme of things. Just when I decide I cannot walk anymore, gently undulating hills start spreading out before us mesmerising us with their pristine beauty. A stream gurgles across the lush green land, looking like a ribbon of blue from where we stand spellbound. The bamboo is gone; its place taken by shiny green grass. And then comes the moment that has mandolins and sitars playing in mushy movies. A translucent mauve flower is smiling at us in the quiet afternoon. “Juko lily,” whispers Kechu, smiling his very first smile. Manoj falls to him knees and starts changing camera lenses. I forget to close my mouth. The knee shattering climb, the cold, the pain, the itch of grass, the insect bites, the blisters under the feet, the fear of unknown people and places; that magic moment makes us forget all that. “Hello Juko lily,” I say in my mind, bending my head to take a closer look. “Well! Here I am!” Dzuko lily, doesn't hold out him arms like Shahrukh Khan, but that's the attitude. We smile at each other as the sitars play in my mind. I don’t know about him but I am completely bowled over by his drop dead gorgeous looks. With a shake of his petals, Dzuko lily points me towards the green valley. Rising head and shoulders above the sparkling green are more of his breed. Nodding in the breeze, they are blooming in hundreds, every bit as handsome as he is. And mind you! Its not flowering season yet.
We walk closer to the wooden bridge on the stream that is widening before our eyes. Sitting on its wide wooden step, with the wind in our faces and the gurgle of the water for company, we open our lunch. A little beyond, trekkers have set up camp under a huge rock. They are cooking something that is making smoke curl into the air. A gentle faced teenager comes to the stream to get water. He tips his bucket into the water, dodging the stones some old lovers have dropped into the water with their names carved on them. Further away, in the midst of the blooming lilies, a group of pretty local girls is leaping into the air for a photographer's lens. Soaking in the sights for as long as we can, we get up. It is time to go.
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It will take us nearly fours hours to get back; a painful journey for me since I have been dumb enough to not get my faithful old Quechas and am walking in my running shoes. The rocks and bamboo roots shall dig into my feet and the climb down on the slippery mountain shall make the legs tremble. We shall walk three hours and 45 minutes, not daring to take a break because it will start drizzling and the evening will start closing in. At the end of it, I shall marvel at the fitness of the two men with me and raise a toast to human endurance, that made me do so much more than whatI thought I was capable of. And then another one to mankind when I shall find – asleep with mouth open– Ramesh Sangma of the shifty eyes, waiting faithfully at the rendezvous point in his mud splashed Alto. He will tell us that he has been there for 45 minutes, with no cell phone connectivity in the valley. Manoj shall raise an eyebrow at me pointedly. Ignoring him, I shall tumble into the car and sink into a splitting headache plus body ache and fatigue induced coma. I shall emerge from it next morning to find that the rain clouds have finally caught us. There shall be thunder in the sky and loud pelting rain, as if the floodgates of some monstrous river of water have shattered in the sky. From inside the glass window that separates me from angry screaming mother nature, I shall reach out for the flask of hot milky tea that Pinkai, our Naga friend, has so thoughtfully left behind. And there I shall sit down to write this piece before the rain washes away my memories of Dzuko valley.
If you thought I was fibbing about the headhunters; take a look at this picture from Kohima museum. Real human heads (trophies collected by Naga warriors). Taking a head back from war brought fame and glory not only in this world but also in life after death, believed Naga warriors.
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