Hung Shwe is armed with well-worn flip-flops, a pink girl’s beanie, a slingshot, a bow, and arrows. If anyone can lead me along the hunter’s path to the summit of Mount Victoria, it’s him. We barely have any water, and the climb ahead promises eight hours of pure torment. The fact that no foreign foot has yet touched this trail awakens my dormant warrior instincts. A gunshot echoes through the valley—one wild boar less, I suspect. Myanmar’s Chin State is peaceful, yet most hunters roam the hills with rifles, constantly in search of prey. Even the last few bears are at risk, their pelts and gall bladders coveted by Chinese traders for their dubious medicinal value. As we push forward, we cross paths with a group of hunters, their bags bulging with unidentified claws and fur. It dawns on me—out here, anything that moves is potential dinner. Hung Shwe, hopeful, stretches the rubber band of his slingshot, mimicking a bird’s call. His stones miss every time. The birds, clearly familiar with his questionable accuracy, remain unfazed. He runs out of stones, and I sigh—if we ever find shelter, I shouldn’t expect a feast. Eight grueling hours later, we stand atop Mount Victoria, the highest peak of Chin State, watching the sun sink behind the hazy ridges of faraway Bangladesh. In the other direction, our next destination—a four-hour descent to a remote village. Since my gear is practically nonexistent, I convert my phone into a makeshift flashlight as Hung Shwe insists on taking a shortcut through the undergrowth. More scratches, blisters, and stumbles later, we arrive in Htang Shwe, knocking on the wooden shack of Hung Shwe’s relative, Marty. Our elderly host is delighted to have visitors. Judging by his eager hospitality, I assume guests are rare. Grandpa lifts a pan lid, revealing our dinner—the same indefinable claws we had seen earlier. I take one of the rubbery legs, nibbling cautiously, while Hung Shwe enthusiastically crunches through tendon and skin. At dawn, we begin the return journey to Mindat, first via a gravel road notorious for hosting package-tourists looking for a Mount Victoria “quicky”. As we step onto the road, a government official from Nay Pyi Taw gives us a suspicious glance. While overseeing his underpaid workforce, who are breaking rocks and boiling tar over open flames, he explains, “The road must be widened. Chin State is becoming a hotspot for tourists.” Hung Shwe, meanwhile, is asked to demonstrate his bow and arrow skills for the city dwellers. His flimsy shots amuse rather than impress. Back in Mindat, the market buzzes with barter—a vendor weighs beef jerky against two XL batteries, a young boy puffs on his mother’s tobacco pipe, and I wait for Jochen from Uncharted Horizons at our agreed meeting point—a nose flute concert performed by Yun Eian, an 88-year-old icon of the Magan ethnic group. Later, in a smoky food stall, over plates of chopped birds and grain wine, we lay out our plan for the coming days. Our goal: to reach new villages deep in the hills, guided by a team of fearless motorcyclists. The ride is pure madness—rocky ascents, plunging valleys, and towns lost in time. Children roll motorbike tires in the dirt, while their parents toil in rice fields and millet plantations. The deeper we venture, the more time feels irrelevant—Chin State seems to have overslept modernity by at least six decades. Then, the rain hits. The muddy paths turn treacherous. We are stranded in a remote village where, apart from a panicked chicken attempting to escape its fate, the entire community gathers around us. The villagers roast their free-range chicken, but with every bite, I’m reminded of a former kickboxing champion or marathon runner—this is meat meant for endurance, not enjoyment. The village leader strums Burmese pop songs over the fire, providing a welcome distraction from the tough meal. The return to Mindat is filled with mishaps—we run out of gasoline, wheels bend, oil pumps break—but, as always, this is part of the adventure. The next day, my new guide, Naing Htang, draws a hand-sketched map on a scrap of paper. “This will guide us,” he says. We ride past stacks of buffalo skulls, their owners offering them to the spirits. Following ancient traditions, the Chin people prepare for the afterlife by sacrificing buffaloes, believing that for every scalp they offer, another buffalo awaits them in the next world. Some even go so far as to dig their own graves, mapping out their future homes with meticulously arranged stones—a larger grave means a larger house in the next life. While the men focus on the afterlife, Chin women tattoo their faces, a tradition once used to deter Burmese princes from taking them as concubines. Each clan has its own distinct pattern, from dots and crescents to spider webs and full-face black tattoos. However, since 1964, the government has banned the practice, meaning no new generations of tattooed women exist. Yet, some women are fighting to revive the nearly thousand-year-old tradition. “It might come back in fashion,” Naing Htang muses. Rain falls again. Mud returns. The jungle closes in. The narrow 10-centimeter-wide trail disappears beneath the mist. Naing Htang, gripping the handlebars with unwavering focus, keeps us balanced above the abyss. Ahead, a group of hunters on motorbikes skid and tumble—they rise, fall again, and keep going. After six grueling hours, a village materializes through the fog. “You are the first foreign visitor here… since the Japanese invaders,” Naing Htang announces proudly. The local priest, Mana Buu, welcomes us into his home, serving us everything his kitchen has to offer. The scene is surreal—a man, wrapped in layers of blankets, plays a haunting melody on an ancient wind instrument. That night, as I listen to the echoes of his song fading into the mist, I know one thing: I will miss this place.
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