Discovery Channel - Last One Standing Diaries

Entry 4: Come in Peace, Smart Fighter

Mark Writes:
We arrive at an extremely basic Dimapur Airport in Nagaland and head straight off through armed border control into the green mountains. The people here aren’t your typical Indian-looking people, they are Far Eastern in their appearance. This is due to the land being taken away from the Naganese in the Second World War and in turn being handed over to the Indian government. Nagaland now wants to be independent, hence the place being very dangerous; it’s in a state of civil war but for the period of time we are here, a fragile cease-fire is in force. It’s very unstable and, believe me, being here you certainly know it.

Kohima is the capital of Nagaland. It’s situated on the edge of a very steep mountainside in a sort of horseshoe shape 1,500 meters (4,922 feet) above sea level; the roads are narrow and buildings are falling down. As we break the rules and wander the streets after dark we are constantly being asked for our papers and told that we shouldn’t be wandering alone. There are armed guards on every corner, people are staring, then the power to our side of the city goes off -- this was to be a regular occurrence. The temperature has dropped and it has become very cold very quickly, so we head back to the hotel. It’s bedtime and I am writing my journal under candlelight. We go into the tribe tomorrow and I am concerned as to how cold the evenings get compared to the daytime temperatures. Wish me luck!

Day 1
We set off east at 6:00 a.m. for a three-hour drive deep into the mountains of Nagaland. We pass through many strict armed checkpoints and continueon into windy jungle mountainside roads. The habitat is not like what you would expect India to be ... Well, I suppose it’s not really India. It reminds me of watching a 'Nam war film, especially seeing soldiers everywhere with artillery.

We climb higher into the mountains and finally arrive at our destination. Wow! What an intimidating greeting. This tribe engaged in headhunting only two generations ago and they let us know it. They were in war formation and danced toward us with their weapons and traditional tribal gear. The chanting and singing was aggressive as they surrounded us and started prodding us with their spears. There weren’t many smiles at this point, which was concerning. Did they not really want us here?

It turns out that it was all show but they were very convincing. They were a great bunch. I met my hosts whom I am very happy with, although they have a minimal grasp of English. At least it's better than having none. They are a couple in their late 40s with three kids, a little boy and two little girls with one of the girls being adopted. All of them are very sweet. I have my own room and access to two outhouses, one for washing and one for using as a toilet. The food is OK -- very spicy curry, and although I don’t do spicy, it’s another place I am having to learn to like something, It can only be a good thing.

Well, I am now sitting on my bed. The time is 7:40 p.m. and I’m done in. Training starts at 6:30 in the morning, so I had better get some shuteye. It’s freezing!

Day 2
First morning of training and I had a freezing cold night. I needed the loo, too, from about 1:00 a.m., so that didn’t help. But it was just too cold to do anything about it.

So what’s the sport, I can sense you all wondering?  Well, would it surprise you if I told you it was fighting again? I really didn't think so!  It’s a form of martial arts called Akikiti that only involves using your feet. It’s a kicking sport and once again it is a full contact sport, so there is a lot of potential to get hurt, although at least there isn’t going to be a stick swung at me at 100 mph. Training was hard and required the six of us to run barefoot around the section of the village over rocky and stony terrain, with the aim to harden our feet. Once running was over it was then over to a mudbank to kick it for half an hour -- yes, folks, also barefoot.

Lunchtime couldn’t come quick enough, or could it! My mouth was on fire and smoke was coming out my ears, turning them bright red, with sweat dripping. I couldn’t wait to get on with my afternoon tasks. Brad and I had to go into the forest and chop some bamboo, return it to the village, then make a fence for his host, which we were quite proud of. Well, I am now chilling back at my hut; there are misty mountains ahead of me, my feet are killing me, but, hey, the sun is shining and I am feeling nice and clean after a well-needed wash. The temperature is dropping rapidly but I am making no schoolboy errors in bed tonight as I am going to wear clothes.

Day 4
I was physically exhausted this morning but I still had to go to a long, heavy training session, which turned out to be quite good fun, although very painful as it all had to be done in bare feet. We had to compete at different athletic disciplines appropriate to the sport. First up was high jump, which I totally sucked at, and then long jump, which it turned out I was the best at. That's right, folks, I was actually the best at something! It's so interesting to see us all with such different strengths and weaknesses. I am now relaxing my legs and feet before I go and collect the firewood. I have just had pumpkin curry for lunch (it's my fav food here) but now my lips are on fire.

