July 30, 2014
We were an interesting crew frankly. Four random white kids, six native villagers, our tour guide (who found the village in the first place and was providing the clothing and supplies), Vamsi, his son, Sandy, and nephew, Sharat, who called me “Avey,”(which was awesome) and Vamsi’s 67-year-old, 4’8” (at most), spunky and darling cute mother, Nana. Without speaking the same language, we introduced ourselves with a lot of nods and “Namaste”s.
At the trail head, covered in heavy bags holding food, clothing, and lanterns for the villagers, they showed a handmade bow and arrow to Hudson, who our driver encouraged to shoot. The arrow flew up and over a small structure so it landed on a roof. No one knew how good an archer Hudson apparently is! The little boy whose arrow it was, glared mercilessly. Hudson tried to communicate his apology but there was a language barrier, and the boy just walked away. It was horribly sad and wildly hilarious at the same time.
I haven’t done too many 5-hour hikes in my life, let alone carrying a hiking pack’s worth of weight, with not enough water. It was warm and humid, but luckily overcast. When we finally arrived we all just collapsed onto the shore.
The village location was beautiful. They lived right on the shoreline of a big river, with a rocky cliff facing us on the other side. The ground where we sat was literally a bed of flowers. Intertwining grass and tiny white flowers made up the carpet of the shore. The air was light with a perfect, pristine silence. The first silence I’ve experienced since being in India; completely opposite of the honks and shouts and frustratingly chaotic atmosphere that is Hyderabad, and it was wonderful. Exhausted from the trek, we all laid down and closed our eyes and were very soon out of consciousness. 2 hours passed like 2 minutes; it felt like we were in the Odyssey, one of the most satisfying naps I’ve ever taken in my life.
When we woke up, we went exploring the shore, came across a series of rocks, stuck our feet in the river, and watched a torrential rain storm wash over the rock face. None of the villagers seemed to mind the rain—some in preparation just wrapped themselves in a blanket and laid on the ground. Others kind of squatted behind a cot set on its side. Eventually the rain was too hard, so we ran under a makeshift tarp cover. It not sufficient cover from the storm for very long. So we trekked up a rocky and muddy incline 450 meters to the hillock where they had a few mud huts for better coverage from the rain. Our teenage, English-speaking companion, Sandy kept saying “Oh sh*&, oh sh#$!” because of the difficulty maneuvering in the rain, and I kept thinking “well, literally” because stepping in piles of goat and cow excrement was unavoidable.
The mud huts were stuffed full of goats. I’ll never forget that image of 50 plus little goat faces starring up at me through a small door pleading to not be thrown out of their protection from the rain. A villager came and shoed them out; it turned into a clown car of dispersion of goats, they just kept coming!
Then another image I’ll never forget: 4’8”, 90 pound Nana being carried up the rocky incline on a cot, a man on each post, sultan style. I told you she was awesome.
Eventually we started a fire; old fashioned, small stick+ friction style (grateful to have our boyscouts), and some of the villagers came up to join us for dinner and an impromptu dance party. We taught them the “Macarena”, and called it the “Bakaregadi” (a local town and named they recognized) they taught us how to count to “HEY BAKAREGADI” in Telugu. We sang some songs, they sang some to us. We tossed small red onions into the fire and roasted them, and ate the most delicious sambar, curry and rice. It was a wonderful evening.
Then we went to sleep: eight very warm bodies side by side in one very small hut. The ground was strongly packed dirt, there were no windows, and so the air was a little stuffy. (Have I mentioned it’s hot and humid in India?). And my personal favorite part of the sleeping experience were the little ants that crawled on you between intervals of the neighbors’ snoring.
The first day was wild fun, because it was just such an experience to live so primitively. The second day, however was difficult. Our heavenly oasis of a literal flowerbed became less heavenly as we inspected it further. The flowers were a covering to a carpet of goat, cow, and even human feces. There were millions of bugs, alive and dead, intertwined under the green and white surface. The once beautiful river setting was flanked with a vast amount of mud, which retained a rank smell of dead fish. If we needed drinking water, we had to boil it for safety purposed. So for a good chunk of the morning, we all were sitting around a hand-made stove attempting to keep a fire going long enough for the pot of water to boil. We were sitting around, literally watching water boil.
