Some Time

Hey there... It's been a while! Here's a quick synopsis of the last 2.5 months: Left the farm at the end of February, traveled to Hampi (awesome, but super touristy) and Goa (Anjuna beach, great time!) before heading to Mumbai to fly out to Bangkok! Landed in Bangkok early on in March and went straight up to Chiang Mai to start ANOTHER "internship" on a permaculture project/learning center near Mae Tang. Mostly Americans, volunteers slipped in and out of that place like water. Only 3 or 4 people were permanent fixures on what we thought would be a farm, but ended up being an experimental natural building site. It suffered from a lack of water, so bathing took place in the local reservoir. After an initial adjustment period, we settled in and got some work done. Built a gutter and aqueduct system... hoping to solve part of that water problem. It was great to get some practical experience with building (the trials and errors especially). We got to hang out with lots of cool people and listen to great music on a killer sound system. After 6 weeks at Panya, we kicked it over to Laos for a week. Saw a killer waterfall, some Asiatic Black Bears, a raging party at Vangvieng, hiked through a beautiful cave, swam in another waterfall, and chilled in the capital. Final stop in the land of smiles: Koh Chang. Spent one full week on a beautiful white sand beach eating yummy food and chilling out before an abrupt return to the Indian Subcontinent and back to work! Now we're back at Rainforest Retreat. The mood has changed drastically. It's no longer peak tourist season, so the place is quiet, it's raining most afternoons and the climate couldn't be more pleasant. The whistling thrush is back in all it's eerie glory, the cicadas are calling the rains, and we have just 3 weeks until the very last leg of this epic year abroad. I'm stationary now, so I'll try to get down the thoughts in my head in Blog form (it'll be nice to pin some down, cause they're swirling around up here like crazy). Another commencement in my future... I don't think it's even reasonable to guess what new realizations I'll come to when I crash land in Seattle for the summer. At this point, I'm happier than I've been this entire time. I have a wonderful partner in crime, a beautiful India-home to come back to and some perspective to appreciate it all with. I'm letting any problems slide off my back and down to the ground (maybe the leaches will suck them up). With the end clearly in sight, I just might be sorry to leave after all.

orchids

The orchids are in bloom. They reach up from the stunted trunks of the stubby trees in the grasslands. Their white flowers are mildly fragrant. They are white, orange, both subtle and ostentatious. When I guide treks around the hills, I point them out to guests, who are always surprised that these are orchids?

I’d never thought too much about orchids, it was an exotic flower that didn’t really concern me or require much attention. When Sujata started pointing them out to me in September I was skeptical. These are orchids? The “Dendrobium” looked like a little stick, the “Bulbophylum” looked like, well, Bulbasaur. The ground orchids were impressive in the shape of their petals, but were otherwise a little underwhelming.

But there’s something about the epiphytic flower that I’m only beginning to appreciate as the Dedrobiums finally show their soft, white reproductive organs. They are subtle. Some flowers shout, “Pluck me!” but not these little blossoms. They seem so suited to their environment that one barely notices them. They bloom low to the ground, from a pod that is brown and rough like the bark of the trees upon which they perch. Their roots barely penetrate the earth, as if to say, “Don’t worry about me, I’ll take care of myself.” If their roots are buried in rich soil, the plant will die. These flowers need only a very little bit of nutrients and water, and prefer not to be coddled or crowded.

They are like a secret. If I point them out to guests, my excitement is often lost on them, because they don’t know how long I’ve waited to see these simple little petals. I have been not caring about orchids since I came here, and finally they’re peeping their unfussy, self-sufficient selves from their simple winter homes to wave in the breeze, see the sun, and mate.

Most orchids are epiphytes and grow on trees, many very high, some very low on the trunk. I wonder how many quiet little blossoms are in the canopy, unnoticed, needing little more than a bit of sun and a place to be.

This is something that has struck me about this “tropical rain forest.” It doesn’t fit that description at all. It’s very lush here, but during the dry season at least the flowers and plants are sensible, not capricious. There is green all around, but it’s not an imposing, wet, lushness that fills the air. We are at 1100 meters, and the air is cool, clean, fairly dry, and the part of the forest I find most beautiful is simply the quality of the light. Goats bleat and rooster crow, birds chirp, but few sound as exotic as they look. Soon Shiva will wake up and shake all the snakes and beetles and spiders from his shoulders, but now Parvati is still dancing to rouse him. The life of the forest has not come out yet in full force. The subtle orchid punctuates this period of relative calm.

Below: Dendrobium barbatulum

some thoughts

Here I sit, writing from a closed room with windows that look out onto the sunny porch.  Basanti sweeps yesterday’s dust as she does every morning, and plays with the puppies.  Susee is chatting leisurely with her because the owners of the porch and the house it surrounds are away.  They hold hands and chase the puppies and laugh when they roll around on the ground.  Here I sit, reading, typing away on my machine, inside in a cool room on a hot, sunny day. 

 

How do our experiences shape our relationship with the physical world?  I have learned about the physical environment more in a classroom and through books than in a field.  These women know how plants grow because they’ve seen it, and helped them grow since they were children. They know how to do practical things with their hands and their bodies.  They don't take recreational walks to stay fit.

 

The more affluent and educated we become, the further we seem to stray from the world of physical labor and relationships with the other creatures of the world (flauna and flora alike).  Perhaps we think more cerebrally about these things (I’m reading a book about farming and gardening) but these young women, both from large families on small farms in rural Karnataka, have a tactile relationship with them, and know no other way to relate to the world except directly.

 

Am I reading about farming because I feel that more knowledge will build up to some greater goal, or am I reading about farming because that’s how I’ve learned to relate to nature?  If my concept of nature is fed to me second hand in this way, can I really say I have a relationship with nature, or is that second hand too? 

 

It must be my higher level of education that allows me to see how our actions and decisions affect the greater environment and thus I am concerned about the impact of humans on the earth.  The uneducated farmers and manual laborers with whom I work don’t share this concern.  That is certainly a benefit of the Western education I’ve undergone.  But it wasn’t until my shift into a rural tropical setting for an extended period of time that my environmental values were solidified, given substance, and morphed from knowledge to understanding.

