Brian on the Brahmaputra Read online

  It must have been all that getting up early. Brian reminded himself that he wasn’t here to have irrelevant, inconsequential thoughts; he was here to observe wildlife from the back of an elephant. And it was around him already. Their squad of eight mounted elephants was now in elephant-size grass, and standing there, in a small clearing in the grass, but just a few feet away, was a substantial wild boar. Beyond him there were hog deer, more than ten of them. And beyond them there was something grey. It was a rhino, one of the hundreds of Indian one-horned rhinos for whom this park is a crucial sanctuary.

  Brian had been told that these rhinos didn’t much bother about elephants, even elephants decorated with a topping of humans, and he had been told correctly. The phalanx of organic people-carriers advanced in the direction of the sighting until the something grey had become the very clear and very close view of a rhinoceros. And it wasn’t in the least concerned. Nor were the elephants. And nor were the Nature-seekers aboard them. They were obviously all fascinated with such a close encounter, and Brian himself was simply thrilled. Here was one of the most unbelievable creatures in the world, just like its African cousins, a masterpiece of natural engineering, with a hide that defies description and a face which belies the animal’s awesome power. For when one studied those delicate lips and when one looked into those remarkable eyes, one could see only sensitivity, a gentleness which would take a great deal to budge, and certainly a great deal more than a contingent of nosey tourists.

  This creature proved to be just the first. During their sixty-minute ride through the grass, they encountered another four, all, like the first one, models of serenity and indifference – with possibly some nonchalance thrown in there as well. But then the ride was over and it was time to dismount.

  This, it transpired, was to be more of a challenge than the original mounting. Legs no longer responded to commands and newly discovered muscles had to be pacified to avoid pain. But eventually Brian was off and had now only to coax his legs into walking. They managed the distance to the minibus and he got on board to sit next to Sandra.

  ‘They only do two a day, apparently,’ she announced.

  ‘Two what?’

  ‘Two rides. And we were the second. So they’re off for the day now. They’ve done all they need.’

  ‘You mean the elephants?’

  ‘No. I mean the bus drivers. We’ve been abandoned for the day… Oh come on, Brian, of course I mean the elephants.’

  ‘Oh, splendid!’

  And he meant it. As enjoyable as the experience had been, riding tamed elephants was a bit “circus”. But, there again, if they had such a short working day, and for most of the day, the rhinos and the other animals were just allowed to get on with it, then fine. Or even splendid. And it even made him wonder how you became a mahout. Far shorter working hours than those of an accountant.

  He tried to advance this thinking with Tim at the breakfast table. But Tim wasn’t really prepared to engage. He doubted anyway that there were many openings for mahouts in West Yorkshire, and in any event, riding an elephant wouldn’t be quite the same on the Leeds ring-road. Brian was forced to agree, and immediately deserted his thoughts on mahouts in favour of a mouthful of toast.

  They had come to a simple lodge just outside the park where, after refreshing themselves, they had sat down to an alfresco breakfast. Brian and Sandra were seated at a table with Tim and Karen, Ron and Irene, and a couple who answered to the names of Jerry and Edith. Now, earlier Brian had made some remarks about how difficult it must have been for those with bowel problems to splay their legs for a whole hour, and how surprised he’d been that there hadn’t been any accidents, or at least none that he’d been aware of. This observation didn’t appear to go down very well with Irene, and even Ron looked a little concerned. And whatever they thought, they then just talked between themselves. Which is why Brian had initiated a discussion about mahouts with Tim. But this was now at an end, and Tim had re-activated Irene and Ron, and Sandra had engaged Karen. Which left only Jerry and Edith.

  This was a problem. And it was a problem because Jerry and Edith, in “social sophistication” terms, had a good deal in common with Jim. They could certainly never be described as riveting company, and in many ways they were rather two-dimensional. Indeed, in terms of their appearance and their dress, they could have been created by Donald McGill. Jerry, in particular, was a seaside postcard come to life. It was the combination of his bouffant hair (on his ancient head), his British Home Store trousers and his sensible sandals – aided and abetted by the fact that these two aforementioned items of gentlemen’s apparel were permanently estranged from each other. (His trousers finished halfway down his calves and may never have met an ankle in their life.)

