Puri, the eighty-seventh day

Every day brings a change in the game with Sven. The coincidences multiply, a little romantic charm combined with a touch of erotic and we are going forward without much hope of retreat. One believes that he plays when he is the toy, not of the other but with each other, of the situation, even if we already know it in advance, we are assigned to roles which we are unable to depart from.

Sven is very blond, hairy skin with rosy cheeks, born May 11th and has that false air of fragility that had attracted me with Damien. Being attracted to him is just the continuation of the impossible, the certainty of failure, but also being faithful to its past, remain equal to oneself, the illusion of not aging. I kissed the lips of Sven as in my dream and he said that was enough. It was indeed and the full moon with opiate delirium was perfect.

Puri, the eighty-sixth day

The night was again very agitated, not because of inner activity as the night before but because of the outside hustle and bustle. It appears that three nights around the full moon are devoted to singing and dancing in the village of fishermen. A sail, three vertical neon lights and two powerful speakers make up the scene where two transvestites and a half-dozen musicians dancers occur. My first tribal drag show. The two "singers women" dressed in saris and wearing a very "tribal" make up had still an extraordinary energy at half past six in the morning, for the sunrise, which was naturally suspicious. I followed a little ten years old boy ("you are my friend!") in the hut of his parents as I was invited for tea. We would like to give fifty francs which would be enough to build the house of their dreams with outbuildings but we don’t. Something is blocking us, perhaps this assisted attitude that often poor Indians have considering natural any charity.
On the way to the beach we met the two transvestites in the village. They were both standing, having abandoned the saris for hardly more masculine outfits and were talking with the fishermen. Talking with them was difficult because their rudimentary English. The very green eyed could not speak a word, so the other one joined us on the beach under the pretext of giving us cucumbers with salt. We then learned that they came from a village thirty kilometers away, they often danced in the region for weddings and made us the proof of the dance of the cobra. I was so fascinated by the primitive side of the situation, a man in a small Indian village where the status of women is so bad and who would identify with them, and extraordinarily, fit.
The rest of the time I watched the little game of Chris, one from the Australian group, and Lita. As they were the only ones not to be a couple, everything seemed to push against each other but because they are way too "cool" to introduce a sensual dimension to their friendship, there is this kind of game that evokes the contemplation of happiness. We twirl on the beach offering our "Lungis" to the wind in the way to dry them. We fall on each other, laughing, our heads swathed in Indian fabrics. We go arm in arm in small puddles left by the backwash. I offered certainly a comparable spectacle with my behavior to Sven who spent the farewell party of the Australians with us on the terrace. Watching the waves with him and hearing further on the hits of George Michael back on the guitar by Lita and Chris was quite wonderful. Lost in time...

Puri, the eighty-fifth day

I made ​​lots of dreams with Sven. We were in our hotel in Puri and we played video games on my TV I just sold. Then we went on the roof to admire the extraordinary sunrise at four in the morning (he normally rises at six) and then we went on a pyramid of wooden playpen when I walked on his hand but he did not withdraw it.

I kissed his lips too during the absence of his friend. I am dying to find an opportunity to tell him about. As he stays in a room close to mine it seemed easy, but courage failed me for a statement that could only be ridiculous in the end. To be sure not annoying any people, it is better to wait until they come to us, not to waste our potential for people who wouldn’t appreciate. Could Sven enjoy it? I would like to be told that one dreamt of me!

Puri, the eighty-fourth day

Organizing the rest of the trip, thinking about leaving. Trying to take advantage of other ideas, without giving them the impression of following them. This January is the less organized month since the beginning of my journey. Is it already lassitude?

Why going to another beach, what's new in these other temples? I guess only their visit can determine their distinctiveness or similarity.

I improve my friendships in Puri, I will wait the full moon with Fabian, a Swiss German, I’ll take tea with Andrej, a Pole of San Francisco and stay on the beach with Sven, a Norwegian of Copenhagen.

Puri, the eighty-third day

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.