The boats were fishing boats, tiny skiffs with an elegant shape but with little else. They were hardly more than floating platforms for the fishermen, and would easily be overwhelmed by the smallest wave. Fortunately, here on the silky-smooth Brahmaputra, there were no waves, and therefore no threat to the boats’ occupants. All they had to worry about was catching some fish. That was clearly not easy. Brian had yet to see a fish removed from the water.
It was the same with the people on the shore. Most of these were fishing as well. They were using either large, anchored bamboo and net constructions or smaller hand-held bamboo and net devices (which looked to Brian like food umbrellas with the netting stretched across the bottom rather than over the top). Both worked on the same principle: the dip into the water, wait, hope and lift principle. Or rather they didn’t work. Brian still hadn’t seen a fish removed from the water.
It was a tough life. Tough for the fishermen – and tough for the men on the rafts. There were three of these, three bamboo rafts measuring in Brian’s estimation about thirty metres by maybe fifteen metres. Each had a little shelter at its centre and each had a crew of six men. At any one time three or four of these men would be at an edge of the raft rowing with long oars and their colleagues would be punting with long bamboo poles. It looked desperately hard work, and Brian’s initial thoughts were why on Earth hadn’t these guys built themselves something rather more manageable, something smaller for example, and something a little more Cutty Sark and a little less Kon Tiki. Then it occurred to him; these rafts weren’t the crews’ vessels, they were their stock. They were their stock of bamboo, and they were taking it to market. Sujan confirmed Brian’s conclusion. These chaps had assembled a huge quantity of bamboo, had then bundled it together to make these colossal rafts, and they were now guiding these rafts down to Guhawati where they would be sold and then turned into houses or scaffold.
It was awesome. Sujan explained that the rafts were like icebergs; most of the bamboo was below the surface. What one was seeing was just the top slice. This meant that the rafts could easily get caught on underwater sandbanks, of which the Brahmaputra had an unending supply. So not only were the rafts’ crews faced with an enormous physical effort, but they were also confronted with the threat of running aground. They had to know the river and where the sandbanks were (and where they had moved to), to stand any chance at all of completing their voyage without mishap. And it wasn’t as though they had any respite from these challenges. The river flows constantly. Anything floating on its surface flows with it – constantly. So their physical effort, their rowing and punting to keep the bamboo rafts exactly where they needed to be, was unremitting. Brian even wondered how they ate and did all the other things that took his companions so much time.
It was extraordinary. And it was humbling. Brian wished there were some Londoners here to witness it.
The Sukapha was now approaching its new mooring and Brian was feeling a little subdued. The combination of all those fishless fishermen and those wretched rafters had really got to him. He was in need of a lift. It was therefore fortunate that he and Sandra had stationed themselves at the front of the sundeck, just next to the wheelhouse, when a Gangetic dolphin decided to rise from the water and expose himself in the nicest way possible just yards from the boat. He had risen from the muddy waters face-on to their vessel, and Brian and Sandra were therefore treated to a superb view of his snout, his head, his back and his tail in that traditional order. The view was only a brief one but it was as good as they get, and it provided Brian not only with a lift, but also with a memory that would stay with him forever. It also provided him with a marital dispute. He was sure the dolphin was a “he”. Hadn’t he just been described so? But Sandra was equally sure that “he” was a “she”. Nothing male, she argued, could be that beautiful. Brian, however, decided not to stoop to a full-blown argument over the matter. He had no wish to spoil the moment. Neither, in truth, did Sandra. So a truce was established quickly – through the use of facial gestures. And Brian and Sandra stayed at their post in silence, scanning the waters for another glimpse of the sublime (which never came) and then watching the shore approach as they came in to moor.
Soon, ropes had been buried into pits, the Sukapha was securely anchored, and it was time to prepare for the evening.
