Discovering Assam and Nagaland 2025 (page 4 of 6)

we arrive at a very traditional house. At the entrance, a man with his entire face tattooed is cleaning one of his rifles.



He belongs to the Konyak tribe—warriors and headhunters. Several rifles hang on the wall along with his "traditional hat," a cone-shaped headdress made of bones and feathers. He wears his traditional necklace, and in his earlobes, he has goat horns as earrings. For the photo, he also takes a hunting spear. The guide warns me that I have to pay him 100 rs to take his picture. I don’t think I’ll come back here, so I agree to pay. A few souvenir photos, and we head back up to the village.



The army is present throughout the village. We look for the chief, to whom I show my passport—he photographs it along with the permit to visit Nagaland. A sign points toward Myanmar, and the border is just a few steps away.



The chief lets me take about ten steps but keeps an eye on me with a submachine gun in hand. I snap a few shots and thank him, and in return, we take some selfies.



We drive a little farther to the home of the king of Longwa, called the Angh—one of the last kings in India, who still rules his kingdom.



This house is unique—half is in India, and the other half is in Myanmar.





The bedrooms are in India, while the kitchen and other rooms are in Myanmar, so the residents have dual citizenship. Two women are at the entrance—one Indian, the other Burmese—and they sell beaded bracelets and wooden statues that you can only find here. I pick one to keep as a souvenir of this exceptional day.

Before entering the house, I observe all the trophies displayed on the facade.



The wooden drum has a beautiful tiger head.

We visit the interior of the house, which is also very dark. Photos of the king are displayed on the walls—he poses with various personalities, like the King of England. In the middle of the main room, there’s a fireplace, and above it hang baskets that have blackened over time, as well as hornbill beaks.



The landscapes toward Myanmar are stunning—no one’s watching me here, so I can get closer.

We return to the village for lunch at a small eatery. We take a little stroll around to admire the beautiful scenery and pass by a French camper van. What are they doing here? Mystery, mystery—I didn’t run into them, what a shame.



In the eatery, an elderly woman sits in a corner, carrying a baby on her back in a blanket turned into a makeshift backpack.

She’s beautiful, this woman, with her lovely jewelry.



Two children watch us eat our chapatis—the guide and I will share some with them.

Before leaving, one last photo.

We’re taking a little walk through the village





and we come across kids heading home from school.

We hit the road again for Mon. The guide suggests changing tomorrow’s plan. We were supposed to go to Hongphoi, the village of the tattooed warrior men, but since photos have become too commercialized, he doesn’t want to take me there. Instead, he proposes visiting three other villages. Back at the house, the electricity is back on, but the Wi-Fi isn’t working. Near the church, I spotted a Vishal shop where I’ll do a bit of shopping. When I get back, the electricity is playing hide and seek again.

I tried to see your camera model, but I couldn’t figure it out... Are you shooting in Auto mode?

I really love these two photos, but I prefer the second one

I take photos either with my smartphone or with my camera—often with both. I also really like the profile picture of the lady.

This is hands down your most fascinating trip. I admire you and I’m a little jealous! I couldn’t do a trip like this anymore—just don’t have the energy...

I take photos either with my smartphone or with my camera, often with both. I also like the lady’s profile photo.

but you’re not answering my questions 😏

Tuesday, April 8th. After breakfast, I ask for the Wi-Fi again—I think the router is disconnected; it’s just not possible that it’s not working here. Akai probably doesn’t have permission to go upstairs where the router is. The son of the house is around, so I take the chance to ask him, but he doesn’t seem inclined to check. I head back to my room grumbling. Five minutes later, Akai arrives with a big smile—Wi-Fi is working, and the power is on battery, so the router was unplugged.

The guide arrives at 9 AM, and we set off to visit the village of Phuktong. We stroll along small paths that let us cross through the village. The viewpoints are always beautiful.







We continue on the road to the village of Sheanghah and finish with a morung.



The woodwork inside is really well done—my dad would’ve loved to see this. A little moment of nostalgia thinking about him. The timber used is either teak or sal, both known for their durability. The pillars serve as decorative elements with various patterns.



We pass by these bamboo houses with thatched roofs made from woven palm leaves.



We return to Mon for lunch at a small restaurant in the village. In the afternoon, we’ll visit the morungs at the site where the festival took place. They’re really beautiful, with different shapes than those in Khonoma.









We head back to the homestay early, where I’ll spend my last evening. I’ve decided—I’m leaving Mon for Dibrugarh tomorrow morning, and I don’t need to book a sumo. I do need to reserve a hotel on Booking.com for 3 nights.

