Navagam – crossing the Watrak River – Matar - 16km / 10miles
Morning is dawning in Navagam as I stand on the step of the gazebo looking at Gandhi. He is seated in the lotus position upon a golden cube inscribed with the Cross, the Om and the Star and Crescent. His eyes are closed and he is meditating, the golden patina shimmering a soft light. Schoolboys gather and pile on top of each other for photographs. When the principal arrives we all follow him into the school’s courtyard passing beneath a bronze bell hanging in the clerestory above the entrance. It is a 2- storey building and the long pink open air corridors are lined with framed maps and charts and a blue diagram depicting a peacock tail, words in Hindi script in each feather that I am unable to decipher. A simple line drawing on a blackboard shows a face and a raised open palm with the words HAPPY NEW….. Some heavily pruned trees sprouting fresh growth line the periphery of the playground and despite an element of decay to the whole scene, the sense is one of beginnings. This is the ground where Gandhi held his evening prayers with his Marchers before walking the last mile into Navagam centre for their night halt. With the arrival of the schoolgirls Erico receives permission to photograph the children. Gandhi loved children and he feels very present in this scene. As we exit the yard I read these words on a green chalkboard, “I can calculate the motion of the heavenly bodies but not the madness of the people – Isaac Newton.”
Morning Glory in Navagam - Virginia Dixon, oil on canvas, 32”x28”
I stop for a chat with two donkeys at the roadside, each dyed with a bright pink line streaking down their backs, a pink polka dot on each buttock and one more on the centre forehead. I’m wearing the same pink myself today. I think back a few years to country walks when I lived on a farm in eastern Ontario, stopping at my neighbour’s cedar rail fence for her donkeys to approach for a pet. I had made a painting back then of myself in my winter parka heading off on a pilgrimage down the road in a blinding snowstorm astride a donkey, paintbrush in mittened hand, a snowman in the background waving farewell. It’s 40 degrees in Gujarat and as we continue walking we see lush green rice fields being harvested. Families of workers cut and bundle the long stalks, laying them out to dry, others thrashing them over a wood fence, shedding the grain onto a large tarp. They are singing and wave us to come over and say hello. We stop and watch until suddenly a herd of cattle parades by drawing us back on our way. We’re among peacocks and parrots, water birds and lotus, camels pulling hay carts escorted by bounding long tail monkeys. I cannot think of anything missing from my life on this day except perhaps another drink of water.
Finding My Way - Virginia Dixon, oil on linen, 20”x16”
At first Vasna does not look promising for our day halt, even for water, then the villagers appear and a pair of brothers invites us into their home for lunch. I’ve only been on the road a few days but this house already seems extravagant and I feel stifled by the sudden luxuries of air conditioning and a TV broadcasting the National Geographic channel. The men talk and we learn one brother has worked in America and the other will be leaving shortly. I try to piece together the criteria of who leaves, who stays, who returns, all to what end. Is it to better the quality of life of the village or to emigrate for a better personal life.The world I have just stepped out of feels complete to me today but what do I know of their situation and where am I at this moment? We are presented with a beautiful thali platter, prepared by invisible women in the kitchen, and after eating are once again invited to stay put and rest on the living room sofas. I am grateful to lie down but disturbed from the technology and business talk, the cold air blowing and a ticking clock! We are roused at 4pm and our hosts send us along with the villagers to the grand mango tree where Gandhi had spoken to a crowd of one thousand. In 1930 the villagers had constructed a cottage from bundles of hay for Gandhi to sleep in and a canopy of khadi was provided for the Marchers. Gandhi was suspicious of this elaborate hospitality. He hoped it wasn’t a ploy to keep the Muslims and Dalits among his Marchers out of the village proper. Today the old mango still stands strong but sprawls in an ungainly way, many of the lower limbs long broken. It is encircled with another kind of canopy formed from a vast crop of kheera (cucumber) supported on a trellis about 4 feet above ground. Its season has passed, the leaves are dried and brown but a second village could sleep quite comfortably beneath it. We must resume walking because we aim to reach Matar before dark and the Watrak River lies between. We are cautioned it might be too deep and swift to cross on foot in this season. I had read about the several river crossings Gandhi and his Satyagrahas had made during the Salt March and had a strong desire to experience the same. It was the symbolism of it more than the challenge but I had packed a collapsible walking stick for this very purpose and it was in my bag today. We arrive at the shore and the river is wide but fishermen are standing in water no deeper than their waists. I take off my shoes and roll up my leggings and wade in. The mud is warm, soothing on my tired feet, a little reward for all the work they are doing in bringing me here! The water deepens and I hike up my tunic and laugh with happiness at being exactly where I want to be. Erico looks concerned but then he must protect his camera and he likely knows of things I know not of lurking in the river…. We reach the other side stepping through more thick mud and are directed by the fishermen where to locate the path leading up the bank to the road. Still barefoot we climb through prickly shrub and when we reach the top and emerge from the foliage onto the road we are greeted by a crew of men and women waiting with a pail of fresh water and towels so that we can clean our feet before putting on our shoes! When we’re clean and shod they wave us on our way to Matar. At first all is pleasing along a lazy paved road narrowed to a path by the encroaching sand blown over from the shoulders. The sun is low on the horizon and there is the silence of two people walking and wondering. Then it grows hectic as we reach the highway into town. Tahir suddenly appears with the news there is no hotel available for us in Matar. Too tired to look further we pull into a truck stop hotel. There is a delay at the front desk before being checked in. My room is garish topped up with a sharp smell of fumigation. Careful to keep my luggage zipped and elevated from the red ants running wild circles in the corner, I climb into bed under a sticky purple fleece with its tropical pink and orange sunset décor. Tomorrow will be one of the longer walks on the route, 23km, most along a major highway. I fall asleep hungry but I am happy as the effects of the experiences of the day work their way into my mind and soul.