If you're still tuning in....I apologize for the abrupt stop in entries. I am piecing together my research and in the midst of writing my final analysis. The rest of our stories will have to wait to be heard on May 4th...We can't wait to see you...
Love,
Magda and Ian
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Monday, March 14, 2011
Kala kale! come back to me
Namaskara (thank you for your presence)…Shanto Sawagete (I am consumed by happiness)
Where do I begin…It seems to get harder every time. For despite having noted the events of each day, I appear to be scattered both in time and in mind. Letting the exact dates fall as they may without record or thought has been the most rewarding feeling and yet, realizing now that March is well upon us, I am reminded by the sting of a bitter pinch that our return home is nearer then I’d hoped. Since the last time I wrote much has changed my mood; most importantly because I have now started the process of writing my content analysis for my senior thesis. I, like the best and worst of my peers, am keen to procrastinate, but in the midst of field research such a quality seems to harshly intensify. So much so, that even I have begun to secretly scold myself for letting another day go by without any efforts gone towards my paper. I seem to have forgotten how to write like a scholar…. But anyway, writing to you is much more enjoyable and much more full of the personal enjoyments I’m having, both as a researcher and as a visitor here. At current we are back in Trasi, resting after a morning of travel. Ian is sweeping the sand and I am sitting facing the sea. We have been back for five and a half days after our short stay in Madodi for the traditional Brahmin marriage of two villagers. I unfortunately fell victim to that ungodly visitor of the month and experienced the most awkward night of my life. I would usually not be bringing up such womanly matters, but for the sake of telling this tale I just simply can’t avoid it. It all started after the wedding, which I will get to very shortly, when we returned to the house of our host to rest until the evenings processions. I suddenly knew what had come and was shaken with hesitation as Sunivay had already mentioned to me that if “I was having” I would not be able to go to the marriage, for fear of bringing bad luck. I eventually managed to convey what was happening to the wife of our host who immediately ran to get the neighbor who spoke fluent English. I was taken outside and told with much seriousness that I was no longer allowed to enter the home, no longer allowed to eat or sleep in the home, and must use the separate bathroom designed specifically for such occasions. I was mortified, on the verge of tearing up, as I attempted to smile and convey my interest in such a custom. So on top of already feeling uncomfortable from the pains of a body gone out of tune, I was drowned in the overwhelming feeling of being a leper in the house of a family I could hardly speak to. Even though I knew they considered this absolutely normal I could not help but want to shrivel up and hide myself in a hole. We caught the first bus back to Kollur at 8:30 the next morning.
The wedding of that day was breathtaking and all started with a bumpy ride in a bus with the cousins, uncles, sister-in-laws, and all other possible relatives of the bride and groom. It was a wedding caravan, of sorts, and was an absolutely wonderful way to start the wedding and the meeting of family. Being the only non-family members there we quickly became the point of everyone’s stares. A cousin of the bride approached us to say hello and to inquire about our visiting both to India and to the wedding. Over the sounds of all the voices it was hard to converse but his smiles and all the rest that surrounded us were comforting to bear. We occupied ourselves with the scenery that passed and eventually found ourselves stuck in a pool of water just meters away from the home in which the marriage was to be held. We all got out, women lifted their sarees, while men jumped rock to rock, and trekked together up a small incline that led to the beautifully decorated home of the bride. No one ventured up the steps as the groom had still not arrived, so we waited until he did and followed close behind. The rituals that were to take place were stunted by the procession of breakfast which consisted of sambar, idlys and chai. By the time most had finished the groom had already taken his place in the traditional customs of the day. He had figurines in either hand and was being periodically sprinkled with browned rice as the priest that stood over him directed swift words in his direction. On his right side stood his parents and on his left his mother and father-in-law, who were both immaculately dressed. I was surprised by the casual dress of the groom’s parents, who seemed more casual then even some of the guests. Maybe this was a custom I was not aware of. Many blessings took place before the groom was moved beneath the constructed alter, behind a golden curtain, where he would stand waiting for the first sight of his chosen wife. The moments seemed to last forever as a priest on either side of the curtain shouted mantras to the other, speaking only after the other had replied. The air was dense with excitement and anxiety, with shouts and laughter, until finally the curtain was dropped and in a flash the bride caught her groom by the quick placement of a garland around his neck. This too was never explained, but I assume it has something to do with the binding of the agreement because the groom instinctually attempted to pull himself away. The bride just barely caught him and the shouts that followed echoed thru the alter like a door knock in to an empty room. The big mystery was revealed and as the guests proceeded to take their seats I caught glimpse of the first stare between the couple. It was like seeing a child when they first catch glimpse of the sea, with so much wonder in their eyes that they hardly choose to blink. I don’t know how much I believe in arranged marriages but the sight of this couple made me doubt my skepticism just a little bit more. The fact that many Indians prefer such a set-up makes me think it can’t be all that bad, Indians are beautifully kind people, overall, and maybe such a custom has a bit of play in all of that. Having been raised In the tradition of love it’s definitely harder for me to outweigh the cons, but all in all, I don’t feel as opposed as I used to. The rituals from that point on were pretty intense and all together impossible to see. The crowd of priests that surrounded the couple in addition to the closest of family members left the onlookers staring between the cracks. Much was being done with coconuts, rice, and ghee, and one could see them littered across the floor, once their intent had served its need. When the crowd parted, family members came one by one to pile rice atop the joined hands of the couple who were, for the entirety of the ceremony, seated across from one another. Bags and bags of rice were spent thrown on and around them, it was a beautiful, remarkable, sight to see. The ceremony continued for well over three hours and in the meantime we were summoned for lunch. First the highest castes were served with the priests, and then the crowds of guest could proceed. The lunch, or better yet, the feast, was absolutely delicious consisting of pure veg side dishes that numbered in the dozens. Server after server came to add more of what you had or offer something new for you to try. They served good sized portions, in my opinion, that were tasters instead of fillers. I left the table satisfied but not exploding out of my saree. Upon returning to the mats that lined the floors where we had sat we caught the endings of the first ceremony that was followed by the next, this time held within the house. Waiting for the crowds to subside we slowly edged in to the farthest back room of the house. There seated around a flame and various spices were the main priest, the mothers and fathers and the bride and groom themselves. Family crowded the doorways to view, then as quickly as they came ventured out the way they’d come. The room quickly became suffocating with both the heat and smoke emitting from the flames, and we too found ourselves rushing out for fresh air. There on after the ceremonies ceased for the day and the remaining hours were spent giving blessings and sharing stories. By this time we were entirely exhausted and with a large group of schoolgirls following us about I was starting to get annoyed and heated within the many layers of my saree. We crowded into the same bus we had arrived in, waited several minutes for the driver to devise a plan to get us out of the water, and headed back to the home of our host.
Now being it as I’ve already told you how the proceeding hours of that night were spent, I’ll jump ahead to our arrival back in Trasi. It of course went without trouble, and I honestly hadn’t felt as much joy in returning home since the Friday afternoons of my weekdays back home. I was looking forward to being a hermit until my moods and pains subsided. On Thursday, upon an earlier invitation, we were given a wake up call to make our way to Kundapura to be picked up in time for a course being conducted for the general public on ways to preserve spoiling fruit. The women conducting the course was an assistant professor as a nutritionist who informed us that between 30-40% of food products go to waste each year, due to lack of technology and knowledge of preservation. Her numbers, though high, were not shocking to hear, as one can plainly see, merely walking down the streets, how fast a full batch of tomatoes or grapes can spoil. In fact, I’ve noted that in a days time a beautiful bunch of yellow bananas will brown before the day turns night. Her intentions for awareness were admirable and her pursuits plain and simple: teach them how to preserve locally accessible flora in ways that are affordable and possible, and thus, reduce the amount of fruits and vegetables gone to waste by populations who need them most. In the seminar we attended, which accompanied both men and women, we were taught how to make butter biscuits, laced with fruit and/or nuts, as a means to preserve, cherries, apricots, and/or apples. There was also instruction, though no demonstration, on how to make a mixed fruit preserve that when laced with citric acid could be preserved without refrigeration for a year. We were given recipes and samples of the treats prepared. The entire program was delivered in Kannada and it was only in our car ride, to and from, with the nutritionist that we learned all the details. Such an experience has given my research insight into how food preparation is passed on. It was a topic of interest since the beginning, but having realized that many of the traditional means of transposing such knowledge have been lost within the pull of modernization, I had left it in the back of my mind almost certain it would dissipate as a focus all together. The women and men that attended were part restaurant owners, part housewife’s, and part students, and they all seemed to get from it exactly what they were hoping. I am, at current, participating in a more traditional means of learning how to cook; with a mother, Suinvay’s mother to be exact, and am gaining more and more each day. I have ventured into her lair to learn the secrets of a good sambar, a beetroot dish I do not know the name of, Dosas, both plain and laced with onions/fenugreek, idlys, and coconut chutney. The keeper of our homestay is my translator, though not a very good one, and so I’ve been recording what I can in English and Kannada to go over with Sunivay during the evenings. I am starting to pick up on the names of spices and grains but get completely confused when she tries to explain the preparations. I am really more in it for the experience then for the recipes, as it makes me feel like a student partaking in an ancient tradition of teaching. One I’ve always craved, and one I someday hope to master. I have gotten a feel for the old and the new and have now developed a good idea for the preparations of my final analysis.
Much of our days since have been spent here and there, visiting new friends and learning from the ones we’ve come to know. One day found us at a nearby resort, owned by a friend of Sunivay who also partakes in an NGO that works to build toilets in the homes of the poor. The most unsightly thing about the coastlines here is the human fecal matter that lines its shore. The Fisherman’s colony which takes up most of the shoreline in this area, use the beach as their personal toilet and so when you pass thru their territory its essential to keep your eyes down and your shoes on. This practice has spread disease amongst the people, most commonly varying types of worms, thus the need for personal toilets. I took interest when Richard, the friend of Sunivay had told us about it, but upon hearing more from the man in charge, I realized it was more of a business then an act to help the poor. Even still, I think it’s a good idea, and in my own way, I hope to help someday soon. I have noticed many volunteers in this region, most notably the ones that help the gypsy community and their children to learn English. Trasi and the neighboring junctions were in a mere 50 years back home to tigers, and roaming wildlife, and due to isolation remained in the ways of the past for many years until a bridge was built to connect them to the mainland. Thus many efforts are currently underway to bring alternative means of livelihood for the people, who more often then not, subsist in the same ways that their grandparents had. It has proven to be one of the best places I’ve been both in regards to my research and my personal endeavors. The village of Trasi will be seeing me again soon.
Today and for the next few days I will be studying the art of coconut palm weaving. My first lesson today went rather well and my little old teacher was pleased at how quickly I picked it up. I am eager to learn as I think such knowledge will come in handy in my travels. They serve as sturdy walls and rain resistant roofing…so in case I happen to be in the forest in need of shelter…I could always improvise. I completed two leaves today and am to make three more tomorrow. They have to be soaked for a days time in order to soften up, but once they do they bend like thread. I can’t wait to share it with my family in Puerto Rico, where coconut palms will not be hard to come by. I have also been assigned to perfect my sambar and chutney so as to prepare the morning meal for five, including Sunivay, his parents, myself and Ian. I am nervous as I really have not yet understood what my teacher has been telling me, so I’m going to have to get craftier with how I record her instructions. We are leaving to Kundapura again this afternoon to fill my prescription for a new pair of glasses I got for a whopping $5. Frames don’t get more then $40 here and to fill your prescription is at most $10. I am going to have a hard time readjusting to the cost of such items back in California. It all just seems so ridiculous now… Sunivay is getting better at driving and has tentatively invited us on a trip to Kerala and to Kodachadri so we can visit Raja again. He too loves the forest but because of his businesses must stay confined to the cities. He loves taking us around and telling his many friends that we are his children and him our adoptive appa (father). He actually sort of reminds me of my own appa and I find that being in his company is always reassuring and comforting because he protects us like my own father would. I always tell him this and he says he would be so happy to meet him…I think they would be the best of friends. He even says he’s going to build us a small place to stay in Trasi so we always have a place to call home when we travel to India, free of charge of course. I hope someday all the family will get the chance to meet all the beautiful people that have guided us thru our journey here…they have answered all your prayers, wishes, and hopes for us…..
