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