by Ruskin Bond
There were no tracks visible on the slopes below us, but I knew that once we had worked across onto the ridge we could stick to it until we reached the remains of the highest Swiss camp. I forced a deep trail across the slope, very conscious of the weakness in my limbs and the extra weight on my back. The ridge itself dropped away in an unhealthy-looking sweep of snow-covered rocks. I knew Evans and Bourdillon had had some unpleasant slips on this part of the ridge and I was determined that we shouldn’t do the same—we mightn’t be so lucky! We made our way slowly down, moving very carefully but steadily. It wasn’t particularly difficult, just rather unpleasant, and we knew we couldn’t afford to slip. Our first objective was the remnant of the Swiss tent about 700 or 800 feet below us. For a long time it never seemed to get any closer, but all of a sudden it grew much larger and there we were, right beside it.
Now we had to branch off to the right to the head of the great snow couloir leading down to the South Col. We crossed slowly over easy snow and rock slopes to the little rock ledge which gave access to the couloir and then we looked down our last problem—the long steep slopes beneath us. With a sudden start I realized there wasn’t a step showing—for some reason I had expected George Lowe’s steps still to be intact. My heart sank! I was deadly tired and had no desire for another bout of step-cutting. I tried the snow with the hope that it would be soft enough to kick steps down it, but it was as hard as a board. It was far too steep to attempt to crampon it in our weak condition. I had no alternative but to start cutting again. I had only chipped down about ten feet into the couloir when I heard a high-pitched roar from the bluffs above us and next moment I was hit by a terrific gust of wind and almost torn from my steps. As I braced myself against the slope with the pick of my ice ax dug into the hard snow as a belay, I was peppered with a barrage of small ice particles dislodged from the battlements above. After a few moments the wind disappeared as quickly as it had come.
I went on cutting step after step and Tenzing moved into the couloir behind me. A few moments later we were once again clinging to the slope, being buffeted unmercifully by a powerful gust. It seemed as though the couloir was acting as a wind tunnel and intensifying the wind to dangerous proportions. I continued hacking a path downward, but when I’d done over 200 feet I’d just about had enough. Tenzing—tired though he was—offered to take a turn and cut down for nearly another hundred feet. Then he moved ten feet out to the right and started kicking steps down a softer layer of snow. Thankfully I moved down behind him and we lost height quickly. I noticed that a small figure had appeared on the icy slopes above the South Col and somehow I knew it was George Lowe. We stopped and had a rest at the crevasse at the foot of the couloir and then moved on again. We knew we were safe now and with the disappearance of our tension the last of our energy went too. But, stiff-legged and weary, we thumped on down automatically.
George’s tall, strong figure was now much closer and the thought struck me that there wasn’t anyone I’d rather tell the news to first. George and I had been through a lot together in the mountains. We’d had a lot of success together and we’d had our tough moments; no one had done more than George to make this final success possible. Already I could see his cheerful grin and next moment his strong vigorous voice was shouting out a greeting. To my tired mind he looked an absolute tower of strength. In rough New Zealand slang I shouted out the good news and next moment we were all talking at once and slapping each other on the back. I could feel a warm glow of contentment creeping over me and for the moment at least quite forgot that I was at 26,000 feet with a fifty-mile-an-hour wind whistling around my ears.
* * *
TO NAMDAPHA AND TAWANG*15
Anil Yadav
My newfound brother Rupah-da turned me over to Nature’s Beckon in front of the Tinsukhia Railway Station. When the Tata 407 minibus finally left—after having waited interminably for flustered passengers arriving from god knows where—fowl stuffed into a wicker basket underneath a seat cackled. There was a sack of potatoes with a hole in it; some popped out and rolled about on the floor. We were eighteen passengers in all, including a ten-year-old, traveling with a group of experts who worked for Nature’s Beckon, an NGO working to build environmental awareness. Our destination: the jungles of Namdapha on the Changlang plateau in Arunachal Pradesh—Namdapha is the highest peak in the region. These jungles, abutting Burma, rise up from swampy wetlands in the plains to snow-covered mountains and span 2,000 square kilometers. There is such geographic diversity that multiple seasons co-exist over contiguous territory. From the jhapi hats, binoculars, packets of crisps, and the keen desire to hear the opinions of strangers on the varieties of forests found in different geographical regions of the world, it was clear everyone had done their homework well.