 

What kind of interesting, holistic and informed perceptions would these young women, who know the land like a member of their family, form if they were educated after their development of a tactile relationship with the physical world.  Most of India is comprised of these so-called “simple” villagers, who in many ways know more than any of the educated and isolated young people in the West.  What would they contribute if they had access to the world-wide communication systems we take for granted and a globally visible form of expression? 

 

So many people in my generation, and all the children after us in the Western world, live with their noses fixed to a computer screen.  They have learned about deforestation in the Amazon, but aren’t aware that they are eating plants for dinner.  That even their iceberg lettuce had roots and flowers to go with those leaves. That even the additives in their packaged dinners are made of corn (which also has roots and flowers).  That the soil doesn’t make things “dirty,” it makes things alive.

 

Could there be an exchange between these kids with virtual lives and the forgotten villagers who still live firmly in the physical world?  Would either side of the equation benefit, or would the rift be too wide for mutual understanding? 

 

Both of these groups are disadvantaged.  One lacking what the other takes for granted.

Plantation Tour

This is basically a transcript of the tours I give at Mojo Plantation.  Sometimes I leave things out and I'm pretty much never this articulate, but I think most of this information comes across. 

Welcome to Mojo Plantation…

 

Our Plantation is composed of four valleys, totaling 24 acres, about 18 of which are cultivated and certified organic.  Our main crop is cardamom, a native of this region, followed by coffee, black pepper and vanilla.  We also cultivate pineapples and citrus fruit.  Due to the extreme climate (we get about 200 inches of rainfall per year, mostly in the span of three months), it is difficult to cultivate food crops, which prefer drier soil.  During the drier winter and summer seasons (October through May) we have been experimenting with vegetables.  We are currently growing tomatoes, brinjal (eggplant), peppers, nerkol (colrabi), cabbage, beans, sweet potatoes, turmeric and ginger.  Unseasonable and unpredictable rainfall has ensured that our yields remain mediocre. 

 

Sujata and Anurag Goel founded the plantation 15 years ago.  They were both working as geneticists at an institute in Delhi.  Due to the misappropriation of knowledge for commercial use by companies like Monsanto without proper background research, the Goels became skeptical of their roles in the field of genetic modification.  They made the decision to leave the lab and the city and move south.  They loaded up their jeep (now the infamous “Blues Mobile”) and started driving.  Along their path they encountered in India’s many agricultural fields an unprecedented use of pesticides.  The men and women applying these chemicals wore backpack sprayers and no form of protection.  Sujata achingly recalls an encounter with a young child in a recently sprayed field, eating fresh cardamom pods coated in toxins while her parents looked on.  The chemicals don’t just affect those who manually apply them.  All members of communities exposed to these toxins suffer.  Women pass on the affects of their exposure to their children, who develop learning disabilities and/or deformities, if they do not become sterile.  An increase in the occurrence of cancer in these villages and communities is also common.  Though the consumer imbibes these chemicals in much smaller doses, these same effects have been documented. 

 

When the Goels found this piece of land, they knew they had found their “Mojo,” or magic charm.  This was their calling!  The land had been owned by a man who recently had passed away.  His sons, working out of Mangalore, visited the property infrequently and left the farm’s management to the family that still works with us today.  Sujata and Anurag inherited a crop of cardamom infected with the khate virus.  This virus becomes apparent by the yellow streak pattern it produces on the leaves of the cardamom plant.  By the time this visual indication is recognized, the entire crop may already be infected.  The only option is to uproot the entire crop and burn it, so that it may not infect the farmer’s new crop.  They planted a new crop of cardamom and at first (at the behest of the Karnataka Spice Board) cultivated it using conventional techniques (applications of NPK fertilizers and minimal pesticides). 

 

Above: Cardamom plant; Below: Conogethes punctiferalis moth.

Despite following the accepted practices for cardamom cultivation, they still encountered a destructive pest.  Conogethes punctiferalis is a voracious lepidopteron (moth) whose larvae bore into the juicy stem of the cardamom plant, gestate and emerge through a second bored hole in its adult form.  It then commences to lay its eggs in the plant’s canopy or the leaf litter below.  Being of a scientific mindset, the Goels did not see this as cause for despair, but instead a call to experiment. 

 

After applying for numerous grants to conduct their research, a significant level of funding was provided by the National Geographic Society.  They proposed to investigate the effectiveness of pesticidal/pest repellent properties in decoctions of many common growing botanicals in the immediate local area.  Their research confirmed common folk knowledge of wild tobacco as a pest repellent, and showed it to be particularly successful in repelling the Conogetes moth.  After trials in a lab setting, the wild tobacco decoction was applied on a field level with positive results.  The pest level dropped dramatically in their first year of spraying, and after the second year, the repellent was no longer necessary.  The Stem Borer population had dropped below pest level, and was now a balanced member of the Mojo Plantation community. 

 

Wild Tobacco plant

Why were they able to stop spraying?  Conventional plantations will spray their far more powerful pesticides at regular monthly intervals, yet their pest populations never fall enough to cease use of the pesticide.  The wild tobacco decoction was not the only pest control method in use.  Look around-- see all those weeds?  We love weeds here.  Weeds serve many purposes on this plantation.  Most importantly for the cardamom story, it acts as a primary habitat for carnivorous insects, spiders, frogs, lizards, dragonflies and damselflies; all of whom help to control our pest populations naturally.  Of course when the natural system is out of balance, there are too many pests for these workers to control.  When an organic pest repellent is used judiciously during key times in the pest’s life cycle to relieve the population to a manageable level, these predators take care of the rest, maintaining the natural balance.

 

Our weeds are our most valuable resource.  Not only do they provide habitat for our predators, they also act as a living mulch to keep moisture in the soil during our hot months, fuel our livestock, provide alternative food for potential pests, and provide an invaluable compost input.  Most farmers and gardeners struggle constantly against weeds.  They do require a significant amount of manual labor to keep in check, but they need not be uprooted, burned, asphyxiated and killed with herbicides.  Providing each crop plant with some open space to grow but leaving the majority of the weeds in one’s garden is essential for sustainable cultivation of plants as crops.   

 

Vanilla

 

Vanilla is our highest grossing crop.  It is the second most expensive spice in the world, saffron being the first.

