At last, my journalism training is of some use...

This article was actually accepted by TerraGreen, a small environmental journal based in India, so I've taken it down since it's now theirs (I believe I may even be getting paid). Hopefully one day there will be a link to post here, but so far it's slow in coming... Indian Standard Time.

Deepauli

Check out the pictures!

The Hindu festival of lights, known as Diwali in other parts of the country, started off with a bang and quieted down from there. We’re at the farm for this major holiday after spending Monday and Tuesday at the office. The neighbors, who welcome any opportunities to scare the monkeys out of their areca trees, are lighting off fireworks at seven in the morning. Time for me to get up anyway.
In the kitchen, Sunita is already lighting the fire under the geezer, or wood-fired hot water heater. This is always quite a task because it’s so damp here, even newspaper must be coaxed into burning. But winter is moving in, it’s a chilly, misty morning, and hot water feels extra nice on days like this. Besides, it’s part of the pooja, or Deepauli ritual, to have a thorough scrub before moving on to the day’s other activities.
We have our baths (this is the common term, although dumping cups of water over yourself from a bucket feels more like a slow-paced shower to me) and head up to Mangu and Savithri’s house. Mangu is Sunita’s farmhand and since they live just a couple hundred feet away, it makes sense to combine activities. Besides, our biogas burner is malfunctioning (Again. There’s always plenty of gas but the stove itself always manages to break down). Since the central focus of Deepauli is on a midday feast, not having a stove is a hindrance.
As I clumsily grate coconut on the floor of Savithri’s kitchen, using a special round knife mounted on a board, Sunita toasts cashews in ghee (clarified butter that is to Indians what chocolate is to us) for paisa. Paisa is a pudding made from milk, molasses, vermicilli (a thin spaghetti-like pasta), and dried fruit and nuts. After that, I peel the turmeric roots, staining my fingers yellow. Between the red mosquito bites dotting my hands, the product of my night at the office when I forgot my repellant, and the new yellow tinge, I’m beginning to look like an Easter egg. Savithri and Mangu run around making flower and leaf garlands for the cows.
Deepauli is a three-day festival, each day focused on a different aspect of celebrations and rituals. Yesterday was the shopkeeper’s day, and they all hung the garlands in their stores, hired live musicians, and did pooja in their shops. Today is cow day, and it happens to fall on the day Sunita and I usually stay home from the office (the bumpy commute more than two times a week is too much). Plus, we’re on a farm, and that’s a great excuse to celebrate her four cows, who keep us in ample supplies of milk, yogurt, butter, ghee, buttermilk, and paneer cheese.
Around 1 pm, we all assemble at the cowshed. Savihtri has dusted white rangoli patterns on the dirt outside, accented with flowers. Sunita lights incense cones and a small brass lamp. Chanting quietly, she hangs mango leaves and holy basil (both sacred plants) on a line above the door, and rubs red kumkum powder and yellow turmeric on either side of the entrance.
Then the cow pooja begins. First, Mangu goes in and rubs the red and yellow powders on the cows’ foreheads. They’re already wearing their flower garlands and looking quite pretty. However, I get the distinct impression that they’d rather be out grazing, even though they’re curious about all the attention they’re suddenly getting. “Maybe there’s food involved,” I can almost here them telling each other. After the powder comes more flowers placed in the cavity behind their heads (these cows are significantly bonier than any American variety, though not skinny). Then Mangu waves the brass lamp around their heads, bathes their feet in water, and douses them with fresh coconut milk. Savithri follows with more kumkum.
Then, much to the cows’ relief, comes the food. The other three haven’t eaten all day (I only lasted till 10), because the pooja requires first offering the food to the cows before eating yourself. From a silver tray, we hand them bananas, apples, and balls of sweets. Then Savithri brings out the lunch itself: full meals laid out on banana leaves. The first cow seems more interested in the leaf than the rice, chutney and other dishes on top of it, but the others politely lick up the people food before devouring the leaves.
After that, spurred by the delicious smells now wafting from the cowshed, we apply the kumkum to our own foreheads and head inside to eat.
While I was grating and peeling, Savithri had prepared a feast. One by one, she ladles out her concoctions on my leaf. Rice topped with sambar, a liquidy, spicy dish with large chunks of colocasia root (a hearty tuber). A dahl made from lentils. Fried papads, which resemble large potato chips but are made from rice flour. A steamed rice flour loaf called carbu sliced into thick round pieces, topped with ghee. Cucumber and coconut salad. And, finally, a delicious turmeric chutney, sweet and spicy and lightly coconut-y at the same time. Of course, for dessert there is paisa. All of the food and flavors are specific to this area – Karnataka’s cuisine varies from one village to the next due to both their isolation and the particular vegetables and grains that are grown there. Colocasia and turmeric, for example, are found in every garden, so it’s not coincidence that they’re considered vital to the local Deepauli feast.
Having sampled everything thoroughly (the chutney three or four times), I am barely able to roll myself back down the path to Sunita’s house. The only thing to do now is take a long nap in the afternoon heat.