Namaskara and Hogi buregteneve (Now I am leaving but will be coming back soon)
Where do I begin…It seems to get harder every time. For despite having noted the events of each day, I appear to be scattered both in time and in mind. Letting the exact dates fall as they may without record or thought has been the most rewarding feeling and yet, realizing now that March is well upon us, I am reminded by the sting of a bitter pinch that our return home is nearer then I’d hoped. Since the last time I wrote much has changed my mood; most importantly because I have now started the process of writing my content analysis for my senior thesis. I, like the best and worst of my peers, am keen to procrastinate, but in the midst of field research such a quality seems to harshly intensify. So much so, that even I have begun to secretly scold myself for letting another day go by without any efforts gone towards my paper. I seem to have forgotten how to write like a scholar…. But anyway, writing to you is much more enjoyable and much more full of the personal enjoyments I’m having, both as a researcher and as a visitor here. At current we are back in Trasi, resting after a morning of travel. Ian is sweeping the sand and I am sitting facing the sea. We have been back for five and a half days after our short stay in Madodi for the traditional Brahmin marriage of two villagers. I unfortunately fell victim to that ungodly visitor of the month and experienced the most awkward night of my life. I would usually not be bringing up such womanly matters, but for the sake of telling this tale I just simply can’t avoid it. It all started after the wedding, which I will get to very shortly, when we returned to the house of our host to rest until the evenings processions. I suddenly knew what had come and was shaken with hesitation as Sunivay had already mentioned to me that if “I was having” I would not be able to go to the marriage, for fear of bringing bad luck. I eventually managed to convey what was happening to the wife of our host who immediately ran to get the neighbor who spoke fluent English. I was taken outside and told with much seriousness that I was no longer allowed to enter the home, no longer allowed to eat or sleep in the home, and must use the separate bathroom designed specifically for such occasions. I was mortified, on the verge of tearing up, as I attempted to smile and convey my interest in such a custom. So on top of already feeling uncomfortable from the pains of a body gone out of tune, I was drowned in the overwhelming feeling of being a leper in the house of a family I could hardly speak to. Even though I knew they considered this absolutely normal I could not help but want to shrivel up and hide myself in a hole. We caught the first bus back to Kollur at 8:30 the next morning.
The wedding of that day was breathtaking and all started with a bumpy ride in a bus with the cousins, uncles, sister-in-laws, and all other possible relatives of the bride and groom. It was a wedding caravan, of sorts, and was an absolutely wonderful way to start the wedding and the meeting of family. Being the only non-family members there we quickly became the point of everyone’s stares. A cousin of the bride approached us to say hello and to inquire about our visiting both to India and to the wedding. Over the sounds of all the voices it was hard to converse but his smiles and all the rest that surrounded us were comforting to bear. We occupied ourselves with the scenery that passed and eventually found ourselves stuck in a pool of water just meters away from the home in which the marriage was to be held. We all got out, women lifted their sarees, while men jumped rock to rock, and trekked together up a small incline that led to the beautifully decorated home of the bride. No one ventured up the steps as the groom had still not arrived, so we waited until he did and followed close behind. The rituals that were to take place were stunted by the procession of breakfast which consisted of sambar, idlys and chai. By the time most had finished the groom had already taken his place in the traditional customs of the day. He had figurines in either hand and was being periodically sprinkled with browned rice as the priest that stood over him directed swift words in his direction. On his right side stood his parents and on his left his mother and father-in-law, who were both immaculately dressed. I was surprised by the casual dress of the groom’s parents, who seemed more casual then even some of the guests. Maybe this was a custom I was not aware of. Many blessings took place before the groom was moved beneath the constructed alter, behind a golden curtain, where he would stand waiting for the first sight of his chosen wife. The moments seemed to last forever as a priest on either side of the curtain shouted mantras to the other, speaking only after the other had replied. The air was dense with excitement and anxiety, with shouts and laughter, until finally the curtain was dropped and in a flash the bride caught her groom by the quick placement of a garland around his neck. This too was never explained, but I assume it has something to do with the binding of the agreement because the groom instinctually attempted to pull himself away. The bride just barely caught him and the shouts that followed echoed thru the alter like a door knock in to an empty room. The big mystery was revealed and as the guests proceeded to take their seats I caught glimpse of the first stare between the couple. It was like seeing a child when they first catch glimpse of the sea, with so much wonder in their eyes that they hardly choose to blink. I don’t know how much I believe in arranged marriages but the sight of this couple made me doubt my skepticism just a little bit more. The fact that many Indians prefer such a set-up makes me think it can’t be all that bad, Indians are beautifully kind people, overall, and maybe such a custom has a bit of play in all of that. Having been raised In the tradition of love it’s definitely harder for me to outweigh the cons, but all in all, I don’t feel as opposed as I used to. The rituals from that point on were pretty intense and all together impossible to see. The crowd of priests that surrounded the couple in addition to the closest of family members left the onlookers staring between the cracks. Much was being done with coconuts, rice, and ghee, and one could see them littered across the floor, once their intent had served its need. When the crowd parted, family members came one by one to pile rice atop the joined hands of the couple who were, for the entirety of the ceremony, seated across from one another. Bags and bags of rice were spent thrown on and around them, it was a beautiful, remarkable, sight to see. The ceremony continued for well over three hours and in the meantime we were summoned for lunch. First the highest castes were served with the priests, and then the crowds of guest could proceed. The lunch, or better yet, the feast, was absolutely delicious consisting of pure veg side dishes that numbered in the dozens. Server after server came to add more of what you had or offer something new for you to try. They served good sized portions, in my opinion, that were tasters instead of fillers. I left the table satisfied but not exploding out of my saree. Upon returning to the mats that lined the floors where we had sat we caught the endings of the first ceremony that was followed by the next, this time held within the house. Waiting for the crowds to subside we slowly edged in to the farthest back room of the house. There seated around a flame and various spices were the main priest, the mothers and fathers and the bride and groom themselves. Family crowded the doorways to view, then as quickly as they came ventured out the way they’d come. The room quickly became suffocating with both the heat and smoke emitting from the flames, and we too found ourselves rushing out for fresh air. There on after the ceremonies ceased for the day and the remaining hours were spent giving blessings and sharing stories. By this time we were entirely exhausted and with a large group of schoolgirls following us about I was starting to get annoyed and heated within the many layers of my saree. We crowded into the same bus we had arrived in, waited several minutes for the driver to devise a plan to get us out of the water, and headed back to the home of our host.
Now being it as I’ve already told you how the proceeding hours of that night were spent, I’ll jump ahead to our arrival back in Trasi. It of course went without trouble, and I honestly hadn’t felt as much joy in returning home since the Friday afternoons of my weekdays back home. I was looking forward to being a hermit until my moods and pains subsided. On Thursday, upon an earlier invitation, we were given a wake up call to make our way to Kundapura to be picked up in time for a course being conducted for the general public on ways to preserve spoiling fruit. The women conducting the course was an assistant professor as a nutritionist who informed us that between 30-40% of food products go to waste each year, due to lack of technology and knowledge of preservation. Her numbers, though high, were not shocking to hear, as one can plainly see, merely walking down the streets, how fast a full batch of tomatoes or grapes can spoil. In fact, I’ve noted that in a days time a beautiful bunch of yellow bananas will brown before the day turns night. Her intentions for awareness were admirable and her pursuits plain and simple: teach them how to preserve locally accessible flora in ways that are affordable and possible, and thus, reduce the amount of fruits and vegetables gone to waste by populations who need them most. In the seminar we attended, which accompanied both men and women, we were taught how to make butter biscuits, laced with fruit and/or nuts, as a means to preserve, cherries, apricots, and/or apples. There was also instruction, though no demonstration, on how to make a mixed fruit preserve that when laced with citric acid could be preserved without refrigeration for a year. We were given recipes and samples of the treats prepared. The entire program was delivered in Kannada and it was only in our car ride, to and from, with the nutritionist that we learned all the details. Such an experience has given my research insight into how food preparation is passed on. It was a topic of interest since the beginning, but having realized that many of the traditional means of transposing such knowledge have been lost within the pull of modernization, I had left it in the back of my mind almost certain it would dissipate as a focus all together. The women and men that attended were part restaurant owners, part housewife’s, and part students, and they all seemed to get from it exactly what they were hoping. I am, at current, participating in a more traditional means of learning how to cook; with a mother, Suinvay’s mother to be exact, and am gaining more and more each day. I have ventured into her lair to learn the secrets of a good sambar, a beetroot dish I do not know the name of, Dosas, both plain and laced with onions/fenugreek, idlys, and coconut chutney. The keeper of our homestay is my translator, though not a very good one, and so I’ve been recording what I can in English and Kannada to go over with Sunivay during the evenings. I am starting to pick up on the names of spices and grains but get completely confused when she tries to explain the preparations. I am really more in it for the experience then for the recipes, as it makes me feel like a student partaking in an ancient tradition of teaching. One I’ve always craved, and one I someday hope to master. I have gotten a feel for the old and the new and have now developed a good idea for the preparations of my final analysis.
Much of our days since have been spent here and there, visiting new friends and learning from the ones we’ve come to know. One day found us at a nearby resort, owned by a friend of Sunivay who also partakes in an NGO that works to build toilets in the homes of the poor. The most unsightly thing about the coastlines here is the human fecal matter that lines its shore. The Fisherman’s colony which takes up most of the shoreline in this area, use the beach as their personal toilet and so when you pass thru their territory its essential to keep your eyes down and your shoes on. This practice has spread disease amongst the people, most commonly varying types of worms, thus the need for personal toilets. I took interest when Richard, the friend of Sunivay had told us about it, but upon hearing more from the man in charge, I realized it was more of a business then an act to help the poor. Even still, I think it’s a good idea, and in my own way, I hope to help someday soon. I have noticed many volunteers in this region, most notably the ones that help the gypsy community and their children to learn English. Trasi and the neighboring junctions were in a mere 50 years back home to tigers, and roaming wildlife, and due to isolation remained in the ways of the past for many years until a bridge was built to connect them to the mainland. Thus many efforts are currently underway to bring alternative means of livelihood for the people, who more often then not, subsist in the same ways that their grandparents had. It has proven to be one of the best places I’ve been both in regards to my research and my personal endeavors. The village of Trasi will be seeing me again soon.
