Brian on the Brahmaputra Read online

  3.

  This morning, Brian was required to abandon his bed early, but not desperately early. There was to be a “cultural visit” to a fishing village – with, of course, bird-spotting opportunities. But the village was close to where they were moored, and therefore the day could commence without the need for a small-hours reveille. He and his fellow passengers were not required to rise until a relaxed 5.30.

  This allowed him to bring his illness-ravaged body back into action at a manageable pace and even allowed him to cope with the demands of his life-jacket…

  The village that the Nature-seekers were scheduled to visit was only fifteen minutes away. But fifteen minutes by the country boat away. And that meant that before they set out they all needed to don their bright orange life-jackets.

  This might not sound like too arduous a task. But for Brian, and as soon became apparent, for all the Nature-seekers, it was a task that was more than arduous and a task that was deeply resented.

  These life-jackets were not of the inflatable variety. They were of the “permanent buoyancy” variety. That is to say, they operated on the principle of buoyancy through the use of outsized bricks of some unknown buoyant material sewn into their fabric at their front and their back. Brian had last seen such life-jackets when he had idled away a wet afternoon back in England watching the umpteenth showing of “The Cruel Sea”. Julian, however, thought they were rather more reminiscent of those they’d used on the Lusitania. And Dennis went even further back in time. He was convinced that they were just like those in use during the Boxer rebellion, a hypothesis which, at least, went some way to explain their “Made in China” origination.

  But it wasn’t their antiquity that was the real problem; it was their bulk and their failure to embrace the concepts underlying the science of ergonomics.

  Nature-seekers, when they are about their business, bristle with all manner of equipment. Their tackle will include binoculars, cameras (often with humungous lenses), camcorders, water-bottles, bags, pouches, and sometimes even telescopes and tripods. It is therefore bordering on madness to then ask them to wear on top of all this gear, a massive, rigid, cumbersome, intensely awkward and ludicrous nautical bodice – which, to be held in place with a cord which passes under the arms and around the body and is tied at the front, needs the skills and manual dexterity normally only found in the ranks of the Venture-Scouts. And then there was the question of their safety…

  The country boat was a little like an old-fashioned lifeboat, but significantly longer and with a roof. The roof was low. Brian and even the smaller Nature-seekers were all obliged to crouch as they found their way to their seats beneath this roof, seats which were simple benches running along the sides of the vessel. (Nobody had thought to arrange the seating in rows which would have enabled their occupants to look out of the boat rather than at the boots of the Nature-seekers sitting opposite.) When seated, the jacket-bound passengers were therefore enclosed within a space, shut off at one end by a small engine room and above them, by the low roof. The only exit was the open end at the front through which they’d entered, or through the more easily accessible gaps between the vessel’s side and its much discussed and really very low roof. But because the roof was really very low indeed, these gaps were tiny. An unencumbered passenger would have had to struggle to squeeze himself through them. An unencumbered female passenger might have had to struggle even more. But for a passenger, of whichever gender, tied into one of those damned life-jackets, the struggle would not have been worth it. He or she would not have got through.

  So here was an ultimate stupidity: sensible, responsible adults being required to submit themselves to a piece of equipment that was not only clumsy, unmanageable and plainly preposterous, but also a piece of equipment that, if called into use, would do the opposite of what it was designed to do. It would not save your life; it would ensnare you in the boat and it would lose your life. It wasn’t so much a life-jacket; it was more a bloody death trap.

