Puri, Orissa, 10th March 2011
Back in the heat, and it’s getting hotter (37 by the weekend, according to WD’s forecast) and humid again.
We took a 25 hour train from Delhi to Bhuvaneshwar (state capital of Orissa) Tues through to Weds pm, and awoke in another country, recognisable as India but different again, not Tamil Nadu, nor Kerala, or any of our other reference points. We travelled through the flatlands of dusty UP, Bihar, Jharkhand, witnessing under-populated (relative to the rest of India) dry farmland with trees in brilliant flaming blossom, open-cast coal-mining and steel works (Tatanagar looked particularly attractive), drawing closer to the East with more Areca palms and rice paddies as well as armed soldier patrols up and down the carriages (there is an on-going and long-standing insurgency between the Maoist Naxalites and the state here, only occasionally reported outside India).
We had struck lucky with the rajdhani. WD thought he was booking an express train – the WPs refused to spend more than one night on the train, while the Wolflings had pleaded to take the train (not the plane) – but it wasn’t just a super-fast, AC-throughout, reasonably new train (i.e. cockroaches only, no big fat mice) but even in 3rd class, you were catered for on an excessive scale and got bedding. We’d brought our own jam sandwiches and oranges, thinking we might subsist on those and platform food, but instead were brought regular trays of snacks, bottles of mineral water, thermoses to make our own tea, veg or non-veg meals... Apparently this is standard fare on the rajdhanis which serve the Delhi-state capital routes, where stops are quicker and less frequent than on standard trains and platform hawkers and beggars forbidden from entering the train. W thoroughly enjoyed the cheese sandwiches, mango fruity and chocolate eclairs (he seemed to end up with all the toffees, I wonder how?) so Indian Railways appears to meet his exacting needs better than his own parents. Everyone slept well, after an exhausted fashion, even WM sharing her middle bunk with the Wolf-boy himself whose sticky body-heat on this occasion was less enticing than in the cold winter night of a Rajasthani train journey.
We were sharing our berths with 2 middle-aged Indian ladies, both travelling alone. One was very friendly, had lived in London for 4 years whilst she had a scholarship to the Slade, and was now working as a sculptor between Orissa and Delhi (where she was also caring for her sick dad). She enthusiastically showed WD pictures of temples she’d recently visited in Western Orissa. The other was less forthcoming (though the children were fascinated by her thinning hennaed hair, pink mobile and a shiny carrier bag from the Ministry of Fashion ‘connecting stylish people’ – of which L was hyper-critical!) She ran into problems with the officious conductor, who berated her for not having photo-ID (she only had a photocopy) which you’re supposed to have if you’ve bought an e-ticket (even we knew this), and threatened a ‘double fine’ (twice the fare for the full journey – she was only going half way, so four times the price of her ticket). The entire carriage joined in the argument (so much shouting, stabbing bits of paper with fingers, phoning a friend for advice and general drama) taking the woman’s side so there was a general sense of camaraderie against officialdom which culminated in the arrival of the Superintendent. We really got the sense that everyone was really getting off on the confrontation in the absence of better entertainment. The Superintendent carried with him a quiet air of authority (3 gold stripes on his jacket and a substantial pot-belly also conveying his seniority), calmed everyone down and we suspect that he let her off ultimately, without anyone losing face. Whether or not, some baksheesh quietly changed hands, I have no idea.
The longer we are here, the more we are aware of just the extent of petty and vast corruptions here, and how it affects life. Everyone has a tale to tell – whether it is the ‘smoothing’ of resident’s permits or export licenses, the horror of finding out that you are in tax arrears when your accountant had been paying bribes rather than your actual tax bill for years, or the huge difference (thousands of rupees) between the cost of a public administration building a house for slum regeneration and the actual cost of the materials and labour; the tales of foreign engineers in despair at the state of major infra-structure projects where all the money has disappeared leaving nothing for the health and safety of workers, or politicians buying the votes of illiterate peasants by feeding them well the day before an election, to the ongoing media saga of the ‘2G scandal’ (which I don’t understand, but seems to boil down to the crores of rupees lost to corruption in the state sell-off of telecom licenses...) Whilst we haven’t had to deal with official corruption here to date, the culture of demands for money for no obvious benefit to the ‘customer’ (again, largely an alien concept here) permeates everything – money demanded by toilet attendants to use their filthy, untended toilets; multiple road blocks and ‘development taxes’ of a few rupees by villages on the way to a tourist attraction; auto-drivers who purposely take you to the wrong place (folk arts emporia, rather than a direct from producers craft-village) to get commission from anything you buy.