Mushtaq, the driver, is scheduled to come at 4:00 to take us on a few Deepauli visits. A bit like trick-or-treaters, Indians on Deepauli go around and visit all their friends and neighbors, bringing snacks from home and receiving even more snacks at every house. There’s even a sort of costuming involved – tradition states that everyone should wear new clothes. In anticipation of this, I’d happily gone to a mall in Bangalore (a surreal experience after a month on a farm) and purchased a new skirt and blouse. Unfortunately, I’d had no clean clothes upon arriving back at Sunita’s after the Bangalore trip, and needed something nice to wear for a festival in Yellapur. So I busted out the new clothes, assuming that they would stay new enough for Deepauli. It turned out to be a particularly rough day not only because the blouse spontaneously decided to lose a couple of its buttons (luckily most sari-wearers have plenty of safety pins), but also with the unexpected challenges of some intestinal trouble, village boys attempting to take pictures of me with camera phones, and a couple of conversion-bent Hindu men.
Anyway, all this meant that (since I am a great procrastinator) I would need to cut my nap short to sew my buttons back on and make sure that this time, there would be no wardrobe malfunctions in front of traditional women dressed in their finest.
When all has been secured, Sunita and I walk up the road to meet Mushtaq at the gate, carrying a large stalk of bananas and a basket with apples, oranges and containers of leftover paisa (Sunita cooked enough for a hungry elephant).
The first stop is Manorama’s. She’s a very active member of Vanastree and also one of Sunita’s good friends. Although she doesn’t speak much English, I’ve found it impossible not to like her – she’s incredibly multi-talented, churning out dried bananas for sale, running a seed exchange group, managing her farm and home garden, and of course working in the Vanastree office a couple of days out of the week. Going back to her house always reminds me of my second day in India, when she’d shown up with her son, Vivek, at Sunita’s needing a photographer. She was taking a class in environmental journalism and they were asking her to provide pictures for a story she was writing on her dried banana business. With my new camera and new-intern enthusiasm, it seemed I was the person for the job. They squeezed me on to the back of the family motorcycle, which was pretty thrilling for me, considering it was probably my second or third motorcycle ride, ever, and of course the first with no helmet and two other passengers, whizzing down bumpy narrow roads in the jungle. At her house, Manorama introduced me to her daughter and made us dosas, the paper-thin rice flour pancakes dipped in molasses and ghee that I’ve come to consider probably the tastiest food in the country. Her dosas still stand out in my mind as the best, maybe just because they were the first, or maybe because I want to believe that the quality of the person determines the quality of the dosa.
I was delighted then, when Manorama ushered us into the kitchen for special Deepauli dosas, which include ground cucumber and colocasia in the batter. It was only after I’d automatically settled down on the floor and dug in with my fingers that I realized how far I’ve come – that first dosa meal, I was very confused as to why she was putting food on leaves on the floor in front of a polished wooden board with little legs. Luckily her daughter sat down on her board first and didn’t laugh when I said “Ohhhhhh...”
Manorama’s Deepauli dosas were also delicious, crisp and hot, although the lingering fullness from the afternoon meal kept me from having more than a couple. We finished off with chai and then said goodbye, begging off offers for more food.
The next stop is a woman named Ganga’s place. She lives four kilometers from the village, a distance she covers regularly by foot carrying her vegetables to sell at the market. She’s also a member of Vanastree, and one of the things they recently received funding for was installing a phone at her house, which adds some degree of convenience to her life. In return, she raises tree saplings and sells them to locals, although the land she’s using is ironically encroached forest land itself. Basically, this means the land is officially under the Karnataka Forest Department’s jurisdiction and meant as a tree preserve, although in practice the department is so involved in illegal logging operations it would be difficult to say they play any role in conservation. Of course, if you haven’t bribed your local official lately, they’re quick to jump down your throat as soon as you take down a tree that’s in your way. There’s a new law in congress now, the Forest Rights Act, that could make it easier to persecute encroachers like Ganga. Tribal-rights organizations and environmental groups are working to amend it it, saying the officials will only go after these smaller cases and ignore the bigger issues, such as government-approved hydroelectric dams that swallow up hundreds of acres of forests.
I have to duck to enter the doorway of Ganga’s small house. They don’t have electricity all the way out here, so it’s a bit cavelike inside. A dog is tied up by the window on the far side, distracting me long enough to miss seeing a man sitting on the floor to my left. Sunita introduces him as Ganga’s husband. He’d broken both his legs harvesting areca nuts from the tall, pole-like trees a few months ago. A traditional Ayurvedic bone setter in the village set his legs, and he’s now able to walk around, but must find new employment.
Ganga sits us down and puts the red kumkum powder on our foreheads. Then she and Sunita begin discussing in Kannada an upcoming student workshop we’re hosting, and I tune out to take in the view visible through the side doorway. The house is on a hillside and most of it has been cleared, allowing for expansive views of the valley below, only obstructed by a single pair of red underpants hanging on the line in the yard. The sun is just beginning to set behind the leafy, crooked-branched trees. Despite the day-to-day difficulties, I get the feeling that life is fairly peaceful out here.
We’re spared from having to stuff in more Deepauli treats, because Ganga has actually listened to our protestations and packed us a little to-go bag of food. We break off Mushtaq’s conversation with Ganga’s son and climb back in the van. Heading back into the village, we note that most houses have lights on and have a mini celebration – we’ve been experiencing scheduled power cuts every evening for the past week. Apparently this is a little festival-of-lights gift from the electric authorities.
The third visit is at Radhka’s, who I spent a weekend with earlier this month. Compared to Ganga, she’s very well off, with a large, well-lit house near the village. But she’s also another person I really like – easy to laugh, pleasantly plump, and a devout Hindu. She explains to us the story of Deepauli, and Sunita translates: Essentially, Deepauli is the celebration of the triumph of good over evil. Legend has it that the lord Vishnu, the destroyer, had banished the good demon Bali to the underworld by stepping on his head. On the third day of Deepauli (which is today) Bali makes his triumphant return, restoring balance to the world.
Radhka gives us more blessings and powder, and then we’re off to our last stop, the house of a couple I’ve met only briefly before. It’s completely dark now, and the stars are out in full force. In fact, the sky is thick with them, to the point where it seems more silver than black. Those lights are reflected in the pathway leading up to the house we’re visiting, where they’ve placed oil lamps (small dishes filled with oil and a wick) along the edges. The fancy rangoli pattern is also surrounded by candles. The orangey glow of the lights reminds me a bit of Halloween, and I realized my recent sadness at missing this holiday at home was premature – we’ve practically recreated it here.
After a short visit and some more snacks (deep-fried bananas, very good), we head for home. It’s time to light our own lamps.
Deepauli lamps are more than a representation of the good that is supposed to prevail around this time; they are also lit in reverence to the people you’re thinking of and wish could be celebrating the holiday with you. Sunita, who’s a transplant from Bangalore with many friends too busy to come visit, has a lot of lamps to light. After nearly two months away from home, so do I. One by one, we add tiny flames to her porch, until it looks like a cruise ship at night. The last lamp is set on the holy basil shrine at the edge of the small lawn. We sit on the porch for a long time, listening to the chorus of cicadas and frogs, eating fruit and thinking our own thoughts. Then the lights all start blurring into blob of sleepiness and I know it’s time for bed.

One-Ant Revolution?