Hand-pollinating vanilla.

 

Vanilla is an orchid, indigenous to a mountainous region of Mexico.  Conquistadors discovered this exotic and intoxicating plant (the only orchid that bares edible fruit) and were either seduced by its fragrance or saw its commercial potential in Europe (probably both).  They sailed cuttings of the plant to another colony on the other side of the world, Madagascar.  There they established vanilla plantations, but after many seasons of flowering without fruit production, the cultivators realized something was missing.  It was finally discovered (by a plantation slave, as the story goes) that each vanilla plant must be manually pollinated to induce fruit production.  There is a species of bee in vanilla’s native region of Mexico that is solely responsible for the pollination of these flowers.  Because this bee is absent everywhere else in the world, every April a team of our finest human bees makes its way through the vines, equipped with sterile forceps, and manually pollinates each individual flower, thus ensuring a crop in February.

 

Vanilla is an epiphyte (an organism that lives on a tree without parasitizing it) and will grow straight up a tree trunk and into the canopy unless diverted.  We train the vines along vertical tubing strung between tree trunks, but all the energy for growth is still concentrated at the top of the plant.  The culprit of this inconvenient pattern of growth, known as “apical dominance,” is a hormone called auxin.  This hormone pulls all the plant’s growth energy into a controlled upward sprouting, and limits fruit production.  To outsmart the plant, we cut the top off of the plant, dispersing the growth energy down the vine, encouraging more fruit growth and a more vibrant harvest.

 

When a plant is subjected to moderate amounts of stress (too little water, too high temperatures) it will speed up its reproduction cycle, for fear of dying without producing offspring.  We often induce controlled desiccation (water deprivations) on our vanilla plants to stimulate fruit production.  This produces an early vanilla harvest (crops gross more early in a season) and saves our water resources.

 

Most of our vanilla crops are still young and have yet to reach their yielding potential.

 

Compost and EM

 

The most important aspect of any organic farm is the health of its soil.  In conventional agriculture, the role of soil has been reduced to a mere physical support for plants.  When one uses chemical fertilizer or pesticides, one is in fact killing the plant’s actual source of a whole range of nutrients.  Microbes in the soil are responsible for the assimilation of nutrients into the soil that plants may readily absorb.  Nitrogen is the most important of these.  Our atmosphere is 98% Nitrogen, but the soil contains only .002% of this valuable nutrient, and little of this is in a form assimilable by plants.  More than one scientist has characterized this as a cruel joke of nature; that life’s most essential nutrient is so plentiful yet so inaccessible.  But these scientists weren’t looking into their microscope hard enough!  Billions of tiny workers are constantly converting that abundant resource into nitrates.  Many plants, notably legumes, have developed symbiotic relationships with nitrogen-fixing bacteria in the soil.  In fact, the practice of “green manuring” intersperses crops with leguminous plants, so the crops may experience the benefits of this relationship. 

 

The best way to build up a healthy soil community is through composting.  We practice traditional composting-- with a twist!  Because we don’t mechanize anything on the farm, we have to manually distribute compost to each individual plant.  To make this tedious task more manageable, we have localized compost pits in each valley.  Our compost is comprised of many layers of biomass (our friends, the weeds), cow manure, diluted cow urine and EM (Effective Microorganisms).  These EM are cultures from native soil.  They are used globally for organic farming and gardening and span a vast array of uses. These cultures boost the microbial content of our most important fertilizer.  They help to destroy potential diseases in the cow dung, and make the compost even more nutritive.  They are also useful in a number of arenas outside of compost.  They generally destroy “bad” or disease-causing bacteria, so they can be used to eliminate odor in human or animal waste, reduce fly populations on garbage heaps, and rehabilitate poorly maintained soil when shifting from conventional to organic agriculture practices. 

 

Healthy soils make healthy plants.  Feeding a plant synthetic NPK (Nitrogen, Phosphorous, Potassium) to the exclusion of other vital nutrients is like raising a kid entirely on white bread.  Sure, it will grow, but it will be sick and unable to defend itself against disease.  Growing unhealthy plants like these necessitates pesticide use, thus causing the farmer to become dependent on synthetic fertilizer (which kills the microbes which ought to feed the plants nutrients) and on chemical pesticides (since the plants are incapable of using their natural defense systems to protect themselves against disease).  What part of this system is logical?

 

Plants have evolved for millions of years without humans to kill their pests for them.  They have evolved advanced, elegant (and poorly studied) methods of self-defense, because they don’t have the luxury of getting up and walking away.  A healthy and lively soil feeds plants a full and varied diet of nutrients and minerals that allow these protective measures to function.  It’s like feeding a kid round meals, whole grains and lots of vegetables!

 

Coffee and Intercropping

 

Coffee berries on the branch.

We intercrop two types of coffee with our other crops and weeds.  Most farmers in our area are unable to grow Coffea arabica, because it is a smaller plant and more prone to pests and diseases (specifically another lepidopteron borer).  We are able to grow this species because we intersperse the saplings with its stronger sibling, Coffea robusta. 

 

Intercropping is a practice that can cut down pest growth before it becomes problematic.  The practice of monoculture is a relatively new technique that basically invites pests to chow down on an unlimited food supply.  It was only the advent of chemical pesticides that allowed this method to flourish.  Intercropping relies on diversity within a single field.  You will not see an expanse exclusively filled with coffee or cardamom on this plantation.  All our crops are interwoven with each other and with weeds.  Our valleys themselves are separated by fallow, uncultivated land.

 

Farming in a Shola-Grassland Ecosystem

 

Inside the plantation we are at the bottom of a forested valley.  One has difficult seeing clearly for 10 meters, let alone kilometers.  Climbing to the top of a hill reveals the true nature of our surroundings.  We are located in what is referred to as a “shola-grassland ecosystem.”  Due to the extreme erosive forces in this region (mainly rain but also wind) soil from the hilltops is regularly washed down into the valleys, where a deep and nutritious soil supports dense forest.  Most of the native Western Ghats forest has been obliterated.  Estimates range from between 2 to 20% of the native shola forest remaining.  Looking over the valleys one sees many trees, but looks can be deceiving.  Farmers in the Kodagu region do not legally own the trees on their land, and so must pay the Indian government substantial fees in order to cut one down.  For this reason, most of the local agriculture takes place under a canopy out of necessity. 