M: I liked the train journey because of the bedding, you got 2 sheets, blankets and pillows, everything you could possibly need. I read an awful lot. I read Doomwyte (another Brian Jacques) and started Halo. Reading is so much fun at the moment because it passes the time. I did 3 sheets of maths with mum. And I slept. The food was really weird. Lunch and supper were 3 courses – we had tomato soup and breadsticks, second course was dal and rice and paneer or chicken curry and roti, and pudding was ice-cream. The time passed really easily – I’d read and sleep and stare out of the window.
L: It was long on the night train. We mostly played but I did do 4 maths sheets. It wasn’t so cold but it was A/C. I better go because I am about to fall asleep.
WM: The Wolfcubs should receive the top commendation possible (Most Excellent World Travellers, Order of the Bath?), taking the long journey happily in their stride. Only the Wolfparents could be heard to say (quietly), ‘Are we nearly there yet?’ and ‘I’m bored!’
We spent one functional night in Bhuvaneshwar, staying at the state-run tourist hotel. As ever, this seems to translate into a run-down state of affairs and general indifference to guests, if not overt hostility: I worried what was going to happen when WD asked for a fifth pillow for the fourth time mid-India versus the Netherlands cricket world cup match...
WD, what’s on your mind?
WD: Supper and beer.
11th March 2011, early next morning, listening to the crows....
Crows and carrion are ever-present here in Puri. Sitting on the roof top yesterday evening, it felt like we were staring in a Hitchcock remake as they sat round the surrounding wall, watching us intently and perhaps not too kindly as they mourned the loss of their friend who’d earlier been decapitated by the weather vane...The crow’s remains were then thrown over the back wall to be fought over by the packs of mangy feral dogs (and their innumerable puppies) that live in the rubbish piles between here and the beach. So lots more animal behaviour to observe, beyond that of the Wolfpack itself...
WD: Where were we? Ahh, yes, Bhuvaneshvar yesterday. I left the others sleeping awaiting their complimentary ‘bed-tea’ and went out to see some temples. Orissan temples are quite distinctive and huge, and the region makes a good counterpart to my Tamil interests: temples are both active religious sites and archaeological monuments, the sculpture’s great and there’s a rich local tradition of folk art and handicrafts. There are huge numbers of stone temples built between the 7th and 13th centuries in Bhuvaneshvar alone, so I’m only planning to see a few representative examples. Two seen, back on Saturday for more.
Rather than staying in the big city we took a taxi to the coast at Puri, stopping off at two places on the way. One was a big white Buddhist stupa built by a Japanese group in the 1970s up on top of a hill, looking out across the flat green countryside. It was strangely busy with domestic visitors, including some from Gujarat who were charmed by the children (we met the same family who yelled ‘Aunty! Aunty!’ at WM across Puri beach a few days later, and embraced us all as long-lost relatives). The sugarcane juicers were busy and you could buy all sorts of useful plastic toys at the site, but what the attraction was eluded us.
Down at the bottom of the hill is a small park with the archaeological reason for this peace stupa’s location: one of the very earliest inscriptions of the 3rd century BC king Ashoka and a small sculpted elephant. The inscription describes Ashoka’s reputed change of heart from aggressive conqueror to peaceful patron of Buddhism, and the Japanese stupa was erected to commemorate this and oppose nuclear proliferation, so the sign said (India take note).
The other site we stopped at was the village of Hirapur, a beautiful, quiet place with
narrow thatched streets and people playing cards in the shade by a large lily pond surrounded by palm trees. On the edge of the village is an unusual temple, a small stone circular structure open to the sky. Inside the walls were lined with stone images of the 64 yoginis, all independent goddesses standing on their identifying animal vehicle: a tortoise, bull, buffalo, scorpion. At the rear, opposite the entrance was the most important goddess, covered in red silk cloth, daubed with red powder and with flowers scattered before her: Mahamaya, ‘the Great Maya’. Our one liked that. It is quite a strange and wonderful place, so unlike other big temples. The male priests made it quite clear that no animal sacrifices were performed in or outside the temple any longer, but I can quite imagine that is a recent development. Tantric practices celebrating the power of the goddess alone and sometimes involving taboo-defying rituals (blood sacrifice, eating with the left hand, and more exciting x-rated things) have been prevalent in eastern India (Orissa, Bengal, Assam). We can reconvene with goddesses who like goats in Calcutta next week.
