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Kamshet and the Circus in
the Sky
by Astrid Rao
 The
monsoon has finally departed and a group of flight-thirsty
paraglider pilots are off to Kamshet, India, hoping desperately
for good flying conditions. With them is a trio of new students
bracing themselves for their first flying experience.
After a three hour drive on the Mumbai-Pune highway, we catch
sight of the river snaking alongside the railway track. The quaint
little railway station, normally tucked out of sight when you take
the bypass, is now visible as we come into Kamshet town, before
crossing the railway track and heading for lake country. We pass
all the familiar sights: the guava seller at the corner, the
patshala, the little tea stall. Everybody waves frantically; even
the local dogs bark in excitement. Our arrival has signalled
"circus time in the sky".
 We
are headed for our base camp at Golden Glades, but first we take a
detour via the evening flying site for a quick inspection of the
conditions. The paddy has not yet been harvested so we have no
landing area. The local farmer, Shelar, whom we fondly refer to as
our site met (meteorological) officer, comes rushing out to greet
us and give us a detailed report on the weather conditions.
Shelar never fails to amaze us. From the very first time we met
him two years ago, when we discovered the site, he greeted us
warmly and came out to watch our antics in the sky. Within a
couple of days, he had figured out the fundamentals of paragliding
and could tell which pilot had an especially good flight and which
student had the best landing. He soon knew the regulars by name
and even nicknamed some of us. A micro meteorology expert, he can
look up at the sky, feel the wind, and tell us if conditions are
good for soaring or if the evening will be a washout, something
that every paraglider pilot has to learn if he wants to contend
with the sky.
 The
next morning, after talking with the villagers, we head out for
Shinde Wadi. An hour’s drive down a bumpy village track, the hills
come into view. Even from a distance, the site looks promising: a
gently sloping hill, perfect for training ops. As we unload the
gliders and begin ground-handling, the village kids start to
appear as if from nowhere. The boys are bolder and come closer for
a better view; the girls stay at a distance. Sanjay ties the
ribbons onto a staff and impales it into the ground. The colourful
flying ribbons indicate the wind direction and strength. The kids
look on in wonder, their necks craning upwards like fledgling
birds. The multicoloured gliders inflate in the air, soaring like
colourful birds high on unseen cloud streets in the sky.
The vibrant gliders could charm anyone, but one little girl is
mesmerised by the ribbons dancing in the wind. She makes a sudden
swoop towards them, and without stopping, plucks one off the
staff, running madly, her little gathered skirt flapping around
her. This causes fresh excitement among the kids and students, and
the commotion takes a while to settle. Then, before the sun sets,
the pilots inflate their wings and take to the sky, soaring on the
winds along with the Brahminy kites.
 We
walk down to the little tea shop for a refreshing cup of tea. An
old man there tells us about a battle of long ago where Madhavrao
Shinde’s soldiers fired a cannon from the top of the hill and blew
the head off the leader of the advancing British battalion. This
was how the area got its name, he says, which goes to prove that
there’s history hidden under every stone you turn in this area.
Already, we have flown over ancient Buddhist caves and fortresses
of medieval chieftains. It is a reminder that we are traversing an
ancient trade route from the coast to the hinterland, once the
haunt of caravans, Buddhist monks, Greek merchants and Chinese
travellers.
Of course, it’s the people that make Kamshet so special to us: the
oneness we feel with them, the realisation that every Indian
farmer—even if he cannot read or write—is a micro meteorology
expert from centuries of accumulated knowledge or traditional
wisdom. And when we think of the children and their exposure to
paragliding—the newest form of personal flight—we wonder how the
‘circus in the sky’ will affect their lives.
© Astrid Rao 2004
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About the Author
Astrid Rao manages marketing and administration for
Nirvana
Adventures, a paragliding company in India.. She
grew up in a little village by the sea in Mumbai and
traces her ancestry back to the original inhabitants
of the city. She graduated with honors in Ancient
Indian Culture and has had a successful carrier in
advertising & film making in the city for 10 years.
Today Nirvana Adventures, nature and her son take up
much of her time. Astrid also runs Native Place, a
guesthouse at Kamshet inspired by the sustainable,
ecology conscious homesteads of village India. She
networks with the BNHS and other conservation
organizations in the areas of nature education and
conservation. At present she is attempting
documentation of the endangered vulture population in
the Kamshet region. She is also a freelance travel
writer. |
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