“Cooking the Navadarshanam Way”, it turns out, means using a minimum of oils and refined sugar to prepare food. Two trustees are vegan, they all fast often, and everybody loves raw foods. Luckily, they’ve mastered the art of healthy cooking and most of the dishes were very good. Fresh salads of coconut, cucumber and herbs, spicy curries served over red rice, vegan cakes and herbal teas kept me pretty well fed.
As much as I enjoyed just cooking and eating, I wanted to see how and where Navadarshanam was getting all this food. My experiences with Vanastree so far have comprised sort of a crash-course in small-scale agriculture and food politics, so Navadarshanam’s food production system promised to be another piece of this neverending puzzle. To my initial disappointment, however I found that they don’t have such a system per say. No matter how much I pestered Ananthu, the one who might be loosely be labeled as “in charge” of the place, I couldn’t get a precise explanation for this. Eventually, however, I figured out the reasons seem to be two-fold: the first is a series of “problems” in growing crops that he alluded to (I assume this has to do with the typical difficulties of weather, soil and animal invaders), and the second is the dedication to “natural farming” that one of the founding trustees, Pratab, brought with him.
A few decades ago, Pratab was living in a farming commune when he read Masanoba Fukuoka’s The One-Straw Revolution, which I quoted in a previous post. Fukuoka basically invented natural farming (though, again, it draws on previous traditions) in Japan, and his ideas have been extremely influential to the organic farming movement. Basically, natural farming asks how to reduce the inputs, both of labor and materials, involved in growing food. The answer he came up with was to eliminate everything – don’t weed, don’t apply compost, don’t till, and certainly don’t use synthetic pesticides, herbicides or fertilizer. Most of his experiments had to do with rice, and the amazing thing is, it actually worked. In fact, he recorded higher yields than conventionally grown rice, and of course did a lot less work than those farmers. He also applied this method to growing vegetables: scattering seeds, seeing what came up, and then harvesting it, leaving an little of the crop to reseed for next year. Seeing success in that as well, he opened up a whole school and his books became bestsellers.
Of course, something that works on one mountainside in Japan won’t necessarily work everywhere else, but the idea has been applied in many areas, most recently resulting in the “no-till” agriculture movement popular in the US. And when Pratab read the book, he shared it with his fellow commune members, who then decided to try natural farming on their land. They lived this way (without starving!) for quite a few years, and Pratab became a fervent believer in the method. He describes this whole experience in the introduction to One Straw Revolution that he later wrote.
Pratab went on to become a professor of anthropology at Harvard and wrote many books of his own, but now he lives in Bangalore with a second home at Navadarshanam. In fact, he led my group on a couple of walks, talking quietly the whole way about everything from the benefits of eating ants (which he also demonstrated) to the dangers of industrial agriculture. A sturdy, ever-smiling old fellow, Pratab will talk your ear off if you let him, which many of us did because everything he said seemed somehow steeped in wisdom, although it could have just been his reputation getting ahead of him or the power of the thick white beard.
Still a highly dedicated follower of natural farming and plant-based diets, Pratab has encouraged the Navadarshanam leaders toward a similar lifestyle. After reforesting the 100 acres that they’d invested in, the trustees found that they could harvest quite a bit of food from wild plants. They haven’t gone so far as to include ants in the official menu (and Pratab prefers to pick them fresh off the cow dung anyway), but most of the greens and some other vegetables are found in the forest. Other than that, they get most of their food from outside sources, but plans are in the works to try (again) with a vegetable garden based on biodynamics, a whole other system that I have a very limited understanding of. This effort is what finally reassured me that Navadarshanam’s goals might just be practical and that when the eventual apocalypse does come, their little commune might not be a bad place to be.

So I left Navadarshanam a little sadly, wishing I had more time to hang out in Ananthu’s library, tease Tania and Manuel about their rotis, and listen to Pratab rant in his quiet way about society and the way we eat. Instead, the international team crammed in a car with and a generous family from Bangalore who was heading back there. As the clamoring city abruptly rose around us, I put my pastoral dreams behind me and instead focused on the fried foods and sugary desserts that would soon be confounding my digestive system but delighting my taste buds.

Navadarshanam, pt 2

The next three days provide a comfortable routine of food preparations, walks, and conversations with fellow workshoppers and Navadarshanam trustees, which slowly erodes my cynicism and changes my perspective from looking at what the place isn’t to appreciating it for what it is: an apolitical space for people with very specific ideals to live out a model lifestyle.
The most important insight I gained at ND came from observing the lack of political spin that surrounds their philosophies. I think this comes as a result of approaching life from a strictly spiritual perspective, one based in traditional Eastern schools of thought advocating unselfishness and living within one’s means. From this, the trustees arrived at five practical applications for their living space: reforestation of the bare land; energy and water independence; renewable building materials (mud bricks and wood); natural farming; and eating healthfully. They don’t really advertise themselves as living “sustainably” or having an “alternative lifestyle” – they’re not fighting the commercial world or pushing changes on anybody. So there’s nothing to be political about. Also, their practices aren’t really new, as traditional Indians have done these things (minus the high-tech solar panels) for centuries. Hinduism, like many religions, advocates simplicity and awareness of people and beings other than oneself.
This cultural context might explain why most of the workshop participants seemed fairly mainstream*. They weren’t interested in going off the grid or changing the government’s policy toward organic farmers, they just wanted to learn how to cook good food, and the setting happened to be one in which they picked up a lot of “environmental” messages as well. But in India, unlike in the US, people can dip into these kinds of “unconventional” areas without being labeled with the glorious spectrum of labels we have for anything different – from “environmentalist” to “hippie” – simply because going back to the land in this way is anything but unconventional. Globalization only started (in its current form) a couple of decades ago. While Americans would have to go back to colonial days to reach the minimal level of impact places like ND strive toward, Indians only need look to the nearest village, where people regularly gather “biofuel” (wood) and practice “green architecture” (mud and thatch huts, which are always cool inside). As a result, buying organic food (which is not prohibitively expensive here, if you can find it) or trying to conserve electricity is not a political statement like it is often made to be in the US, it’s simply an extension of being a rational, future-minded person.

*With the exception of my fellow “international team” members – Tania and Manuel from Colombia who shared my inability to fry a proper roti or appreciate pickled lemon rind.

Navadarshanam, part 1

When Sunita puts me in the hired car that is to take me to my next stop, Navadarshanam, I’m still in the food-politics doldrums of the GREEN Foundation conference. Adding to my frustrations was the fact that the panel on “Women and Access to Markets”, during which was Vanastree’s presentation, had been cut short due to other panels (which didn’t address gender issues) taking up more than their allotted time, and then the next speaker (another man) droned on for twenty minutes longer than he should have. At home, I wouldn’t put much emotional stock in such things, but in this country, where women are only beginning to get a toehold in any sort of public sphere, it was an affront, especially since their role in preserving traditional farming practices is huge. Because women normally take on the responsibility of feeding families, it is they who preserve the most nutritious and high-yielding varieties of crops, and they who are hit first when food is short.
Anyway, the two-hour car ride to Navadarshanam, most of it through the city, ends up leaving me little time to regain my composure, chock-full as it is of things to gape at. Roads and overpasses are being built an astonishing rate to keep up with the population growth, and old buildings are bought up, knocked down and replaced with asphalt in a matter of weeks. There’s more traffic than I could have imagined, and it’s still a holiday. I see corporate buildings with inexplicable architecture (on the way back a couple of days later, we were unable to decide whether one was supposed to be a spaceship or an ocean liner) across the street from slums. People swarm everywhere, some tapping at the window with open mouths and crying babies.
Finally, we reach the outskirts and drive through some agricultural land. Soon we cross over into Tamil Nadu (the next state), and drive though a couple of small villages with slightly happier-looking kids running around skinny and barefoot. Old men sit on stoops and watch the car go by.
Still, arriving at Navadarshanam is like landing on a different planet. We go through a gate, park, and the driver drops my bag by one of the three buildings there. Surrounded as we are by huge trees, I can’t see much beyond that, but there are colorful murals on the walls and all seems clean and orderly. Presently, a woman comes up the path and directs me toward another building, where my workshop is beginning. I’m here to spend three days learning how to cook “the Navadarshanam way”. Not sure what the “way” is but the cooking part had sounded like fun, so I signed up.