WM: I’m a bit concerned that our children have been over-exposed to religion recently, as W and L have spent yesterday and this morning inventing their own world religion (to be known as Nemunoer). Maybe this is healthy as they have twigged how dubious the basis of many (all?) religious belief systems are, or the start of a new cult? Could it catch on, do you think? I’ll let L explain:
L: The religion is practically about health, safety and wealth of noses. You go and pray to Nemu (the god of noses) in his temple (which is a paper stand up). You don’t have to pay for blessings. W is making him a fort as he’s quite a warrior and a good fighter too. He sends a fire-ball if he sees an army approaching which kills the lot of them. But he doesn’t fight very much. Did you mention he’s half a clothes-peg? W you could draw his throne here? Do you want to do that? I think he needs a pilgrimage souvenir shop. What else does Nemu need? (WM: Definitely no tantric practices)
WD: Puri is one of the great pan-Indian pilgrimage sites, up there with Varanasi and Rameshvaram. There’s a big long beach with the town spread out along the seafront. I came here twenty years ago and managed by accident to be here during the annual rathyatra or chariot-festival when huge wheeled vehicles, covered with brightly coloured cloth hangings, carrying the gods are dragged through the wide streets. It was a lively time to be here. One of the other reasons I remember enjoying coming here was to stay in the Z Hotel. It’s a foreign travellers’ haunt in an old building (a Maharaja’s beach house from the 1920s) with high ceilings, polished floors and a huge table on a terrace around which everyone congregates in the evening. It’s set in a walled courtyard and from the roof you can see the sea and look out over town. So here we are back again and it is just as pleasant as I remember. The average age of those staying has increased (it’s not just us) as has, I suspect, the PhD count. It’s a calm, soporific place that I know it will be hard to leave on Monday – let alone getting out of the door to see local things of interest.
WM: Yes, I think we’ll revolt and refuse to go to Kolkata. The WolfGang are waking up gently this morning – last night there was a noisy Krishna devotion over the road – so we’re all lounging around, naked or wrapped in sarongs, not quite ready to get up or take control of the day... Maybe it’s just the languid heat, the large simple, white rooms with just a fan, mosquito-netted beds and a desk, the sea air or the eclectic company, but we (the Wolfgang) like this place. M likes the big spacious room and loves sleeping under a mosquito net. W is very happy as there’s 4 year old Daniel from Tunbridge Wells to play with – oh the pleasure of some full-on biffing and boy play! He’s equally happy as he’s here on a 3 month trip with his parents (mum’s a textile designer who works mainly with Rajasthani handicraft producers) and is fed up with his baby sister.
W: We’re playing Lego with a boy called Daniel. It’s a very cool game – I’ve got 2 ladies – about us making a hotel with a roof-top terrace. Yesterday we went up on the rooftop with him and chased big fat crows.
WM: W and Daniel are now onto playing armies – they are wrapping themselves and Max up in loo roll to make armour and helmets, sticking felt-tips in their sashes (for swords), and have removed the cardboard inner tubes of the loo rolls for telescopes. Oh the pleasures of having other small children around...
The WolfPs like the high-brow ‘dinner party’ atmosphere here, where all the guests tend to eat together and chat around the one long table: there’s an elderly couple from Paris, one of whom translates between English, French and Hindi and who are particularly interested in Post-Colonial Indian Literature; an Australian academic couple (who work in Kyoto in Japan) who are en-route to a conference on Gender and Conflict; there’s a beautiful German girl travelling solo around India for the first time, recounting her time in an ashram in Kerala and letting WD plan the next leg of her journey and WM sort out her diarrhoeal medication [she had been prescribed a PPI, a prokinetic, loperamide, an antibiotic plus anti-protozoal agent, ORS, pro-biotics and a mucolytic by a local doctor – excessive possibly?]; an old, pony-tailed, raison-skinned American hippy who has been coming here for ever (in the 60s and 70s, Puri was on the trail for the availability of legal bhang and opium, here intended for Shiva worship, although his interest may well have been different); a pregnant German architect doing her PhD fieldwork on slums and urbanisation, writing her notes over breakfast and a large group of bossy, middle-aged American women who tell me my children are ‘darling’ but haven’t yet got down to finding out what their agenda is (spiritual, charitable, church-related?).... So, lots of white folks with opinions on India, and ironically the best escapism from the place since we’ve been here.
