Ok, I’ll admit it, I’m a tightwad. If I die with a coin in my hand you’d better hope it’s a fifty pee, at least you’ll get it out of my clasp with a wrench. The other day I beat a beggar to a one rupee coin lying on the pavement that someone had dropped. It almost landed on my head I was down that quickly to pick it up. In comparison to me, Ebeneezer Scrooge was Santa Claus and the tooth fairy rolled into one. BUT I hate shopping and the shopkeepers, stall holders and touts in Kolkata are masters at squeezing every last rupee from their prey… sorry, customers. Ladies and gentlemen, I think we have a challenge!
First off, I had no intention of going shopping. I was going to have a leisurely stroll down to the Victoria memorial, laze about a bit taking pictures, stroll back to the hotel, repack my bag for the homeward flight tomorrow and have an early night. I always start off with good intentions. I’ve been very good on this trip. I’ve carried all my photographic gear with me, along with my laptop. When I’ve not taken them out with me, I’ve locked them into my case, inside my locked hotel room. Until today that is. I was halfway down Park Street, sweltering in the morning sun and I had a thought. You know by now how my thoughts go.. Oh bugger, I’ve not locked my case and the room cleaners were on their way in. I had to traipse all the way back to the hotel just to put the lock onto my bag. I must have lost half a stone in weight I was sweating that much. Whether because of the heat or the thought of losing all that equipment, who can say?
Job sorted, I retraced my steps down to the Victoria Memorial. It was built to commemorate Queen Victoria’s diamond jubilee in 1901. Unfortunately they didn’t complete it until twenty years after her death. They probably had Rochdale Council on the job. Saying that, it’s a fantastic place and fabulously photogenic. In 2007, I was fortunate to visit the Taj Mahal (no, not the curry house on Milkstone Road) and the Victoria Memorial has that same haunting aura about it. But by God, Kolkata is hot. I was melting in the heat. It was 35C when we landed yesterday and today it must have been the same, or perhaps hotter?
I had to get out of the direct sun and St. Paul’s cathedral provided the much needed shelter. Apparently, according to the Lonely Planet guide, it has a central cranellated tower. Fancy that! MS Word has no idea what that means and neither do I but it’s an impressive place anyway. The memorial plaques inside are all reminders of English gentlefolk that died keeping India, British. Forgive me; it’s brought a tear to my monocled eye.
Once back outside and in the sunshine, it was impossible to settle, it was that hot. So I returned back to the hotel for a much welcomed wash to cool down. Now the hotel is very nice, apart from it being in the middle of backpacker central. There are hosts of young people hanging about, doing nowt apart from trying to look like 60’s hippies and going redder than lobsters in the heat. To the shopkeepers, stallholder and touts, parting the kids from their cash is like taking candy from a baby. But now they have me to deal with.
It all starts innocently enough. Some character sidles alongside you, asks what country you’re from, what your name is, what line of business you are in and… “Would you like to have a look at my friend’s shop? Very good price too! No need to buy, just look” These touts receive commission for every tourist they fetch into their “friend’s” shop who buys something. The tout’s commission has to be made back, so the tourist pays that in inflated prices. I stuck it until the third chap approached me. Until then I’d been quite amenable, engaging them in conversation and then politely refusing the offer of a visit to his friend’s shop. Balls to this, I’d had enough.
“Hello, what country you from?”
“Finland!”
(Somewhat hesitatingly)”Oh, err, very nice… is that in England?”
“No, it’s near Russia and I’m going home now, bye!”
It worked! He buggered off and left me alone. Hey, this is a great game! Hope it works again. Sure enough, I didn’t have to wait long to find out….
“Hello, you looking for something?”
“No thanks, I’m fine”
“What country you from?”
“Wales, Land of my fathers don’t you know!”
(Totally bemused) “Oh, err and what is your name?”
“Dai, Dai Station!” (I could only remember him from Ivor the Engine) “and what’s your name boyo?”
“Errr, Rahil…. You want to see my friend’s shop?”
“No thank you, I’ve no money see, spent it all coming here!”
“Plastic?”
Bugger me, this fellah took some shaking off!
Eventually, I ended up coming from Cornwall and I was called Paul. Paul Perro.
But then came the time I wanted to buy an incense holder. I bought one the other day but true to form, it’s crap. I paid 75/- then and that was with Jyoti with me. I wonder if I can get it for that price on my own. My reputation must have gone before me. I spotted just what I wanted on this guy’s stall. Bent down, picked it up and asked,
“How much?”
“120/-“
“How much? I only paid 75/- the other day and I was ripped off then!”
“Ok, ok, take it, it’s yours, 75/-!“
Blimey, that was a bit easy! Kolkata shopkeepers, hold your heads in shame! In the words of Delia Smith “Where are ya? C’mon, let’s be ‘aving ya!”
Early start tomorrow morning. I have to be up by 4am. It’s now 4.30pm. I think I’ll have a couple of beers, a few free crisps and be back in my hotel room for 6pm. I want to be getting my head down for 9pm. Hey, I’ve just had a thought! I wonder if Kolkata barmen would like to haggle. “How much? I only paid 60/- the other day!” Hmmm, I’d better not, I don’t think I could keep a Welsh accent up for long after a bottle of beer. I always end up sounding Pakistani. Now that really would confuse them!
Friday 19 March 2010
The wheel turns
And so the wheel turns. If you look at the Indian flag, it has a wheel n the centre. This symbolises the circle of life, death, and rebirth. So, now I find myself back in Kolkata some 4 weeks down the line and, in retrospect with a total different outlook to a month ago.
First off, I have to kill time before Jyoti turns up at noon. Oh, go on then, more bloody shopping I suppose. I‘m accosted by every costermonger in town and, I’ve said it before, it’s all tat. The stuff they sell on Rochdale flea market is better value! But halfway into my shopping trip, I feel the familiar rumbling in my nether parts. I think I must now know now what’s causing it. It has to be the glycerol they put in Indian beer. It’s giving me the habdabs. God, I can’t wait to get back to the UK for a proper pint!
Jyoti arrives just before noon and we are soon on our way to the airport. We stop on route to see a south Indian style temple that has been recently built, complete with fancy goporums. I remember seeing some programme on tv a while back, that showed England in the middle ages. The church ruled the roost and if you wanted to get to heaven, the more you prayed and, more importantly, the more money you gave to the church, the more you were assured of salvation. This new mandir (temple) was all this personified. Everything came at a price. Want someone to pray every day for you? No problems that’ll be 10,000 /-. Just once a month? Ok, we can do that, 1,500/-. God, it was awful and I was glad to get out of there and back on the road.
The North East has a chequered history and, therefore, security arrangements at Guwahati airport are strict. It takes me forty minutes to get through check in and the subsequent security checks. Nevertheless, we are soon under way and, in no time at all, I’m back in Kolkata once again.
Your name really stands out when you’re looking for a friendly face amongst the welcoming committee at any airport. So, it was a great relief to see my name so prominent amongst the crowd. One hour later and I’m deposited back at the Lytton Hotel with a promise he’ll pick me up at 5am Friday morning, for my flight back to the UK.
Formalities done and I go for a stroll around Sudder Street. Compare and contrast – what were my feelings first time round in Kolkata? I loved it? I was intrigued? I was glad to be back in India? Well now, after I’ve been in the North east for a month, I bloody hated it. It was swimming with backpackers and it was swarming with lowlife. Twice the same guy offered me hashish and “nice Indian Girls”.
The Lonely Planet guide recommends calling into Fairlawn hotel for a beer amidst colonial grandeur. So, true to form, I did. It was bloody awful. Nose to tail with middle class, western tourists, enjoying the “authentic” Indian lifestyle. Bollocks it was back to my hotel for me and… hey, why not try the bar there? Fair play to the upwardly mobile, new Indians, they might have pretensions of grandeur but they do it well. The place was bedecked in chrome and glass, my glass was never allowed to remain empty and with every new drink, a free bowl of crisps.
Say what you like about the new India, I’d have it any day over the old backpacking tossers, with their silly beards and baggy trousers thinking they’re getting a real taste of the East. Bag of shits, the lot of ‘em!
First off, I have to kill time before Jyoti turns up at noon. Oh, go on then, more bloody shopping I suppose. I‘m accosted by every costermonger in town and, I’ve said it before, it’s all tat. The stuff they sell on Rochdale flea market is better value! But halfway into my shopping trip, I feel the familiar rumbling in my nether parts. I think I must now know now what’s causing it. It has to be the glycerol they put in Indian beer. It’s giving me the habdabs. God, I can’t wait to get back to the UK for a proper pint!
Jyoti arrives just before noon and we are soon on our way to the airport. We stop on route to see a south Indian style temple that has been recently built, complete with fancy goporums. I remember seeing some programme on tv a while back, that showed England in the middle ages. The church ruled the roost and if you wanted to get to heaven, the more you prayed and, more importantly, the more money you gave to the church, the more you were assured of salvation. This new mandir (temple) was all this personified. Everything came at a price. Want someone to pray every day for you? No problems that’ll be 10,000 /-. Just once a month? Ok, we can do that, 1,500/-. God, it was awful and I was glad to get out of there and back on the road.
The North East has a chequered history and, therefore, security arrangements at Guwahati airport are strict. It takes me forty minutes to get through check in and the subsequent security checks. Nevertheless, we are soon under way and, in no time at all, I’m back in Kolkata once again.
Your name really stands out when you’re looking for a friendly face amongst the welcoming committee at any airport. So, it was a great relief to see my name so prominent amongst the crowd. One hour later and I’m deposited back at the Lytton Hotel with a promise he’ll pick me up at 5am Friday morning, for my flight back to the UK.
Formalities done and I go for a stroll around Sudder Street. Compare and contrast – what were my feelings first time round in Kolkata? I loved it? I was intrigued? I was glad to be back in India? Well now, after I’ve been in the North east for a month, I bloody hated it. It was swimming with backpackers and it was swarming with lowlife. Twice the same guy offered me hashish and “nice Indian Girls”.
The Lonely Planet guide recommends calling into Fairlawn hotel for a beer amidst colonial grandeur. So, true to form, I did. It was bloody awful. Nose to tail with middle class, western tourists, enjoying the “authentic” Indian lifestyle. Bollocks it was back to my hotel for me and… hey, why not try the bar there? Fair play to the upwardly mobile, new Indians, they might have pretensions of grandeur but they do it well. The place was bedecked in chrome and glass, my glass was never allowed to remain empty and with every new drink, a free bowl of crisps.
Say what you like about the new India, I’d have it any day over the old backpacking tossers, with their silly beards and baggy trousers thinking they’re getting a real taste of the East. Bag of shits, the lot of ‘em!
I'm just careful with money
Now some folk, some nice folk, would say I’m careful with money. Others, less generous would say I‘m as tight as a gnat’s chuff. I’ll let you, the readers decide. Because round these parts, I’m Mister Moneybags and it’s a strange feeling to be honest. Waltzing about town and if I want it, I can afford it. But… there’s always a “but” isn’t there, there’s absolutely bugger all I, or anyone from the west, would want. It’s all tat!!