At 3:30 it was time for training session No. 2. In this session we were to put into practice what we had learned and fight each other. It wasn't a pleasant experience, especially when you're fighting the two biggest guys. I always get lumbered against Brad and Jason. I also ended up fighting against two locals but now my legs are stiff and bruised, very bruised. In fact, I can hardly walk tonight. I put my feet up back at my hut and stare up to the stars; it's so peaceful here, which gives me a lot of time to reflect.

Day 5
This morning hasn’t been the happiest of mornings; I have just found out that training has been cancelled for the morning due to the death of a 15-year-old boy in the village. I suppose it puts my sore legs and other limbs into perspective. One woman in the village has lost five of her eight children. When you hear of high mortality rates like that it sure makes us realize where we are in the world.

Whenever I see unnecessary death it takes me back to the day my father passed away eight years ago. It’s still hard for me even today. When he was around I used to be an underachiever; I was young after all, but I felt like it, too. We didn’t get along all that well, not like a father and son really should. The reason I know deep down but I am a different person now, just as I am sure he would be, too. I like to think I am achieving everything he would want me to now, if not more, but I always feel I should be pressing further and further until I hear those words that he is proud of me. That will never happen. I guess for that reason and for the rest of my life I will always be chasing shadows.

Day 6
This morning I was up at 5:30 for an early training session, then home to change and straight to church. It’s a Christian community and the service lasted two hours between 9 and 11 a.m. It was a very surreal experience and they take their religion very seriously -- long sermons and people speaking in tongues. I didn’t really buy it, to be honest. Well, the church service is over now. It was a nice experience but I don’t think I will be attending again. I now have an hour before training session No. 2 of the day.

My village has called me “Viowto.”  It means "to come in peace," but I have another name, too, and that’s “the smart fighter.” I am the favorite in the village to win the tournament -- yes, you heard that right, guys, the whole tournament. They say I look like them when I fight; according to them I have the best technique and move well. The people here like me and want me to do well. Even as a person that’s a big compliment.

Rajko’s Perspective (and sketch, at right):
My house here is brilliant. It has a great view of the misty hills and a balcony that gets sunshine all day. It looks something like this from my seat on the balcony, next to the beehive:

The perspective is all wrong, but in essence, I have the misty Himalayan hills out to my left (where the sun rises a beautiful orange/crimson); the village in front and behind me; the side of the valley dropping off immediately to the left of my balcony; banana palms in the sloping garden at 11 o’clock direction; a little courtyard directly in front of me that becomes a pathway to the main track through the village; and up ahead, on top of the hill, the church — about 100 meters (or 100 yards) away. It’s funny how difficult it is to draw because the scene is so simple, yet so detailed.

Nagaland Funeral:
We had the funeral for the local boy yesterday and it was very sad as all funerals are, but strangely it’s as if people have moved on already. Women who were beside themselves with sadness, clinging to the coffin in the moments before it was lowered into the grave, are today smiling and happy and normal. Perhaps it is because their way of mourning is so physical and intense (all night and half a day of crying and wailing) that the major sadness is all but purged from the body. Or perhaps, it is because life is lost more easily here and there is slightly less expectation/demand that every life should run the duration and last 80 years … Somehow I feel neither of these answers is true and therefore I have to conclude I don’t know how they deal with death. But it is different from us. I was honored to be able to sit in the room where the body lay before the burial and sing hymns with many of the older women. There was a peacefulness and dignity about how they sat around and selected random hymns to sing, while the close relatives (sisters) of the boy cried desperately and touched their brother’s hair and face. The singing broke the horrible silence that is often present at a funeral and in a way allowed the mourning to be more personal. Like how a song on the radio can allow you to lift into a completely different place and just let go of your emotions without the nakedness of silence. So, I just followed the notes and sang in Sumi, and tried to quietly and humbly be part of this sad event in our village. I feel like I could learn this language quite easily and maybe one day, if I stay here longer, I will.