  Brian had a loathing for “Health and Safety” as practised in Britain. The whole concept of a broad-brush, nanny-ish, don’t-for-heaven’s-sake-take-responsibility-for-your-own-actions approach to the population’s wellbeing was not just a misdirection of resources and an unwarranted interference in people’s lives, it was also counterproductive. The more people depended on others and on a system to protect them, the less care they’d take themselves. But surely this nonsense hadn’t got to India? Hell, from what he’d seen on the roads here and from what he’d observed on their way out of Kolkata (like all that rickety bamboo scaffolding), he couldn’t believe that Safety could get a foothold. And as for Health…

  So this set him thinking. And what he did was to think from an Indian perspective, and not from his own, western-smart, find-fault-with-anything, rather supercilious perspective. From this viewpoint he could very easily see that the management of the Sukapha were clearly not attempting to put their passengers in the way of danger, but what they were doing was their level best to provide them with the very best protection they could assemble, and protection that very likely went far beyond any safety rules that applied in the country. They were doing more than they needed to. OK, the kit was not ideal, but it was probably all they could reasonably afford. Or maybe they really thought it the better option. ‘If an inflatable fails to inflate, will our middle-aged punters have enough power in their lungs to do the job themselves? Wouldn’t they be better off with something that doesn’t depend on inflation?’

  Brian also realised that this Indian perspective also explained the face-to-face seating in the boat. ‘Why force our passengers to look at the back of other passengers’ heads as though they were on one of those terrible Kolkata buses, when we could let them face each other and have a chat – like they do on those smart London tube things?’ And well, thought Brian, why did they all look at each other’s boots when they could just as easily have talked to each other instead?

  This perspective switch was useful. Even if it didn’t remove his despair at the sight of his life-jacket entirely, it did help Brian come to terms with it. A similar switch of perspective would now be needed for the fishing village.

  They had just shed their life-jackets and disembarked from the boat. Brian and his khaki band were walking along a path towards the village and taking in the first manifestations of its “culture”. The very first of these was a gentleman pushing his bike along this path with a goat suspended from one of the handlebars in a comfortable looking sling contraption. The man smiled and some of the Nature-seekers smiled at the goat. Then the man indicated with a broader smile, a simulated cutting action to his throat, and the English word “offering”, that the goat was on the last bike-ride of his life. Brian was taken aback. And how, he thought, do Hindus reconcile their commendable vegetarianism with animal sacrifice?

  The second bit of culture was a guy on the bank with stacks of cracked clay pots, which he appeared to be mending with wax. It was his job. He was an itinerant cracked clay pot mender. Brian wondered whether by using such a questionable repair methodology his itinerary ever took him to a particular village more than once. Or was it, repair it, sell it and scarper? He could not, for example, believe that the bloke further up the path, ploughing a tiny field with an ancient wooden plough and two small bullocks, would ever give any of his hard-earned resources to someone who had previously sold him a cracked clay pot with the cracks covered over with “concealing wax”.

  They were now in the village proper. Here, around the base of a huge tree, was a shrine. It was essentially four concrete pillars painted blue, supporting a corrugated iron roof with a hole in its middle for the tree trunk, with, below the roof, a frieze of pictures of various Hindu deities, none of which Brian knew by name. Many photographs were taken here.

  Then things got progressively browner. The homes in this village were thatched affairs built on bamboo stilts from more bamboo and some sort of cane. There were others, similarly thatched, but not on stilts and
finished off in a mix of mud and cow dung – which is surprisingly workable and really very attractive. However, thatching, bamboo, cane, mud and cow dung are all brown, as was the beaten earth throughout the village. Therefore a sense of pervading brownness was unavoidable. For Brian at least. It was just as well that the inhabitants of the village were rather more colourful.

  The women were very colourful. They were dressed in colourful saris. The children made patches of colour too. But in a different way. They all wore a mixture of shorts and shirts and skirts of every colour imaginable – none of which could ever be accused of “matching”. They also smiled a lot and wanted their pictures taking – so that they could see themselves on those digital displays. Gratifyingly, that was all they wanted. Enough “strange people” had so far visited this place to allow these kids to learn about the features of digital cameras but not enough to allow them to learn about the techniques of soliciting for handouts.

