Here Iam on the road again…
Travelling across India to meet the remarkable people preserving its handmade traditions.
Chapter V : Chizami
Part 1 – Going Up The Country
"There are no foreign lands. It is the traveller only who is foreign." — Robert Louis Stevenson
🧭 The Journey Trail
📍 NST Colony Taxi Stand, Dimapur
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🚗 Shared Tata Sumo with Rhiku & Jessica
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🍲 7:30 AM "Lunch" at Naga Hotel
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🛣️ Mud, Landslides, and the Wheel of Death
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🪖 An Army Checkpoint & The "New Zealand" Incident
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🏡 Chizami Village
My alarm buzzed at 4:00 AM.
Honestly, I didn't even need it. The anticipation for this specific chapter of the trip had kept me tossing and turning all night.
I was heading to Chizami, a village perched high up in the Phek district, to meet the team behind Chizami Weaves.
Chizami Weaves is a remarkable women's initiative started by the North East Network (NEN). They work with around 600 rural Naga weavers, predominantly from the Chakhesang Naga community—across 14 units in Phek and Kohima. These women preserve age-old loin-loom (back-strap loom) weaving traditions, creating pieces that literally sustain their families and heritage.
Pratikchha, and I had first met Atshole, who manages Chizami Weaves, earlier that year at the Kala Ghoda Arts Festival in Mumbai. We clicked instantly.
As I was prepping for this Nagaland leg, Atshole messaged me with the contact details for Rhiku—the local driver who runs the treacherous route up to their village. Then came another text:
"Are you vegetarian?"
"I'm on a see-food diet..." I texted back.
Silence.
"Ah ok, won't get that here. Will just prepare veg, hope that's ok?"
She had taken it literally! I quickly replied: "No no! I SEE food and I EAT it! Don't worry, I'm not a fussy eater at all. Whatever you guys eat, I'll happily eat!"
She sent back a laughing emoji, and just like that, the menu was sorted.
To get from Dimapur to Chizami, you have to cover about 150 km. On paper, it sounds like a 4.5-hour drive. In reality, with mountain terrain, rough patches, and unpredictable weather, it takes anywhere from 6 to 7 hours.
When I stepped out of my hotel around 5:30 AM, the sky opened up. Torrents of rain flooded the streets of Dimapur within minutes. Looking at the water logging,
I genuinely wondered if I’d even make it out of the city, let alone reach the mountains.
As I neared the NST Colony taxi stand, I noticed something unexpected, rows of gun shops lining the road.
I later learned that hunting is deeply rooted in Naga tribal heritage, and under specific provisions, non-prohibited firearms are legally permitted for traditional hunting and security.
At the stand, I grabbed a bottle of water just as our Tata Sumo splashed into the muddy lot.
The moment Rhiku pulled up, passengers scrambled to claim their spots. I took my time and ended up with the rear right window seat over the wheelhouse. Up front, sitting next to Rhiku, was a young woman who turned out to be Jessica. She worked with Chizami Weaves during the week and was returning from visiting her parents in Dimapur.
By the time we rolled past the Dimapur airport runway once again, the rain miraculously cleared, giving way to a bright, scorching morning.
The ascent began. National Highway 29 wound around massive mountainsides being carved out for expansion, crossing bridges over the roaring Chathe River below.
Around 7:30 AM, Rhiku pulled into a roadside joint called Naga Hotel at the foothills.
"Breakfast break?" I asked.
"No, lunch," a local passenger corrected me.
At 7:30 in the morning! In the mountains, long road trips mean you eat heavy whenever you get the chance. Most of the passengers dug into full plates of smoked meat, rice, and dal. Not quite ready for a heavy meal at sunrise, I stuck to a massive breakfast, swapped my seat to a left-side window, and settled back in.
We drove through Sakipheto, a historic settlement in Chumoukedima home to the Western Sümi Naga community—and eventually reached Lerie Colony in Kohima. 
A few passengers got off, new ones boarded, and I moved back to my right-side window.
That's when the real road trip began. And by "road," I mean pure, unadulterated chaos.
For the next three hours, the tar completely disappeared.
Monsoon landslides had turned the mountain passes into knee-high trenches of thick, liquid mud. Vehicles were getting stuck everywhere. Small hatchbacks took one look at the slush, pulled U-turns, and gave up.
Not Rhiku.
With a fresh paan tucked firmly into his cheek, Rhiku treated that mud trail like the Well of Death.
At one point, the Sumo tilted at what felt like a terrifying 45-degree angle, sloshing through 15 meters of deep rutted earth. I held on to the overhead grab handle for dear life, convinced I was about to be launched straight out the window into the valley.
