Sherrill and I visited more than 60 countries and most of the United States during our 52 year marriage. This is number 78 of a series about our lives and travels, true stories of two people discovering the world, each other, and themselves through five decades of traveling together. If you scroll down, you'll come to earlier posts in this series. To start at the beginning of our marriage and travels look at the Archives list in the sidebar and start with May, 2017. Older posts are a previous series.
Sherrill, 2013
Sherrill, 2013
As fascinating as the West Bengal tribal area of Eastern India was, exploring it wasn't easy. The terrain was difficult and often undeveloped and most of the people there weren't used to foreigners, so we couldn't predict what might happen. However, our group was small and our local guides spoke the dialects so we were allowed into tribal villages and even watched ceremonies outsiders had never seen. However, curious villagers staring and pushing to get close—especially the young people—could be difficult and exhausted Sherrill. Being stared at by strangers made her very uncomfortable.
For four hours, our SUV bounced and lurched over narrow, crumbling, mountain roads to a remote village in a forested area where the people still lived as they had hundreds of years ago. When I checked the car as we got in, I couldn't find any seat belts where Sherrill and I were going to sit. I asked our handsome, dark-skinned young guide about it. He just smiled.
"We never use them."
"Well," I told him, "we're not going anyplace without them."
Tribal village man showing
charms to keep away
evil spirits
For four hours, our SUV bounced and lurched over narrow, crumbling, mountain roads to a remote village in a forested area where the people still lived as they had hundreds of years ago. When I checked the car as we got in, I couldn't find any seat belts where Sherrill and I were going to sit. I asked our handsome, dark-skinned young guide about it. He just smiled.
"We never use them."
"Well," I told him, "we're not going anyplace without them."
Tribal village man showing
charms to keep away
evil spirits
He looked at me with disbelief. A nice fellow and an excellent guide, but obviously we were from two very different cultures. Apparently, they trusted to the will of the gods, to chance, while Sherrill and I preferred common sense. Finally, reluctantly, he took apart the seats, found the seatbelts, and fixed them so we could wear them. He and the driver, however, never did wear theirs.
Once again, we parked up the road from the village. It was market day, so the narrow dirt streets were filling with people who had hiked down from even more remote villages higher in the mountains. Unlike other places we'd visited in this part of Eastern India, foreigners weren't particularly welcome. We did our best to wander discreetly among the villagers who were buying and selling local produce and other wares. People from the most distant villages had walked barefoot as far as 20 kilometers through mountainous jungle, despite snakes, leopards, wild boar, jackals, and other wild animals. Tigers weren't usually seen in that area, but there were no guarantees.
Bathra tribe villagers
Bathra tribe villagers
The women of that mountain tribe were unmistakable when they walked into the hillside market: small, dark brown, with delicate features, different from the women of the other tribes who already had put out their eggplants, cauliflowers, tomatoes, and other produce in baskets on the well-trod dirt. These tiny women wore their fortunes on their bodies, starting with two large twisted aluminum rings around their necks and two huge brass earrings. Their shaved heads were entirely covered with many coiled strands of small beads until they seemed to be wearing colorful, close-fitting hats.
They used to be entirely naked except for their ornaments, but now they wore pieces of cloth called lungis wrapped around their hips and sometimes short capes to protect their backs from both sun and jungle. Their almost naked flat chests were more or less covered with many strands of beads, often enhanced with bits of glass and small seashells, that reached below their waists. Bracelets of multicolored beads covered their skinny arms and decorated their ankles. They carried whatever they intended to sell in bundles on top of their bead-wrapped heads. We also saw women wearing large brass nose rings. None looked like the tribal women we'd seen elsewhere. Very few men from any tribe were visible.
"Probably back home drunk on mahua," our guide said.
This was a fermented drink made from a local tree, although they also brewed beer from rice or palm sap. As in many tribal societies, the village women did most of the work.
Sherrill shook her head. This pattern may have been traditional, but that was no reason to approve of it.
Tribal man collecting sap to make
an alcoholic drink
"Probably back home drunk on mahua," our guide said.
This was a fermented drink made from a local tree, although they also brewed beer from rice or palm sap. As in many tribal societies, the village women did most of the work.