So with that in mind, I went shopping in Guwahati. Me? Power shopping! I really wish I hadn’t bothered. I wanted a couple of new t-shirts and there were plenty of stalls eager to sell me rip off branded names shirts. Now the folk round here are little buggers. Either that or I’m a big bugger! So, every place I looked at…. “Sorry no size for you sir!” God, that makes me sound elephantine in stature. Hang on, I’ll just pop me trunk back in my shorts... ah that’s better.
Where was I? Oh yes, shopping. I hate it. I hate it in the UK and I hate it here too. I actually managed to find a large sized t-shirt, paid over the odds and, when I got it back to the hotel, it didn’t fit. Oh and the other things I bought? Well, in the hotel where I was they had agrabathi’s burning in a holder, on a metal tray. Bugger me, that’d look good in my house. So, off I went on a mission. I really don’t know why I bother. I managed to find a agrabathi holder and when it came to arguing the cost I had to laugh. He wanted 135/- and we wanted to pay 110/- (goodness sake is it worth haggling over?). He even weighed the steel tray and to justify his cost, claimed that it would last forever. Even he laughed when I pointed at a plastic plate and said that would last forever too! Sod it, we split the difference and I paid 120/- . I told you, it wasn’t worth it. That’s even truer now after I’ve used the holder for the first time. The damned agrabathis won’t stand upright and look a bloody sorry state of affairs burning horizontally.
Now, there’s no way I’m paying 175/- for a bottle of beer tonight and I need some cash anyway. So, it’s a stroll out to the local ATM and then the wine shop for me. Well, the first ATM was a nightmare. It swallowed my card and, despite pressing every button in sight, refused to return it! Thank goodness, in the end up, it did and it told me to bugger off and go elsewhere… or words to that effect. Twenty minutes later I’m in a manned ATM booth. And the damned machine is in Hindi. Until the security guard chappy comes to life and shows me how to change the screen to English. Hooray! After I’d got my cash, you just know what’s coming… “Baksheesh? Baksheesh!” Bless him; the poor bugger must be on a pittance of a wage, so I pushed the boat out and gave him a whole 10/-. Well, no bugger gives me owt at work!
As Chrissy Hind once said, “With cash, in pocket…..” I went to the wine shop. Now this is an experience in itself. The whole building is encased I a steel cage. The poor old employee must feel like Hanibal Lector on community service. You order yor drink and it’s delivered via a gap in the cage. Bloody awful experience!
Still, armed with my 60/- a bottle beer, I drifted off back to the hotel. Where the manager was waiting for me! He’d found a solution to my internet access problem. Bless him, it’s only took him three weeks (it was a password issue but shhhhhhhh). No matter, I now had internet access for the night and cheap beer. What a heady combination! And then there’s a knock at the door. Room service must have thought, “alky westerner is back, go up there with some overpriced beer, he’ll have it!” Well not tonight Gunga-din! I did order half a tandoori chicken for my tea and then I stayed up till gone 11 pm, what about that then eh? I’m still a rebel at heart!
Yes, being the wealthiest man in town s great for the ego but if all you want is a pint of ale and a meat pie, what good is it to you?
So with that in mind, I went shopping in Guwahati. Me? Power shopping! I really wish I hadn’t bothered. I wanted a couple of new t-shirts and there were plenty of stalls eager to sell me rip off branded names shirts. Now the folk round here are little buggers. Either that or I’m a big bugger! So, every place I looked at…. “Sorry no size for you sir!” God, that makes me sound elephantine in stature. Hang on, I’ll just pop me trunk back in my shorts... ah that’s better.
Where was I? Oh yes, shopping. I hate it. I hate it in the UK and I hate it here too. I actually managed to find a large sized t-shirt, paid over the odds and, when I got it back to the hotel, it didn’t fit. Oh and the other things I bought? Well, in the hotel where I was they had agrabathi’s burning in a holder, on a metal tray. Bugger me, that’d look good in my house. So, off I went on a mission. I really don’t know why I bother. I managed to find a agrabathi holder and when it came to arguing the cost I had to laugh. He wanted 135/- and we wanted to pay 110/- (goodness sake is it worth haggling over?). He even weighed the steel tray and to justify his cost, claimed that it would last forever. Even he laughed when I pointed at a plastic plate and said that would last forever too! Sod it, we split the difference and I paid 120/- . I told you, it wasn’t worth it. That’s even truer now after I’ve used the holder for the first time. The damned agrabathis won’t stand upright and look a bloody sorry state of affairs burning horizontally.
Now, there’s no way I’m paying 175/- for a bottle of beer tonight and I need some cash anyway. So, it’s a stroll out to the local ATM and then the wine shop for me. Well, the first ATM was a nightmare. It swallowed my card and, despite pressing every button in sight, refused to return it! Thank goodness, in the end up, it did and it told me to bugger off and go elsewhere… or words to that effect. Twenty minutes later I’m in a manned ATM booth. And the damned machine is in Hindi. Until the security guard chappy comes to life and shows me how to change the screen to English. Hooray! After I’d got my cash, you just know what’s coming… “Baksheesh? Baksheesh!” Bless him; the poor bugger must be on a pittance of a wage, so I pushed the boat out and gave him a whole 10/-. Well, no bugger gives me owt at work!
As Chrissy Hind once said, “With cash, in pocket…..” I went to the wine shop. Now this is an experience in itself. The whole building is encased I a steel cage. The poor old employee must feel like Hanibal Lector on community service. You order yor drink and it’s delivered via a gap in the cage. Bloody awful experience!
Still, armed with my 60/- a bottle beer, I drifted off back to the hotel. Where the manager was waiting for me! He’d found a solution to my internet access problem. Bless him, it’s only took him three weeks (it was a password issue but shhhhhhhh). No matter, I now had internet access for the night and cheap beer. What a heady combination! And then there’s a knock at the door. Room service must have thought, “alky westerner is back, go up there with some overpriced beer, he’ll have it!” Well not tonight Gunga-din! I did order half a tandoori chicken for my tea and then I stayed up till gone 11 pm, what about that then eh? I’m still a rebel at heart!
Yes, being the wealthiest man in town s great for the ego but if all you want is a pint of ale and a meat pie, what good is it to you?
Tuesday 16 March 2010
Shower, absolute shower!
Q. When is a waterfall, not a waterfall?
Too difficult?
Ok, I’ll try another…
Q. Why is it that when I go to the wettest place on earth, I almost get sunstroke?
You might have guessed that the both questions were a bit rhetorical. The answer to both might be climate change? Wooooaaaaah, hang on there. It’s not a serious blog, don’t run away. I was just thinking out loud. See what’s happened again? As soon as I start thinking, I upset literally thousa…hundre….tens…one or two folk!
Breakfast in Shillong. How often have you been able to say that eh? First time for me too despite it being the second time I’ve been here. I wasn’t going to bother with dinner in all honesty but they made me have it. I got downstairs for just on seven thirty. Jyoti was due at seven thirty and I was under strict instructions that we were off at that time. I paid my bar bill (God, how much??) and then they said those fatal words, “Have you had your complimentary breakfast yet?” I succumbed immediately. The lure of free food is just too great for a man to resist.
Soon we’re on the road and our first destination is Cherapunjee, high in the East Khasi hills. It was, until a couple of years back, reputed to be the wettest place on earth. Many years back I watched a channel 4 documentary on the place and it did nowt but wazz down all the time they were there. The locals wore great big bamboo woven baskets over their entire bodies to protect from the downpours. So with me living in the shadow of the UK Pennines, it’d be like home from home. Crossing the hills, it struck me just how much it was like the moors around Blackstone Edge. Bleak, no trees and a hint of dark cloud always menacing. Even Jyoti remarked, “I think there may be rain in Cherapunjee”
Pah! It was bone bloody dry. Not a drop. Nowt. I was due to visit Nokhali waterfall, the fourth highest falls in the world. The scenery was magnificent. The rock face dramatic. The drop staggering. The water, sadly missing. They’ve not seen rain for months and, as a consequence, the falls have run dry. I walked it down to almost the foot of the falls and it really is a great place, despite the thieving so and so’s charging ten rupees per person. Honestly, they cream you that much; it’s just like Blackpool Pleasure beach! I’m only joking by the way. I’d better clear that up as some bugger mailed me after one of these posts moaning that, “of course it’s cold in Tawang, you’re in the Himalayas, jerk!”
Oh, before I forget. I saw some programme on tv last night and that lisping mockney Jamie Oliver was on. He’d come across some new fruit and he’s bought a bottle of it’s juice for £45!! He mentioned the name of the fruit and said that we couldn’t get it in the UK. No, you’re right Jamie because it’s peculiar to the Khasi hills. Now forgive my spelling, as I still don’t have internet access but it’s called “Souzchou”. The Khasi women let me try some the other day at their market and it was that sour they laughed themselves silly at my facial reaction. Jyoti bought a full bag of the buggers today for only 10/-, so take that mockney Mickey!
Right, where was I? Ah yes, Jyoti then came out with the idea of visiting some caves, followed by an amusement park. Well, sod that! So I told him we’d head back to Shillong (remember, there’s only one road in to most places and one road out) and from there back to Guahati. As it happened, we did stop at one more place just outside of Shillong. Elephant falls. Yep, more waterfalls and this time they were teeming with water. They were teeming with more water twenty minutes later as the heavens opened. It crashed down, thunder, lightening, rain and hailstones. We only needed snow and it’d have been a “full house!”
Bollocks to it. I trekked my way back to the van, stopping only for a cup of tea on the way and said “come on lads, wagons roll, enough is enough, Guwahati or bust!” They didn’t understand a word, so it was five further minutes explaining things before we were back on the road to Guwahati.
After just over three weeks in the remote North East of India, a big city takes you by the scruff of the neck and hangs you out to dry. It hits you full smack in the face. The noise, the bustle, the size, the sheer scale of humanity, it’s all there. I’ve just had a walk around this area of town and they’re an affable lot but I think I’ll wait till tomorrow to make my proper bow. I need to buy some new t-shirts as the ones I brought with me are manky as hell and need a damned good wash. I’ll ask housekeeping tomorrow if they’ll do them but I’m not holding my breath, after all it might rain!
Too difficult?
Ok, I’ll try another…
Q. Why is it that when I go to the wettest place on earth, I almost get sunstroke?
You might have guessed that the both questions were a bit rhetorical. The answer to both might be climate change? Wooooaaaaah, hang on there. It’s not a serious blog, don’t run away. I was just thinking out loud. See what’s happened again? As soon as I start thinking, I upset literally thousa…hundre….tens…one or two folk!
