Mawlynnong, “Asia's Cleanest Village”??  and a Diplomatic faux pas

 

 

Patrick P.Sawian

 

 

There are occasions in life when humiliation arrives not as an event but as a revelation. It does not strike with the vulgar directness of misfortune, nor does it announce itself with sufficient courtesy to permit defensive preparations. Rather, it descends gradually, like a slow fog creeping across a valley, until one suddenly discovers that one has wandered several miles into absurdity while carrying a lantern of absolute confidence.

Such an awakening befell me circa 2010 in Mawlynnong, that picturesque settlement near Pynursla which generations of Meghalaya's tourism priesthood, pamphleteering aesthetes, public-relations alchemists, signboard propagandists, and otherwise honourable custodians of regional mythology have assiduously elevated into the continental pantheon under the august title of "Asia's Cleanest Village." The occasion seemed entirely innocent. I was accompanying a diplomatic attaché from a foreign embassy in India, a family friend, whose professional life had involved traversing continents, negotiating cultures, and presumably visiting enough airports to qualify as an endangered migratory species. Filled with the righteous certainty of local pride and armed with a fact that I had never once thought to verify, I gestured grandly toward the village and declared, with all the confidence of a medieval astronomer explaining the cosmos, "Welcome to Asia's Cleanest Village."

The diplomat paused. He surveyed the surroundings with the detached composure of a man accustomed to evaluating competing claims of national greatness. Then he looked at me. Then at the village. Then at me once more. His expression was not sceptical. Scepticism would have implied engagement. It was instead the expression one reserves for encountering a gentleman who has just informed you that his household cat has mastered constitutional law. "Are you certain?" he inquired. In retrospect, the question should have alerted me to the presence of danger. Unfortunately, there exists a peculiar intoxication associated with repeating something one has heard since childhood. Familiarity often masquerades as truth. Thus, rather than retreat, I advanced. "Absolutely," I replied. He smiled. Not the smile of mockery. Not even the smile of amusement. Rather, the smile of a surgeon who has realised that the patient remains blissfully unaware of the diagnosis. "You should visit South Korea sometime," he said. At that precise moment, I experienced one of those rare flashes of self-awareness that philosophers spend entire careers pursuing. For a fleeting moment, it seemed as though the earth had chosen that precise spot and occasion upon which to abandon its structural integrity. I could feel my pulse thundering through my temples as embarrassment painted my face a spectacular shade of crimson, while my confidence evaporated so swiftly that one might reasonably attribute a temporary shift in local weather patterns to its departure. The realisation was devastating in its simplicity. Asia is not a small geographical entity. It is not, as I had momentarily behaved as though it were, a moderately sized district conveniently situated between Shillong and Pynursla. It is a continent containing more than half of humanity. It includes Japan, South Korea, Singapore, Taiwan, and numerous municipalities whose standards of public cleanliness, are so advanced that their sterile pavements appear capable of passing medical examinations. Yet here I stood confidently presenting a continental championship to a village because several government signboards had repeated the claim often enough for it to enter public consciousness unchallenged. Inside my head, I immediately began composing an imaginary inquiry commission, tasked with identifying the original author of this slogan. Had nobody travelled? Had nobody compared notes? Had nobody paused to ask whether declaring victory over an entire continent onto a government hoarding might require a little evidence? I felt rather like a boy on a bragfest, about possessing the world's finest violin only to discover that he had never actually attended a concert. The diplomat, mercifully, chose not to elaborate. There was no need. My credibility had already suffered a fatal encounter with geography.

