Back to being called Mary again. It’s pretty much the only name anyone can comprehend. When the Indians hear “Mary” they seem pleased and sometimes say “nice name, Mary.” I like that response rather than my name being pronounced “mededet”, “methediss”, etc. when I say Meredith or the blank stares from being introduced as Dwan.One week ago I arrived in Puri, an east coast beach destination that has been recommended highly by many Indians I have met in all my travels to India. Finally I was to check out what this place is all about!
Toto, we’re not in Goa anymore.
There was a fair sampling of foreigners but primarily Puri is a vacation spot for Indians.
One guess as to why travelers like myself don’t swarm to Puri may be the beach itself, which is a minefield of human poo. Up and down the beach, interspersed between groups enjoying the sand and sunshine, are individuals squatting and taking a shit.
My guesthouse however is an oasis halfway between turd beach and the main cafe-filled street. My room opened into a beautiful garden. The unusual aspect of this hotel is that there are as many Indian guests as there are foreigners.
On my first day in Puri, even before I had visited the beach, I sat enjoying the garden and watching guests milling about. I walked out towards the litter box for a stroll by the waves and I heard an Indian man from my guesthouse calling after me. It was the smiling friendly one who had also been relaxing in the garden. It seemed strange that he was yelling for me and I warily waited for him to cross the large field to tell me whatever it was he had to say...
“You want to get with me?”
Uh, what??
Motioning toward the guesthouse, “you want to BE WITH ME??”
Nay! Nay milega!! (translates from Hindi as “no! not possible!”)
And so it went in Puri. The Indian men were on horny overdrive and I attribute it partly because of this being a vacation atmosphere.
I was unable to have a nice platonic conversation with any Indian men. Even the motorcycle guy I hired one day to take me on a sightseeing jaunt apparently developed a crush on me and wouldn’t leave me alone afterwards. Lauren, a woman from London who I befriended, was having similar issues. Ultimately, a common theme of conversation developed for Lauren, myself and other backpackers: How could we book a ticket on the soonest train out of town?
Puri wasn’t all bad...I did enjoy my four days there and it gave me a reality check on my sense of security as a solo female traveler in India.
On to Calcutta...damn this city is great.
It reminds me of the lower east side of Manhattan, if you can believe it. There are oodles of sightseeing, lots of concrete trekking around a bustling sophisticated metropolis with large bridges spanning the Hooghy River. Not to mention the massive park in the center of downtown filled with thousands of weekend amateur cricket players.
I’ve spent my days here pounding the pavement and ogling/photographing the sights. Sometimes, if tired from walking, I go underground to ride the Metro, Calcutta’s clean and efficient subway system.
One sight, which was a huge novelty for me, was at the Botanical Gardens. It wasn’t the 200 year old banyan tree or the beautiful bright turquoise birds flitting from tree to tree...it was the multitude of Indian couples being physically affectionate, seated in romantic locations under a tree or by a lake. This is the first time I have ever seen such interaction between Indian men and women. Usually, when it comes to seeing public affection I am seeing groups of men holding hands or lying together. (This behavior, by the way, is not sexual despite how we see it in our Western society.)
India is probably the most romantic country I’ve been in and there are signs of this everywhere in Calcutta. On my walk today, young urban hipster men have shouted “happy Valentine’s day” in passing.
My final sightseeing outing before departing from Calcutta was to the Kali Temple. I unintentionally arrived just in time for the daily morning sacrifice. Before I could process all the mayhem of the swarms of Hindu worshippers, puja flowers tossed in the air and then man rubbing red paint on my forehead I notice a black furry animal...
an arm raised high with a large ornate blade in hand...
Kerchop!
...off with the goat’s head.
Holy Shiva!
Now I am dodging the splattering blood and the man carrying a bloody goat head in his hand. Reeling still from viewing the sacrifice I am whisked away to the Shiva statue. The baksheesh-motivated Indian man who led me there guided me through a puja to Shiva and tied a yellow and red yard around my wrist telling me it is for health, long life and future marriage.
my photos of Puri
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