What do you want to be when you grow up?

My auto rickshaw was speeding through the surprisingly deserted streets of Chennai when it suddenly slowed down and began pulling over to the side of the road. Oh no, I thought, is he going to try to pull something funny in hopes of squeezing me for a few more rupees?

What lack of faith in humanity! What pessimism! Is this really what I’ve come to after only six weeks in India? Coming up behind an old man struggling to peddle his cycle rickshaw, fully loaded with sand, up the steep angle of the sloping street, my auto driver stuck his leg out, braced it against the back edge of the cart, and revved the engine. I wish you could have seen the look of thankful relief on the old man’s face as we pushed him up and over the guilty rise.

I visited the big city this past weekend to meet some fellow Fogarty recipients and a group of new friends working with an international human rights organization. Apart from my inaugural game of Settlers in India, the definite highlight was finding National Geographic, The Economist, and best of all, the BBC’s Pride and Prejudice on DVD. A marathon viewing weekend will be arranged soon.

The October National Geographic magazine definitely wins as Elliott’s ultimate issue ever. I mean, green fuels, aerial views of Latin America, space exploration, and pirates, what more could you want? Oh wait, there’s also a feature article about my future career! Please check it out, and you’ll finally understand what I’m sure I’ve done a poor job of explaining over the years. I spent part of last summer in Australia with Hume Field, the Hendra virus guy, and I will be (hopefully) working with Billy Karesh of the Wildlife Conservation Society in Mozambique next year. The article doesn’t address the sustainable agricultural development aspects of my veterinary career ambitions, but overall it does a great job of describing this important interface of animal and human health.

But that’s not all. Both magazines feature essays on the future of human space exploration, which is especially intriguing given this recent announcement from NASA. I’ve already begun to fill in the initial online application. . . (you think I’m joking?)

Who says real football hasn't gone global?

Kammasamudram Part 2

The lush rocky hills have been a pleasant surprise. From what little I could gather about north-central Tamil Nadu before my arrival, I expected a flat, semi-arid, relatively unattractive landscape without much to offer in the way of outdoor activities. Fortunately this assumption was completely incorrect, however, and I have already been hiking, climbing, and trail cycling (mountain biking: these aren’t real mountains, and it seems “bike” implies the involvement of a motor).

While staying in Kammasamudram, I went on several long walks up and around the surrounding hills. One such excursion began in the stickiness of a quiet mid-afternoon. Heading out on my own to explore some imposing outcroppings a bit further from the village than I had been before, I was soon picking my way along the narrow paths winding through newly flooded rice paddies. My soundtrack of the ever-present beat and wailing melodies of a distant Tamil song, the sweet whistles of a nearby Asian koel, and the clucking of a farmer to his team of oxen was suddenly interrupted by the sounds of children laughing and shouting. Rounding the edge of the paddy, the source of this glee became quickly apparent. The massive well, probably dug by hand decades ago, served as an ideal refreshing retreat on this sultry afternoon. The boys, ranging in age from about six to sixteen, immediately starting shouting out for me to join them. For some reason the closest any of my village friends could get to pronouncing my name was “Hooliott”, and over our three weeks many of them abandoned all efforts in favour of “Uthappa”, a newly famous Indian cricketer. Do you see a resemblance?

Unfortunately I did not have shorts with me, and I wasn’t sure if it would be appropriate for me to join them in the buff (hence no photos), so I chatted for a while and continued on my way. By “chatted”, I mean repeating the same three phrases I know in Tamil, and listening to them proudly shout their much superior repertoire in English. Good stuff.

Climbing through a hedgerow thick with brush and thorns, I passed into a soft green maze of mature sugarcane. Sweat was already dripping from my face and wetting my back, and I realized that I had foolishly brought only my 1L Nalgene for water. I couldn’t resist the temptation. The task was not quite as easy as I expected, however, and several minutes passed before I had broken off a stalk, ripped away the woody sides with my teeth, and was contentedly chewing on fibrous pulp and sucking down every last drip of sugary nectar. I did feel slightly guilty for my unauthorized gleaning off this poor farmer’s harvest, but then I remembered Jesus in the wheat fields and felt much better.