  So, suffice it to say that Brian had not gone out of his way to bond with Jerry and his wife. Whenever he had overheard them talking or observed their rather bewildered reaction to what was going on around them, he had, in fact, gone out of his way not to bond with them. How could he? He now believed that they were only on this trip by mistake, that they had gone to the wrong check-in at Heathrow or had got on the wrong baggage-belt. But now they were here with him at the table and the only people to talk to. So he had no choice. He had to take them on. And he did. He started talking to them about the state of the economy. After all, everybody has a view on the state of the economy. And maybe even Jerry did.

  Brian was correct. And more. Not only did Jerry have a view of the economy back in Britain, but he also had a view about Britain in general, how it had been reduced to its present state, and even a suitable remedy for those responsible for its downfall. Yes, he was of the firm opinion that Blair and Brown between them had completely ruined the country, and that for doing this, they should be hanged or emasculated or both.

  So Jerry wasn’t so bad after all. He was still an odd-looking wally, but at least he was a wally who could cut through that web of conflicting evidence and arrive at that nugget of truth: that the two aforementioned gentlemen had really screwed things up.

  This revelation was as refreshing as it was unexpected. It kicked out the remnants of Brian’s early-morning weariness and he now felt up and ready for the next part of the day. This was just as well, as what was now on the agenda was another long jeep safari in what was becoming the hottest day so far.

  They had returned to the Kaziranga Park through the “elephant gate” and they had once again disembarked from their minibuses to re-board their jeeps. These were the same jeeps they had used the previous day – and came with the same companions. That is to say that Sujan instructed his charges to pair up with the same jeep-buddies they’d driven around with before. Which for Brian and Sandra meant… Jim. This rather detracted from Brian’s recently revitalized state, and his revival was further impaired by the realisation that this would be Jim without Rajan. Their tour manager had not joined them today because of an overload of official worries, and this meant that he and Sandra had no one to shield them from Jim’s “conversations”. They might be assailed with a discourse on microchips without any warning whatsoever.

  As it turned out, Jim was no problem at all. He sat for most of the time quietly and unobtrusively, again taking only the occasional photo and not much interest in anything else that was smaller than a buffalo. He did get very agitated once. But understandably so. Imran had indicated (silently) that he’d possibly seen a tiger.

  The jeeps had split into two groups and were taking clockwise and counter-clockwise routes around this grassland area of the park – just as they had in its more forested area the previous day. Brian’s trio had Imran and Tika in attendance, and whilst Tika was majoring on birds, it became apparent that Imran was using his local knowledge to locate a big cat. This part of the park with its eight-foot high grass was where they were most often found.

  His possible sighting brought all three jeeps to an immediate halt, and while all their occupants waited in expectant silence, Imran started to conduct a more thorough search. Th
is didn’t involve him in an excursion through the hidden depths of the grass (for obvious reasons). But it did involve a lot of moving around and crouching while he peered through the gaps in a line of trees that bordered the track.

  Jim was clearly getting impatient. Brian, however, was simply getting resigned, resigned to the fact that he was not going to see a tiger. Even if there was one around he knew they wouldn’t see it – even if the tiger was seeing them. That’s what tigers are like, masters of concealment and as careful as they come. That’s why there are still any tigers left in the world at all. And maybe those that now survive have a race memory imprinted on their minds that makes them even more careful than their forbears, a race memory concerning a band of tossers whose blinkered view of the natural world required them to blast any tiger they saw.

  So, if Brian wasn’t going to see a tiger as such, maybe he could still spot some tiger poo. That would be something. And he started to scour the sides of the track for a pile of anything that might be further investigated and then identified by the experts. He did this first with his eyes and then with his binoculars. This was when Sandra asked him what he was doing.

  ‘I’m looking for tiger poo.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s supposed to keep cats away.’

