Before finishing our journey, the taxi driver took me to a nearby tribal village. Just driving up the tiny dirt road to the village, I could tell it was going to be a poor village. Homes were small and simple, many made from mud brick and thatched roofs. Many of the villagers were not quite sure what to make of me; I suspect that many (particularly the kids) had not had much if any contact with white people. I didn’t feel comfortable in taking photos of the village itself and I could tell many of the villagers weren’t the type who would want their photos taken either. A few were willing though. I wished that they would have looked more “tribal,” but I couldn’t ask them to dress into something that wasn’t part of who they were. Alas, I wouldn’t see the colorful tribal people so famous in other parts of Orissa. As I walked past a rather high wall, one woman poked her head out and gestured for me to take her photo. A rather wild-looking woman who appeared to have cataracts joined her, both eager to see their photos. I did get some smiles and giggles, some curious onlookers, and those who excitedly showed off their photos to others. That in itself is worth it.
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