Bandhs

For many people in South Asia, bandhs are a part of life. The first time I heard the word, I thought it was just the local pronunciation for 'ban'. I soon found out what a bandh really was. In fact, I'm living through another one right now.

The word is sometimes translated as a 'strike', but it's different to the kind of labour union strike one might experience in the West. The word bandh comes from Hindi बंद which means 'closed' (pronounced like 'bund', but with a longer vowel sound, i.e. 'bahnd', but my friends in Nepal say it's pronounced more like 'bahn-duh' over there). Unsurprisingly, the main feature of a bandh is the forced closure of private businesses. Shopkeepers who dare open their doors are subjected to violence and arson by the party or organisation who called for the bandh.

In addition, public transport is not allowed on the road but in some instances, all vehicular traffic is banned. Of course, with everything shut, it's not as if most people have anywhere to go.

There are exemptions granted to certain groups: pharmacies and hospitals are allowed to remain open. Autos on 'hospital duty' and 'school duty' are allowed to ply the roads (or autos with signs that read 'hospital duty').

Bandhs can last a few hours to a few days. They are usually announced a few days before by the group calling it, typically in protest of the government, or a perceived grievance caused by the government. They can also be limited to a particular town or district, or they can be state-wide.

Last Tuesday there was a 24 hour state-wide bandh in Nagaland, but the announcement came pretty late. It was mainly in protest of the army because it wouldn't let one of the leader of one of the main Underground factions go to Zunheboto (which I'm told has since been surrounded by army personnel who are intent on keeping out the two other main factions who've been fighting for weeks). Autos were still plying the main routes in Dimapur, but all the shops were closed.

My friend Lauren tells me there's a transport bandha in Kathmandu today because of the rising price of fuel.

Over here in Nagaland, we're having a 36 hour bandh that started at 6am today and will end tomorrow at 6pm. it seems to be for the same reason as last Tuesday's bandh.

It's not a particularly dangerous situation, but it's a huge disruption to everyday life. It's not as if shopkeepers want to close their businesses, though to government workers, it probably doesn't make much of a difference as long as they still get their salary. In any case, I'm not planning to leave the hotel today and tomorrow. Given that tomorrow's Republic Day, I wasn't planning on heading out anyway.

At least there's still room service.

Airport security in India

If you're ever had to enter an airport in India, you'll probably know that you need a print-out of your boarding pass just to enter the airport (though I wonder if they've started accepting screen displays on people's smart phones). No boarding pass, no entry.

But if you're seeing friends off and really want to get inside the terminal, there's usually a booth where you can purchase an entry ticket to get into the airport. I assume the entry fee is mostly to keep 'undesirables' out of the actual terminal, forcing them to congregate right outside the exit to the airport.

A few days ago I was seeing off some friends at Dimapur Airport, Nagaland's only airport. Unlike most airports in India, there aren't hoards of people waiting outside for arriving passengers. The reason is that there aren't that many flights into Dimapur, and many scheduled flights, especially the Indian Airlines ones, get cancelled - I see cancellation announcements most days in the Nagaland Post.



It was therefore no surprise that when my friends entered the terminal, walking past the non-working scanners, I was told by the soldier at the door that I couldn't follow them without a boarding pass. So I asked if I could buy an entry ticket.

The flat answer was: No.

Why?

I didn't expect the soldier to answer my question, but there was a helpful notice at the window where entry tickets are usually sold.

"SELLING OF ENTRY TICKET HAS BEEN BANNED W.E.F. 15TH JAN 2012 TO 31ST JAN 2012 DUE SECURITY CONCERN AT DIMAPUR AIRPORT ON EVE OF REPUBLIC DAY"

Oh, Republic Day. Not the happiest day if you're living in NE India.

I might stay in my hotel room the rest of the week watching the Australian Open.

Dimapur Supermarket

Any visitor to Dimapur should know where 'Supermarket' is. It's close to the Railway Station and there're a few hotels around, including the Hotel Saramati (really not worth it for the price) and the De Oriental Dream hotel, and the Kachari ruins are right around the corner. Locals will know when you tell them you're going to 'Supermarket'.

But don't expect an air-conditioned shop selling groceries. The place is more a complex than an actual supermarket. The signs all seem to suggest it should be rightfully known as the 'Naga Shopping Arcade' and to me, it's definitely more a 'shopping arcade' than 'supermarket'. The whole place certainly looks past its prime, but there are a few shops selling traditional 'tribal' clothes and items.



There are also lots of shops selling more modern clothes.


But what seems to define the place (and my friends use them as a landmarks) are the coffin shops available.






I think I saw two of the coffin shops open the other day during the state-wide bandh. Curious...

On the importance of tones

Even though I've looked at Sumi tone for years (and I can speak another tone language, Mandarin), I still feel like I'm tone-deaf when I listen to the language. Fortunately, I've been getting a lot of help with Sumi tones thanks to my friend Cana, who apart from being a gifted artist, is also a gifted musician.

