Brian on the Brahmaputra

by David Fletcher

  But now Sandra had announced it was time to go. He was awoken from his reverie and was now required to apply himself to the duties of a Nature-seeker once again. For now they were off to make their last excursion from the Sukapha, their last Brahmaputra outing: a visit to another temple.

  It began with a walk over the nondescript bank (with no life-jackets) to the waiting pair of minibuses. This is when it became apparent that the nondescript bank was in fact part of a freight terminal. Just beyond the minibuses was a newish looking warehouse, an even newer looking wharf, and a sign announcing that together these two constructions constituted Guhawati’s latest publicly owned freight terminal.

  It also became apparent that the only users of this terminal were the bathing party, which was now much smaller, and a troop of children, which having been alerted to the presence of aliens, was now much bigger. There were no boats anywhere and no workers anywhere. There were not even any workers on a rail track to the warehouse, a rail track that currently had no rails and very little in the way of track, and that Brian suspected might remain in that state indefinitely.

  There were, however, some guards. The minibuses were now approaching a pair of enormous gates at the exit to the inert freight terminal, and opening them for their passage were a couple of uniformed security guards. They seemed not to care that, despite the grandeur of their gates, the freight terminal was not in the least bit secure, and that anybody who wanted a wash and any child who wanted to stare at visiting Brits could quite happily enter the terminal’s grounds through its entirely permeable perimeter wherever and whenever he or she chose. But at least they wouldn’t enter through the gates. That wasn’t allowed!

  Brian’s minibus was now through the gates and into the metropolis of Guhawati. He turned to Sandra and imparted some advice.

  ‘Keep a look out for the hillocks,’ he said. ‘They rise above the smog.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The hillocks. You remember. The green hillocks that rise curiously above the noisy smog…’

  Sandra looked bemused.

  ‘You can’t have noisy smog,’ she observed. ‘That’s ridiculous. You might as well talk about a smelly anthem.’

  ‘A smelly anthem?’

  ‘Yes. If a band plays an anthem next to a sewerage works, it doesn’t make it a smelly anthem, in the same way that noisy traffic in a smoggy city doesn’t make it a noisy smog. Get it?’

  Brian did get it. He smiled.

  ‘You’re right. I must write to “Lonely Planet”. As soon as I get back.’

  ‘You might ask them where the hillocks are while you’re at it. All I can see is shops.’

  Sandra was right. They were in the middle of an infinite market, an unbroken huddle of tiny booths and shabby emporia through which there was a linear space just large enough to allow their bus to pass. On quieter days this space might just qualify as a road, but today it was no more than a passage through the chaos of a bustling bazaar, and the Nature-seekers’ progress was slow to the point of being almost sedate.

  Brian didn’t mind this in the least. If they hit anything at their current speed he would not be killed.

  This happy state of affairs eventually came to an end. The minibus was now on a discernibly main road. There was traffic everywhere and the traffic was travelling at speed – wherever the road or that new dimension allowed. Brian was in the middle of the bus on its right hand side. This gave him a very good view of the three nearly-dead-pedestrian incidents when on three separate occasions a local inhabitant of this town had rushed across the road from the right to test the effective operation of the new dimension by not being crushed beneath the wheels of the bus when he quite clearly should have been. The last guy, in particular, who was rushing towards the front of Brian’s carriage with an empty wheelbarrow, proved without an iota of doubt that all was in order on the new dimension front and that no matter how inevitable a collision might appear, today in Guhawati, it would not happen. Brian, however, was not completely reassured and was more than a little relieved when his minibus pulled into the side of the road. They were stationary. It was his favourite in-bus situation.

  They were not, however, at their destination. They were parked by a high wall in which there was a pair of huge gates, and in front of the gates were some guards. Brian wondered whether rather than visiting a temple, it had been decided that instead they should embark on a guard-crawl. There being no pubs in Guhawati, but clearly a surfeit of guarded gates, maybe Sujan had made this switch in plans. But no. It wasn’t the guards they had stopped to observe, it was the foxes.

