Salt and Earth: Gujarat’s Little Rann of Kutch

Right after sunrise, we drive into the Little Rann of Kutch, leaving behind all trees, all green, leaving behind everything except for packed, cracked mud crusted with salt. Across the expanse we can hear the constant clacking noise of water pumps used by the miners. And in the distance, dotted on the thin line of the horizon, men are dragging rakes through huge pools of water, encouraging the salt to form.

We are all wrapped up against the February cold. The four of us --- myself, Maureen, Caroline and Mr. Damecha --- are quiet. Mr. Damecha is almost always quiet. He is a shy man in his fifties, with a heavy Gujarati accent and an uneven grasp of English. His only explosions of verbosity arise when speaking about his beloved Rann --- its migratory birds, its unfortunately-named but beautiful herds of wild asses, and the plight of its salt miners. He retired a few years back from his photography business and now runs informal jeep safaris from his home in Dhrangadhra, a town just outside of the Rann. He doesn’t advertise his business, relying only on word-of-mouth. And he isn’t in it for the money, but rather as a way to raise peoples’ consciousness about the environmental and social problems facing the Little Rann.

Located in the western state of Gujarat, the entire Little Rann of Kutch is designated as a wildlife sanctuary --- and at approximately 4950 sq. km. in area, it is the largest such sanctuary in India. It is also one of the least visited. No jungles or mountains or forests. Just saltpans, thorny scrub brush, and dry cracked earth. No tigers here, no lions, no elephants. The Little Rann is home to a variety of less prestigious animals, particularly India’s last remaining herds of wild horses --- the Asiatic wild ass or "ghudkhur”. It is home to huge populations of migratory birds, such as flamingoes, pelicans, cranes and storks. And it is home to scattered communities of salt workers.

Throughout history, the Little Rann has been a source of salt. One third of India’s salt needs are mined from the Rann, and tens of thousands of people work within this industry. When it was declared a wildlife sanctuary in 1973, leases for certain areas of the Rann were granted to salt mining companies. Mining activity drives the area’s economy, but it also puts ecological strain upon the Rann. Pollution and noise is created by the water pumps and by the trucks that transport the salt. Unlicensed mining occurs, infringing upon land supposedly devoted to wildlife. And though evironmentalists call for increased regulation of mining, their demands are in conflict with the political power of the mining companies and the employment needs of the salt workers.

As we drive closer to the workers, we pass little wooden row boats, surreally stranded in the middle of dryness. From July to September, the salt mining areas of the Rann flood with about two feet of monsoon rain and Gulf of Kutch seawater, becoming a breeding ground for shrimp and fish. At this time, the salt workers break down their mines and move into the villages on the edge of the Rann. They become fishermen, rowing boats out into the desert. When the land dries, the earth is left full of salt. The workers leave the villages and mining begins again.

Each miner works alone, each at a distance from the other, each with a small hut for himself and his family. Every man tends several large, shallow, rectangular ponds, filled with varying levels of evaporating water and crystallizing salt. Our jeep approaches a group of pools --- one is a flat pan of blue water, while another glimmers under the surface with a transient white. We stop next to an almost-done pool, full of wet, crunchy, rock-candylike salt. A miner is standing in it up to his mid-calf, rake in hand. As we clamber out of the jeep, Mr. Damecha greets him with a smile. The miner smiles back at all of us. We are relieved to see that he’s wearing rubber boots. Most of the workers can't afford them and, along with many other health problems, their feet and legs suffer from the constant exposure to salt. (It is said that when they die and are cremated, their feet won't burn.) In addition to the boots, the miner wears a slip-shod white turban and a khaki green jacket. The jacket is wool, and looks almost like an army jacket, decorated with intricate brass buttons. An outfit for this cold time of year --- the easy time of year. In the coming months temperatures will soar. The majority of the salt will be harvested at the hottest time, right before the monsoon.

The miner is self-conscious, but willing to give us a demonstration. He picks up his rake up and begins to move up and down the pool, the rake drawing lines as if in a Japanese sand garden. By raking and raking, for month after month, the salt forms into bigger and bigger crystals. I realize how much salt is in the earth when I see it bubbling up through the ground of its own accord, crusting the dirt with white. These are tiny grains of salt, as if from a salt shaker. But the miner holds up great handfuls of it for us to see. The huge crystals glimmer in his dark, cracked hands.

