I'm off to the beach to read a book

The plan is simple: hit the beach and read a book. It is a glorious plan, splendid in its simplicity. What could possibly go wrong?

My feet barely touch the sand when I am accosted by a young man in shorts and a tshirt, who immediately wants to know where I am from and why I am here. These are fast becoming standard questions, to be expected even before a ‘hello’ or ‘how are you’. Answering politely but somewhat warily, I traipse over to where one of the local lifeguards has set up a hoisted tarp to create shade with rental chairs underneath. This lifeguard was to become one of my favourite people on the beach by virtue of his sense of humour and good nature. I plonk myself in one of his chairs, in a beautiful spot close to the shoreline with a wonderful breeze in my hair.

The wonderful lifeguard, in his distinct pointy hat to make him easy to spot

The young man follows me and continues to chat. This is Santos, the first of many friends I make on Puri beach over the course of two days. Santos is 22 and hails from Andhra Pradesh, in the south of India. He makes his livelihood from fishing and moved to Orissa a number of years ago when the fishing in Andhra became so competitive that it was difficult to earn money. He lives here with his mother, four sisters and one brother. His father died eight years ago, and with Santos being the eldest of the children, he is now the man of the house and expected to provide for the family. It is a lot of pressure for a young man to take on, but Santos is rather cool and collected. He tells me about his involvement in rescue efforts during the local floods. His boat incurred 8,000 rupees worth of damage and he is still trying to recoup this from the local government in order that he might continue fishing. Santos doesn't have an easy life; he works hard and he works often. Despite this, he is jovial and good-humoured.


Santos

We chat for about an hour, after which he eventually plucks up the courage to ask if I am married. I had been waiting for this question; of course the answer is YES. The answer is always yes. Soon after, Santos politely makes his escape but returns throughout the day to check on me and make sure no one is hassling me. He is the personification of manners and chivalry and I am relieved to find he is not sleazy in the slightest. In fact, he claims to have a Belgian girlfriend. How cosmopolitan!

As Santos wanders off down the beach, I fish my book out of my bag as a dog plods over and lays down beside me. Bliss. Although Santos was good company, I am now wonderfully alone and can lose myself in the pages of a novel. Right?

Oh so wrong. Over the course of the day I am continuously approached by curious Indians wondering why I am here and more importantly, why I am alone. It is very unusual for a woman to be alone in Orissa; she is almost always accompanied by a man, be it her husband, brother or father. The differing interests and concerns of the women I speak to are fascinating. The older generation appear genuinely concerned for me, asking if I am alright to be sitting alone and wondering where my husband is.

The younger women are riveted by the notion that a woman can travel freely on her own and can sit without fear alone on a beach. They express feelings of jealousy, of amazement, of wonderment. I do make efforts to explain that in my culture it is perfectly normal for a woman to spend time on her own. I also go to great lengths to curtail their jealousy, and attempt to illustrate how lucky they are to live in such a wonderfully hospitable and friendly society. I think I feel guilty for some reason, guilty that I have the freedom to do as I like purely by virtue of where I was born; these women do not know this freedom. Generally, they aren’t interested in my ideas of India, but rather want to know the logistical details of how I manage to stay in hotels alone, how I eat meals alone, how I take a bus alone. This is a world beyond their lives, one of which they are intensely curious.

Rita, from West Bengal. Fascinated that I am alone and somehow surviving

Orissa is notoriously conservative, and women not only keep company at all times, but also stay modest and covered up, even while at the beach. It was a culture shock to see women in full saris and elaborate outfits wading into the sea, throwing themselves into big waves and mucking about on the sand. It was kind of refreshing actually, almost as refreshing as chucking myself in fully dressed (the sand-in-the-pants afterwards made me regret this decision).

Fully clothed women cool down on the shore

The end of each day at the beach finds me exhausted, my energy thoroughly sapped from again and again explaining myself to the locals and repeating reluctant lies about having a husband waiting for me in Bhubaneswar. Despite my fatigue, the days at the beach were wonderful and the stories I shared with each person I met were enjoyable.

Babuli, letting the side down by being interminably sleazy

Two local kids who collected shells and sold them to beachgoers

As for the book, I managed to read about ten pages in two days at the beach. It was far easier to enjoy the novel over a quiet beer in my hotel room in the evening.

I killed a chicken this week

Well, not directly, but I ordered its death. Actually, my interpreter did. I'm like the Pol Pot in this equation; not murdering anyone myself but sending the orders down the ranks to do it. I am the distanced dictator, the mafia bigwig, the subcontracting corporation.

There is no option of buying meat in a supermarket here, so I did as the locals do and took myself to market. I located the chicken man, who boasts a cage full of mangy-looking chickens, and asked to buy one. No problem. Standing behind the dirty wooden counter, he swatted away a hoard of flies and reached into the cage, grabbing an unfortunate chicken by the throat. A machete appeared as if from nowhere and the chicken’s head was deftly removed in one fowl swoop (sorry). There was then the most peculiar and protracted awkwardness while we both stood and waited for the chicken to die. I stood there, morbidly mesmerized, as the headless chicken wriggled and writhed around on the counter in front of us, its feathers gradually staining crimson with blood. The feet-hacking came next, and the chicken was expertly removed from its skin in one aggressive motion, like pulling a sticky wet glove off a too-big hand. The guts were pulled out from the inside of the bird in a torrent of slimy, viscous, liquidy awfulness. At this point the chicken man looked at me and laughed. He must have seen the look on my face. I forced myself to watch the whole thing; I figured it was only fair if I was going to eat the chicken to see the process that goes into making it ready for consumption.


The scrawny little fella sitting forlornly on my kitchen counter

I have been a meat-eater almost all my life (save for a few unsuccessful and short-lived stints with vegetarianism in my hippie days) and I love eating meat. But I had never before seen a live animal turned into ‘meat’ in front of me. I felt slightly ill heading back to my apartment, more so when I realized the chicken I now carried in a plastic bag was STILL WARM. A world away from the cold hard chickens in the fridges of Dunnes Stores.

I cooked the chicken at home in a combination of butter and apologies; ‘sorry little fella, it’s nothing personal, sure your Da would be proud’. I was hungry enough to be excited about the prospect of eating meat after a month of lentils and rice. Unfortunately, between the poor quality of the meat and the resurrecting queasiness in my stomach, I couldn't eat it. The meat itself was very stringy and chewy and my instinct was to feel awfully guilty for causing poultry murder and then not even eating the meat. I wondered was the chicken actually better off this way, rather than going slowly mad and bald in that packed cage. I can’t answer that question.


Not looking so great before going into the oven

This is not a preachy tale. The lesson learned is not that eating meat is bad or that chickens shouldn’t be used as food. The lesson is that if you are living in a small town in a poor country then don’t expect good quality meat from the local chicken man. While it is good to know where your meat comes from, it is not necessarily a good idea to get a front row seat. I will be henceforth vegetarian when cooking at home during my time here. Luckily I love dahl and vegetables and am getting quite good at making the local flatbreads. When the meat cravings hit (and they will), I will take myself to one of the fancy hotels in the town and satisfy my meat lust there, keeping a large and safe distance between me and the slaughterhouse.