  Ron had expressed his disappointment at not having seen any Indian flying foxes on the trip so far. Accordingly, the minibuses had made a small detour on their way to the temple to take in a flying fox roost – which was obviously just as dependable as an adjutant stork rubbish dump. They were always here – at this time of day. Ron was suitably delighted, as were the rest of the party. There were hundreds of foxes hanging in the tops of a dozen or so trees, looking like giant brown cocoons beneath the feathery foliage. Brian wondered how they coped with the noisy smog.

  Back onto the bus and on to the temple.

  ‘Look,’ said Sandra. ‘A hillock.’

  ‘Yes, and there’s another one there,’ added Brian. ‘And look at this one here. That’s not a hillock; that’s a fully grown hill.’

  It was also where they were going. Sujan had told them that the temple was on a high point in the city, and this was it. The minibuses had now turned off the main thoroughfare and were heading up a narrow winding road that presumably took them all the way to the temple. At least Brian hoped it did. He had no wish to climb any part of this urban mini-mountain, and certainly not in what was now turning into a fiercely hot day.

  He looked out of the bus’s window. He now had a remarkable view of Guhawati below. Not all of it, but enough to see where the “Lonely Planet” author had found his words. There it was: a messy sprawl bathed in smog with hillocks in it. None of which was quite as high as the hillock they were on themselves. Or quite as congested at its summit. For they had now arrived, not at the temple proper, but at the temple car park with its temple guards. Or maybe they were regular police. Brian hadn’t yet sorted out the various uniforms. But whoever they were, they were valiantly trying to bring a degree of order to the chaos of the temple approach and its teeming droves of visitors. They were having only limited success.

  The minibuses stopped and disgorged their cargo of Nature-seekers. It was now as hot as hell and there was still some way to go to the temple. Uphill and on foot. Brian began to think of the sundeck of the Sukapha and a dishonourably early beer.

  ‘Put your hat on,’ commanded Sandra.

  Brian scowled. He hated wearing hats, and especially sunhats. He only ever did so if the sun’s intensity made it unavoidable – and he was in a “field” situation where his companions had been made to look as ridiculous as himself. But this was urban India where there were lots of urban Indians to observe his appearance, and so a hat was out of the question.

  ‘I’ll be OK,’ he responded. ‘It can’t be that far.’

  ‘Well, it’s up to you. But don’t complain later.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  And so the official warning had been delivered and the official acknowledgement made. The walk to the temple could now commence.

  It began with a stroll past a number of open-fronted shops selling trinkets and offerings for the temple. It then continued past more shops selling trinkets and offerings and ended in a narrow, gently rising alley running through yet more shops selling trinkets and offerings. Brian thought it must be like this at Lourdes, albeit Lourdes was probably not quite so colourful but probably a great deal tidier. The alley, for example, was a blaze of colour at eye level, but above this level it was the usual mix of faded paint, unfinished concrete, corrugated iron and a tangle of wires. The alley was also heaving with people, all of whom, save for the Nature-seekers, would have looked v
ery out of place at Lourdes. They were all very obviously Indian. Even in this “gateway city” to Assam (at one of its “interesting temples”) there were no other Europeans. ‘Maybe,’ thought Brian, ‘they’ve all read that “Lonely Planet” advice and “moved swiftly on”’.

  But for whatever reason, the Nature-seekers were very much the out of the ordinary species here, as was evidenced by the reaction of many of the Indians. Some stared at them, some smiled at them, and some even took their photos… Brian could scarcely believe it. Wasn’t it the role of the Nature-seekers to take pictures of them? But then it occurred to him. This reaction was in no way different to what they’d already experienced in rural Assam. However, there the locals didn’t have quite the confidence (or the equipment) to turn their gaze on the gazers as was happening now. But why shouldn’t they, he thought? After all, it was their city and their temple. And it was also good fun – for all concerned. Brian couldn’t remember the last time a stranger had pointed a camera at him. And he quickly realised it was delightful. Indeed, it was so delightful it almost took his mind off the incline of the alley and the stifling heat.