After making my way through several postage-stamp fields of turmeric and jasmine (ahh, the scent of heaven!), I finally made it out into the clear goat-grazing areas at the foot of my chosen destination. For those of us who are accustomed to the endless expanses of corn, wheat, and soybeans spread across the U.S. and Europe, these half-acre plots of land are really quite shocking when one takes a moment to ponder them. Is it possible that someone, or more likely some family, could really make a living off these few precious plants and mounds of earth? Yes, actually, it is. But not the type of living we could be happy with. This is the reason for the loss of all the quaint little farms that once dotted our own landscapes. Unfortunately (for those of us who like to hate “the man”), it’s not that evil corporate America has pushed all the local farmers off their land to install pesticide-spewing, fertilizer-abusing, community-destroying factory farms. It’s just that all of those local farmers decided that they couldn’t make enough money with small-scale agriculture to support the lifestyles they had come to desire and expect. So they sold their land, got office jobs, and moved to the suburbs. And this is the dream of many of the Indian farmers as well. Who are we to convince them otherwise?

The cliffs above me were quite forbidding, and I had brief second thoughts about my planned assent when I discovered an old life insurance policy tucked in the crack of an overhanging boulder (honestly). I quickly discovered a fairly easy route along a vegetation-filled chute, however, and scrambled my way up to the summit.

It was then that I saw them. No, not an undiscovered tribe of prehistoric humans, silly. They were monkeys, and they were everywhere. Fortunately for me, this troupe of rhesus macaques did not seem to be habituated in the same way as those that routinely terrorize the streets of Vellore, and they quickly scattered to gain some distance and a better vantage point of this strange invader. Gradually they gave up on their secret hopes that I would do something more entertaining and returned to their normal activities of scratching bums, picking lice, and provoking fights. Every now and then one would turn his gaze back to me, yawn lazily, and get back to more important business.

Caught up in my observations of these not-so-distant relatives, I had to use my handy packable hang glider to make it back to the village in time for dinner. That or a local bus, I can’t remember which.

So that was my experience in the village. That and a whole lot more, but if I wrote everything here there would be nothing to Skype or e-mail about!

King of the world!

Several of my macaque friends

Some of the med students and I on a return trip


Enjoying a health education comedy skit


Remember I mentioned the daily kolam drawing and bent backs?


Every design is different


Mix of old and new


Not quite as entertained by the health skit . . .


Ode to a grasshopper


Transplanting the rice (see video)


I'm getting good at these discrete over the shoulder shots


"Key informant" interview with a local farmer

Village life

Still somewhat groggy at 5:30am, I stumble along the crumbling concrete that acts as Kammasamudram's main street. A faint hint of gray has tinged the deep black of a pre-dawn sky, and all but the brightest of stars have already hidden themselves for another jaunt through the invisible heavens. Though the streets are still lined with the shadowy sleeping bodies of those avoiding the advent of another day, most of my neighbors are already well into their morning routines.

Bright plastic buckets surround a common pump head as women and children transmit brute physical strength into cool clean water from the bore well burrowing into the water table deep below. These wells, paid for by the government and scattered across rural India, loudly demonstrate what two decades of relative stability and economic growth can do. Old women, their backs bent ninety degrees from years of hard labor, reinforce this unnatural angle as they make good use of reed brooms in sweeping the street and earthen alleyways around their homes. Why make the effort, I'm tempted to ask, when these same paths will only be dirtied again so soon? Then I realize how silly a question it is: why does any group of people use valuable time and energy in keeping their homes clean and presentable? But what about when the same exertion is expended in the intricate rice flour kolams designed anew early every morning? Why is it jarring for me to watch the poor using valuable resources in such temporary expressions of aesthetic beauty? I'm clearly not used to seeing these efforts in the vivid reality of crooked spines and gnarled fingers.

As I make my way past an eclectic mix of concrete, aluminum, mud, and thatch houses, the rapidly brightening sky enables me to see the questioning eyes of these dark figures. A beautiful young woman combs out her thigh-length black hair, shiny with coconut oil. A mother nurses her naked baby while sitting in a bright doorway lit by the glaring glow of an equally naked fluorescent bulb. A man about my age crouches beside a skinny Jersey cow, pumping away with his wiry fingers at her sagging udder. Some smile incredulously, others just stare. I'm gradually coming to accept the stare for the innocent curiosity and questioning wonder that it is. It's tempting to interpret these soul-searching, unbroken gazes as having some hint of malicious intent or at least an inexcusable uncouthness to them; after all, most of us have perfected the unassuming half-second glance in our attempts to assess and evaluate a stranger. Can we really expect to attain the same knowledge of someone from such a poor imitation, however? I've always been tempted to stare (and been caught at it often!), so I am enjoying this newfound freedom to take my time in looking someone over. When my eyes meet these questioning gems of deep coffee brown, I hold that gaze and question right back.

