Visitors from the city and the local village invariably ask, “Aren't you scared of living alone?”
Taxi drivers dropping us home late at night get the jitters when we turn into our forested dirt road. Over the few minutes it takes to arrive at our gate, they repeatedly ask if there is indeed a house at the end of the lonely path. Some have been specific about what they fear: ghosts. “Haven't seen one so far,” I reply and enquire, “What do they look like?” Normally garrulous men turn silent as they focus on the road with great intensity. Once they drop us off at home, they just want to get out of here fast. They don't want tea or even water.
At night, our farm probably looks desolate to our visitors; not a single neighbouring house can be seen. The nearest village is a kilometer away, although new houses are popping up closer towards us. For now, we live in magnificent solitude. Over the years I've become addicted to it; any more than three days with people, I get crotchety.
When I emerge from my bolt-hole once every few weeks, I need to consciously think my way through normal social interactions. The effort tires me out but it likely tires others even more. I don't feel the need to fill silences; in fact I don't even notice them. When Rom is traveling, the dogs and I live in companiable silence. Sometimes I'd comment out loud to the dogs about something I read. They are telepathic, they don't need a preamble. In response they cock their ears to say, “Is that so?” With Rom, however, I have to narrate the story from the beginning. What a long way he has to go.
Besides the occasional sound of traffic, cicadas and birds dominate the airwaves. One young chap from the city said in wonderment over lunch, “I can hear myself chew.” This relative silence is what makes the festival season so unbearable when temple loudspeakers from the nearby village start up at unearthly hours. We read the Noise Pollution Act to the village headman at the start of every season and it has a marginal effect. Sometimes we play music to drown the scratchy music that's on a repetitious loop, but mostly we just plug our ears for those few weeks and listen to our heartbeats instead.
The one disadvantage of this situation is that it's hard to get a village lady to come to work. They are scared to walk up the forest path alone even in broad daylight. They say people will suspect their morality. More than that, however, is the traditional negative view of the forest as an uncivilised place. People come to the forest to do what they dare not do at home: drink, meet their paramours, gamble and even murder.
Convinced by friends, Rom went to the extent of buying a burglar alarm but it was too much effort to fix. Besides, more than intruders, there's a greater possibility that passing wild animals would trigger the alarm. So instead he pulled out the motion-sensors and rigged it with a video camera so we could watch nocturnal wildlife.
A friend visiting from South Carolina asked me quietly at the end of his first day here, “Do you have a gun?” Startled, I countered, “Why would I need one?” “To protect yourself.” Having thought long and hard about the security issue, all I can say is that our reputation as weirdos who keep ghosts, snakes and other creepy-crawlies company is more of a deterrence than a firearm.
In any case, reading the papers makes me wonder if the city is a safer place. Neighbours within whispering distance of each other are oblivious of burglaries and murders. Perhaps I ought to be asking the question, “Are you not scared of living alone in the city?”