Rhiku just steered into the slide, revved the engine, and roared right through it.
Just as my heart rate was returning to normal, we rounded a bend and came to a dead stop.
Army barricades.
Because this border belt is a sensitive zone, the Indian Army conducts random security checkpoints to monitor movement across district lines.
Armed jawans with AK-47s paced the road while Rhiku took our vehicle papers to the booth. One jawan walked up, leaned into my window, and scanned the passengers.
I was, without a doubt, the only non-local in the entire vehicle.
"ID show कीजिए," he said.
I pulled out my government identity card and handed it over.
He glanced at it, looked at me, and said, "Yeh Modi ka card nahi chalega idhar." (This card won't work here.)
I couldn't help myself. I looked him dead in the eye and asked, "Is this New Zealand or Nagaland? Because if it's Nagaland, it's very much a part of India as of today!"
A couple of local passengers in the Sumo burst out laughing.
The jawan did not find it funny.
"Gadi se bahar aaiye," (Step out of the vehicle) he ordered sternly.
He marched me over to a temporary army post under a tent. Inside, the Commanding Officer (a Colonel) was sitting at a desk.
"Where are you coming from? What is your purpose here?" the Colonel asked.
While I was explaining that I was traveling to meet the artisans at Chizami Weaves, Jessica stepped out of the Sumo and walked into the tent to verify my story.
"Do you have your Inner Line Permit?" the officer asked.
"Permit? I don't carry alcohol," I replied, thoroughly confused.
"Not an alcohol permit—a travel permit to enter the district," he clarified.
I had no idea. Seeing the situation, I quickly called Pratikchha back in Mumbai. Within minutes, she drafted an official company letter on our Darjeeling Connection letterhead and WhatsApped it to my phone.
While we waited for the document to load over the patchy network, the Colonel began asking me lot of questions and then after a while he asked me.
"Where are you from, Mangesh? Where did you go to school?"
"I did my schooling at Barnes School in Deolali," I said.
The Colonel paused, looking up from my file. "Barnes School? I was stationed in Deolali! I know that school very well."
He chuckled, the tension in the room instantly evaporating. "My jawan told me you asked him if this was New Zealand!"
We both broke into a laugh. After a warm conversation about Deolali and the work Darjeeling Connection was doing with local weavers, he stamped my clearance, reminded me to get my local permits sorted once I reached the village network, and sent me on my way with a smile.
When I climbed back into the Sumo, there was dead silence.
I thanked Jessica profusely for stepping in to vouch for me. As she explained the Deolali connection to the rest of the passengers, the whole vehicle erupted into chuckles. The Mumbai outsider had survived the checkpoint.
We rolled past the peaceful Kidima Prayer Park and climbed through the cold, misty town of Pfutsero, the highest elevated town in Nagaland.
The heat of the plains was officially gone. The air grew crisp, cool, and shrouded in thick, rolling fog.
With 35 kilometers of winding ridge roads behind us, the Sumo finally rattled into Chizami Village.
What a drive. Uff!
The mountains had tested us with mud, landslides, and military interrogations, but as the mist parted to reveal the quiet, beautiful village ahead, I knew every single kilometer had been worth it.
🌿 Beyond the Journey
Did you know?
- The High Town: Pfutsero, which we passed on the way to Chizami, sits at over 2,100 meters (6,800 feet) above sea level. It is the coldest and highest town in Nagaland, famous for its apple orchards and dramatic winter frost.
- The Chakhesang Tribe: Chizami is predominantly home to the Chakhesang Naga tribe. The name "Chakhesang" is actually an acronym created from three sub-tribes: Chōkrī, Khézā, and Saṅgtam (Southern).
- The Loin-Loom Heritage: Back-strap (loin) loom weaving is traditionally done exclusively by women in Naga society. The loom is portable, tied to a wall or post at one end and strapped around the weaver's lower back at the other, allowing her to control the tension of the warp with her body weight.
🎵 Mango's Road Playlist
"Songs for high-altitude climbs, muddy tracks, and surviving checkpoints."
- Canned Heat – Going Up the Country
- CCR – Up Around the Bend
- The Rolling Stones – Gimme Shelter
- Bob Dylan – Shelter from the Storm
- Eddie Vedder – Society
- Iron Maiden - Rime of the Ancient Mariner
- Metallica - One
Next Chapter...
Now that we've finally made it up the country, Part 2 takes us straight into the heart of Chizami Weaves. Get ready to meet Atshole and the incredible women who are transforming their community, weaving ancient tribal motifs into modern global heritage, one thread at a time.
Until the next road,
Mangesh Shinde (Mango)
Co-Founder, Darjeeling Connection