Sick Days

It’s tempting to avoid writing negative entries onto this blog, about difficulties with my academic work, or homesickness, or the inevitable “Delhi belly,” which we’ve renamed the “rainforest runs.”  It took a lot for Matt and I to get here.  For me, it took a year of stressed-out academic rigor and work, months of planning and purchasing plane tickets, and saying goodbye to family and friends.  For Matt it was some of the same, and also a leap into the unknown in the name of love, and putting off his own academic goals.  So to look at the leap a few months in and not know if it was worth it is a tough thing. 

Let me backtrack.  Up until about two weeks ago, we were committed.  Life wasn’t perfect here on this farm in India, but we were going to make it through to the other side.  We would come home in May, with a Masters degree for me to look forward to, and likely enrollment in a Masters in Biology program for Matt.  But then the Indian government started squabbling, and soon enough our plan began to crumble.  Add to that a lingering stomach sickness I haven’t been able to shake, and turbulence in my family at home, and it seems like we’re struggling to keep up our resolve to stay.
So I’ve been thinking a lot about priorities.  I don’t quit on things easily, especially not something I’ve committed a lot of energy and money into already, like school.  But after a point, when it seems like so many things are pulling at you to do exactly what you’re not doing, when do you switch gears and move forward?

It started with a U.S. Consolate General warning that ended up in the inbox of our visitors, Michael and Taylor.  “Oh no, is this going to affect us?” they worried.  Due to last year’s 26-11 attack in Mumbai, which involved at least one terrorist with a United States passport traveling back and forth from Chicago to India, the government here is cracking down.  Every foreigner not on a business visa or student visa (I’m on a tourist visa because I’m not connected with an Indian university) has to leave after 180 days in-country for at least two months now.  “Shit,” the doctor I visited yesterday said when I told him I was about to be ejected from the country. 

That’s the first strike against staying:  we legally can’t.

As I mentioned, I visited a doctor yesterday.  I met Dr. Devraj just over a week ago, after Matt and I spent an hour looking for Madikeri’s private hospital.  ‘It’s at Thimmiah Circle,’ one woman told us, so we jumped in a rickshaw and headed that way.  When we got there, another man told us it was near the bus stand, back down the hill.  We started walking, weary and weak from the stomach sickness.  It didn’t help that we kept running into a raucous political parade, with music and dancing and a packed pickup truck full of whoever had just been elected.  “We won!” one dancing man with his arms in the air shouted to us as he passed, beckoning us to join in.  

We kept walking, and eventually found it, this clean, disorganized hospital tucked away behind the seedy theatres of Madikeri.  The first time around, Dr. Devraj prescribed me an anti-parasitic and told me to change hotels.  Not possible, I retorted, though Matt and I committed to preparing all of our own food from now on.  One week later, my stomach still in runny knots, he prescribed more antibiotics, and potentially a colonoscopy, at which I silently thought to myself, and later shouted to Matt, “not in F-ing India!” 

That’s strike two:  I’ve got to get healthy.  We’ll see in a few days if this new round of pills can turn that one around.

The third and fourth strikes, I’d rather not share too much about.  One is that my parents are (quite happily, it sounds) getting a divorce.  It would be nice to not be on the other side of the world when my family structure is shifting so suddenly and so wholly.  The other is that my work is not nearly as fulfilling as I had hoped it would be.  The NGO I came here to work with seems to be quietly withering away, and we’ve lost a few competent Indian interns who could have helped out quite a bit.  If this last challenge had occurred when my visa wasn’t about to expire, and my health wasn’t so precarious, I would have soldiered on.  It’s not the first time I’ve joined the scene of a NGO that has nothing going on except for its registered status, but it’s a different context here, and now my time is limited.

It could be, also, a case of the homesick holidays.  Christmas came and went with a lot of effort to bring some hominess to the other side of the world.  We had presents, a tree (well, a branch that resembled a Northeastern pine), and special food like homemade pierogies, German pancakes, and pumpkin pie.  But we also had some tears, and a lot of missing family accompanied by nearly half a dozen skype dates, with Matt’s extended family on both sides, and now my own split-up family. 

