Like most Americans, I have had dreams of returning to a simpler life - making do with less, using fewer resources, eating simpler foods. I knew there would be sacrifices involved, but I suspected that they would be worth it; that there would be joy and peace down that road, as well as the knowledge that I was caring for others and the earth by not consuming more resources and producing more waste than the world can handle. Then I was given a chance to try it out...
It's been three years and change since our family left middle America and moved to a small town in the foothills of the Himalaya. We now have lots fewer electrical appliances, though I still run a washing machine, a refrigerator, and a small water heater. Our usage comes out to just under 400 kWh per month, as opposed to about 960 kWh/month for the average US household. (We're still a little above the world average usage for households with electricity.) Our family of five uses between 200 and 250 liters of water per day, which we know because it all comes from the 1000 liter tank on the roof. By comparison, the average US family of four uses around 1060 liters/day for indoor use. We sort our garbage into what the neighbor's pig eats, what's biodegradable, and what must be burned.
We eat mostly what's local and seasonal, because that's mostly all there is. There are no grocery stores in the Western sense; the dry goods shops are walk-ins where you hand your list to the man behind the counter. On Wednesday and Saturday, our town has a farmers' market. Most of the produce is organic, and all of it is affordable - as in, fresh-tomatoes-for-50-cents/kilo-in-the-winter affordable. Recently, I was surprised to find a seller with avocados; I thought they'd gone out of season. I asked where they came from, and she said, "Oh, very far away." She paused for effect before naming a town 15 km distant from ours. I bought a kilo for the late-season price of $2.44.
It's the dream of the simple life, mostly come true. But I have to admit, I was surprised at the degree of privation I have felt; at how poorly my culture had prepared me to enjoy this life. There were unexpected consequences to living a more sustainable life.
Using less power means that, among other things, my house sometimes does not feel like a shelter. It's cold in the winter, hot and buggy in summer, and muggy in monsoon. Without climate control, it smells like mold. We get antiquated diseases like chilblains and scabies. It means that to bake a birthday cake, I bake the two layers in the same pan in turns in my little electric oven. It means a long, hot shower or bath is an airplane ride away. It means that shopping is a very physical process, carrying purchases as I walk to a variety of local sellers. Men often do the shopping for the family; it turns out food is heavy.
Eating "local and seasonal" means, among other things: no more avocado-mango-chicken wraps, because the seasons don't overlap. Broccoli, about the only veggie my oldest son loves, is available 4 months out of the year. I have come across strawberries twice, but otherwise we have not seen a berry of any kind in our town since we arrived. It's meant bidding goodbye to some favorites like asparagus, kale, butternut squash, tart apples, cantaloupes, and cherries. Lettuce and zucchini come in about one month/year. Twice-weekly farmers' market means that, whatever I'm doing those days, I need to head downtown and walk through the stalls. Otherwise, it's potatoes and cabbage for the duration. It means re-vamping my meal plans on the fly as I see what's available each week, and there is the occasional market day at the end of monsoon when the choices for green veggies are buggy cabbage, tough beans, or old peas. It means that when weather or a disease affects a particular crop, we don't import it; we do without. It means when we eat salsa, salad dressing, tortillas, bagels, yogurt, sausage, ham, ground meat, or frozen veggies, I make them. Often we eat healthier, fresher food than before, but some days it's just easier to order a greasy plate of chowmein for $1.
But I'm learning. We're adjusting. The kids are learning to like what's available. When mangoes are in, we can afford to eat them every day. We all love winter's fresh sweet peas, even raw. The excitement of finding the season's first broccoli or grapes or oranges, and knowing we have months of good eating to look forward to, comes close to making up for the foods we still miss. We've learned delicious new ways to cook staples like potatoes and okra. Last winter I learned that there is a small, purple root that tastes a lot like sweet potato available in December and January, and this winter I learned that by starting a few days ahead of time, I can make a cheesecake that satisfies the urge for my favorite dessert. Some things that still bothered me after 18 months no longer phase me after 3 years. We have enough blankets on the bed now, and drink hot water, and bathe in the daytime so we don't go to bed chilled. We've learned how to take advantage of the sun to fight mold. We enjoy the early morning laundry-hanging routine and know to get it in by 3 so the dew doesn't dampen it. We love evening fires and the indoor-outdoor lifestyle facilitated by the lack of climate control. We've learned when to close the windows to keep the mosquitos down. I don't remember what we spent those other 800 liters of water on; presumably we flushed the toilet a lot more often, but I no longer miss it. I have the compost bin odor under control and am almost to the point where I don't miss trash pick-up and plastic bags. Almost.
The point is, it hasn't been easy, and I don't know if I'd have stayed the course if I had a choice. But this life is livable, and mostly comfortable. I like it - it will affect the choices I make if we're back in the US someday. It has left me wondering about our country's chances of making any significant progress in these areas, though, knowing how Americans in general handle - or don't handle - discomfort. If our national lifestyle isn't sustainable, then at some point change will be thrust upon us. Here's hoping we'll rally that independent spirit to face it first on our own terms.
