Lost in Translation

Vasentha and the Old Man are engaging me more and more. (I mean beyond the evening tea ritual they’ve pleasantly implemented with me and Monica.)

In turn, I spend long hours wondering if they’re doing their jobs, if I should be giving them more direction, and if so—how?

The nights before Vasentah comes, Monica and I agree upon which tasks we want her to do, then take turns assuming the responsibility of miming the messages to her the next morning.

And the Old Man? Forget about it. I’m in over my head.

But still, they look to me eagerly. They tell me things about the house and the forest and wait for my response. As if I have any clue.

This afternoon they were particularly animated. Something about cashew trees, branches of wood, and something above their heads. A bird was eating the cashews? Is that it? They mimed movement. People are stealing the wood?! What???

They dragged me to a couple sites on the land where bundles of cashew branches rested or where the earth was scarred from a recent fire. They gestured to the surrounding trees and leaves damaged by smoke. They pointed into the depths of the land and hollered wildly. Then they spewed more Tamil and waited for my reply. Four deep brown eyes staring at me. Two mouths biting lips in anticipation.

That’s when I cracked. I fell to my knees laughing hysterically, Gopal kissing my face, the sun beating sweat from every pore in my body. “I don’t know!” I cried through my incessant giggles. “I don’t know what you’re saying, and I don’t know what to do, and I just don’t know!”

The workers laughed too, but I’m not sure they knew why.

I laughed so hard my cheeks hurt and tears burst from my eyes. “I’ve lost it,” I muttered. “I’ve finally lost it.” I called out names of people who surely will not come soon.


Alas, I recovered. There’s a way to fix this, to understand, to explain. I just don’t know it yet. I marched to the kitchen and asked Vasentha for tea. And I learned another lesson in patience.

Everything in Auroville (And perhaps everywhere? It’s just more noticeable here?) happens in its own time, in its own way, and it’s all connected—if only you have faith that the answer will emerge in time. Only moments after I recovered from my fit, a friend who speaks Tamil happened to come by. I begged him to translate.

“They’re just telling you that there’s wood all over the land, not in one place, and tomorrow Vasentha will spend her day carrying it on her head to move it instead of helping indoors. Is that ok?”

I swallowed hard. It was my pride, I think. “So they not only know what they’re supposed to do, but they’re doing it?”

“I guess,” he responded, perplexed by the humor I seemed to find in the situation.

And I laughed some more. “Seri, seri!” I said to the workers. Ok, ok!

I’ll be better at Tamil long before I get better at charades.

Daily Activities

People from the States keep asking me what life is like these days.

The thing is, running a forest is a lot of work. Period.

Twenty acres is a lot of land. Period.

And there are animals to protect! Just this morning the villagers brought their dogs to collect cashews and—as they do almost every morning—the dogs chased the chickens. For the third time since June, one of the dogs succeeded in catching a poor bird, and I had to come with a stick to free the cock.

Plus, our Gop__ needs a lot of loving (which I’m more than happy to give) and company (which I spend simultaneous writing about watsu and/or complementary currencies). He’s just a puppy, after all…

And the cows come several times a day to eat the young trees and blooming flowers, and the house/kitchen/storeroom always offer improvement projects, and the workers—my God, the workers.

Everyday they try to teach me Tamil. However, the lessons include me repeating what they say without any clue what it means. We laugh a lot. Then they ask me serious things in Tamil and look at me with expectant eyes. I suddenly have to make a thoughtful decision based on a frantic stream of grunts and hollers which meant absolutely nothing to my ears. Sometimes we play charades, but I’ve always been bad at that game.

They look to me more and more for direction. I point and explain what needs to be done around the house. But in the forest? I clearly have no idea, and even if I did, the Old Man would have no idea what I’m saying.

Thus, after working on watsu and economics, between fighting village dogs and chasing cows, while tending to Lumière’s puppy and employees, I’m now researching Tropical … Forests and practicing Tamil online.

So, my fellow Americans, my only answer to you is: I’m keeping busy.

Boys, Bikes & Brands

The thing about Auroville is: It’s a small town where gossip festers so much that you realize high school was a breeze. (This is written, btw, with the most sincere love and affection for the community... and just a pinch of cynicism.)

Monica and I have taken it upon ourselves to conduct research into the cause of certain types of gossip, and we’re composing a guidebook for future unsuspecting ladies to follow if they ever decide to visit the City the Earth Needs.

Here are our findings so far:

Boys

• If you talk to a boy, you’re interested in him.
• If you dance with a boy, you want to have sex with him.
• If you ride on the back of his bike a certain way or a certain number of times,* you’re in a serious relationship.
• If you’re sharing a living space with a boy, you’re basically married…even if no romantic feelings exist.

Bikes*
Riding on the back of a boy’s bike is not as innocent as it seems. For example, if you’re clinging to the back of the bike instead of the driver, there’s a chance you may just be using the boy for a ride. However, if there’s less than three visible inches of space between you and the boy, then you’re clearly together. Some other signals:

• The first time a girl rides on a boy’s bike, it may just be to get from Point A to Point B.
• If the girl is seen a second time on the back of the same boy’s bike, then they’re dating.
• If caught a third time, she’s pregnant.

