Brian on the Brahmaputra Page 9

  The paddlers, as he noticed on the other dinghies, were not paddling at all. They didn’t need to. And indeed any attempt to paddle in this flood would have been as difficult as it would have been futile. No, instead they were acting as rudders. Essentially, each dinghy was equipped with a human-held double rudder, the so called “paddles” being used to do no more than to keep the dinghies facing forward and then, increasingly, to prevent their being swept into the wilder parts of the water. For it soon became apparent that this river was not only broad, but it was also “braided”. It had within its course huge banks of pebbles, some above the waterline and some below it – creating in its flow enormous stretches of not quite white water, but viciously undulating, constantly agitated, worryingly swirling, grey water. Just the sort of water that could provide an experience that would not only be immediately deflating but pretty soon after that, decidedly lethal.

  Brian gathered himself. The rudder system was working. They were avoiding the vortices. They were still inflated. Maybe the “paddlers” actually knew what they were doing. And Sandra didn’t seem unduly concerned. If, that is, she hadn’t fallen into a state of catatonic shock. And no, she hadn’t. She turned her head slightly and uttered the word ‘pratincoles’. And yes, there they were, a flock of small pratincoles, fabulous pale-coloured little birds sweeping this way and that over the river like a host of ghostly swallows. They were superb, and they were a bird that Brian had been hoping to see for some time. They were also his salvation. This river trip might be a little alarming, but it really wasn’t that bad. As long as these two chaps behind continued to do their job, all would be well, and Brian might as well just get on and enjoy it. He might never do it again. Even if he survived it.

  His change of attitude worked. Within a very short time he was relishing the experience, not just of what he was seeing, but also of the mad dash down the river itself, with its constant threat of mishap or worse. Indeed in retrospect he would compare it with a visit he had made to Disney World in Florida (for the benefit of continued good relations with some family members who possessed young children). There he had exposed himself to the delights of such things as “The Duelling Dragons” and “The Hulk”, terrifying roller-coaster devices which were designed to make you scream, and the design of which had worked. But there, one felt in danger even though one knew one was entirely safe. The potential size of American lawsuits made sure of that. Here on the river, however, it was the opposite. After the initial shock had been dissipated by all those pratincoles, one felt safe even though one knew one was not far from danger. If the guys at the back got it wrong just once, the dinghy would soon be in shreds, and even if you weren’t too, through the action of vigorous pebble-pummelling, you would probably be drowning. The life-jackets would be useless and so too would all your colleagues in those other dinghies. Quite simply, they could not have manoeuvred themselves against the flow to come to your aid, and the nearest professional rescue services were certainly miles away, if not days away, and would arrive at just about the time your body was entering the Bay of Bengal.

  Fortunately, it wasn’t retrospect time yet, and Brian was still in full relishing mode. He relished the further birds he saw: river terns, river lapwings, wreathed hornbills, green sandpipers – and nearly a great thick-knee. He also relished the scenery: luscious open forest in the foreground and in the distance, to the north of the river, the densely forested ridges of Arunchal Pradesh, the “Land of Dawn-lit Mountains”. They were spectacular, and on their own well worth putting one’s life on the line for an hour or so at least.

  Indeed this dinghy experience risked becoming absolutely outstanding. But that would have been to ignore the contribution of Brian and Sandra’s paddlers. They were young and fit, but they were also stupid and irresponsible. They had clearly become bored with their role within minutes of setting off, and to relieve this boredom, had taken to talking, whistling and singing badly. This was not only distracting, but it was pretty irritating as well. Although not so irritating as when they then started to steer into other dinghies. They obviously thought it was the height of good fun to knock into their companions as though they were on the dodgems at a fairground, completely ignoring that this was not only puerile but also life-threatening – in what was already a perilous predicament. Brian wanted to make his irritation known. But with his life-jacket on, he could not turn to talk to them, and even if he could, he doubted they spoke any English. He therefore calmed his irritation by again trying to look at their behaviour not from his perspective but from theirs.

