english journal 8 (1/08) the gunnery washington, connecticut

said water onto yourself and wash with the aid of a 5-rupee packet of soap, available in thebazaar, when you do choose to bathe.The next city I traveled to was Dimapur, north of Guahati. The city is significantlyfriendlier and less corrupt.Interestingly and unbeknownst to me somewhat of a pirate culture exists in Dimapur;the name itself indicates a more east Asian or Singaporean origin and this is also apparent inDimapur’s system of ports and river markets.At one point during my stay in Dimapur I decided to eat something. I had a powerfulhankering for some Indian McDonalds, the Maharaja Mac or something to that effect doused inmasala mayonnaise. I and my Afghan friend Montazer set out in a rickshaw journey not soon tobe forgotten. We asked the driver if there was a McDonalds around he could take us to, and henodded fiercely with one hand on his moustache and the other on a framed picture of Siva. Thisparticular rickshaw needed to get a running start before the engine would go into gear or evenstart. So we all got out and ran with the rickshaw into the road, all the while amid fierce trafficoncoming in all directions. The rickshaw sputtered to life, our driver gunned the throttle, andthe floor shook fiercely.The next stop, though it was a McDonalds, was not what we were expecting. Themascot of this particular eatery was a clown but it was more swollen and scarecrow like, in 2Dsign form wrapped with Christmas lights, as was the entire ceiling inside. Three steps inside andwe were nearly choked with the thick cigarette smoke in the air. It was almost hazy; the sheeramount of smoke created a foggy atmosphere, but we were hungry. The restaurant itselfreminded me of kind of a typical cheap Italian restaurant in the States, particle board tableswith checkered tablecloths, mirrored ceilings, low light, and fake plants in every other corner.Except there were no Americans, or Italians for that matter, but Nagas, all very Asian and verysurprised to see a white boy of questionable origin accompanied by an Afghan in their localhangout. We strode through the mood lighting and over to the table in this strange opium-den– pizzeria – lounge fusion of a restaurant. The food wasn’t particularly amazing and I knewnothing on the menu, so the first chicken item I saw, I ordered, and it happened to be somestrange pile of shredded chicken on a bun. I think we must have been the first people in monthsto order anything other than beer; we were graced by two very dusty bottles of coke.Nagaland is a place of extremes, or maybe just opposing generations. Opposinggenerations in that the generation of parents right now still appreciate Naga culture, stillbelieve that the piles of caterpillars I saw for sale in bazaars actually held medicinal power, thatit’s still proper to have tea, and to keep a Naga-spear above your fireplace.At one point I walked through a bazaar deep in Dimapur. The entire block had been setup around probably what is a square quarter mile of bilge or cesspool water for the lowerresidential section. It was almost a story down in a sort of swimming pool affair except thewater was more of a jersey –green than the ideal swimming color. And no one would dream ofswimming here. This bazaar was typical in that it was all narrow alleyways covered in halogenlight and cheap cloth. At one point I began to smell probably the most powerful odor I’ve eversmelled. It was a Naga fish market. There was sort of this hangar affair in the middle of thebazaar where no shops were around; so, dangerously curious, I went inside and almostimmediately felt the need to vomit, even breathing though my mouth the smell still penetratedmy lungs and created kind of a gagging feeling. There were shelves upon cabinets and desksEnglish Journal 8 (January 2008) 22