Today and for the next few days I will be studying the art of coconut palm weaving. My first lesson today went rather well and my little old teacher was pleased at how quickly I picked it up. I am eager to learn as I think such knowledge will come in handy in my travels. They serve as sturdy walls and rain resistant roofing…so in case I happen to be in the forest in need of shelter…I could always improvise. I completed two leaves today and am to make three more tomorrow. They have to be soaked for a days time in order to soften up, but once they do they bend like thread. I can’t wait to share it with my family in Puerto Rico, where coconut palms will not be hard to come by. I have also been assigned to perfect my sambar and chutney so as to prepare the morning meal for five, including Sunivay, his parents, myself and Ian. I am nervous as I really have not yet understood what my teacher has been telling me, so I’m going to have to get craftier with how I record her instructions. We are leaving to Kundapura again this afternoon to fill my prescription for a new pair of glasses I got for a whopping $5. Frames don’t get more then $40 here and to fill your prescription is at most $10. I am going to have a hard time readjusting to the cost of such items back in California. It all just seems so ridiculous now… Sunivay is getting better at driving and has tentatively invited us on a trip to Kerala and to Kodachadri so we can visit Raja again. He too loves the forest but because of his businesses must stay confined to the cities. He loves taking us around and telling his many friends that we are his children and him our adoptive appa (father). He actually sort of reminds me of my own appa and I find that being in his company is always reassuring and comforting because he protects us like my own father would. I always tell him this and he says he would be so happy to meet him…I think they would be the best of friends. He even says he’s going to build us a small place to stay in Trasi so we always have a place to call home when we travel to India, free of charge of course. I hope someday all the family will get the chance to meet all the beautiful people that have guided us thru our journey here…they have answered all your prayers, wishes, and hopes for us…..
Namaskara and Hogi buregteneve (Now I am leaving but will be coming back soon)
Saturday, March 5, 2011
What a sweet delight...
Namaskara....
There are no completely disconnected coincidences in life. Every event is in line within a chain of events; within a change of reactions, and so, from one memory to the next all occurrences in our life are affected by way of our sheer ability to remember what came before. It was no accident that we journeyed here to Kundapura or that we ventured inlaid on a whim to see what lie ahead, it has changed us completely, and cured us of old toxins that clung on like leeches to our open wounds. Our stay in Kodachadri lasted 4 days in the belly of the forest, and three nights under the shade of a clay tiled roof and a blanket of stars. With walls made of clay and floors packed tall with shambe (a dirt concoction similar to Spanish adobe), we spent our days living amongst the monkeys of the trees and the farmers of the land. Giving one a feeling of home right upon entering, the place and its people have made my dreams come alive and my passions crave for attention. Next to the childhood home of my mother, this has been the second most beautiful place I have ever ventured into. Time has yielded way and modernization stopped cold in its tracks, in the small farmer village of Kodachadri, Karnataka. We traveled by foot, 8 km, from the junction of Nittur to the first signs of civilization in the village of Kodachadri, and found ourselves exhausted with dehydration and sore soles. Confused by our physical demeanor, glistening from sweat and expressionless from fearing misdirection, an old woman offered us a drink from her store as she attempted to understand our accents and our language. A young man, no more then 22, approached us to ask where we were coming from, and so excited upon hearing his English I began to explain our long and uncertain journey. He panicked and assured me, half in English half in Kannada, that he knew nothing more of English and offered me the phone. We showed him our map and the name of our supposed host, Raja Viecarem, immediately he picked up the phone to relay the message and in five minutes past a man came by foot to offer us confirmation. An older gentleman, wearing a bright pink scarf with embroidery in black and a pair of glasses that sat perfectly balanced on the edges of his cheekbones smiled up at us as he passed and simply said, in a voice as kind as a curious child’s, “hello, my name is Raja Viecarem.” We happily said hello and expressed our excitement in having successfully arrived before the day had turned to night. He listened carefully as we walked and expressed that his brother had seen us pass but did not think we were foreigners as our hair was not white and our skin not translucent. It became clear from then on after that the village was not accustomed to foreigners and that we were soon to be the main attraction of that evening and all the rest that were to proceed it. We arrived to Raja’s home, in a short upward trek in the direction we had come, to find a clay built house overlooking a five acre stretch of rice patty fields and *areca (chewing tobacco) trees. I nearly cried from happiness as I realized the construction of the house with its cleaned and smoothed dirt floors appearing almost identical to that of my great grandmothers that I had visited some 12 years prior in the beautiful village of El Gallo, Guerrero, Mexico. I had made it home at last and it was the first time in a very long time that my heart felt completely at ease and at peace in a place so familiar, it was as though I had always been there. It is in these moments that I am certain I am the daughter of a lowly country girl and an old fashioned caballero. My blood can’t help but crave the beauty of its ancestry.
Upon entering, we were kindly asked to sit beneath the open patio, cooled and shaded by layers of dried palm leaves, and were quickly given a cup of water by Raja’s smiling wife. We were introduced to all whom lived there, which included Raja’s younger brother and his beautiful wife as well as Raja’s wife Usha. We talked and admired the beauty of the landscape, while enjoying a spicy, crunchy, nutty treat that Usha had prepared for us. We sat for moments in silence breathing in the sweetness of the air and listening intently to the wild calls of the birds, monkeys, and insects that surrounded us. The sun was still awake though slowly drifting off, and Raja decided it a good time to view the mountains from a little ways up, into the forest. We walked close behind him as he calmly glided through the forest towards a place he had been countless times before. On a small incline we sat and turned to see the mountains as the sun began to loose its shine. He sat beside us and told us that this was one of the best places to view the mountains in all their glory, and was the one spot he gathered many a friends and family to simply sit and watch the day with. He looked around and picked at random leaves from the shrubs and trees and told us their uses in both ayurvedic medicines and in other households needs. One leaf he picked was used as an antibiotic for cows, while another was used as an itch relief for rashes and insect bites. It became very clear to me; very soon, that Raja and all the rest of villagers were just as in touch with the land as the most ardent gardener is to his blossoms. They know the sounds of every bird that embellishes the wind, the purpose of every wild and domesticated crop that consumes the land, the language of the cattle they keep for company and milk, and most of all, the healing powers in the purity of nature. Wise and pensive like the grandfather one imagines only in story books, Raja spoke the words that were necessary and more then often sat silently chewing away at his areca seeds wrapped in beetle leaf laced with lime. I needn’t explain how rare it is to find someone you can sit in comfortable silence beside; Raja was more of a long kept friend that a stranger we’d just met in the middle of the forest.
Once night had taken the color from the sky a smiling man arrived in a jeep. He was a close friend of Raja’s who had agreed to transport us to a sugarcane plantation a few km up the road. I did not know what to expect and was overwhelmed already by the littering of stars that covered the night sky as we winded our way to a plantation that could only be reached by bumpy dirt road. In 15 minutes time we arrived, and were greeted by curios men’s faces that were hardly distinguishable in the darkness of the night. And then all at once, we were guided through the trees to a lighted area where stood two huge iron cauldrons boiling a substance I had at that moment not the slightest idea. Peering into them was like looking into a cloud, with smoke so dense it made the layer atop the pot seem as though its contents were overflowing. Raja’s friend, the plantation worker who had invited us to come, was quick to inform me that what I was looking at was pure Jaggery (palm cane sugar) in the process of a 6 day boiling bath. It smelled wonderful and looked absolutely frightful, as the thick bubbles of hot liquid popped in their heat resembling that of a witch’s Halloween brew. I took photos and was advised to capture the beauty of the boiling point by Raja. All the farmers were captivated by the cameras ability and crowded around to see what it could do. I entertained them until I was asked to sit and enjoy my first cup of natural sugarcane juice. An engine roared behind us and three men got in position, one in the way of the machine to feed it sugar cane, another in the vicinity of the crank to keep the motor going, and the last in the way of a long bamboo tube that fed the end product into a large bucket. I watched with pure delight as a cup of sugarcane juice was prepared for each of us and sat in giddy anticipation. I took a sip and much to my delight it was one of the most delicious things I have ever had to drink. Sweet and warm, it was like a sugary cup of tea that warmed you to your core and sweetened you until you couldn’t help but smile. The crowd of farmers and their curious families watched and smiled realizing the look of childlike happiness that overwhelmed us with ever sip we took. After two large cupfuls and a plate of popped rice and peanuts we were full and surprisingly sleepy. Not wanted to let us go without a taste and an understanding of it all, we were then given a large helping each of Jaggery on a leaf and taught the cooling process. To my surprise, once the boiled jaggery was taken off the flame it was only a matter of a day of cooling in a flat box like container that sat on the ground covered by a criss-crossed grill looking top. The whole process was a matter of the color of the jaggery, which at its finest, was a sandy blond color. The one we were given to taste was said to have been boiled a few hours to long, thus the color had darkened to a shade of cherry wood. The taste of it was like a mixture of dark brown sugar and raw molasses, it’s something to get use to, and till now, I still haven’t. We ended the night’s extravaganza in the home of the workers which was built long ago and wore the intricate cravings of its age. The only worker that could speak a bit of English explained that the plantation had been in his family for seven generations, and he was the eighth. I couldn’t help but be moved by the passion that drove this man to produce some of the rarest form of jaggery still produced throughout the nation. He and Raja helped to explain that some 20 years past the art of Jaggery making became commercialized and its producers began to mass produce the product for companies, all the while tampering with the product as a means to produce more for less. Most jaggery found in the market nowadays is lined with sand and a few other mystery ingredients, leaving the true taste, for many, lost and forgotten. Even I can attest to this fact having seen the sandy dry looking jaggery being sold at the “organic” store in the Ashram. I feel truly honored to have seen the origins of a product that has blessed this land with sweet concoctions that one can now find throughout the nation in bakery shops that line the streets of any promenade. I couldn’t have dreamed that such a beautiful display of love and pride for sugar production would have ever been shown to me; this has been the pinnacle event of my research, and has shifted my approach to the focal points of my study completely.
I was filled with a nostalgia that consumed me as we ventured back through the roads to Raja’s home. I could hardly believe what I had just experienced and the luck I had stumbled upon in such a spontaneous decision to come. I was all smiles for the rest of the night, with a giddiness in my heart that I can’t hardly describe. Usha was ready with dinner when we arrived and although the juice had taken our hunger, upon seeing the meal prepared I regained a bit of it back. On a banana leaf, freshly cut, we were served freshly germinated plant seeds, spiced with lemon, salt, chili, and shaved coconut, a potato palia, laced with onions, chili, and mustard seeds, an unexpected tablespoon of sugar, and two freshly made pieces of chappati (a flat bread similar to a flour tortilla). It was deliciously light, tasty, and 100% pure veg. I was in the forest eating the plants that surrounded me, and my god you would not believe how incredibly tasty it proved to be. After all the ill effects that the food of Goa had had on our digestion this was a cure that worked to set our bodies back in motion. Ian after several days of unrelenting diarrhea was cured in a matter of two days. A pure veg. diet definitely has its share of healing powers, and I am all too convinced of this fact after having spent the last couple months with only a handful of non-veg meals in my tummy. Ian of course could never do without his fish, eggs, and occasional helping of pork, but all in all I think he too is starting to realize the ill effects of meat, especially beef, on his body. Each meal we had thereafter was similar to our first, always with a spread of at least three items in addition to our chappati or rice or sometimes both. The intention was always to maintain a balance of proteins, spice, and grains. Almost every dish there had available a chili mixed within the dish and a heavy hand of turmeric in the spicing. Both ingredients were said to be necessary for their overall health benefits in at least one of your every day meals. We had them, more then often, in all three. I learned with great fascination that turmeric is also the spice most loved by Indian women. It is used to make kumkum, the red powder (made red by the addition of lime) that Hindu women use to dot their foreheads after prayer, and in its pure form, is used to rub on the skin as a beautifying agent, that once washed away makes the skin glow. Upon departing from a visit to ones home, the woman of the house will bring out her beautiful silver or gold canisters of kumkum and turmeric for you to use on your face as she blesses you and thanks you for offering your presence in her home. It is a beautiful custom that again I felt overwhelmed with gratitude for having been introduced to, and one I hope to adopt for my own visitors back home. The hospitality given in any Indian home, especially within a Hindu home, is unforgettable. As far as Hindu’s are concerned, you are a god so long as you are their guest, and they take no time at all in making sure you know so. It is customary law that they offer you food and drink, water does not count as I sadly found out, and must tend to your every need so as to offer you the level of comfort they feel you deserve. Not being one for such royal treatment, I was abashed and at times a bit discontent at not being able to lift a finger to help. It is something I don’t think I could get use to as it is in my nature to be completely otherwise. Nonetheless to see it in the context of its cultural significance is something I will never forget.
