Nagaland has a network of backroads that offer the prospects of excellent off-roading and unbridled fun on two wheels. You just need to be ‘Impulsive.’
Freedom – it’s the most compelling reason that drives us to ride motorcycles off to distant lands. In many cases, it doesn’t matter where you’re headed, as long as you feel the exhilaration. The wind and dust in your face, wet to the bone, and water in your boots, bugs under your collar, and burnt by the wind and the snow – these are all the intangible joys of motorcycling. And motorcycling allows me to travel to places that you may like to refer to as the ‘back of beyond.’
These places are exceedingly beautiful and peaceful. The best part of it all, though, is the absence of the usual tourists. These places do not have proper roads (it’s all off-road), and hotels are a long shot, but this is where you see life in all its rustic glory.
Off-roading in Nagaland – that’s a very exciting prospect indeed, and as soon as I mentioned this to Dinesh (a friend, and an off-road junkie), he jumped at it.
The planned early morning start never materialised, and by the time we gunned the engines on our new Hero Impulses, it was already midday. Fortunately, it was a Sunday and we had to ride on well laid out tarmac roads most of the time, except for some dusty under-construction stretches.
It was the fag end of the year and the fields on the both sides of the road were devoid of the usual greenery, but the smell of the fresh hay drifted into my nostrils. As I turned my head to either side of the road, I could see blue mountains in the distance, covered in a misty haze. After a few hours of riding, the wide plains gave way to small hillocks, which, in contrast to the plains, are lush green as they are covered by tea plantations. As the last light faded from the evening sky, we made our way to Nature Hunt Eco Camp at Kaziranga. It is a lovely little eco camp, where the huts on stilts are made of bamboo and mud – with straw for the roof.
We were lucky that all the clients of the camp had checked out the same day, and we had the entire place to ourselves – so the chaps there offered to cook something special for us. They cooked rice and chicken inside bamboo, and I must say that it was one of the most delicious things I’d ever put into my mouth!
After about four hours of riding the next day, we reached the small town of Sonari on the borders of Nagaland. Somehow, most border towns have the same character – dusty, crowded, shanties, small shady liquor joints, local heroes and strongmen. Sonari was no different. At the end of the town, we crossed an iron bridge (of WW II vintage, I would presume) and came across a checkpoint manned by Nagaland Police.
It’s absolutely amazing how crossing a simple bamboo barricade can transport you to a different world altogether. The people, houses, vegetation, the look-and-feel of everything and the topography in general changed drastically right after the barricade.
We stepped into Mon district, the headquarters of the Konyak Nagas – the most feared of all Naga warriors. The potholed tarmac progressively deteriorated, and, at some stretches, it disappeared altogether. The under construction road didn’t disappointed us in the least though. In fact, we were thankful for the conditions, as it allowed us to finally put the Impulse to the test through broken tarmac, deep holes, loose gravel, and slippery red soil.
The road condition ensured that the 45 kilometers to the town of Mon took an abnormally long time to cover. We just about made it into the Helsa Resort before the sun went down behind the hills. It was occupied, but we were in no mood to go searching for another hotel, so we just pitched our tent for the night. We lit a fire for company as much as warmth, and it was so addictive that we simply couldn’t move away from it. But the cold winds that came howling down the hills of Myanmar forced us inside and into our sleeping bags.
Life in the hills starts early, and a group of curious children woke us up much before sunrise. The bikes placed on either side of the tent got them all excited. And, as we were leaving for the village of Lungwa, they signalled us to do a wheelie. So, as we each lifted the front wheel skyward, we were greeted by the loudest cheer from the children. Needless to say, it was a good start to the day, and it ensured that we rode all day with silly grins plastered on our faces. For 42 kilometers, we rode past harvested golden yellow slopes, across old iron bridges, past whole families going to their fields, and a brilliant blue sky above with puffs of white clouds
The international border between India and Myanmar runs through the village of Lungwa, and half of the Angh’s (Village Chief’s) house lies in India while the other half is in Myanmar. Lungwa is an interesting village. It has the highest number of tattooed headhunting warriors in Mon. In the days gone by, a warrior who went to fight a war with another tribe was decorated with a ‘V’ shaped tattoo on his chest. But if a warrior could bring back the head of an enemy, he was decorated with tattoos on his face. The more heads he collected, the more intricate the tattoos grew, and so did his esteem in society. The tattoos were done by the Queen of the village.
