How much forest is in your coffee?

I work on global forest change, and on most days, it is a sobering job. The world loses significant amounts of forest every year, much more than it grows back. The rates of deforestation in so-called ‘deforestation hotspots’ (the Amazon basin, south-east Asia) have slowed lately, but still remain alarmingly high. According to some estimates, several million hectares of forest have been lost each year between 2010 and 2015. These are forests which, if left undisturbed, would take years to grow back to their original state.

What’s driving these losses? Agricultural expansion to grow everyday commodities is responsible for more than three-quarters of all deforestation in tropical regions. These commodities include soy, beef, palm oil, cocoa, the basis for much of what we eat, drink and use everyday. The impacts of these changes are not only environmental, but also social and economic.

As an individual, it might make you think about one’s impact on the environment. Common activities of ours having disproportionate impacts on the forests around the world. Our morning cup of coffee contributing to deforestation in South America. Cosmetics that we use driving forest loss in south-east Asia. Not only has that cocoa been grown on land where a forest once used to stand, but getting it from farm to plate has been the result of a massive global endeavour involving a complex supply chain. The maintenance of that supply chain itself may have come at a cost to the environment. At times, the environmental costs might barely scratch the surface. The allied impacts of consumption might include any of biodiversity protection, human rights, illegal logging, food security and social justice.

Sometimes, one might want to ask, ‘how much forest is in my coffee?’

Fieldwork in the Forest – I

The journey is on its last legs. The front vipers work vigorously to help the driver navigate the winding turns on the way to the bus stand. Inside the bus, some people are already on their feet arranging their belongings, while others are waking up from their sleep with a yawn. I am reaching Sirsi, a small town in north-west Karnataka. I have come down with the overnight bus from Bangalore – ‘executive class’, as the bus proclaims. The night has been rough – my seat proves to be sticky and refuses to recline, and the bumps on the roads do not help. My lower back grumbles and complains, and calls out for its all-weather antidote, a cup of chai.

People are taking shelter from the rain in the tin sheds of the bus stand through unrelenting rainfall. The dhaba at the bus stand is just about opening its shutters, and getting started for the day. I am one of its first customers today. I approach the guy behind the counter. He is busy with his morning prayers, head bowed to the statue of a deity he has neatly kept on the side of the cash counter. He finishes, and looks up at me. I ask for chai, and in return he nods and gestures towards the empty tables, some still having the chairs kept upside down on top of them. His eyes remain fixated on me, a guy with a backpack and a plastic fishing rod in the middle of the Monsoons in rural Karnataka. Is he crazy?

I am here for fieldwork in the forests which surround the small town. These tropical evergreen forests are part of the Western Ghats, now a World Heritage Site. The month of June, in the peak of the Monsoon season is hardly a good time for this, but this is the best that time and my project allows. Its peak humidity and continuous rainfall. You want the rain to stop, but then the humidity is unbearable, so you want the rain to continue to escape the humidity. It’s a vicious circle.

Meanwhile, I ask for some idlis with my chai. I am waiting for Raghu, my field assistant, who lives with his family in a small apartment in town. A middle-aged guy, he is incharge of our field activities in the region. He soon arrives at the bus stand on his motorbike and joins me for breakfast. His presence is timely, for he navigates the conversation about who I am and what I am doing here with the owner of the dhaba smoothly. Soon, we are on his bike and making our way towards our field station.

We arm ourselves with raincoats for the rain continues. Even my backpack gets a rain cover for itself. The ride to our field station is serene. The town is left behind quickly, and soon we are riding along lush forests on both sides. Raghu has a helmet for himself, and he has got a small one for me too. With the rain lashing you left, right and centre, it would be impossible otherwise.

Our field station is a beautiful farm house on the highway to the famous beach town of Gokarna. Sloping roofs, even a cow shed towards the back. There is a ready supply of freshwater – a small river flows behind the farmhouse. Since the rain does not subside, we settle down to make a few more cups of chai and watch the Monsoon clouds envelope everything around us.

The Black Leather Wallet and the Culture of Tipping in Vienna

The culture of tipping is probably as old as the culture of going out itself. In some cultures, tipping is mandatory, or disguised as ‘not being optional’. In others, tipping may be representative of the quality of the service received – for the care and for the attention to detail. Although it be a global activity, it is remarkably diverse in its nature. Information on local tipping culture is prominent in numerous travel guides, and for good reason. It is something that can instantly endear you to locals, or mark you out as a grumpy, ungrateful foreigner. The countries I have visited/lived in seem to have a distinct culture of tipping, and how exactly to do it.