At the workshop session, which I slip into a few minutes late, all the fifteen or so participants are introduce themselves in turn. Most are housewives from Bangalore, but a couple brought their husbands and then there are some others who, like me, just happened upon the place. After the intros, Ananthu, the founding trustee, talks a little about what Navadarshanam actually is.
Eighteen years ago, Ananthu and a few friends decided to leave civilization for a place of their own where they could pursue a sustainable livelihood and apply their spiritual philosophies more actively to their lives. Basically, ND operates as a trust in which all the half-dozen or so trustees share resources (from tools to food) and live harmoniously on the same land – 115 acres of it, most of which has been left as wild land.
Well, ok, says my Bangalore-hardened brain when Ananthu wraps up. That all sounds well and good, but we all know communism doesn’t work on a large scale, so what are they trying to prove? And what are they doing to help the villagers just outside their gates? With all this land, shouldn’t they be exporting food? What good are all these trees to anybody? Who cares about spiritual ideals when there are hungry people?

I don’t push for answers at that time. I haven’t yet lost all patience, and I do have three days to interrogate, so I eat my dinner quietly and allow myself to be calmed slightly by evening prayers – chanted beautifully over a chorus of frogs and cicadas.
That night, before falling asleep, I read a little in the book I’m working on, Wendell Berry’s The Gift of Good Land. He writes about attending a conference about hunger and food politics, in which a bunch of academics debated policies abstractly, without firsthand knowledge of the very issue they’re discussing or any real grasp on its root causes (ie, poor land management). I was struck by how similar his feeling of being worn out and frustrated was to mine.
After the conference, however, Berry goes out to interview some farmers, and even though the situation is dismal (poverty and water scarcity), he feels better about being there than in the city amongst the “experts”. The following lines were the first thing since leaving the NIAS campus that made me feel slightly better:

“In the presence of the problems intelligence encounters details. It is like stepping from slippery footing onto dry rock. The relief if physical. And it is hopeful, too, for it is in the presence of the problems that their solutions will be found. Solutions have perhaps the most furtive habits of any creatures; they reveal themselves very hesitantly in artificial light, and never enter air-conditioned rooms.” (from “Three Ways of Farming in the Southwest”)

I’m not in the presence of problems yet, but there are details to be found here. Whether they bring forth any solutions remains to be seen.

[Pictures of Navadarshanam here.]

Not just blogging...

See? I actually do real work around here.

Food fights in Bangalore

[This post is from two weeks ago, when I set off for Bangalore for some travels in the area. Bangalore is the capital of Karnataka, home to at minimum 7 million people and growing. It also hosts number of NGOs and other groups working directly and indirectly on sustainable agriculture and development issues. My first stop is a two-day seminar on small-scale agriculture in the city itself.]

The journey from Sirsi to Bangalore – despite taking ten hours over bumpy roads – was actually quite comfortable thanks to the wonder of sleeper busses. Like sleeper cars in trains, these public transportation marvels feature narrow bunks surrounded by thick curtains, behind which the traveler may pass out for the duration of the trip. Within an hour of boarding, the financial news (which I have a sick fascination with, like a car accident) coming through my ipod lulled me into dreams of credit default swaps and naked short sellers.

The only unnerving part of the trip was the “rest stop” at 2 AM– most of the travelers were men, forcing me and my full bladder to dash across the darkened highway alone, flashlight in hand, to find a bush, all the time trying not to imagine the many ways I might die or, worse, miss the bus as it pulled away. In record time, I took care of business and climbed back into my bunk, none the worse for the wear.

When we reach Bangalore, it’s the tail end of a ten-day long holiday, so traffic isn’t bad. It’s raining, though, making the sight of the abject poverty – families living under tarps, mothers with young babies begging for change, streetside vendor after vendor selling the same unwanted wares – all the more depressing. It’s my first real encounter with a major Indian city, and the Malnad region where I work is by comparison very well off. I’ve come across probably two beggars in Sirsi. To the best of my ability, I put up a mental wall and worried instead about how I would locate Sunita in this enormous place.

Luckily, the conductor had assumed correctly that I would not recognize my stop name when he called it out, and jabs a finger in my direction when I am to get off. I stumble down the aisle with my overstuffed backpack and Sunita is waiting just outside, as promised (she’s already been here in Bangalore a couple of days). We get in the rick and zoom off to the NIAS campus.

On the way, Sunita explains that NIAS stands for the National Institute of Advanced Studies, one of the more prestigious universities in the country. It was actually founded by the same man who created the Tata empire, India’s largest corporation. Tata is similar to GE in the states, with holdings in auto manufacturing, housing, media and just about anything else they can think of. The seminar Sunita and I are attending is entitled “Farmers, Livelihood and Trade” and is focused primarily on increasing the market share of small organic farmers. It’s actually being put on by GREEN (Genetic Resource Ecology Energy Nutrition) Foundation, one of the major agricultural NGOs in the area.

On arrival, we are given one of the guest rooms that NAIS has set aside for conferences such as these. In the walled-off campus with security guards at the gates, I can almost pretend I’m back in Sirsi. The biggest difference is nobody stares at me here – they’re all used to foreigners.

At the elaborate breakfast provided, I meet Dr. Vanaja Ramprasad, the surprisingly approachable and grandmotherly director of Green Foundation, who has been dedicated to improving the livelihoods of farmers for decades. An hour later (only half an hour behind schedule!) the conference kicks off with a lecture by Devinda Sharma, a journalist and expert on genetically modified crops and agro-politics. I’ve been given the intern’s honor of taking notes for the next two days, but I would have been riveted anyway: this guy is pretty incensed about the state of agriculture and India’s farmers.

