WAW??? N,IMR. WTf@#&AW??????? - THE MADNESS CONTINUES

Alice: Oh, no, no. I was just wondering if you could help me find my way.
Cheshire Cat: Well that depends on where you want to get to.
Alice: Oh, it really doesn't matter, as long as...
Cheshire Cat: Then it really doesn't matter which way you go.
- Alice in Dragoland

PLEASE READ THE PREVIOUS POST FOR DAYS 1-6:-)

• Day 7 - Orissa State. Annie turns 49. Plans to arise early and bathe in river leading to falls nixed by all except for possibly wild animals. Much shock upon discovering that malevolent tree from previous night is mere yards from campsite. Weigh too much, so all trudge behind Raz like refugees as she chugs up steep hill to road. Us wondering if Adam wishes he could keep on going without us. Auntie wondering which of the boys will receive full benefit of his roaming hands today when they're not otherwise occupied with cooking gourmet meals which make use of EVERY single pot, pan and utensil on board. Which makes for nasty, greasy, pissed-off cleaning up after every lunch & dinner. Stop at local market, buy lovely silver ankle bracelets for myself (equivalent of 50 cents), 2 scarves to add to my rakish head-dress collection and 12 green bday bangles for Annie (equivalent of 10 cents). Go to village where we dance with the locals. It is awesome. Steve is man with moves. More videos to be posted on YouTube shortly. Bad roads. More luscious scenery. Ridiculous amounts of waving, grinning at locals in the fields & villages, most of whom act like they've never before seen a white person. Best is when small children point, gape, laugh and clap hands to their faces or when stern, beautiful women break into huge perfect smiles. Stop at Jeypore to buy dinner supplies. Half-hour estimate turns to two hours for those of us waiting inside the truck. Temperature inside truck approximates that of Swedish sauna. Make runs for more rum and American-style Sour Cream & Onion potato chips. Take turns holding nose at HP Service Station toilet. Take turns slamming door in faces of locals who want to get on with us. Ignore requests for rupees, pens, chocolate, shampoo, soap, beer. Ruminate on weirdness of last few days, whether or not India is a black hole and if we're better for it or just bigger assholes. Discuss how much we hate hearing people we know at home complaining about mortgages and jobs and redoing bathrooms. Secretly wish we were at home with them. Sweat. A Lot. Still feel weird. Cook group finally returns with three live chickens. Name them after three dead rock stars: Jim, Jimi & Janice. Js shit, cackle and finally just lay there sad & subdued in the truck's stairwell, where they must be repositioned at each pee stop. Hideous roads and long lunch break lead to bush camp set-up after dark. Strange area beside a river and sacrificial altar which turns out to be just a rain shelter. Beers are busted out, knives are sharpened, water is poured for the Js. Discover that Bubbly is a Muslim butcher by trade. Who knew? Js' throats are slit amongst much photo taking, then skinned/eviscerated in record time. Bubbly gulps down all but one kidney with glee. Adam gags one down with pain. All smear ourselves with Js' blood, dance round campfire howling at moon. No, not really. All drink a lot and scarf down delicacies like banana & apple fritters with rum sauce, the Js and numerous other dishes that you can't believe are being prepared in the middle of nowhere on a gas ring. Sound, sound sleep. Up at 6AM for big ol' bush dump before rest of camp awakes.
• Day 8 - Orissa State. Up early again. Head to famous tribal market. Horrified to see pristine van full of gringos just ahead of us. Their driver puts out a stool for them to step on while getting out. We mock them. We laugh about the imagined AC, on-board toilet, cocktail bar, wet wipes. They step out. Take bets about their nationality. Decide they are not tacky enough to be American, so are likely German or English. They are clean. They wear fresh, pressed clothes. These clothes are actual color-coordinated outfits and not random tops/bottoms pulled from deep inside a duffel bag. The men wear socks and belts. Their hair is glistening. Their fingernails are clean and smooth. They do not wear stretched out tee shirts with various Indianesque logos. They are not sweat, dirt or food-stained. They do not have holes in their