But a closer look reveals that Bontoc is actually one of the best places in the Cordillera to find the small number of older Bontoc tribes-people who cling to their traditional culture in their last years. These are the grandparents and great-grandparents of the fashionistas so desperate to escape from their tribal past.

The women in these pictures, who we saw in the central market, were born into another world. Bontoc was a large collection of tribal palm huts along the Chico River between the Ifugao and Kalinga regions. Inter-tribal warfare and head hunting were still common in northern Luzon. The Bontoc tribes-people were traditional animists who had resisted conversion under the Spanish, but American missionaries were starting to bring their belief systems into the region.

Today, only older women wear the bright red, hand-woven sarongs. Extremely old men still occasionally wear loin cloths, although we only saw two such men during our two days in Bontoc. Some women wear a very distinctive snake-skeleton hairpiece, which I found very cool, others wear a string of bone beads.

The Bontoc traditionally covered their bodies with elaborate tattoos. For women, these were purely for decorative purposes, and they are still commonly seen today. Men had to earn their tattoos by killing enemies in inter-tribal conflicts. This probably explains why we saw no men with tattoos. Although head-hunting continued well into the lives of many of the older men, tattooing would have revealed the murders which might have brought punishment from outside authorities.

Locals comment that traditional clothing is disappearing very quickly as the last generation of old-world Bontoc dies off. Repeat visitors to the region recall that just a few years ago, such visible signs of traditional Bontoc culture were far more common than today.

I guess I’m starting to sound like a broken record with these postings on tribal culture. But it’s true, the tribal people of the world will be mostly integrated within the next generation. If you’ve dreamed of experiencing any of these cultures, you’ve got to go now.

The first time I went to Thailand in 1990, I had the opportunity to trek through portions of the North to visit many of the hill tribes. At that time, traditional clothing and culture were still very intact. Yes, there were already too many tourists, but there was still much to be seen and experienced especially in the remote regions along the borders of Burma and Laos. The markets of the Golden Triangle were filled with a mix of exotic tribal people donning colorful garb buying and selling goods in a dozen languages. The obvious stars of the markets were the Akha, a group whose unique culture, blood-red betel nut stained teeth, and over-the-top headdresses made them one of the most recognizable tribal groups in the world. I had hoped to share this amazing culture with Thomas here in less developed Laos, but that has proven much more challenging than I first thought.

The tribes of Southeast Asia are being assimilated at an astounding rate. As Chinese and Vietnamese traders bring low cost clothes into remote Laotian villages, tribes are less motivated to produce their labor-intensive traditional clothing. Moreover, trendy Thai television shows tempt traditional peoples with visions of the high life. One quick step towards the high life is to sell off traditional jewelry, headdresses, and religious artifacts to collectors who are scouring the region for what little remains. As with my visit to Thailand years ago, our quest to experience traditional culture has taken us to the remotest border regions of the country.

And after much searching, we found them. Quite unlike the tourist shows of northern Thailand and Western Laos, the remotest regions of Phongsali province recall another age. But even here, traditional life is disappearing quickly as remote villages are being relocated to the major roads and the government attempts to bring tribal lands under control.

Thomas and I, joined by German trekker Burkhart, hired our amazing guide Touy, a member of the Phu Noi tribe, to lead us through the jungle up to remote Akha villages accessible only by foot paths. I was a bit worried when we stopped outside the first village to call on a cellphone to ask permission to enter. But as we approached the chief’s house, it became clear that we had found the traditional culture we were seeking, with a few 21st-century touches.

We entered through a spirit gate and wound our way down the eroded path through simple stilt houses. Dozens of domesticated boar and chickens scuffled across our path as locals eyed us from their doors and windows. Most men and children wore tattered western clothing, but married women were dressed in traditional black tunics with touches of colorful embroidery and impressive silver Akha headdresses. The tunics in this particular sub-group of the Akha are specially designed with a slit that allows the right breast to hang out freely. Women traditionally greet each other by touching each others breasts. Don’t try that in mainstream Lao culture if you want to keep your hand.

Taking pictures was quite a challenge. The chief insisted I photograph him in a ridiculously oversized black suit jacket, but refused to allow me to photograph any women. When they revealed the Lao government was going to relocate the entire village to a major road the following year, I realized the village’s days were seriously numbered. Eager to photograph a little of the vanishing Akha’s lives, I negotiated for around forty minutes before receiving his permission to take pictures. Interestingly, the women put T-shirts on under their tunics before I was allowed to photograph them. I don’t know if they wanted to hide their breasts or if, like the chief, they wanted to put on “their best clothes” for the pictures.