Entry 3: Bad Brew, Blistered Feet and Bungled Rules

Mark Writes:
Arrival at the Tribe - Mesa de La Yerbabuena
The tribe lives in a small Tarahumara village called Mesa de La Yerbabuena; its living conditions were basic but comfortable. No hot water, no toilet, etc. But we are used to it by now. I was introduced to my host and his wife -- neither speak English and I certainly do not speak Spanish, so you can imagine the most intense, uncomfortable silences ever. My host's name is Ramone; he is a short guy and I’m sure in his day a handsome one. He is wearing their traditional clothes of a white skirt with a bright orange-colored, frilly, poncho-style top and sandals. I didn’t get the name of his wife and I think they have two kids, but I haven’t confirmed that one either. Once again I can pass as a local, and if I grow the right moustache I think I can get away with being Ramone’s younger but bigger brother ... I think I will give that a go.

First Full Day With the Tribe
Having had a good 11 hours sleep, I woke up feeling pretty good. I still have my chest and throat infection but am getting used to it. I have just finished working in the cornfield. I am wearing just shorts, top and sandals, and if I am honest, it’s a pretty stupid thing to do. Out here in the mountains is prime snake and spider country and where I am working is where I am most at risk. There is also a massive risk of getting a little parasite called hookworm. It lives in your feet and legs but, to be honest, what will be will be; it’s all treatable, so I just ain’t going to worry about it. The children here are really cute, although I haven’t been able to make them smile yet. But then again I haven’t been able to look in the mirror in ages so I suspect a pattern.

Today, we have been given our sporting event that we are to take part in. It’s known as Tarahumara running. Basically, you run as a team of six people while kicking a small wooden ball around a circuit 1.9 kilometers long (a little over a mile). The total race length has been set at 27 laps or just over 31 miles long.

Our first training session consisted of a five-mile run -- not that bad, I know, but remember we are 5,500 feet in the mountains and the temperature is well over 32 degrees C (90 degrees F). It’s hard rock up here, no grass or tarmac footpaths, and it’s mega hard work. After the training session I went and had a wash under the hose pipe in the back garden and within half an hour of finishing a tropical storm hit us and is still going now. I think the roof is going to blow away. It's all very exciting and spectacular.

Day 2
It’s morning and I am busting for the loo but it’s raining outside and I can’t be bothered getting wet. My cough that I have had for the last six weeks is getting worse, too. I am trying to spend as little time with the guys as possible on this trip as it is forcing me to integrate more, which in itself is very hard anyway. The people here are very shy and when I am in the same room as them there is silence. They look to the floor and wait till I leave, then there is fun and laughter and a great family environment. I am starting to think maybe it was not such a good idea but I will stick it out. The language barrier here is the toughest so far as we have been separated into individual families. We cannot rely on each other to get us out of situations, if you know what I mean. It’s very, very intense.

The translators have arrived so I am about to find out what the day has in store for me. It’s still raining. Booooooo! There is not a lot we can do in the rain, as to run up here in this weather would have been dangerous. Instead we were given our sandals for the competition. Let me describe them to you: bits of car tires and some leather strapping to go round the ankle, a lot like Roman gladiator sandals -- that was it! We had to run this competition in bloody Roman sandals.

Because the rain has halted proceedings for the day I have decided to sit and read my book in the doorway of the house. I am not lonely here but am very much alone. It’s quite strange, however, that I haven’t once thought of home!

Day 6
This morning I woke up and had breakfast -- yes, beans and tortilla. I was then required to go and slaughter a cow for sacrificial purposes at the church. They placed a knife into the throat of the cow, blood poured out like water out of a hose, the cow died slowly, very slowly, but in a strange way very peacefully. Once it had died our trainer Mariano threw cow's blood into the air -- yes, all over me (eeewwwww) -- and then cut it open and prepared each piece for the feast we would have later that evening. I had better get an early night. It’s the race tomorrow and I have now come from nowhere to be one of the favorites to win this race. How has that happened?

Day 7
I wake up and have beans for breakfast, then washed all my clothes. I want to be as chilled out for the race as possible. I got dressed in all my traditional clothes, a nice purple top with a hat, sandals and a skirt. It's time for the race! It’s complete chaos at the start. We didn’t know what was going on; my team consisted of Corey, Jason and three locals, one a 35-year-old bloke who smoked and was pissed for the training sessions, a young lad of 13 who last night was wasted and weed himself sitting in his own purple vomit, and a guy who just didn’t turn up for any training sessions. It wasn’t looking good.