Most of Sharma’s talk relates to the WTO and its liberalization of international markets. Pre-WTO, India’s GDP was 25% of the world total. It was a net exporter of food, meaning it shipped out more spices, grains and produce than it bought from other nations, and it didn’t rely on any of them to feed its population. 80% of Indians were employed in the agricultural sector.

Under the WTO, however, the balance began to shift. Heavily subsidized grains from the US began flooding the market, and all the nations who couldn’t compete were told to focus their agricultural production on exports to keep up.

The result was predictable. As Sharma put it, “Importing food is importing unemployment.” Today, India is headed down a path to attain a similar socioeconomic profile to the US, where less than 1% of the population (and dropping) grow agricultural products and a farmer living in Iowa would starve if his local grocery store suddenly ran out of supplies (due to, say, a fuel shortage) because he’s surrounded by a thousand miles of inedible corn and soybeans. The only difference is, there are simply too many people and not enough land for this system to work in India. Somewhere, something or somebody has to give, and I saw those somebodies outside my bus window on the way here. Most of those millions of homeless people are refugees from villages, where they’ve given up on the agricultural life because they can’t afford it (and because it doesn’t provide the glitzy lifestyle they’ve been watching on TV). People in the cities prefer cheap white rice and imported wheat, and crops grown for export must meet standards only attained through chemical inputs (large size, consistent color and texture, perfect skins). Farming using chemical fertilizers, pesticides and herbicides requires economies of scale unattainable by the average small land owner.

As Sharma and the other speakers at the seminar explained, organic farming is supposed to be the antidote to all this mess, but it lacks the government backing to really make it work. Commercial, “conventional” agriculture (using chemical inputs) is, of course, subsidized ever since the WTO arrived, which makes it very competitive in domestic and international markets. Organic farmers receive no such help. In fact, they have to pay for organic certification by often-sketchy certification boards, who in classic Indian style create a tangled network of bureaucratic procedures and paperwork. The farmers, on the other hand, are usually not the corporate-world dropouts who usually take up organic farming in the States. They’re simply trying to sell produce that has been grown the only way they’ve known how for centuries – without outside inputs and with minimal impact on the land.

Although I’ve been studying this stuff for a while, hearing it again and talking to the people who are running against these problems in real life left me feeling disheartened. The second day involved more group discussions with farmers and other interested parties, including one incident that was sort of the highlight for me: an organic farmers vs. biochemical company representative throwdown. This fellow actually had the gall to get up in front of the entire room of 100-some organic farmers and declare that organic food doesn’t taste as good as conventional. In true Indian fashion, he was quite straightforwardly told to shove it. We didn’t see him the rest of the conference.

Despite that happy episode, I left the conference feeling frustrated and a bit hopeless, not only because of what I’d heard, but also because of what I hadn’t heard – an actual solution or at least a plan. Sure, in our air-conditioned haven with meals provided every four hours, we’d come up with a list of “policy recommendations” for the Indian government. But after witnessing during the last few weeks the clumsiness of India’s bureaucracy and the ease with which it is ignored by most citizens, I have my doubts that policy recommendations will have any impact at all. In fact, many of the policies we’d recommended – like setting up farmer-owned organic brands and providing subsidies to organic farmers – already exist, they just aren’t working. While it’s nice to have neat summations of the problems, their solutions, I suspect, are hiding somewhere else.

Next stop: Navadarshanam, a collective just outside Bangalore that’s too natural for organics, where I’ll learn how to find the best ants for eating and become part of the best International Team since the Special Olympics.

Pictures

From Radhakrishna and Charaka

Radhakrishna (the real Radhakrishna) + a visit to a textile cooperative
Sirsi and the Vanastree office
Pretty flowers

A concise history of agriculture (5000 BCE – present)

[Based on trips to farms across the region and discussions with experts on food politics of various degrees of irrationality, I've formulated the following easy-to-use historical guide. Accuracy not guaranteed.]

Pre-agriculture (the hunter-gatherers): Hey, those grains growing in the field are pretty good. Let’s pick up a whole bunch of them and then we’ll have more food. (Unknown number of grain varieties available.)

Cultivation (the farmers): Hey, let’s plant a bunch of one grain on the field, flood it with water to drown the plants we don’t want, and spread animal dung over the whole thing. Then we’ll have more food! (upwards of 50,000 rice varieties developed.)

The Green Revolution (the Western scientists): Hey, you farmers plant this hybrid rice and use our chemical fertilizers, pesticides and herbicides. Then you’ll have more food to give us! (6 varieties bred and sold.)

The Second Greed Revolution (the geneticists): Hey, since you now have a larger population than you can feed using hybrid rice, plant this genetically modified rice instead! Just don’t keep the seeds because we have an intellectual property right. Then you’ll have more food and we’ll get more of the cash crops you’re growing instead!

The Organic Movement (the Western backlash): Screw that. I know what, let’s plant a bunch of one grain on the field, flood it with water to drown the plants we don’t want, and spread animal dung over the whole thing. Then we can sell it at a high price to all the ex-farmers living in the city! (20,000 rice varieties remain to work with.)

Post-agriculture (the no-till enthusiasts): We shouldn’t have even been eating and cultivating grains in the first place. Let’s gather only what grows in the wild. Who needs more food?

Returning to the Source

I found the following quote in one of the many organic agriculture-related books I’ve been reading, and thought that since I’m not able to update my blog often this month, all you readers out there in blogland could just chew on this:

“It seems that the limit of scientific development has been reached, misgivings have begun to be felt, and the time for reappraisal has arrived. That which was viewed as primitive and backward is now unexpectedly seen to be far ahead of modern science...
To the extent that people separate themselves from nature, they spin out further and further from the center. At the same time, a centripetal effect asserts itself and the desire to return to nature arises. But if people merely become caught up in reacting, moving to the left or to the right, depending on conditions, the result is only more activity. The non-moving point of origin, which lies outside the realm of relativity, is passed over, unnoticed. I believe that even “returning-to-nature” and anti-pollution activities, no matter how commendable, are not moving toward a genuine solution if they are carried out solely in reaction to the overdevelopment of the present age.”
–Masanobu Fukuoka, The One-Straw Revolution