The Angh is all powerful. He might not be rich in monetary terms, but he wields enormous power over society. The present Angh’s father in Lungwa (the Anghship is hereditary) told me that he has only 5 villages under him in the Indian side, but inside Myanmar 50 villages pay their obedience to him! Whenever someone in the village kills a Mithun, a cow or a pig, one leg is delivered to the Angh. And if someone shoots an animal in the forest, many a times the head of the animal comes to the Angh.
For once, we started really early the next day because it was a longish day of off-roading and would be tiresome. An hour-and-half of riding brought us to the village of Wakching. This is another famous village – home to some fearsome warriors – one that finds rich mention in many historical books on the head-hunters of Nagaland. Right out of the village, the roads vanish completely and some serious off-roading commences.
Once, this road was reasonably good where jeeps plied. But the coal laden trucks have ground this road back to oblivion. We rode for another 50 kilometers and didn’t see another vehicle except for a broken down coal truck. The driver was waiting for a mechanic, and we left him a bottle of water and some smokes before we hit the road again. The only other means of transport we crossed was an elephant pulling some logs!
We were having a great time on the Impulse – we mostly rode while standing on the footpegs, and the throttle opened wide. The excellent suspension took in the bumps very well. It was another dusty, winding road with some very deep muddy ruts, and just as I was thinking that we wouldn’t see anyone for the rest of the day, we came across a little thatched house in the middle of absolutely nowhere with forest on all sides. The lady of the house made tea for us, and the man got talking. He had four sons and three daughters, and he was in no mood to shut his production house as yet! As we talked, one of his sons went out with his muzzle loader and we heard the report of the gun a while later. But he returned empty handed – he had missed a flying squirrel.
A few bends from the house, we came across a signboard nailed to a tree that said, anyone caught cutting trees and bamboo and hunting will be fined `25,000. The absurdity of it all struck me. We just had tea with a family of nine, living in the middle of nowhere, with no scope of cultivating muc, and without any significant means of livelihood. They live off the forest – have been doing so for generations. And someone wants to fine him `25,000 for doing what they’ve been doing for decades.
The dust was so fine that it stuck our eyelashes. As Dinesh rode ahead, he threw up a cloud of dust that got so thick at times that I couldn’t see the tip of my nose! So, on a particularly sharp turn at the village of Tamlu, I saw a ditch way too late. I went in, and was thrown right out of the saddle. Protective clothing makes such a difference, and I escaped with only a sprained ankle.
Just when we were getting a little tired of the dust and the bad roads, we stopped in a village named Merangkong for some tea and a smoke. We had taken a wrong turn somewhere and landed up in this village, which was not in my map. As we rode out of the village, the rocky road dropped off sharply. And then just as abruptly, the forest ended and we found ourselves on a fantastic tarmac road. We landed in the district of Mokokchung.
Good clean roads, benches by the roadside, flowers all along the way, and we rode flat out in the switchbacks. The Ceat dual purpose tyres that the Impulse wears are just great. Dinesh is a Ninja 650 rider, and he leaned the Impulse the way he leans his Ninja and it never once felt that tyres would slip away.
My injured ankle protested badly, as we reached the tourist lodge in Mokokchung town. Warm water and a bandage overnight did wonders, and in the morning we took off for Doyang, at Wokha. We avoided the back roads, as standing on the footpegs only increased the pain in my ankle. Near the Doyang bridge, a group of kids stopped us. They were collecting money for Christmas celebration, and tied some balloons on our bikes as we dropped in a donation into their colourful box.
A dam was built across the Doyang river, and the smaller Chupi river, for a hydro project. As a result, the flooded area by the two rivers measures up to more than 8,000 acres. The hills tops have become islands now – uninhabited, except for some temporary sheds built by the fishermen who fish in the reservoir.
Long haired Rembi, perpetually wearing his cowboy hat, helped us conceal our bikes under a long pontoon bridge. Dumping all our bags in one country boat, we sat in another one and Kosy, the fisherman, rowed ever so gently as we passed dead tree trunks sticking out of the water.
After rocking on the gentle waters for 30 minutes, we walked a few meters to his shed. It was a machan and I could have sat there all day long and watched the lake. It was truly uplifting.
