A part of my family hails from Assam and I assumed that my ability to follow assamese and wear a ' Mekla' qualified me as 'fairly well informed' about the North East. But was proved thoroughly wrong with a trip to Arunachal a while back.
Arunachal Pradesh, and to be specific Tawang and the adjoining villages, are a melting pot of culture and heritage that has been delicately preserved through the invasion of electricity , television , tourism, politics and last but definitely the most important “ the Indo china War.
Among the 5 days spent in and around Tawang, the trip to Kitpi is very close to my heart. After a brief drive to see a few waterfalls, we stopped on the fringes of a mountain. Then begun our 4 hour descent through dense foliage. With the weight of my rucksack and of course my own weight, gravity wasn't of much help!! I had to clutch onto vines and trees as I dangled down the slope. Then we crossed a slushy paddy field (rice is their staple food) to reach Kitpi.
A village of ten families. This community is called the Mompa tribe. Each with their wood and rock layered houses, each house 300 + years old and strong as any steel structure here. The people are like the houses. Layered and extremely warm inside!
After they dressed me in their traditional attire ( a local wollen knit wrap around skit and top) and we washed off the grime - began a dance and drink ritual (Chang is to Mompas what tea is to us) to welcome us.
Initial fear turned to amusement and then to laughter as I witnessed an 80 something year old lady dancing like a grasshopper and slurping on the local arrack. She pulled me along with her to dance and wouldn't hear of my protests to down the fourth cup of Chang. You cannot refuse Chang as its tantamount to disrespecting the Mompas, and you cannot drink too much, cos you lose it after 2 cup. I won't delve further on my evening, as I have little memory of how I reached our room.
A peaceful lunch and a siesta wore off all effects of Chang. We spent the evening handpicking cabbages and spring onions from the fields to make momos for dinner. To imagine picking vegetable for my own dinner from the fields now seems like a distant luxury . Dinner was another musical panorama, as that was the only common language between us and the locals.
The Mompa community lives in their own little word that is untouched by modern day values and comforts. Our hostess in the village is my mother's age ( 57) and she works from 7am to 5pm ( sun goes down at 5pm) in the fields all by herself - everyday. And she comes back with a toothy smile and fusses around guests.
That what I call spirit!
The evening with the Mompas was an inspiration to preserve innocence . Else, can you imagine a world where you have one electric bulb to light up the dark evening and all you hear is the gurgling of laughter and the haunting tones of the mountain songs?
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