Breakfast in Shillong. How often have you been able to say that eh? First time for me too despite it being the second time I’ve been here. I wasn’t going to bother with dinner in all honesty but they made me have it. I got downstairs for just on seven thirty. Jyoti was due at seven thirty and I was under strict instructions that we were off at that time. I paid my bar bill (God, how much??) and then they said those fatal words, “Have you had your complimentary breakfast yet?” I succumbed immediately. The lure of free food is just too great for a man to resist.
Soon we’re on the road and our first destination is Cherapunjee, high in the East Khasi hills. It was, until a couple of years back, reputed to be the wettest place on earth. Many years back I watched a channel 4 documentary on the place and it did nowt but wazz down all the time they were there. The locals wore great big bamboo woven baskets over their entire bodies to protect from the downpours. So with me living in the shadow of the UK Pennines, it’d be like home from home. Crossing the hills, it struck me just how much it was like the moors around Blackstone Edge. Bleak, no trees and a hint of dark cloud always menacing. Even Jyoti remarked, “I think there may be rain in Cherapunjee”
Pah! It was bone bloody dry. Not a drop. Nowt. I was due to visit Nokhali waterfall, the fourth highest falls in the world. The scenery was magnificent. The rock face dramatic. The drop staggering. The water, sadly missing. They’ve not seen rain for months and, as a consequence, the falls have run dry. I walked it down to almost the foot of the falls and it really is a great place, despite the thieving so and so’s charging ten rupees per person. Honestly, they cream you that much; it’s just like Blackpool Pleasure beach! I’m only joking by the way. I’d better clear that up as some bugger mailed me after one of these posts moaning that, “of course it’s cold in Tawang, you’re in the Himalayas, jerk!”
Oh, before I forget. I saw some programme on tv last night and that lisping mockney Jamie Oliver was on. He’d come across some new fruit and he’s bought a bottle of it’s juice for £45!! He mentioned the name of the fruit and said that we couldn’t get it in the UK. No, you’re right Jamie because it’s peculiar to the Khasi hills. Now forgive my spelling, as I still don’t have internet access but it’s called “Souzchou”. The Khasi women let me try some the other day at their market and it was that sour they laughed themselves silly at my facial reaction. Jyoti bought a full bag of the buggers today for only 10/-, so take that mockney Mickey!
Right, where was I? Ah yes, Jyoti then came out with the idea of visiting some caves, followed by an amusement park. Well, sod that! So I told him we’d head back to Shillong (remember, there’s only one road in to most places and one road out) and from there back to Guahati. As it happened, we did stop at one more place just outside of Shillong. Elephant falls. Yep, more waterfalls and this time they were teeming with water. They were teeming with more water twenty minutes later as the heavens opened. It crashed down, thunder, lightening, rain and hailstones. We only needed snow and it’d have been a “full house!”
Bollocks to it. I trekked my way back to the van, stopping only for a cup of tea on the way and said “come on lads, wagons roll, enough is enough, Guwahati or bust!” They didn’t understand a word, so it was five further minutes explaining things before we were back on the road to Guwahati.
After just over three weeks in the remote North East of India, a big city takes you by the scruff of the neck and hangs you out to dry. It hits you full smack in the face. The noise, the bustle, the size, the sheer scale of humanity, it’s all there. I’ve just had a walk around this area of town and they’re an affable lot but I think I’ll wait till tomorrow to make my proper bow. I need to buy some new t-shirts as the ones I brought with me are manky as hell and need a damned good wash. I’ll ask housekeeping tomorrow if they’ll do them but I’m not holding my breath, after all it might rain!
Drive
“I’ve been driving in my car, honk honk, parp parp, beep beep, toot…..it’s not quite a Jaguar, honk honk, parp parp, beep beep, toot….!” – Madness. How appropriate seeing as I’m in India. I must have lost count how many times I almost met my creator today.
If you’ve ever travelled in the Indian sub-continent you’ll know just how crazy the road users are. Might is right and, despite there being either inadequate or even no pavements, pedestrians have no rights whatsoever. In fact the many cows wandering in and out of the traffic garner more consideration from the motorists.
Ok, let’s start at the very beginning. Which is a very good place to start, according to someone who’s name escapes me. Last time I ordered breakfast in this particular hotel, it took them almost an hour to cook me one fried egg. They can’t be that slow on a regular basis surely? Not quite, it took twenty five minutes for a fried egg and toast. It then took a further five minutes to fetch the tea. A man could die of starvation and thirst in this place. I bet there’s been days when hosts (hang on, I’ve not seen more than four on both occasions) of guests are sat around expiring in front of the staff, their cadavers crumbling into dust.
The food when it arrived was appalling but at least the tea was hot. I’m clutching at straws here to give them a decent mark. Never mind, the egg filled a gap and I was soon on the road and heading towards Silchar. God, it’s an awful journey! Once out of Silchar, the road disappears and for the next twenty five kilometres, it is a dust road. I felt every pot hole. Every one was at least a foot deep. Twenty five kilometres! I have to keep repeating that distance over in my head. I just can’t believe that anyone would leave a road un-tarmacced (is that even a word?) for such a distance. It’s the main road from Silchar to Shillong for goodness sake. You want to go to Shillong, you have to take this road!
Oh, and don’t think that the lack of an asphalt road would reign in the antics of the motorists. Fair do’s, they do cut their speed but only because they have to. If they didn’t their axles would probably break in no time. There are even rickshaw riders transporting their customers along this road. It must be murder on the cyclist’s legs.
Eventually, past several businesses (most of them offering auto repairs!) we arrive at a huuuge tea estate and the road reappears. I’m sure I heard my buttocks yelp in appreciation. The only change being, now that we are on asphalt, is that the driver’s speed increases to as fast as he can get away with.
Oh, I almost forgot the driver’s horn! Indian driver’s love their horn. They are forever playing with it. The least excuse and PAAAAARP! I think use of the horn is officially endorsed and even encouraged. There are road signs reminding drivers to use their horn. Even on the back of wagons, there are signs telling the vehicle behind to “Sound Horn Please!” The resulting cacophony could send you crackers, just like Oliver Hardy in “Saps at Sea!”
So, you can see, Indian roads are not for the fainthearted! But today is Sunday and that throws something else into the mix. I’m sure there are more wagons on the road today. Yep, definitely, as we seem to pass three or four trucks every kilometre! Jyoti confirms that, yes there are a lot more trucks on the road, as Sunday is a special day. It’s the only day of the week there are no regulations put onto the truck drivers. As a result, it’s go for your life. Literally.
On more than one occasion we are stuck in a jam of wagons because a rescue truck has blocked the road hauling yet another wagon from out of the ditch. Some are not too badly damaged and will probably continue on their journey once righted. Others are complete and utter write offs. You know, I say that and in the UK it would be true. But this is India and from necessity, recycling has been elevated to an art form. I see wagons on the road that have been seriously damaged in the past, yet some enterprising auto repair mechanic has renovated it back into a functioning machine. Not the most glamorous looking thing but functional nevertheless.
Eight hours! I’ll say that again. Eight long hours later. We arrive in Shillong. I’m knackered. Goodness knows how the driver is feeling. His head must be buzzing. We are all covered in a layer of dust and I’m so relieved to be here in one piece. On more than one occasion on the journey I stared headlong into an oncoming truck and thought “This is it, death!” Only for the driver to nip into some otherwise unforeseen (at least by me) gap in the row of trucks.
The rest of the night plays out exactly as you would expect. I go out for a stroll; I buy some whopping big bidi, I get my beard trimmed and I come back for a beer.
“Hello, can I order a beer for room number 105?”
“Hello, you want tea?”
“No, beer please”
“Tea? For how many?”
“No, beer….”
God this is so predictable.
It’s my last big car journey tomorrow. Cherrapunjee and then back to Guwahati. I think I’ll end this entry with Iggy Pop. Good old sell out Mr. Pop. I thought he was the business till only a few months back. I loved his attitude, rebelliousness… and then he went and did a commercial for insurance. Insurance! How much more middle class can he get? How much more disillusioned in life can I get? Oh bollocks, let’s go with the flow…. “I am the passenger and I ride and I ride…”
If you’ve ever travelled in the Indian sub-continent you’ll know just how crazy the road users are. Might is right and, despite there being either inadequate or even no pavements, pedestrians have no rights whatsoever. In fact the many cows wandering in and out of the traffic garner more consideration from the motorists.
Ok, let’s start at the very beginning. Which is a very good place to start, according to someone who’s name escapes me. Last time I ordered breakfast in this particular hotel, it took them almost an hour to cook me one fried egg. They can’t be that slow on a regular basis surely? Not quite, it took twenty five minutes for a fried egg and toast. It then took a further five minutes to fetch the tea. A man could die of starvation and thirst in this place. I bet there’s been days when hosts (hang on, I’ve not seen more than four on both occasions) of guests are sat around expiring in front of the staff, their cadavers crumbling into dust.
The food when it arrived was appalling but at least the tea was hot. I’m clutching at straws here to give them a decent mark. Never mind, the egg filled a gap and I was soon on the road and heading towards Silchar. God, it’s an awful journey! Once out of Silchar, the road disappears and for the next twenty five kilometres, it is a dust road. I felt every pot hole. Every one was at least a foot deep. Twenty five kilometres! I have to keep repeating that distance over in my head. I just can’t believe that anyone would leave a road un-tarmacced (is that even a word?) for such a distance. It’s the main road from Silchar to Shillong for goodness sake. You want to go to Shillong, you have to take this road!
Oh, and don’t think that the lack of an asphalt road would reign in the antics of the motorists. Fair do’s, they do cut their speed but only because they have to. If they didn’t their axles would probably break in no time. There are even rickshaw riders transporting their customers along this road. It must be murder on the cyclist’s legs.
Eventually, past several businesses (most of them offering auto repairs!) we arrive at a huuuge tea estate and the road reappears. I’m sure I heard my buttocks yelp in appreciation. The only change being, now that we are on asphalt, is that the driver’s speed increases to as fast as he can get away with.
Oh, I almost forgot the driver’s horn! Indian driver’s love their horn. They are forever playing with it. The least excuse and PAAAAARP! I think use of the horn is officially endorsed and even encouraged. There are road signs reminding drivers to use their horn. Even on the back of wagons, there are signs telling the vehicle behind to “Sound Horn Please!” The resulting cacophony could send you crackers, just like Oliver Hardy in “Saps at Sea!”
So, you can see, Indian roads are not for the fainthearted! But today is Sunday and that throws something else into the mix. I’m sure there are more wagons on the road today. Yep, definitely, as we seem to pass three or four trucks every kilometre! Jyoti confirms that, yes there are a lot more trucks on the road, as Sunday is a special day. It’s the only day of the week there are no regulations put onto the truck drivers. As a result, it’s go for your life. Literally.
On more than one occasion we are stuck in a jam of wagons because a rescue truck has blocked the road hauling yet another wagon from out of the ditch. Some are not too badly damaged and will probably continue on their journey once righted. Others are complete and utter write offs. You know, I say that and in the UK it would be true. But this is India and from necessity, recycling has been elevated to an art form. I see wagons on the road that have been seriously damaged in the past, yet some enterprising auto repair mechanic has renovated it back into a functioning machine. Not the most glamorous looking thing but functional nevertheless.