Sherrill shook her head. This pattern may have been traditional, but that was no reason to approve of it.
Tribal man collecting sap to make
an alcoholic drink
The home villages of the mountain tribe were spread over a jungle area of more than 15 square kilometers, their total population not more than five or six thousand. None of these people wanted the outside world to come to them. We'd been warned that they didn't like cameras in their faces. Were they happy? Who could say? Could they say? They'd never known anything else, until now. Maybe that concept wasn't even relevant.
* * *
* * *
Village shaman about to purge "evil spirits" from his patient The priest—or shaman—tucked up his dhoti—a long skirt-like garment, usually white, worn by Indian men—and knelt on a cloth spread over the dirt in front of a low altar he'd pieced together against the hut wall. We had come to a small Bathra tribe village in another remote corner of West Bengal and, thanks to our local guide, had been invited to witness a spiritual "cleansing," a process that could take a number of forms—some of them, we'd been warned, violent and bloody. Sherrill chose to wait outside the palm leaf-roofed hut, where almost naked children were playing in the dirt.
Shoulders hunched forward, the shaman chanted prayers while burning incense and arranging orange marigolds. He was trying to communicate with some of the hostile spirits who roamed beyond the material world and enjoyed tormenting human beings. Behind him, wearing only an orange dhoti, waited the village man he hoped to cleanse of spirits that had "possessed" him.
Shoulders hunched forward, the shaman chanted prayers while burning incense and arranging orange marigolds. He was trying to communicate with some of the hostile spirits who roamed beyond the material world and enjoyed tormenting human beings. Behind him, wearing only an orange dhoti, waited the village man he hoped to cleanse of spirits that had "possessed" him.
Shaman & patient beginning purge of "evil spirits" The shaman rested his hand on the naked brown shoulder of his kneeling "patient." Chanting and sprinkling "sacred rice," the priest began the ritual process of saving the man from whatever demons had invaded his body. The man began to sway and shake, his head, arms, and legs moving independently, sounds tumbling from his lips in hoarse growls. With an artful blending of gestures, words, and nonverbal sounds, the shaman/priest guided him into this other sphere until he lost control of his thoughts and actions. We might have been watching a form of hypnosis or something else, but whatever it was the patient's writhing grew more intense, his babbling louder and wilder. As his body shook with increasing violence, the beat himself with closed fists and slammed his limbs and head against the earthen floor until another villager had to help restrain him.
The shaman chanted louder, scattering more rice grains over the afflicted man, who doubled over, legs twitching, clutching his abdomen. The shaman and his helper could hardly control the flailing, retching, patient, his legs now doubled back under his writhing body. He might have vomited blood (as people say sometimes happens) or have bitten his tongue, but blood there was. Carefully, the shaman straightened the man's twisted, knotted legs and, at last, the man lay flat on the dirt, whimpering. Slowly, with assistance, he managed to stand. Whether or not evil spirits had been expelled from him, we had no way of knowing.
* * *
The shaman chanted louder, scattering more rice grains over the afflicted man, who doubled over, legs twitching, clutching his abdomen. The shaman and his helper could hardly control the flailing, retching, patient, his legs now doubled back under his writhing body. He might have vomited blood (as people say sometimes happens) or have bitten his tongue, but blood there was. Carefully, the shaman straightened the man's twisted, knotted legs and, at last, the man lay flat on the dirt, whimpering. Slowly, with assistance, he managed to stand. Whether or not evil spirits had been expelled from him, we had no way of knowing.
* * *
Our SUV passed scores of men, women, and children hiking in the dirt at the edge of the narrow road, many barefoot, most carrying burdens on their heads, on their way to the Full Moon Harvest Festival. By this time, we'd spent several days exploring this remote tribal area. In one village, we'd seen a traveling herb and medicine man spread his wares on a large cloth on the ground, while the villagers eagerly gathered around. He had remedies for just about any ailment, he claimed, all natural, of course.