Before the race we were told the rules: You get disqualified when any member of your own team laps you with the ball. OK, so with this in mind we had our tactics ... These were to race like tortoise and the hare, with us being the tortoises. We knew the others would race off and probably burn themselves out so all I needed to do was keep a steady pace and outlast the whole thing. Well, it didn’t turn out to be that simple. While we were running someone decided to change the rules and on Lap 7 tell me and my team that we were disqualified for a rule we didn’t know about. The rule was that we were not allowed to be lapped by any other team more than twice. So, now, officially we were disqualified, but were told to keep running anyway. OK, so at this point in the race two Americans had pulled out, and Rajko had managed to win the competition because his team had apparently lapped us twice. However, at the point of disqualification, Rajko hadn’t even lapped me, which would mean that he was lapped by his own team before we were lapped twice by his team. Are you still with me? Rajko won because he ran the farthest even though the race was cut short. I did complete 13 miles though, up mountains in 34 degrees C heat (93 degrees F) in sandals made of car tires and that had blistered my feet after Lap 1. I was happy with my achievement though I had never been more determined to win something. I know I would have completed the full 31 miles, but such is life.

It is now the final few hours of the last night. I’m tired and need some sleep but feel emotional. The week with the tribe has been amazing. It has brought out the best in me, my character and what I stand for.

Jason's Take:
Mexico was this huge confusion.  Nothing ever was really set in stone. The rules were always kind of up in the air. And when it came down to it, it was, you know, there was this race involved, but at the end of the day, all the tribe members wanted to just go get wasted.  So in the middle of the race, they kind of changed all the rules.

And I was the only one left doing the original rules, which forced me to be slower, because I was the only one kicking the ball at the end of the race.  So when they announced Rajko the winner, because he had run more laps than me, but yet he didn't kick the ball, it really frustrated me.

I probably haven't been that angry in a long time.  That's probably one of the most angry parts.  Because when you spill your heart out, and my 21st birthday was at that location. And I'm not an endurance athlete, but I wanted to prove to myself something that day, that even though I'm not an endurance athlete, I might be able to push through all the pains, and, you know, aches and all that, and maybe pull off a win. And so I was really pressing.  And I felt like I was the only one who did the right thing there.

 

Entry 2: Finding Strength in Brake Fluid

Richard Writes:
Perhaps sensing I needed a leg up, Kamikladze pointed in the direction of a decidedly unusual hut. Where most Zulu huts are high-walled with sturdy roofs, these walls came only to my knees. The rounded roof was the dominating feature, and its thatch sloped down on all sides. There was no door, the entrance being instead a small gap in the thatch. Through this hole I stooped and ducked, and thus began my first encounter with a witchdoctor.

“Muhusi,” I said. I had been forewarned by Kamikladze, my excellent host, that this was the appropriate introduction when making the witchdoctor’s acquaintance, and even though I garbled it awkwardly, something seemed to work. An ancient hand stretched from the shadows and bade me take a seat.

At closer range I placed the man in his early 70s, and as I sat I saw he was markedly different from the other Zulus. Even the village grandfathers were a muscular bunch on the whole, but this man was gaunt and withered. From his chin a tattered gray beard spiralled floorwards. He sat cross-legged and hunched, dressed in a fantastic ensemble of beads and robes. Ornaments dangled from his neck, a splendid headpiece sat upon his head, and from this head his eyes, bloodshot and wild, stared out like cinders from a dark cave.

“What can I do for you, young fellow?” he asked in a tired voice. (I paraphrase, of course – the translator who had accompanied me gave a blander interpretation.) This was a good question. Up until now, I had treated the idea of visiting a witchdoctor with a cocky buoyancy, but face-to-face with this fascinating man I was humbled to the point of faith.

“I would like strength for the competition,” I said in a near-whisper. “Indeed? Then I can help you.”

Everything seemed to be going very well, and I watched eagerly as he began concocting a particularly juicy potion. At first it looked like a fine jug of Pimms’ (a British ginger beverage) with just the right amount of fruit, but then he added what were unmistakably decaying vegetables. Worse still, as I stole a glance around the shady edges of his clinic, I noticed with alarm some discomforting labels on the scattered bottles. Brake fluid sat next to a carton of bleach, and many bore foreboding warnings of toxins within. Into the bucket these were merrily sent, and all the while the product looked less and less like Pimms’. He divided the one substance into two bottles, and gave me them one by one.