I am here in Kammasamudram for a two week Community Orientation Program with the second year medical students from the Christian Medical College (my home base in Vellore). The program serves two purposes. First and foremost, it enables the medical students to gain a better understanding of what life is like for many of their future patients. The vast majority of Indians still live in rural village settings, while most medical students come from more privileged urban environments. They need to learn about the social and economic limitations their patients will be coming with so that they can design their medical approaches accordingly. The second purpose of the program is to contribute to a longitudinal data set detailing health parameters, access to health services, and general socioeconomic factors affecting the villages around Vellore. Kammasamudram has been visited every ten years since the 1970s: this is the type of data public health types dream about! In pursuit of these goals, we are living in the village for two weeks (with a break on the weekend) and spending time getting to know our assigned households through the informal administration of a number of surveys. Given my lack of ability with Tamil, I am most effective at communicating with the kids (who needs words anyway?). Given my white skin, they are immediately attracted to and fascinated by me. So it works out well.

Nearing my destination at our temporary base and clinic in the village (and a hot cup of sweet coffee from a huge clay jug), the gray horizon gives way to an explosion of color. Another day is here.

Sunrise over Kammasamudram

An early morning conversation

Painted for worship, but unfortunately this cow doesn't have
enough rope to move more than a couple of feet

90+ year old widow discussing the trials of life


Plowing up an old rice paddy


A carrom game with the cool teenage guys


I love the macro function on my camera! (and God's creativity)


The boys are all obsessed with pro-wrestling
(yes, every hut has a color cable TV)


"Helping" to plant rice in a flooded paddy


The beginnings of a silk sari


This woman's daughter was a veterinarian until she died of
an unknown disease a couple years ago

These guys took me on an early morning birding trip to the local marsh

One person who correctly identifies this item (previously pictured
in a photo from this post)in an e-mail to me will be randomly
selected to receive a postcard in the near future!

A New Adventure Begins . . .

Walking down the main street of this busy south Indian town, I am faced with one perpetual question. This question, presenting itself as an amazingly diverse assault on all five senses, asks: will I see this glass as half empty, or half full.

A monstrous truck flies by, sounding its deafening high-pitched scream of a horn, forcing me to jump into a pile of rotting refuse, and rewarding me with a black cloud of diesel fumes so foul I can taste them. Wiping my face on the sleeve of my nicest button-down, I find that the exhaust has left its mark on the thin layer of glistening sweat that constantly replenishes itself in the monsoon humidity. Just as I let out a sigh of exasperation, I'm greeted with a wave and smile by a young man stirring the day's sambar in a huge iron bowl. "Helew howeryou?" he asks, as I peak into the mix and am enveloped in the savory scent of spices and vegetables blended with sweet wood smoke from the fire below.

I am struck with guilty wonder as I stare at the feeble efforts of a frail old man, crippled in both legs, while he attempts to wheel his bicycle-wheelchair contraption up a slight incline. His hair and long beard are visibly dirty, and his once white dhoti is stained with years of poverty. It is clearly his only item of clothing. Before I can even think to act (and I'm ashamed to think about what I probably would not have done), a youngish looking teenager steps in behind the rickety apparatus and pushes it up and over the offending slope.

Nearing my destination, I have to smile as a skinny brown dog limps into view, pausing with a full body myoclonic seizure every few seconds. I smile because I've seen this same dog, in the same area, suffering with the same seizures, every day of my two weeks here in Vellore. He is a survivor. I also smile because I've seen multiple people, from beggars to physicians, accidentally (and with a compassionate glint in their eyes) drop a bit of rice or samosa near him as they pass by on the street.

This is life. As I stumble along the way, seeing through a glass darkly and knowing others and truth only in part, I look forward to those moments now and an eternity in the future when I will see clearly, know fully, and be fully known. Here's to half full glasses, in India, Mozambique, Angola, and beyond!

A lively evening on the streets . . .

A quieter scene (yes, that is cotton candy, and yes, it was that pink)

An hour's hike from my house (it's not all crowds and busyness)