  Here they were, giving up probably a whole day of their lives. And for what? Maybe for no more than twenty rupees. Nothing. And for that they had to sit in discomfort on the back of a tiny inflatable, struggling against the currents of a huge river, and without even the novelty of the scenery or an interest in birds to relieve their exertions. On top of that, they were probably under instructions to dive into the river if either of their passengers abandoned ship without prior notice. They would no doubt be expected to put their own lives at risk to save the lives of people they neither knew nor cared for. And these people were so old! Were their lives worth saving anyway? So why not chatter and whisper? And why not spice things up a bit with a spot of dinghy-ramming? ‘Heck, these people are just sitting there staring around. Surely better for them that there’s a bit of excitement, something they’ll remember, something they’ll bore all their friends with when they get back home.’ And Brian had to concede; he wouldn’t be forgetting this trip in a hurry, and neither would he be forgetting the added frisson, courtesy of a couple of mischievous mariners.

  The headlong rush down the river took just over an hour. When they’d arrived at their destination, a muddy bank above which were their two mini-buses, Sujan informed them that their “cruise” should have taken twice this time. However, because the river was so swollen, it was running at about twice its normal pace, and hence the rapidity of their journey and its earlier than expected conclusion.

  ‘And now he tells us,’ thought Brian. ‘It was bloody dangerous. And far more dangerous than those Duelling Dragons or that incredible Hulk. Wait till I tell Sandra’s brother…’

  But he wasn’t really angry. How could he be? After the initial panic he’d enjoyed it. And look, here was the bearer of this quite shocking news, and he hadn’t even got a life-jacket on. Sujan was just too portly. There hadn’t been a life-jacket big enough to fit him. So he had embarked on this river adventure without one – in his own personal dinghy (there was only room for him and his two paddlers) – and in the honest belief that no matter how much water there was and how fast it was flowing, he and all his charges would be well. And, of course, he had been right. Result: Health and Safety nil, Sujan three. No, make that a four to one defeat. After all, they hadn’t even got wet, and they didn’t need to change their clothes. And that was worth another goal at least. And unsurprisingly it wasn’t just Brian who wasn’t angry; nobody was angry. All of them, quite obviously, had been exhilarated by the experience and felt just elated and alive – and now very hungry.

  So back to the eco-lodge to rejoin the bird-spotting landlubbers and then to set about some alcoholic refreshment in preparation for a delicious lunch. It was curry and it was consumed in an open-sided dining room at the lodge. Brian and Sandra were joined at their table by Pam and Julian, and by Judy and Rosamunde. Now these last two ladies were as yet an unknown to Brian. He and Sandra had never found themselves in chatting distance of them before now, and his only communication had been a short one with Judy on the very first day. He had introduced himself to her and she had introduced herself to him – by announcing immediately that she was married and that her husband had not wished to join her, which is why she was on this trip with Rosamunde – who was a friend through work. Brian had heard similar announcements before, made by ladies who were travelling together on holiday. They were always made as soon as possible and they were always designed to send the very clear message that th
e two ladies in question were not lesbians.

  Brian entirely understood this. There were, after all, ladies travelling together who were lesbians, and this way it prevented all that “are they, aren’t they?” nonsense. Notwithstanding that most of the ladies he’d met on holiday who were lesbians were generally far better company than their heterosexual counterparts. After a few minutes at the lunch table, Brian began to suspect that this might be true in this instance as well. All that he could extract from Rosamunde was that she was a physiotherapist, and from Judy that her husband wasn’t with her because he preferred real tennis to real wildlife. Brian was therefore soon obliged to discuss the subject of over-population with Pamela and boats with Julian. This most unseaworthy-looking chap had apparently ordered a new one from a boat-builder, and it would be ready for him when he returned to England. Brian just hoped that Julian would be ready for it.

  After lunch there was an unscheduled treat. This was a walk to a small protected compound behind the eco-lodge which was a breeding centre for pygmy hogs!

