Champai, Mizoram, India

January 18

I love Champai, in fact I think I love Mizoram. The town is much like Aizawl, just smaller, a little more primitive, but everybody still owns a cellphone, moped, TV (even if their house is made of bamboo), so not so primitive. It's another city on top of a low, misty mountain.

Since the area generally doesn't allow tourists, the tourist lodge can get away with smelling of cabbage, vermin infestation, dried food splattered on the walls, and no heating. But it's ok, because we're in Champai.

January 21

Another day running mobile clinics into the surrounding villages. It was a long drive to this one—nearly two hours. I opted for a break from the Canadians and ride in with the interpreters. There are three of them that have been working with our team, as well as the driver who sometimes interprets, and a mysterious middle-aged man who neither speaks nor drives. He may be ballast. The driver, Dina, is an overweight, baked-looking man of 27. The other three are flirty guys each around 20, full of piss and excited to have the blonde white girl in the car.

"We all like you very much," 'My Boy' told me when I hopped in. I'm not going to say I don't like being flirted with, so there.

Here's some info on the Mizo and Chin cultures: they smoke like chimneys, appear surgically attached to their cellphones, know the lyrics to altogether too many pop songs, and should really lay off chewing the betelnut because it's ruining their teeth.