I haven't written a word in weeks, it's the effect of sitting around on my backside down in paradise. The village of Nongriat in Meghalaya still has its charm, despite my initial doubts, and what else is there to speak of. I even picked up a sack and cleared the litter from my favourite point without so much as a tweet. This was my line in the sand for India's garbage problem, this place was mine. But even all the heat and frustration from picking up the strewn bottles and food packets evaporated away before it reached the internet. The adventure began again when I left, asked me what I was looking at and smacked me in the face.
I've often entertained a sort of nostalgia for the quaint British touches in Meghalaya. I put the genocides of the British empire to one side and let myself believe the occasional comment that things were better under the British. It's unlikely to be first hand anymore, anyone who remembers the empire themselves would be in their late 70s. Instead it's the stories of parents and late relatives compared against the Indian empire of today, as locals see it. The fondness for Britain is a rejection of Hindi India's dominance over their homeland. Welsh missionaries first made their mark and bound the countries through religion and schools named after famous Joneses. English officials bound the two nations through football, drinking tea, and being socially reserved. Unfortunately the poor Khasi people are now left to follow the fate of the England football team at world cup events, whereas some of their Mizo neighbours have sagely defected to Germany. I've chuckled before at the traditional Khasi, *cough* mock Tudor, house. Even the Khasi rebellion against the Indian empire couldn't be more British. It consists largely of grumbling in private, with direct action in the form of slow and reluctant service of Indian customers.
Britain seems to have exported other things to the 'Scotland' of the east. Women here are liberated, with roots in traditional Khasi culture. Among other things, they can drink! In fact on the day I leave I encounter a group taking full advantage of this on a Saturday afternoon. I first get encouraged onto a hired public bus by one group of daytrippers. Then I'm offered a drink of clear spirit from a white bottle, and I start to notice, it's barely the afternoon and they are plastered. One of the girls stumbles and falls on the road outside, another is busy throwing up on the bus beside me. A short distance away on the grass another girl is also beyond walking. The guys aren't in a much better state, the same invitation to party back in Shillong (the capital) is repeated a dozen times. This drunken mess could be any English Saturday night... The locals look on in disgust.
The same café in Cherunpunji ignores me for as long as they can, before finally serving me food, and I suspect charging over the odds. I'm a glutton for punishment, they were just as keen on foreign customers 3 years before.
Shillong is uneventful, I arrive and within 2 hours I leave on the state bus for Mizoram.(I've been lucky, there are 3 per week).
I've often entertained a sort of nostalgia for the quaint British touches in Meghalaya. I put the genocides of the British empire to one side and let myself believe the occasional comment that things were better under the British. It's unlikely to be first hand anymore, anyone who remembers the empire themselves would be in their late 70s. Instead it's the stories of parents and late relatives compared against the Indian empire of today, as locals see it. The fondness for Britain is a rejection of Hindi India's dominance over their homeland. Welsh missionaries first made their mark and bound the countries through religion and schools named after famous Joneses. English officials bound the two nations through football, drinking tea, and being socially reserved. Unfortunately the poor Khasi people are now left to follow the fate of the England football team at world cup events, whereas some of their Mizo neighbours have sagely defected to Germany. I've chuckled before at the traditional Khasi, *cough* mock Tudor, house. Even the Khasi rebellion against the Indian empire couldn't be more British. It consists largely of grumbling in private, with direct action in the form of slow and reluctant service of Indian customers.
Britain seems to have exported other things to the 'Scotland' of the east. Women here are liberated, with roots in traditional Khasi culture. Among other things, they can drink! In fact on the day I leave I encounter a group taking full advantage of this on a Saturday afternoon. I first get encouraged onto a hired public bus by one group of daytrippers. Then I'm offered a drink of clear spirit from a white bottle, and I start to notice, it's barely the afternoon and they are plastered. One of the girls stumbles and falls on the road outside, another is busy throwing up on the bus beside me. A short distance away on the grass another girl is also beyond walking. The guys aren't in a much better state, the same invitation to party back in Shillong (the capital) is repeated a dozen times. This drunken mess could be any English Saturday night... The locals look on in disgust.
The same café in Cherunpunji ignores me for as long as they can, before finally serving me food, and I suspect charging over the odds. I'm a glutton for punishment, they were just as keen on foreign customers 3 years before.
Shillong is uneventful, I arrive and within 2 hours I leave on the state bus for Mizoram.(I've been lucky, there are 3 per week).
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