Dzüleke is in a time warp. With no more than fifty households, this minuscule Angami Naga village sits in a scenic bowl-shaped valley encircled by hills. Its pathways, narrow and winding, are edged with wildflowers, leading to sloping tin roof houses, few and spaced out, each with an adjoining garden. It has untarred roads, no internet, not even mobile network at most times. The emergency hospital, the size of a local grocery store, stands locked unless needed, and the one school in the village is only up to grade four.
With only the occasional passer-by or stray cattle, Dzüleke has all the feels of a storybook village. And yet, it continues to make giant strides toward a sustainable future in a manner that could easily form a blueprint for saving our planet for posterity.
Only three households in the village own a car. The vroom of a passing vehicle is as much of a rarity as an oddity in the tranquil setting.
Cover: The natural habitat and dense forest cover around Dzüleke makes it a draw for picnickers, hikers, nature lovers, and botanists.
A self-sustaining village, 40 kilometres from the state capital, Kohima, Dzüleke is an affirming example of how the buzzwords “sustainability” and “ecotourism” can enable real transformation when locally motivated.
Traditionally a hunting village — with celebrated tales of headhunters (no less!) — today, it is a draw for botanists, environmentalists, and wildlife enthusiasts for the incredible biodiversity in the forests around. The story behind this dramatic shift is as eye-opening as the shift itself.
Disconcerted over the growing disappearance of animals from the valley and surrounding hills, in 1999, the Dzüleke village council took an urgent and unanimous decision to ban all hunting and felling of trees in nearby forests. The decision was bold, for a meal without meat is unimaginable for the Nagas, even today.
Since then, most food grows or is reared at home or in the village, and it is all organic. A large part of it is sold within Dzüleke, and any surplus, in nearby towns. “If you use fertilisers, the villagers will not buy the produce,” we are told.
The bridges in Dzüleke stand testimony to the sustainable model of living the village has adopted. (Right) Logs of wood that are numbered to deter pilferage are just one example of the conscientious management of the village.
This hunting ban and shift to organic farming drew Tata Trust’s attention, and in 2014, the North East Initiative Development Agency (NEIDA), an associate organisation of the trust, stepped in. Dzüleke was developed into a model of community-based ecotourism where the locals could gainfully participate in tourism activities, and the heritage of the region, both natural and cultural, remained undisturbed.
Equity and equality are built into the project to further ensure the initiative’s long-term sustainability. Each participating family benefits equally from Dzüleke’s growth, by taking turns to host. Thus, when we booked a one-night stay in Dzüleke, it was Sotuno Homestay’s turn to host us.
I stood on Sotuno and Kevisono Meyase’s patio, breathing in the fresh air and quietude. Large green pumpkins grew by the dozens just below the patio; “to feed the pigs”, Kevisono clarified. Each house in the village had a sty in the back, as pork is a big part of their diet.
Beside me, the resident family of roosters, with their troop of yellow chicks, pecked about, and the house cat keenly inspected the leftovers from our lunch, cooked with fresh vegetables plucked from the house garden. Passionfruit, carrot, yam, squash, corn, and potato grew in planters along the walls.
“Do all households here rear poultry?” I asked Pele (Pelevikho Chase), our hosts’ neighbour and one of the three registered local guides. “Yes, of course,” he replied. “ If a guest drops in unannounced, we can’t cut a whole pig to feed one person, can we?”
Self-sufficient in its limited means, life in Dzüleke embodies circularity where nothing goes to waste. Peels of fruit and vegetables form ready fuel for the cooking stove; any leftover food goes into a large pot as fodder for pigs. The man-nature harmony is palpable — like it has always been.
Dzüleke is administered by a sarpanch (head of the village), elected and respected by the villagers. Community life under the local administration is founded on trust and cohesive growth. Lives are harmoniously intertwined; as a local said of his neighbour, “What curry he cook I know, what curry I cook he know”. Every Saturday, a makeshift grocery store is set up with an unmanned, self-payment cash counter.
Until the second wave of the pandemic, this small village boasted zero Covid-19 cases. As a strict protocol during that crisis, two people stepped out every week to get essential supplies like salt, sugar, seeds etc., for the village. On their return, they followed a mandatory one-week quarantine in a guesthouse near the entrance to Dzüleke.
During a guided walk with Pele, he told us that Dzüleke has much more than a pristine setting and simple living to offer. Within a five-kilometre radius, there are options for camping and trekking, foraging in the wild, fishing, farming (the local mainstay), and an authentic cultural exchange while sharing space and life with locals. As every passer-by greeted us with a wave and a smile, Pele exclaimed: “A house guest here is a guest to all in the village”.
With hunting banned, the forests around Dzüleke hold an astonishing variety of wildlife, including barking deer, stump-tailed macaque, civet cat, clouded leopard, freshwater and snow trout, mithun (local bison), bear, mountain bamboo partridge, and the rare Blyth’s tragopan, Nagaland’s state bird. Little wonder then that the most frequent-long stay visitor to this tiny village had been an entomologist from Japan, researching a rare beetle species.
While getting us acquainted with life in Dzüleke, Pele frequently pointed out medicinal herbs growing on the hillside — natural cures for tooth decay, digestion, kidney problems, blood pressure, cholesterol, arthritis, etc.
As we crossed the Tephefi rü (river) and Kingam Ndau gorge into the neighbouring village of Heunambe, the scenery became visibly less green. Our hike, scrambling over moss-laden boulders, led to a hidden waterfall deep inside Heunambe village cave. When we clambered back up to the village road after an hour, it was surreal to imagine what we’d just experienced in such an unassuming setting.
On re-entering Dzüleke, we were swaddled by a mesmerising landscape of open fields. Vast swathes of yellows and oranges punctuated by small freshwater streams spanned by bridges — rows of aluminium pipes, disused iron slabs, planks of wood, or even just rocks for stepping stones — lined by tall oaks and girdled by the hills. “Another visitor had likened the landscape to that in the South Korean romantic drama, ‘Autumns in my Heart,’” Pele exclaimed, pausing his animated conversation with the laughing thrush.
Endearing details underlined the thoughtful management of the village. Clear signage mark the camping and picnic spots where bonfires are allowed. Rows of salt were laid out to keep away leeches; logs of wood were piled and numbered to deter pilferage; log enclosures kept cattle out of fields.
Later that evening, sitting by the kitchen fire, the Meyase’s home had begun to feel like my own. Learning more of their ways while sipping on a home-brewed liquor made from passionfruit seeds, it wasn’t for the first time that I thought to myself: “This is so easy; I wish the rest of us could follow some of it too”. My short 24-hour stay filled me with a sense of hope and well-being. I knew I wanted to be back here soon and for a long stay — to imbibe the Dzüleke way of life.
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