When we reached the festival, the crowd had grown to several hundred, pushing between market stalls selling everything from vegetables to freshly made snacks to replicas of tribal and Hindu deities. Sometimes, a Hindu god and a tribal one had been united—similar to what we'd found in Cuba, where Yoruba gods and Catholic saints had been merged. Animal figures suggested that the old animist-based religion still lingered in some areas. Toys, flags, and bright fabrics also had been arranged to tempt a few rupees from the crowd. We tried not to call attention to ourselves, but people gawked at us and whenever we hesitated gathered around
"I feel like a moth on a pin under a microscope," Sherrill whispered.
"I feel like a moth on a pin under a microscope," Sherrill whispered.
 Medicine Man with his wares |  Tribal market, Baskar Plateau, East India |
Moving through waves of bright saris and men in white dhotis, we reached a large wide-armed tree worshiped by local people for hundreds, perhaps thousands, of years. Furled banners on long poles leaned against the dark trunk: white for purification, red for perfection, black for knowledge. Skinny dogs roamed freely, foraging for whatever they could find.
Preparing for village festival ceremony Bare-chested priests, dhotis tucked to their waists, took up the banners and, as others beat drums and played horns, marched through the still-growing crowd, between vendor stalls and piles and baskets of produce. We struggled to stay near each other as we followed, along with hundreds of others. People stared and crowded against us so that sometimes we could hardly move. The men with the banners circled through the market, then entered a ceremonial area filled with spectators. Our group found positions facing the open space.
As drums beat louder, one of the almost naked priests thrust his banner into a bamboo framework, then, moaning, let himself flow into the rhythm of the drums, rocking his head back and forth, body swaying as he slid into what seemed to be a self-induced trance. His eyes rolled, his mouth opened and closed, he fell and his body spasmed and convulsed on the hard-packed dirt. Beating himself with a flail, thrashing his bare back furiously with the many small whips of the flail, he fell to his knees, just a few feet from Sherrill and me. He seemed to be trying to rid himself of his physical body—or to drive evil spirits from it. I wondered how much more this thin brown-skinned man could take of this self-exorcism. Eventually, two other men in dhotis took the flail from him and led him away, despite his writhing and struggling.
One by one, each of the ten priests hurled himself into a trance that culminated in frantic flailing of his flesh until he was dragged away. These rituals, we were told, probably came with these tribes to the Indian subcontinent from Africa thousands of years ago. Would they, I wondered, survive in a changing world?
* * *
As drums beat louder, one of the almost naked priests thrust his banner into a bamboo framework, then, moaning, let himself flow into the rhythm of the drums, rocking his head back and forth, body swaying as he slid into what seemed to be a self-induced trance. His eyes rolled, his mouth opened and closed, he fell and his body spasmed and convulsed on the hard-packed dirt. Beating himself with a flail, thrashing his bare back furiously with the many small whips of the flail, he fell to his knees, just a few feet from Sherrill and me. He seemed to be trying to rid himself of his physical body—or to drive evil spirits from it. I wondered how much more this thin brown-skinned man could take of this self-exorcism. Eventually, two other men in dhotis took the flail from him and led him away, despite his writhing and struggling.
One by one, each of the ten priests hurled himself into a trance that culminated in frantic flailing of his flesh until he was dragged away. These rituals, we were told, probably came with these tribes to the Indian subcontinent from Africa thousands of years ago. Would they, I wondered, survive in a changing world?
* * *
The next day, we drove to a second Harvest Festival in a village in another corner of Eastern India—one that was surprisingly different from anything we'd already seen. The market leading into it was smaller, without the carnival atmosphere. Women sat on the ground with simple displays of vegetables and fruit. We weaved through the market to a gate into a ceremonial area, where we found a spot near a small band of drums and a curved brass horn about three feet long. Women usually weren't allowed in, but none of tribal men said anything. Later, we were told that because the women were foreign and wore trousers nobody thought of them as female.
 Tribal gathering from many villages |  Making plastic bags into rope |
A scrawny man in a filthy Dhoti staggered in, babbling at the band. Two village men quickly got rid of him. The men in these villages made booze from anything that would ferment, especially the sap of a certain palm tree. The women did most of the day-to-day work, so the men had time for making and drinking their homemade brew. Women didn't participate in religious ceremonies and rituals—especially this one, which, we discovered, was a coming of age ritual for young males.