Our second day spent in the forest was on a surprise pilgrimage to a temple in the sky. At the time that the jeep dropped us at the bottom of a hill I had no idea where we going or that is was to take another four more grueling hours, up hill, until we were to arrive. Had I known, I would have vouched for a jeep like all the rest of the visitors who passed us along the way. Because even with our enthusiasm for being in nature, we were no match for the bumpy dirt roads that wound in an out for over 9 km up the mountain that I later found out was the one we had admired at a distance with Raja just the afternoon before. By the time we had reached the rest stop, which consisted of several small temples, a pool of river water to wash your feet in, and a vendors stand of cold drinks and snacks, we were exhausted with throbbing feet and aching backs. Worst of all, the young man who was guiding us all the way in his dense silence and quick strides, never broke a sweat or drank a drop of water. We must have seemed like a couple of fat children slugging our way up a mountain that for him, was nothing more then a walk in the park. Looking back at it now, we can laugh and say we conquered a mountain that led us to a beautiful place, but at the time our spirits were irredeemable. After a rest and a washing of the feet it was another 3-4 km up a very steep hill to where the saints of the Hindu faith were said to have first prayed many years ago. Slow like an elder who’d lost her cane, I crept up the mountain side behind our guide and Ian until we reached a silent and overwhelmingly peaceful cave on the edge of the mountain side. Shaded by trees and covered from the elements by sheer design of its making, the cave gave one a feeling of comfort like no other. We made an offering and stood silent for a while, listening to the echoing sound of the wind as it hit the walls of the cave. I felt revived but still with sore soles, and again the journey went on. When we came to the top of the mountain at last, there stood a small grey, red lettering embellished temple, dead center at the peak of the cliff side. We slowly ventured towards it, left our shoes, and walked up the heated stone. We admired the art work that decorated the walls and made an offering to the man cross-legged sitting inside. He gave us a tsp of water to throw over our head and a single flower to adorn in my hair. We took in the breeze that was ever stronger at such a high peak, and slowly made our way back down to call an end to our feat. I called Raja on the only payphone available at the rest stop and told him we could not manage a trek back down the mountainside. He arranged us a jeep and in a few minutes time we were back on the bumpy road, headed back to where we began. We ended the night with good conversation, a short lesson in Kannada by friends, and a delicious meal consisting of chutney, palia, rice, and chappati, all made with love by Usha.
In a farmers wifes life the day begins before the roosters crow, and so before I could tell the wall from the contents that lined its shelf’s I heard the sound of pots and the busy chopping sounds of Usha’s small and precise hands. Unfortunately something had infected my bladder in the mid day heat of our long journey yesterday and I was up and down to the bathroom from then on until the doctor paid a house visit. I attempted to ease my discomfort with only consuming water, but it proved to be fruitless as the day was one spent visiting friends and family of Raja’s and water was not an option for a drink. Usha upon hearing me awake quickly brought me a cup of coffee and niru (water). It was the first of about 15 cups of coffee I would have that day, and although they would all be very small and delicious cups, the measurement of less then a ¼ cup, with the urges I had at the time it was the worst possible thing. When Raja and Ian awoke we got ready to set off to Raja’s best friends house a km away, for breakfast and a friendly visit. We arrived and enjoyed a cup of coffee, met his wife, brother, sister-in-law, and mother, and were invited into the kitchen area to have a simple breakfast of a rice noodle dish simply spiced and complimented with jaggery. It was tasty and followed with yet another cup of coffee. The owner of the house, whose name fleets from memory now, showed us around his land and with much enthusiasm displayed his natural running sprinkler system that needed no pumps and was supplied from the nearby running river. Such a thing was had only by innovation, and the pride in having them was one we would soon learn about as the day went on. The enthusiasm in his voice reminded me of my fathers and his own inventions that he always seems to show in the most fascinating of ways; because despite your ignorance about what he’s telling you, you always seem to come away feeling just as proud about it as if you knew, all along, what he was talking about. Our host continued to give us the tour and eventually brought us to the shaded patio to sit with the rest of the family, as they busily de-husked the areca seeds and sorted them into piles. We departed after a third cup of coffee and smiles all around. The next house we visited was that of another friend, who had the slim and well kept manner of a gentleman, and the kind and soft demeanor of a wise man. He offered us a drink of ebaka juice, a juice made from a fruit grown wild in the forest that could last up to a whole year without any preservatives. It was absolutely delicious but would prove to upset my stomach some several hours later. Its sweet taste left a hint of fermentation on your tongue that Ian liked so much he had three cups without pause. Raja enjoyed another leaf of areca and we were on our way back to his house to rest until our visits with the family. On our walk back we noticed a band of monkeys jumping in the trees very near to Raja’s patty field, we ventured back on our own to watch them until we scared them, just with our presence, all away from view. We lounged about listening to Raja’s wise philosophies and entertaining ourselves with the scenery. The first rice patty field was already starting to be plowed and we listened as the workers spoke in the language of the ox to maneuver them up and down the length of the field. The hues of a fading day dawned upon us and we were off, this time with Usha, to the families house of Usha’s sister in-law. Through a well beaten track that left us surrounded on either side by dense forest, we travelled behind the footsteps of Usha, Retna, and their friend. They named some of the passing flora for us and talked happily amongst themselves until we arrived at a beautiful aqua house overlooking a household garden. Three women, two young and one old were sitting on the floor beneath the shaded patio shifting through freshly picked peppercorns. They smiled up at us as we passed and entered into their home. After an offering of coffee and a salty crunchy snack we were toured around the land by a son who spoke rather good English. He showed us their areca trees, growing entwined with the vines of vanilla pods, as well as the coconut trees and peppercorn vines that latched tightly onto them, but most importantly, he showed us his sprinkler system and the natural pool of water from which they operated. After much conversation we headed to another house to repeat another visit in exactly the same manner. Eventually when the sky began to change its mood we said our last good byes and started on our downward trek back to Raja’s house.
Our last day and night spent in the beautiful village of Kodachadri was one of rest. We were to wake at 8am the next morning to catch the first and last bus that would travel to Nittur. It was a happy goodbye but one that sadly lingers even now, a week later, as I recount our experiences and miss the wise consoling words and teachings of one of the most beautiful persons I’ve ever met, Raja Viecarem. When we return to this enchanted land, Raja is the first person on my list that we are to pay a visit to. Our trip back to Trasi was swift and without trouble, and we arrived just a little past our projected time of 12 noon. Exhausted, mostly from the heat and smells of travel, we showered, ate, and rested until the heat of the next day woke us from our dreams.
Our last week spent in Trasi has been full of delicious food and travel to the nearby junctions and towns. Sunivay takes us around whenever he has a chance to, and is in the midst of learning how to drive his new car that he bought just a few days ago. Tuesday we spent several hours aimlessly wandering the streets of Udupi, the capital city of the Udupi district of which Trasi and all the small neighboring junctions belong. Littered with street vendors of ever sort, from cold drinks to ayurvedic drug stores, we found ourselves overwhelmed by the hustle and bustle of the street cars, pedestrians, and buses that crowded every street corner. Overcome by heat, we stopped for a milkshake and a cool bottle of water to sit and watch the crowds rush by with. Stumbling upon a bookstore we bought a summarized version of the holy book of Vedas in hopes to learn some of the fascinating stories that the Hindu religion is built upon. Not finding much else to do, we decided to head back to our quiet home on the beach to read and satisfy our now fatigued bodies with some rest. Thursday evening was an enchanting night filled with music and story that we happened to stumble across upon entering a temple with Sunivay in the central town of Kundapura. It was a showing of the story of Rama, and although it was in Kannada the story was not to hard to follow, especially having recognized some of the key words, such as brother, wife, and happiness. Sunivay filled in most of the blanks for us while we enjoyed the soulful beats of the drums and the voice of the mantra singer. By the time it was over all the shops had closed and all the buses had stopped running, we hopped on the back of Sunivay’s bike and traveled under starlight back to our home. Along the way we heard the pulse of drumming in the street, and soon we passed a stretch of people, some holding torches, some holding bowls of contents I could not tell, crossing the road behind a single drummer. Sunivay said it was the traditional proceedings for a death in the village and/or family. All that followed were heading to the house of the dead to offer their blessings and partake in the rituals of a traditional funeral. I wanted to follow but did not dare ask, so I watched as we passed the march of mourning until their fire dimmed to the light of a candlestick. The next morning we ventured back into Kundapura, this time in search of a library that Sunivay had told us about. Having exhausted the words of all our books in stow I was on the hunt for something new. After several inquiries and one route of misdirection we found it hidden behind a great tree and several larger buildings. Misjudging by the small size I instantly mistook the quaint little library as one short of treasure, I was very much mistaken. Every row that I could tell was full of books that wore their age in layers of dust and worn pages fragile enough to tear upon touch. I absolutely love old books, the way they smell, they way they’re bound, and most off all the tender care taken to write the most touching dedications. Of recent authors I must say the biggest note they lake is that of a good dedication. It is after all one of the first thoughts a reader sees upon opening a book; you would think it would be given its fair bit of attention. In this library, I could spend the entirety of a day reading through the thought provoking dedications that such clever and unknown writers have managed to conjure up. We will be returning very soon. In the mean time we are preparing for another three or four day stay in a nearby village for the viewing of a traditional Brahmin wedding being held somewhere In the mountains. Tomorrow I will be going with Sunivay’s wife to pick out a suitable and affordable saree for the occasion. I am decorating my hands with Henna as I don’t have any jewels and hoping that they will come out just right. Again, I can’t wait to tell you about all the details…so stay tuned…
P.S. Sorry about the negligence to post pictures, I have too many at the moment, and the internet here is far to slow to try and upload even a small handful. I’ll try to do a little at a time when I get the chance.
There are no completely disconnected coincidences in life. Every event is in line within a chain of events; within a change of reactions, and so, from one memory to the next all occurrences in our life are affected by way of our sheer ability to remember what came before. It was no accident that we journeyed here to Kundapura or that we ventured inlaid on a whim to see what lie ahead, it has changed us completely, and cured us of old toxins that clung on like leeches to our open wounds. Our stay in Kodachadri lasted 4 days in the belly of the forest, and three nights under the shade of a clay tiled roof and a blanket of stars. With walls made of clay and floors packed tall with shambe (a dirt concoction similar to Spanish adobe), we spent our days living amongst the monkeys of the trees and the farmers of the land. Giving one a feeling of home right upon entering, the place and its people have made my dreams come alive and my passions crave for attention. Next to the childhood home of my mother, this has been the second most beautiful place I have ever ventured into. Time has yielded way and modernization stopped cold in its tracks, in the small farmer village of Kodachadri, Karnataka. We traveled by foot, 8 km, from the junction of Nittur to the first signs of civilization in the village of Kodachadri, and found ourselves exhausted with dehydration and sore soles. Confused by our physical demeanor, glistening from sweat and expressionless from fearing misdirection, an old woman offered us a drink from her store as she attempted to understand our accents and our language. A young man, no more then 22, approached us to ask where we were coming from, and so excited upon hearing his English I began to explain our long and uncertain journey. He panicked and assured me, half in English half in Kannada, that he knew nothing more of English and offered me the phone. We showed him our map and the name of our supposed host, Raja Viecarem, immediately he picked up the phone to relay the message and in five minutes past a man came by foot to offer us confirmation. An older gentleman, wearing a bright pink scarf with embroidery in black and a pair of glasses that sat perfectly balanced on the edges of his cheekbones smiled up at us as he passed and simply said, in a voice as kind as a curious child’s, “hello, my name is Raja Viecarem.” We happily said hello and expressed our excitement in having successfully arrived before the day had turned to night. He listened carefully as we walked and expressed that his brother had seen us pass but did not think we were foreigners as our hair was not white and our skin not translucent. It became clear from then on after that the village was not accustomed to foreigners and that we were soon to be the main attraction of that evening and all the rest that were to proceed it. We arrived to Raja’s home, in a short upward trek in the direction we had come, to find a clay built house overlooking a five acre stretch of rice patty fields and *areca (chewing tobacco) trees. I nearly cried from happiness as I realized the construction of the house with its cleaned and smoothed dirt floors appearing almost identical to that of my great grandmothers that I had visited some 12 years prior in the beautiful village of El Gallo, Guerrero, Mexico. I had made it home at last and it was the first time in a very long time that my heart felt completely at ease and at peace in a place so familiar, it was as though I had always been there. It is in these moments that I am certain I am the daughter of a lowly country girl and an old fashioned caballero. My blood can’t help but crave the beauty of its ancestry.