We overnighted in a second village three hours walk away. Again in the chief’s house, we ate with the family and studied the bizarre blend of stone-age utensils and high-tech gadgets in the hut. Remarkably, the village had electricity provided by a communally purchased mini-hydroelectric generator. It was just enough current for each hut to power a single light bulb dangling from the ceiling. Considering the capital of the state only has three hours a day of electricity, I was quite impressed. The light bulb in our hut had a small electrical device attached to it that flashed and blinked like some futuristic disco ball. I asked what the device was and discovered it was a Chinese universal battery charger, priced at under one dollar, that the family was using to recharge their cellphone battery. Evidently, the disco effect was for tribal entertainment purposes only.

The wooden and rattan walls of the hut spoke volumes about the historical and cultural roller coaster ride the tribal people here had experienced. Behind me, the walls were covered with posters of Communist leaders including Mao, Lenin, and Marx. I asked our guide Touy if he knew who these people were. He answered that they were famous presidents, apparently completely unaware of the ideological associations. Off to the right, I noticed photoshopped pictures of the chief’s family standing in front of a monstrous three-story western-style house. I marveled at the chief’s wife with her silver headdress and right breast hanging out standing in front of a ridiculously grand three-car garage. How odd, a pantheon of communist leaders next to a consumerist fantasy. Apparently, the Akha are as consistent as the rest of Laos – or the world for that matter.

But these odd contradictions are precisely what made our visit to the Akha so moving. Witnessing the realities of their struggle to adapt and redefine themselves is enlightening to say the least. The Akha have no toilets, or even the concept of going to the toilet in one place; they simply relieve themselves in the bushes next to their houses. And yet, they picture themselves living in mansions with three-car garages. They cook over open fires, grind spices with stone mortar and pestles, and farm traditional fields with centuries old tools, all while chatting on their cellphones.

Then again, perhaps the shifts and changes in Akha culture highlight a much subtler process we all experience as we continue to evolve in an ever-changing world. After all, twenty years ago I wasn’t typing on my laptop or uploading content to my blog.

The first time I saw two hijras in a hotel lobby fighting with the receptionist, I was very confused. Loud and obnoxious, aggressive and lewd, these women did not behave like any other Indian women I had seen. Why? Because, as it turns out, they were not women – at least not in a traditional sense.

In the West, for a lack of a better term, hijras would be called transgender or transsexuals. But their reality is much more complex than that. Exactly what or who they are is a matter of opinion. Transvestites, eunuchs, hermaphrodites, prostitutes, the third sex, performers or witches. We’ve heard it all.

Dressed in traditional saris, wearing make-up and jewellery, we’ve encountered hijras on many occasions. In small villages or large cities, on trains or in hotels, hijras go around casting curses on men and then demanding money to change the curse to good luck. And they can be quite convincing. Often you can hear them before you see them. Loud finger snapping followed by a popping hand gesture announces their arrival before they shove their rupee-demanding hands in people’s faces. And they don’t take no for an answer. Indian men usually pay up quickly afraid of bad luck not to mention obscene gestures and profane language hurled at them. Once they cough up the cash they get a blessing and are safe from the curses – until the next hijra comes along.

It’s definitely amusing watching Indians squirm and pull out rupee notes to get rid of the hijras. Not being overly superstitious, Tony and I usually just smile and then ignore them. Not so for this photo. I actually followed the hijra through the train and caught up with her in the kitchen where she was counting her money. I wasn’t going to take any chances and payed 10 rupees before I asked to take her picture. She straightened her sari and agreed with a smile. Then she put her hand on my head and mumbled what I hoped was a blessing.

But there are more profitable ways to make money than hassling people on the trains. Hijras are known to crash weddings and miraculously appear at birth celebrations of male babies demanding lots of money. The parents and newly weds are eager to pay for good fortune. I mean, what other options do they have? It’s either cash or curse.

Although most hijras are able to eke out a living and some can rake in the bucks working the high-end wedding circuit, their social status is not much better than that of the Untouchables. Outcast intersexual beings, hijras are regularly forced into prostitution and are often subject to police brutality.

But don’t mistake them for lowly prideless beings. One exceptional hijra we encountered moved through our train loudly popping her hands cursing the men. When she came to Tony and me, she skipped over us, neither cursing us nor demanding money. Hearing the surrounding Indians debate why we had been skipped, she announced that foreigners are constantly being subjected to an unending line of Indians demanding handouts. With tremendous pride, she stated that she had spared us to show us that there is more to India than beggars!

We met this Lambani tribal women during the Chariot Festival, and, of course, I asked to take her picture. What a character! She giggled and screamed like a little girl as I clicked away. We both loved every second of the minute long photo shoot!

Curious about the throngs of people, we set out to explorer the impromptu camps. Phenomenal. Winding our way from temple to shrine through pillared halls and a sea of god statues, we moved from campfire to campfire meeting some of the greatest people we have encountered in India. Having walked in from distant villages, the townspeople and holy men are extremely unjaded by tourism. Rather than begging for money and harassing us for “gifts,” these amazing people share smiles and invitations to join them for a dinner under the stars. This is exactly what one dreams of finding in India.