I'm feeling ill* and tired. Suffice it to say I now have learnt a little about how hard planting out banana-trees** on a hill-farm can be. Oh well, if nothing else, it's a wee bit off the mountain I feel I owe them, even though Ajeesh says I don't.
*chesty cough and cold: the effects of lack of sleep and reasonably frequently getting rained upon, then not drying out properly
**well, actually they're grasses - so don't tell them your guilty secrets!
I woke around 7.30 - again, I think it was Sandra's voice that got to me. She was dressed in a princess/ballerina dress that surely couldn't have been very warm, topped with her balaclava. Ajeesh's mum persuaded him to take her to school - the weather was truly vile. During just the walk to the car (about 500 metres), we got soaked to the skin. At the school, a grotty-looking set of concrete buildings that remind me of 1960s UK inner-city estates, I was introduced to the headmistress. Apparently she had invited me to address the school on Friday and give some more spoken-English sessions. Of course I was happy to do so but terrified!
Ajeesh and I had breakfast in a wee restaurant. (I learnt later that he likes to use this place because the owner's husband ran off 10 years ago, leaving her to look after 1- and 5-year-old children on her own.) The tea was good but I can't comment on the food except to say that I've seen Ajeesh, Shaji and Anish enjoying mutton and beef curries there. I saw the Malayalam for 'Wayne Rooney' in that morning's newspaper so my life was now complete.
Back at the house, I changed into a t-short and lycra shorts because I knew my lunghi would make work near impossible - I haven't yet become adept in keeping it folded up. Also it was still soaking. Ajeesh rested (he'd also slept badly) while I washed some clothes. The return of mains electricity to the house meant that washing-water could be pumped from the well into the house's storage-barrel. This water wasn't Currently suitable for drinking*: drinking water had to be carried from a well about 300 metres from the house, further up the hill. I'd seen Ajeesh get washing water by perching himself on the sloping sides inside the well and dipping a bucket into the water. He then poured the contents into a waiting container on the concrete lip. The path to the well was muddy and slippery - I found carrying even a closed container was difficult so I was amazed that Ajeesh could carry two open ones - one in his hand and one on his head.
*I was told that usually this well's water is safe to drink because it's been filtered through layers of rock but during the monsoon, run-off from the hillside gets into it and pollutes it.
We dug out six failed banana plants (apparently, insects and wind can cause up to 50% losses), removing the roots entirely. We then either enlarged the resulting holes or dug new ones to receive transplants. This was bloody hard work! For a start, we were gadding about barefoot on muddy, sloping land with all sorts of undergrowth and shrubs to trip over or grab hold of. The holes had to be about 4 feet in diameter and over 1 foot deep. At the bottom, loose soil was made into a volcano-shape. A young plant (these were taken from other parts of the family's land where they had less chance of giving a decent crop - you can also buy them in town) was then put into the 'caldera', then soil and some nearby undergrowth (i.e. natural plant food) was packed down over the roots. The aim was to leave the young plant's shoot poking out of the center of the floor of a 6- to 9-inch deep crater. This crater apparently will help to retain water and fertilizer over the twelve months the bananas take to grow.
Digging the holes was hard work for me, especially barefoot and using a tambar - a spade whose blade is perpendicular to its handle. (A short-handled tambar is called a koryi tambar and a long-handled one is called a mambati tambar.) I found it easy enough to increase my holes' diameters with a koryi tambar but very difficult to then lift the soil out and get it far enough away so that I didn't then have to move it a second time when enlarging the hole. Using the mambati tambar was just dangerous for me. The difficulty was exacerbated by the soil's stickiness - I had to clean the tambar's blade every four or five strikes to be able to dig any more. Cleaning the blade was done with the back of a curved farming knife or a handy stick which I learnt to keep tucked into my right shorts-leg.
My efforts led to some amusing exchanges with some women who passed by. I don't know if they were more amused by the sight of a foreigner doing this work or my exhausted lack of skill. We also had to take several breaks when the rain became too heavy. We sheltered under the eaves of a neighbouring house and chatted (in my case using body-language and gestures only) with the family who live there. The husband wore over his lunghi and shirt what appears to be 'typical' rain-proofs: a plastic sack tied around his waist to protect his lunghi and another tied around his head and dangling down his back.
Back at the house, Jaya scolded us for coming home before she'd finished cooking. Ajeesh and I took quite a while to wash the sticky soil from our hands. My feet and lower legs were utterly filthy and for once I was glad that the house's floor was just packed earth. (I had started washing my legs but Ajeesh dissuaded me.)
Ajeesh told me that the next job was to clear undergrowth from around cardomom plants and then feed them with an organic fertilizer called neem cake. Two large sacks of this had been perfuming the front room for about a week. (Sandra also enjoyed jumping onto them and then clambering onto the windowsill, then jumping into the arms whoever she can persuade to catch her.) I was tempted to ask to take some home - the smell is an almost intoxicating rich, bass-fruit perfume.
Shaji and Anish then arrived and Jaya served an utter triumph: 'red' rice; banana and jackfruit-seed curry; melon curry; mango, lemon and chilli pickles*; and chatni. Ajeesh, Shaji, Anish and I ate until we were stuffed while Jaya and her mum looked on, apparently enjoying us appreciating the meal. I was concerned that I was taking more food than I should but Jaya told me there was plenty more for her and her parents. I'm still bothered that she and her parents ate second but there wasn't enough room around their table for the whole family to eat together.
*This was reminiscent of Indonesian sambar: extremely fiery chillies and a tomato boiled in minimal amounts of water to produce a sauce that looks like ketchup and burns like napalm. Jaya's version also had whole red chillies (about 1 cm long and bursting with capsaicin.
After lunch, the boys and I drove to town and I blogged for a while, then met the others at the restaurant where Ajeesh and I had breakfasted. Ajeesh told me he likes to eat here so that his limited funds can support someone in unfortunate circumstances: the owner's two daughters missed at least a year's school due to lack of money. Anish seemed a bit drunk - he was much more confident, even brash, about speaking English and loudly demanded 'boost' (gutka - chewing tobacco). No-one had any but Ajeesh spoke with the restauranteuse* who then brought out a head of wild garlic. Apparently, crushing a small clove between your teeth, then placing the resulting mash between your front lip and first-incisor gum is meant to have the same effect as boost. I tried it - I won't be trying it again. It just added to the coughing and spluttering but it may have helped loosen my chest so I could cough up the yuck that had been impeding my breathing. (I considered sucking an uncrushed garlic clove - that way I'd get the beneficial chemicals at a much slower rate which I hoped wouldn't burn my mouth.)
*She doesn't actually own the building but rents it for Rs6000 per month. It's roughly the size of Mycelium Mansion.
Back at the house, Jaya served spicy peanuts with a coconut and rice-flour 'granola'. (We'd met Ajeesh's father buying the peanuts at the shop next to the chai-stall nearest to the house.) I still felt lousy and exhausted but an almost uninterrupted eight hours' sleep that night helped a lot.
© (except the blatantly ripped-off bits) Random Bozo 2006