Upon entering, we were kindly asked to sit beneath the open patio, cooled and shaded by layers of dried palm leaves, and were quickly given a cup of water by Raja’s smiling wife. We were introduced to all whom lived there, which included Raja’s younger brother and his beautiful wife as well as Raja’s wife Usha. We talked and admired the beauty of the landscape, while enjoying a spicy, crunchy, nutty treat that Usha had prepared for us. We sat for moments in silence breathing in the sweetness of the air and listening intently to the wild calls of the birds, monkeys, and insects that surrounded us. The sun was still awake though slowly drifting off, and Raja decided it a good time to view the mountains from a little ways up, into the forest. We walked close behind him as he calmly glided through the forest towards a place he had been countless times before. On a small incline we sat and turned to see the mountains as the sun began to loose its shine. He sat beside us and told us that this was one of the best places to view the mountains in all their glory, and was the one spot he gathered many a friends and family to simply sit and watch the day with. He looked around and picked at random leaves from the shrubs and trees and told us their uses in both ayurvedic medicines and in other households needs. One leaf he picked was used as an antibiotic for cows, while another was used as an itch relief for rashes and insect bites. It became very clear to me; very soon, that Raja and all the rest of villagers were just as in touch with the land as the most ardent gardener is to his blossoms. They know the sounds of every bird that embellishes the wind, the purpose of every wild and domesticated crop that consumes the land, the language of the cattle they keep for company and milk, and most of all, the healing powers in the purity of nature. Wise and pensive like the grandfather one imagines only in story books, Raja spoke the words that were necessary and more then often sat silently chewing away at his areca seeds wrapped in beetle leaf laced with lime. I needn’t explain how rare it is to find someone you can sit in comfortable silence beside; Raja was more of a long kept friend that a stranger we’d just met in the middle of the forest.
Once night had taken the color from the sky a smiling man arrived in a jeep. He was a close friend of Raja’s who had agreed to transport us to a sugarcane plantation a few km up the road. I did not know what to expect and was overwhelmed already by the littering of stars that covered the night sky as we winded our way to a plantation that could only be reached by bumpy dirt road. In 15 minutes time we arrived, and were greeted by curios men’s faces that were hardly distinguishable in the darkness of the night. And then all at once, we were guided through the trees to a lighted area where stood two huge iron cauldrons boiling a substance I had at that moment not the slightest idea. Peering into them was like looking into a cloud, with smoke so dense it made the layer atop the pot seem as though its contents were overflowing. Raja’s friend, the plantation worker who had invited us to come, was quick to inform me that what I was looking at was pure Jaggery (palm cane sugar) in the process of a 6 day boiling bath. It smelled wonderful and looked absolutely frightful, as the thick bubbles of hot liquid popped in their heat resembling that of a witch’s Halloween brew. I took photos and was advised to capture the beauty of the boiling point by Raja. All the farmers were captivated by the cameras ability and crowded around to see what it could do. I entertained them until I was asked to sit and enjoy my first cup of natural sugarcane juice. An engine roared behind us and three men got in position, one in the way of the machine to feed it sugar cane, another in the vicinity of the crank to keep the motor going, and the last in the way of a long bamboo tube that fed the end product into a large bucket. I watched with pure delight as a cup of sugarcane juice was prepared for each of us and sat in giddy anticipation. I took a sip and much to my delight it was one of the most delicious things I have ever had to drink. Sweet and warm, it was like a sugary cup of tea that warmed you to your core and sweetened you until you couldn’t help but smile. The crowd of farmers and their curious families watched and smiled realizing the look of childlike happiness that overwhelmed us with ever sip we took. After two large cupfuls and a plate of popped rice and peanuts we were full and surprisingly sleepy. Not wanted to let us go without a taste and an understanding of it all, we were then given a large helping each of Jaggery on a leaf and taught the cooling process. To my surprise, once the boiled jaggery was taken off the flame it was only a matter of a day of cooling in a flat box like container that sat on the ground covered by a criss-crossed grill looking top. The whole process was a matter of the color of the jaggery, which at its finest, was a sandy blond color. The one we were given to taste was said to have been boiled a few hours to long, thus the color had darkened to a shade of cherry wood. The taste of it was like a mixture of dark brown sugar and raw molasses, it’s something to get use to, and till now, I still haven’t. We ended the night’s extravaganza in the home of the workers which was built long ago and wore the intricate cravings of its age. The only worker that could speak a bit of English explained that the plantation had been in his family for seven generations, and he was the eighth. I couldn’t help but be moved by the passion that drove this man to produce some of the rarest form of jaggery still produced throughout the nation. He and Raja helped to explain that some 20 years past the art of Jaggery making became commercialized and its producers began to mass produce the product for companies, all the while tampering with the product as a means to produce more for less. Most jaggery found in the market nowadays is lined with sand and a few other mystery ingredients, leaving the true taste, for many, lost and forgotten. Even I can attest to this fact having seen the sandy dry looking jaggery being sold at the “organic” store in the Ashram. I feel truly honored to have seen the origins of a product that has blessed this land with sweet concoctions that one can now find throughout the nation in bakery shops that line the streets of any promenade. I couldn’t have dreamed that such a beautiful display of love and pride for sugar production would have ever been shown to me; this has been the pinnacle event of my research, and has shifted my approach to the focal points of my study completely.
I was filled with a nostalgia that consumed me as we ventured back through the roads to Raja’s home. I could hardly believe what I had just experienced and the luck I had stumbled upon in such a spontaneous decision to come. I was all smiles for the rest of the night, with a giddiness in my heart that I can’t hardly describe. Usha was ready with dinner when we arrived and although the juice had taken our hunger, upon seeing the meal prepared I regained a bit of it back. On a banana leaf, freshly cut, we were served freshly germinated plant seeds, spiced with lemon, salt, chili, and shaved coconut, a potato palia, laced with onions, chili, and mustard seeds, an unexpected tablespoon of sugar, and two freshly made pieces of chappati (a flat bread similar to a flour tortilla). It was deliciously light, tasty, and 100% pure veg. I was in the forest eating the plants that surrounded me, and my god you would not believe how incredibly tasty it proved to be. After all the ill effects that the food of Goa had had on our digestion this was a cure that worked to set our bodies back in motion. Ian after several days of unrelenting diarrhea was cured in a matter of two days. A pure veg. diet definitely has its share of healing powers, and I am all too convinced of this fact after having spent the last couple months with only a handful of non-veg meals in my tummy. Ian of course could never do without his fish, eggs, and occasional helping of pork, but all in all I think he too is starting to realize the ill effects of meat, especially beef, on his body. Each meal we had thereafter was similar to our first, always with a spread of at least three items in addition to our chappati or rice or sometimes both. The intention was always to maintain a balance of proteins, spice, and grains. Almost every dish there had available a chili mixed within the dish and a heavy hand of turmeric in the spicing. Both ingredients were said to be necessary for their overall health benefits in at least one of your every day meals. We had them, more then often, in all three. I learned with great fascination that turmeric is also the spice most loved by Indian women. It is used to make kumkum, the red powder (made red by the addition of lime) that Hindu women use to dot their foreheads after prayer, and in its pure form, is used to rub on the skin as a beautifying agent, that once washed away makes the skin glow. Upon departing from a visit to ones home, the woman of the house will bring out her beautiful silver or gold canisters of kumkum and turmeric for you to use on your face as she blesses you and thanks you for offering your presence in her home. It is a beautiful custom that again I felt overwhelmed with gratitude for having been introduced to, and one I hope to adopt for my own visitors back home. The hospitality given in any Indian home, especially within a Hindu home, is unforgettable. As far as Hindu’s are concerned, you are a god so long as you are their guest, and they take no time at all in making sure you know so. It is customary law that they offer you food and drink, water does not count as I sadly found out, and must tend to your every need so as to offer you the level of comfort they feel you deserve. Not being one for such royal treatment, I was abashed and at times a bit discontent at not being able to lift a finger to help. It is something I don’t think I could get use to as it is in my nature to be completely otherwise. Nonetheless to see it in the context of its cultural significance is something I will never forget.
Our second day spent in the forest was on a surprise pilgrimage to a temple in the sky. At the time that the jeep dropped us at the bottom of a hill I had no idea where we going or that is was to take another four more grueling hours, up hill, until we were to arrive. Had I known, I would have vouched for a jeep like all the rest of the visitors who passed us along the way. Because even with our enthusiasm for being in nature, we were no match for the bumpy dirt roads that wound in an out for over 9 km up the mountain that I later found out was the one we had admired at a distance with Raja just the afternoon before. By the time we had reached the rest stop, which consisted of several small temples, a pool of river water to wash your feet in, and a vendors stand of cold drinks and snacks, we were exhausted with throbbing feet and aching backs. Worst of all, the young man who was guiding us all the way in his dense silence and quick strides, never broke a sweat or drank a drop of water. We must have seemed like a couple of fat children slugging our way up a mountain that for him, was nothing more then a walk in the park. Looking back at it now, we can laugh and say we conquered a mountain that led us to a beautiful place, but at the time our spirits were irredeemable. After a rest and a washing of the feet it was another 3-4 km up a very steep hill to where the saints of the Hindu faith were said to have first prayed many years ago. Slow like an elder who’d lost her cane, I crept up the mountain side behind our guide and Ian until we reached a silent and overwhelmingly peaceful cave on the edge of the mountain side. Shaded by trees and covered from the elements by sheer design of its making, the cave gave one a feeling of comfort like no other. We made an offering and stood silent for a while, listening to the echoing sound of the wind as it hit the walls of the cave. I felt revived but still with sore soles, and again the journey went on. When we came to the top of the mountain at last, there stood a small grey, red lettering embellished temple, dead center at the peak of the cliff side. We slowly ventured towards it, left our shoes, and walked up the heated stone. We admired the art work that decorated the walls and made an offering to the man cross-legged sitting inside. He gave us a tsp of water to throw over our head and a single flower to adorn in my hair. We took in the breeze that was ever stronger at such a high peak, and slowly made our way back down to call an end to our feat. I called Raja on the only payphone available at the rest stop and told him we could not manage a trek back down the mountainside. He arranged us a jeep and in a few minutes time we were back on the bumpy road, headed back to where we began. We ended the night with good conversation, a short lesson in Kannada by friends, and a delicious meal consisting of chutney, palia, rice, and chappati, all made with love by Usha.