Spelling Lessons from Krishna

My second weekend homestay is to take place at the home of a farmer-turned-artist who is a friend of Sunita, the woman I’m working and living with during my three-month internship. She makes the arrangements that Friday and, after finding the right bus, I’m only two skull-rattling hours away from a little weekend relaxation. Luckily, I get a seat, and enjoy a stimulating conversation with two young schoolboys who quiz me on my spelling, finding my American method of spelling words like “color” and “favorite” absolutely hilarious.
When I finally get off the bus in the city of Sagar, it’s nearly dark. I approach the row of rickshaw drivers at the bus stop, clutching the piece of paper Sunita gave me with my host’s address and phone number. I tell the nearest driver where I want to go: Radhakrishna’s house in a nearby village called Banghadde. Houses don’t have numbers here, and streets rarely have names, but Sunita told me everyone here knows where this house is. Radhakrishna is an artist of some local fame and one of the prominent landowners in his village.
We take off down the tree-lined avenue, going past a giant shrine featuring lions’ heads, gods, goddesses and various other brightly colored carvings. The streets are packed with vendors, women with baskets on their heads, dirty kids, bicycles, motorbikes, trucks and automobiles. After a few minutes, we pull up in front of a fenced-off building at the outskirts of town. Sunita had told me the village I was headed to is a few kilometers away from Sagar, but I forget that fact for the moment, excited by the fact that I see a sign, written in English, announcing this as the place of Shri Ramakrishna. I pay off the driver, extract my backpack and camera bag from the back of the rickshaw, and head toward the gate.
A bunch of young men are milling around the entrance to Shri Ramakrishna’s. I hang back, uncertain of how to best make my presence known, until one notices me and beckons me into the covered porch. He pulls me up a plastic chair behind a table and urges me to sit down. Then he leans over the table, and the interrogation begins.
“From where do you come? What is your business here? Who are you?” Somehow, this doesn’t feel right. I try to explain that I’m a guest of Radhakrishna for the weekend and if I could just talk to him everything will be ok. Nothing seems to get through.
Finally, I’m ushered into a small office in a room off the porch. Inside, there are two desks; behind one sits a middle-aged man with intense dark brown eyes. Between his eyes there’s a bright red dot, signifying religious faith. He wears a powder-blue shirt with a funny short collar, and his hair and mustache are neatly trimmed. I take a seat across from him. The blue walls lit by fluorescent bulbs glare down at me. Behind the desk is a framed black and white photo of a guru, hung with strands of plastic flowers and beads.

“Who?” The man behind the desk asks when I tell him my weekend host’s name.
“I’m staying here this weekend,” I insist. When would they stop this rigmarole and take me to my room?
“You can’t stay here, madam,” the man informs me. “Our rooms are for students only.”
Much back and forth arguing ensues. All his words sound like they’re spoken through a large potato lodged at the back of his mouth, and according to him, my English is equally awful. Indians have a way of integrating English words into their native language, and when faced with a foreigner, they simply mash together all the English words they know and leave out or mumble the intervening ones. The result is, at best, difficult to follow. Of course, it doesn’t help that my accent is something they’ve never encountered before – Sagar is not a city that tourists usually find.
Eventually, our semblance of conversation unravels our mutual confusion. It turns out that I am speaking to the director of Shri Ramakrishna Residential School, an ashram for boys. The man whom I’ve utterly befuddled is Thimmappa, the director of the school. Apparently, the rickshaw driver thought Ramakrishna is close enough to Radhakrishna and dumped me here. In my excitement, I hadn’t noticed the difference in spelling either. Maybe those boys on the bus would have. A sense of panic begins to rise in my throat.
Luckily, Thimmappa finds me amusing, if somewhat of an encumbrance. He can’t host me at the ashram, but neither will he hear of my ridiculous schemes to leave, find another rickshaw, and travel to Banghadde at this late hour. It is now about seven in the evening, but according to him, it’s a dangerous trip fraught with unknown danger for a young female traveling alone – the least of which may be tigers and rickshaw accidents.
One cultural trait of urban Indians I’m swiftly discovering is that they have an intense fear of forests, darkness and unknown rural stretches. So no matter how many ways I try to insist, Thimmappa does not believe there exists in this city one rickshaw driver with the courage to take me to my destination, or even somebody with a car I could hire. Tut-tutting at my foolishness, he calls in one of the half-dozen men who are now plastered to the doorway, staring at the alien in their midst, to bring me a cup of coffee. I tell him that I don’t want any (Indian coffee is usually awful, made by boiling instant coffee, milk and tons of sugar) but I’m swiftly realizing I’m not in control of the situation. Thimmappa is already on the phone to the English teacher he’s decided I’ll be spending the night with. We can discuss the possibility of transport to Banghadde in the morning.
Thimmappa seems to think the situation is under control, but I have fears of my own. I’ve traveled before. I’ve been trained to stick to plans, avoid talking to strangers, and to mistrust unknown situations. My mind is made up: I don’t trust this place, I don’t trust Thimmappa, and I certainly don’t trust his English teacher. I need to get out.
I get firm with him, demanding that he call the real Radhakrishna, whose number is on the piece of paper that is suddenly my only lifeline. But when he calls, Radhakrishna is not home, and his daughter doesn’t speak English and is immune to my pleas to be rescued. I try calling Sunita, but she can’t help me at this point. Rickshaw drivers who don’t know their way around and overly hospitable ashram directors were not in our plan. But she seems calm, not understanding my desperation and panic. Why not just wait until the morning?
By the time the coffee arrives, my schedule has been reworked for me. The English teacher has been contacted and will be here in fifteen minutes, but as far as I could tell, no attempts were made to find a driver willing to take me to my homestay. I have now reached the pinnacle of internal rage and have to work to keep the desperation out of my voice. My coffee shakes in my hand. Somehow, the stubborn but placid man behind the desk has elicited a level of frustration in me previously only witnessed by algebra teachers and my parents when I was a teen. I feel like throwing the cup of boiling hot coffee at him. Who was he to tell me I couldn’t pay whoever I want to get me out of this godforsaken place? Why was I so stupid to get myself in this situation in the first place? Why do all Indians have such silly, identical names?

All there is to do now is wait. Thimmappa sits back in his chair and places the tips of his fingers together. He considers me, observes my frustration with slight amusement. I stare back defiantly. It’s awkwardly silent for a moment, but he isn’t gearing up for a fifteen-minute staring contest. He’s preparing a lecture.
He quietly gestures to the picture on the wall above him.
“Do you know who this is?”
“No,” I tell him. Who cares, I think to myself.
“This is Shri Ramakrishna.” Oh. The photo looks about fifty years old and the man pictured is no spring chicken. This guy isn’t having any weekend guests.
“In 1839,” he says, repeating the date for clarity, “he went to Amerika and brought respect to the Hindu religion. He did this with a speech. In which, he call all the Amerikans ‘brothers and sisters’.” He pauses to take a deep breath, overwhelmed by the significance of it all. “Brothers and sisters,” he continues. “With this, he convince the Amerikans.”
I slowly warm up to the story. It turns out this guy Ramakrishna is the one who introduced Hinduism to the US and set up a bunch of ashrams and community centers there. He had many followers, including the Beatles and some of the more influential American yogis.
“You see,” Thimmappa continues, “Hindu religion is like an ocean. All the religions are in it. However, all other religions are only rivers. But all lead to God. Many ways, one God.” He goes on like this for a while, not preaching but explaining.
As he talks, I begin to consider the possibility Thimmappa isn’t so bad after all. I relax slightly, calmed by the chanting prayers of the boys in the next room. The crowd by the door slowly loses interest, and my unshaken coffee develops the smooth skin of boiled milk.