Yet the truly magnificent irony, is that Mawlynnong never required such inflated mythology to begin with. Like many genuinely beautiful places, it suffers from an excess of admiration, poorly expressed. Modern tourism appears afflicted, by a curious inability to praise anything without immediately promoting it into a world record. Every waterfall must be the tallest. Every cave must be the deepest. Every festival must be the oldest. Every village must apparently defeat an entire continent in a competition nobody knew was taking place. It is a peculiar affliction of our age, that ordinary excellence is deemed insufficient. Yet Mawlynnong possesses more than enough authentic charm, to survive entirely upon its own merits. My first encounter with the village, occurred more than three decades ago as a chota babu during election duty, long before it became a pilgrimage site for tourists armed with smartphones and an almost religious devotion to photography. In those days the journey possessed a faintly expeditionary quality. The roads were rougher, the vegetation denser, and portions of the landscape seemed determined to reclaim civilisation altogether. There were moments, when a machete appeared a more practical instrument than a GPS app. The village emerged from the forest, not as a destination but as a discovery.

At the time, however, I scarcely appreciated where I was. Election duty possesses a remarkable capacity to reduce even paradise into an administrative inconvenience. When one is preoccupied with polling stations, electoral rolls, logistics, and bureaucratic obligations, natural beauty becomes merely another item in the background inventory of existence. Consequently, after my duties concluded, the memory of Mawlynnong retreated, into that vast mental archive where forgotten journeys and half-remembered landscapes reside. Years later, when I returned, I initially failed to recognise the place altogether. Only gradually did recollection reassemble itself. A pathway here. A grove of trees there. A particular contour of the hills. Then came the revelation. This internationally celebrated attraction, was the very same village through which I had once wandered, carrying election documents and worrying about voter turnout. The transformation was extraordinary. What had once felt remote had become iconic. What had once seemed secluded,v had become famous. Yet despite its notoriety, much of its essential character survived. The pathways remained beautifully maintained. The bamboo dustbins continued to embody a quiet civic pride. The gardens bloomed with almost excessive enthusiasm. An added sight - a bamboo skywalk perched precariously on some trees, offered breathtaking views extending across the plains of Bangladesh.

The surrounding attractions, remain equally compelling. The balancing rock, continues its long-standing campaign, against conventional understandings of physics. The living root bridges of the region, remain among the most remarkable examples of indigenous engineering, anywhere in the world. More than mere infrastructure, they are philosophical statements. They embody a temporal imagination, almost incomprehensible to modern societies. One does not construct a living root bridge for immediate use. One begins a process, that future generations will complete. In an age obsessed with quarterly results, instant gratification, and overnight success, such structures stand as rebukes to impatience itself. They remind us that some achievements unfold across decades rather than deadlines. Yet tourism, like every form of success, carries its own complications. Recognition brings prosperity. It also brings visitors. Visitors bring commerce. Commerce brings pressure. Eventually every beautiful destination enters into negotiations with its own popularity. Paradise discovered becomes paradise managed. Mawlynnong has navigated this transition with admirable grace, but the tension remains visible. The village today resembles a gracious aristocrat, perpetually hosting guests, while privately wondering whether anyone remembers where the exit is.

The greatest lesson I carried away, from Mawlynnong therefore, had little to do with cleanliness and much to do with intellectual caution. We inhabit an age saturated with slogans. Governments manufacture them. Tourism departments amplify them. Influencers circulate them. Eventually they become part of public consciousness. Repetition acquires the authority of evidence. Familiarity masquerades as truth. Yet a statement, repeated a thousand times remains merely a statement until subjected to scrutiny. The village deserves admiration, because it is beautiful. It deserves recognition, because its residents have cultivated an admirable culture of community stewardship. It deserves visitors, because it offers a genuinely rewarding experience. None of these accomplishments, require the burden of defeating an entire continent, in an imaginary cleanliness tournament. Thus, I departed Mawlynnong somewhat wiser than when I arrived. The diplomat, undoubtedly departed with a mildly amusing story and I learned a lesson worth preserving - never repeat a claim simply because it appears on a government hoarding, however large the font, however impressive the paintwork, or however frequently it is repeated. Otherwise one may discover, as I did, that the cleanest thing in Asia is not the village at all, but the efficiency with which one's dignity is swept into the nearest bamboo garbage bin.