  Pygmy hogs are the world’s smallest pigs. They are native to Assam, but for reasons that are far too obvious to explain, they are now threatened with extinction. Just a single tiny population is thought to exist in the wild. Cue Durrell Wildlife Conservation, which has stepped forward to set up a captive breeding programme in Assam, in the hope that eventually there will be enough mini-porkers to allow their release into the wild, and through this, to secure their survival in the future.

  The place the Nature-seekers were visiting now wasn’t the principal breeding centre, but it did have half a dozen or so of these rare animals and was well worth a visit. Brian certainly thought so, but only initially. When they arrived at the compound they discovered that within the compound, and behind electrified security designed to keep predators at bay, there were some small enclosures, not full of hogs but full of closely packed grasses and other vegetation in which the hogs like to live. That is to say that the hogs were not going to make themselves visible.

  It was quite a sight. More than twenty grown men and women, peering over the low walls of these enclosures at a hog-free plant landscape – for more than twenty minutes. And it was getting very hot and there was no shade. The twenty grown men and women were now beginning to glow.

  Brian was all for giving up. This was just silly. But then Vivien thought that she’d seen a hog in a hole. And indeed she had. As everyone gathered around her, they could see for themselves that in a small hole under a bush, there was a patch of hog-hide. One could even see that the hide was stretched over a hog leg, or maybe it was a hog haunch or even a hog shoulder. But it was definitely hog. No doubt about it. Just not much of it. And as it was a pygmy hog to start with, that wasn’t very much at all.

  Brian soon felt like giving up again. It was as hot as hell and he didn’t have a hog-hole to hide in. Then others were clearly losing their enthusiasm as well, and the party began to drift towards the compound gate. That was when the first hog strolled into full view in the first enclosure, to be followed by another in the adjoining enclosure just a minute later. There was delight all round, cameras were called into action en masse, and Brian was overcome. He immediately regretted those rashers on his breakfast plate back on the Sukapha. And how could he have amused himself on the etymology of rashers – when there were these little darlings here, who were so small and so sweet and so enchanting? Yes, Brian could be a bit soppy when he put his mind to it.

  He could also be quite mean-minded. Having had their fill of lunch and of pygmy hogs, the Nature-seekers were now boarding their minibuses in readiness for the return journey to the Sukapha. As they were doing this a police jeep and a white Hindustan Ambassador pulled into the eco-lodge’s car park. Ambassadors are cars still produced in India for use as taxis and government vehicles, but they are based on a very old model: the Series III Morris Oxford that was built in Britain in the Fifties. This Ambassador, being a white one, was carrying a government official. He was clearly someone “important”, and a flourish of rifles and rather too much shouting was required to announce his arrival. Brian was entirely underwhelmed and just pleased that they were leaving. He would not have enjoyed sharing the eco-lodge with anyone who turned up in such a pretentious manner. However there was worse to come. For as they were driving away down the track towards the main road, three more white Ambassadors appeared up ahead, racing towards them with their horns sounding and with the clear expectation that these two lowly minibuses would simply get out of their way. More “important people” were on the way to the eco-lodge.

  Brian hated this. He had seen so much poverty in this country, that the idea of some fat, spoiled officials (for that’s what they undoubtedly were) acting like tin-pot potentates, bulldozing their way through the masses, when all they were really doing was heading for a relaxing afternoon at an eco-lodge, made him extremely angry. He wanted to tell them what he thought of them. Tell them how fat they were, how spoiled they were, and how ridiculous they were. Didn’t they know? Morris Oxfords were not cool any more. In fact, they had never been cool. They were old, stuffy and distinctly uncool even when they were first introduced. And that was in the depths of the last century. So wouldn’t it be great if he could take this convoy of white museum pieces – complete with their occupants – and drop it down in the middle of Birmingham say. Or anywhere in Britain where the hoots of laughter that would greet its arrival would soon leave those same occupants with a very clear understanding of not only how unimportant they were, but also of how very silly they were. And maybe even of how truly naff white Hindustan Ambassadors really were.

