Dimapur to Pungro is 400 odd kilometres and it took us almost two days to do that . Offroad conditions , single lane mountain road and wrong turns cost us a lot of time .
A few kilometres out of Kohima and we were free of the usual traffic which gradually disappeared totally after Mima . The unpolluted mountain air was refreshing and there was a fragrance from the jungle that drifted into my nostrils .
We passed a number of small villages and towns that has those magical oriental names . We rode through Mima , Cakhabama , Pfutsero , Chizami , Losami , Lanye , Jessami , Meluri , Akhegwo , Longmatra , bypassed Kiphire town and onto Pungro .
It would have been so enjoyable to spend a couple of days in these far flung villages and see life that has remained relatively unchanged for millennia except for a few modern trappings . But I was stuck with the airplane in my head .
As we approached Pungro , I watched the beautiful Zinki river flow gently and disappear across a bend as it made its way ultimately to the Chindwin river in Myanmar .
By village standards , we reached late , and Thronghokiy , a teacher at the local school , put us up in the newly built Govt guest house . His wife made some lovely fish curries for us .
We had another 45 kilometers to go in the morning to Tsurevong village and it was all offroad . Thronghokiy had sent word to the village and someone would wait for us somewhere on the way .
Along the dusty road we rode past Pungro village , New Vong , Lekhimro Hydel Electric project , Moya village , and finally to Tsurevong ... the village beyond the blue mountains ...
K . Athong , who is one of the village heads ( Gaon Bura ) met us on the way and led us to the village .
Tsurevong has no electricity , no proper roads and no schools for the village children . They all go to schools in Pungro . It is a new village with only 38 households , set up a couple of years back .
It is in these far flung villages of Nagaland that one gets to see village life in all its rustic glory . They still hold on to many of the customs and traditions that are all but lost to the people in the big towns .
Cool wind from the mountains drifted down to us as we set outside the headman ’ s house sipping sweet tea . I waited impatiently to meet old man Kimusai , the only man who had seen the aircraft come down in flames from close quarters .
By the time I finished my third cup of tea , the old man appeared . He was in his 90s but he walked straight and although he carried his long red walking stick , he never really seemed to use it .
Speaking the local language is a great help and he warmed up to me immediately . Kimusai and I sat on a large rock in the midst of some teak and alder trees that overlooked the valley .
The old man had a faraway look on his eyes as he narrated the story while we sat on the smooth rock face . His memory was sharp and he spoke as if it happened just yesterday . It was in late 1942 but the exact date escaped him .