Eight hours! I’ll say that again. Eight long hours later. We arrive in Shillong. I’m knackered. Goodness knows how the driver is feeling. His head must be buzzing. We are all covered in a layer of dust and I’m so relieved to be here in one piece. On more than one occasion on the journey I stared headlong into an oncoming truck and thought “This is it, death!” Only for the driver to nip into some otherwise unforeseen (at least by me) gap in the row of trucks.
The rest of the night plays out exactly as you would expect. I go out for a stroll; I buy some whopping big bidi, I get my beard trimmed and I come back for a beer.
“Hello, can I order a beer for room number 105?”
“Hello, you want tea?”
“No, beer please”
“Tea? For how many?”
“No, beer….”
God this is so predictable.
It’s my last big car journey tomorrow. Cherrapunjee and then back to Guwahati. I think I’ll end this entry with Iggy Pop. Good old sell out Mr. Pop. I thought he was the business till only a few months back. I loved his attitude, rebelliousness… and then he went and did a commercial for insurance. Insurance! How much more middle class can he get? How much more disillusioned in life can I get? Oh bollocks, let’s go with the flow…. “I am the passenger and I ride and I ride…”
The earth shook for me
Yesterday, at the Mizo festival, I met many many beautiful girls. Today, in the early hours of the morning, the earth moved. I felt it, I’m sure the girls all felt it. I only hope it was as exciting for them as it was for me. I jumped out of bed when it happened. Well, it’s been a long time since I’d experienced an earthquake.
I was happily dreaming of real ale and sausages and then the bed began moving. It took me a second to come back into the real world and then it registered. My god, it’s an earthquake. I’ve been here just about three weeks and the area has undergone three such quakes. This, however, was the first one I’d experienced. I leapt out of bed and thought, “what am I supposed to do?” Well, I did everything I shouldn’t. I went and stood outside on the balcony to see what anyone else would do. I had no specs on, so couldn’t see anything anyhow. So… I went back to bed!
As you might have already sussed, it wasn’t a major occurrence in the lives of the North East peoples. They live on one of the most seismic tectonic plates. The Asiatic plate is still moving after it crashed into the Eurasian plate all those millennia ago. It didn’t even figure on the tv news this morning. They were still concentrating on the world record bamboo pole dancing.
I had the tv on whilst waiting for my breakfast to be served. I’d opted for a fied egg, a plain omelette and a roti (Egg butties you see). I was amazed to be told that a roti was out of the question as the kitchen won’t make them in the morning. Nobody must have told yesterday’s chef as I had two then.
It’s Highway – Not Runway!
Yet another great road sign
It’s a long day today as we’re travelling back to Silchar for an overnight stop before travelling on to Cherrapunjee and Shillong the day after. It’s a seven hour drive and, really, what can one say about a long, hot drive through deep forest? Not a lot really. By the time we got to Silchar my arse was as numb as Wayne Rooney. Ok, perhaps not that numb then.
I’ve just had a walk round a discount shop here in Silchar. I was amazed at the prices. It’s cheaper in Rochdale! The shorts I bought from Matalan before coming out here, I paid the extortionate price of £8. The same kind of shorts were over 500/-, well on the way to £8. I’m starting to sound like an old biddy, I do apologise. Eeeeeh, look at the price of fish too Ada, it’s a disgrace!
Still, I’m out of Mizoram and that means one thing. I’m no longer in a dry state! So, I’m having a beer or two tonight.
Wahey! Yer all me besht mates! What a good evening. Down to the bar and they were showing the IPL, of which I know nowt. The barman welcomed me like a long lost friend. Ok, it might be false but, damn it feels good to be appreciated when no bugger has known you for almost a month. The assembled knew lots about the cricket and the buzz created was great. Want to know the result? Rajasthan Rajas beat Mumbai Indians and that’s as much as you need to know. From there we switched over to Premier League footie. Not the most exciting with Blacburn and Spurs playing but it’ll do for me. Oh, I forgot to mention, instead of giving me free nuts, barman gave me free chips! How bloody good is that?? I then went mad and ordered a half tandoori chicken and two chapattis, how’s that for finger food?
Stuffed and happy as Larry, I retired to my room to watch the rest of the days footie action. Well, sod you, it sounds good to me!
I was happily dreaming of real ale and sausages and then the bed began moving. It took me a second to come back into the real world and then it registered. My god, it’s an earthquake. I’ve been here just about three weeks and the area has undergone three such quakes. This, however, was the first one I’d experienced. I leapt out of bed and thought, “what am I supposed to do?” Well, I did everything I shouldn’t. I went and stood outside on the balcony to see what anyone else would do. I had no specs on, so couldn’t see anything anyhow. So… I went back to bed!
As you might have already sussed, it wasn’t a major occurrence in the lives of the North East peoples. They live on one of the most seismic tectonic plates. The Asiatic plate is still moving after it crashed into the Eurasian plate all those millennia ago. It didn’t even figure on the tv news this morning. They were still concentrating on the world record bamboo pole dancing.
I had the tv on whilst waiting for my breakfast to be served. I’d opted for a fied egg, a plain omelette and a roti (Egg butties you see). I was amazed to be told that a roti was out of the question as the kitchen won’t make them in the morning. Nobody must have told yesterday’s chef as I had two then.
It’s Highway – Not Runway!
Yet another great road sign
It’s a long day today as we’re travelling back to Silchar for an overnight stop before travelling on to Cherrapunjee and Shillong the day after. It’s a seven hour drive and, really, what can one say about a long, hot drive through deep forest? Not a lot really. By the time we got to Silchar my arse was as numb as Wayne Rooney. Ok, perhaps not that numb then.
I’ve just had a walk round a discount shop here in Silchar. I was amazed at the prices. It’s cheaper in Rochdale! The shorts I bought from Matalan before coming out here, I paid the extortionate price of £8. The same kind of shorts were over 500/-, well on the way to £8. I’m starting to sound like an old biddy, I do apologise. Eeeeeh, look at the price of fish too Ada, it’s a disgrace!
Still, I’m out of Mizoram and that means one thing. I’m no longer in a dry state! So, I’m having a beer or two tonight.
Wahey! Yer all me besht mates! What a good evening. Down to the bar and they were showing the IPL, of which I know nowt. The barman welcomed me like a long lost friend. Ok, it might be false but, damn it feels good to be appreciated when no bugger has known you for almost a month. The assembled knew lots about the cricket and the buzz created was great. Want to know the result? Rajasthan Rajas beat Mumbai Indians and that’s as much as you need to know. From there we switched over to Premier League footie. Not the most exciting with Blacburn and Spurs playing but it’ll do for me. Oh, I forgot to mention, instead of giving me free nuts, barman gave me free chips! How bloody good is that?? I then went mad and ordered a half tandoori chicken and two chapattis, how’s that for finger food?
Stuffed and happy as Larry, I retired to my room to watch the rest of the days footie action. Well, sod you, it sounds good to me!
world record attempt
Twenty minutes ago I was disturbed by a phone call.
“Hello, order dinner?
“Err, can I order a bit later?”
“Order dinner NOW!”
“Can I not order later?”
“Hello DINNER…?” drrrrrrrr (sound of phone being hung up)
So now I’ve decided what I want, I’ll phone it through. It can’t be that difficult can it?
“Hello can I order dinner please, for room 308?”
“What?”
“Errr, order dinner?”
“What you want?”
“Chicken curry, plain rice…”
“Chicken curry, how many?”
“Just the one please and plain rice…”
“Pork curry….”
“No, plain rice. One chicken curry, one plain rice, one roti and Sprite please”
“Basmati rice?”
“No, plain rice but just a bottle of sprite”
“Just basmati rice?”
“No, chicken curry, plain rice and a sprite”
“Hmmmm, ok”…. drrrrrrrrr (sound of phone being hung up on me again)
“No race, No rally – Enjoy the valley”
Great road signs number something in a series of a few
No cars, no aching bum, no shocking roadside dhaba’s. I stayed in bed till almost 7am today, ordered a leisurely breakfast and washed a t-shirt in the shower. I left the washed shirt outside, figuring it’d be dry in an hour or so, it’s that hot! Well, it probably did dry but an hour later I went out to check and it had fallen from my balcony and was nowhere to be seen. Either that or the eagles have had it. More to the point, it looks like I’ve had it with seeing that shirt again.
Off to “Chapchar Kut” and, after a walk around the showground for me, we find ourselves some chairs in a prime grandstand position. Gosh, it was busy. The bamaboo poles were all being laid out in readiness for the “world record attempt” at bamboo pole dancing. I was a bit dismissive of the whole record business but these people are deadly serious! I really should try and reign in my natural insincts sometimes. I tend to forget that these people are using this as a community bonding and strengthening device. And it seems to work. Young old alike were enjoying the party atmosphere. You really can’t knock it if it works!
Oh no, I’d been spotted again. I rather hoped I was just a face in the crowd and therefore relatively invisible. Not a chance. Some character from NE TV had seen me and was hot tailing it in my direction. “How would I like to go to the main stage and be interviewed?” Well, I wouldn’t like it at all and I told him so. “Oh, please come, we have Chinese, Japanese and now we have you from UK” Oh sod it, it’s a once in a lifetime thing and no-one in the UK will see it. I’ll do it! I was interviewed by the most gorgeous Mizo girl ever and that’s saying something as they all look pretty incredible to an aging old fart like me! I’m glad I’ve just remembered to tell you this as it reminded me to turn the tv on. Good grief, it seems like they broke the world record and it’s headline news! Looks like they managed 671 sets of bamboo dancing. They danced all up the main street at well as in the showground. Blimey, they deserve a medal for just stopping that awful traffic in the city and letting the people take precedence.
After three rehearsals we were treated to tiffin. That’s not just me using that word at an attempt at post colonial humour, they actually had it on the programme of events; 1pm – Tiffin. The arena was then cleared of non-participants and the attempt proper began. It made me laugh as they had a most impressive countdown to the start of the dance with everyone taking part. The tune began like something of as an anti-climax as it’s a most plinky plonky tune. No matter, the dancers were very good and must have practised lots to be as good as they are. Dance over, the relief was palpable and there were even a couple of girls who had fallen faint. I have to think this is due to the heat, it was burning hot in that showground.
Midway through the day, after the record attempt, they then had local rock musicians on stage. Blimey, the young people loved them! The music was all a bit happy clappy and despite me not knowing any Mizo, I can only guess it was right on church messages they were singing about. There was even a bloke walking about with a “Jesus Loves You” placard. Well, I won’t stick about for religious tunes at anytime, so it was time to go and get a brew and shave.