Sumi has 3 contrastive tones: low, mid and high, all of which are fairly level (except when there's intonation involved). This means that there is a change in pitch height results in a new word, e.g.

apuh [à.pù] ‘father’
apu [a.pu] ‘water scoop’
appu [à.pú] ‘son’

So apuh with low tone means 'father' and appu with high tone means 'son'. The change in spelling is a fairly recent one, which hasn't been universally adopted. But the main thing is, when you say the words out, the consonants and vowels are all the same, the only difference is pitch.

I find the high tone easiest to perceive, but I often get the low and mid tones mixed up. I was actually pretty amazed (I suppose I shouldn't have been, but I still was) when Cana told me that the low and mid tones are closer together in pitch than the high. That was something I'd demonstrated in an acoustic instrumental study of the language a few years ago.

The other problem I have is, when I speak Sumi, I have a tendency to put a slightly higher pitch on the last syllable of a word that I try to stress. As an example, the word ana [ànà] with low tones on both syllables means 'rice'.

But every time I answer the question "Ana chu va chu mphi?" 'Have you eaten yet?' (lit. "Have you eaten rice yet or not?"), I end up saying "Ana chu va." 'I've eaten' (lit. 'I've eaten rice'), pronouncing ana as what speakers perceive as [àná], with high tone on the second syllable. I know it should be low tone, but somehow part of me just wants to stress the whole word, and I end up using a higher pitch to do so.

At least ana [àná] with high tone doesn't mean anything in Sumi, but speakers can still tell it's wrong.

In a similar vein, when I was staying with friends in Kohima a few weeks ago, I was trying to learn a few phrases in Kohima Angami / Tenyidie. In contrast to Sumi, Tenyidie has 5 tones, all of which are fairly level as far as I can tell, and I still can't tell the difference between most of the tones. Anyway, it didn't stop me from learning a few key phrases.

One evening, when asked if I was hungry, I replied with A merü mo. I thought I was saying "I'm not hungry." The verb merü means 'to be hungry' when there's low tone on the final syllable.

Without realising it again, I'd said merü with a high tone on the second syllable.

My friends all burst into laughter immediately. It turns out I'd said "I haven't vomitted."

Climbing Mount Japfü

Over the weekend, I was in Kohima, where a friend had invited me to come on a trip up to the summit of Mount Japfü. A friend of his was organising the climb. At 3044m, it's Nagaland's second highest peak (after Saramati). The starting point was Dimori Cover, which I estimate is about 1500m above sea level (Kohima is about 1400m).



I wasn't quite sure what to expect. I wasn't particularly fit, especially having spent the past 2 months with barely any exercise and putting on weight from eating loads of pork fat. I realised the day before that it was also a climbing competition. Given my history of back and knee problems, I thought getting to the top would be competition enough for me.

The winner of the competition, who happened to come from my friend's village Khuzama, made it to the summit in a time of only 1h 22min.

In contrast, it took us (well me, mostly) 5 hours.

I was definitely not ready for the climb. The first part was easy enough.


We then walked past jhum fields owned by the nearby village of Kigwema before we entered the forest. But the going got a bit tougher as the gradient got steeper. The path was also pretty slippery with mud from all the melted frost on the ground.

And once we got high enough, most of the terrain was covered in snow. It was pretty, and my friend was thrilled to see snow, but it didn't make the trail any less treacherous. Especially when most of the path was already pretty steep.


At some points, ropes had been laid because the path was practically vertical.


The scariest portion was this set of 'steps' cut into the rock. This was a practically vertical climb, with no safety equipment at all (apart from having a person below to cushion one's fall, which is not ideal). I suggested that the organisers could have set up a rope here, or better yet, a step ladder.


But with a lot of help from my friend, I somehow made it to the top.








And it was definitely worth it for the view (as well as the bragging rights, and the little certificate they gave us at the top).

There's a little cross at the top, which I assume marks the peak.


I was told you could see the Dzükou Valley from the peak, though I'm not quite sure if this photo shows the side of the mountain where the valley is located - I was way too tired when people were pointing it out to me.


But I did note that we could see Kohima in the distance.


Coming down was another ordeal. After negotiating the near-vertical sections, I had trouble with the muddy path and kept slipping. I'm definitely not as surefooted as most people I know here and needed my friend's help a lot coming back down.

Thankfully we made it safely back down the mount. And the return journey only took us 3.5 hours!

Picnic in the rain

Last week I was invited to a family picnic at Khükiye Lukhai. I was looking forward to it. I didn't know whether it would be next to a stream, but I was told fish was on the menu. It turned out to be right next to my friend's uncle's akhabo 'fish pond' right next to their fields.





The only downer was that after weeks of sunshine, it rained the entire day. The remnants of Cyclone Thane which hit Tamil Nadu had made their way up to the Northeast.



Thankfully there was the field hut / house - a little resting shed next to the field where people can rest.


And prepare food if necessary.


Given that there were more than 10 of us, they also set up a tarpaulin shelter next to the house.