As I leave Nagaland, I realize the unique moments I’ve experienced over the past few days. Nagaland, in my opinion—just my feeling—is a very poor state, especially the Dimapur region and the villages in the mountains. Dimapur is a city that threw me off a bit when I arrived on a Sunday, when everything was closed—it felt like a dead, dusty town with little traffic. I didn’t feel like I was in India. I won’t go on about the market where I thought I was hallucinating. I mentioned it to my friend Raja, who didn’t want to warn me and was waiting for my reaction—he had a good laugh listening to me.

In Mon, the vibe is different. It’s a village, and arriving during the festival made the atmosphere livelier and more joyful with all the activity. I was really surprised to see mostly big, recent cars driving around to get to the celebration.

As soon as you enter Nagaland, the state of the roads is terrible—the difference between Assam and Nagaland is striking.

The villages around Mon are also very poor, with many bamboo houses. Not all children go to school, and electricity isn’t always available. The food isn’t very varied—lots of rice and potatoes—but they eat meat, like chicken and pork they raise themselves, as well as river fish of all sizes. I received a warm welcome in Dimapur, Kohima, and Mon, but it’s a very unique state with unusual customs.

I don’t know if I’ll come back, but if the opportunity arises, it’ll be to Mon during the festival, and I’ll take the chance to go to Mokokchung.

Hi Marie Jo

What an incredible trip—so out of the ordinary! Thanks for sharing it with us 🙂 This region, with all its traditions and costumes, is absolutely fascinating 🙂

Hi Jean François, Yes, it’s a very different trip from the previous ones—very nature-focused and really interesting with the festivals! Another one’s coming up 🤗🥳. There are also some really interesting festivals in Arunachal Pradesh, but getting the permit is more complicated 😅😬🤪—though don’t lose hope! 🥳

What a truly amazing discovery this part of India is—so different and underrated! I think it really reminds me of the Mindat region in Myanmar, where we went in 2017. Thanks for this captivating story! !

And that camper van!!! French! Really amazing... Too bad you didn't meet the passengers!

Wednesday, April 9th The sumo (shared taxi) leaves at 6:30 AM, and I need to leave the house at 6:00 with Akai, who’s walking me to the sumo. Last night, he told me he wakes up every day at 5:00 AM and goes to bed at 9:00 PM. This morning, I don’t hear anything outside—nothing’s moving. I take a peek, and everything’s closed. I try to make a little noise near his place. He jumps up, rushes to the kitchen to check the clock, and apologizes for oversleeping. Poor guy, he seems so upset. He’s just so kind. He quickly runs up to my room to grab my heavy bag. I insist on helping carry it, but he won’t let me at first. We take a narrow path that leads straight to the main street near the agency where the sumo is. He carries my bag on his shoulder and walks fast—I stay close behind. When we arrive, I give him some money, but he’s embarrassed and doesn’t want to take it. I insist, and he thanks me with a big smile. This man is truly kind and helpful.

I get my ticket, and my bag is already on the roof of the sumo, which is filling up quickly. I switch vehicles in Sonari. The sumo is about to leave and drops me off in Manran, where I change again for Dibrugarh. In Dibrugarh, the rickshaw driver knows the neighborhood where I booked the Dibrugarh Tea Residency hotel, and I arrive at noon. The area is lively—it’s nice to see people and activity around.

I go for a walk on foot to the Brahmaputra. A promenade lets you follow along the river.



I pass by the potters’ corner. They’re drying pots along the promenade. They work with clay they collect from the Brahmaputra’s banks.





Further along, women are fishing on the banks, and two men in a boat are coming back to shore.









All along the Brahmaputra, they honor Durga, Kali, and other goddesses twice a year. For the occasion, they make colorful clay statues of Durga’s different representations and present offerings. Placed on the banks, the sculptures will be submerged during the monsoon floods—except for those placed higher up, which slowly decompose over time.







I continue along the promenade and reach the dhobi wallahs’ (laundry workers’) quarter, then the carpenters’ area. All along, there are little shops—this place is really lively. I head back to the hotel, taking a quicker route through the middle of the residential area. I have dinner at a nice restaurant that also serves pastries.

Thursday, April 10 Last night, it was really hot in the room, so I turned on the AC—the split unit is right above the bed. I read for a while and start feeling occasional drops of water on my head. The drops get heavier, and my pillow is soaked. I call the receptionist, who comes to check the problem and calls a maintenance agent. It’s 11 PM, and he arrives quickly. The hotel is fully booked, so I can’t change rooms. The agent climbs onto the bed frame, removes the filters, and fixes the issue—I stop getting dripped on.