In a farmers wifes life the day begins before the roosters crow, and so before I could tell the wall from the contents that lined its shelf’s I heard the sound of pots and the busy chopping sounds of Usha’s small and precise hands. Unfortunately something had infected my bladder in the mid day heat of our long journey yesterday and I was up and down to the bathroom from then on until the doctor paid a house visit. I attempted to ease my discomfort with only consuming water, but it proved to be fruitless as the day was one spent visiting friends and family of Raja’s and water was not an option for a drink. Usha upon hearing me awake quickly brought me a cup of coffee and niru (water). It was the first of about 15 cups of coffee I would have that day, and although they would all be very small and delicious cups, the measurement of less then a ¼ cup, with the urges I had at the time it was the worst possible thing. When Raja and Ian awoke we got ready to set off to Raja’s best friends house a km away, for breakfast and a friendly visit. We arrived and enjoyed a cup of coffee, met his wife, brother, sister-in-law, and mother, and were invited into the kitchen area to have a simple breakfast of a rice noodle dish simply spiced and complimented with jaggery. It was tasty and followed with yet another cup of coffee. The owner of the house, whose name fleets from memory now, showed us around his land and with much enthusiasm displayed his natural running sprinkler system that needed no pumps and was supplied from the nearby running river. Such a thing was had only by innovation, and the pride in having them was one we would soon learn about as the day went on. The enthusiasm in his voice reminded me of my fathers and his own inventions that he always seems to show in the most fascinating of ways; because despite your ignorance about what he’s telling you, you always seem to come away feeling just as proud about it as if you knew, all along, what he was talking about. Our host continued to give us the tour and eventually brought us to the shaded patio to sit with the rest of the family, as they busily de-husked the areca seeds and sorted them into piles. We departed after a third cup of coffee and smiles all around. The next house we visited was that of another friend, who had the slim and well kept manner of a gentleman, and the kind and soft demeanor of a wise man. He offered us a drink of ebaka juice, a juice made from a fruit grown wild in the forest that could last up to a whole year without any preservatives. It was absolutely delicious but would prove to upset my stomach some several hours later. Its sweet taste left a hint of fermentation on your tongue that Ian liked so much he had three cups without pause. Raja enjoyed another leaf of areca and we were on our way back to his house to rest until our visits with the family. On our walk back we noticed a band of monkeys jumping in the trees very near to Raja’s patty field, we ventured back on our own to watch them until we scared them, just with our presence, all away from view. We lounged about listening to Raja’s wise philosophies and entertaining ourselves with the scenery. The first rice patty field was already starting to be plowed and we listened as the workers spoke in the language of the ox to maneuver them up and down the length of the field. The hues of a fading day dawned upon us and we were off, this time with Usha, to the families house of Usha’s sister in-law. Through a well beaten track that left us surrounded on either side by dense forest, we travelled behind the footsteps of Usha, Retna, and their friend. They named some of the passing flora for us and talked happily amongst themselves until we arrived at a beautiful aqua house overlooking a household garden. Three women, two young and one old were sitting on the floor beneath the shaded patio shifting through freshly picked peppercorns. They smiled up at us as we passed and entered into their home. After an offering of coffee and a salty crunchy snack we were toured around the land by a son who spoke rather good English. He showed us their areca trees, growing entwined with the vines of vanilla pods, as well as the coconut trees and peppercorn vines that latched tightly onto them, but most importantly, he showed us his sprinkler system and the natural pool of water from which they operated. After much conversation we headed to another house to repeat another visit in exactly the same manner. Eventually when the sky began to change its mood we said our last good byes and started on our downward trek back to Raja’s house.
Our last day and night spent in the beautiful village of Kodachadri was one of rest. We were to wake at 8am the next morning to catch the first and last bus that would travel to Nittur. It was a happy goodbye but one that sadly lingers even now, a week later, as I recount our experiences and miss the wise consoling words and teachings of one of the most beautiful persons I’ve ever met, Raja Viecarem. When we return to this enchanted land, Raja is the first person on my list that we are to pay a visit to. Our trip back to Trasi was swift and without trouble, and we arrived just a little past our projected time of 12 noon. Exhausted, mostly from the heat and smells of travel, we showered, ate, and rested until the heat of the next day woke us from our dreams.
Our last week spent in Trasi has been full of delicious food and travel to the nearby junctions and towns. Sunivay takes us around whenever he has a chance to, and is in the midst of learning how to drive his new car that he bought just a few days ago. Tuesday we spent several hours aimlessly wandering the streets of Udupi, the capital city of the Udupi district of which Trasi and all the small neighboring junctions belong. Littered with street vendors of ever sort, from cold drinks to ayurvedic drug stores, we found ourselves overwhelmed by the hustle and bustle of the street cars, pedestrians, and buses that crowded every street corner. Overcome by heat, we stopped for a milkshake and a cool bottle of water to sit and watch the crowds rush by with. Stumbling upon a bookstore we bought a summarized version of the holy book of Vedas in hopes to learn some of the fascinating stories that the Hindu religion is built upon. Not finding much else to do, we decided to head back to our quiet home on the beach to read and satisfy our now fatigued bodies with some rest. Thursday evening was an enchanting night filled with music and story that we happened to stumble across upon entering a temple with Sunivay in the central town of Kundapura. It was a showing of the story of Rama, and although it was in Kannada the story was not to hard to follow, especially having recognized some of the key words, such as brother, wife, and happiness. Sunivay filled in most of the blanks for us while we enjoyed the soulful beats of the drums and the voice of the mantra singer. By the time it was over all the shops had closed and all the buses had stopped running, we hopped on the back of Sunivay’s bike and traveled under starlight back to our home. Along the way we heard the pulse of drumming in the street, and soon we passed a stretch of people, some holding torches, some holding bowls of contents I could not tell, crossing the road behind a single drummer. Sunivay said it was the traditional proceedings for a death in the village and/or family. All that followed were heading to the house of the dead to offer their blessings and partake in the rituals of a traditional funeral. I wanted to follow but did not dare ask, so I watched as we passed the march of mourning until their fire dimmed to the light of a candlestick. The next morning we ventured back into Kundapura, this time in search of a library that Sunivay had told us about. Having exhausted the words of all our books in stow I was on the hunt for something new. After several inquiries and one route of misdirection we found it hidden behind a great tree and several larger buildings. Misjudging by the small size I instantly mistook the quaint little library as one short of treasure, I was very much mistaken. Every row that I could tell was full of books that wore their age in layers of dust and worn pages fragile enough to tear upon touch. I absolutely love old books, the way they smell, they way they’re bound, and most off all the tender care taken to write the most touching dedications. Of recent authors I must say the biggest note they lake is that of a good dedication. It is after all one of the first thoughts a reader sees upon opening a book; you would think it would be given its fair bit of attention. In this library, I could spend the entirety of a day reading through the thought provoking dedications that such clever and unknown writers have managed to conjure up. We will be returning very soon. In the mean time we are preparing for another three or four day stay in a nearby village for the viewing of a traditional Brahmin wedding being held somewhere In the mountains. Tomorrow I will be going with Sunivay’s wife to pick out a suitable and affordable saree for the occasion. I am decorating my hands with Henna as I don’t have any jewels and hoping that they will come out just right. Again, I can’t wait to tell you about all the details…so stay tuned…
P.S. Sorry about the negligence to post pictures, I have too many at the moment, and the internet here is far to slow to try and upload even a small handful. I’ll try to do a little at a time when I get the chance.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Between A River and the Sea
…I’ve always thought that a writer’s inability to convey a thing purely through the use of his words was a fault all his own, something of a weakness for such a player of expressions; but after having spent the last few weeks searching and searching through the words I know, for something to show, to say, to be what I mean and finding none to suffice, I’ve starting to reason that maybe I haven’t the words because they do not exist in the language I know how to express them in. A while back I read an article that discussed the relationship between identity and language and how a person, a culture, a truth, can only be, in so far as ones language permits it. Aldoux Huxley, a favorite author of mine, reiterated this fact to state the truths of everyman as essentially one in the same, by pointing out that everyone creates and understands everything they know to be as true in a language particular to their roots, thus what one man understands as a mountain another understands as a slumbering giant. And curiously enough, as the days pass and I am left facing the blank pages of my journal this single theory of knowing is my only consolation in my realizing that everything I know is neither relevant nor true in the world into which I’ve now come…
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Goa, another fatal side effect of Globalization....
I've made a huge mistake! It is our 6th day stuck in Goa, and we are running short on optimism. I have never been so misdirected by research as I have now, and I am in a lingering state of disbelief. We are in the tourist capital of India, or at least it seems, with every nook and cranny filled with the poisons of modern society. Drugs, alcohol, and poverty are everywhere, and with freshly tattooed half-naked Europeans crowding the streets on their motor bikes it is hard to believe that I've traveled any further then Venice beach, California. We can't hardly afford two meals a day, as the prices on everything are so steep here that even a couple days worth of groceries amounts to well over 800 rps for basic necessities. It is impossible to budget without going hungry, so you can imagine how well my research is going, and how happy Ian's tummy is. People crowd here from all around the world to play lover to the beautiful coast lines and black sand beaches, and yet they cannot leave without remnants of their coming. Trash litters the edges of the coast, from everything to water and beer bottles, to sun glasses and smokers pipes. The style of dress, the food, the peoples attitudes, the entire culture for what its worth, has become a mirror of every other entity that's ever exposed itself to this coastal state. For me, it has been one of the biggest heartaches I've ever had to face, so much so that it has made me wonder if I am cut out to be the anthropologist I so passionately hope to one day be. I feel so foolish and out of place here that it has become hard to want to do anything outside the safe confines of our homestay room. But I am not going to have this be a complete waste of time, and so we have been spending much time walking about hoping to come upon any opportunity that might present itself. A restaurant we've come to frequent for their comfy atmosphere, friendly hosts, and cheap drinks, has invited me into their kitchen, but the majority of their clientele seem to order European inspired dishes, and I don't know how much good it will do me to see how bruchetta or a BLT are made. I have stumbled across a local man who sells ayurvedic remedies sold in old honey jars, but every time I glance his way he begins to try to sell me something, in a less then comforting manner. Unfortunately given the heavy flow of tourism year round here, every vendor attempts to sell you their goods as though you were deft and rich. Haggling is the way of doing business here, and quite frankly I am awful at it and it makes me extremely uncomfortable. There is a flea market up the coast that we stumbled across just yesterday, and you cannot imagine how many beautiful things you can find there. Antique Indian art and jewelry, cloth tents, embellished bags, leather sandals and bags, light fixtures, musical instruments, spices and tea, and the most beautiful clothes I've ever seen are all that line the maze that is the market. If I was here for a shorter time, with more money, I would be shopping and haggling like no other, but for now my efforts must be aimed elsewhere, for the sake of my research and our well-being. I know many would find this place a little paradise, and I suppose its accommodations are nice, but coming from where we've been this place is an embarrassment to the beauty of this country. Its like being in Acapulco, Mexico when you could be in a finca in Guerrero. I am not a tourist, never have been, and its awful to have to be one, for the first time. The best we can do is pretend we are on vacation, but my god how home sick we've become for the dear sweet India we know outside this illusion.....
Thursday, January 27, 2011
On the road again.....