And my friends and their cousins all ate from a big banana leaf.

As promised, there was fish caught that morning from the akhabo.


Which my friends wrapped in banana leaves and grilled with a little bit of organic lemon.

Not the best weather for a picnic, but the food and company definitely made up for it!

Nagaland village focus: Khükiye Lukhai

Even though I'm currently in Dimapur and am off to Kohima soon for the weekend, I thought I'd do a quick post about another village where I've spent a bit of time on this trip. I'm not sure how well-known it is even in the district - I met a girl who had only recently heard about it despite living in the district most of her life.

The name of the village is Khükiye Lukhai. It's special because it's the home village of the friends I stay with when I'm in Zunheboto. It's a Sumi vilalge, located right next to the town of Satakha in Zunheboto district. In fact, I'm told that parts of Satakha actually belong to the village.

Khükiye Lukhai was actually two villages that merged into one. The two villages were founded by two brothers, Khükiye and Lukhai - it's pretty common for Sumi villages to be named after their founders.

The entrance to the village

The church - having seen other churches around here, I reckon it's in need of some renovation work soon


View from the church


Views around the village




Here are some terraced fields just below the village that my friends' uncle's family looks after.

Pretty isn't it?

Cute animals

(I was originally going to title this post "Cute animals that don't always end up on people's menus", but thought it was a bit too long and a little unappealing.)

Chinese people are often said to eat anything. I'm sure many people in India probably have a similar impression of the Nagas (if they've even heard about them). The thing is, most animals in Nagaland are eaten, but there're always a few creatures that don't quite make it to the menu.

One animal that doesn't typically feature in people's cooking here is cat meat (akhosa shi), although there are certainly people who do eat cat. Hutton (1921) noted that cats were not eaten among the Semas due to a number of superstitions associated with them.



Dog meat (atsü shi) is much more commonly eaten in Nagaland, as in many parts of China and SE Asia. However, even here, not all people will willingly consume dog. I have many friends here who steer clear of dog meat. There's also a common belief here that dogs will know if you're a 'dog eater' and will not like you. (That's why I tell people I'm waiting for my dog in Singapore to pass on before I try dog meat.)


Of course, chickens are eaten, but people wouldn't think to eat the cute little chicks. But I'm sure it's not because they're cute...


Alright, you got me. This post was just an excuse to post pictures I took of cute animals over Christmas.

'Sumi' fashion

One complaint I hear from my Sumi / Sema friends is that if they're seen wearing red clothing, leather jackets, or worse, a red leather jacket, (and add sunglasses) other Naga friends will instantly ridicule them for dressing like a typical Sema (I imagine a scene where people point at them and say accusingly, 'Seeeema'!) So traumatic was this experience of school / college that some Sumi friends went through a phase where they avoided wearing red altogether. Some of them still avoid wearing red!

Apparently, part of this stereotype originated in the 1980s when leather jackets and sunglasses were all the rage with Sumi men. I'm not sure how the 'red' stereotype started though.

In any case, I don't think it's fair that they get this sort of flack from other Nagas, who can wear leather or red without fear of reprieve. I also don't see anything wrong with wearing red with black leather - they make a good combination. I can't say I approve of red leather jackets though...

Also, for better or worse, leather / faux leather's been pretty popular in Melbourne over the past year and I bought myself one back in May. I already have a real leather jacket, but don't feel comfortable travelling with it (My policy is to never bring clothes I love when I travel in India, in case they get damaged or my baggage gets cut again.)

Anyway, here's my take on what is seen as stereotypical 'Sumi' fashion.

As far as I can tell, the only ridiculous thing is the facial mask I put on to keep out the dust that gets churned into the air every time vehicles pass by. (Come on Zunheboto, you can do better when it comes to the road situation!!)

'Last year' and 'next year' in Sumi

Since we're in the new year, I thought I'd share a neat thing I learnt about Sumi a few weeks back.

The word for 'last year' in Sumi is khanikü [kʰa˩ ni˩ kɨ˩] or [kʰan˩ kɨ˩], with low tone on all the three syllables. The word for 'two years before' is khanikü (alternatively, kkhanikü) [kʰa˥ ni˩ kɨ˩] or [kʰan˥˩ kɨ˩] with high tone on the first syllable instead of low.

Being the language nerd I am, I thought this was cool. But then I found out that the word for 'next year' is toku [to˩ ku˧], with low tone on the first syllable, then mid tone on the next. The word for 'two years from now' is -wait for it- toku (alternatively, ttoku) [to˥ ku˩] with high tone on the first syllable instead of low as well! Now that's something to blog about!

One explanation offered was that people was that in order to say 'two years ago', people repeated the word khanikü, and started emphasising the second one by placing high tone on the first syllable. Then they dropped the first word. A similar thing happened with toku. I doubt this was actually the case, but for the moment can offer no historical explanation of my own.

In other news, I've just learnt that Sumi does have an evidential system, or so I inferred from what someone told me...