The Hadzas of Tanzania on Body Hack, with Todd Sampson on the National Geographic channel, were simplified for the want of a better word into idealized hunter-gatherers. The documentary concluded with Mr Sampson saying it was refreshing to live in a society without politics. But it feels implausible that the Hadzas do not have politics. As a concurrent primogenitor to our own agriculture-based societies, the Hadzas should definitely have politics of some sort, even if it is of an internecine kind between family groupings, leading to arguments and skirmishes from time to time. Continue reading Puncturing the paleo idyll
Time is this flexing, rubber-band thing that joins us all everywhere at once. We seem to possess the ability to warp it around ourselves, snipping off bits of time and culture that we like — to create little life-raft time capsules. I found out about relativity at recess in the library at my school. I remember taking out all the reference books I could find then in my quest to understand, and since it was my misfortune to be dyslexic with numbers and equations, I began to hunt down every bit of prose I could find on the subject. I have spent a lifetime wrapping my head around time and space. And there are still things I am not able to grasp.
One afternoon in hot, tropical Kerala, I was staring out the window. Through the gaps in a field of coconut trees, I watched a woman setting up a makeshift cooking station outside. Slowly, she began to pile up a mound of gathered firewood. She set a blackened aluminium pot of water to boil on the smoking pile, finally throwing in some washed rice. I tried to get a closer look in at her. She reminded me of women I had seen when my grandmother was still alive. She was deeply tanned from a life spent clearing other people’s lands. Her hair was rough, straggly and sun-bleached. And she wore garb that women in my grandmother’s time had worn. A sarong or lungi wound around her waist and legs. Over bare midriff she wore a short-sleeved blouse. A thin white Kerala towel called a `thorth’ in Malayalam was tucked into her sarong. The loose end of the towel was thrown over one shoulder and this carefree towelling was used to signal modesty. She walked the pebbled ground beneath on unslippered feet.
Human geography will outstrip all the cartographic lines we put down on maps. We draw them compulsively, needing to categorise and separate—on the ground, on paper, but somehow there’s no finality. We put a door in the wall and try to feel safe behind it.
But people are always crossing over, lines will always blur and sometimes even our doors get broken down. There is that kind of creeping, assimilating tide washing in from a dominant culture. It will take us over, ingest us and our ideas, our protective lines will be breached and we were too meek to push back.