It’s good to be somewhere completely new (for me, not WD) - but I recognise our weariness. It’s hard sometimes to keep interested and open to new stuff, rather than reading a book or chatting to fellow travellers. We’re all (with the notable exception of L) a little below physical peak performance. W has a horrid, fruity cough post-cold, and although he’s not febrile, I’ve started some precautionary antibiotics as there were a few crackles when I listened in. So he’ll probably still have a cough but diarrhoea as well in the coming days. I now have his original cold – a cold in the hot really makes no sense...M has had her first diarrhoea since her amoebic dysentery at the start of the trip, and is anxious understandably (but not terribly unwell), so is back on the dioralyte. I’m also having to keep her away from the rolling news coverage of the Japanese earthquake and tsunami - she’s definitely reached the next Piagetian stage of ‘moral’ development (thinking back to distant undergraduate developmental psychology) – and needs answers as to ‘why?’ and dealing with the injustice of an uncertain universe is exhausting parental work. WD has had a RTA – don’t fret, only a minor prang whilst he was riding a bike down the road to see the local temples, with another bike (he gave the useless lady rider one of his best glares - she obviously hadn’t done her Cyclist Proficiency Test) – nothing broken, but a stonking bruise developing. He hasn’t shaved for a while, so looks deliciously seedy.
Only L remains at full capacity. She went off to visit a Craft Village with WD this afternoon wearing her comedy sun-glasses, ready to do business buying nick-nacks. She came back with a little painted God house. And she remains prolific: this morning, she has written a history of the Mughals for her Travel Guide and is now making a fantasy map of dragons’ lairs and trolls’ houses (I’ve just started reading them ‘the Hobbit’, which may explain this new development).
13th March 2011, still in Puri but packed to leave first thing tomorrow.
Happy Birthday Juliet, and Helen for tomorrow.
We’ve mostly had a delightfully idle time here over the last few days (except for WD who zipped back for more of Bhubaneshwar yesterday) with lots more playing , going down to the beach and sitting around the big dining room table...People have nervously been watching news or checking the internet for updates of the situation in Japan. I can’t decide if you feel somehow beyond news travelling or a better world citizen, but have been trying to explain nuclear power and plate tectonics to the children. Apart from this, everyone (in the Wolfgang) is feeling perkier and seems fitter. Daniel’s dad had some monkey trouble earlier today and has started his rabies jabs and more Crow deaths are the other dramas at Hotel Z.
Puri beach has provided good amusement: watching low key cricket matches and trying to explain the basics to a Spanish woman who’s been travelling in tribal areas in Orissa, tracking the chai-wallah on his bike as he rides along the sand, watching the ridiculous camel (so-called for its tassels and plastic flowers, he looks horribly self-conscious, carrying Indian tourists up and down the beach) and small masseurs contort large men into strange positions, the children building the Himalayas...
I made it out of Puri today as we all went off with WD on a local bus to Konark, known for a monumental temple to the Sun God, Surya, and its erotic sculpture. It’s been really hot and sweaty today and the ride on the local bus was as squashed and bumpy as you might expect. WD got asked lots of meta-physical questions (such as, ‘But what is your share of God’s Creation?’) by one intense gentleman, which took some deflecting and L and W both fell asleep on the way home, both threatening to slump out of a window or onto the floor which took a different kind of deflection.
The site was heaving with Indian domestic tourists, mostly from Calcutta for the weekend. M failed to notice the rude bits (phew) which are interspersed between elephants, rampant lions, nagarajas, dancers and drummers. We all got a bit irritated in the heat by the constant demand for ‘one photo’ with people grabbing us and trying to physically arrange us as exotic additions to their family groups, and having no regard for the children’s resistance.
My highlight were the little toads living in the jug of the public toilet block...
So the bags are packed again and we’re off to Calcutta on a train at the crack of dawn. It’s sad to be leaving Puri but we need to keep going as there’s colonial architecture, academic contacts, tantric temples and appointments with L’s friend, Miss Cow, to keep. We’ll be in Cambodia in 9 days which marks the end of WD’s ‘real’ work in India and the start of the ‘holiday’ phase! I think that this is a bit of an arbitrary distinction, given we’re likely to be seeing some more temples (just a few) in Angkor, and since our flighty lotus-eating existence over the last 4 months could be construed (by some) as one long holiday....Hmmm. But there’s Holi (a colourful, drunken festival involving the throwing of paint and coloured water) and the Super-Moon (largest moon in 20 years) to look forward to next week, as well as Calcutta.