Vienna has a typical style too, parts of which are very curious for an observer. Once done with the meal, the bill arrives without any sort of a jacket/cover (as one would find in some other countries, like India). One is supposed to look at the bill and do some mental mathematics as to the appropriate amount of tip and then tell that to the server while handing him/her some cash or your card. Depending on the amount you quote, you receive from the service a smile or a smirk. All fairly straightforward till now. Here is where its gets really quirky.

Every server seems to have the same leather wallet – it is ubiquitous in Vienna. It is hard to understand why. The wallet is usually worn down, a reflection of the hours put in, and found usually nestled in the waist belt of the waiters and waitresses that run Vienna’s countless bars and restaurants. Why does everyone have the same wallet to carry around? Is there a manual which prescribes it? There’s a fair logic behind it (but also maybe not) – 4 pockets for each of the denominations of notes, but only one for all the denominations of coins. Maybe the coins should revolt against this injustice. One can hear the rumble of discontent from that solitary pocket even when sitting far away in a bar.

Meanwhile, here comes my own bill for the beer I had. The black wallet would not be far behind.

Hiking to a volcano – II

An hour to our destination and an early morning start means that it is time for a post-breakfast/pre-lunch nap on the deck of our boat. We are on our way to the volcanic island of Stromboli, and its active 1000 meter-high volcano. Surrounded by other islands big and small across the landscape and still not out in the open sea, the boat chugs along serenely. Soon the island and its volcano becomes faintly visible, anticipation cutting short my nap. The volcano towers over the rest of the landscape, its peak faintly visible from the smoke originating from its vents.

Stromboli is the second volcano that we will hike and study, in our trip to the Aeolian Islands. The hike is expected to take about 3 hours, and our group of about 25 people have been assigned a guide, since it is forbidden to climb without one. He has reserved a storeful of hard hats and other safety equipment (face masks, shoes) for us, and each one of us is issued some gear for the climb. It is the middle of May, stiflingly hot, and the plan is to start the ascent in the late afternoon so that the sunset provides an ideal contrast for witnessing the explosions atop the volcano. That means we have a couple of hours before the climb, a time spent enjoying a granita and completing my nap.

It is almost 1430h by the time we start the hike. Our guide, a guy about my age, is very particular about order and pace, and so we maintain a consistent (consistently slow, in my opinion!) pace. It is a gentle beginning, leaving the small huts of the town behind as we move towards the volcano. Small shrubs and other vegetation is shrugged aside as we tread the oft-hiked path to the peak. As with Vulcano, the vegetation quickly gives way to a bare, ash-laden surface. The hats do not help with the heat, so they are quietly dispensed to our backpacks, only to re-emerge later. It is a not a difficult climb, just a gentle increase in elevation around occasional bends. We take occasional breaks to catch breath and take photos of the landscape, and of ourselves. Huddled together while having bananas, we discuss volcanic styles, volcanism at Stromboli, the history of the volcano and volcanic disaster risk reduction. For field scientists, this is a moment to savour.

About halfway to the top, the first sounds of the roar of the volcano are heard. By now, the town of Stromboli is faint in the distance, while the Tyrrhenian Sea extends far and wide. Soon enough, we come across one of the few checkpoints of the hike – a bunker meant to protect researchers and other visitors from stray bombs exploding from the surface of the crater. Since researchers frequently visit Stromboli to analyse its activity, the bunker is an important safety infrastructure present for times of emergency. Volcanic beds are seen left and right – rows of neatly-stacked layers of soil as vestiges of eruptions past. Meanwhile, the volcanic explosions get louder, rhythmic and more frequent. We are almost there!

The memory of the last few steps is drowned by the roar of the volcano. At the top, surrealism awaits! We are right at the edge of level ground, beyond which there is a massive bowl-shaped crater, at whose base are 4 volcanic vents. The vents explode at a frequency of every 10 minutes, with bombs of rock and other material exploding from its surface. It is almost like a game, predicting which vent would be activated next.

Apart from the volcano itself, nothing can be heard. Nobody speaks a word. Minutes pass by and still nothing. Many of us are finally restored to reality by the sounds of the next group of people climbing to experience Stromboli for themselves. Our time at the volcano is over, we have to make way.

It doesn’t end meekly. This incredible experience is wrapped up by a peculiar descent. We are at the top of a massive mountain of ash. Many evenings spent on playground slides come roaring back as we are asked to slide down on volcanic ash to go down and get back to civilization. What took us 3 hours to climb up, barely takes 45 minutes to climb down.