 

You may also notice patches of tall, light green trees against the dark native branches.  These are fast-growing, non-native Australian Acacia.  The Indian government officially classified grasslands in the same category as wastelands.  During a wasteland rehabilitation project, these intruders were planted as quickly replenishing sources of fuel.  The trees have disrupted the grassland ecosystem and the nesting patterns of many species of birds.  It’s just another example of what happens when humans don’t take the time to understand natural systems. 

 

 

 

Cynics Stay Home

Few people experience less than awe when confronted with unadulterated Nature, though the ranks perhaps are growing.  In our built environment everything is placed into convenient packages; thoroughly researched, poked, prodded and analyzed until Western science is satisfied that it has become boring enough for human consumption.  In a natural system, biology becomes something that cannot be parceled and measured.  It’s too vast.  Too inclusive, too extensive and at the same time too minute.  In a forest, a biologist is forced to surrender to her subject.

 

I came to India without a clear purpose.  And in a way, I have yet to come to India.  I live more in a parallel universe than any particular country.  India is that bustling, chaotic, mystical land of dust and rivers.  Here, in the little-known shola-grassland ecosystem of the Western Ghats, the favored images of the subcontinent fall to pieces.  I have several times tried, and every time failed, to describe my natural surroundings in these black and white words.  The layers upon layers of gently (ever so gently!) sloping hills, topped with grasslands like pink bald spots, and between these “barren” lookout points: densely forested valleys that are fertile, feminine and fierce.  One feels damp just gazing over the landscape from the grassy tops of the hills. 

 

My home is beneath the canopy.  A canopy that cannot legally be sacrificed in the name of development or agriculture.  The trees are owned by the government, and by some fluke it is illegal for farmers to cut down the native giants on their land.  The undergrowth was not afforded the same luxury.  So although I’m surrounded on all sides by plantations, I can barely see a meter in front of me without a tree, dripping in epiphytes, blocking my line of vision.  Sometimes it’s overwhelming, claustrophobic and limiting to my state of mind.  I feel trapped in this strange world where I couldn’t use a cell phone if I wanted to, where I haven’t seen a television commercial for four months, and where I have just plain stopped following the news altogether.  So I walk.  I walk up.  Playing with new-found muscles in my city-atrophied legs.  I walk up towards the grass.  Towards a simpler, less oppressive ecosystem.

 

I snap out my chettai and let it unfold itself in the breeze.  It lands catawampus on the poky grasses and I stretch my body out, tip back my “Coorg Wildlife Society” cap and gaze.  At nothing in particular.  I let my eyes greedily drink in the wide, gaping, open hillscape.  Some call them mountains, but Pacific Northwesterners would scoff at the thought.  These are foothills, if they’re anything.  The foothills of mountains that no longer exist.  They have been scraped and chiseled down by ages of extreme rainfall and relentless winds into these humble green and brown crests.

 

As my head tips back, I see the blueness of the dusky sky.  Further back and I see the upside-down tips of the grasses, left to grow un-mowed save for cow-tooth maintenance, and I focus on these.  Slowly what was a speck in my vision becomes a tiny spider.  I reach out to touch it but am blocked by a deceptively strong, invisible web that sticks to my finger as I pull it back.  And then I see them: Hundreds of tiny spiders.  Each staking out a separate blade of tall, seedy grass.  You can’t see them until you get down to their level.  They are the silent militia of the grassland; laying in wait for the flying insects that emerge with the dusk.  I have probably ruined a night’s hunt for many of them with the unfolding of my chettai, having smashed down their barracks. 

 

So here is what I’ve learned in my non-India: that Nature is telescopic.  It functions in perfect balance on both the greatest and the tiniest scales imaginable.  How arrogant we are to think we live outside of it!  Or even to think we can throw off its balance.  This impending doom we’re all cowering from is Nature shaking us off her back.  Balancing herself.  Our parceling, patenting and marketing of “nature” is laughable! Elements of the natural environment (as directly opposed to those of the built environment) can only be truly understood in that web of existence from which none of us can be extracted.  And that kind of understanding is not a scientific pursuit; it’s a spiritual investigation.

 

How have we come so far from the understanding that we can’t understand it all?  Why have so many children (including myself) grown up without the deep reverence for a quiet forest at dusk that should simply come with being human?  And what does it mean for our future as a species?

 

But you don’t have to be a child to gain that respect and humility.  It’s too natural to be inaccessible.  It’s unnatural not to feel connected to the rest of life on Earth, and so it comes easily when you let it. 

 

I guess there are tons of theories out there about consciousness, but I am actively not a philosopher, so I don’t know them.  But it’s my opinion that our ability to look outward with a critical eye was an evolutionary fluke-- just like every trait in every plant or animal.  I think our generation’s salvation lies within our Nature-given ability to look inward and ask, Why do we think we can know it all?  Why would we ever think we could take the world apart into little digestible pieces and finally figure out the puzzle?  Solve everything?  What even needs to be solved? 

 

Why do we need anything more than to gaze out at the natural world and marvel that we are part of this?

 

 

 

 

craving grace

Totally immersed in a wild plantation, surrounded by like-minded humans and animals, where my greatest amusement comes from listening to a chorus of frogs drown out the murmur of guests on a dark night, I'm so removed from my other reality. It's easy to ignore the news. Too easy, in fact, I have no idea what's going on in the world right now. The people I meet are at least willing to listen and accept our way of life for a few days. Then what? I spend so many nights imagining the rest of my life-- the causes I will be dedicated to, the people I could help, the policies I will fight. And the more I think, the more I see a huge wall building itself in front of my dreams.

All the people in the West who don't want to hear my logic, who don't care about people they haven't met, who still--and will always-- think of the earth as their private property (and will sue anyone who says otherwise), they terrify me. In this pseudo-utopia, I can barely hear their flimsy rhetoric anymore, but I fear it. I don't want to be trampled, abused and ultimately a failure in my cause. Even some of the adventurous travelers I meet here are skeptical about something as simple as organic food. How deep into our psyches have the corporations penetrated? "That's all nice, but how will organic agriculture feed the world's population?" they ask. How can it not? Do we have a choice? How long can the world's population deign to be fed by the industrial food chain-- based firmly in a dwindling and pathetically unreliable resource (petroleum)?