Before I can make a conclusive reassessment of my situation, however, the English teacher arrives. She’s extremely nice and acts like having me stay the night would be the best thing since Ramakrishna went to Amerika. I’m all ready to follow her out the door when the phone on the desk rings. Thimmappa holds up a finger as he talks, so we wait. When he hangs up, he informs me that they’ve drummed up a rickshaw driver who thinks he can manage the scary drive to Banghadde. Apparently, someone had been working behind the scenes.
A minute later, the driver is there, and I’m given the option of staying in Sagar or going off with him. As much as I like the English teacher, I realize I can’t pass up the opportunity to get to Radhakrishna’s, where they’re expecting me. More than that, I’m embarrassed at having mistrusted the ashram people and refused their hospitality. I thank everyone and climb in the rickshaw, a bit sorry to be leaving what was suddenly a safe haven.
As we rumble off toward Banghadde, I get a chance to process the whole experience. It’s one of the many times during my trip to India that I’m forced to admit I have been totally, completely and foolishly wrong about something. While I’d been scoffing at the rickshaw drivers for their forest-phobia, my fear of Indians is just as unfounded. No matter how much I’ve prepared myself for it and expected it, not a single person I’ve encountered here has tried to rob me, abduct me, or even take advantage of my confusion. And the overly cautious, callous exterior I’ve fostered is not only useless, it’s made me extremely impolite in the face of traditional Indian hospitality. While my actions this evening could be completely rationalized by a sensible need to look out for myself, there are lessons here that go beyond spelling words. Mistrusting somebody just because they happen to be male or Indian is as unfair here as it would be back home.
We’re on the highway now, the dark forest whizzing by. I can see the lights of Banghadde ahead of us. Through my weariness and feelings of being completely overwhelmed, one thought shines through: to survive my travels, I must allow myself some naievete, a healthy does of innocence. It’s the one thing people everywhere tend to forget – that although some individuals can’t be trusted, there are even more out there who just want to help. After all, as Ramakrishna would put it, we are all brothers and sisters.

It all comes down to eyebrows

[The weekend previous to the coast trip, Sunita arranged another homestay for me. This time it was with a farmer who is also somewhat famous regionally for his traditional mud art. I’ve posted pictures here and so won’t write a separate blog about that weekend itself.
What was even more interesting was the way there, so I’ve just typed up what I wrote down when I finally got to Radhakrishna’s.]

The voyage to my weekend homestay begins, as most of my adventures do here, with a bus ride.
As we idle in the Sirsi station, I sit gazing moodily out the window wondering how Sunita could be so confident I would get from Sirsi to the city of Sagar two hours away, then to Banghadde, a tiny village beyond there, with nothing but a slip of paper with my host’s address and my own nonexistent navigation skills. Rain muddies the window, turning the usual chaos outside into a brownish kaleidoscope of confusion.
Just before the bus starts moving, a mother and two little boys in school uniforms scramble on. The little boys lock their eyes on me from the time they first step foot on the aisle, and I shift my backpack to my lap to uncover one of the last available seats. When they reach my row in the back of the bus, they hang back awkwardly, unsure how to handle this – thing – that is between them and a comfortable ride. (Here, nobody just takes a seat, they always ask first, even when the bus is full.) Their mother gives them a prod forward and one of the little boys pipes up.
“Madam, who sits here?”
“Nobody. You sit here.” Cautiously, they climb on, and mom squeezes in across the aisle. I resume my brooding out the window, until I can no longer ignore the burning of four brown eyes into the back of my head. I turn to see what reminds me of two oversized baby birds in matching outfits straining upwards from a vinyl nest. I can’t help laughing a little bit, and this is all the encouragement they need. The boy closest to the aisle, obviously the brains behind the operation, whispers something in his brother’s ear. This one, the translator, looks at me and asks,
“Where are you going?”
“Sagar,” I say.
“And you come from Amerika?”
“Yes.” They’re thrilled.
“I like Amerika,” he says earnestly. His brother finally works up the nerve to speak and cuts him off.
“I like Bangalore.”
“I’ve never been to Bangalore,” I say, to shock and dismay from both my seatmates. Then suddenly the formalities are over.
“How do you spell ‘color’?” One demands. I tell him. Uproarious laughter ensues, echoing up and down the bus. A few people turn and look at me as if I’m from Mars.
“Nooooo, C-O-L-O-U-R!” They scream in unison. Whatever. I proceed to spell center and favorite for them, to more shrieks of glee at my complete ignorance of proper British English. When that gets old, their mom across the aisle has some questions, which the boys translate for me.
“In Amerika, the streets are very clean?” Reluctantly, I admit that yes, they are usually. How to explain to a third grader that our garbage is neatly hidden away in landfills, allowing us to produce more per capita than any other country on earth?
“And every house you have a dustbin and a bell?” I figure he’s talking about doorbells, which exist here too but only in newer homes. I tell them yes again.
After that, they examine with fascination my eyeglasses, not believing that I actually need them to see anything farther than two feet away, and my driver’s license, not understanding the concept of a certification to pilot a vehicle. Then, the conversation gradually deteriorates into babble about monkeys and arguments about the superiority of Bangalore over America.
They get off at a major stop, and as they wait in the aisle to disembark, the bolder of the two looks at me and points to his eyebrow.
“Black,” he says, the complete sentences of his relatively excellent English suddenly gone.
“Do I have something in my eyebrow?” I ask.
“Black,” he says again. “Your eyebrows – white.” I stop rubbing my lower forehead.
“Yeah,” I admit, “They’re pretty much white.” He cocks head, considering this. Then he seems to arrive at some philosophical conclusion about racial differences, shrugs his shoulders, and skips off down the aisle.