After breakfast in my room, I have to switch rooms. I pack my bag again, and the staff will move it once a room frees up in the morning.

This morning, I planned to visit the Radha Krishna temple. I take a rickshaw at the end of the street, and it takes me to the Jagannath temple. We cross the city, and soon we’re in the middle of tea plantations—I never get tired of how beautiful they are.

This 18th-century temple is a replica of the one in Puri. It has a three-tiered pyramidal structure called a Vimana.



The sanctuary houses the deity Jagannath, his brother Balabhadra, and his sister Subhadra.



The complex includes several small temples and well-kept gardens. It’s a peaceful, calm place—perfect for a stroll or just relaxing.

I exchange a few selfies with several Indian tourist families.



On the way out, I ask the driver to take me to a tea factory. We backtrack and arrive at large warehouses. In the back, I spot some people and approach to ask if I can visit. I don’t have permission, so the tour isn’t possible. The driver drops me off where I’d taken the rickshaw that morning, and I continue on foot toward the Brahmaputra. I pass through the area reserved for dhobi wallahs.

I stop to take photos with the women in the small shops. They’re proud and amused to see themselves in pictures, and one after another, they pose.





One of them is protecting her skin with what I assume is turmeric paste. In Asia, women protect their faces, but here it’s their décolletage—and this is the first time I’ve seen that.

Before heading back, I stop at a restaurant—I don’t know the name of what I’m eating, but it’s fresh, lightly spiced, and slightly sweet, and really good.

I return to the hotel, where a very friendly young woman is at the reception. She naturally asks where I’m from, my age, if I’m traveling alone—it always amazes them to see a woman traveling solo, especially from France. It leaves them dreaming. I quickly settle into my room and head back out to explore the neighborhood. I find a small market with fruits, vegetables, and fish at Thana Chariali, just 500 meters from the hotel.



It’s so well presented that everything looks tempting.





I’d never seen colored vermicelli before—are they flavored based on the color?



And of course, the street food.





I go back to the hotel to wait for mealtime. Just as I’m about to leave, a huge storm hits with rain and hail, lasting at least half an hour.

Friday, November 11 Nirupam messages me—he wants to come pick me up this afternoon. He and his family are excited to meet me. He wakes me up with his insistence; he doesn’t want me to take a bus to Naharkatia. I wasn’t supposed to go to his place until tomorrow, but since I’m in Dibrugarh, he wants me to come today. What a story—we don’t even know each other. Nirupam is a watercolor artist, world-renowned. Michèle gave me tips for this trip and put me in touch with him. She’s also a watercolor artist near Bordeaux, and I don’t know her either. He insists on picking me up because I’m his guest, and he feels responsible for me. Still, it’s over 3 hours of driving for him to get to Dibrugarh. I spend the morning running a few errands. Bihu festival is approaching, so I head to the bakery to buy some baklavas to give to the family. Nirupam arrives later than planned because of heavy traffic. He’s a bit tired and has another 3-hour drive—what a crazy day. I told him I’m no princess, and at my age, I never will be, but there’s no point arguing—it’s decided, so I’ll go along with it. He lives with his parents, is married, and has two kids: a 3-year-old daughter and a 7-month-old son. His wife is an English teacher, and his father is also a teacher. He comes to France every year to lead watercolor workshops in cities that host biennales. He knows Brittany, Bordeaux, and Montauban well and will be in Brioude starting July 10. When I arrive at his place, his family welcomes me warmly, as if we’ve known each other forever. I give them the gifts I brought from France, along with the baklavas. I have dinner with Nirupam, but his parents and wife will eat later after we’re done. The menu: chicken, rice, and well-cooked vegetables—it’s delicious. I’ll never get used to this tradition of not sharing meals all together, but that’s just how it is here in India. I head up to my room after the meal.

Saturday, April 12 It’s 5 a.m., and I hear noise—doors opening and some activity outside. Should I get up already? It’s early, so I wait until 6 a.m. to go downstairs. We have our first breakfast: tea and a few biscuits, including one shaped like a cigarette, made from rice, which you find during the Bihu period—Assam’s New Year, the arrival of spring, and the start of harvest season. Nirupam takes me to visit a tea garden. It’s a hilly, beautiful, and peaceful place—no one else is around at this hour.



We walk up the steps



and arrive at a platform with stunning views and a temple.

Benches are set up all around, and it’s a lovely spot to relax. This calm and beautiful place is perfect for meditation, so we sit separately for a little while.