Youth being prepared for Coming of Age ceremony About a dozen bare-chest youths in tucked-up dhotis marched into the open space, then sat on the bare ground. As the musical beat of drums grew louder, they began to sway and move their heads sideways, apparently sliding into trances, their lean brown bodies shaking. One by one, priests dressed them in special ritual costumes, colorful vests over their torsos, then capes, and finally a squarish multi-colored crown decorated with pieces of mirror was placed on their heads.
As each youth went deeper into his trance, his body shaking, a priest completely covered his head with a white cloth. When it was removed, a needle-sharp bone spike now pierced both of his smooth brown cheeks, running through his mouth. How this was done without us seeing, I don't know, although we were only five or six feet away. Supposedly, because he was deep in his trance, he felt no pain. We didn't see any blood, either. He was lifted onto a decorated throne and carried in circles around the ceremonial area.
After all of the young men had been transformed and enthroned, they were carried in a procession through the gate, accompanied by the musicians and the rest of us, and through the market, avoiding stray cows, piles of small purple eggplants, green okra fingers, and baskets of tiny red tomatoes. Now, the village women could see the transformed youths on their dazzling thrones.
As each youth went deeper into his trance, his body shaking, a priest completely covered his head with a white cloth. When it was removed, a needle-sharp bone spike now pierced both of his smooth brown cheeks, running through his mouth. How this was done without us seeing, I don't know, although we were only five or six feet away. Supposedly, because he was deep in his trance, he felt no pain. We didn't see any blood, either. He was lifted onto a decorated throne and carried in circles around the ceremonial area.
After all of the young men had been transformed and enthroned, they were carried in a procession through the gate, accompanied by the musicians and the rest of us, and through the market, avoiding stray cows, piles of small purple eggplants, green okra fingers, and baskets of tiny red tomatoes. Now, the village women could see the transformed youths on their dazzling thrones.
I tried to tell myself that the business with the needle-like spikes was fake, but it looked awfully real. Our guide told us that we were the only foreigners ever to witness this ceremonial entry into the adult world. A member of our group told Sherrill and me later that she had seen almost the same ritual in Benin, Africa.
* * *
* * *
Throne room portrait of young Maharaja The princess was young and beautiful and welcomed us for tea with English as perfect as Maggie Smith's. Simultaneously traditional and modern, the India we saw in 2013 was a country of both extreme poverty and new millionaires, most of them from the high-tech boom. At the same time, some royal families with vast real estate holdings still controlled great wealth that allowed them to live in traditional splendor. For hundreds of years, the subcontinent was divided into almost countless kingdoms, each ruled by its own monarch. This huge country was littered with palaces, castles, and fortresses built over the centuries. The surviving maharajas, princes, and princesses were still respected and deferred to by local people.
Our clever young guide had arranged for us to visit one of the reigning royal households in Eastern India. Although India was a democracy, the young unmarried Maharaja of Y still thought of himself as a king. He was away on royal business, so we were received by his sister, the princess, a poised young woman of twenty-five. The sprawling white palace, with its columned arcades, wide terraces, arched windows, and ornate architectural details was built early in the 20th century, but designed to look older. One wing had been turned into a school, other sections also put to new uses. The entire walled complex had been swallowed by a growing provincial city.
The princess strode into the high-ceilinged room wearing a mix of traditional and Indian styles, a smart phone in one hand, greeted us, and urged us to feel "at home." She told us about her family's colorful and noble history and how hard her brother worked for his people. Sherrill and I looked at each other, but of course didn't say anything.
"They love him," she said. "When he sits on his throne in the public audience room downstairs, many come—not because they want favors, but because they want to see their beloved king." She gazed without irony at each of us. "They are happy with their lives and everything my brother does for them."
Our clever young guide had arranged for us to visit one of the reigning royal households in Eastern India. Although India was a democracy, the young unmarried Maharaja of Y still thought of himself as a king. He was away on royal business, so we were received by his sister, the princess, a poised young woman of twenty-five. The sprawling white palace, with its columned arcades, wide terraces, arched windows, and ornate architectural details was built early in the 20th century, but designed to look older. One wing had been turned into a school, other sections also put to new uses. The entire walled complex had been swallowed by a growing provincial city.