I don’t believe it, dinner has just arrived. Chicken curry? Yup! well, they got that right. Bottle of sprite? Yay right again! Nowt else. The chap looked crestfallen when I told him I’d got an incomplete order. Meatloaf might have sang about two out of three ‘aint bad but what about two out of four Mr. Loaf? Eh?? Eh???
“Hello, order dinner?
“Err, can I order a bit later?”
“Order dinner NOW!”
“Can I not order later?”
“Hello DINNER…?” drrrrrrrr (sound of phone being hung up)
So now I’ve decided what I want, I’ll phone it through. It can’t be that difficult can it?
“Hello can I order dinner please, for room 308?”
“What?”
“Errr, order dinner?”
“What you want?”
“Chicken curry, plain rice…”
“Chicken curry, how many?”
“Just the one please and plain rice…”
“Pork curry….”
“No, plain rice. One chicken curry, one plain rice, one roti and Sprite please”
“Basmati rice?”
“No, plain rice but just a bottle of sprite”
“Just basmati rice?”
“No, chicken curry, plain rice and a sprite”
“Hmmmm, ok”…. drrrrrrrrr (sound of phone being hung up on me again)
“No race, No rally – Enjoy the valley”
Great road signs number something in a series of a few
No cars, no aching bum, no shocking roadside dhaba’s. I stayed in bed till almost 7am today, ordered a leisurely breakfast and washed a t-shirt in the shower. I left the washed shirt outside, figuring it’d be dry in an hour or so, it’s that hot! Well, it probably did dry but an hour later I went out to check and it had fallen from my balcony and was nowhere to be seen. Either that or the eagles have had it. More to the point, it looks like I’ve had it with seeing that shirt again.
Off to “Chapchar Kut” and, after a walk around the showground for me, we find ourselves some chairs in a prime grandstand position. Gosh, it was busy. The bamaboo poles were all being laid out in readiness for the “world record attempt” at bamboo pole dancing. I was a bit dismissive of the whole record business but these people are deadly serious! I really should try and reign in my natural insincts sometimes. I tend to forget that these people are using this as a community bonding and strengthening device. And it seems to work. Young old alike were enjoying the party atmosphere. You really can’t knock it if it works!
Oh no, I’d been spotted again. I rather hoped I was just a face in the crowd and therefore relatively invisible. Not a chance. Some character from NE TV had seen me and was hot tailing it in my direction. “How would I like to go to the main stage and be interviewed?” Well, I wouldn’t like it at all and I told him so. “Oh, please come, we have Chinese, Japanese and now we have you from UK” Oh sod it, it’s a once in a lifetime thing and no-one in the UK will see it. I’ll do it! I was interviewed by the most gorgeous Mizo girl ever and that’s saying something as they all look pretty incredible to an aging old fart like me! I’m glad I’ve just remembered to tell you this as it reminded me to turn the tv on. Good grief, it seems like they broke the world record and it’s headline news! Looks like they managed 671 sets of bamboo dancing. They danced all up the main street at well as in the showground. Blimey, they deserve a medal for just stopping that awful traffic in the city and letting the people take precedence.
After three rehearsals we were treated to tiffin. That’s not just me using that word at an attempt at post colonial humour, they actually had it on the programme of events; 1pm – Tiffin. The arena was then cleared of non-participants and the attempt proper began. It made me laugh as they had a most impressive countdown to the start of the dance with everyone taking part. The tune began like something of as an anti-climax as it’s a most plinky plonky tune. No matter, the dancers were very good and must have practised lots to be as good as they are. Dance over, the relief was palpable and there were even a couple of girls who had fallen faint. I have to think this is due to the heat, it was burning hot in that showground.
Midway through the day, after the record attempt, they then had local rock musicians on stage. Blimey, the young people loved them! The music was all a bit happy clappy and despite me not knowing any Mizo, I can only guess it was right on church messages they were singing about. There was even a bloke walking about with a “Jesus Loves You” placard. Well, I won’t stick about for religious tunes at anytime, so it was time to go and get a brew and shave.
I don’t believe it, dinner has just arrived. Chicken curry? Yup! well, they got that right. Bottle of sprite? Yay right again! Nowt else. The chap looked crestfallen when I told him I’d got an incomplete order. Meatloaf might have sang about two out of three ‘aint bad but what about two out of four Mr. Loaf? Eh?? Eh???
Danicng shoes
I awoke this morning all stiff. Not something that happens that often these days at my age. Unfortunately, it was my neck. Housekeeping didn’t show with my extra pillow, so I spent the night attempting to sleep on a folded up one instead.
Still the morning shower was nice and warm and, after doing the bits, I had to go to the local police station. No, I’d not done anything wrong. It’s a requirement of all foreigners to register at the local cop shop. By jove it was a long way away. We’d taken assistance in the shape of the lodge manager. Never have I met a more camp Indian. Even sat in the police station he was trying to get me to look out the window and admire the view. “Isn’t it wonderful? You can see all around Aizawl”, “Oh thank you sergeant, my what a large truncheon you have!” Yes, I made that last bit up but I wouldn’t have been surprised. Bless him, he helped me get registered with the police and for that I’m grateful.
You may remember I was due to go to Champhai? Well, we’ve called it off. The place is only a border town and it takes seven hours to get there and, naturally enough, seven hours back. I wouldn’t have time to blow my nose and we’d be coming back to Aizawl. So it’s Aizawl for us and a good job too!
The annual festival of “Chapchar Kut” occurs every March, to celebrate the oncoming spring season. Mizos dress in their finest traditional dress and take part in much communal singing and dancing. I’m in luck. It all starts today, down on the local dustbowl. The place is packed when we get there. I’m welcomed like a long lost son of Mizoram. I’m even stopped and offered the local rice wine, despite it being a dry state. It’d be rude not to accept but I really wish I hadn’t. The stuff tasted as strong as vodka and I had to sip it out of some dead animal’s horn. Mind you, the reaction on my face had the locals howling with laughter!
It was as hot as Beelzebub’s sauna walking around that showground. Even Jyoti had to call it quits and sneak off to get some water. Like the fool I am, I stayed there to get as many photographs as possible; mad dogs and Englishmen and all that! It was a really jolly atmosphere. Even the VIP’s (I think one was the king? – do they have a king?) were delighted to pose for photographs and even wanted their pictures taken with me. Well, I am rob of Rochdale I suppose! The showground was a complete dustbowl so, as soon as they all started dancing, the dust was unbelievable. If you can imagine the dancing as a great big line dance, with waving arms, you won’t be too far off.
I met back up with Jyoti at 1pm and we decided to go for a stroll around the local bazaars. Though what on earth he thinks I would do with steel water jugs, second hand t-shirts and wheel trims is beyond me. Did I tell you the screaming habdabs were back again? No? Well, picture the scene. You’re in the middle of Aizawl, there are no public toilets. If there was, you wouldn’t want to use them. It’s over 30C and my arse is twitching like Clarissa Dickson Wright at an anti vivisection rally. Nowt for it but to tough it out.
The festival carries on for one more day and tomorrow is the biggie. They are going for a world record attempt at bamboo dancing. You’ve seen it before? Where they put the bamboo on the floor and they all jump in and out of the moving wood. At least, that’s what I’m presuming it is. They’d even produced some t-shirts to celebrate the record attempt and I thought it’d be a jolly wheeze to buy one for myself, Jyoti and driver (No, I still don’t know his name). Well guess what? The Mizos are all so slightly built; they didn’t have any t-shirts in my size. Whaddaya mean “lose some weight then fattie!” So I just bought both Jyoti and driver a shirt. Talk about under-whelmed. I wish I hadn’t bothered now.
Oh, how exciting! I left some laundry today in the hope of it being washed and returned to me today. Joy, it’s just turned up! Clean clothes for the first time in a week! Shall I tempt fate and ask for the missing pillow? Well, I did, so there and guess what… she’s just arrived with one. Wuhoooooooo.
Screaming habdabs or not I’m having dinner tonight; Chicken curry, chips and chapattis. If all’s well, then I should be ok. If not, you might see me on the news tomorrow night, “Dancing English man stuns bamboo dancers with virtuoso performance crossing showground to get to the toilet”
Still the morning shower was nice and warm and, after doing the bits, I had to go to the local police station. No, I’d not done anything wrong. It’s a requirement of all foreigners to register at the local cop shop. By jove it was a long way away. We’d taken assistance in the shape of the lodge manager. Never have I met a more camp Indian. Even sat in the police station he was trying to get me to look out the window and admire the view. “Isn’t it wonderful? You can see all around Aizawl”, “Oh thank you sergeant, my what a large truncheon you have!” Yes, I made that last bit up but I wouldn’t have been surprised. Bless him, he helped me get registered with the police and for that I’m grateful.
You may remember I was due to go to Champhai? Well, we’ve called it off. The place is only a border town and it takes seven hours to get there and, naturally enough, seven hours back. I wouldn’t have time to blow my nose and we’d be coming back to Aizawl. So it’s Aizawl for us and a good job too!
The annual festival of “Chapchar Kut” occurs every March, to celebrate the oncoming spring season. Mizos dress in their finest traditional dress and take part in much communal singing and dancing. I’m in luck. It all starts today, down on the local dustbowl. The place is packed when we get there. I’m welcomed like a long lost son of Mizoram. I’m even stopped and offered the local rice wine, despite it being a dry state. It’d be rude not to accept but I really wish I hadn’t. The stuff tasted as strong as vodka and I had to sip it out of some dead animal’s horn. Mind you, the reaction on my face had the locals howling with laughter!
It was as hot as Beelzebub’s sauna walking around that showground. Even Jyoti had to call it quits and sneak off to get some water. Like the fool I am, I stayed there to get as many photographs as possible; mad dogs and Englishmen and all that! It was a really jolly atmosphere. Even the VIP’s (I think one was the king? – do they have a king?) were delighted to pose for photographs and even wanted their pictures taken with me. Well, I am rob of Rochdale I suppose! The showground was a complete dustbowl so, as soon as they all started dancing, the dust was unbelievable. If you can imagine the dancing as a great big line dance, with waving arms, you won’t be too far off.
I met back up with Jyoti at 1pm and we decided to go for a stroll around the local bazaars. Though what on earth he thinks I would do with steel water jugs, second hand t-shirts and wheel trims is beyond me. Did I tell you the screaming habdabs were back again? No? Well, picture the scene. You’re in the middle of Aizawl, there are no public toilets. If there was, you wouldn’t want to use them. It’s over 30C and my arse is twitching like Clarissa Dickson Wright at an anti vivisection rally. Nowt for it but to tough it out.
The festival carries on for one more day and tomorrow is the biggie. They are going for a world record attempt at bamboo dancing. You’ve seen it before? Where they put the bamboo on the floor and they all jump in and out of the moving wood. At least, that’s what I’m presuming it is. They’d even produced some t-shirts to celebrate the record attempt and I thought it’d be a jolly wheeze to buy one for myself, Jyoti and driver (No, I still don’t know his name). Well guess what? The Mizos are all so slightly built; they didn’t have any t-shirts in my size. Whaddaya mean “lose some weight then fattie!” So I just bought both Jyoti and driver a shirt. Talk about under-whelmed. I wish I hadn’t bothered now.