A Viennese Stadium Experience

Thursday evening, and the metro is unusually crowded, even though we are in the middle of the office rush hour. Men and women with painted faces, pointed hats, blue and yellow football jerseys and flags. Boisterous and happy, they seem to be here for a reason – the Austrians are playing Bosnia and Herzegovina tonight.

I have no plans for the evening, so instead of going home, I follow the crowd to the stadium. Inching closer to the stadium, the flags and the jerseys increase exponentially. I am sceptical about finding a ticket at the counter a mere hour and a half before the game, but it turns out to be surprisingly easy. There is no queue in front of the counter, so I take the liberty of casually asking for and choosing preferred areas of seating in the stadium. In hindsight, I am lucky the person behind the counter does not lose his patience.

Outside the stadium, the Bosnian fans are having a good time. Selfies and group photos in jerseys and face paints, the works. Wurstelstands have sprung up and are doing brisk business. The sizzle of fried sausages has filled the air. The Bosnian contingent keeps on multiplying – a sizeable proportion of Bosnians in Vienna seem to have turned up for the game. A chilly November evening, yet the cold cans of beer keep flowing. I see the odd bottle of Jägermeister as well, which I later realize, perhaps helps to serve a critical purpose.

My seat in the stadium is the 2nd tier. Nonetheless, it is an excellent view, directly behind the area where the players come out from. I am in the ‘neutral’ fans zone, which very quickly starts getting filled up with predominantly Bosnian support. On my right, a big group of Bosnian fans, the BH Fanaticos, enter the stadium together take their places directly behind one of the goals. They remain true to their name. For the whole 90 minutes, they sing and dance, forcing the steel chairs and concrete steps to rock with them. They also seem distinctly unaffected by the chilly winds blowing through the stadium, since some of them take off their shirts and sing at the top of their lungs, waving their shirts and jackets to generate an electric atmosphere. Maybe the Jägermeister came in handy precisely for this? They also manage to pull off quite a fireworks show with their flares, the smoke from which causes the match to temporarily disappear from my view.

The match itself is forgettable, but the Bosnian fans know how to make the best of a distinctly average game. They fret, they squeal, they shout, they berate, they make the game come alive for even an average spectator. Meanwhile, I remain conflicted about my own allegiance. I want to remain dispassionate and neutral, but who can resist succumbing to the infectious intensity of these fans?

Hiking to a volcano – I

‘Uno quatro stagioni, per favore!’ It was past lunchtime, and the small town of Milazzo was in the middle of an afternoon nap. I found myself a pizzeria off the main square while I was waiting for my ferry to Vulcano, one of the 7 volcanic islands (together called the Aeolian Islands) in the Tyrrhenian Sea off the Sicilian coast. Milazzo is a hub for tourists and holidaymakers out to catch a ferry to these islands, but we were there much too soon before the start of the holiday season. The ferry itself was uneventful – the sea was calm and clear, surely a relief for passengers prone to sea-sickness. A little under two hours later, we were at Vulcano.

Vulcano is home to the La Fossa volcano and a famous hot spring. A rotten egg smell pervades through the island due to Sulphur discharges from La Fossa and the hot springs. As expected, the island itself has the distinction of having a style of volcanism named after itself, the Vulcanian type of volcanic eruption. The 320m-high La Fossa, which last erupted in 1889-90, dominates the landscape. The morphology of the volcano itself is peculiar – halfway to the top, bare earth and intermittent vegetation gives way to black ash. It is unlike anything I have ever experienced before.

Our hotel was right beside the beach, offering a stunning view of the sea and the islands of Alipudi and Filicudi in the far distance. The activity on the island is usually restricted to the area around the port, and it is here in the evening that we treat ourselves to a granita at an outlet with branches spread as far as Australia. Granita is a delicious flavoured iced slush (available with or without cream, depending on your inclination), and one can accompany the granita with a brioche, a rich and tender pastry.

The trek to La Fossa starts a few hundred metres from our hotel. A signpost is testimony to this, its weathered state having stood the test of time and apathy. The winding path starts on solid mounds of bare earth, but the last part involves walking on ash. Vegetation is scarce and decreases rapidly with ascent. Barely 10 minutes into the trek, a refreshment van comes into view. Since the La Fossa ascent is suitable for trekkers of all ages, the van can serve as a first pit stop for groups aiming for a rather leisurely ascent to the top.

The trail itself is fascinating: as we gain height, the other islands in the island chain come into view in the far distance, along with glimpses of the clear waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea, so clear that one can see the ripples created by ferries and cruise vessels in the water. Large and small volcanic rocks are strewn across the landscape: remnants of volcanic eruptions past. While there is only one major trail to the top, prominent signboards present at each curve are no doubt reassuring for nervous trekkers.