Family and friends-- please do me a favor. Save some of the world's biodiversity in your backyards. Start a garden. Grow heirloom varieties and plant crops people tell you don't grow here. Get to know your soil. Get your hands dirty. Watch the stars instead of television. Buy food from local farmers who grow their produce organically. Be aware of where your dollars go.

Sometimes the state of the world feels so urgent-- so desperate! But people wiser than me have written wise words for stressed out individuals like myself. Here are a few of them:

"Little by little, our cultivated plant species and varieties are disappearing from our orchards, kitchen gardens and fields, to be replaced by a few productive varieties which are often insipid. Will such extinction be as severe as that of the wild species? Maybe not-- there will always be some relentless individuals who hold on zealously to their grandfathers' apple trees and grandmothers' onions. In the human world, eradication is seldom complete if we remain watchful. For what is rare is dear and becomes sought after...Just as with war, so it is with plants-- in case of an invasion there are always pockets of survival. When the barbarians demolished the Roman Empire, Christianity survived in the Irish, Scottish and Byzantine monasteries, and when peace returned, these islets blossomed and spread throughout Europe...

We have chosen to break our alliance with the majority of the cultivated plant species, but this rupture has not been all-encompassing; many gardeners and farmers have kept the faith and in the depths of their conscience have remained united with the earth... The abandonment of our cultivated plants is only temporary; it is a step in our development where we sought to banish Nature to test ourselves, later to experience the joy of seeing her gallop towards us again."

~Claude Bourguignon "Regenerating the Soil"

"The closest my heart has come to breaking lately was on the day my little girl arrived home from school and ran to me, her face tense with expectation, asking, 'Are they still having that war in Afghanistan?'

As if the world were such a place that in one afternoon, while kindergarteners were working hard to master the letter L, it would decide to lay down its arms. I tried to keep the tears out of my eyes. I told her I was sorry, yes, they were still having a war.

She said, 'If people are just going to keep doing that, I wish I'd never been born.'

I sat on the floor and held her tightly to keep my own spirit from draining through the soles of my feet. I don't know what other mothers say at such moments; I suppose some promise that only the bad men are getting hurt. I wish I could believe in that story myself. But my children have never been people I could lie to. My best revenge against all the dishonesty and hatred in the world, it seems to me, will be to raise right up through the middle of it these honest and loving children."

~Barbara Kingsolver "Small Wonder"

education

Reading about soil feels like reading a religious text.



The knowledge is invisible and sacred. It's a world of shadows that we rarely see, but that nurtures us all and can be used for good or evil. Agriculture is a kind of alchemy. It is taking stones and death and creating gold: new life. The stones contain minerals; inert matter that is brought to life by an unseen conversion by microbes and microfauna into sustenance. The channels of new life are invisible to us, in the world of light: the roots, in the universe of the soil... a kind of spirit-world. Chemists can study the parts and the pieces, but only a grower of plants can know the true potential of the life beneath their feet. The names of bacteria that fix nitrogen into the soil from the atmosphere, one of the most important processes for life on earth, have names like gods: Nitrosomonas and Nitrobactor. And more than their mythical counterparts, these gods truly deserve worship.



That which we have reduced to chemistry is truly magical and deserves a deep, spiritual respect to all who grow and all who consume plants (that means you). The soil is more than a physical support for plant life. It holds the secret of the transformation of inert matter into all life on earth. The chemical fertilizers used in "conventional" agriculture pervert this ancient system and confuse the spirit of the soil, slowly killing it, and because we have lost our connection to the earth, we can't see how it is killing us too.



Those of you who know me well know how long I've struggled against religion and even fate. But there's something deep and sacred here, in what I'm learning and the things I'm seeing. One can't have a respect for plants if one has never really seen them grow. We have our gardens, our flowers, our lawns, but it's just a dressing for our material existence. Until we live in the garden we can't truly understand the power that exists in plants. And the power we consume when we eat them. If the energy that goes into their production is unnatural, so is the energy we take into ourselves. If the energy that grows your food is natural and well-intentioned, we take that into our bodies when we eat each meal. And the knowledge of that energy sustains our mind, body and soul.



Why have we detached ourselves from the soil? When did we let ourselves drift away from our (literal) roots? Was it when von Liebig burned a living plant and reduced it into elements? Was it when war-science artificially obtained nitrogen to make a bomb, and then to fertilize our food? Was it when crusaders murdered the spiritual connection ancient civilizations had with nature and artificially melded Pagan gods with Christian demons?



Living in a country where the culture is not so far gone as ours gives me hope for my own. But how long before this culture is corrupted? I see religious harvest festivals conducted for genetically engineered crops. I see the cradle of compost using toxic white powder to produce food that has never needed it before-- why now? Only 2% of America's population are still directly employed in agriculture, but the majority of Indians are still farmers. How can we restore the reverence our ancestors had for the earth? Why do we assume they were ignorant, just because they were not well-versed in organic chemistry. Perhaps they knew more than we know now.



Think of your mother: the most complex relationship in our lives. The earth is humanity's mother. She created us, and she has nurtured us. But we are abusing her. Like our mothers she continues to nurture us whether we want it or not, but as our abuse continues she has aged too quickly and grown bitter and tired. Could you ever reduce your mother to three elements? Would you ever presume that she needs just three nutrients to live? Why would we assume that of the earth?



I know this all sounds over the top. The processes on earth really are just chemistry and physics. But reach past your staunch logic and find some magic in your heart. How is chemistry anything but unwinding a spiritual mystery? How is carbon any less than a piece of the infinite and mysterious universe? It is both arrogant and degrading to think that once we understand something, it is no longer a part of the larger cosmic conundrum and therefore we may use it however we please-- to the detriment of all the rest we still don't understand.



All I know is that Nature has been around a lot longer than we have, and her processes are not random. If we had kept listening to her, instead of pulling away, we wouldn't be in this mess. And I don't think anyone can deny that we are in one hell of a mess.