This kicked off with the normal bird-listing session which, on this occasion, proved more challenging than normal. After all, there had been two excursions today undertaken by two groups. So there were birds (and animals) seen by one group but not by the other. There was therefore a whiff of competition in the air. And this is possibly what stirred Alan into a lively debate with Tika on the distinction between Indian crows and thick-billed crows and whether there should be any distinction at all. It did drift a little close to the nerdy, but Tika’s professional handling of the matter made the exchange interesting in itself, and moved Brian’s opinion of him up at least two more notches. He thought Alan was good value as well.
What he then thought about dinner was that it was unique. It was the first time in his life that he had sat next to a woman who was married to a real tennis nut. This, it may be recalled, was the gay-only-in-the-sense-of-her-expression Judy, companion of the not-even-gay-in-the-sense-of-her-disposition Rosamunde, and whilst she herself was not a real tennis nut or even a real tennis player, she had very little else to talk about. So Brian got it all: her husband’s involvement, the history of the game, where it is played now, and a host of other truly trivial facts.
Brian was not in the least bit upset. For him it was just another insight into another subject he knew virtually nothing about. And even at the end of the meal, he could see that he had still learnt very little and he knew that what he had learnt he would probably soon forget. That was one of the delights of not knowing things. You could even add to your store of the unknown by discarding in your mind what you’d known in the past. And with Brian this top-up process had always worked a treat, and in his advancing years was now working better than ever.
There were inevitably certain facts concerning real tennis that would stick in his mind for some time. Facts such as the employment in the game of a handicap system, a feature of real tennis that allowed Judy’s husband, who was apparently eighty-four, still to play people half his age and still to win. Then there were its roots: French and Italian monks in the Eleventh Century, who presumably had not got round to installing cold showers. And where it’s played now: England, America, Australia and France. And with our twenty-six courts to America’s ten, Australia’s six, and a paltry three in France, why, thought Brian, haven’t we got this game into the 2012 Olympics? Hell, we could even get the silver behind Australia!
The only other fact that would stick was a half-fact. It was something to do with the French only being able to count up to sixty, because that was the top score in real tennis. (Or so Brian half remembered.) This was why after sixty, the French resort to soixante-dix and then quatre-vingt and quatre-vingt-dix. That is to say they have no proper words for seventy, eighty and ninety. Brian wasn’t convinced about this half-fact. He thought he remembered that there was a word nonante that had meant ninety in the past, but probably not past the Eleventh Century. For all he knew there might be equivalent words for seventy and eighty as well. Such words might undermine the not-above-soixante theory. Or as Judy had presented it, the not-above-soixante fact. However Brian didn’t challenge her. He wasn’t sure of his ground and he didn’t want to offend her. Furthermore Judy’s dissertation on real tennis wasn’t so much important for what it included, whether this was right or whether it was wrong. No, it was important (and welcome) for what it was: another expedition into the unknown, a new experience, an event which may only be encountered by travelling to the wilds of Assam, and which you’re much less likely to be faced with in Marbella or Cancun. ‘Those Londoners just don’t know what they’re missing,’ thought Brian.
8.
Brian had bacon with his eggs. His conscience lac
ked fortitude.
He wasn’t on his own. The rasher and ova diet came under sustained attack on this morning as the banana option was entirely abandoned. Everybody, it seemed, was back in control of their bowels. This was just as well, as the next expedition involved another excursion in those tiny jeeps, vehicles which offered nothing in the way of emergency facilities. Yes, they were all off to the Orang National Park, about which Brian knew very little other than that “Orang” was an anagram of “groan”. He was sure it meant nothing.
The park was on the north bank of the Bramaputra. So was the mooring of the Sukapha. It was no more than a few hundred yards from the park entrance. But despite this apparent convenient proximity, access was not possible along the shore itself, and once again the country boat was brought into service. So after the extravagance of the breakfast it was the stringency of the life-jackets. Brian donned his own and boarded the boat. Within minutes he was out of it again and onto dry land.