  Jim was listening to this exchange – whilst still intent on Imran’s inspection of the grassland. So was Tika. He had just walked up to the back of their jeep in readiness to join it. He looked slightly puzzled.

  Sandra continued.

  ‘So you’re looking for some tiger poo in Assam to keep cats away in Worcestershire?’

  ‘Well, yes. You can’t find it in Worcestershire…’

  Tika joined in.

  ‘Did you say you wanted tiger poo… to keep cats away?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Brian. ‘We get loads of them at home, and they’re a real bloody menace. And apparently tiger poo works a treat. I suppose it must be like us finding some human poo, but… you know, in six-foot lengths. That’d certainly put the wind up me…’

  ‘Brian!’

  ‘Well, Tika asked. So I was just explaining.’

  ‘Cats and glass,’ pronounced Jim suddenly.

  Brian, just for a second, thought that Jim had once again made one of his peculiar unrelated utterances. But then he realised what he meant and he thought he ought to expand on Jim’s observation, if for no other reason than putting Tika out of his misery. He was clearly entirely perplexed.

  ‘Yes, cats and glass – as in glass windows. The two biggest killers of birds in the world…’

  ‘Followed closely by the Maltese,’ observed Sandra.

  Brian looked at his wife in disbelief. He knew that she had a very poor view of how the Maltese shot everything in sight (during the migration seasons). But it was very unusual for her to express such a forthright view in the company of others, and especially when she wasn’t sure of her ground. But he needn’t have worried.

  ‘Oh yes,’ agreed Tika. ‘I’ve read about it many times. The RSPB tries very hard, but they can’t seem to stop them. They’re now worse than Cyprus. ’

  ‘We should kick them out of the EU,’ added Jim. ‘They’re breaching their terms of entry.’

  ‘Blimey,’ thought Brian. ‘He has got an interest other than in big animals. Or maybe the Maltese have upset his bureaucratic cool. Breaching the terms of entry ‘n all. That certainly won’t do. But hey, whatever his reasons, he seems to be on our side. So well done, Jim. Hope you get some good snaps…’

  This unexpected charitable train of thought was brought to an abrupt end by Imran announcing that he hadn’t found a tiger and that the jeeps should move on. And Brian had drawn a blank on the tiger poo as well. But he didn’t think anybody would be too interested in that and he didn’t announce it. Instead, he just steadied himself against the forward U-frame. The jeep was now in motion. And even if they’d drawn a blank on tigers for the present, there was still plenty more to see.

  The first sight was of a pied harrier. It was flying slow and low (as all harriers do) over a stretch of marshy ground within the grass. It had the grace of its marsh and hen-harrier cousins, but it also had its own unique plumage: the black and white of a truly pied bird. And this combination of finesse in flight and elegance in appearance was quite breathtaking. It was not only one of the most splendid wildlife sights that Brian had ever witnessed, but it was also one of the most splendid sights of anything at all that he had ever witnessed. It was quite incredible, and for Brian, just as exciting as seeing a tiger or any big cat. Albeit this probably wasn’t how Jim would have seen it.

  The second sight was of another black and white bird, a little ringed plover, not quite so remarkable as the harrier, but still very welcome. Then there were a whole host of other birds including crested serpent-eagles, shikras, swamp francolins, Alexandrine parakeets – and lesser whistling-ducks, who appropriately were doing a lot less whistling than Brian would have liked. In fact they were doing none. They were as silent as a troupe of terrapins who were spotted on a log in a pond. They were lined up along its length staring heavenwards, and looking for all the world as though they were awaiting the arrival of some terrapin supreme being, some hard-shelled redeemer who would lead them to the promised lake and to a future free of raptors. And wouldn’t that put the Pope in a spin?

  Brian was at it again, letting his leaps of tortured imagination get in the way of his enjoying the now, of observing properly what was around him.