“Take this, and wash yourself with it. But do not drink it, whatever you do.” Then, reaching for the other bottle of the same: “This you must drink. All of it. But first pay me or it won’t work.”

Some men you can accuse of double standards. Witchdoctors you can’t, so I paid the fee and looked at my purchase. It was a full two-liter bottle, and it smelled formidable. The scent of decay and ferment quite overpowered the original fruit. What would Kamikladze do, I wondered, and therein lay the answer. If I was staying with Zulus, I would do as the Zulus did, even to the point of accepting their medicine over what I was used to. When in Rome, as they say.  The fact that Romans never had to drink brake fluid is perfectly immaterial.

The day of the stick fight I baptized myself as instructed. Stinking powerfully of putrid cabbage, I took up the next bottle, and sank a hearty few mouthfuls. It was vile stuff, as I expected, but I overcame the rebellion of my taste buds and forced it down. Closing my eyes, I tried 10 gulps in row, and made impressive headway down the bottle. About one liter in, my stomach started spasming, and with half a liter to go, I felt a disconcerting rumble. If I stopped now, I’d never finish, so breathing heavily through my nose I pressed on and finished the last dregs. It was all gone. For a moment my stomach sat quite still. A short moment.

It never feels good to vomit, but it is far worse when one is losing some damned expensive potion. It came out violently and angrily, and left me feeling pretty spent. I surveyed the vegetables sadly, as my stomach made strange noises of relief. When it comes down to it, it seems the sacred can be just as ugly as the profane. I had asked for strength for the competition; I could only hope that my opponent had got the same kind of strength, and that he too was staring at his own vomit in a village somewhere over the hills.

Mark's Account:
Day 5
Morning came quickly and as I got up off the floor breakfast arrived. It’s 6 a.m. and the temp outside is already blistering. At 9 a.m. we were to be down by the river to prove that we were men. The river is about a two-mile walk away and on arrival we were greeted by the village warriors all sitting around a fire. This a real big tradition. Basically, there is a piece of cooked meat placed into the middle of the field on a stick, and one man then chooses to go and claim that piece of meat. Everybody wants a piece of this meat, so you then have to go and challenge that person to a fight in order to have it. It was our opportunity to compete at full speed with the locals; yes, we did have padded sticks but it was hard all the same. We all stood our ground really well but for me -- I don’t feel switched on. There isn’t a hunger or desire to compete; my mind isn’t there.

On that evening Brad and I were taken to a witch doctor to receive magic potions to give us strength, speed and agility. Hmmmmmm, I think they are trying to tell us something. It was a very strange but comical experience. All the same, I don’t think I will be trying them.

Day 7
This is the final day before the competition. It was time for our final test: three fights each with a local champion without padded sticks at full speed but no head shots are allowed. This was a big deal as for the first time we could potentially get hurt. I felt good and pulled out the best three fights of my life. My mind was on the ball with concentration, I only got hit once and that was on my thigh. I have a perfect stick mark remaining there, too! Ouch! It hurt but this guy went easy on us. All the same I had achieved the Zulu stick fighter status; I was in their eyes a man. All six of us passed the test, but I received a glance and a shake of the hand in acknowledgment for my tough fight. I earned his respect!

After the fights, in interview, he pointed me and Jason out as the better fighters on the day. I had come from the back to be at the front! I definitely have nothing to prove now, but my confidence is growing …

Entry 1: Red Hot Chili Peppers in Brazil

 

Richard Writes:
From the dark refuge of the men’s hut, I could hear the preparation outside, the children’s hushed voices and the commanding murmurs of the Kalapalo elders. Someone shouted a noise - "Hoi!" - and the murmuring rose in approval. The comb had arrived.

When I say "comb" few will understand why my brow was beaded with sweat, why my heart pounded solemnly against my trembling ribs. After all, a comb is an eminently unthreatening item, and even the scratchiest of them cannot do more than leave a faint and transient mark. Combs as I knew them were harmless things. Yet the people around me bore vivid scars etched down their arms and legs like endless white barcodes. The kind made by razor blades. Or possibly piranha teeth …

Brad and Rajko, the first to endure the ritual through which every wrestler has to pass, had bled steadily. They had looked impressively impassive as they were scratched, and I resolved to look equally statuesque. Taking my place, I tried a confident laugh. It came out soft and strangled, and Tamalui gave me a sympathetic look. The chief, an excellent man and naked as the day he was born, knelt before me to examine my legs, and after wetting the comb, he began.