(How do you make holy water? You boil the hell out of it. ha ha ha)
Then once we got the water, the bacteria may have been boiled away, but the river water taste was not. I reached a point of thirst to force myself to swallow the bad-tasting, hot water. The day before, the trip from our hut on the hillock to the river was romantic and adventurous in the rain, but now in the sunlight it was exhausting and physically painful on the rocks, and in our dehydrated/hungry state.
The second day’s task was to create a stairway out of solid rocks from the river to the huts, so the villagers could more easily make the trek. One of the trips down, I hit my toe on a rock. Not just a small stub, but a nail-bending, blood flowing beast of a smack. I bit my lip not to swear. A few hours later, after it healed enough to walk without cringing again, I took a different route to our growing staircase, and tripped over a metal stake. Same toe, same angle of stubbing. This time I was not composed enough to keep in a shout of “QUASHQUEEMA” and “CHARMINAR.” I can walk on it successfully now, no major ramifications besides the nice purple hue it looks like my nail is painted.
The villagers were experts at hiking barefoot. They made the 5ish hour journey we took to get there, in an hour when they had to come into town. They started helping us make the staircase, and then quickly lost interest. I’d imagine they didn’t think they’d use it more than their normal routes up the rocky cliff. These people were pretty self-sufficient. They could take down a bear or a crocodile with a bow and arrow; they could run a 5-hour journey in an hour. This is a large simplification of the issues at hand, but development has a lot of challenges. one of which is discovering what you think is the best vs. what is the best, and sometimes it's hard to see if there's a difference and/or what the best solution is. Let's just leave it at that for now.
Vamsi is an example to me of doing the best we can with what we know and caring about the people we’re helping, and in that sincerity we’ll make a change for the better—even if it’s maybe not in how we planned or what we expected. So keep trying to do good!
At dinner that night, we handed out the small solar-powered lanterns we brought the villagers. They had no access to light at night (except for fire) and they were very grateful for those gifts. Just take a moment to imagine trying to navigate in the dark with a small ember at the end of a stick. Those lanterns will be a huge convenience--even a life-changing one.
I went to my hard, hot, stuffy, buggy hut bed that night thinking, “These are the worst conditions I have ever slept in, and will probably ever sleep in” and then I thought, “how lucky am I that that statement is true.” And I tried to enjoy my concrete mattress, and make friends with the little creatures crawling on me, and tried not to turn over to my other side, lest my sweaty skin touch my neighbor’s and we stick to each other.
A moral to take from this adventure:
The villagers are an incredible people. Living so basically, so primitively, frankly so uncomfortably, they were all happy. They live difficult lives, everyday is a struggle to eat and takes so much effort to get water to drink. And even though they were shy, they welcomed us with kind hospitality. I firmly believe you can be miserable in any situation, you can always find the negative. But seeing these villagers also made me firmly believe that you can be happy in any circumstances as well. Life can be hard and painful, but it doesn’t have to be miserable.
This is just a funny moment to wrap up the trip. In the morning, we hiked back, our packs lighter without the food, clothing, and lanterns we left. And carrying the now luke-warm river water as our hydration supply. (the originally wretched taste, I’d gotten somewhat used to). On the hike, Vamsi’s son, our teenage friend, Sandy, was listening to music. Here’s how the next few minutes went:
Ann: “What are you listening to, Sandy?”
Sandy: “M.J.”
Ann: “Oh ya, love me some Michael Jackson.”
Me: “What song?” (sung) “I’m looking at the man in the mirror! I’m asking him to change his ways”
Ann: (Also sung): “Billy Jean is not my love… the kid is not my son”
Me: “Oh Oh! I got one. Cause this is thriller! Thriller night. And no one’s gonna save you...”
Ann: “You are not alone”
Me: “Beat it! Beat it! no one wants to be defeated!”
Ann: “I’m bad, I’m bad, you know it”
Me: “Or how bout old school—Jackson 5? A,B,C, as easy as 1,2,3…”
Ann: Where’s Sandy?
We looked up, and Sandy was 20 feet in front of us, the last thing he’d heard was “What are you listening to, Sandy?” Ann and I busted up laughing, and tried to explain to Hudson why we had been singing a random medley of Michael Jackson songs for the past 10 minutes.
The next week we made a Telugu newspaper for bringing the lanterns and dancing:
I’m super behind on documenting events. I hoped that I wouldn’t have enough time to write anything down, I guess my wish came true.