pants. They are wearing neither headscarves nor massive amounts of Indian jewelry. They carry humongous tote bags over their shoulders vs. backpacks and striped Indian bags slung across their chests. They charge forward and prices automatically leap 1000%+. We overhear them talking derisively about "the Overlanders." Realize that they're talking about us. Do not care. Lots of driving, stop for a (second) beautiful lunch. It is served on a table in the middle of a shallow river. People are cranky with a capital "C." Those who don't do chores still don't do them. Those who complain still do so. Those who have irritating personality traits and phobias still display them. Auntie cooks so much food that there are leftover pots full with no proper lids. One of these pots contains mustard brown/yellow dahl (i.e., lentil soup), the lid is precariously secured with surgical tape and it is placed atop one of the tables between Steve & Nic. This is an accident waiting to happen. And it does. Raz crests a massive bump. Passengers bounce up & off their seats. So does the dahl. There are slo-mo yells and slo-mo hand thrusts, then slo-mo spiraling of lid off pot as its contents gush up and out. Over the seat. Over Steve. Over Steve's shorts. Over Steve's shirt. The front of the truck carries on as if nothing has happened. The back of the truck does not. For it is disgusting. Kingfisher Strongs and the remainder of the flower alcohol are soon necessary for those in the back. We become loud & raucous & demand many pee breaks. I go to sleep/pass out. We arrive at the Panthanivas Tapatapani Guest House quite late. We eat in a cold, desolate restaurant. We are exhausted and there are many heads resting on the table. Many of us are revisiting the dreaded wall. Many of us have become encased in this wall and wonder if we'll ever break free. We retire. That's not all some of us do. Auntie is sharing a bed with one of the drivers. Who awakes to the sounds & bed shaking motions of Auntie jerking off. Not just once. Twice. Driver vows not to eat Auntie's cooking again. Auntie Love Scale decreases a few notches.
• Day 9 - Orissa State. I get up at 5:45 AM so I can take a freezing shower before my other three roomies awake. I look in the mirror. Something looks back at me. It is my right eye. Three-quarters of its white is blood red. It is freakish. I start to quietly sob. I take a frigid shower. I look in the mirror. The eye is still there. I cry a little louder and make Annie (a nurse) take a look. She tells me not to worry because it's just a popped blood vessel. Because nothing is as it should be, I feel totally normal for the first time since Chennai. My head no longer hurts. My face no longer hurts. Only the eye is crazy. It's like the choice game come to life. It's a good thing I've been with these people so long or they would run from me screaming. We get on the truck, as we do. We take a nice boat ride on a lake. It's all good. We have a nice lunch, which the driver does ultimately eat despite Auntie's nighttime antics. It's still good. We get back on the truck. We drive. And drive. We take a "shortcut" to Puri over horrific roads and arrive after dark. But not late. Hotel Holiday House is AWESOME! It's on the beach! I have my own room! There are showers! We can buy supplies! We can give them our laundry! We meet for dinner and go to Wildgrass. The food ROCKS! We're drinking rum! We're happy for the first time in days! We may have left the mad vortex once and for all! Alas, it is not to be. I inadvertently say something to one of the drivers that pisses him off but royally. He makes a rude comment, bolts up, slams his chair back and storms out of the restaurant. It is tense, silent and awful. No one knows what to do or say. I start making the weird faces you make when you're trying not to cry in public. I am not successful. I too bolt up and race out of the restaurant. To the dirt patch in the back beside the kitchen. Where I sob & wail & make a general idiot of myself. Go back into the restaurant and do not acknowledge that I've been gone. Everyone is polite enough to ignore the whole thing and keep eating/carrying on as if nothing has happened. We may have left the vortex, but the vortex has not left us.
• Day 10 - Puri. Awake with sadness, devil eye and numerous bedbug bites. Erg. But it does get better. More on that to come.