Brands
If you’re associated with a boy due to any of the aforementioned actions (or anything else), you acquire a tag. You are labeled as his. And, sorry ladies, it seems that once you’ve been branded, there’s little hope. Here's some advice from Aurovilian men on the subject:

• To lessen the impact of a tag, date someone else for more than 2 months.
• Be aware that no Aurovilian man will date you out of respect for the tag holder, because they've known him longer than you.
• If you are unattractive, tags will not last.

Clear as mud.

Stay tuned for more from the anthropological eyes of Catherine & Monica...

Scorpions

I never really considered myself a scaredy cat.

Sure, from time to time loud bursts of thunder make me jump. Fine, I occasionally have nightmares about clowns that turn people into cotton candy and suck their blood. And I still think Ernest Scared Stupid was the scariest movie I’ve ever seen... aside from The Ring.

My point is I don’t get frightened driving through the woods in the middle of the night; snakes and small animals don’t scare me; I don’t think there are monsters living in the closet everyone refuses to open. I’ve even overcome my fear of spiders and peacefully co-habitate with giant hairy arachnoids.


But this weekend I discovered scorpions.


The first one we saw was at night, and it looked like a black lobster crossing the dirt path. “Is... is that a scorpion?” I asked Monica, a Texan, as we drove past.

“Sure was,” she replied coolly. She’s seen her share of scorpions and, as she quickly reminded me, the bigger the better.

Still, my blood ran cold.


Later, as I plugged away on my keyboard, I heard shouting from the downstairs bathroom where Monica was emerging from the shower. “Goddam scorpion buried itself in my skirt while I was in the shower for five freakin’ minutes, lil [expletive], [expletive], [expletives].” (Apparently she likes scorpions less when they’re in her clothes instead of on the road.)

While this one was small and red and thus more dangerous, it didn’t bother me, as I didn’t see it. “It’s only a scorpion,” I hollered down. “Get used to ‘em, I guess.” But don’t expect me to use that bathroom ever again.


In the morning I noticed a flattened black shell of a scorpion buried in my tire tracks. Monica told me she saw a small one cross the road. “The rains bring ‘em out,” the locals told us. Great.


Then Saturday night we went to the most innocent of events: a child’s play at the Visitors’ Center. Obviously something of this nature puts you in a cute and cuddly mood, and you naturally feel happier about everything. Until you go to the parking lot, climb onto your bike, and notice a giant lobster with a spiked tail staring at you. Scorpions are NOT cute and cuddly, nor anything to be happy about.

Fight or flight, right? Well I scrambled awkwardly to get into gear, pressing the wrong pedals until I jerked the bike forward and far away. I was silent; no words within me could alert the group of people coming to the parking lot about the giant beast that awaits, ready to induce pain with its miserable stinger. The children—for the Love of God—I failed to warn the children!

But I realized as soon as I regained my voice that I am afraid of scorpions, and if tested in a crisis situation, I would surely fail.

Welcome to the Neighborhood

There were two options for housing: One in the center of town, one in the forest. One was hot, the other was cool(er). One was new, the other was comfortable/home. One had a fridge and wifi, the other had peace and serenity. We chose the forest.

But we still cherished the first, convinced we would use it as an office space...and, if we preferred it, we'd simply move in full time. We stopped by briefly yesterday to drop off a few things knowing today would be our first full day at the office.

It was a long, hot morning. We arrived by 9:30, sticky and irritated; the wifi man cancelled our morning appointment, forcing us to endure yet another day without connectivity. We entered determined to make the best of things none-the-less, and--armed with coffee and snacks--we were optimistic, even after the amma lady scolded us for improperly shutting one of the locks yesterday. Until we realized none of the outlets worked.

Consulting our "House Instructions," we realized we had to flip some generator on that lives in the outside storage shed. We marched to the shed...only to discover the key doesn't work.

As we fought the lock, a kind looking man approached on his bicycle. "A neighbor!" I whispered, and we smiled our brightest, friendliest, most welcoming smiles. "Hi!"

"You left the side door unlocked yesterday," was the neighbor's response.

"Excuse me?" No greeting?

"The door. You need to lock doors."

"Of course," I humbly responded. "I can't believe we did that. We're just getting used to the house; that's all."

"Fine, get used to the house," he said sternly, "but lock the doors."

"Right, of course, and our amma kindly let us know too."

He grunted and road away.

Monica and I exchanged glances.

"Um, hello?" a voice called from around the corner.

"Let's try this again," I whispered once more to Monica as we prepared to meet another neighbor. She wore a big hat and a thin smile. "Hi!" we greeted her with our innocent eyes.

"You live here now?"

"Yes, we're just discovering the place."

"Shut the light off. It's a waste of electricity," she instructed in a teacher's voice and pointed at the outside light, then walked abruptly away.

I bit my lip and flipped the switch. "This is why we chose the forest."