Hope all is well with you all!
Love,
Averill Corkin
 |
| 10 points if you can spot Nana! |
Let me preface this story by telling you about the man who
took us, Vamsi. He wandered upon this village himself, and has since made
frequent trips for years to bring them supplies and education efforts. He’s
given them so much of his own time and money for the sole purpose of helping
them with little or no quantifiable return. On top of that he’s helped/created
TONS of projects to help in slums and wildlife and education all over Hyderabad
and probably further. He is a one-man NGO. I was in awe of how much he’s
sacrificed for the less fortunate around him, and how much he has accomplished
in changing the lives for the better, really entirely by himself. Vamsi is the kind of person I want to
be—seeing a need and using every possible resource at my disposal to fill it,
really without thinking of himself. I was inspired and honored to work with him
and his family for a weekend.
At the trail head, covered in heavy bags holding food, clothing, and lanterns for the villagers, they showed a handmade bow and arrow to Hudson, who our driver encouraged to shoot. The arrow flew up and over a small structure so it landed on a roof. No one knew how good an archer Hudson apparently is! The little boy whose arrow it was, glared mercilessly. Hudson tried to communicate his apology but there was a language barrier, and the boy just walked away. It was horribly sad and wildly hilarious at the same time.
I haven’t done too many 5-hour hikes in my life, let alone carrying a hiking pack’s worth of weight, with not enough water. It was warm and humid, but luckily overcast. When we finally arrived we all just collapsed onto the shore.
When we woke up, we went exploring the shore, came across a series of rocks, stuck our feet in the river, and watched a torrential rain storm wash over the rock face. None of the villagers seemed to mind the rain—some in preparation just wrapped themselves in a blanket and laid on the ground. Others kind of squatted behind a cot set on its side. Eventually the rain was too hard, so we ran under a makeshift tarp cover. It not sufficient cover from the storm for very long. So we trekked up a rocky and muddy incline 450 meters to the hillock where they had a few mud huts for better coverage from the rain. Our teenage, English-speaking companion, Sandy kept saying “Oh sh*&, oh sh#$!” because of the difficulty maneuvering in the rain, and I kept thinking “well, literally” because stepping in piles of goat and cow excrement was unavoidable.The mud huts were stuffed full of goats. I’ll never forget that image of 50 plus little goat faces starring up at me through a small door pleading to not be thrown out of their protection from the rain. A villager came and shoed them out; it turned into a clown car of dispersion of goats, they just kept coming!
Then another image I’ll never forget: 4’8”, 90 pound Nana being carried up the rocky incline on a cot, a man on each post, sultan style. I told you she was awesome.
Eventually we started a fire; old fashioned, small stick+ friction style (grateful to have our boyscouts), and some of the villagers came up to join us for dinner and an impromptu dance party. We taught them the “Macarena”, and called it the “Bakaregadi” (a local town and named they recognized) they taught us how to count to “HEY BAKAREGADI” in Telugu. We sang some songs, they sang some to us. We tossed small red onions into the fire and roasted them, and ate the most delicious sambar, curry and rice. It was a wonderful evening.
Then we went to sleep: eight very warm bodies side by side in one very small hut. The ground was strongly packed dirt, there were no windows, and so the air was a little stuffy. (Have I mentioned it’s hot and humid in India?). And my personal favorite part of the sleeping experience were the little ants that crawled on you between intervals of the neighbors’ snoring.
The first day was wild fun, because it was just such an experience to live so primitively. The second day, however was difficult. Our heavenly oasis of a literal flowerbed became less heavenly as we inspected it further. The flowers were a covering to a carpet of goat, cow, and even human feces. There were millions of bugs, alive and dead, intertwined under the green and white surface. The once beautiful river setting was flanked with a vast amount of mud, which retained a rank smell of dead fish. If we needed drinking water, we had to boil it for safety purposed. So for a good chunk of the morning, we all were sitting around a hand-made stove attempting to keep a fire going long enough for the pot of water to boil. We were sitting around, literally watching water boil.
(How do you make holy water? You boil the hell out of it. ha ha ha)
Then once we got the water, the bacteria may have been boiled away, but the river water taste was not. I reached a point of thirst to force myself to swallow the bad-tasting, hot water. The day before, the trip from our hut on the hillock to the river was romantic and adventurous in the rain, but now in the sunlight it was exhausting and physically painful on the rocks, and in our dehydrated/hungry state.