He takes us to meet his wife and daughters, living in a little hut by the farthest pool. The hut is built with the same light-brown baked earth that stretches out in all directions. They have also used the earth to construct a waist-high wall around the hut, forming a tiny courtyard. In the middle of nothing, a delineation has been made. Out there is the Rann, but within these few feet is their home. In the courtyard sits an ancient-looking wooden cradle, as well as a broom, a small waterbucket and a rope-strung bed. There is none of the intricate embroidery and tie-died textiles that we had found in the tribal villages we had visited in Kutch --- no terracotta relief work adorning the insides of huts, no colourful paintings on the outside. Dry rushes and burlap sacks form this hut’s roof. The only real contrasts to the brown expanse of the Rann are the miner’s wife and children --- brightly dressed in orange, pink and purple, turquoise blue and bottle green. We sit on the bed and she brings us sweet black tea. The two toddlers cling to her in amazement. I smile wordlessly at her, as the water pump continues its incessant sound.

As we drink our tea, Mr. Damecha gives the children some biscuits. The children seem exhausted and drained --- and they probably literally are. Given that they live surrounded by salt, I wonder how dehydrated they must be. Caroline gives Mr. Damecha a 100 rupee note. He presents it to the older child. Along with her mother and father, we joke about what lucky little girl she is. Her father quickly takes the note from her, but by giving it to the child rather than to him, we haven’t embarrassed him…or is it that we haven’t felt as embarrassed ourselves? We say goodbye, and thank you, and get back into the jeep. We head further into the Rann; I turn to look back. The hut quickly blends into the surrounding brown.

The loneliness of the little house seems all the more intense given the communality of India. The overriding characteristic of India, in my mind, is not spirituality or poverty or exoticism; it is people. There are people everywhere, always in groups, always in families. Solitude is a hard commodity to find and, for most Indians, not a desirable state to be in. Farmers live in villages, nomads live in tribes, husband and wife live in extended family units. Looking back at the little hut, there is a sense of isolation that is profoundly un-Indian. Never before in India have I seen a family living so alone. There are other families out here, but they are not living next door. The village isn’t too far away, but the miners --- as one of the lowest rungs on the local caste ladder --- are not very welcome there. And the nature of the Rann is one of loneliness, of emptiness.

As we go further into it, we see no more boats and no more mines. The only objects on an otherwise flat landscape are a series of markers. They look like stone but are actually made of chunks of the rock-hard earth. What they could be marking, I have no idea. Eventually, we stop. We are surrounded by nothing. The ground is like a great big piece of cracked brown china, baked solid. Besides the jeep, and the tracks that it has made, there is only the horizon. I think of the Rabari nomads, who cross this expanse by camel, accompanied only by travelling birds and herds of wild ass. I think of the woman and her children, sitting on the edge of seeming infinity, day after day. I walk out into it, all alone, embraced by that un-Indian solitude that I so love. Until a little shiver runs up my spine and, like a child who has waded too far into the ocean, I run back towards Maureen and Caroline.

We head back towards civilization --- but not all the way back. Now it is time for Mr. Damecha’s favourite part of the safari: we are going to chase down the wild ass. Small herds of them scamper around the edges of the Rann, looking much prettier than their name implies. They are fawn and white, with short black manes and little tails. We spot a group of them and chase them down in the jeep. They seem to see it as a game, waiting for us to get close and then running. They stop as we slow down, and then flee again as we pursue. But Mr. Damecha points out how they are protecting themselves: the males are running closer to the jeep, distracting us, so that the females and young can run in the other direction. I’ve never been on a real safari, and this certainly isn’t Kenya, but there is a thrill to it anyway.

Eventually we lose the herd, and decide to head back towards the village. On our way, we pass a burlap tent with a sign hanging outside. It is a school for the miners’ children, supported by an NGO. Since they only spend the monsoon months in the village, they can’t attend the state school there. The young teacher --- a local girl, says Mr. Damecha --- invites us to visit. There are fifteen or so children inside, ranging in age from about two to twelve. The younger children look terrified to see our white faces peeking through the tent flap. The older children look excited, but are remarkably well behaved, and all namaste us politely. It is dim inside, but there are some bright new toys lying around and the walls are covered with alphabet posters. When we leave, the children follow us out and excitedly wave goodbye.

Bit by bit the thorn scrub grows thicker and the ground less cracked. Soon we can see the salt processing plants on the edge of the village, and then we are on a road, passing shops, houses, cows and people. We stop at a tea stall for a cup of chai and soon have our second encounter with schoolchildren. The tea stall is right outside of the local girls’ school --- and it lets out just as we are sipping our chai. In seconds, we are surrounded by giggling girls in pigtails and blue and white salwaar kameez uniforms. “What country? What country?” they ask, extending their hands for a non-traditional handshake. Each shake we give out dissolves them into even greater giggles. But as the crush of pigtails starts to reach mob-like proportions --- and as the boys’ school begins to let out as well --- we decide to make our escape. The jeep tears down the road, with a great crowd of schoolgirls following. We have definitely left the Rann. We are definitely back in India.

Published in Passionfruit Magazine, Summer 2000