It's been three years and change since our family left middle America and moved to a small town in the foothills of the Himalaya. We now have lots fewer electrical appliances, though I still run a washing machine, a refrigerator, and a small water heater. Our usage comes out to just under 400 kWh per month, as opposed to about 960 kWh/month for the average US household. (We're still a little above the world average usage for households with electricity.) Our family of five uses between 200 and 250 liters of water per day, which we know because it all comes from the 1000 liter tank on the roof. By comparison, the average US family of four uses around 1060 liters/day for indoor use. We sort our garbage into what the neighbor's pig eats, what's biodegradable, and what must be burned.
We eat mostly what's local and seasonal, because that's mostly all there is. There are no grocery stores in the Western sense; the dry goods shops are walk-ins where you hand your list to the man behind the counter. On Wednesday and Saturday, our town has a farmers' market. Most of the produce is organic, and all of it is affordable - as in, fresh-tomatoes-for-50-cents/kilo-in-the-winter affordable. Recently, I was surprised to find a seller with avocados; I thought they'd gone out of season. I asked where they came from, and she said, "Oh, very far away." She paused for effect before naming a town 15 km distant from ours. I bought a kilo for the late-season price of $2.44.
It's the dream of the simple life, mostly come true. But I have to admit, I was surprised at the degree of privation I have felt; at how poorly my culture had prepared me to enjoy this life. There were unexpected consequences to living a more sustainable life.
Using less power means that, among other things, my house sometimes does not feel like a shelter. It's cold in the winter, hot and buggy in summer, and muggy in monsoon. Without climate control, it smells like mold. We get antiquated diseases like chilblains and scabies. It means that to bake a birthday cake, I bake the two layers in the same pan in turns in my little electric oven. It means a long, hot shower or bath is an airplane ride away. It means that shopping is a very physical process, carrying purchases as I walk to a variety of local sellers. Men often do the shopping for the family; it turns out food is heavy.
Eating "local and seasonal" means, among other things: no more avocado-mango-chicken wraps, because the seasons don't overlap. Broccoli, about the only veggie my oldest son loves, is available 4 months out of the year. I have come across strawberries twice, but otherwise we have not seen a berry of any kind in our town since we arrived. It's meant bidding goodbye to some favorites like asparagus, kale, butternut squash, tart apples, cantaloupes, and cherries. Lettuce and zucchini come in about one month/year. Twice-weekly farmers' market means that, whatever I'm doing those days, I need to head downtown and walk through the stalls. Otherwise, it's potatoes and cabbage for the duration. It means re-vamping my meal plans on the fly as I see what's available each week, and there is the occasional market day at the end of monsoon when the choices for green veggies are buggy cabbage, tough beans, or old peas. It means that when weather or a disease affects a particular crop, we don't import it; we do without. It means when we eat salsa, salad dressing, tortillas, bagels, yogurt, sausage, ham, ground meat, or frozen veggies, I make them. Often we eat healthier, fresher food than before, but some days it's just easier to order a greasy plate of chowmein for $1.
But I'm learning. We're adjusting. The kids are learning to like what's available. When mangoes are in, we can afford to eat them every day. We all love winter's fresh sweet peas, even raw. The excitement of finding the season's first broccoli or grapes or oranges, and knowing we have months of good eating to look forward to, comes close to making up for the foods we still miss. We've learned delicious new ways to cook staples like potatoes and okra. Last winter I learned that there is a small, purple root that tastes a lot like sweet potato available in December and January, and this winter I learned that by starting a few days ahead of time, I can make a cheesecake that satisfies the urge for my favorite dessert. Some things that still bothered me after 18 months no longer phase me after 3 years. We have enough blankets on the bed now, and drink hot water, and bathe in the daytime so we don't go to bed chilled. We've learned how to take advantage of the sun to fight mold. We enjoy the early morning laundry-hanging routine and know to get it in by 3 so the dew doesn't dampen it. We love evening fires and the indoor-outdoor lifestyle facilitated by the lack of climate control. We've learned when to close the windows to keep the mosquitos down. I don't remember what we spent those other 800 liters of water on; presumably we flushed the toilet a lot more often, but I no longer miss it. I have the compost bin odor under control and am almost to the point where I don't miss trash pick-up and plastic bags. Almost.
The point is, it hasn't been easy, and I don't know if I'd have stayed the course if I had a choice. But this life is livable, and mostly comfortable. I like it - it will affect the choices I make if we're back in the US someday. It has left me wondering about our country's chances of making any significant progress in these areas, though, knowing how Americans in general handle - or don't handle - discomfort. If our national lifestyle isn't sustainable, then at some point change will be thrust upon us. Here's hoping we'll rally that independent spirit to face it first on our own terms.
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