Back in the heat, and it’s getting hotter (37 by the weekend, according to WD’s forecast) and humid again.
We took a 25 hour train from Delhi to Bhuvaneshwar (state capital of Orissa) Tues through to Weds pm, and awoke in another country, recognisable as India but different again, not Tamil Nadu, nor Kerala, or any of our other reference points. We travelled through the flatlands of dusty UP, Bihar, Jharkhand, witnessing under-populated (relative to the rest of India) dry farmland with trees in brilliant flaming blossom, open-cast coal-mining and steel works (Tatanagar looked particularly attractive), drawing closer to the East with more Areca palms and rice paddies as well as armed soldier patrols up and down the carriages (there is an on-going and long-standing insurgency between the Maoist Naxalites and the state here, only occasionally reported outside India).
We had struck lucky with the rajdhani. WD thought he was booking an express train – the WPs refused to spend more than one night on the train, while the Wolflings had pleaded to take the train (not the plane) – but it wasn’t just a super-fast, AC-throughout, reasonably new train (i.e. cockroaches only, no big fat mice) but even in 3rd class, you were catered for on an excessive scale and got bedding. We’d brought our own jam sandwiches and oranges, thinking we might subsist on those and platform food, but instead were brought regular trays of snacks, bottles of mineral water, thermoses to make our own tea, veg or non-veg meals... Apparently this is standard fare on the rajdhanis which serve the Delhi-state capital routes, where stops are quicker and less frequent than on standard trains and platform hawkers and beggars forbidden from entering the train. W thoroughly enjoyed the cheese sandwiches, mango fruity and chocolate eclairs (he seemed to end up with all the toffees, I wonder how?) so Indian Railways appears to meet his exacting needs better than his own parents. Everyone slept well, after an exhausted fashion, even WM sharing her middle bunk with the Wolf-boy himself whose sticky body-heat on this occasion was less enticing than in the cold winter night of a Rajasthani train journey.
We were sharing our berths with 2 middle-aged Indian ladies, both travelling alone. One was very friendly, had lived in London for 4 years whilst she had a scholarship to the Slade, and was now working as a sculptor between Orissa and Delhi (where she was also caring for her sick dad). She enthusiastically showed WD pictures of temples she’d recently visited in Western Orissa. The other was less forthcoming (though the children were fascinated by her thinning hennaed hair, pink mobile and a shiny carrier bag from the Ministry of Fashion ‘connecting stylish people’ – of which L was hyper-critical!) She ran into problems with the officious conductor, who berated her for not having photo-ID (she only had a photocopy) which you’re supposed to have if you’ve bought an e-ticket (even we knew this), and threatened a ‘double fine’ (twice the fare for the full journey – she was only going half way, so four times the price of her ticket). The entire carriage joined in the argument (so much shouting, stabbing bits of paper with fingers, phoning a friend for advice and general drama) taking the woman’s side so there was a general sense of camaraderie against officialdom which culminated in the arrival of the Superintendent. We really got the sense that everyone was really getting off on the confrontation in the absence of better entertainment. The Superintendent carried with him a quiet air of authority (3 gold stripes on his jacket and a substantial pot-belly also conveying his seniority), calmed everyone down and we suspect that he let her off ultimately, without anyone losing face. Whether or not, some baksheesh quietly changed hands, I have no idea.
The longer we are here, the more we are aware of just the extent of petty and vast corruptions here, and how it affects life. Everyone has a tale to tell – whether it is the ‘smoothing’ of resident’s permits or export licenses, the horror of finding out that you are in tax arrears when your accountant had been paying bribes rather than your actual tax bill for years, or the huge difference (thousands of rupees) between the cost of a public administration building a house for slum regeneration and the actual cost of the materials and labour; the tales of foreign engineers in despair at the state of major infra-structure projects where all the money has disappeared leaving nothing for the health and safety of workers, or politicians buying the votes of illiterate peasants by feeding them well the day before an election, to the ongoing media saga of the ‘2G scandal’ (which I don’t understand, but seems to boil down to the crores of rupees lost to corruption in the state sell-off of telecom licenses...) Whilst we haven’t had to deal with official corruption here to date, the culture of demands for money for no obvious benefit to the ‘customer’ (again, largely an alien concept here) permeates everything – money demanded by toilet attendants to use their filthy, untended toilets; multiple road blocks and ‘development taxes’ of a few rupees by villages on the way to a tourist attraction; auto-drivers who purposely take you to the wrong place (folk arts emporia, rather than a direct from producers craft-village) to get commission from anything you buy.