Our first and only stop is a flat outcrop of land about 200m from the top. This area provides a 270 degrees view of the landscape. Filicudi and Alicudi are smokey in the distance from the gas releases on top of their resident volcanoes. The narrow strip of land to Vulcanello comes brightly into view, with Lipari behind it.

The last 200m ascent is almost a blur, lost in the excitement of experiencing a volcanic vent. It exceeds expectations: the vent is a conic-shaped figure, with smooth tapering at the edges, on which I currently stand. Rotten egg is the dominant smell around us, from the numerous small vents spread out all across the body of the vent, spewing out yellow-coloured Sulphur gas into the atmosphere. While continued concentrated exposure to Sulphur can be dangerous, right now the exposure is below threat levels. A small monitoring station of the INGV (the Italian national institute for the study of volcanoes) stands to measure gaseous concentrations in real-time. Other trekkers are visible all across the top of the vent, looking out for good spots for capturing the landscape and of the volcano itself.

I am like an excited kid, speechless and spell-bound. Multiple photos later, we sit down for a quick lunch. Lunch on the fringes of a volcano! There are good days, and then are days like this one.

The Indian Wedding

How it went down:

02.11 Morning – Devgon (starts late, stretches into late afternoon).

02.11 Evening – Mehendiraat (ends at 0500 the next morning, I accept defeat at 0330).

03.11 Morning – Recovery and rehabilitation.

03.11 Evening – The Wedding (starts post-midnight, ends in daylight the next day. I surrender again at 0400).

04.11 Morning – Ghar achun (mostly a blur, but with great food).

I have come down to Delhi from Vienna for the wedding of my 1st cousin. It is the first wedding on the mother’s side of my family – been planned for months, and talked about for a year. Some bumps on the way, but it is finally happening.

My trip lasts all of 4 days. People at work are amazed at the relationship between the distance covered and the length of my trip, as they are about what’s going to unfold. They have only heard of the Big Fat Indian Wedding; this is their case study. They have a lot of questions and they want to see graphic evidence. Evidence of food, festivities, events, clothes, people. I feel like I am representing an idea and an event, and have something to live up to. No pressure.

I arrive straight into the wedding. The whole family has shifted into a hotel, the venue for all the events. It is the wedding takeover, a destination wedding without an out-of-town destination. The hotel can scarcely handle other guests, we ourselves are about 80 people.

I have seen a few Kashmiri weddings, but none have probably been as traditional as this. There are some rituals which are there at a common Indian wedding, but some are truly typical and by 2018 standards, increasingly rare.

The 1st event, the Devgon, is a ritual routinely seen at Kashmiri weddings. I ask everyone about its significance, but nobody has a clue; we do it anyway. For the Mehendiraat, I see my mother going around with a plateful of henna, applying it to people’s hands, representing celebration, joy and a household in festive fervour. As my sister’s aunt, she has this ‘honour’. Every hand she puts henna on, the recipient rewards my mother with money and blessings.

Sufi singers have been called in from Jammu to sing traditional Kashmiri songs through the night. They come with a whole entourage – backup singers, percussionists, harmonists. A stage has been prepared for them, and carpets have been laid out for us patrons to sit down and enjoy their renditions over cups of traditional Kashmiri teas – the kehwa (a sweet tea with dry fruits) and noon chai (a pink-coloured, salty tea) and bread specially sourced from Jammu for the occasion. The singers are delightful – their beats make everyone stand up and dance. The whole setting is from another time.

The wedding ceremony itself takes place in the wee hours of the 4th. I can barely keep my eyes open, and the coffee is too mild to help. The priest expects utmost seriousness during the course of the ceremony, but laughter breaks out when he describes the responsibilities of the bride and groom to each other. The bride and the groom share a sheepish grin themselves. The ceremony goes on for a little over 4 hours, at the end of which there is the vidaai (where the bride goes off to the groom’s house). The first rays of sunlight have broken in through the haze already.

The final event, the ghar achun, passes off in a daze. Some more gifts are exchanged, some more tears are wept. Relatives are seen making plans are made for the next eligible bachelor/bachelorette to get hitched. Because when they all leave, one feels a strange emptiness – you were living with your extended family for days, and then suddenly you weren’t.

Viennese döner kebabs

Döner kebabs are big across Vienna, as I believe they are across the country as well as in Germany. They jostle for space, love, attention and importance with the more traditional Viennese wurstelstands. Dishing out döner kebabs and sandwiches by the minute, they seem to have taken over the imagination of the Viennese. It might not even be a snack anymore, but a full-fledged on-the-go meal.