"No neighbors. Only roosters."

Raja, Monica & Me

Raja is taking good care of the land and of us.

The evening we arrived, he gave us a perfect welcome to the country: two weddings and a "coming of age" party--all in Tamil. "We like family now!" he shouted over and over, his voice thick with sweet enthusiasm.

Two days later, we were family... dining with his brothers and parents in a tiny hut in the local village.

We spend our evenings driving around Auroville and Pondy, walking the beaches and building dreams for what we'll do this summer on the land. A better water filter. More mirrors along the path. A new bedroom. A new garden. Or two. More flowers, more fruit, more animals. Whatever. A land of love and life and light--Lumière.

Raja is also our teacher. We are learning salsa, tango, and self-defense. He sits behind me with grave patience as I try try try to master the motorcycle. But my favorite lessons happen almost every evening as we collect our notebooks and sit cross-legged in a circle outside the front door. There, he teaches us Tamil.

"Soon," I tell Vasentha even though she doesn't understand me. "Soon we will be able to chat."

Tonight, Raja bravely led the caravan to the windmill, which we diligently climbed to catch a glimpse of the full moon.

And, of course, I already have a rash. So Raja, our teacher and caretaker, roamed the land and gathered all the right herbs for a perfect healing bath.

It may be India. It may be in the middle of the woods. But don't worry Ma, I'm in good hands.

Monica's Quotes: #1

Driving into Pondi, I laughed to myself about my first impressions of the road. I clung to my driver and said, "You know, I'm trusting you with my life right now." Buildings flew by, shopkeepers shouted, he wove through buses and cars coming in the wrong lane. It's crazy. I asked Monica if she was nervous.

"No, no," she replies. "It's just like driving in Paris... except for all the motorcycles and cows in the road."

Of Cashews & Fingernails

We returned to find Vasentha removing cashew nuts from sickly sweet over-ripe cashew fruits. I had to see how it was done.

Vasentha laughed as I brushed ants and worms off a mushy green sample and pulled the nut off, squealing with delight. "Monica," I giggled, "you gotta try this!" Especially since I had to go. Business calls.

"What are you going to do while I'm at the meeting?" I asked Monica through the red walls of the house. I was concerned I was trapping this fair-skinned lady in a land she didn't know. "Will you read? Nap?"

"Nah. I'm going to help her with the cashews."

Perfect.

Later that night, she gave me her feedback: "It was great," she said. "We sat together until the whole pile was gone. We talked... I guess. I mean I talked to her in English and she talked to me in Tamil, and we just pretended we knew what hte other was saying. Or maybe we pretended the other was responding with whatever response we were hoping for."

I noticed then I was smiling so widely my cheeks ached. "Tonight we'll petition Raja for Tamil lessons."

"Right," she responded. "As soon as I cut off my nails. I don't think I'll ever lose the smell of the dirt and ants and worms and rotten fruit!"

And just then, Raja entered with gorgeous smelling flowers for our hair...

Arrival

I am not as much of a stranger to this life as my previous post infers. In fact, I come from a land that absorbed me like this land absorbed its steward; in Camarat, the soft scratching of sanglier startled me from my deepest sleeps, the maze of forest paths are clear as highways, the local herbs and spices and flowers and fruits were put to good household use. So in some ways I am used to life in the wilderness.

Plus, this isn't my first time in Auroville or at the Forêt de Lumière, which is why--to my great pleasure--Vasentha and the Old Man greeted us so warmly upon arrival.

They laughed at our obnoxious amount of luggage and gasped at Monica's fair skin. We were carefully guided into the home and allowed to rest. I curled up in the hammock with my favorite sheep-pillow-cased pillow and slept like I'd never slept before. But not for long.

A slight breeze broke the heavy heat and carried tamil to my ears; I recognized my name through the harsh grunts and words. Walking down the windy staircase, I smiled. Vasentha had made us a plate of jackfruits (which I'd never had before) and a variety of mango (which I'd never seen before), and two cups of perfect Indian tea. God, I forgot how I missed chai.

It begins... (again)

Things in the forest are changing. Temporarily.

This is the Lord of the Land:

A real-life moglie, he is so in-tuned with the land that a mongoose trespassing in the middle of the night will awake him so violently he will leap to the porch and hollar wildly to save his chickens, who are sleeping soundly in the trees (for lack of a coop). He all sorts of useful tips for tending to and leveraging the awesome power of nature, he instinctively knows his way through the 20-acre maze of forest paths, and he can protect even the most unsuspecting visitors from the dangers of wilderness. He feels this place, craves it, loves it.

But he's in Canada now.


Enter Monica and me.

I am in Auroville to launch an NGO that will introduce a complimentary cuurency into the bioregion. Monica, who is a graduate development policy student pursuing are urban creatures more acclimated to navigating metro systems than forest paths. We seek out the best happy hour specials, not the ripest fruit or veggies from outside our window. We linger at street-front cafés for best middle-of-the-night study sessions and afternoon wine breaks. We know very little of nature. And for the next three months, we're watching the land.


Wish us luck.