  ‘Come on,’ he said to himself, ‘get a grip. And anyway, terrapins are hardly going to get swept away by that sort of nonsense…’

  His renewed focus on the real paid dividends. There were buttonquails, there were rufous treepies, there were striated babblers, and in the bigger league, there were dozens of deer and dozens of rhinos. Indeed there was one rhino “at ease” in a flower-decked mud-pool, which was so close and so unconcerned and such a perfect photo opportunity, that Brian became almost as excited as Jim. And Brian’s resulting photo was superb, his subject looking directly into the lens – and clearly pitying the photographer. ‘What a stupid thing to be doing when you could just be lying here in this pool…’

  They’d now been out on the jeeps for over three hours. They’d met the other trio of jeeps and exchanged news (although, on this occasion, not jeeps, as the suspension crack seemed to have gone into remission), and they were now approaching the end of their safari. And as a finale to it, there appeared before them a whole herd of elephants. And not of the tame, rideable variety, but of the wild, would-stamp-on-you-if-you-tried variety. Brian was impressed. Even though Indian elephants were noticeably smaller than their African counterparts they still had that same incredible air of dignity about them that no other animal possessed. They also made Brian want to cry. But that was probably more to do with Brian than it was to do with the elephants.

  Lunch was at another lodge a few miles from the park gate. It had only recently been opened and, with its square of bamboo and concrete huts arranged around a large rice field, it looked more like a set for a remake of “Apocalypse Now” than it did an Assamese lodge. No matter. It was owned by the same people who operated the Sukapha. Accordingly the food on offer for lunch could only be described as excellent. This was good news for Brian and all those others in the party who had either recovered from their stomach ailments or who had not yet been struck down. But for those who were in the all too active stage of the malady, it was not such good news. More bananas than ever were consumed by the group.

  Some of these banana-eaters were among those who returned to the boat directly after this lunch, along with the wimps in the party, including Brian and Sandra. They had now been up for over ten hours, the day was hotter than ever, and there was no way they wanted to indulge in a further safari. However, some others in the party did. Brian suspected they were on drugs. How else could they do it? God, most of them were older than he was!

  He thought about this some more while he was relaxing on th
e boat’s sundeck and imbibing his own drug of choice: alcohol. It came wrapped up in a nice lager-type beer called Kingfisher, which, of course, is also the name of an airline in India – owned by the same proprietor. He then thought of the likelihood of ever flying on an airline in Britain called Boddingtons, and decided that this was highly unlikely.

  Dinner was with Derek and Yvonne and Dennis and Pauline, the quartet of fellow travellers who excelled in the arts of photography. This was a little awkward for Brian to begin with as Pauline began to ask him about the settings he was using, and Brian couldn’t even remember their names, let alone provide her with anything like a proper answer. He therefore had to use all his skills of deflection to take him past this hazard and into the far more rewarding sphere of: “Where have you been?”. Virtually all of the Nature-seekers on this trip were very well travelled indeed, and names such as Costa Rica, Belize, Madagascar and Botswana could be heard being bandied about all the time. But the quartet members were particularly well travelled. Indeed they had met on one such travel, on an expedition to Antarctica, where presumably their shared interest in the still and moving image had drawn them together. So it was only natural that Brian took this route, hoping if nothing else that he could trump their Antarctica with his and Sandra’s Papua New Guinea. But then another country emerged, one to which all six of them had ventured – and one which was hardly a usual destination for anyone.

  They had all visited, it turned out, Guyana. This not only meant that they were all in that minority of Britons who knew that Guyana was in South America and not in Africa, but it also meant that they were all members of that much tinier group of Britons who had actually been there. About six hundred visit it each year. And here, around this table, in the dining room of a boat on the Brahmaputra, were six of them, a full one percent of Guyana’s annual visitor total from Britain. What’s more, they had all visited the same places within Guyana – which isn’t quite so incredible. Because if you are there on a wildlife trip (which is really the only reason you would be there), you very soon discover that there are only a handful of possible destinations. Guyana makes rural Assam look like a heaving metropolis. Its minute population clings stubbornly to its coast, and its interior remains delightfully empty (for now) with only one dirt track making its way through the forest and all the way to Brazil.