The fish from the lake were delicious, and the simple meal cooked by Kosy and his band of boys had us eating out of the pot! As we sat by the fire near the water, a million stars and a brilliant moon shone down on us and the still waters reflected them in all their glory. We never get to see God’s masterpieces in the cities.
Early morning, the sky was dotted with thousands of migratory Amur Falcons, which flock to the Doyang area from late October till mid December. Kohima wore a very festive look, and it had ample reason to. The Hornbill Festival was underway, as was a large motorcycle meet. Of course, Christmas was round the corner as well. We had time enough to catch up on the festivities, and so decided to go off-roading for a day. Vincent and Kevin on their Impulses joined us for a day’s ride, and we took off towards the village of Khonoma and beyond.
Almost as soon, as we got out of the city, the roads disappeared and it became rutted, rocky and dusty. After 20 kilometers, we passed Khonoma village and immediately the surface changed. The rocks became bigger, the path narrower and steeper, and the vegetation grew thick. Riding into a deeply shaded area with damp trees and slippery mud, made the going difficult – but exciting. There were deep furrows on the trail, made by billions of litres of rain water over the ages.
Since the Impulse is a light bike, we could ride it on the ridge of the furrows and evade the boulders. I just wish that it had a little more grunt, so that we could power out of some of the washouts, and the steep ingresses and egresses. I urge Hero MotoCorp to give us a little more power in future.
We feasted on the Cup O’Noodles that we cooked at a shepherd’s hut at Dziileke – set in a rolling meadow, with a stream on one side. The shepherd wasn’t home, but we shamelessly used a little of his firewood to boil water for the noodles and coffee. As compensation for the firewood, we left 3 stainless steel spoons for him.
In the evening, we went to see the closing ceremony of the Hornbill Festival, and a rock concert later at night. Off-roading through the backroads of Nagaland had been so much more fun and educational than the usual motorcycle trips through the usual touristy areas. And on the Impulse, it was a breeze – it really is made for such terrain.
I often hum a song by Marle Haggard when I’m biking, ‘Down every road, there’s always one more city. I’m on the run, the highway is my home.’
Better yet, forget the highway – it’s the backroads that are my home...
Nagaland has a network of backroads that offer the prospects of excellent off-roading and unbridled fun on two wheels. You just need to be ‘Impulsive.’
Freedom – it’s the most compelling reason that drives us to ride motorcycles off to distant lands. In many cases, it doesn’t matter where you’re headed, as long as you feel the exhilaration. The wind and dust in your face, wet to the bone, and water in your boots, bugs under your collar, and burnt by the wind and the snow – these are all the intangible joys of motorcycling. And motorcycling allows me to travel to places that you may like to refer to as the ‘back of beyond.’
These places are exceedingly beautiful and peaceful. The best part of it all, though, is the absence of the usual tourists. These places do not have proper roads (it’s all off-road), and hotels are a long shot, but this is where you see life in all its rustic glory.
Off-roading in Nagaland – that’s a very exciting prospect indeed, and as soon as I mentioned this to Dinesh (a friend, and an off-road junkie), he jumped at it.
The planned early morning start never materialised, and by the time we gunned the engines on our new Hero Impulses, it was already midday. Fortunately, it was a Sunday and we had to ride on well laid out tarmac roads most of the time, except for some dusty under-construction stretches.
It was the fag end of the year and the fields on the both sides of the road were devoid of the usual greenery, but the smell of the fresh hay drifted into my nostrils. As I turned my head to either side of the road, I could see blue mountains in the distance, covered in a misty haze. After a few hours of riding, the wide plains gave way to small hillocks, which, in contrast to the plains, are lush green as they are covered by tea plantations. As the last light faded from the evening sky, we made our way to Nature Hunt Eco Camp at Kaziranga. It is a lovely little eco camp, where the huts on stilts are made of bamboo and mud – with straw for the roof.
We were lucky that all the clients of the camp had checked out the same day, and we had the entire place to ourselves – so the chaps there offered to cook something special for us. They cooked rice and chicken inside bamboo, and I must say that it was one of the most delicious things I’d ever put into my mouth!
After about four hours of riding the next day, we reached the small town of Sonari on the borders of Nagaland. Somehow, most border towns have the same character – dusty, crowded, shanties, small shady liquor joints, local heroes and strongmen. Sonari was no different. At the end of the town, we crossed an iron bridge (of WW II vintage, I would presume) and came across a checkpoint manned by Nagaland Police.