On the way back, we pass the tea pickers arriving one after another.



We return home, where a second, heartier breakfast is waiting: chapatis, dal, vegetables, and tea. I didn’t think I’d be able to eat like this at 9 a.m., but it’s good and goes down easily. After that, a 1-hour break—I’m not used to such a relaxed pace. Today, there’s a celebration at the school where Nirupam’s wife works, and the students are dancing. We’re going to watch.

Friday 11 Nov

Actually, I don’t know where you’re writing from, but the weather here is November weather. Maybe that explains your slip-up?😉

Nirupam sent me a message—he wants to pick me up this afternoon. He and his family are excited to meet me. He’s been bothering me since I woke up, insisting I don’t take a bus to Naharkatia. I wasn’t supposed to go to his place until tomorrow, but since I’m in Dibrugarh, he wants me to come today. What a story—we don’t even know each other! Nirupam is a watercolorist, world-renowned. Michèle gave me tips for this trip and put me in touch with him. She’s also a watercolorist near Bordeaux, and I don’t know her either. He insists on picking me up because I’m his guest, and he has to take care of me. Still, it’s over 3 hours of driving to get to Dibrugarh. I spend the morning running a few errands. Bihu festival is coming up, so I head to the bakery to buy some baklavas to give to the family. Nirupam will arrive later than planned because of heavy traffic. He’s a bit tired and has another 3-hour drive—what madness! I told him I’m no princess, and at my age, I never will be, but there’s no point arguing—it’s decided, and I have to go along with it. He lives with his parents, is married, and has two kids—a 3-year-old daughter and a 7-month-old son. His wife is an English teacher, and his father is also a teacher. He comes to France every year to run watercolor workshops in cities that host biennales. He knows Brittany, Bordeaux, Montauban well… and will be in Brioude starting July 10. When I arrive at his place, his family welcomes me warmly, as if we’ve known each other forever. I give them the gifts I brought from France, along with the baklavas. I head up to my room after the meal.

I love this vivid description. I feel like I’m right there. I’ve experienced this kind of situation with Indians so many times.

there’s no point arguing—it’s decided, and I have to go along with it.

Exactly.

I have dinner with Nirupam, but his parents and wife will eat later after we’re done. The menu: chicken, rice, and well-cooked vegetables—it’s delicious. I’ll never get used to this tradition of not sharing meals all together, but that’s just how it is here in India.

I hate this habit too. Even when you’re really close. I only know one family where we always eat together, with joy and warmth.

Saturday, April 12th (continued)

We continue our visits to the Namphaké Buddhist monastery, the only one in Assam. The Buddhism practiced here is Theravada, the same as in Southeast Asia and Sri Lanka. The monastery is therefore very different from Tibetan monasteries.





We carry on to the village school, where the children are playing in the courtyard, and the headmaster shows me around the premises. Kids from neighboring villages walk here, often trekking for 2 hours to arrive. Before resuming classes, all the students line up in single file under the watchful eye of the headmaster and sing the national anthem.



We return home where lunch is waiting for us. In the late afternoon, we set off with his mom, his wife, and the kids to another village to visit the mom’s sister. The garden is in full bloom—orchids, gardenias, hibiscus...



A unique lemon tree with green, elongated fruit.



We visit the neighbor, who also has a beautiful, flower-filled garden. Near the house, I see a loom where a *gamosa* is being woven. (A white cloth bordered in red with woven patterns at the ends. It’s used as a scarf, on the head, or to cover a prayer altar. It’s also a symbol of hospitality, friendship, and respect.) We have tea with biscuits in the family, and the mom’s sister gives me my first *gamosa*.



Before dinner, Nirupam invites me to meditate with him. We have dinner, and at the end of the meal, I receive a gift from Nirupam’s mom and wife—a saree that I’m supposed to wear on November 15th, Bihu day. Before heading to bed, Nirupam tells me we’ll leave at 5 AM tomorrow for more visits. Wow, that’s really early, but okay, I’ll be ready.

Good evening Marie Jo,

Thanks for sharing this. I don’t comment often, but I read you carefully. Assam will likely be my next destination—it seems so peaceful and green. Maybe not in February, though. Lovely encounters. And those gorgeous pink orchids—I’ve never seen such abundance (probably too early in February... this year in Gorumara in the Dooars, north of West Bengal, there were only leaves clinging to the trees). I can’t wait to read about the day that starts at 5 AM! I know night falls quickly there and you have to go to bed early, but a 5 AM departure is still pretty special...