Inspiration has a way of evading silence, a means of always making itself known, moving like a strong gust of wind that reminds you you’re awake. If I had but one thing to say of our first months stay here in India I would have to say it been a very windy few days. With January coming to a close and our stay here in Munnar quickly coming to its end, I am filled with a flood of emotions, most prevalent being that of curiosity. I have exhausted my research outlets here and this last week has sadly proven it to me. The baker I had spoke of hoping to meet last week was no where to be found, the priest no where to be disturbed, and the chocolate makers more evasive then the camouflaged frogs we’ve glimpsed at near lily pad ponds. I thought I’d gotten a lucky break when on Wednesday morning the friendly mechanic we pass everyday on our way to town greeted us with a “happy independence day;” much to my dismay upon inquiring as to whether there would be any celebrations in town that evening I was told simply “not here, not today.” It was another day gone without research. And although it has been disheartening, I suppose I should be in good spirits about it, because quite frankly this past week has also been my bodies most uncomfortable as well. Some of the bacteria here have caught up to me and thankfully only me, leaving many of my nights induced and many of the mornings fatigued. (At current in writing this I have hypersaliva and the awful shakes from a bowl of dhal fry I had for dinner along with a bad drink of water, Ian is purging and we are taking as many drugs as we've got :(. We even had the unfortunate experience of a purchased bottle of water that had been filled with contaminated water. I had read in my research prior to coming that often times vendors will burn a hole through the bottom of water bottles in order to refill and resell them. They create a makeshift seal, which is hard to catch unless you pay attention. Luckily I sensed something was wrong with it on my first small gulp, as the aftertaste in my mouth tasted rancid, and quickly tossed it. We just nearly escaped what could have been an awful episode of vomiting and diarrhea. Thankfully, Ian has really only been suffering from indigestion, as he loves to stuff his face with whatever tasty dish he can get his paws on right before we call it a night. I know overall it is our bodies adjusting to the local vegetation, being it as we’ve been eating quite a bit more of it these last few weeks, and I am all to glad for this. I think Ian has a stronger stomach then I do, especially since he’s been more risky then I in eating everything from fish to cold deep fried masala chicken pies sold by the local street vendors. Overall we are both still healthy with no need to worry.
Our departure from Munnar is scheduled for next Wednesday, February 3rd. We are heading to the nearest train station In Ernakulum by bus and are hoping to stay with our Indian family in fort Cochin for the night to catch our train by 5:50am the next morning; the train station is less then 15km from their home, so it seems like our best bet. The ride is about 13 hours from Ernakulum to Goa and we will be traveling in a sleeper car, we are so excited about this I doubt either of us will find much time for sleep, but even still, I’m glad for it as I’ve heard the trains can get extremely packed and become very uncomfortable. Our decision to head to Goa was inspired by an article I had saved on my computer from my previous semester’s research. It spoke of the Portuguese food identity found particularly and only in the state of Goa. India has had many invaders and much can be said of any one of them and what they’ve left behind, but what caught my attention about the Portuguese invaders was that in regards to food, their influence proved so strong and complimentary to that of the local food that centuries after their departure, unique dishes, found nowhere else in India, are still served at large throughout the state today. It is said that some of these invaders never left because of this, and it is known that the Indians of Goa are slightly lightly in appearance then most others found in Southern India. I found this tidbit of food history fascinating and reason enough to check it out for myself. This is why we are heading to Goa instead of Mangalore for the time being. We have booked a room at a homestay in a local village only a few dozen km from the main city. Staying in any major metropolitan area will be a whole lot more expensive then staying in the outskirts, and personally I rather enjoy village life much more then city life. The people are more personal, humble, and curious of us, making the otherwise uncanny encounters with them all the more frequent. Staying in Munnar has made this apparent to us, and I would even say that much of the experiences I’ve had here, with the people, may very well make up for the lack of research I’ve managed to attain. They have perhaps taught me the exact aim of my first months assignment, which was to find and place myself into the cultural context that surrounds me; which I must admit has not been difficult in the least. Indians are by far some of the friendliest people I’ve ever had the opportunity to meet. They have an energy about them that I cannot say I’ve ever experienced with any other type or group of people before. As populated as their country has become and as hurriedly as their major cities attempt to modernize the masses, the humble attitudes of the everyday people remain peaceful and grateful for what this live has provided them. There is a tale in ancient Indian mythology that speaks of the voyage of death, and in understanding it is easy to see why so many Indians live happily even when subject to grave poverty. It is told that life and death is circular and possibly everlasting, thus what one life accomplishes in a moment is but a piece of what its entire life’s accomplishments will amount to at its end. The ultimate journey across the river will be the final journey towards death, and can only come upon the soul who’s fulfilled his/hers entire life’s intent. If there has ever been a belief I’ve ever believed more strongly in, it is this, as it reminds me that no matter how much I feel I’ve failed in my endeavors, my efforts in attempting to do it at all will ultimately be what counts in the end. Both of mine and Ian’s greatest challenge as individuals in our fields has been remembering this, and we often feed off each others frustrations when we feel we’ve failed. Thankfully this week it has only been I whose felt disappointed, as he has been working with sounds he acquired from a church gathering last Sunday. Be watching for a couple of new song on his soundcloud (link is on our facebook)…I’m sure he’ll be publishing very soon.
This week has gone just as fast as the others with much of our time spent eating, people watching, eating, and movie watching. They sell some of the most awful bootleg movies here for less then a $1, that give us something to listen to while I play with my spices and Ian with his computer games. We have been coming in for the day much earlier then we have been mostly because the state of my stomach, but also because we find nothing left to do. One afternoon we found ourselves in a bar, for research purposes of course , that was located in a fancy guest house just a km up from town, affordable only by tourists, so I was less then hesitant to walk in. It was very dark and small, with a couple of men serving at the bar, and another few sitting and enjoying a couple of beers. I ordered a lime soda along with my shot of rum so that I could conceal the fact that I was drinking. I don’t think it was necessary as it is well known In India how much Americans like their drink. One man even told us that a shot of any hard liquor is called an American. This was amusing and yet a bit embarrassing all the same. As we started on our first drink an older British Gentleman approached us and asked if he could join us in conversation. He seemed nice enough, not as offensive as many of the European travelers we’ve stumbled across, and eventually proved to be quite the interesting character. He was traveling by motorbike across the state with his 80 year old father and was all too happy to have conversation with someone much younger; He said we made him miss his wife who he had met in India 10 years prior. We discussed everything from religion to food, politics to Indian hospitality and eventually called it a night. He paid the entirety of our bill and told us we were two of the most positive people he had ever met. It has been a comforting thought to see and know that our intentions our felt and understood by most everyone we meet here, Indian and non-Indian alike. It makes me think that we all need to be a bit nicer to each other, as it comes as too much of a surprise to too many a people when you simply treat them like a human being. Just yesterday Ian had asked if the young man that runs the internet café we frequent would help him out with some music for his recordings. He copied him over 150 songs and when we offered to pay him he simply said “for you, nothing.” We always take off our shoes when we enter his station, even if the others haven’t, and we always say hello to him and ask him how he is when we pass him in town. These seemingly simply offerings of acknowledgment have made all the difference to him, and he now treats us like friends. He always offers us the most genuine smiles when we enter and when we leave, and we do just the same In return. I can truly say that kindness transposes translation, and I know it has been our efforts in doing so that have gotten us as far as we’ve come.
Most everyone we’ve purchased parcels from in town recognizes us and says hello to Ian by name. I don’t think it is culturally acceptable to do the same with me, as I am a woman, but their smiles let me know I’ve at least been acknowledged. The young girls and men love Ian here, and seem to find him irresistibly attractive. It is utterly hilarious to see them giggle and talk amongst themselves as we pass by. He loves to think when it is a group of young men that they are looking at me, but on more then one occasion it has obviously been him that they favor. And although by our cultural standards this might sound homosexual, here it is obvious that the relationships shared between men are just as publicly affectionate, if not more so, as those shared between heterosexual couples back home. I have yet to see a man and woman being affectionate in public, and so my assumption is that men’s pent up desires for touch are thus given to their best friends, their brothers, and their male classmates instead. They hold hands, hug each other, put their arms around each other as they walk, and even caress each others faces. It’s always a bit amusing for us, but we’ve noticed that it is actually used as a tactic to get attention from the opposite sex. This is especially apparent in the school yards and wherever large groups of young hormone driven teens conjugate. It has definitely been something to get use to, but I must admit that the innocence of it all it rather refreshing to see from a sex that is so subjected to masculinity back home. Makes me think that many of the feminists that claim the male sex as polar opposite to that of females have never traveled outside the confines of their own cultures biases.
My favorite days spent here have been those where we simply just people watch. It is amazing how comforting it can be just sitting amongst a wave of people coexisting around you, living and thriving for reasons that would seem infinite to one minds understanding. I’ve always prided myself on never having had the ache of homesickness, but I must admit that I, as well as Ian, have definitely been feeling the pangs of it as of late. Little things brings memories of my mom to mind, like the smell the masa from the bread here I love so much, or the way I clean and recycle my plastic zip lock bags. Every lounging farmer, tired and beat from a hard days labor, seems to remind me of my dad and his one simple wish to eventually live and subsist simply, amongst a world that he knows has grown far too complicated. Even the small trash bin in our bathroom reminds me of my brother, and his favorite seat in our parent’s kitchen, the trashcan. Every time I crush garlic or make my strawberry preserve I am reminded of how simple it was to make him smile with just a smell and a taste. Just yesterday morning Ian got a bit angry with me for having woken him from a dream he was having where in which him and his mom were spending time together, discussing what they should eat for lunch of course, just the two of them. Often times the strangest things will trigger a long held memory, for instance the sight of the young boy and his father that live just below our homestay, tending their land, always reminds Ian of the days he used to spend helping his own dad destroy and tend the unruly landscape that used to surround their house. He’ll recall everything in an instant as though it were only yesterday. He has by far had the pangs a bit worse then I; especially since our last few months were spent living at his parent’s. He says he can’t wait to walk down the street with his arms around his brothers, like they do here, so be prepared Sebastian and Chub. It seems everyday brings a reminder of someone from back home, and although we regret not being able to speak to everyone on a more personal basis, I hope you all know that our memories of you are bringing us more comfort then you can possibly imagine. My professor warned me that the third week of field work is usually the hardest, and I can’t help but realize just how right she was. For me, I know it has a lot to do with the beauty that makes this place what it is that makes me miss and wish I could share it with everyone I love back home. My pictures and words can only convey my own interpretations, but to get them for yourself is always a completely different and worthy reality. I can only hope that what I’ve shared will have you as my reader inspired to see it all for yourself. But, there is still much exploration left for me to do, and many more stories left for me to hear and share with you, so for now I’ll leave you with a bit of my culinary experimentations to play with until next time. Namaste and we love and miss you all…
Magdalena prawn soup
This little recipe was born out of an attempt to satisfy Ian’s overwhelming hunger for large amounts of seafood. The recipe is for 1kg of prawns, so make sure you have friends to share it with.
Ingredients
Prawns 1 kg
Corn 2 ears, cut in quarters
Butter 1/3 cup
Garlic (8) 4 minced, 4 crushed
Coconut Oil 2 tbsp
Mustard Seeds 1 tsp.
Fenugreek 1 tsp.
Ginger 1” piece, minced
Dry chilly pepper 2, roughly chopped
Curry leaves 2 sprigs, about 15 leaves
Shallots Large handful, chopped+ 5-6 to throw in whole
Turmeric powder 1 ½ tbsp
Chilly powder 1 tbsp or to taste
Coriander powder 2 tbsp
Garam Masala 1 tbsp
Salt to taste
Pepper to taste
lemon juice to taste
Method
In a large sauce pan heat butter and sauté minced garlic until slightly browned, adding salt to taste; set aside in a separate bowl. In the same pan heat up the coconut oil and add the mustard seeds and fenugreek until they splutter, add in ginger, dry red chillies, curry leaves, and chopped shallots and sauté until the shallots have become almost transparent. Add in turmeric, chilly, coriander, garam masala, salt, and pepper and sauté for a few moments more. Turn off the heat and add in the butter garlic sauce, the remaining garlic cloves, lemon juice and a small cup of water. Add In the prawns and chopped ears of corn and mix well with the sauce, let sit for at least ½ hour. Add in enough water to cook the prawns and corn and let cook until corn has become soft and prawns have turned to a pale shade of pink. *Because prawns cook rather fast you may want to pre-soak your corn before cooking so as not to overcook the prawns. Also if you want this dish to have more of a sauce like texture then a soupy like one, try thickening the broth with a bit of coconut paste while the prawns and corn are cooking on a low heat.
