Kisama sits a short drive out of Kohima, and for ten days each December it stops being a heritage village and becomes the loudest, warmest place in the north-east. Sixteen tribes, each with its own morung, its own dress, its own way of holding a spear.
We had been warned about the cold and not at all about the noise. The log drums start early. So do the songs — long, layered, sung by men who have been singing them since they were boys, and who will keep singing them long after the tourists have gone back to their hotels.
What struck me most was how little of it was for us. The dancing was not a performance in the way a hotel lobby show is a performance. People were showing each other who they were, and we were allowed to watch.
If you are going: go slowly. There are benches everywhere and no reason to stand for six hours. Take a shawl. And stay for the evening — the festival changes character entirely once the sun is down.