Oh, how exciting! I left some laundry today in the hope of it being washed and returned to me today. Joy, it’s just turned up! Clean clothes for the first time in a week! Shall I tempt fate and ask for the missing pillow? Well, I did, so there and guess what… she’s just arrived with one. Wuhoooooooo.
Screaming habdabs or not I’m having dinner tonight; Chicken curry, chips and chapattis. If all’s well, then I should be ok. If not, you might see me on the news tomorrow night, “Dancing English man stuns bamboo dancers with virtuoso performance crossing showground to get to the toilet”
Let us pray
Mizoram. Ever heard of the place? Even know where it is? The bloody Victorian religious nutters knew exactly where it was and beat it there hotfoot to “save” the savages from the eternal flames of hell. Bloody upshot is, I can’t get a drink of alcohol for love nor money. Today and everyday, Mizoram is a “dry state”.
Mizoram lies in the far South East of India’s “seven sister” North East states. It’s the border state that is next to Myanmar/Burma. I’ve had to get another Restricted Area Pass to get into the state and even then the police still want baksheesh to let me in. We argue that I’m a friend of Jyoti’s and have come for the world record attempt at bamboo dancing, due to be held in the state in the next couple of days. He accepts that and instead paying 1k /- in baksheesh, he kindly accepts 100/- instead. He’s all heart.
The state has, in the past suffered from more than its fair share of terrorist actions. Now, however, the MNF (Mizo National Front) form a majority party in government and things are all quiet on the western front once again. Because of interfering Victorian do-gooders, the population speak no Hindi, only Mizo and/or English. Imagine that, living in a country and not knowing the national language! The population are overwhelmingly Christian in their beliefs and an Indian face is a rarity, most of the Mizo’s have Thai/Chinese/Burmese features.
So, after breakfast, we were due another six hours on the road from Assam to Mizoram. I say after breakfast because I really never thought it would arrive. How long does it take to make beans on toast and a poached egg? 7.01 I entered the restaurant and it was almost 7.57 when I left. I know my accent is a bit strong, so whilst over here, I do try to pronounce my words as clearly as possible. Dagnabbit, I even got the menu out and pointed to the articles I wanted! He nearly collapsed when I said I wanted a large pot of coffee. “But sir that is almost four cups!” The beans were inedible, the poached egg was fried and the coffee was as weak as maiden’s water. It then took them almost ten minutes to get the bull together. Bugger me they were hopeless.
Four hours later and we had entered the forests of Mizoram. Same twisty roads as Arunachal Pradesh only better maintained. But it really does become wearing leaning to one side then the other, then back again every few minutes. It’s not as though there is anything to look at outside. All that can be seen is the deep green of the deep forest. Despite coming to driving late in life and spending most of my adult life as a passenger, I now really struggle in that position. I can’t concentrate, my eyes become heavy and today I just lay down and went to sleep for a bit.
We were heading towards Aizawl which is the capitol of Mizoram and when I first caught sight, I was damned impressed. It’s built on the ridge of a mountain. Tiny little houses dotted all over the mountainside catching every glimpse of the sun’s heat. I’m staying at the tourist lodge tonight. Aizawl is remote and they’re certainly not geared up for foreign tourists. But the place is clean, there’s running hot and cold water and the little bed looks comfy enough. It’ll do me for one night before travelling onto the border town of Champhai tomorrow.
Safely settled in my room, I promptly go out for a bit of sightseeing. The kids are just coming home from schools resplendent in their 150’s style uniforms. There are great giggles when I walk past a gang of teenagers and howls of laughter when I remarked, “Good afternoon and how are you ladies today?” They loved it and couldn’t wait to try their English out on me. I’d decided to try and find a restaurant mentioned in “The Lonely Planet” guide. But what did I do, instead of turning right, I went left. I had to walk miles with my heavy camera bag over my shoulder, under the blisteringly hot sun. Oh, I could just get a taxi but I wasn’t about to get fleeced by the footpads! So on I marched.
Eventually and I really do mean eventually, I found the place. I was the only diner, the food was average and I was totally nonplussed. So much for being an explorer! It was getting dark by the time I left the restaurant and I really had no idea where I was. Everything closes early in Mizoram, blame those Victorian missionaries again. I still had to get back to the tourist lodge. I had to get a cab. I was convinced I was going to be fleeced as I marched up to an idle cab driver in anticipation. “How much to tourist lodge?” My strong accent must have really been working overtime as he had no idea what the hell I was on about. But with perseverance and actions, those great British traits, I got in the cab and we decided on a fair of 50/- Bloody hell, if I’d have known it was so little earlier on, I’d have had a taxi then, instead of losing three stone trudging the streets of Aizawl, looking for a crap restaurant!
So here I am, back at the lodge. I’ve requested an extra pillow but I’m not hopeful. I received a phone call with the voice at the other end saying, “Housekeeping? Come round now! NOW…..” That was over an hour ago and still nobody. Maybe he’s in the kitchen getting the breakfast recipe for forty minute beans and egg? Ah well, there’s always water for supper tonight. Cheers all!
Mizoram lies in the far South East of India’s “seven sister” North East states. It’s the border state that is next to Myanmar/Burma. I’ve had to get another Restricted Area Pass to get into the state and even then the police still want baksheesh to let me in. We argue that I’m a friend of Jyoti’s and have come for the world record attempt at bamboo dancing, due to be held in the state in the next couple of days. He accepts that and instead paying 1k /- in baksheesh, he kindly accepts 100/- instead. He’s all heart.
The state has, in the past suffered from more than its fair share of terrorist actions. Now, however, the MNF (Mizo National Front) form a majority party in government and things are all quiet on the western front once again. Because of interfering Victorian do-gooders, the population speak no Hindi, only Mizo and/or English. Imagine that, living in a country and not knowing the national language! The population are overwhelmingly Christian in their beliefs and an Indian face is a rarity, most of the Mizo’s have Thai/Chinese/Burmese features.
So, after breakfast, we were due another six hours on the road from Assam to Mizoram. I say after breakfast because I really never thought it would arrive. How long does it take to make beans on toast and a poached egg? 7.01 I entered the restaurant and it was almost 7.57 when I left. I know my accent is a bit strong, so whilst over here, I do try to pronounce my words as clearly as possible. Dagnabbit, I even got the menu out and pointed to the articles I wanted! He nearly collapsed when I said I wanted a large pot of coffee. “But sir that is almost four cups!” The beans were inedible, the poached egg was fried and the coffee was as weak as maiden’s water. It then took them almost ten minutes to get the bull together. Bugger me they were hopeless.
Four hours later and we had entered the forests of Mizoram. Same twisty roads as Arunachal Pradesh only better maintained. But it really does become wearing leaning to one side then the other, then back again every few minutes. It’s not as though there is anything to look at outside. All that can be seen is the deep green of the deep forest. Despite coming to driving late in life and spending most of my adult life as a passenger, I now really struggle in that position. I can’t concentrate, my eyes become heavy and today I just lay down and went to sleep for a bit.
We were heading towards Aizawl which is the capitol of Mizoram and when I first caught sight, I was damned impressed. It’s built on the ridge of a mountain. Tiny little houses dotted all over the mountainside catching every glimpse of the sun’s heat. I’m staying at the tourist lodge tonight. Aizawl is remote and they’re certainly not geared up for foreign tourists. But the place is clean, there’s running hot and cold water and the little bed looks comfy enough. It’ll do me for one night before travelling onto the border town of Champhai tomorrow.
Safely settled in my room, I promptly go out for a bit of sightseeing. The kids are just coming home from schools resplendent in their 150’s style uniforms. There are great giggles when I walk past a gang of teenagers and howls of laughter when I remarked, “Good afternoon and how are you ladies today?” They loved it and couldn’t wait to try their English out on me. I’d decided to try and find a restaurant mentioned in “The Lonely Planet” guide. But what did I do, instead of turning right, I went left. I had to walk miles with my heavy camera bag over my shoulder, under the blisteringly hot sun. Oh, I could just get a taxi but I wasn’t about to get fleeced by the footpads! So on I marched.
Eventually and I really do mean eventually, I found the place. I was the only diner, the food was average and I was totally nonplussed. So much for being an explorer! It was getting dark by the time I left the restaurant and I really had no idea where I was. Everything closes early in Mizoram, blame those Victorian missionaries again. I still had to get back to the tourist lodge. I had to get a cab. I was convinced I was going to be fleeced as I marched up to an idle cab driver in anticipation. “How much to tourist lodge?” My strong accent must have really been working overtime as he had no idea what the hell I was on about. But with perseverance and actions, those great British traits, I got in the cab and we decided on a fair of 50/- Bloody hell, if I’d have known it was so little earlier on, I’d have had a taxi then, instead of losing three stone trudging the streets of Aizawl, looking for a crap restaurant!
So here I am, back at the lodge. I’ve requested an extra pillow but I’m not hopeful. I received a phone call with the voice at the other end saying, “Housekeeping? Come round now! NOW…..” That was over an hour ago and still nobody. Maybe he’s in the kitchen getting the breakfast recipe for forty minute beans and egg? Ah well, there’s always water for supper tonight. Cheers all!
Wednesday 10 March 2010
Where are you Ste?
If you’re in that taxi going home after a few pints, just what do you talk to the taxi driver about? Ok, you can just sit there and say nowt. This makes the taxi driver think you’re either drunk or stupid, so the price goes up! If, like me, you’re a tight arse and recognise you’re a tight arse, attempt to engage the driver in meaningless badinage. “Been busy?”… Another good one is, “Working all night?”… After that, if the driver isn’t interested, I dry up.
My mate Ste, however, is a bloody diamond. In a cab, on the way home after a day out, he wows them! Unlike me, Ste doesn’t give up easy. He can talk bollocks with the best of ‘em! The most uncommunicative cab driver in the world will talk for hours once Ste engages him. I’ve sat there on many an occasion thinking, “Nah Ste, you’ve no chance this time lad”, only for the driver, after pondering his options for a couple of seconds, to waffle on for Lancashire! So Ste, I really could have done with you tonight matey!
Boringly, the day began as it always does, with the sun rising. I checked out of the hotel and away we went. You’ve probably noticed that I missed breakfast? So, shortly after leaving Shillong, we stopped at a roadside dhaba for tea. It must have been a bloody good place because every fly in the area was there. Still, the tea was hot and welcome.
Onwards and upwards and the next time we stop was three hours later in the Khasi hills. I promised myself I wouldn’t do any gags about khasis, it’s just too damned easy! Oh but the place we stopped at you really couldn’t joke about. It was… err, basic. Nah bugger it, it was filthy and even more fly blown than the last place. I was going to order mutton but then, with a blinding spot of inspiration and foresight I thought “Bugger, where will all those flies lay their eggs?” Eh? Genius thinking eh?