This soup is very spicy and tasty, especially if you go through the trouble of using whole prawns and pealing the meat out of them once they’ve been cooked. There’s a lot of flavor in the heads that cannot be recreated with pre-pealed prawns. Also we ate this for breakfast the next morning, and after pealing them we reheated them and the flavor was simply delicious. This dish is best served over a bowl of steamed rice.
Happy cooking and hope you enjoy :)
Our departure from Munnar is scheduled for next Wednesday, February 3rd. We are heading to the nearest train station In Ernakulum by bus and are hoping to stay with our Indian family in fort Cochin for the night to catch our train by 5:50am the next morning; the train station is less then 15km from their home, so it seems like our best bet. The ride is about 13 hours from Ernakulum to Goa and we will be traveling in a sleeper car, we are so excited about this I doubt either of us will find much time for sleep, but even still, I’m glad for it as I’ve heard the trains can get extremely packed and become very uncomfortable. Our decision to head to Goa was inspired by an article I had saved on my computer from my previous semester’s research. It spoke of the Portuguese food identity found particularly and only in the state of Goa. India has had many invaders and much can be said of any one of them and what they’ve left behind, but what caught my attention about the Portuguese invaders was that in regards to food, their influence proved so strong and complimentary to that of the local food that centuries after their departure, unique dishes, found nowhere else in India, are still served at large throughout the state today. It is said that some of these invaders never left because of this, and it is known that the Indians of Goa are slightly lightly in appearance then most others found in Southern India. I found this tidbit of food history fascinating and reason enough to check it out for myself. This is why we are heading to Goa instead of Mangalore for the time being. We have booked a room at a homestay in a local village only a few dozen km from the main city. Staying in any major metropolitan area will be a whole lot more expensive then staying in the outskirts, and personally I rather enjoy village life much more then city life. The people are more personal, humble, and curious of us, making the otherwise uncanny encounters with them all the more frequent. Staying in Munnar has made this apparent to us, and I would even say that much of the experiences I’ve had here, with the people, may very well make up for the lack of research I’ve managed to attain. They have perhaps taught me the exact aim of my first months assignment, which was to find and place myself into the cultural context that surrounds me; which I must admit has not been difficult in the least. Indians are by far some of the friendliest people I’ve ever had the opportunity to meet. They have an energy about them that I cannot say I’ve ever experienced with any other type or group of people before. As populated as their country has become and as hurriedly as their major cities attempt to modernize the masses, the humble attitudes of the everyday people remain peaceful and grateful for what this live has provided them. There is a tale in ancient Indian mythology that speaks of the voyage of death, and in understanding it is easy to see why so many Indians live happily even when subject to grave poverty. It is told that life and death is circular and possibly everlasting, thus what one life accomplishes in a moment is but a piece of what its entire life’s accomplishments will amount to at its end. The ultimate journey across the river will be the final journey towards death, and can only come upon the soul who’s fulfilled his/hers entire life’s intent. If there has ever been a belief I’ve ever believed more strongly in, it is this, as it reminds me that no matter how much I feel I’ve failed in my endeavors, my efforts in attempting to do it at all will ultimately be what counts in the end. Both of mine and Ian’s greatest challenge as individuals in our fields has been remembering this, and we often feed off each others frustrations when we feel we’ve failed. Thankfully this week it has only been I whose felt disappointed, as he has been working with sounds he acquired from a church gathering last Sunday. Be watching for a couple of new song on his soundcloud (link is on our facebook)…I’m sure he’ll be publishing very soon.
This week has gone just as fast as the others with much of our time spent eating, people watching, eating, and movie watching. They sell some of the most awful bootleg movies here for less then a $1, that give us something to listen to while I play with my spices and Ian with his computer games. We have been coming in for the day much earlier then we have been mostly because the state of my stomach, but also because we find nothing left to do. One afternoon we found ourselves in a bar, for research purposes of course , that was located in a fancy guest house just a km up from town, affordable only by tourists, so I was less then hesitant to walk in. It was very dark and small, with a couple of men serving at the bar, and another few sitting and enjoying a couple of beers. I ordered a lime soda along with my shot of rum so that I could conceal the fact that I was drinking. I don’t think it was necessary as it is well known In India how much Americans like their drink. One man even told us that a shot of any hard liquor is called an American. This was amusing and yet a bit embarrassing all the same. As we started on our first drink an older British Gentleman approached us and asked if he could join us in conversation. He seemed nice enough, not as offensive as many of the European travelers we’ve stumbled across, and eventually proved to be quite the interesting character. He was traveling by motorbike across the state with his 80 year old father and was all too happy to have conversation with someone much younger; He said we made him miss his wife who he had met in India 10 years prior. We discussed everything from religion to food, politics to Indian hospitality and eventually called it a night. He paid the entirety of our bill and told us we were two of the most positive people he had ever met. It has been a comforting thought to see and know that our intentions our felt and understood by most everyone we meet here, Indian and non-Indian alike. It makes me think that we all need to be a bit nicer to each other, as it comes as too much of a surprise to too many a people when you simply treat them like a human being. Just yesterday Ian had asked if the young man that runs the internet café we frequent would help him out with some music for his recordings. He copied him over 150 songs and when we offered to pay him he simply said “for you, nothing.” We always take off our shoes when we enter his station, even if the others haven’t, and we always say hello to him and ask him how he is when we pass him in town. These seemingly simply offerings of acknowledgment have made all the difference to him, and he now treats us like friends. He always offers us the most genuine smiles when we enter and when we leave, and we do just the same In return. I can truly say that kindness transposes translation, and I know it has been our efforts in doing so that have gotten us as far as we’ve come.
Most everyone we’ve purchased parcels from in town recognizes us and says hello to Ian by name. I don’t think it is culturally acceptable to do the same with me, as I am a woman, but their smiles let me know I’ve at least been acknowledged. The young girls and men love Ian here, and seem to find him irresistibly attractive. It is utterly hilarious to see them giggle and talk amongst themselves as we pass by. He loves to think when it is a group of young men that they are looking at me, but on more then one occasion it has obviously been him that they favor. And although by our cultural standards this might sound homosexual, here it is obvious that the relationships shared between men are just as publicly affectionate, if not more so, as those shared between heterosexual couples back home. I have yet to see a man and woman being affectionate in public, and so my assumption is that men’s pent up desires for touch are thus given to their best friends, their brothers, and their male classmates instead. They hold hands, hug each other, put their arms around each other as they walk, and even caress each others faces. It’s always a bit amusing for us, but we’ve noticed that it is actually used as a tactic to get attention from the opposite sex. This is especially apparent in the school yards and wherever large groups of young hormone driven teens conjugate. It has definitely been something to get use to, but I must admit that the innocence of it all it rather refreshing to see from a sex that is so subjected to masculinity back home. Makes me think that many of the feminists that claim the male sex as polar opposite to that of females have never traveled outside the confines of their own cultures biases.
My favorite days spent here have been those where we simply just people watch. It is amazing how comforting it can be just sitting amongst a wave of people coexisting around you, living and thriving for reasons that would seem infinite to one minds understanding. I’ve always prided myself on never having had the ache of homesickness, but I must admit that I, as well as Ian, have definitely been feeling the pangs of it as of late. Little things brings memories of my mom to mind, like the smell the masa from the bread here I love so much, or the way I clean and recycle my plastic zip lock bags. Every lounging farmer, tired and beat from a hard days labor, seems to remind me of my dad and his one simple wish to eventually live and subsist simply, amongst a world that he knows has grown far too complicated. Even the small trash bin in our bathroom reminds me of my brother, and his favorite seat in our parent’s kitchen, the trashcan. Every time I crush garlic or make my strawberry preserve I am reminded of how simple it was to make him smile with just a smell and a taste. Just yesterday morning Ian got a bit angry with me for having woken him from a dream he was having where in which him and his mom were spending time together, discussing what they should eat for lunch of course, just the two of them. Often times the strangest things will trigger a long held memory, for instance the sight of the young boy and his father that live just below our homestay, tending their land, always reminds Ian of the days he used to spend helping his own dad destroy and tend the unruly landscape that used to surround their house. He’ll recall everything in an instant as though it were only yesterday. He has by far had the pangs a bit worse then I; especially since our last few months were spent living at his parent’s. He says he can’t wait to walk down the street with his arms around his brothers, like they do here, so be prepared Sebastian and Chub. It seems everyday brings a reminder of someone from back home, and although we regret not being able to speak to everyone on a more personal basis, I hope you all know that our memories of you are bringing us more comfort then you can possibly imagine. My professor warned me that the third week of field work is usually the hardest, and I can’t help but realize just how right she was. For me, I know it has a lot to do with the beauty that makes this place what it is that makes me miss and wish I could share it with everyone I love back home. My pictures and words can only convey my own interpretations, but to get them for yourself is always a completely different and worthy reality. I can only hope that what I’ve shared will have you as my reader inspired to see it all for yourself. But, there is still much exploration left for me to do, and many more stories left for me to hear and share with you, so for now I’ll leave you with a bit of my culinary experimentations to play with until next time. Namaste and we love and miss you all…
Magdalena prawn soup
This little recipe was born out of an attempt to satisfy Ian’s overwhelming hunger for large amounts of seafood. The recipe is for 1kg of prawns, so make sure you have friends to share it with.
Ingredients
Prawns 1 kg
Corn 2 ears, cut in quarters
Butter 1/3 cup
Garlic (8) 4 minced, 4 crushed
Coconut Oil 2 tbsp
Mustard Seeds 1 tsp.
Fenugreek 1 tsp.
Ginger 1” piece, minced
Dry chilly pepper 2, roughly chopped
Curry leaves 2 sprigs, about 15 leaves
Shallots Large handful, chopped+ 5-6 to throw in whole
Turmeric powder 1 ½ tbsp
Chilly powder 1 tbsp or to taste
Coriander powder 2 tbsp
Garam Masala 1 tbsp
Salt to taste
Pepper to taste
lemon juice to taste
Method
In a large sauce pan heat butter and sauté minced garlic until slightly browned, adding salt to taste; set aside in a separate bowl. In the same pan heat up the coconut oil and add the mustard seeds and fenugreek until they splutter, add in ginger, dry red chillies, curry leaves, and chopped shallots and sauté until the shallots have become almost transparent. Add in turmeric, chilly, coriander, garam masala, salt, and pepper and sauté for a few moments more. Turn off the heat and add in the butter garlic sauce, the remaining garlic cloves, lemon juice and a small cup of water. Add In the prawns and chopped ears of corn and mix well with the sauce, let sit for at least ½ hour. Add in enough water to cook the prawns and corn and let cook until corn has become soft and prawns have turned to a pale shade of pink. *Because prawns cook rather fast you may want to pre-soak your corn before cooking so as not to overcook the prawns. Also if you want this dish to have more of a sauce like texture then a soupy like one, try thickening the broth with a bit of coconut paste while the prawns and corn are cooking on a low heat.
This soup is very spicy and tasty, especially if you go through the trouble of using whole prawns and pealing the meat out of them once they’ve been cooked. There’s a lot of flavor in the heads that cannot be recreated with pre-pealed prawns. Also we ate this for breakfast the next morning, and after pealing them we reheated them and the flavor was simply delicious. This dish is best served over a bowl of steamed rice.
Happy cooking and hope you enjoy :)
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