It’s absolutely amazing how crossing a simple bamboo barricade can transport you to a different world altogether. The people, houses, vegetation, the look-and-feel of everything and the topography in general changed drastically right after the barricade.
We stepped into Mon district, the headquarters of the Konyak Nagas – the most feared of all Naga warriors. The potholed tarmac progressively deteriorated, and, at some stretches, it disappeared altogether. The under construction road didn’t disappointed us in the least though. In fact, we were thankful for the conditions, as it allowed us to finally put the Impulse to the test through broken tarmac, deep holes, loose gravel, and slippery red soil.
The road condition ensured that the 45 kilometers to the town of Mon took an abnormally long time to cover. We just about made it into the Helsa Resort before the sun went down behind the hills. It was occupied, but we were in no mood to go searching for another hotel, so we just pitched our tent for the night. We lit a fire for company as much as warmth, and it was so addictive that we simply couldn’t move away from it. But the cold winds that came howling down the hills of Myanmar forced us inside and into our sleeping bags.
Life in the hills starts early, and a group of curious children woke us up much before sunrise. The bikes placed on either side of the tent got them all excited. And, as we were leaving for the village of Lungwa, they signalled us to do a wheelie. So, as we each lifted the front wheel skyward, we were greeted by the loudest cheer from the children. Needless to say, it was a good start to the day, and it ensured that we rode all day with silly grins plastered on our faces. For 42 kilometers, we rode past harvested golden yellow slopes, across old iron bridges, past whole families going to their fields, and a brilliant blue sky above with puffs of white clouds
The international border between India and Myanmar runs through the village of Lungwa, and half of the Angh’s (Village Chief’s) house lies in India while the other half is in Myanmar. Lungwa is an interesting village. It has the highest number of tattooed headhunting warriors in Mon. In the days gone by, a warrior who went to fight a war with another tribe was decorated with a ‘V’ shaped tattoo on his chest. But if a warrior could bring back the head of an enemy, he was decorated with tattoos on his face. The more heads he collected, the more intricate the tattoos grew, and so did his esteem in society. The tattoos were done by the Queen of the village.
The Angh is all powerful. He might not be rich in monetary terms, but he wields enormous power over society. The present Angh’s father in Lungwa (the Anghship is hereditary) told me that he has only 5 villages under him in the Indian side, but inside Myanmar 50 villages pay their obedience to him! Whenever someone in the village kills a Mithun, a cow or a pig, one leg is delivered to the Angh. And if someone shoots an animal in the forest, many a times the head of the animal comes to the Angh.
For once, we started really early the next day because it was a longish day of off-roading and would be tiresome. An hour-and-half of riding brought us to the village of Wakching. This is another famous village – home to some fearsome warriors – one that finds rich mention in many historical books on the head-hunters of Nagaland. Right out of the village, the roads vanish completely and some serious off-roading commences.
Once, this road was reasonably good where jeeps plied. But the coal laden trucks have ground this road back to oblivion. We rode for another 50 kilometers and didn’t see another vehicle except for a broken down coal truck. The driver was waiting for a mechanic, and we left him a bottle of water and some smokes before we hit the road again. The only other means of transport we crossed was an elephant pulling some logs!
We were having a great time on the Impulse – we mostly rode while standing on the footpegs, and the throttle opened wide. The excellent suspension took in the bumps very well. It was another dusty, winding road with some very deep muddy ruts, and just as I was thinking that we wouldn’t see anyone for the rest of the day, we came across a little thatched house in the middle of absolutely nowhere with forest on all sides. The lady of the house made tea for us, and the man got talking. He had four sons and three daughters, and he was in no mood to shut his production house as yet! As we talked, one of his sons went out with his muzzle loader and we heard the report of the gun a while later. But he returned empty handed – he had missed a flying squirrel.
A few bends from the house, we came across a signboard nailed to a tree that said, anyone caught cutting trees and bamboo and hunting will be fined `25,000. The absurdity of it all struck me. We just had tea with a family of nine, living in the middle of nowhere, with no scope of cultivating muc, and without any significant means of livelihood. They live off the forest – have been doing so for generations. And someone wants to fine him `25,000 for doing what they’ve been doing for decades.