Mysore

My trip to Mysore last weekend was intended to be a relaxing getaway from what has become a hectic work schedule. It succeeded in making me grateful for what I have at Rainforest Retreat, if inadvertently. I saw many interesting and beautiful sites, but in the end, the city just isn't my place. I much prefer the quiet and most importantly the friendly atmosphere of Mojo Plantation. I can now appreciate the description of Madikeri as a "sleepy" town. The first thing I did in Mysore was get picked up by an autorickshaw driver who took me to all the "nice places" he knew I would just LOVE in Mysore. I actually ended up in some pretty cool places... like this incense/oil shop where I rolled a stick of incense and was sold over-priced oils by the man in white shown here. They were all very excited about Thanksgiving, and I learned the virtues of Vodafone's cheap SMS services as the dealer sent his American friend a Thanksgiving message! After visiting the oil shop the driver took me to "the best silk shop in Mysore," where I ended up having an interesting conversation with the guys that worked there about the "point system" that lets auto-drivers rack up points for bringing unsuspecting tourists (like myself) to their shops. It's totally informal, but becomes a very effective marketing relationship. We also talked about good sales techniques for people who may find themselves in the shop without really wanting to be there (again... like me). I almost bought a super expensive pashmina scarf just for the interesting conversation, but thought better of it. After visiting these two places, I ditched my auto-driver and headed back to my hotel for a moment of recooperation and cocktail hour. Once I'd perked up again, I went to the Devtaj Market, where I met Azam (pictured), another oil and incense salesman. He told me I had overpaid for the oils I bought, but it was too late, so I didn't get anymore. He ordered us chai and we drank it behind his counter and chatted about his other foreign "friends" and he showed me his treasured notebook full of tourists' praises and pictures. The next morning I headed to Srirangapattana, a temple town and site of a historical Sultan, Tippu. I'm not actually sure of the history behind it all (my tour guide at the mosque spoke questionnable English), but the architecture was certainly beautiful. I was back to Mysore by lunch, after a whirlwind tour of the town. That afternoon I finally made it to Mysore Palace (also known as the Maharaja's Palace). It was absolutely gorgeous inside, but unfortunately no cameras were permitted in. Outside was the usual zoo of tourists, including a very sad-looking elephant to ride. I declined, because it looked so damn sad. I'm back at the plantation now, and feeling good to be out of the city. We have a few weeks until the chaos of the holidays, with tons of guests, and I'm sure plenty of stress. But I'll take it as it comes.

The Last 20 Days

Warning: This post is really long.

Recollecting and pontificating upon my last 20 days is a daunting task. I’m still trying to organize it all in my mind.

Celebrating Diwali with rum and barbecued chicken; explaining a meaningless American holiday to an 11-year-old Indian girl while helping her carve a dolphin into her first jack-o-lantern; swimming in the Indian ocean with a new friend and watching the moon set as the men of a fishing village together heave their boat into the ocean for a morning catch; a profound meeting with 15 young children, who think I am an English teacher, who think I have something to teach them, who make me realize that though the world is not as vast and inaccessible as I once thought, it is still complex, fragile, and terrifyingly vulnerable.

There has been a shift. Whether a shift in my energy, my purpose, my understanding, I’m not sure. Something feels different. Perhaps it’s just a sense of settling in. The weather has changed and the mornings here are cooler, the earth is less damp. There is more vatta in the air—I feel like taking action.

A few weeks ago I was feeling uneasy about my purpose here. Did I really come to the other side of the world to chat up rich Indians and get foreign guests their beer? I had so much happiness at home in my safe, comfortable life. By the time I left I didn’t feel such a great need to break free, because I was so happy. So why am I here?

When one gets comfortable in a place, it becomes difficult to see the big picture. And the picture is really so immense.

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Diwali is a celebration linked to Dasara, which I celebrated in an earlier post. In northern India, Diwali is THE holiday. It is celebrated for days on each end with firecrackers and lights all over the cities. Here in South India it isn’t such a big affair. It is the celebration of Ram’s return home after his victory over a demon (this victory is celebrated on Dasara). It is celebrated on a moonless night when fireworks shoot light up into the sky and homes are decorated with more traditional diyas to light Ram’s path home to Ayodhya.

For most of the day, I was only dimly aware of the holiday. There was little preparation and not too many “Happy Diwali”s to be exchanged. As night fell, I found myself in my room, reading a book, when Maya knocked on my door.

“Do you want to come help light the diyas?”

Maya was wearing a traditional Indian dress-- the kind with many little round mirrors sewn into the fabric. The mirrors reflected the lights of the diyas that had been lit, which were sitting in a neat little row on a bench against the house.

Photos courtesy of Erin DeCou

I lit a few candles Maya had made earlier in the day with wax from last Diwali and set them next to the appetizer plate of French salami and homemade bread. The French salami had come to us courtesy of Ludwig Cramer, a dear friend of my hosts, the Goels. Ludwig is German, but lives half the year in India caring for another organic farm and guest house operation about 3 km from our own. He is the local distributor of EM, or effective microorganisms, in the area. Diwali was his first night back in India after six months in Germany, and it was the first time I’d met him, though the Goels reference him often.

After drinks by the diyas, we grilled chicken on the fire pit by the guest houses. After dinner Matt tuned up the ol’ banjo and we made the Indian jungle ring with American folk and rock classics. The undisputed apex of the night was Matt’s rendition of Bob Dylan’s “Isis,” as Anurag whooped into the night and Ludwig gazed admiringly, almost longingly, at the twangy stringed instrument and its skilled manipulator.

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In stark contrast to the Hindu holidays of October, which are surrounded by tradition, folklore and stories every child knows by heart, is the mixed-up bipolar American mutt we know as Halloween.

Maya was intrigued by the concept of pumpkin carving. Why on earth would you carve a pumpkin? This was the general sentiment we came up against in trying to explain the tradition. It’s a surprisingly difficult question to answer. Matt had the brilliant explanation for the origin of Halloween: November 1^st is All Saints Day in the Catholic faith, and people would dress up the night before as saints. He stopped there and didn’t quite have an explanation for how a tradition of dressing up as a saint slipped and fell into that of donning a sexy witch costume or dressing your child as a ghost and begging for candy at the neighbors’ doors. And absolutely nobody had a good explanation for carving pumpkins.

