Srimongal, November 10

It took three days of non-stop traveling to get from Kohima to Agartala, the capital of Tripura, a small state that was ruled by its own raja in the past. Although this was a journey of only about 500 km, the roads are so bad that the average speed on some stretches cannot exceed 10 km per hour. During this voyage, I caught glimpses of Manipur, another former kingdom-now-turned-into-state. It is mountainous country, covered in a jungle that carries the scars of the slash-and-burn agriculture of the tribes: the higher trees are often missing but the undergrowth is very dense.

Manipur is an amazing window into an area of the world that sees no foreign tourists. Although my guide book and various people had warned
me against going there, the tense atmosphere you find in war zones was
lacking. There was, however, a large presence of the Indian Army, which has set up checkpoints along the road every 10 km. The area is made unsafe by guerrilla groups and drug smugglers, uniformly called 'terrorists' by the Indian government. To boost its public image, the army is fighting a propaganda war too, although I wonder if the signs saying 'terrorism is a curse to humanity' will have any effect in persuading the locals to side against the guerrilla.

The people of Manipur were equally interesting to those of Nagaland. They are closely related to the people of Southeast-Asia. They have Mongoloid faces and a language similar to Burmese. The largest tribe, the Methei, use their own alphabet, which resembles nothing I have ever seen. In the villages we passed on the way, people were very friendly and curious when they saw me. The women still produce their own textile by weaving, although the art seems to be dying out. I was unable to find any handicrafts. Vendors only sell imported Chinese crap, which people buy more because it is cheaper than the local handicraft.

It was good to reach the plains of Assam once again though, because it makes for faster traveling. Not that the roads are very good, but they are at least straight. And when I reached a town called Dharmanagar I met two young businessmen, who spoke good English. They told me to take the train. The two men were typical Indian businessmen, wearing jeans, sunglasses and neat, tightly buttoned shirts. They were going to Agartala too and joined me inside the carriage, which consisted of wooden bunks. Apparently the local trains only have third class seats.
I did not care: compared to the bumpy jeep and bus rides over Manipur's pot-holed, slippery roads it was pure luxury.

My fellow passengers left me mostly to myself, although they offered me some potato chips and insisted I took more later. I tried to ignore the fact that they threw the empty bag out of the window. People get rid of their garbage here by just throwing it away, anywhere. No wonder the countryside is covered in plastic and the cities look like garbage dumps. Whenever I see people doing it, I still feel slightly shocked, it is not something you get used to easily. We entered the state of Tripura. A landscape of small hills and lakes passed by outside. Inside, one of the two men suddenly stood up, walked into the corridor and started shouting at another man. He then started hitting the guy, who ran away into the next carriage. Then he sat down beside me again. In amazement, I asked him what the guy had done.
'This man was pissing in the train sir. Some people have no manners.'
'You mean, pissing out of the train?' The doors in the corridor were, as always in Indian trains, standing ajar.
'No sir. Into the train. Right there.' He pointed to a spot out of my sight in the corridor, then belched loudly. At least the potato chips were surely in the process of being digested.
'Well, I think it is good you said something about it. Maybe he will not do it again.'
'Oh, I doubt it. They are poor and uneducated people.' He wrinkled his nose in disgust. 'They are like this.'

I spend a day in Agartala, more to take some rest than because there is much to see. The former royal palace is impressive, but under restoration. The state museum was closed. After a day in Agartala, I crossed the border with Bangladesh. A new country, with new adventures
awaiting. Here in Srimongal I met a very nice local tourist guide, Eusuf, who also works as a teacher in a local primary school. After some talking over a cup of tea together he invited me to visit his school. So this morning I found myself in front of a classroom again, teaching basic conversational English. Dozens of curious children faced me, all having equally eager expressions on their faces. After so many different experiences in so little time, I muse what an extraordinary world it is we live in.