Just yards away were the jeeps. It appeared that they had made it from Kaziranga and were now expected to make it around this new national park. Furthermore it was expected that they would carry the same combination of Nature-seekers that they had previously. Sujan announced that everybody should deploy themselves around the jeeps with the same jeep companions they’d had in Kaziranga. This was good news. Jim hadn’t come. He had a sore neck or a guilty conscience or something, and this meant that Brian and Sandra had a jeep to themselves. They would therefore have all the room they might need, and Brian wouldn’t have to worry about offending anybody through a careless remark or a cutting observation. Normally he had to make a conscious effort not to do this, but if there was nobody else there, all he ran the risk of was upsetting Sandra. And he had done that so many times in the past he now hardly noticed it. Even if Sandra still did. So the outlook was good.
They set off and within minutes the outlook was more than good; it was gob-smacking. The jeeps were going to split into two groups, and as before one group would take a clockwise route through the park whilst the over drove anticlockwise. But it was so close to their departure point that they had not yet split up. This meant that everybody enjoyed the gob-smacking outlook – and the sight of something that was truly remarkable.
Now most people would dispute with some vigour that what the Nature-seekers saw here was remarkable in any way, and they would be vehement in their challenge to the use of the term “gob-smacking”. Instead they might just concede that what had come into view was mildly interesting. Or they might grudgingly accept that if you were inclined to the nerdy and you still hadn’t found a life, then maybe, but just maybe, the sighting of a Bengal florican could constitute a noteworthy event. But they would be wrong.
Imran had seen it first, and he’d reacted as though he’d seen a tiger. For a Bengal florican is rarer than a tiger, a bird only very infrequently encountered, and even when encountered, more often glimpsed than seen properly. But this chap was right out in the open, strutting along slowly, and, whilst hardly within touching distance, not that far away. Everybody had a fantastic view of it, and all those with cameras were able to take all the photos of it they could ever want. Even Brian managed a couple.
But what is a Bengal florican and why was it such a coup? Well, a Bengal florican is a species of bustard. Bustards are big birds that spend most of their time on the ground, and that have therefore, in many parts of the world, largely been “cleansed” by an ape species that claims most of this ground for itself. Great bustards, it might be recalled, have recently been re-introduced into England after the ape species there cleansed it completely. So, to start with, the sight of any bustard should bring warmth to the heart. Especially to the heart of any representative of that ape species who is now only too aware of what his kind has “achieved” – of what his kind has been culpable of. But, on top of this, not only is a Bengal florican a rare bird, it is a very rare bird, and it is also a fascinating bird. For it doesn’t just strut, but it “bombs” as well.
Like another bustard, the black korhaan of Southern Africa, a Bengal florican rises into the air and then curls up its body into nothing less than a large football. And as large footballs depend for their aerodynamic credentials on a Wayne Rooney type kick, and as no Wayne Rooney type is normally available, the Bengal florican then falls to the ground – like a football-shaped brick. Now, most people would regard this as remarkable, and it really is. Brian had seen it for himself in Africa. He was not, however, to see it here. Floricans only adopt this bizarre behaviour to attract female floricans, and clearly not only was there no Wayne Rooney type in the vicinity, neither was there a lady florican. Or possibly it was the wrong season, or the guy they were all looking at now had a headache, and all he could contemplate was a slow strut and then maybe a peck of something before he had a kip. But no matter. Although Brian and his companions had not witnessed a “bombing”, they had, nevertheless, just been given an audience by one of the rarest and most extraordinary birds on the subcontinent, and a real audience. This hadn’t been just a fleeting encounter; it had been a protracted reception, and in more prosaic terms, the best view that either Sujan or Imran had ever enjoyed. Apparently if one does see one of these birds, it is not just only a glimpse, but it is normally only a glimpse of their head or maybe their long thick neck as they creep through the grass. But this one was strutting. In full view! So it was gob-smacking and it was truly remarkable. Brian knew this and so did the whole party. And that was all that mattered.