Nonetheless, it’s an incredibly fun holiday, and we celebrated by ushering Maya into the world of squash-sculpting. Our four little pumpkins lined the sill above our buffet in the dining area for all to admire, with a special dolphin pumpkin punctuating the meal at the end of the row. In our own little way, we brought a tiny bit of home to the farm for this one goofy holiday that we couldn’t not celebrate.

Courtesy of Erin DeCou

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Gardening is very therapeutic. It is also an excellent way to turn hard work (I mean back-breaking physical labor) into a very satisfying product. I have been spending more time in the garden lately, and it lightens my mood every time. Making a new bed more fertile with slurry from the biogas chamber and turning the soil to make a home for plants to grow is an exercise in nurturing. Everything in the garden feels very personal. Even carrying the chickens down, one by one, to work the beds is special. I love holding the bird against my chest as it clucks carelessly all the way from its coop to the 2 by 4 foot cage on our brand new bed (replete with grubs to eat and dirt to kick up). I always marvel at the richness of the soil in which we plant our tender seedlings. I think they are lucky to have such a lovely place to take root.

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For the longest time I felt strange that I had come all the way to India and seen only the Rainforest Retreat and Madikeri town. After almost two months on the farm, it’s begun to seem very normal. I meet so many people who are traveling all over the country, I feel like I’ve been many of the places I keep hearing so much about. But I still haven’t really been anywhere. So finally, after a month and a half, I left Madikeri, and went to the beach.

The trip was longer than we expected. Erin and I set out for our girl’s day at the beach at 8:30 am on the bus into town. We finally landed up at Turtle Bay Resort in Trasi village outside of Kundapur around 6 pm. But once our feet were in the sand that bumpy, dusty, sweaty bus ride was forgotten. The next 36 hours were spent on a level of relaxation only possible in a hammock on the beach. We snacked on seer fish, sipped on sweet lassis, dipped in the Indian ocean, and even enjoyed an hour-long Ayurvedic massage. It was truly indulgent.

The morning we left we woke up early to watch the sun rise. Because we were facing directly west, it was more like watching the sky lighten. We walked out of our room to see the most crisp, white moon, low in the west over the blue-ish dawn-colored waves. As we watched the colors in the sky change from nearly green to blue to pink, we also had the luck to see a boat from the next-door fishing village being launched into the water. This was intriguing because it was purely an act of manpower. Wooden rollers were placed in the sand in front of the long, canoe-like vessel, and ten or so men heaved in unison to move it forward, moving the last roller at the stern up to the bow over and over until it reached the ocean. It was just one of India’s many unexpected juxtapositions when after such a production to get the boat in the water and all ten men inside, the motor was quickly switched on and they all went chugging into the morning to catch their fish.

On the bus back home, as we began climbing back up into the hills, the air became cooler and less humid, the landscape became more forested and I was glad to be heading home. We arrived back to find several new additions to the crew at Mojo Plantation. Stella the dog had been pregnant for the previous two months and had finally given birth to a litter of puppies. Some were stillborn, but three survived. They are only a few days old now, and make the sweetest squeaks and grunts, warmly nestled beneath their mother’s thick fur in a wooden chest-turned-doghouse by the office.

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A couple of weeks ago, Erin, Chitra, Ravi, a few guests and I walked down to Kaloor River. On the way down Erin, Chitra and Ravi stopped at a few farms to interview the owners about their crop yields and chemical usage as a part of the social survey they are conducting. I was mandated with entertaining the guests so we walked behind them and then down to the river more or less separately. We met up at the river, and Erin asked if I would like to go to the local Kaloor Primary School to visit with a teacher there. I felt like I should stay with the guests so, though I was interested, I declined. Erin came back from the school about 15 minutes later with a look on her face I couldn’t place. She told me about the school: 15 kids, aged 5 to 12, and one teacher. There had been four teachers, but two were transferred and one absconded into town, so now she is alone with all the kids. She asked Erin and Chitra if they were interested in coming to teach English every once in a while and, of course, they said yes. Erin asked if I’d be interested in helping out. Easy question.

We have been busy here at Mojo Plantation, so we hadn’t had a chance to visit the school again until yesterday. We walked down to the river with one guest in tow, who was also interested in seeing the school. As we approached the schoolhouse, a straight row of four schoolrooms, we saw the children on the veranda, doing a maths lesson with their teacher. As soon as they caught sight of us, they stopped what they were doing and stood up and in unison chimed “Hello!”

We all moved into the classroom, the floor and walls of which function as one big chalkboard. It seemed dark and dreary inside until the shutters were opened and the desks filled with inquisitive, shy faces. The teacher, Helen D’Souza, called each child up separately to introduce themselves. It became immediately clear that their knowledge of English was purely the ability to parrot back sounds to Helen. She singled out a few of the children, telling us that their families are very poor, or that one little girl’s father is “a drunkard.” We listened to their English rhymes, and one in Kannada. Then Helen asked us to teach them a new English rhyme. We settled on “Itsy Bitsy Spider.” The hardest part of our “lesson” was getting the spider motion down. I was nervous, so I could barely even do it. I realized that the rhyme was totally meaningless to them, so I tried to explain a bit of what the words mean, but it was too much new information to stuff into one rhyme.

I’m not sure how to feel about these kids, or the teacher. It saddened me, to see their learning conditions, and to know that this was their safe place with a sure meal. At home they work. School is their safe haven. The teacher, Helen, is obviously the source of this security. She is familiar with each child, and particularly with Sarawati, a deaf girl (with the drunkard father). Helen mentioned that Saraswati is her favorite, and if she doesn’t come to class Helen gets bored and sends the other children to fetch her. There are always a few kids missing from the class, stuck at home for one reason or another. During the monsoon, when unimaginable rains descend for weeks on end, most of the children still trudge to school in inadequate footwear and without rain jackets or umbrellas.

The government affords this school 50 paise (half a rupee) per child per day for lunch. Helen says this is not enough. She spends from her own purse to buy decent vegetables for the children. “It’s worth it,” she says, “when there is a good vegetable and a child says, ‘Good curry.’” Without a hint of martyrdom.