Now that we’re on the other side of Christmas, we’ve been thinking about the New Year, and how we can make the most of our situation.  Since we’ll have to leave by the end of February (after 180 days), it may make more sense to return in January and enroll in classes to make up the lost time.  Or maybe it’s better to push on through, to find some closure with our work here, and finish out at least six months of this intended yearlong endeavor.  Personally, I’m hoping for some clarity before the year turns, so we can look forward to a fresh month, and practically a fresh decade, with some future plans that feel good through and through. 

Photos:  The rallying flag of Madikeri's political procession, given to me as a Christmas gift from Matt; stockings hung up on Christmas morning, thanks to Santa (aka our awesome other intern, Lauren)

Fresh Winds Blowing Through

In the mornings now a strong wind whips through the surrounding rainforest valleys and the farm where we live.  It lulls us to sleep and then wakes us up with the sound of the ocean, a rhythmic lapping at our doors and windows.  At first I didn’t believe that the rainforest had a winter, but here it is, with a refreshing tinge of northeastern fall, with a wind that sweeps through our mornings to begin each day with fresh new air.

Last night, Halloween, was a real treat.  Lauren, Matt, Maya and I carved pumpkins in the afternoon, and then the gals baked for most of the rest of the day- brownies with oats from scratch, and roasted pumpkin seeds.  It was Maya’s first pumpkin-carving experience, and she went at it with creative gumption, carving a dolphin under a crescent moon.  Maya is the 11-year old daughter of our hosts here, and as we make this our home little by little, she is often the one leading us along.  The other day she had me dictate (in Hindi) a letter she was writing to her grandmother, and last night she made my Halloween.  She not only created my entire costume (a puppy mask, made out of bamboo husk), but she also showed me a glimmer of what she loves about her home. 


We were searching for suitable bamboo husks beyond the edge of light thrown off by the campfire when she called me over.  She was crouching by the stream that runs along the side of the dining area, and directed me to sit beside her.  ‘Look up,’ she said, when I had squatted beside her, and there between a border of bamboo leaves rose the waxing moon in a clear sky.  ‘Now take a deep breath,’ she said.  ‘I love the air here….so fresh.’  In my mind I thought- what a lucky kid; she’s barely known another breath of air.  And then I felt sorry for us Americans, all coming from cities and lapping up the freshness here as if it’s something novel.

The crisp new wind has also inspired a general zeal among all of us at the farm.  I’ve been going at my work with new resolve, whether in the garden, at interviews with neighboring farms, or leading discussions about social surveys.  It helps that we’ve been here a few months now, but it’s beginning to feel like I have a place here and a purpose, even if it’s just to figure out what’s going on in the local farming community.

A few days ago I visited a neighboring farm, and for the first time I was on my own.  I was with a translator, of course, and even got a ride on a scooter to the nearest turnoff, but in terms of initiative, questioning, and connecting, it was up to me.  Muthu, my translator, and I left the scooter at a steep fork at the top of a hill and walked down between coffee trees to a dusty clearing in the forest canopy.  Muthu pointed out the new vermicomposting pit the farmers had built last year, and then a round woman with a huge, welcoming smile walked out into the clearing to say hello.  We exchanged greetings and were ushered inside, where sweet tea was put on the stove and the conversation began.

For the past two months, I’ve struggled to find the purpose behind the questions I’ve been asking farmers.  The NGO I’m working with is interested in developing a multi-faceted research project that sets economic and social data alongside biodiversity records.  The idea is to show that different farming methods produce different kinds of biodiversity (and varying levels of predatory animals that will go after agricultural pests), and that this in turn influences the productivity of the farm.  It’s a huge endeavor, and one that none of us are quite sure how to begin.

Part of the problem is our sheer American-ness.  I hear about a research problem and I want to know the methods, the background, and the goals before I start.  I want to fit the research ideas into a neat little package, and go out with a clear set of intentions and a well-vetted survey technique.  With this, I had none of that, and our Indian hosts thought there was nothing wrong with that.  It’s not a bad thing, it’s just a different thing, and it’s been part of the orientation process to get used to it.

So when I left for that recent farm visit, I started fresh.  I decided that I didn’t want to know anything in particular except as much as I could gather from an open-ended discussion of farming methods, awareness, goals, and problems on the farm.  I would revert to my undergraduate training and approach the visit as an anthropologist rather than a graduate researcher.  I would listen and engage, and hopefully connect.