M: I liked the train journey because of the bedding, you got 2 sheets, blankets and pillows, everything you could possibly need. I read an awful lot. I read Doomwyte (another Brian Jacques) and started Halo. Reading is so much fun at the moment because it passes the time. I did 3 sheets of maths with mum. And I slept. The food was really weird. Lunch and supper were 3 courses – we had tomato soup and breadsticks, second course was dal and rice and paneer or chicken curry and roti, and pudding was ice-cream. The time passed really easily – I’d read and sleep and stare out of the window.
L: It was long on the night train. We mostly played but I did do 4 maths sheets. It wasn’t so cold but it was A/C. I better go because I am about to fall asleep.
WM: The Wolfcubs should receive the top commendation possible (Most Excellent World Travellers, Order of the Bath?), taking the long journey happily in their stride. Only the Wolfparents could be heard to say (quietly), ‘Are we nearly there yet?’ and ‘I’m bored!’
We spent one functional night in Bhuvaneshwar, staying at the state-run tourist hotel. As ever, this seems to translate into a run-down state of affairs and general indifference to guests, if not overt hostility: I worried what was going to happen when WD asked for a fifth pillow for the fourth time mid-India versus the Netherlands cricket world cup match...
WD, what’s on your mind?
WD: Supper and beer.
11th March 2011, early next morning, listening to the crows....
Crows and carrion are ever-present here in Puri. Sitting on the roof top yesterday evening, it felt like we were staring in a Hitchcock remake as they sat round the surrounding wall, watching us intently and perhaps not too kindly as they mourned the loss of their friend who’d earlier been decapitated by the weather vane...The crow’s remains were then thrown over the back wall to be fought over by the packs of mangy feral dogs (and their innumerable puppies) that live in the rubbish piles between here and the beach. So lots more animal behaviour to observe, beyond that of the Wolfpack itself...
WD: Where were we? Ahh, yes, Bhuvaneshvar yesterday. I left the others sleeping awaiting their complimentary ‘bed-tea’ and went out to see some temples. Orissan temples are quite distinctive and huge, and the region makes a good counterpart to my Tamil interests: temples are both active religious sites and archaeological monuments, the sculpture’s great and there’s a rich local tradition of folk art and handicrafts. There are huge numbers of stone temples built between the 7th and 13th centuries in Bhuvaneshvar alone, so I’m only planning to see a few representative examples. Two seen, back on Saturday for more.
Rather than staying in the big city we took a taxi to the coast at Puri, stopping off at two places on the way. One was a big white Buddhist stupa built by a Japanese group in the 1970s up on top of a hill, looking out across the flat green countryside. It was strangely busy with domestic visitors, including some from Gujarat who were charmed by the children (we met the same family who yelled ‘Aunty! Aunty!’ at WM across Puri beach a few days later, and embraced us all as long-lost relatives). The sugarcane juicers were busy and you could buy all sorts of useful plastic toys at the site, but what the attraction was eluded us.
Down at the bottom of the hill is a small park with the archaeological reason for this peace stupa’s location: one of the very earliest inscriptions of the 3rd century BC king Ashoka and a small sculpted elephant. The inscription describes Ashoka’s reputed change of heart from aggressive conqueror to peaceful patron of Buddhism, and the Japanese stupa was erected to commemorate this and oppose nuclear proliferation, so the sign said (India take note).
The other site we stopped at was the village of Hirapur, a beautiful, quiet place with
narrow thatched streets and people playing cards in the shade by a large lily pond surrounded by palm trees. On the edge of the village is an unusual temple, a small stone circular structure open to the sky. Inside the walls were lined with stone images of the 64 yoginis, all independent goddesses standing on their identifying animal vehicle: a tortoise, bull, buffalo, scorpion. At the rear, opposite the entrance was the most important goddess, covered in red silk cloth, daubed with red powder and with flowers scattered before her: Mahamaya, ‘the Great Maya’. Our one liked that. It is quite a strange and wonderful place, so unlike other big temples. The male priests made it quite clear that no animal sacrifices were performed in or outside the temple any longer, but I can quite imagine that is a recent development. Tantric practices celebrating the power of the goddess alone and sometimes involving taboo-defying rituals (blood sacrifice, eating with the left hand, and more exciting x-rated things) have been prevalent in eastern India (Orissa, Bengal, Assam). We can reconvene with goddesses who like goats in Calcutta next week.
