The Village
THE BUS DROPS OFF OUR GROUP AT A DIRT TRACK LINED
with a few houses. The sounds of trucks passing at high speed on the roadway slowly abate and are replaced by the increasing clang of zebus’ bells, the droopy-skinned, humped cattle waiting to take us on a wagon ride. This kind of up-close-andpersonal experience is still only possible through guided visits, but our hosts, a community of farmers working with tour operators to help tourists discover a slice of ultra-local culture, are relaxed and smiling, as though they are giving a tour of their property to friends. The wheels creak and the zebus dig into the red mud as their drivers yell mut, mut! to advance us across a basmati rice field to a river, where small boats will take us out on a lake.
We arrive back in the village each wearing a hat fashioned from a giant water lily leaf, which our boat captain seemed to find great delight in making for us. A traditional buffet awaits, featuring eight dishes served in terracotta bowls, including eggplant curry, winged bean salad, fried fish and rice. I’m starving, but food here is eaten with one’s hands, to stimulate as many senses as possible, Sam explains. Following a brief demonstration, I dip the fingers of my right hand into the plate to gather a ball of rice and then mix it with some curry and salad. Each bit that makes it to my mouth is a personal victory. There’s a Zenlike aspect to eating this slowly that allows me to enjoy the textures, flavours and aromas. After a 30-minute effort, my plate is empty, my stomach is full and my senses are gratified.