I walk along the beach and all sorts of exotic things seem familiar to me. The tide bring back on the shore huge dead turtles, they dry in the sun in various states of decomposition. One of them had only the shell and the skull.
Seen in profile, eye cavities join and you could "see" through. An animated landscape, the one of the beach, behind the empty eye sockets, gives them a sort of life. One looks at a skeleton and it seems that it feels your look and answers from hereafter. The shell of the same turtles is the most frequently used basket of the fishermen's wives. They back their "Lungis" on the hips in a sort of "bloomers" and wear the little "jacket" which supplements the normal sari.
A cloth twisted and coiled like a rope on top of the head serves as a base for the turtle shell in which they carry tunas, sharks or swordfishes without a single oscillation of the head but with a swaying, worthy of belly dancers. A horizontal waving of the arms accompanies that "tribal dance" of everyday life. Some children only dressed of chains with charms around the ankles and the hips, waiting in prow of a boat, fitting a small red satin bow in the hair, ready for fishing.
The firewood thieves hiding in the dunes to avoid being controlled by the local police. A topless old woman drags herself miserably on the hands and buttocks, demanding water to children passing by.
Westerners inspired by the waves ponder endlessly a few yoga exercises. The richness of the visual landscape is endless, I try to remember the images that impress me and capture an atmosphere more accurate than a picture where children would rush stuck in a toothless smile, only motivated by the rupee expected after such a performance.
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