  Almost, but not quite. So when he arrived at the shoe repository at the top of the alley he was more aware than ever of the ambient temperature and his body’s inability to deal with it. He was now glowing, and as he struggled to remove his shoes in the crush of visitors, the glow was running down his face and streaming down his back. He again thought of an early beer on the sundeck.

  The temple itself was… well, temple-ish. It had domes on its roof, carvings on its side and lots of flags around it. It also had some temple-goats, some temple-pigeons, a few ex-temple-pigeons and lots of temple pilgrims. They were everywhere and so was the sound of their exhausted and overheated children. It was all a bit chaotic. Which may have been the reason for the cage.

  On one side of the temple was a caged corridor. In this elongated cage were more pilgrims, but quiet, passive pilgrims, who were queuing up to enter the temple and visit its inner sanctum. Sujan informed Brian that the queuing time was five hours – unless you paid a premium to the temple authorities, when you were then given the business-class treatment and a fast-track admission. But that was not the norm. For most, it was this five hour wait – in a cage with no facilities and in the awful heat. ‘How,’ thought Brian, ‘can so many people be so religious – or so desperate?’ He just couldn’t understand.

  Needless to say, none of the Nature-seekers joined this queue and therefore none of them saw the inside of the temple. Few of them appeared to want to, with the notable exception of Pam and Julian, for whom this display of caged dedication was clearly nothing less than an enthralling manifestation of real Indian culture.

  Brian was just happy to get his shoes back. Given how many items of footwear had been stacked in the shoe repository, he was relieved as well. There were hundreds and hundreds and they all seemed to end up back on the feet of their owners, which either said something about order in chaos or the karmic consequences of walking away from a temple in somebody else’s shoes, or possibly both. Putting his back on proved more difficult than taking them off. Such was the density of the throng that he couldn’t sit down to do it, and by the time he’d grappled with the task standing up he was well and truly dripping and interested only in getting back to the Sukapha and its air-conditioned cabins. And maybe a beer.

  But he would have to wait. First they had to make it back to the minibuses. Then the minibuses had to extract themselves from the mêlée of other traffic around the temple approach… and then the minibuses drove not down the hillock, but around it – to a “point de vue”. Quite understandably, Sujan had taken the opportunity to give the Nature-seekers a panoramic view of the Brahmaputra that was available just a short way from the temple. And who wouldn’t have welcomed a last wonderful view of the river they’d sailed down for the last ten days before they were obliged to leave it? Even Brian, in his still damp shirt, was eager to leave the comparative coolness of his minibus to see the view on offer. And whilst it wasn’t up there with the view of Toledo from that Parador or the vista one enjoys from the top of Mont Ventoux, it was still pretty impressive. The huge Brahmaputra flowed below, green hillocks rose curiously from the smog – and black kites wheeled around in the sky. It was a lot better than the temple.

  But now it was time to return to the boat. They set off again and Brian occupied his mind with thoughts of beer all the way back as a distraction from the traffic. It worked, and ultimately his minibus made the safety of the cramped market where it was immediately reduced to an almost walking pace and Brian could relax. Julian, however, was still very much alert and spotted from the minibus a vendor of buckets. The bus was stopped, he disembarked with Sujan, and two minutes later he re-boarded the bus holding in triumph a small galvanised bucket. It was needed, he explained, for his new boat back in England. This size was apparently difficult to find in the UK, although Brian thought it might be an even more difficult size to pack into one’s luggage. But he didn’t say anything. At least not until he spotted that this splendid example of vernacular manufacture was in fact made by the monolithic Tata; it said so on the side. He then said something about it being a “pail imitation” of local craftsmanship. But he wasn’t sure Julian recognised the pun. And probably just as well. It wasn’t one of his best.