  But that wouldn’t happen, would it? Things like that never do. And probably just as well. It might lead to unintended consequences, and that would never do. Brian was always happier when he knew exactly what was going to happen as a result of his own actions. Just as he was very unhappy when he had no idea of what would happen as a result of the actions of the driver of the minibus. And anything could. The traffic on the way back seemed heavier than ever and more intimidating than ever. It was just as well that he’d swapped his aisle seat on the bus, with a good view through the front window, for Sandra’s window seat, where he could just stare out of the side and pretend there was no oncoming traffic. Regrettably, however, this didn’t deal with the menace of being overtaken. As often as not this manoeuvre was embarked upon by lorries and buses which had all the overtaking power of a milk-float with its brakes on. Accordingly, they often seemed to be just outside Brian’s side window for what seemed like minutes. And all the time Brian was only too aware that they were in the wrong lane on a two lane road. He just hoped that that all-important “other” dimension hadn’t packed up for the day.

  It appeared that it hadn’t. Brian and all his companions made it back to the boat entirely unscathed. Although a wind had now blown up.

  This was a pity. For after the bird-listing session in the bar in the early evening, all the Nature-seekers were then invited to gather on the shore beneath the boat to witness a local dance troupe in action. This would have been fine, had not those same plastic chairs that had been employed at the barbecue been brought into use. As before, they were secure when they were being sat upon by the Nature-seeker audience, but as the wind became more severe and as more and more of the Nature-seekers were plucked from their seats by the dancers to join in the show, they were anything but secure. The wind had them leaping about all over the place, often with more verve and more style than the dancers themselves. There was also sand blowing all over the place, and one couldn’t help coming to the conclusion that local dancing on a windblown sandbank wasn’t going to establish itself as the highlight of the day. Although if some of those chairs actually made it to the water’s edge, and from there into the Brahmaputra, it might just stand a chance.

  It was good to be out of the wind and eating. Tonight Brian and Sandra had Bill and Tina again. Brian avoided birds in general and snipe in particular. Instead he got back onto his
old hobby-horse of overpopulation. Maybe it was all those people out there, crammed together in houses and buses, but whatever it was, the theme just kept suggesting itself. Bill seemed to warm to the topic immediately. And then Brian warmed to Bill when he pronounced that from his perspective as a biologist, he was now convinced that the human species had just another twenty years to go. And then that was it. Brian had thought the same thing for years. But here was somebody knowledgeable thinking the same thought. In a very, very perverse sort of way, it really made his day.

  7.

  Brian awoke before the generator came on. It rumbled into life at 5.30, but Brian had been awake since five. It reminded him of how old he was. Because now, at the age of sixty, he could easily adapt to mandatory early mornings, and so much so that he was waking up even before he needed to. And this was all so different from how it had been in his youth. Then he’d had problems with rising early all the time, and quite a few problems with rising later as well. At university he had never been known to make a nine o’clock lecture, and had soon learnt to copy other people’s lecture notes as a matter of course. There was even one day when he’d managed to extend his sleep and his rising to seven – in the evening. He had then retired again at nine. A mere two hour day! It had been a real achievement. But here he was now, a full forty years later, stripped of virtually all his skills in the art of slumber, and all set up to spend a similar two hour period just waiting for the real day to start. It was such a downer and it made him feel really morose.

  So did the sight of those rashers of bacon in the hot-dish. He couldn’t face them, not after that pygmy encounter of the previous day. Instead he restricted himself to just a fried egg, assembled as usual from the contents of two eggshells. And he filled up on toast and jam, something he normally avoided at the breakfast table as his youthful dexterity had abandoned him as well (and dealing with a china butter dish and a china jam pot, sitting together with other pots and other dishes and all laid around with knives on a huge china plate, was more than he could countenance). However, on this occasion, the plate of conserves was close at hand and he risked it. He did have a bit of a hiccough with the butter, which was still a little hard, but he did manage it. And his success cheered him immensely. So much so that when he came to embark on the day’s first activity, he was morose no more and instead chirpy and breezy and more than ready for his next bite of India.