All the clothes the children wear are given by the government—their school uniforms. But it’s not enough. I asked what the children need most. Helen said “Shoes.” She also wishes for a computer for her classroom, so her students can learn skills that will make them employable, so they can have enough to feed their own children some day. Of Saraswati, Helen says after primary school she will be sent to a special school for the disabled where she will learn a basic trade so she can earn a wage. It hurt me to hear a life so planned, and so inescapable. But it’s the best she can hope for.

I wonder what I can actually do for these kids. Rain jackets and shoes are good for a few years, then where will they get their next pair of chappals? How can a few months of infrequent English lessons change their lives? I can only do what I can. But it makes me wonder what is the root of their problems? There are so many obstacles to the standard of living they don’t even know they deserve. And I shudder to think how good these kids have it compared to millions of other children in India and all over the world. These thoughts are daunting, and I know many people wrestle with them all their lives. So for now, I’ll put away my philosophical musings, because these kids can use a little help right now.

Lauren

First Original Mojo Recipe by Lauren.

When no guests are with us for dinner, the interns take over the kitchen.  One night I felt like experimenting… and this is what I came up with:

 

Mojo Mashed Potato Fry (gotta come up with a better name)

Serves about 4.

Ingredients

Filling:

4 small potatoes

1 tomato

1 small green pepper (or ½ large green pepper)

3 small cloves garlic

1 small red onion

(everything is smaller here, because it’s local and organic)

1 tsp. fresh coriander

Salt, black pepper and red pepper to taste

Batter:

2 eggs

¾ c. white flour

¼ c. water

¼ tsp. salt

 

Boil potatoes, quarter and remove skins.  Mash in a bowl with fork and set aside.  Chop tomato, onion, coriander and green pepper, mince garlic.  In a cast iron frying pan on high heat, add cap-full of cooking oil and saute vegetables, coriander and garlic until brown.  Add potato and fry with veggies and oil.  Mix veggies and potato in the pan and put aside in bowl, add salt and pepper to taste. 

In a separate bowl, beat 2 eggs in with flour and salt, add water until consistency is slightly thicker than pancake batter, beat until smooth.  Add another cap-full of oil to pan and pour half the batter like a pancake.  Slide spatula underneath to prevent sticking to pan.  Once the batter begins firming up on the top-side, spoon half the filling onto one half of the circle of batter and fold other half over the top.  Flip over and cook until inside batter is a little gooey but not runny, and outside is golden brown.  Repeat with rest of batter and filling. Cut into quarter slices.  Serve hot.

Solo Trekking

I spent my day off exactly as I intended. Seeing more of this beautiful place. The pictures don't do it justice...First I walked to Kaloor River.

Then I strolled down a road to the "cow temple" and back to the Retreat. I got sidetracked a lot and found the most beautiful views. All in all, a good day. Lauren

A week of rain, a temple of gold and a night of light

I have officially been living in India for 1 month.  It seems like a long time until I consider how long I have yet to go.  In that time, I’ve had an adventure or two, but mostly I’ve been grooving in the daily grind.

About two weeks ago, Erin, Matt, Chitra and I went to the Golden Temple in Kushal Nagar.  A portion of this area was ceded by the Indian government to Tibetan refugees as a number of “camps.”  Some of these camps are off-limits to anyone without a pass, but there are monasteries there which are a big tourist attraction.  The Golden Temple is a huge, ornate temple that can only be accurately described pictorially:

Inside the temple are huge statues of Buddha and other Tibetan deities.  The halls in which these treasures were located were totally silent… almost.  There were more tourists there than monks.  Even though a sign in the doorway to the temple reads “please be silent, this is a place of worship” the room was brimming with hushed whispers and obnoxious camera clicks.  Despite the number of tourists, we were still the only non-Indians on the grounds.  Because of this, I was unable to meditate in front of the stolid, 50-some-foot gold Buddha statue without a group of young Indian men snapping unwanted pictures of each other next to me (freaky giant pale girl) as a sat on the floor with my eyes closed. 

Despite this, the site was formidable and demanded respect.  Our best idea of the day was to follow the advice of a shop-keeper next to the Golden Temple and hike about 2 kilometers down the road to another (much larger) monastery called “Sera.”  The walk itself was lovely, past rolling farmland and we even snuck a peak at some traditional Tibetan artwork in-progress.

The monastery itself was more of a town, and devoid of tourists.  Even the monastic university was deserted, since we’d come on the last day of summer break.

The week after we visited the monastery it started raining.  It didn’t stop (not even for one hour) for about five days.  Karnataka was in the international news with reports of flooding in the north.  While we were in the midst of this unwelcome downpour, it felt as though we’d never be dry again.  The volume was such that our raincoats ended up making us even more wet, because they were soaked completely through.  I gave up on jeans, which take forever to dry, and wore only my lighter, more fast-drying pants for the whole week.  Then one day… SUN!  And for the last week or so, we’ve been enjoying very pleasant, sunny weather.

The last event of note was Dasara.  The Dasara festival celebrate the god Ram’s triumph over an evil demon.  In North India, Diwali is the most celebrated festival on the Hindu calendar, but in the South it’s Dasara.  We went with some of the staff into town at around 10 PM and got back around 1AM.  The town was completely shut off to automobile traffic and giant, bright, lit-up floats depicting this scene of triumph rolled through the streets followed by giant arrays of speakers blasting pop music.  In front of the slowly progressing float was a throng of people dancing wildly to the music.  All the buildings were lit up like Christmas on steroids.  It was a huge party.  Matt, Erin and I were tired before we even left.  By the time we got back we were totally exhausted!  But it was worth the trip to see another side of Madikeri.  Once again, only pictures could do it justice:

My coworkers! From left: Erin, Matt, Lakshman, Leela, Kumar, Muthupandi

Tomorrow I am taking a much needed day off.  I will spend the day trekking around the property and properly exploring as much of the farm and surrounding trails as possible.  I think a long, solitary trek is going to be very therapeutic.  I enjoy having the guests around and meeting new people, but I am missing all the alone time I usually have at home.  I will bring my camera so all my friends and family can see my home… finally!

 

Lauren