The dust was so fine that it stuck our eyelashes. As Dinesh rode ahead, he threw up a cloud of dust that got so thick at times that I couldn’t see the tip of my nose! So, on a particularly sharp turn at the village of Tamlu, I saw a ditch way too late. I went in, and was thrown right out of the saddle. Protective clothing makes such a difference, and I escaped with only a sprained ankle.
Just when we were getting a little tired of the dust and the bad roads, we stopped in a village named Merangkong for some tea and a smoke. We had taken a wrong turn somewhere and landed up in this village, which was not in my map. As we rode out of the village, the rocky road dropped off sharply. And then just as abruptly, the forest ended and we found ourselves on a fantastic tarmac road. We landed in the district of Mokokchung.
Good clean roads, benches by the roadside, flowers all along the way, and we rode flat out in the switchbacks. The Ceat dual purpose tyres that the Impulse wears are just great. Dinesh is a Ninja 650 rider, and he leaned the Impulse the way he leans his Ninja and it never once felt that tyres would slip away.
My injured ankle protested badly, as we reached the tourist lodge in Mokokchung town. Warm water and a bandage overnight did wonders, and in the morning we took off for Doyang, at Wokha. We avoided the back roads, as standing on the footpegs only increased the pain in my ankle. Near the Doyang bridge, a group of kids stopped us. They were collecting money for Christmas celebration, and tied some balloons on our bikes as we dropped in a donation into their colourful box.
A dam was built across the Doyang river, and the smaller Chupi river, for a hydro project. As a result, the flooded area by the two rivers measures up to more than 8,000 acres. The hills tops have become islands now – uninhabited, except for some temporary sheds built by the fishermen who fish in the reservoir.
Long haired Rembi, perpetually wearing his cowboy hat, helped us conceal our bikes under a long pontoon bridge. Dumping all our bags in one country boat, we sat in another one and Kosy, the fisherman, rowed ever so gently as we passed dead tree trunks sticking out of the water.
After rocking on the gentle waters for 30 minutes, we walked a few meters to his shed. It was a machan and I could have sat there all day long and watched the lake. It was truly uplifting.
The fish from the lake were delicious, and the simple meal cooked by Kosy and his band of boys had us eating out of the pot! As we sat by the fire near the water, a million stars and a brilliant moon shone down on us and the still waters reflected them in all their glory. We never get to see God’s masterpieces in the cities.
Early morning, the sky was dotted with thousands of migratory Amur Falcons, which flock to the Doyang area from late October till mid December. Kohima wore a very festive look, and it had ample reason to. The Hornbill Festival was underway, as was a large motorcycle meet. Of course, Christmas was round the corner as well. We had time enough to catch up on the festivities, and so decided to go off-roading for a day. Vincent and Kevin on their Impulses joined us for a day’s ride, and we took off towards the village of Khonoma and beyond.
Almost as soon, as we got out of the city, the roads disappeared and it became rutted, rocky and dusty. After 20 kilometers, we passed Khonoma village and immediately the surface changed. The rocks became bigger, the path narrower and steeper, and the vegetation grew thick. Riding into a deeply shaded area with damp trees and slippery mud, made the going difficult – but exciting. There were deep furrows on the trail, made by billions of litres of rain water over the ages.
Since the Impulse is a light bike, we could ride it on the ridge of the furrows and evade the boulders. I just wish that it had a little more grunt, so that we could power out of some of the washouts, and the steep ingresses and egresses. I urge Hero MotoCorp to give us a little more power in future.
We feasted on the Cup O’Noodles that we cooked at a shepherd’s hut at Dziileke – set in a rolling meadow, with a stream on one side. The shepherd wasn’t home, but we shamelessly used a little of his firewood to boil water for the noodles and coffee. As compensation for the firewood, we left 3 stainless steel spoons for him.
In the evening, we went to see the closing ceremony of the Hornbill Festival, and a rock concert later at night. Off-roading through the backroads of Nagaland had been so much more fun and educational than the usual motorcycle trips through the usual touristy areas. And on the Impulse, it was a breeze – it really is made for such terrain.
I often hum a song by Marle Haggard when I’m biking, ‘Down every road, there’s always one more city. I’m on the run, the highway is my home.’
Better yet, forget the highway – it’s the backroads that are my home...
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