WM: I’m a bit concerned that our children have been over-exposed to religion recently, as W and L have spent yesterday and this morning inventing their own world religion (to be known as Nemunoer). Maybe this is healthy as they have twigged how dubious the basis of many (all?) religious belief systems are, or the start of a new cult? Could it catch on, do you think? I’ll let L explain:
L: The religion is practically about health, safety and wealth of noses. You go and pray to Nemu (the god of noses) in his temple (which is a paper stand up). You don’t have to pay for blessings. W is making him a fort as he’s quite a warrior and a good fighter too. He sends a fire-ball if he sees an army approaching which kills the lot of them. But he doesn’t fight very much. Did you mention he’s half a clothes-peg? W you could draw his throne here? Do you want to do that? I think he needs a pilgrimage souvenir shop. What else does Nemu need? (WM: Definitely no tantric practices)
WD: Puri is one of the great pan-Indian pilgrimage sites, up there with Varanasi and Rameshvaram. There’s a big long beach with the town spread out along the seafront. I came here twenty years ago and managed by accident to be here during the annual rathyatra or chariot-festival when huge wheeled vehicles, covered with brightly coloured cloth hangings, carrying the gods are dragged through the wide streets. It was a lively time to be here. One of the other reasons I remember enjoying coming here was to stay in the Z Hotel. It’s a foreign travellers’ haunt in an old building (a Maharaja’s beach house from the 1920s) with high ceilings, polished floors and a huge table on a terrace around which everyone congregates in the evening. It’s set in a walled courtyard and from the roof you can see the sea and look out over town. So here we are back again and it is just as pleasant as I remember. The average age of those staying has increased (it’s not just us) as has, I suspect, the PhD count. It’s a calm, soporific place that I know it will be hard to leave on Monday – let alone getting out of the door to see local things of interest.
WM: Yes, I think we’ll revolt and refuse to go to Kolkata. The WolfGang are waking up gently this morning – last night there was a noisy Krishna devotion over the road – so we’re all lounging around, naked or wrapped in sarongs, not quite ready to get up or take control of the day... Maybe it’s just the languid heat, the large simple, white rooms with just a fan, mosquito-netted beds and a desk, the sea air or the eclectic company, but we (the Wolfgang) like this place. M likes the big spacious room and loves sleeping under a mosquito net. W is very happy as there’s 4 year old Daniel from Tunbridge Wells to play with – oh the pleasure of some full-on biffing and boy play! He’s equally happy as he’s here on a 3 month trip with his parents (mum’s a textile designer who works mainly with Rajasthani handicraft producers) and is fed up with his baby sister.
W: We’re playing Lego with a boy called Daniel. It’s a very cool game – I’ve got 2 ladies – about us making a hotel with a roof-top terrace. Yesterday we went up on the rooftop with him and chased big fat crows.
WM: W and Daniel are now onto playing armies – they are wrapping themselves and Max up in loo roll to make armour and helmets, sticking felt-tips in their sashes (for swords), and have removed the cardboard inner tubes of the loo rolls for telescopes. Oh the pleasures of having other small children around...
The WolfPs like the high-brow ‘dinner party’ atmosphere here, where all the guests tend to eat together and chat around the one long table: there’s an elderly couple from Paris, one of whom translates between English, French and Hindi and who are particularly interested in Post-Colonial Indian Literature; an Australian academic couple (who work in Kyoto in Japan) who are en-route to a conference on Gender and Conflict; there’s a beautiful German girl travelling solo around India for the first time, recounting her time in an ashram in Kerala and letting WD plan the next leg of her journey and WM sort out her diarrhoeal medication [she had been prescribed a PPI, a prokinetic, loperamide, an antibiotic plus anti-protozoal agent, ORS, pro-biotics and a mucolytic by a local doctor – excessive possibly?]; an old, pony-tailed, raison-skinned American hippy who has been coming here for ever (in the 60s and 70s, Puri was on the trail for the availability of legal bhang and opium, here intended for Shiva worship, although his interest may well have been different); a pregnant German architect doing her PhD fieldwork on slums and urbanisation, writing her notes over breakfast and a large group of bossy, middle-aged American women who tell me my children are ‘darling’ but haven’t yet got down to finding out what their agenda is (spiritual, charitable, church-related?).... So, lots of white folks with opinions on India, and ironically the best escapism from the place since we’ve been here.
