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.
I was moved by your observation about the similarities between where you are in India, and where you’ve been in Mexico and that home is where you find it. You often hear the term “dirt poor” to describe people living in poverty, but I’ve often thought that term should be “dirt rich” instead because these simple, humble but wise people have what most of us have lost: a direct connection to the land under their feet. Even if the land does not belong to them, they belong to the land. Love to you both.
ReplyDeleteJerry