BBC Travel did a story on how the döner kebabs have become Germany’s favourite fast food*. Thousands of stands making millions of döner kebabs each day, looking after Germans at lunchtime and past midnight on boozy weekends. I see parallels closer home – döner kebab stands make their presence felt on most, if not all, prominent places to hangout across the city. I have seen some very clever graffiti about the kebabs and their relationship with the right wing across the city as well. Clearly, this is a very successful import, built to withstand the test of time and politics.

I am out and about on a Friday afternoon, the start of a 3-day weekend. The other day I asked my friends about Vienna’s best döner, and they said that the Berliner Döner in the 7th district is a clear and comfortable winner. Judging by the line outside the döner stand on a slow Friday afternoon, they are not wrong. More than 15 people waiting in line for a döner kebab is truly a rare sight, but it says more about the Berliner’s popularity and taste than any TripAdvisor review could. I join the crew, and 10 mins later, I am ordering my very own Berliner döner.

The guy at the counter, a middle-aged man with a salt and pepper beard, asks for my order. The German language still does not come easily to me, so I memorize my order while standing and waiting in line. This part goes by smoothly. It gets complicated when it’s time for sauce and vegetable preferences. With my döner in his hand and his eyes towards the range on the counter, he looks at me and asks in German. I barely mumble something, not sure myself about the contents of the mumble. As if by telepathy, he understands my lingual handicap. He does what he feels best about the situation, inviting me for a true taste of his Berliner döner.

I find myself a spot just across the stand. The döner is delightful, and at the price, quite a steal! The numbers outside the stand keep swelling. If weekend afternoons are like this, what are party nights like?

*The link to the original article: bbc.com/travel/story/20170203-germanys-favourite-fast-food.

A Tourist in the City

It is one of my first weekends in Vienna, and I have stepped to see different shades of the city.

It is a sunny Saturday, so me and Nicolas (a colleague from work) have planned for a short hike around Vienna. Frankly, its quite amazing that a city can allow that within its limits. How many others can?

Before I meet Nicolas though, I decide to go and visit the Schönbrunn Palace. It is absolutely beautiful and absolutely massive! Ignoring the insides of the Palace (which presumably has museums) since entry was ticketed, I walk around the compound. The compound is filled with autumnal shades of trees and hedges, and towards the back, I find a huge archway on top of a mound. Within the 10 minutes it takes to climb to the top of the mound, the whole of Vienna becomes visible. It is a breathtaking sight.

Time for a second birds-eye view of the city, from the outskirts of Vienna in Cobenzl. The bus to Cobenzl goes through really nice areas of Vienna – the roads are narrow (so narrow that 2 buses cannot pass each other), and most houses have a front garden. It feels like the Austrian countryside, but actually still within city limits. Cobenzl is indeed crowded. We chance upon a vineyard – apparently Vienna had loads of them, and we would get to have the local wines at a really cute wine garden later.

Hiking in these woods is easy – every trail is mapped and signboards show the way every 10 minutes. Trekking in the Himalayas, it is not. We take the trails that take us away from the crowds, and soon we are walking through thick forest. Civilization reappears every now and then. We also manage to chance upon a watchtower offering amazing 360 degree views of the Viennese landscape (very much like the minarets at Jama Masjid back home in Delhi). The rest of the afternoon is a boozy blur with wine at a Cobenzl wine garden and beer at the Oktoberfest celebrations in Pratersterns.

Sleeping through the morning, I recover to step out in the afternoon towards the centre of the city. Sunday is not the best day to step out to explore the 1st district. It is flooded with tourists on their city walking tours, with their guidebooks and with their cameras. That’s rich coming from me though. I have been trying to capture a typical Viennese landscape on my phone camera – an old-school tram passing by in front of some stunning medieval architecture. An hour later, still no success. It looks great in my head, but my phone and I do not share a telepathic understanding yet.

The traditional coffeehouses are mostly full – most even have a significant number of people waiting outside to get in. People wait patiently for their taste of Vienna, to be a local and not merely a tourist. Eventually I find one myself without a crowd, and how lucky that I am still in the 1st district.

The waitress speaks perfect, accent-free English, perhaps trained and hardened by the hundreds of non-German speakers she encounters everyday. My order is a melange and what the cafe calls an ‘Old Viennese Chocolate Cake’. The melange is (typically?) frothy and the cake has a strong citrus finish. I might be finally starting to tell my coffees apart.