It’s good to be somewhere completely new (for me, not WD) - but I recognise our weariness. It’s hard sometimes to keep interested and open to new stuff, rather than reading a book or chatting to fellow travellers. We’re all (with the notable exception of L) a little below physical peak performance. W has a horrid, fruity cough post-cold, and although he’s not febrile, I’ve started some precautionary antibiotics as there were a few crackles when I listened in. So he’ll probably still have a cough but diarrhoea as well in the coming days. I now have his original cold – a cold in the hot really makes no sense...M has had her first diarrhoea since her amoebic dysentery at the start of the trip, and is anxious understandably (but not terribly unwell), so is back on the dioralyte. I’m also having to keep her away from the rolling news coverage of the Japanese earthquake and tsunami - she’s definitely reached the next Piagetian stage of ‘moral’ development (thinking back to distant undergraduate developmental psychology) – and needs answers as to ‘why?’ and dealing with the injustice of an uncertain universe is exhausting parental work. WD has had a RTA – don’t fret, only a minor prang whilst he was riding a bike down the road to see the local temples, with another bike (he gave the useless lady rider one of his best glares - she obviously hadn’t done her Cyclist Proficiency Test) – nothing broken, but a stonking bruise developing. He hasn’t shaved for a while, so looks deliciously seedy.
Only L remains at full capacity. She went off to visit a Craft Village with WD this afternoon wearing her comedy sun-glasses, ready to do business buying nick-nacks. She came back with a little painted God house. And she remains prolific: this morning, she has written a history of the Mughals for her Travel Guide and is now making a fantasy map of dragons’ lairs and trolls’ houses (I’ve just started reading them ‘the Hobbit’, which may explain this new development).
13th March 2011, still in Puri but packed to leave first thing tomorrow.
Happy Birthday Juliet, and Helen for tomorrow.
We’ve mostly had a delightfully idle time here over the last few days (except for WD who zipped back for more of Bhubaneshwar yesterday) with lots more playing , going down to the beach and sitting around the big dining room table...People have nervously been watching news or checking the internet for updates of the situation in Japan. I can’t decide if you feel somehow beyond news travelling or a better world citizen, but have been trying to explain nuclear power and plate tectonics to the children. Apart from this, everyone (in the Wolfgang) is feeling perkier and seems fitter. Daniel’s dad had some monkey trouble earlier today and has started his rabies jabs and more Crow deaths are the other dramas at Hotel Z.
Puri beach has provided good amusement: watching low key cricket matches and trying to explain the basics to a Spanish woman who’s been travelling in tribal areas in Orissa, tracking the chai-wallah on his bike as he rides along the sand, watching the ridiculous camel (so-called for its tassels and plastic flowers, he looks horribly self-conscious, carrying Indian tourists up and down the beach) and small masseurs contort large men into strange positions, the children building the Himalayas... 
The site was heaving with Indian domestic tourists, mostly from Calcutta for the weekend. M failed to notice the rude bits (phew) which are interspersed between elephants, rampant lions, nagarajas, dancers and drummers. We all got a bit irritated in the heat by the constant demand for ‘one photo’ with people grabbing us and trying to physically arrange us as exotic additions to their family groups, and having no regard for the children’s resistance.
My highlight were the little toads living in the jug of the public toilet block...
So the bags are packed again and we’re off to Calcutta on a train at the crack of dawn. It’s sad to be leaving Puri but we need to keep going as there’s colonial architecture, academic contacts, tantric temples and appointments with L’s friend, Miss Cow, to keep. We’ll be in Cambodia in 9 days which marks the end of WD’s ‘real’ work in India and the start of the ‘holiday’ phase! I think that this is a bit of an arbitrary distinction, given we’re likely to be seeing some more temples (just a few) in Angkor, and since our flighty lotus-eating existence over the last 4 months could be construed (by some) as one long holiday....Hmmm. But there’s Holi (a colourful, drunken festival involving the throwing of paint and coloured water) and the Super-Moon (largest moon in 20 years) to look forward to next week, as well as Calcutta.
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