  Indeed the whole place was used to being visited. Brian could see this. But only used to very infrequent visits. There was no resentment yet. No questioning of the impertinence of foreigners tramping by their houses and staring at them. Not even a reluctance on the part of the grown-ups to be photographed – whether they were mending a roof or weaving on their doorstep, or cycling by on their ancient bicycles, tinkling out a warning as they approached.

  How long these attitudes would remain was impossible to tell. But it probably wouldn’t be for as long as these obviously very poor people had to continue to cope with their grinding poverty and their struggle to get from day to day. Nobody was starving here. But nobody was fat – or rich. Brian began to feel pity.

  That’s when he changed his perspective again – to their perspective.

  What must they think – if they know anything about our lives in the West? Do they pity us? After all, he thought, they don’t live in houses that force them to borrow four times their income (or even more). Other than the occasional passing bike, they don’t have to cope with traffic, and traffic congestion would be beyond their understanding. They also miss out on work-stress, the threat of redundancy, being burgled, being mugged, being micromanaged by the state, and they don’t even have to avoid “Britain’s Got Talent”. Then there’s no social isolation, no lack of community spirit, no threat to their indigenous culture and no threat from Brussels. There’s also no threat that if you take an innocent photo of a child, as virtually all the Nature-seekers had done repeatedly as they’d walked through the village, you’ll end up in court and with an entry on the sex-offenders’ register for the rest of your life. So, on balance, Brian thought they didn’t have a bad life after all, and they certainly didn’t warrant his pity. Indeed, in one respect he honestly envied them. For they had, in and around their village, a wonderful selection of birds. There were Indian pond-herons, Indian rollers, pied kingfishers, green bee-eaters, black redstarts, both blue-throated and coppersmith barbets – and even grey-headed canary-flycatchers… Although, if you’re trudging around a field with a wooden plough and two bullocks, maybe you don’t tend to notice…

  A boat ride and a tussle with an orange life-jacket later, Brian had forgotten his Indian perspective and was focused instead on his lunch. He was also focused on his two immediate lunch companions: Dennis and Derek. These gentlemen, it will be recalled, were the husbands of the photographically intimidating Pauline and Yvonne. They were also, it transpired, even more intimidating. Because their interest was not in mere static photos, but in pictures which moved. It appeared that both of them, as they always did, were committing their holiday to film, and film of a professional standard – with slots in them for their respective wives’ best photos. They were both serious cinematographers. This was commendable but another problem for Brian. He was pretty ignorant about “normal” cameras, but he knew as much about video cameras as he did about knitting, which was next to nothing. And there was no likelihood that he’d ever tangle with either. Still, he had to make an effort. ‘

  So how do you choose what to keep, Derek?’

  Derek was a retired pilot. He used to fly Concordes. One at a time, of course. And now, even as he sat there in his Nature-seeking gear, one could easily picture him sitting instead in the crowded cockpit of that wonderful machine, going through some checklist or other, or doing whatever it is that pilots do before they switch on the ignition. He had the right sort of decisive looking face and even the right sort of penetrating eyes. He did not, however, have the ability to make himself understood to Brian on the subject he was now expounding. There was something about the number of images per second, and some software and inevitably a computer. But Brian was lost after the first sentence.

  He did venture a few nods when he thought this was appropriate, but he bottled out on making any comments or asking any further questions, as he was well aware that this could lead him into all sorts of untold trouble. Instead, he let Derek finish, treated him to some more vigorous head-nodding and combined this with his very best “I’m really impressed” expression. It seemed to do the trick, and it allowed him to turn to Dennis and try all over again, this time with an even more anodyne question than before. Dennis was older than Derek. Also, he used to run the production in a bottling plant, not fly supersonic aircraft, so he was bound to be less technical and more down to earth. Brian might even be able to understand something.

  ‘And Dennis, how about yours?’