But instead of just having nowt, I opted for rice and dal. Don’t brae me, I was trying to be good but in retrospect, eeeeew, that place!
Travelling is a series of highs and lows. You have to experience the lows to appreciate the highs. We all miss our comforts. Slight inconveniences become major obstacles. The idea is to recognise when you are going through that low and kick yourself up the arse. Unfortunately, today, my brain forgot to engage kicking foot.
After eight hours on the road/dirt track my arse was numb. My back was twisted into a Gordian knot and I really could do with no more travelling. So when Jyoti mentioned that it was another six hour trip tomorrow, on bad roads, followed by coming back exactly the same way home. My heart sank.
I checked into tonight’s hotel (Hotel Borail view – Silchar) with a bloody great cloud over my head, despite it being blue skies and 30C outside. I even wrote and deletede one version of this blog. Thank goodness for the “delete” button. Jyoti and the driver soon came to see me, as they both knew I was a bit down. Bless them! We discussed various options and, if the worst comes to the worst, I can always fly back to Guwahati from Aizawl if I can’t hack the road trip. To consider the options and have a slurp and proper food, I slunk down to the hotel’s “Millennium Bar”.
It was the gloomiest place I’ve ever been in. One solitary barman and me. After ordering my drink, he offers me free peanuts. Well, I’d be a fool to say no. And then we sat there, in silence.
Right, here goes, thinks I attempting to make conversation, “Quiet night tonight?”
“I don’t understand sir? Quiet?” he replied
“yeah, err, nobody in yet apart from me, so it’s quiet”
“I don’t understand sir, that’s in the Middle East… Kuwait”
This wasn’t going to be easy…
Now, don’t get me wrong, I roared inwardly. But after that I was totally stuck. Do I try plan B and ask if he’s working all night? Or cut my losses and say nowt? I did the latter. A few more bits of wasted badinage later and I was spent. I eventually sat there, at the bar, in the dark, staring at the ever diminishing volume within my glass.
But then the evening got even more surreal. Big boss barman buggered off, leaving me sat there like Piffy on a rock bun. Junior underling #1 was sent in to keep an eye on me though. He hovered like a fruit fly, not quite knowing what to do. He was soon fired off by, “up and coming lickspittle #1”. Feck, it was a joke! Did they really think I was going to leap behind the bar and empty the fridge?
Ste would have loved this. He’d have turned it to his advantage. We would probably have ended up with a free bar all night, an invitation the chap’s eldest wedding and free crisps for the night.
A few more people entered the bar and I entered conversation with some bloke from Portsmouth. I chatted for ten minutes, run out of things to say and like all investigative journalists, made my excuses and left. I sometimes hate being a piss poor conversationalist.
My mate Ste, however, is a bloody diamond. In a cab, on the way home after a day out, he wows them! Unlike me, Ste doesn’t give up easy. He can talk bollocks with the best of ‘em! The most uncommunicative cab driver in the world will talk for hours once Ste engages him. I’ve sat there on many an occasion thinking, “Nah Ste, you’ve no chance this time lad”, only for the driver, after pondering his options for a couple of seconds, to waffle on for Lancashire! So Ste, I really could have done with you tonight matey!
Boringly, the day began as it always does, with the sun rising. I checked out of the hotel and away we went. You’ve probably noticed that I missed breakfast? So, shortly after leaving Shillong, we stopped at a roadside dhaba for tea. It must have been a bloody good place because every fly in the area was there. Still, the tea was hot and welcome.
Onwards and upwards and the next time we stop was three hours later in the Khasi hills. I promised myself I wouldn’t do any gags about khasis, it’s just too damned easy! Oh but the place we stopped at you really couldn’t joke about. It was… err, basic. Nah bugger it, it was filthy and even more fly blown than the last place. I was going to order mutton but then, with a blinding spot of inspiration and foresight I thought “Bugger, where will all those flies lay their eggs?” Eh? Genius thinking eh?
But instead of just having nowt, I opted for rice and dal. Don’t brae me, I was trying to be good but in retrospect, eeeeew, that place!
Travelling is a series of highs and lows. You have to experience the lows to appreciate the highs. We all miss our comforts. Slight inconveniences become major obstacles. The idea is to recognise when you are going through that low and kick yourself up the arse. Unfortunately, today, my brain forgot to engage kicking foot.
After eight hours on the road/dirt track my arse was numb. My back was twisted into a Gordian knot and I really could do with no more travelling. So when Jyoti mentioned that it was another six hour trip tomorrow, on bad roads, followed by coming back exactly the same way home. My heart sank.
I checked into tonight’s hotel (Hotel Borail view – Silchar) with a bloody great cloud over my head, despite it being blue skies and 30C outside. I even wrote and deletede one version of this blog. Thank goodness for the “delete” button. Jyoti and the driver soon came to see me, as they both knew I was a bit down. Bless them! We discussed various options and, if the worst comes to the worst, I can always fly back to Guwahati from Aizawl if I can’t hack the road trip. To consider the options and have a slurp and proper food, I slunk down to the hotel’s “Millennium Bar”.
It was the gloomiest place I’ve ever been in. One solitary barman and me. After ordering my drink, he offers me free peanuts. Well, I’d be a fool to say no. And then we sat there, in silence.
Right, here goes, thinks I attempting to make conversation, “Quiet night tonight?”
“I don’t understand sir? Quiet?” he replied
“yeah, err, nobody in yet apart from me, so it’s quiet”
“I don’t understand sir, that’s in the Middle East… Kuwait”
This wasn’t going to be easy…
Now, don’t get me wrong, I roared inwardly. But after that I was totally stuck. Do I try plan B and ask if he’s working all night? Or cut my losses and say nowt? I did the latter. A few more bits of wasted badinage later and I was spent. I eventually sat there, at the bar, in the dark, staring at the ever diminishing volume within my glass.
But then the evening got even more surreal. Big boss barman buggered off, leaving me sat there like Piffy on a rock bun. Junior underling #1 was sent in to keep an eye on me though. He hovered like a fruit fly, not quite knowing what to do. He was soon fired off by, “up and coming lickspittle #1”. Feck, it was a joke! Did they really think I was going to leap behind the bar and empty the fridge?
Ste would have loved this. He’d have turned it to his advantage. We would probably have ended up with a free bar all night, an invitation the chap’s eldest wedding and free crisps for the night.
A few more people entered the bar and I entered conversation with some bloke from Portsmouth. I chatted for ten minutes, run out of things to say and like all investigative journalists, made my excuses and left. I sometimes hate being a piss poor conversationalist.
Bankers - again!
Did I ever tell you I can’t abide bankers? Well, that’s a lie in all honesty. My mate Damian is a banker and damned fine chap he is too. Perhaps it’s the banking system I hate? With their double-entry this and quill pen that! Even in India I can’t get away from the pinch faced sons of Micauwber.
I had the misfortune to run low on Indian rupees. Now, the past couple of times that’s happened I’ve gone along to the local ATM, tapped in my code and bingo, cash. Simple eh, and just how it should be. Back in the UK when I wanted to by some dollars, I merely sauntered down the high street, into Thomas Cook bought how ever many US dollars I required and the job was done, in less than five minutes. This time, I made a fatal error. I wanted to convert $100 cash into rupees.
Once I’d actually found the foreign exchange desk, Miss Pasty-face was busy having a jolly natter with her friend on the phone. She glanced up only once to spot my presence but that actually made no difference to the length of her call. So by the time she actually put the phone down, I already had a nervous twitch. After explaining the transaction I wished to make, I had to fill a form in (how unusual in India!). Once duly completed and handed back, my USD were taken from me. No going back now eh? Passing me a receipt and a metal numbered tag (211 just in case)“Please take a seat there” she requested. I was going to say “which one and fro where” but knowing Miss Pasty-face wouldn’t clock on, I just thought sod it and sat down. After asking how long I would be required to wait. “Oh, no longer than ten to fifteen minutes”, was her conservative reply.
I witnessed my completed form being handed to an office run… walker, who took it to another desk. It was inspected, stamped and sent on its way. I then lost sight of the form for a good fifteen minutes. Sat just behind Miss Pasty-face was Mr. Belicose. I think Mr. Belicose’s hobby is holding court. Whilst wiping caviar and truffles away from his corpulent gob, he was telling anyone and everyone in the immediate vicinity how unfair it was that the world was blaming the banking system for its recent woes.
Bugger me, just when he was getting to the most vitriolic part of his tirade. My crisp $100 US arrived on his desk. By now, I was seething and acutely aware of how this particular bank’s system runs. Slowly is the answer and in triplicate! Still attempting to gob off to anyone that would listen he counted my five, brand new twenty dollar bills. FIVE TIMES he counted them! Five times before getting up and taking the cash to the safe. The safe must be a big ‘un, going off the size of the key. Hey, is that how bankers attempt to impress their potential sexual conquests. “Hey baby, my bonus wasn’t overly generous this year but you want to see the size of my key!”
Wobbling back to his desk, I caught sight of my form again. He gave it a quick read and out came the rubber stamp. The form was then handed back to the walker, who, I couldn’t believe this passed it all of less than six inches to Miss Pasty-face. She looked at the form, looked at me and said, “You need now to go and stand at that end cubicle”. My patience was wearing decidedly thin at this point. But I’m a good lad really and getting angry in a foreign country would solve nothing, so off I went. To the busiest cubicle in the entire bank, where one miserable old boot of a cashier was calling out tag numbers and settling the transactions in cash.
Thank goodness, I was called second up. I really couldn’t have waited any longer. My blood was about to pop out through my eye sockets and the veins on my temple had reached gargantuan proportions. I calmly sat down in front of the cashier, with about forty-seven other folk watching, as she counted out four thousand, four hundred and ten rupees. I know it’s harder reading the sum written down like that and believe me it’s harder writing it like that but it felt even longer when she counted it out. Note by note. Five times!
So not too bad then eh? Only thirty five minutes from start to finish. Thirty five f’in minutes of my life wasted in a soddin’ bank! And to think I was doing them a favour by actually selling them something that they wanted! I’ll definitely be using the ATM next time. It’s a machine, it’s efficient and I think the automated voice has the hots for me. I just hope that the landlord of the Regal Moon has change for a $20 bill next time I go in.
I had the misfortune to run low on Indian rupees. Now, the past couple of times that’s happened I’ve gone along to the local ATM, tapped in my code and bingo, cash. Simple eh, and just how it should be. Back in the UK when I wanted to by some dollars, I merely sauntered down the high street, into Thomas Cook bought how ever many US dollars I required and the job was done, in less than five minutes. This time, I made a fatal error. I wanted to convert $100 cash into rupees.
