5 am and my casio chrome alarm is chirping. No snooze today. We have pushed further on into the rural landscape of india, in search of tribal markets: “A deeper, darker india”. I shuffle over to the shower in my green flip flops and turn on the hot water. Nothing. This will be the 4th day in a row with a cold shower served up from a small lime green plastic mini me hand bucket, in the middle of my bathroom, in a dusty hotel in the eastern most state of india, Orissa.
I clamber down to breakfast and the hotel is already a buzz. Eggs are sizzling, toast is burning and the germans have gotten a head start. They are already leaving breakfast as foto loco and I wolf down our breakfast! As we leave, the Italians show up. The only people in the country of india who order pasta for breakfast. obsurd!
As I climb the stairs back to my room to gather all of our equipment I can hear the French tourists showering, smoking and whatever else the French do, behind closed doors in this state of Orissa.
And we our off! Our Indian made SUV is packed up and we are wheeling out into the sleepy town, Rayagada. Foto loco is chirpring instructions and questions to our guide about what the tribes will be like today. he is instructed NOT to photograph to young boys of the tribe, bc they carry bows and arrows to market, and are not scared of the police. whoa.
i take my place in the back of the car, head propped up on my arms, looking out the window with the wind adding a stylishly dusty do to my hair. happy as a dog.
Basically, everyone who is staying at the hotel is going to the same tribal market and foto loco wants to be there first! A few kilometers out of town, the german’s car comes into view when suddenly foto loco spies a sunrise landscape worth taking, even though it puts in jeopardy of not arriving at the market first. as I am setting up the tripod a surprise addition to the race, rumbles past us, sending up a cloud of dust. Our guide mutters “ah crap, the American lady!” foto loco gets his shot off, right as the bus of Italians rolls past, the sounds of “GOLA” disappear in the landscape as they round the bend.
“fuck”
We jump back in the Indian SUV, tripod sticking out of the window like a 12’ 2x4, as we begin our mad max style chase down. Soon we overtake the Italian bus. Our V.VIP driver emits a chuckle as he out maneuvers the Italians through a herd of cattle and goats on the road swerving back into our lane in time to avoid the oncoming 3 ton “public carrier” with its blasting horns and flashing brights. Foto loco turns to our guide and, strangely, they embrace. I stick my head out the window and yell, “whose got the goal now, beeeyotches!”
We quickly gain on the germans because they are so fat, their car sags on every turn and bottoms out on every bump. In a matter of seconds we have moved into the 2nd position, but with no American lady in site.
Tragedy strikes! Foto loco sees another landscape. The guide bites his nails, the driver revs the engine. We see the germans approaching from a far off bend and we pile back into the car and take off, gravel spitting from under our tires.
As we approach the market it appears we will not be first, but our guide tells us not to worry, bc the guide for the American lady “sucks”, and wont take her the right spot. We roll up to the market, only to happen upon a bakers dozen of Italian tourists speckling the road. Our guide guffaws. He turns to david and says “I will make it up to you”. He quickly drops some instructions in hindi to our V.VIP driver and we are off, on a side country road up the mountain that looms behind the market.
About 3k up the mountain, V.VIP stops the car and we get out and our guide says “now we wait”. Sure enough, within a few minutes tribal peoples appear on the road above us, some having walked 15 to 20k with loads on their heads, to make it to market. I literally thought we were in Africa. I mean, I knew we drove far, but that far? These were serious and real deal tribes. No two bit Panamanian dog and pony show.
We progress down the road, walking with the tribals, making jokes, taking pictures. Foto loco is pleased. We round the last corner before market, and the mass onslaught of zoom lenses and moo-moos poorly camouflaging boulder size rear ends, come into view. A look of chagrin overtakes all of their faces when they catch sight of us. The sounds of rupees draining out of their guide’s tips, like warm rain on an Indian shanty’s tin roof.
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