The young director of Nature’s Beckon, Soumyadeep, tried to lighten the atmosphere with well-timed jokes and tales of travels in the wild but his narration was stolid, and his manner that of a tour guide in a hurry. No tales were told him in reply. A freshly minted young journalist, Pem Thi Gohain, launched an interrogation: What was my salary break-up at the paper I worked for; and who was the editor brilliant enough to send me on this assignment? I distanced myself from him by speaking in English and by shrinking into myself and looking out the window, pretending to be absorbed in the landscape. It was impossible to tell any more lies.
A tire punctured in Digboi. The diver propped the vehicle on a makeshift jack built out of a pile of bricks and stood on the side of the road, thumbing down trucks to borrow a tire iron from. This was going to take a while so I left for a brief walkabout.
Digboi is full of oil wells; its neighborhoods are named after the bends in the roads next to which they stand. Small hills are dotted with bungalows from the British era. Each bungalow once occupied by a single British family is now shared by many households. Digboi is a sleepy town, one where from the looks of things a heavy breakfast is all that is needed to send one back to bed.
We left and soon after the driver stopped in Margherita. While the rest of us ate, he went off to have the puncture repaired. Santwana Bharali, aka Poppy, was our tour coordinator. She had an MSc in botany; her cheeks dimpled prettily when she smiled. One of our co-passengers was a psychology nut. According to him, Poppy had followed the driver to the puncture-repair shop only because she wanted to see the tire tube fill up with air and become tumescent. I concurred. But when she opened her purse and paid the mechanic, I silently chided the influence of Freud on the manner in which I had agreed with his assessment of Poppy. Archana Niyog, another co-passenger, was what you might call a homely girl; she was serving food to her fellow passengers, urging each to eat some more.
The large yellow signboard which marks the beginning of the Stilwell Road flashed past us near the railway crossing in Lido. The road, built during the Second World War at enormous cost in terms of the lives of soldiers and laborers, begins in Jairampur in Arunachal Pradesh, enters Burma, spans Kachin territory, and terminates in the Kunming province of China. One of the longstanding demands in the region is the reopening of the road so that trade may flourish, but our relations with China remain rocky.
Lido is a vast colliery. Coal dust rained upon me from impossibly tall heaps in a black billowing mist. The practice of open-cast mining gives this town a mysterious, suspicious air.
The olive-green of battle fatigues became increasingly more concentrated once we entered Arunachal Pradesh. A state of high alertness has become the norm here after 1962 when China defeated India in war. We were stopped at every checkpoint to be interrogated and for our permits to be examined; it was night by the time we were done. When twilight fell everyone looked up at the sky in complete silence. Perhaps its color reflected our most inward moods. Afterward, everyone dozed.
Red points of light flickered deep within the forests. To avoid the telltale thwack-thwack of ax on tree trunk, a small hole is drilled and a fire set within. The embers smolder for
many days before the tree finally comes crashing down. In many places forests were being burned down to make way for jhum cultivation. Those fires were much more widespread and malignant. Only 2 percent of land in the state is under permanent cultivation, either as small terraced fields or as bigger plots in the lowlands.
The bus entered one of the gates to Namdapha. A shaggy animal bolted across the front of the truck and was spotlit by its headlamps. Eyes opened wide, shoulder joined shoulder in anticipation, and heads came together as everyone peered out the windows. Poppy quacked in a sleep-laden voice: “Porcupine! Porcupine! I know very well that was a porcupine.”