This incident was going to be difficult to top. But that’s not to say that there wasn’t still plenty to see. The jeeps had now split into their two groups and Tika had joined Brian and Sandra in theirs. Brian thought that Tika appeared even more cheerful than his normal cheery self, and immediately ascribed this to the absence of Jim. It wasn’t that Tika was in any way more or less exasperated by Jim than anyone else was, but Tika shared a room with him… There was restricted accommodation aboard the Sukapha; its twenty-three guests were occupying all of its twelve cabins. But Jim was a solo traveller with a cabin to himself, and had obviously come to some arrangement with the tour company to share his room – with Tika. This must have been a trial (for Tika). Brian knew he would never have wanted to change places with him, even on those very rare occasions on this voyage when Sandra had been less than her angelic self, and he could well understand Tika’s reaction to being without his roommate for a while.
His mood even seemed to stimulate his spotting abilities and in no time at all he had started to discover new delights. Many of these were little jobs in trees, difficult to find and difficult to see even when you’ve found them. But Tika made sure that everyone did see them. He would satisfy himself that all the Nature-seekers on each of his three jeeps had clocked that white-rumped shama or that white-tailed stonechat or that hair-crested drongo, or whatever else had been skulking around in the foliage, before he allowed the jeeps to move on. And they just kept on coming, more and more birds – and more and more animals. For Orang had its own share of buffalos, rhinos and elephants as well.
It also had an ominous meteorological outlook.
The morning had started off “sticky” and it was now positively adhesive – as was Brian’s shirt. The humidity of the atmosphere seemed to be approaching the saturated. But now there were sounds as well, the unmistakeable sounds of thunder. Then the sky began to darken, and in the not too distant distance the sky was now black. They were in for a downpour.
The jeeps were not without protection against such events; they had those U-frames and a tarpaulin that could be pulled across them to make the rear of the vehicle rainproof. But even if this transformation from an open-back to a closed-back machine could be achieved in time, which Brian considered unlikely, their safari would become a nonsense. The tarpaulins provided side and back cover from the elements as well as a roof, and that would make any kind of viewing from the vehicle completely impossible. The only birds and animals they would see would be those that were dari
ng enough to seek shelter onboard, and they were unlikely to be many.
The sky was now darker than ever and a deluge was imminent. The tarpaulin had not been deployed, and Brian was now convinced that not only would he soon be sitting in the gloom of a covered vehicle when the tarpaulin was deployed, but that he would also be sitting there in dripping clothes, because the deployment would not have been made soon enough. However he had forgotten something entirely, something called serendipity.
There, in front of them, was a rest house. This was a house in the park where one could obviously stop for a rest, or stop to secure some shelter. It was perfect, and it was perfect timing. Brian and his travelling companions had just exchanged their jeeps for the sanctuary of the rest house, their drivers had just made their vehicles waterproof with their tarpaulins, the other trio of jeeps had just pulled in – with their occupants and their waterproofing dealt with in a similar manner – when the rain arrived. And it didn’t arrive as it arrives in Britain, in drips and drops with occasionally a small gust of wind, but it arrived as it usually arrives in the near-tropics: instantaneously and dramatically.
A wind had blown up from nowhere, the day had become night, and there now appeared to be more water in the atmosphere than there was air. The rain was bucketing down. Indeed, it wasn’t so much rain as an airborne torrent. It was difficult to believe that any cloud, no matter how black and how threatening, could unleash the amount of liquid that the one above them was now doing. It beat down on the roof of their shelter without mercy and with the help of the wind it lashed against its sides. Around the shelter, puddles began to form, then shallow ponds and then streams. The jeeps were now standing in water. It swirled under them and around them. And while all this discharge of water was underway, the Nature-seekers could do nothing but wait – and marvel – and thank whoever it was who had thought to build this shelter in the park. It was just so convenient. And thankfully, so rain-proof…
Brian on the Brahmaputra Page 11