  Well, as it turned out, there was a mini arms race going on between Dennis and Derek, and currently Dennis had the upper hand. His device was state of the art digital (and very expensive) and had features and functions and interconnectivity and God knows what else that made Derek’s machine sound like a Box-Brownie. Inevitably, his explanation of how it worked and what he did with it was even more impenetrable than was Derek’s, and Brian simply had to switch off. He still nodded and still made the right expressions with his face, but he was out of his depth and he knew it. Just as well then that the conversation eventually switched from the camera technical to the (UK) domestic political, where Brian could make a sensible contribution and, at the same time, establish that Dennis and Derek were as amiable as their wives and had a similar perspective to his own – when, that is, he wasn’t taking an Indian perspective on life-jackets or a villager’s perspective on the West.

  The afternoon was a glide down the river. This allowed all those on board to take in the nature of the waterway on which they were floating and to take in its size. For the Brahmaputra is not just a river; it is a broad ribbon of water flowing as it pleases over an even broader flood plain, and it is vast. It is truly enormous. Its scale dwarfs even the largest rivers in Europe, and with its empty, endlessly flat sand banks to either side, its seemingly boundless width must challenge even that of the Amazon. Often, one shore of this mightiest of streams was barely in view, whilst at other times it was simply not possible to tell whether a sand bank in the distance was the shore or one of the countless islands of sand which shift constantly within the river’s bounds. Brian found it awe-inspiring and more than a little threatening. Not in a personal sense but in the sense of what it could do when it was in flood, when it carried across this flood plain more water than he could ever imagine. Then, he could imagine, it would be terrible, and potentially deadly for all those people who fished and farmed within its reach – or mended clay pots.

  This vista of the infinite lasted for more than two hours until they reached a stretch of the river which was the northern boundary of the Kaziranga National Park. Now, on the left hand side, was forest, the wooded eastern range of the park which they would be visiting tomorrow. And within this forest there were birds, visible from the boat, and Indian one-horned rhinos which were also visible. They saw two, although Brian thought it was just one seen from two different perspectives as the vessel floated by. But so what? It was an encouraging sign of what was to come.

  Finally, it was time to stop and to moor for the night. Not on the south bank of the river, but in keeping w
ith tradition, on the far bank, opposite the park they planned to visit the next day – and on a bank of sand. The Sukapha had sidled up slowly to a great flat expanse of the stuff and was now resting just feet away from where it met the water as a low crumbling cliff. Immediately two of the crew, dressed in their smart black Sukapha kit, leapt from the boat and began the mooring task.

  This was not conventional. It couldn’t be. This was not a dockside and there were none of those big metal mushrooms one finds on a dock. That is, there was nothing at all onto which to tie the boat’s mooring ropes. Step forward crewman number one, who, with a mattock, was now busy excavating a large hole in the sand about twenty metres from the bank. While he was doing this, crewman number two was dragging a mooring rope to the hole and then he returned to collect a large baulk of wood, two huge bamboo stakes and a Shrek-size mallet. The baulk of wood was passed through a loop at the end of the rope, and when the hole was complete the baulk with the rope attached was cast into it. Crewman number two then demonstrated his skills with the oversized mallet and drove the bamboo stakes into the bottom of the hole thereby pinning the wood and securing the rope. The end of this exercise entailed crewman number one backfilling the hole until the stakes were nearly buried – and then the two of them repeated the whole exercise for a second mooring rope. Brian was impressed. He was also impressed with the vigour and the size of the two young crewmen. They were in no way fat, but they were both about twice the size of any of the local villagers he had seen. It said a great deal about the diet available aboard the Sukapha and the diet available in the local villages. If Assam ever wanted to field a world-class rugby team, it would need to house them all on this vessel.

  Currently, however, the Sukapha housed a party of Nature-seekers who were now all gathered in the boat’s lounge to participate in the most important ritual of their day, and a ritual Brian had so far missed out on, first because of his indisposition and then because of his failure to join in the following day’s expedition. But now, having visited the village and having observed the wildlife from the boat’s sundeck during the afternoon, both he and Sandra could take their place in the “listing” session.