We had tea together, and Parle G biscuits, and the woman’s mother-in-law came in to role herself a bit of paan (betel, a nicotine-ified substance grown right on the farm).  They wanted to know where I came from and pointed out that I looked much younger than the 26 years I declared.  They asked if I was alone, and I stumbled over the answer, saying that I came to India with one ‘husband.’  That seemed to satisfy them, and I decided that I need to practice that little white lie.

The interview meandered among various topics, pausing to shoe away chickens and gather dry clothes off the line outside.  I took pages of notes, and learned more about vermicomposting, coffee price fluctuations, and the ‘sangha’ work-share committees than I had known before.  But most of all, I connected with the women, and with Muthu, who patiently translated all of my questions and answers.  By the end of the conversation, the women made it clear that I was welcome back again, and that they would like to hear about anything that would make their farming easier- whether with prices, or composting, or pest problems.  It was a good start for a needs assessment, and for a year spent among the farmers in this area. 

I could chalk the change up to the winter wind starting things fresh, but maybe it’s instead the perspective I’m gaining on letting things unfold rather than trying to keep them in tidy packages.  In any case, it’s a much more pleasant place to be, and I’ll be happy if I can continue to float on the winds of conversation.

Diwali Lights

Most people in India will tell you that Diwali is full of fireworks, rockets, and every kind of noise.  Knowing Indians will tell tourists to get out of the cities before the Diwali new moon blackens the night sky, or else they won’t sleep for even a moment. 

I know nothing of that.  Although I can still hear (two days later) the remnants of far-off firecrackers bursting into the night, they are no louder than the frogs making their whimpering calls outside my door, and far quieter than the crickets drumming their legs together in the forest across the road.  Here at Mojo Plantation, our Diwali was instead marked by cooking, a campfire, and communal song.

The day started off with Maya and me making candles and diyas (small potted oil lamps) out of a year’s worth of spent candle wax.  We melted white and red and sparkly blue wax in a tin over an open fire.  We twisted fresh wicks from good cotton thread.  We cleaned out small clay pots to fill with the hot wax, removing sticky ash from previous years.  When the fire had turned the multi-colored mass into a fresh, runny, and unmistakably brown concoction, we poured it gingerly (and a bit messily) into our ready candle-pots. 

Later on, Sujata taught me how to make a jam tart.  It helped that I had whipped up an apple tart some weeks previous, but this time we went at it recipe-less, tossing flour and sugar and fresh cream from the cow’s milk into the dough.  Passionfruit jam from last year’s harvest filled the browned pastry shell, and then more cream went on top.  We put it aside for dinner. 

As dusk began to fall, Matt and I left our room to help cook dinner in the kitchen.  Aside from the candles and the baking, the day had felt like any other, with chores and research and this and that.  So when we walked up the stairs to the main house, we were surprised to see a string of lights blinking red and white, and a row of candles lit up along the outer bench.

Although festivals in India seem to have many various meanings, from what I understand Diwali is more or less an extension of Dasara, or rather, a reconciliation of Dasara’s story.  At one point long ago, in the time of the Ramayana, the Ayodhyan King Rama flies to Sri Lanka to rescue his wife Sita, who had been stolen by the evil king of Lanka, Ravana.  Dasara (which we celebrated a few weeks ago, and which Matt wrote about in his blog) marks the day that Rama cuts off Ravana's head and rescues Sita.  Diwali, meanwhile, marks the day that Rama returns to India.  It falls every year on the New Moon because Rama returns on a moonless night, and everyone in India puts out candles and diyas to guide his way home. 

We lit the rest of the candles and diyas, and had a round of drinks.  A neighbor friend of Sujata and Anurag’s (and another organic farmer) who had just returned from Germany came over to share in the festivities, so it felt like a real gathering.  New friends, homemade passionfruit wine, and handmade candles.  The ensuing barbecue (yes, it’s finally dry enough to barbecue!), a plethora of sweets, and singing around the fire made it feel like a real holiday. 

As we head into holiday season as we know it, I’ll be sure to keep Diwali in mind.  For Halloween we’re planning a dance party (for the four of us interns, at least), but Thanksgiving and Christmas are right around the corner.  I’m sure I’ll be missing my friends and family then, but at least I’ll know that we can still create a sense of peace, joy, and community on those special days.