  However, they were now at those guarded gates again, then through the gates and enjoying the greeting from the massed ranks of the freight terminal urchins. And then they were on the boat. Time was now getting on. So for Brian, it was a rapid shower, a quick beer and a prompt lunch. And then it was time to leave the Sukapha for the very last time.

  Brian thanked everybody he could thank as profusely as he possibly could. Their cruise on the Brahmaputra hadn’t been a luxury cruise but it had been a fabulous cruise. It had been a series of memorable expeditions from the simple comfort of a floating guesthouse, the sort of guesthouse that provides impeccable service with style but without pretention. Whatever faults Brian had found with India so far, they stopped at the gangplank to the Sukapha. Indeed, there was many a hostelry in Britain which would do very well to study how they did it on this boat. Attitude and attention to detail were, he believed, far more important than opulence and excess.

  Brian was on that nondescript bank again. Cases were being taken to the minibuses and the Nature-seekers were being organised into a huddle for a final group photo. This meant Brian’s six-foot-two frame was required to station itself at the back of this huddle, and he now stood there attempting to smile rather than grin and wondering whether a letter to the “Lonely Planet” publishers was really worth the trouble.

  The trip to Guhawati Airport was uneventful. As earlier predicted, no collisions occurred – and no more buckets were purchased. Guhawati maintained its unexceptional, untidy demeanour all the way and eventually they arrived in the airport car park. It was now very hot. So Brian was more than usually gratified that there was somebody else to manhandle all the luggage onto some trolleys and to push these trolleys to the terminal building. His unencumbered state even gave him ample opportunity to study some sizeable cockroaches scurrying around a drain cover at the entrance to this building. He trusted they were not allowed inside.

  The Nature-seekers were. They were deposited in a lounge area beneath a single fan while Sujan, Rajan and Tika went off to sort out all the check-in stuff. Travelling in a guided group could render one completely dependent. Nevertheless, one was inevitably thrown back onto one’s own resources when it came to the security check. Brian had a small holdall in which he carried his binoculars, his camera and his other precious pieces. When it went through the X-ray machine, the machine’s operator thought it contained something rather more dubious. It was put through again. Dubious had moved up to plainly suspicious and one of the security guys insisted on making a search. He removed the camera and its spare batteries and the bag was put through the machine again. Now it was highly suspicious. There was something in the
re that was causing all sorts of consternation. So the bag was relieved of more of its contents and went for a further encounter with the X-rays. Still a problem. Which is when Brian remembered that in a small side pocket of his bag, was his house-key, a chunky lump of British brass. He extracted it, showed it to the security guy, who then returned the bag for yet another jaunt through the innards of the machine. Success! The key was the culprit, and as it was decided that it did not constitute an offensive weapon it was allowed to proceed with its owner to the departure lounge where waiting for them both were Sandra and Tika.

  Brian explained the reason for the delay and presented the troublesome key for their joint inspection. Tika sympathised and Sandra told him not to lose it. She didn’t want to have to break a window when they got back home. Brian informed her that neither did he and then a truce was called as it was time to go – and time to leave Tika. He was on his way back to Nepal and to his home there near the Chitwan National Park. Brian shook his hand and Sandra gave him a hug. He had been the epitome of a brilliant guide and a splendid companion. Both made their feelings about him as clear as possible without it getting too embarrassing, and then the rest of the party did the same. It proved a lengthy procedure.

  But finally it was onto a tube of “Jetlite”. Brian, Sandra, their house-key and all the other Nature-seekers were soon airborne with this local carrier and soon estranged from Assam. In what seemed like just minutes they had abandoned an adventure and were now on their way to the humdrum, back to the modernity of a city and to the normality of life.

  This, of course, was rubbish. They were on their way back to Kolkata and half of them would then be on their way to another adventure. Modernity and normality wouldn’t get a look-in for some time.