Some clever person once noticed that a gang of piranhas can shred a cow to the bone in six seconds, and this is without a sharpened set of dentures. The teeth that pressed into the soft, dimpled flesh of my upper thigh had been worked on, and worked on well. That first scratch was startling, a searing, uncompromising tear down through the hairs of my groin. I breathed out slowly, and looked to the sky. The chief worked quickly and curtly, as if he were sanding a fencepost. The burning spread with each scratch, first skirting round my thigh, then edging down to the soft skin of my knees, on to the taught part of my calf, and ending with the shins. Teeth on shinbone was a difficult combination, neither wanting to give way, while in the middle my unhappy skin found no direction to yield. All the while my face, held toward the sky, bore a kaleidoscope of pained expressions: gritted teeth, puffed cheeks, eyes tightly closed, head cocked. None of them helped.

It was during the second leg that I looked down, to survey the damage, and instantly wished I hadn’t. Where the wounds of my comrades had flowed gradually, mine poured like crimson rivulets, and round the soles of my feet pools of blood formed against the hot sand. My legs were shredded, flayed pink from waist to ankle. Even at the best of times mine are not attractive legs, but, like anyone else’s, they definitely look worse when you take away half the skin. "Ravaged" is a word that gets thrown around carelessly, but I use it now with the utmost seriousness. My pasty legs were ravaged to pulp.

In a place where every unusual thing has a very deliberate reason, the sight of the chief now grinding chilies into powder was not one that filled me with confidence. Powder now in hand, and advancing upon my legs, it seemed nothing would deter him, and I racked my brains for some way out. It is difficult for the mind to create canny escape plans when there are chilies in the blood, and as the first slap of the chief’s powdered palm hit my wounds, pain hit me like a thunderclap, and in a convulsive shot of pure discomfort, I stood like a fool, veins bulging in my neck, eyeballs throbbing in my skull. It was agony. Horrible, sustained agony.

And then he stopped, and though the burning remained, it was softened by the realization that those who had looked on so anxiously now smiled warmly. Tamalui looked fondly on, and there I saw that I was no longer a fool. I was a warrior. Even the chief seemed pleased, and in a sudden appreciation of everything Kalapalo, of this wonderful ritual and its meaning for the wrestlers and the people of the village, I shook him by the hand. Then, legs stiffened by the congealing wounds, I hobbled over to Rajko and Brad. The mood was quiet, but a deep satisfaction filled us all.

Brad’s Take:
Man, he put the handful of salt and chilies on the top of my quad and I automatically felt it lock up on me. It literally felt like he took fire and just lit me up and then he just worked it all the way down and he made sure he was getting it in all the cracks, all the crevices. He worked it in. And then he hit the other leg. And I'm just sitting there going, "I'm at a 15, man. The pain is at a 15. It's off the charts. This is horrible. This is like being burnt alive." You can't wash it off. The whole warrior squad is sitting there watching you. This is the test of manhood basically. If you can't endure this pain, then basically, you can't wrestle. And I'm gonna wrestle. So, you know, I hold my composure. It's over. Game over. I step to the side. Rajko is next. Right on. But the one that made me crack up is Rich. Poor bastard. I told him, "Don't do the salt and the chilies." I was like, "Don't do it, man. It hurt. I promise you. Don’t do it. You don't want to do it."

And then he just looks at me with the Richard grin and goes, “I have no choice.” He already did it. And he's just, his jaw clenches 'cause it's all locked up 'cause the dude is rubbing it in his leg. And you just see him go, hmm, ah, hmm. And he's trying to hold his composure so damn well. I feel his pain. But I'm not in pain anymore 'cause I'm just laughing at him. And it completely took my pain away. I was, like, "I'm so glad you're here, Rich. You made it all better for me." And we walk away and everybody's walking bold legged, comparing our pain like, "Well, I hurt more than you because I'm black. And I hurt more than you because I'm young." Rajko hurt more than everybody 'cause he's old, you know. So then I just slapped everybody on the leg and on the arm and called it a day.