The hedgehog vanished under the bushes on the side of the road. The ten-year-old found his long-awaited opportunity to lay hands upon his father’s binoculars—so what if it was dark? The minibus halted near a waterfall. The air was rank with the odor of swamp deer, of which there must have been a herd nearby. Jain-ul-Abedeen, aka Benu Daku, is an experienced hunter who quit his hereditary profession to become an environmentalist. He said, snorting, “They are foolish animals. Once spooked by torches, they can’t run. Hunters get them easy.”
It was a four-kilometer hike from the waterfall to the rest house. Bags on backs, we trooped into the darkness in single file, our path lighted by torches. The drone of crickets vibrated through the forest. On our left was a deep gorge at the bottom of which rushed the Dihang River. The pauses in between the crump-crump of footsteps were defeaning in their silence. In those moments it was easy to imagine the act of measuring time as a joke which man plays to keep himself deluded. Elephant dung, a deer’s hoofprints, and tire marks became mysteries to be deciphered at leisure. Benu shone his light into the gorge, looking for something. He stopped, then said sotto voce, “There might be a tigress nearby.”
A commotion followed; it crumpled up our single file and brought us into a huddle. The effect of torchlight on tigers was discussed in whispers, with books being quoted and their publishers and prices mentioned. This was a serious moment but something seemed out of joint. I don’t know why a thought occurred to me: “This is a new profession for Benu. He and Soumyadeep are injecting a dose of excitement into these middle-class nature-lovers so their trip becomes memorable.”
As soon as we reached the rest house, the sweat-soaked trekkers called out to their gods and collapsed, using their backpacks as cushions upon which to stretch their strained backs. Bricks were collected, makeshift stoves hurriedly set up, and rice put on to boil. A safe corner for the women to sleep in was scouted. A whistle went off shrilly and at length; everyone gathered round and the experts answered questions on Namdapha in the dim light of a kerosene lantern.
The tiger and three species of leopard inhabit Namdapha: the common leopard, the clouded leopard, and the rare snow leopard. The red panda is also to be found here.
The Namdapha Tiger Reserve was set up because this area is the perfect habitat for felines: it has flowing water, shade, and abundant prey. These make up the ideal environmental cycle.
Some creatures such as the flying squirrel, the white hornbill, and the howler monkey make the reserve their home because of geographical features which are unique to the area.
Chakma refugees from Bangladesh have been rehabilitated in the Gandhi Gram village located inside the forest. They hunt and eat elephants. Hunting has put the elephant population under stress.
Lisu refugees from Burma live in the jungle, too. They are skilled at hunting tigers.
Tiger-bone liquor is much in demand in China. Tiger whiskers are used to manufacture sex toys.
The wide expanse of the jungle is manned by just thirteen employees who can’t even manage to shut all the gates of the reserve. There is no electricity and all the drinking water must be brought from the Noa-Dihing River…
After these stark truths were underlined in many different ways, the dancing flames reflected on the walls took on a new meaning. The deep silence of the forest invaded our tired minds. The whistle went off again, shrill and long; rice and flat-bean curry was served. Later, everyone pitched in to wash the dishes in candlelight. Soon I could hear snores.
It was raining in the morning. Binoculars and cameras jumped out of their carrying cases and kept waiting for a long time. Later, we were ferried across the Noa-Dihing in two batches under a steady drizzle. Bimal Gogoi and Mridul Phukan identified birds and animals from their calls. The deep silence of the forest made itself felt once more. In a crowd, we lose the ability to feel because all of us are trying frantically to communicate something or the other and this takes up all our attention. Yet, walking underneath the dripping forest canopy on the thick carpet of fallen leaves and sodden mulch, I felt regret: this place had everything, but that which I find in a tree standing alone on the side of a road, it couldn’t give me.
Poppy showed us a twig on which grew a layer of what looked like white mold. She said, “Look, there is no pollution here. This lichen is proof.” She picked up a berry from the ground and said in chaste Assamese, “The pahu eats the flesh of this fruit and the porcupine its pit. In this manner they help propagate these seeds all over the forest.”
“This pahu, is it a bird?” She laughed. I understood I had made yet another mistake in wringing meaning from the Assamese language.