The second day’s task was to create a stairway out of solid rocks from the river to the huts, so the villagers could more easily make the trek. One of the trips down, I hit my toe on a rock. Not just a small stub, but a nail-bending, blood flowing beast of a smack. I bit my lip not to swear. A few hours later, after it healed enough to walk without cringing again, I took a different route to our growing staircase, and tripped over a metal stake. Same toe, same angle of stubbing. This time I was not composed enough to keep in a shout of “QUASHQUEEMA” and “CHARMINAR.” I can walk on it successfully now, no major ramifications besides the nice purple hue it looks like my nail is painted.
The villagers were experts at hiking barefoot. They made the 5ish hour journey we took to get there, in an hour when they had to come into town. They started helping us make the staircase, and then quickly lost interest. I’d imagine they didn’t think they’d use it more than their normal routes up the rocky cliff. These people were pretty self-sufficient. They could take down a bear or a crocodile with a bow and arrow; they could run a 5-hour journey in an hour. This is a large simplification of the issues at hand, but development has a lot of challenges. one of which is discovering what you think is the best vs. what is the best, and sometimes it's hard to see if there's a difference and/or what the best solution is. Let's just leave it at that for now.
Vamsi is an example to me of doing the best we can with what we know and caring about the people we’re helping, and in that sincerity we’ll make a change for the better—even if it’s maybe not in how we planned or what we expected. So keep trying to do good!
At dinner that night, we handed out the small solar-powered lanterns we brought the villagers. They had no access to light at night (except for fire) and they were very grateful for those gifts. Just take a moment to imagine trying to navigate in the dark with a small ember at the end of a stick. Those lanterns will be a huge convenience--even a life-changing one.
I went to my hard, hot, stuffy, buggy hut bed that night thinking, “These are the worst conditions I have ever slept in, and will probably ever sleep in” and then I thought, “how lucky am I that that statement is true.” And I tried to enjoy my concrete mattress, and make friends with the little creatures crawling on me, and tried not to turn over to my other side, lest my sweaty skin touch my neighbor’s and we stick to each other.
A moral to take from this adventure:
The villagers are an incredible people. Living so basically, so primitively, frankly so uncomfortably, they were all happy. They live difficult lives, everyday is a struggle to eat and takes so much effort to get water to drink. And even though they were shy, they welcomed us with kind hospitality. I firmly believe you can be miserable in any situation, you can always find the negative. But seeing these villagers also made me firmly believe that you can be happy in any circumstances as well. Life can be hard and painful, but it doesn’t have to be miserable.
This is just a funny moment to wrap up the trip. In the morning, we hiked back, our packs lighter without the food, clothing, and lanterns we left. And carrying the now luke-warm river water as our hydration supply. (the originally wretched taste, I’d gotten somewhat used to). On the hike, Vamsi’s son, our teenage friend, Sandy, was listening to music. Here’s how the next few minutes went:
Ann: “What are you listening to, Sandy?”
Sandy: “M.J.”
Ann: “Oh ya, love me some Michael Jackson.”
Me: “What song?” (sung) “I’m looking at the man in the mirror! I’m asking him to change his ways”
Ann: (Also sung): “Billy Jean is not my love… the kid is not my son”
Me: “Oh Oh! I got one. Cause this is thriller! Thriller night. And no one’s gonna save you...”
Ann: “You are not alone”
Me: “Beat it! Beat it! no one wants to be defeated!”
Ann: “I’m bad, I’m bad, you know it”
Me: “Or how bout old school—Jackson 5? A,B,C, as easy as 1,2,3…”
Ann: Where’s Sandy?
We looked up, and Sandy was 20 feet in front of us, the last thing he’d heard was “What are you listening to, Sandy?” Ann and I busted up laughing, and tried to explain to Hudson why we had been singing a random medley of Michael Jackson songs for the past 10 minutes.
The next week we made a Telugu newspaper for bringing the lanterns and dancing:
 |
| Ann and me with two villagers. (I'm in the back) |
I’m super behind on documenting events. I hoped that I wouldn’t have enough time to write anything down, I guess my wish came true.
Hope all is well with you all!
Love,
Averill Corkin
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