The princess strode into the high-ceilinged room wearing a mix of traditional and Indian styles, a smart phone in one hand, greeted us, and urged us to feel "at home." She told us about her family's colorful and noble history and how hard her brother worked for his people. Sherrill and I looked at each other, but of course didn't say anything.
"They love him," she said. "When he sits on his throne in the public audience room downstairs, many come—not because they want favors, but because they want to see their beloved king." She gazed without irony at each of us. "They are happy with their lives and everything my brother does for them."
What he actually did sounded vague, but no doubt the royal family was busy with a variety of good works. The hills and mountains around the palace and city were home to several ancient tribes that lived much as they had for a thousand and more years. Even nearer the city, we saw mud bricks being made by hand, rice being threshed by hand, sugar being boiled out of cane in large vats by bare-chested and bare-legged men, and women walking barefoot along roads, huge bundles and heavy pots on their heads. Change was everywhere, even in Eastern India, but poverty and stifling tradition coexisted with smart phones and hopes for a different future.
 Remote village hunting dance |  Villagers helping us get unstuck from mud |
Driving again deep into the jungle to another remote village, we watched a ritualistic hunting dance seldom seen by outsiders. During the month, we came to admire our guide's skill at arranging these events for us—whatever his attitude about seat belts. The steep, muddy so-called road may have been one reason why no one else ever saw this village. As we left afterwards, our two cars became so trapped in muck and rocks that we nearly had to spend the night there.
* * *
* * *
Finally, we flew to Hyderabad—an historically powerful city, home to regional princes, now including "Cyberbad," India's Silicon Valley. From here, we continued our explorations, visiting some of the greatest palaces and fortresses we'd seen anywhere in India, but also passing modern high-rise buildings and glossy malls. The city, with a population then of more than nine million, also was building a much needed elevated metro system.
Our Hyderabad hotel required everyone entering the building to pass through an airport security style screening and all vehicles driving onto the grounds were checked for bombs, mirrors even slid beneath each car, truck, or bus. The new shopping centers and some famous historic sites also required security checks. This seemed to have become routine after the deadly bombings in Mumbai a few years earlier. Two weeks after our return from Eastern India, two bombs exploded in Hyderabad, killing sixteen people and wounding scores.
However, the lasting impression of this part of India wasn't only of violence. We also remembered the mother tiger exhausted from her effort to feed her cubs, colorful harvest festivals, private morning rituals along the streets of Kolkata, students in a village school, and a barefoot man wearing only a ragged dhoti sleeping on the side of a flower-strewn overpass above the Kolkata flower market, a chaos of fading petals for his pillow.
End of Part Two, Eastern India.
Our Hyderabad hotel required everyone entering the building to pass through an airport security style screening and all vehicles driving onto the grounds were checked for bombs, mirrors even slid beneath each car, truck, or bus. The new shopping centers and some famous historic sites also required security checks. This seemed to have become routine after the deadly bombings in Mumbai a few years earlier. Two weeks after our return from Eastern India, two bombs exploded in Hyderabad, killing sixteen people and wounding scores.
However, the lasting impression of this part of India wasn't only of violence. We also remembered the mother tiger exhausted from her effort to feed her cubs, colorful harvest festivals, private morning rituals along the streets of Kolkata, students in a village school, and a barefoot man wearing only a ragged dhoti sleeping on the side of a flower-strewn overpass above the Kolkata flower market, a chaos of fading petals for his pillow.
End of Part Two, Eastern India.
To be continued....
If you find these posts interesting, why not explore the rest of my website, too? Just click on the buttons at the top of the page and discover where they take you—including a bio, information about my four novels, along with excerpts from them, and several complete short stories.
Please pass the posts on to anybody else you think might enjoy them.
If you find these posts interesting, why not explore the rest of my website, too? Just click on the buttons at the top of the page and discover where they take you—including a bio, information about my four novels, along with excerpts from them, and several complete short stories.
Please pass the posts on to anybody else you think might enjoy them.
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