“Pahu is not a bird. Pahu is Assamese for ‘deer,’” Archana corrected me.
We had climbed from a height of forty meters to two hundred fifty meters over rocky, uneven terrain. Thin red leeches swarmed up our shoes. They soon crawled into our socks and everyone looked around for salt—the best antidote for leeches—which we had all forgotten to bring. Tikendrajit, from Barpeta, had long been scratching his head. A leech had fastened itself to his scalp and was turgid with blood. I pulled it off.
A tribal, Lat Gam Singpho, was accompanying our party as guide. Using his dao he cut green cane into strips and fashioned himself a hat. When everyone crowded around demanding a hat, he made one for each. A lengthy photo session ensued. The hats which adorned the people’s heads deranged the balance of chemicals within their brains. They capered about spouting gibberish: “He hai hua, chi chai chung!” In those green-cane hats they had found an excuse to express their truest, their innermost reactions to the Singpho’s illiteracy and backwardness. Later, all the men took turns to wield the keen Singpho dao on the surrounding trees.
The sun came out in the afternoon and the forest took on new colors. We heard the cracking of bamboo. A small herd of elephants was crashing through, though we saw them only in our imaginations. A sudden shower drenched us in the evening and we didn’t need the services of a boat to cross the Noa-Dihing on our way back. Many other environmentalists came to us at night and—eating chicken curry and rice—gave us much useful information on crocodiles, hornbills, and elephants. In one later session, people narrated their experiences of the jungle. Someone was terrified by the sight of an elephant brought up close by his binoculars, another slyly transformed anecdote into personal experience. Archana told us the heartrending story of the death of a calving cow and her attachment to the orphaned calf. Soumyadeep often dreamt of wild elephants surrounding him and of a forest goddess who would come to his rescue. Lat Gam Singpho, who now lived in the forest, had once been ward boy in a hospital. He had a remarkable story.
“I can face down a tiger with a dao in hand but ghosts scare me to death. There were some doctors in the hospital who conspired so I would lose my job. They put a new shirt on a corpse and propped it against the wall. A burning cigarette was wedged between its fingers, some loose change was put in its pocket, and a dao slung from a belt at its waist. The corpse was pointed out to me from afar and I was sent to summon it. When he didn’t hear my calls I put a hand on his shoulder and then took off running. That day, for the first time in my life, I drank a boiling cup of tea in one breath.”
This was the first true story I had heard of a tribal wandering about in a jungle of dead souls.
> Amid a marathon of snores, the ten-year-old snuggled up to me and demanded a story. He seemed unhappy and was unable to sleep. I scoured the corners of my memory but found no tale suitable for a young child—all my stories were rated “A.” I first felt a surge of self-pity, then came a glimmer of self-realization: As a child, I would doubt every story I heard. And because I kept neglecting them, kept hating them, they had evaporated. The child said to me, “Let’s go for a stroll outside. Maybe you will remember one.”
Outside the resthouse, a furry creature floated across the milky-white beam cast by the flashlight, followed by another—a pair of flying squirrels were playing catch. An entire team of experts tramping about all day hadn’t been able to spot even one. A thin membrane connects the fore- and hind legs of the rodent on both sides. Using tree branches as a runway, it gathers speed and launches itself. The membrane fills up with air and the squirrel glides from tree to tree.
My work had been made easy. I adorned the boy’s shoulder with the cloak of a forest god, slung a Singpho dao around his waist, and put him on the back of a flying squirrel. Now he could himself describe the mysteries of the jungles to me.
* * *
The first batch of one thousand plastic replicas of hornbill beaks which had arrived from Delhi had been distributed in the Nyishi villages around Namdapha. And Lat Gam Singpho had a question for Bharat Sundaram, project officer with the Asian Elephant Research and Conservation Center, Bangalore: “Will elephants made out of plastic be distributed among the Chakma refugees who live in the west of Namdapha?” The Chakmas hunt elephants with poisoned arrows. It takes them half an hour to bring down an animal but preparation for the hunt lasts many days.
