Lost & Loving It

Kolkata. A slapstick comedy on fast forward. A circus for the senses.

My eyes don't know where to rest.  The input is overwhelming.
It's hot. The air thick and heavy with pollution and an
underlying stench of poverty. Barely dressed rickshaw wallahs,
harnessed like horses, dragging loads through streets that have been
neglected for centuries. Traffic all over the place, at all angles.
An incessant blaring of horns. Vehicles richly painted with gods and omens,
garnished with flowers, oozing arms and legs.
There is an unrelenting wailing of beggars. The urgent chorus of bus
wallahs declaring their destinations.
A thousand curious faces peering into mine.

In the last few hours I've been called Miss, Madam, Sir and Aunty.
Everything from feather dusters to cheap CD players, toys, clothes and
extended hands, palms up have been thrust into my line of vision.
They are curious, skilled bamboozlers but can be extremely charming.
It's immediately more fun than South East Asia, but much harder work.
Carrying my juggling stick I'm constantly asked what it is.
"Something to hit men with". I reply, trying a new tack. It works and I'm
alone again for a millisecond.

At the train station an elderly man spots me, fumbles with his lungi
and before I know it I'm being flashed at.
A huddle of beat up yellow taxis dating back to the 1950's and masses of people
bearing loads on their heads bar my way to the entrance. Clutching my bag closed
I weave through the chaos.

Inside I receive no respite, again I'm stared at, followed and
often approached. Feeling cornered I sit down in the middle of the floor
amongst  piles of battered suitcases and extended families to wait it out.
Two hours to go.

At some point I move and find my platform, weary now and wondering if I
can possibly find a place no-one will disturb me. On the platform
being closely pursued by a few men, a family with children beckons me
to them.

For the next hour or so I'm interrogated by a 10 and 12 year old.
"What's your name"? "Where are you from"? "What's your job"? "What are your
hobbies"? The children are charmingly coy, mirror images of their middle
class parents.

The train arrives and I find my carriage. My reservation is
for a top bunk , a narrow platform suspended by chains, cracked
plastic covering ancient foam. I climb the ladder after throwing my
belongings up, trying not to show too much leg in the process.

The train jolts and slowly moves out of the station. It's about 10pm.
The fans adjacent to my bunk, thick with grimy black dust, speed into
motion, stirring the soupy humid air. The odd wave of stale urine
brings to my attention that I'm a little too close to the toilets,
and I wonder briefly how much the stench will increase during the
next eight hours. The carriage is packed but apart from a few inquisitive
looks, I'm left alone. I lock and chain my rucksack to my bunk, cover
myself with a thin sheet and relax.

Despite the constant chatter surrounding me, I drift in and out of
sleep until the carriage bubbles with unavoidable life at about 6am.
The chai wallahs have arrived. Pacing up and down with huge old fashioned
metal tea pots, tiny hand thrown pottery cups and hurried calls of
"Chai chai! Chai chai!".

The circus of Indian life has begun a new day.

Singing blind men, food merchants, Hare Krishnas and bells,
transvestites in saris, sway, shuffle and dance through my new world
and I'm happy about the top bunk, and that I am able to observe,
being directly pestered by no-one.

The doors to the passing world are flung open next to the toilets,
and welcome fresh air floods through.
I doze again amidst the chaos, and at 8am or so the train grinds to a
halt and announces our arrival in Puri.

Immediately faces appear at the windows. Rickshaw drivers and guest
house scouts toting for business. I climb down onto the platform and
am approached by a neatly dressed and mustached man in his 50's
who asks whether I need a rickshaw.
"Yes" I reply, "Do you know Pink House"?
I've been told by Chico that all the rickshaw wallahs do.
I ask him how much, knowing the going rate is approximately 15-20 Rupees,
about 30 European cents. I'm surprised when he asks for 20, expecting
to be ripped off, and expected to barter I suggest "15"?
He gives me a sideways glance, shrugs and replies, "Why not".

This guy is in no hurry, and slowly weaves me through the crowd, out
of the exit to his chariot. "No crazy driving now", I warn, "I value my life".
He chuckles and we pull onto Puri's dusty streets, passing fruit sellers, beggars,
scabby dogs and cows chewing on plastic refuge.
The ride is pleasantly slow, and after a few minutes I see Pink House
looming ahead. I don't know whether Debu is there, but on arrival I'm
assured he is, but still sleeping.

"Made it", I think, and sit down with my legs propped onto my rucksack,
tired, sweaty and relieved to be in a peaceful place.

A glass of bitter orange juice later, and Debu appears. Tussle
haired and sleepy eyed he gives me an enormous bear hug. It's good to
see him.

After my first Indian breakfast he shows me to my room which overlooks a
huge garden of sand fenced off from the beach proper, where fishermen and
their families go about their business.  The walls are painted turquoise, with beautiful
patches of old pink and wine red showing through where the
salty air has corroded their surface. Two narrow beds with flowery
covers. An ornate hardwood chair. Heavy wooden doors with large old metal bolts.
Debu ushers me inside, flings the shutters open revealing wooden barred glassless windows and
turns on the fan. A refreshing sea breeze blows inland.
 
I like this place.

After a couple of lazy days, I decide to talk to the two German guys
who've been here a day or so. They look like typical specimens, so I
put them to the test.

They are aid workers, having a break from their
Kolkata street kids. Social work students getting experience.
Their plan for the day is to rent mopeds and visit the sun temple, some
twenty-five or so kilometers down the coastal road.

I wait until I'm invited along, eager to explore but wary about riding a moped on
potholed streets full of hustle and bustle. I'm persuaded to try and we set off to
rent the bikes from a wooden shelter and a man with sparkling green eyes.

We pay 150 Rupees each without bartering and are led 'shanty shanty' to
the petrol station, where pink oil is also added to the tank.

Zigzagging through the streets, avoiding potholes, pedestrians and
animals, we are adopted by a middle aged man on a bone shaker bicycle.
On labyrinth pathways he leads us to the main road, grins, shakes our
hands and asks us to drop by on our way back. We state our thanks and
zoom off, all vibration and black smoke.

The road is relatively empty, and in good condition. The landscape opens up
offering palms, calm grassy banked rivers, leading to sandy dunes with the sea
beyond. It's good to be independently mobile. Passing villages, cattle carts,
people on foot, and bikes often supporting three passengers or huge loads,
we are smiled and waved at along the way.

At some point we are flagged down by a man at some road-side building.
Malte being ahead of us stops and hands over 10 Rupees. The money is
apparently a parking fee for the temple which is still a good few kilometers
ahead. It smells of a scam, but Malte is too good natured to argue.

At the temple, built in the 13th Century, we are accosted by stall
sellers with a variety of cheesy brick-a-brack on offer, and men who
claim they are official guides. It's hard to know, but we decide it'll
be more interesting with one. I head for the toilet and on my return
I see that the boys already have a new friend. An informative local
who seems to have a desperate passion for his job though unfortunately a huge
problem with English pronunciation. We give him the contract.

He proceeds to tell us the history of the temple, pointing out erotic
scenes sculptured into the walls centuries ago.      
"Look madam, the dog is licking the woman", he states in a businesslike
manner. "Sir, and here, two womens enjoying together", "and here,
Madam, Sirs, one woman many mens, and here, one man, many womans".
A full circle of the temple later, drenched in sweat and suspecting
sunstroke, we mount our mopeds and rattle back onto the ocean road,
planning a stop on a quiet stretch of shoreline, and a dip in the
wild waves.