Coast trip: Part 2 (foreign-spotting and waterfalls)

As we walk down the well groomed dirt path into the village, Sunita explains why we’re including this in our general survey of sustainable lifestyles. The island is home to 150 fishing families who remain self-sufficient by drying fish for sale using solar dryers, and growing whatever else they want to eat. Because the ocean is just a few miles away, salt is a problem and they cultivate several salt-tolerant crops, which are a valuable resource for a region (and, increasingly, a world) with such short land availability – not to mention rising ocean levels. While to a western perspective these people may appear poor, their autonomy and possession of these seeds make them rich in a non-monetary sense and could, if laws change to allow indigenous ownership of biodiversity, give them the means for material wealth as well.
Children go to school on the island through 7th grade, and then they bus to the mainland for higher grades. The community is very tight and everyone pitches in for large projects and to take turns on ferry duty. Both men and women go out in the fishing boats and share that part of the work, not a common practice in these rural areas.
We meet Sneha Kunja’s contact on the island, a woman in a bright blue sari named Ramarama. She and a couple others take us on a tour, through the village and to the paddies on the other side of the island. As we walk, I notice that the island is not as littered as most other places I’ve been here, and the people seem jollier than usual. One house seems to be hosting a party, with men leaning out every window and blaring loud music.
We reach the edge of the village and cross the paddy. On the far side, you can see basically the whole island, which is only a couple of miles long and probably less than a mile wide. We stop to admire the new mangroves that have just been planted. When they’ve grown, they’ll help to stop erosion, control flooding and provide fish habitat. On the way to look at some salt-tolerant rice, the women show us their fresh water well. It’s the only one on the island, and when it occasionally runs out, they’ve had to pipe and haul water from the mainland.
As we walk down yet more narrow paths between paddies, we’re passed by men and women carrying bushels of grass on their heads to feed the cows. I can see two men dredging sand out in the estuary, digging it up by hand and pouring it into their canoe. This is the uglier, less sustainable side of the islanders’ activities – but it’s highly profitable to sell the sand to India’s booming construction industry.
Finally, we arrive at the paddy of interest, containing the salt-growing rice known as Kagga. The paddies we just crossed were slightly raised above sea level but this one is right down in the salty estuary. Of course, these plants are not as productive as other varieties, but land is at a premium here and some rice is better than no rice.

After the island, we have lunch at yet another woman’s house. Her name is Shanti Naik: chef; author of over 20 books on traditional knowledge; and unofficial museum curator. An entire room of her large house is filled with brass pots, original wood carvings, butter churners, stone grinders, and traditional basketry and paintings. The state doesn’t have it together enough to create indigenous history museums so items such as these are stashed in private collections across the region, passed along through generations. Of course, one person’s historical item is another person’s kitchen tool – I’ve seen women grind flour on stone and carry loads on their heads in cane baskets just about everywhere I’ve been.
When we finish eating, it’s only 3 pm and there’s still a lot more ground to cover. Mushtak is unceremoniously roused and we all pile in the van to hit the town – Honnavar. It’s one of the major coastal cities, located on another river estuary, the Sharavathy. Shanti wants us to see a temple housed in the center of town. The narrow market street we end up on doesn’t seem very religious, but she leads us to an ornately carved wooden door hidden between a tailor’s and one of the innumerable vegetable stands. She bangs twice on the door, and a man cracks it open, recognizes her, and begrudgingly lets us in. Apparently she’s a regular.
The temple is unique in that it is one of the few remaining examples of a Portugese-influenced art style known as Kaavi. The temple itself is around 400 years old. The outside is entirely covered with a red clay that was mixed with sugarcane to enhance its color and staying power. The red is intricately painted over with white lime made from seashells, and the images depict a variety of Hindu gods and goddesses and scenes from ancient epics.
Amazingly, when Honnavar sprung up here, an ugly concrete building was constructed around the temple. The building isn’t roofed, however, so it only serves the purpose of obscuring the temple from outside eyes. There are no more known Kaavi practitioners alive, and Honnavar is not exactly a thriving art center so few here even know the value of this temple.
After my weekend introduction to traditional art (next post!) it’s exciting to see a different style and one that will probably disappear with so many other aspects of India’s history. In a country so swiftly moving toward the future, few care to document its past, especially that tinged by colonialism or associated with indigenous peoples.

But we’re not done yet! Next it’s the Sneha Kunja hospital, where they’ll try anything to get you well. Actually, Sunita says, they’ve managed to blend Western and Eastern healing methods gracefully and have a state-of-the-art surgical facility with a medicinal garden out back. Just as we’re leaving, I catch my first sighting of a fellow “foreign” – an overweight, pasty woman who marches right past us down the path looking like she is on a mission. I felt a little hurt that she didn’t feel our inherent bond as outsiders and stop to chat (maybe I’m just Englihs-starved), but then gave her a pass since she’s staying at a hospital that often hosts mentally troubled patients. Still, it was odd seeing a non-Indian for the first time in nearly a month, thinking immediately of how strange it was, and then realizing that I must seem just as strange to everyone else.
Now we’ve spent an entire day at the coast and it’s time for another first: the beach! As Mushtak bravely dives through the potholes leading right up to the ocean I get unreasonably excited. I restrain myself from running to put my feet into the cold water, and then am surprised at how warm the Arabian sea is. Still, the beach is nice, surprisingly clean, and barely populated. Apparently, as we discuss in the van later, Indians are afraid of the ocean and the fact that I got close to the water made them all a little edgy. The beach is not as popular a destination as the mountains.
When we turn back, drive up the Sharavathy river and start winding through the hills again, I can plainly see where the weekend crowds have been by the garbage they left behind. Suddenly, I feel a little selfish happiness over the Indians’ ocean phobia. We pull over at a viewpoint and, when I stop shaking my head over the food wrappers, plastic bags, empty bottles and newspapers on the ground, I look up to see miles and miles of pristine river valley, with the Sharavathy flowing placidly far below. This part of the forest is reserved by the state and contains no villages or settlements. That protected status, however, did not prevent it from being flooded a few years ago by a hydroelectric dam built just a few miles below. Now the valley is half as deep as it once was and the river barely moves. But it’s still beautiful in the late-afternoon mist.
Unbelievably, Sunita has one more stop on the agenda, and it’s a surprise. I’ve done my tourist homework, though, and as soon as I see a sign for “Jog” I know exactly where we’re going. Half an hour later, we pull into the parking lot at Jog Falls, India’s highest waterfall. (“Jog” actually means “falls” in Kannada, and they pronounce it “Joeg”.) It’s another stunning sight – four narrow falls cascading down hundreds of feet of granite cliffs and meeting at the bottom to begin the Sharavathy. The only thing taking away from the beauty is my knowledge that it’s another victim of dams – before the hydro project further upstream was built, this place was Niagra-scale.
Finally, we begin the two hour trip home. I had no idea it was possible to pack so many activities into one day and I’m exhausted. Sunita and Manorama, somehow still going strong, chat it up in Kannada as I work on perfecting the bumpy-road doze.