Once I’d actually found the foreign exchange desk, Miss Pasty-face was busy having a jolly natter with her friend on the phone. She glanced up only once to spot my presence but that actually made no difference to the length of her call. So by the time she actually put the phone down, I already had a nervous twitch. After explaining the transaction I wished to make, I had to fill a form in (how unusual in India!). Once duly completed and handed back, my USD were taken from me. No going back now eh? Passing me a receipt and a metal numbered tag (211 just in case)“Please take a seat there” she requested. I was going to say “which one and fro where” but knowing Miss Pasty-face wouldn’t clock on, I just thought sod it and sat down. After asking how long I would be required to wait. “Oh, no longer than ten to fifteen minutes”, was her conservative reply.
I witnessed my completed form being handed to an office run… walker, who took it to another desk. It was inspected, stamped and sent on its way. I then lost sight of the form for a good fifteen minutes. Sat just behind Miss Pasty-face was Mr. Belicose. I think Mr. Belicose’s hobby is holding court. Whilst wiping caviar and truffles away from his corpulent gob, he was telling anyone and everyone in the immediate vicinity how unfair it was that the world was blaming the banking system for its recent woes.
Bugger me, just when he was getting to the most vitriolic part of his tirade. My crisp $100 US arrived on his desk. By now, I was seething and acutely aware of how this particular bank’s system runs. Slowly is the answer and in triplicate! Still attempting to gob off to anyone that would listen he counted my five, brand new twenty dollar bills. FIVE TIMES he counted them! Five times before getting up and taking the cash to the safe. The safe must be a big ‘un, going off the size of the key. Hey, is that how bankers attempt to impress their potential sexual conquests. “Hey baby, my bonus wasn’t overly generous this year but you want to see the size of my key!”
Wobbling back to his desk, I caught sight of my form again. He gave it a quick read and out came the rubber stamp. The form was then handed back to the walker, who, I couldn’t believe this passed it all of less than six inches to Miss Pasty-face. She looked at the form, looked at me and said, “You need now to go and stand at that end cubicle”. My patience was wearing decidedly thin at this point. But I’m a good lad really and getting angry in a foreign country would solve nothing, so off I went. To the busiest cubicle in the entire bank, where one miserable old boot of a cashier was calling out tag numbers and settling the transactions in cash.
Thank goodness, I was called second up. I really couldn’t have waited any longer. My blood was about to pop out through my eye sockets and the veins on my temple had reached gargantuan proportions. I calmly sat down in front of the cashier, with about forty-seven other folk watching, as she counted out four thousand, four hundred and ten rupees. I know it’s harder reading the sum written down like that and believe me it’s harder writing it like that but it felt even longer when she counted it out. Note by note. Five times!
So not too bad then eh? Only thirty five minutes from start to finish. Thirty five f’in minutes of my life wasted in a soddin’ bank! And to think I was doing them a favour by actually selling them something that they wanted! I’ll definitely be using the ATM next time. It’s a machine, it’s efficient and I think the automated voice has the hots for me. I just hope that the landlord of the Regal Moon has change for a $20 bill next time I go in.
The Raj
“Hello sir, your tea.”
“Oh that’s great thank you, I’m ready for a brew, how much do I owe you?”
“Nothing sir, it’s complimentary.”
“Wonderful! I like this hotel already!”
Twenty Minutes later
“Hello sir, sweets”
“Sweets, for me? But I haven’t ordered anything”
“No sir, this is complimentary”
Now this is my kind of hotel! I’m in Shillong and I was due to be staying at the Pinewood Hotel. Unfortunately I’ve been kicked out before checking in. The entire hotel has been booked by one large group and naturally enough, not wanting to lose their custom, I’m out. Which is why I’ve been moved to Pegasus Court hotel and upgraded to a super-deluxe room.
If you ever decide to go to India, be brave, plan and book things independently. You’ll save yourself a fortune! You need to know just one thing about Indian hotels. If, in the UK, you book yourself into a 3* hotel, you will get a 3* room, as will everyone else in the hotel. But in India you may be in a 3* hotel but within that hotel there are differently graded rooms. So you very well may be in a 3* hotel but just with a standard room. You may want to push the boat out and go for a deluxe room but be warned, as is usual in India, it comes at a price. Daft old me, I just requested my hotels on a 3* basis, luckily Jyoti has a bit about him and got me the best I could afford in all places. Phew. I can’t imagine what a standard room would have been like in Tawang!
DRIVE ON HORSE POWER, NOT RUM POWER!
Great road signs #3 in a series of, oh I don’t know.
The temperature plummeted to below 20C last night and I was forced to put a top sheet on. For the first time in weeks, I slept well, safely ensconced in the best mosquito net ever. I really am turning into rob of the raj! The shower, after a bit of cajoling, worked fine. Well, the cold water did anyway, so at least I was chilled and ready for the long drive ahead to Shillong.
What can I tell you about the drive? Not a lot really. Apart from me firing up the laptop to back up my picture files onto my flash drive, only to find that the flash drive had succumbed to a virus! It must have come from the cybershop I tried to use yesterday. Bugger! Good old AVG was quick off the mark and we’re all well and fine again now.
10.30am and it must be lunch/brunch time, so we stop at a roadside dhaba. Very swish it is too, with an outside bamboo, privatised seating area. Now, what shall I have? I could go for the lentils again but sod it, I want meat! After being told the duck curry would take 30minutes, I plumped for pigeon. That’s the way to deal with the buggers, scoff ‘em! Don’t give ‘em bits of bread like them silly sods in Trafalgar square. Jyoti and I have a very in depth conversation about his business. He used to work with a chap called Danny Gam, whom I’ve read about. Danny managed to get a job with the government and Jyoti has been left with the business. He basically manages all bookings for Majuli Island, so when my inquiry reached him, it was like the jackpot but also a learning curve. I have to say, his candour is refreshing in a world of spivs and blaggers. And Jyoti, if you ever read this, you’re doing a fine job so far!
We reach Shillong about 2pm and stop at the golf course. I was dying to have a game and wanted non playing Jyoti to have a round with me. I might have even stood a chance of beating someone for a change! Or maybe not. Alas the course was closed and so a stroll had to suffice.
Better to be Mr. Late, rather than the late Mr.
Great road signs #4 and possibly the last, as I haven’t seen any others for ages
Usually my head can be all over the place. Age, ignorance or stupidity? But today it was firing on all cylinders. And once I’d checked in, I remembered that Shillong is the home of “Siat Khnam” and we were still in time to witness today’s events.
SIAT KHNAM: All around Shillong, gambling booths offer “forecast” odds on Siat Khnam. A semi circle of Khasi men fire hundreds of arrows at a drum shaped target for a set time before a canvas curtain is raised to keep further arrows off the target. Those that stick in are counted and bets predict the last two digits of this total (copyright and thanks to Lonely Planet)
We hailed a taxi and he took us to the arena. By the time we arrived, the arrows were already sailing through the air and the drum was well and truly peppered. Finally, on a countdown, the canvas was raised and the final count began. Blimey, the tension was palpable. Big chief arrow counter came to the fore. With great ceremonial flourish, he threw arrows into the ground in front of him. “One…Two…Three (the crowd hung on every number)…Four…FIVE…(folk were already on their mobile phones contacting people back in town with the result)…SIX!”. And there we had it, the result for 4pm was 56.
It was a bit of a rush but I still wanted to see Bara Bazaar. This is a huge market area dominated by the Khasi people who flock in to sell anything and everything. The women all had betel stained teeth but seemed affable enough. I was given some strange fruit to try which only grows around Shillong. It was like an elongated pale red grape. If you get chance have a look at my flickr page and there’s a picture of them. I bit into it and it was as sour as sour can be and I dislike sour immensely. The Khasi women howled when they saw my expression of distaste. I’m right chuffed I could bring a smile to them. They looked like a gang of zombies having a right good laugh. Which was nice.
Back at the hotel, it was time to order a beer to savour whilst writing this tripe. It should be simple really, considering they couldn’t keep away earlier with freebies.
“Hello, room service”
“Hello, I’d like to order a beer to be sent up to room 101”
“Hello….?”
“Hello, I’d like to order a beer to be sent up to room 101”
“Hello… you want a (sounds like splbumbleglomp)… hello…tsk…hello?”
“Hello, I’d like to order a beer to be sent up to room 101”
This is going to go on for some time I can feel it in my water……
“Oh that’s great thank you, I’m ready for a brew, how much do I owe you?”
“Nothing sir, it’s complimentary.”
“Wonderful! I like this hotel already!”
Twenty Minutes later
“Hello sir, sweets”
“Sweets, for me? But I haven’t ordered anything”
“No sir, this is complimentary”
Now this is my kind of hotel! I’m in Shillong and I was due to be staying at the Pinewood Hotel. Unfortunately I’ve been kicked out before checking in. The entire hotel has been booked by one large group and naturally enough, not wanting to lose their custom, I’m out. Which is why I’ve been moved to Pegasus Court hotel and upgraded to a super-deluxe room.
If you ever decide to go to India, be brave, plan and book things independently. You’ll save yourself a fortune! You need to know just one thing about Indian hotels. If, in the UK, you book yourself into a 3* hotel, you will get a 3* room, as will everyone else in the hotel. But in India you may be in a 3* hotel but within that hotel there are differently graded rooms. So you very well may be in a 3* hotel but just with a standard room. You may want to push the boat out and go for a deluxe room but be warned, as is usual in India, it comes at a price. Daft old me, I just requested my hotels on a 3* basis, luckily Jyoti has a bit about him and got me the best I could afford in all places. Phew. I can’t imagine what a standard room would have been like in Tawang!
DRIVE ON HORSE POWER, NOT RUM POWER!
Great road signs #3 in a series of, oh I don’t know.
The temperature plummeted to below 20C last night and I was forced to put a top sheet on. For the first time in weeks, I slept well, safely ensconced in the best mosquito net ever. I really am turning into rob of the raj! The shower, after a bit of cajoling, worked fine. Well, the cold water did anyway, so at least I was chilled and ready for the long drive ahead to Shillong.
What can I tell you about the drive? Not a lot really. Apart from me firing up the laptop to back up my picture files onto my flash drive, only to find that the flash drive had succumbed to a virus! It must have come from the cybershop I tried to use yesterday. Bugger! Good old AVG was quick off the mark and we’re all well and fine again now.
10.30am and it must be lunch/brunch time, so we stop at a roadside dhaba. Very swish it is too, with an outside bamboo, privatised seating area. Now, what shall I have? I could go for the lentils again but sod it, I want meat! After being told the duck curry would take 30minutes, I plumped for pigeon. That’s the way to deal with the buggers, scoff ‘em! Don’t give ‘em bits of bread like them silly sods in Trafalgar square. Jyoti and I have a very in depth conversation about his business. He used to work with a chap called Danny Gam, whom I’ve read about. Danny managed to get a job with the government and Jyoti has been left with the business. He basically manages all bookings for Majuli Island, so when my inquiry reached him, it was like the jackpot but also a learning curve. I have to say, his candour is refreshing in a world of spivs and blaggers. And Jyoti, if you ever read this, you’re doing a fine job so far!
We reach Shillong about 2pm and stop at the golf course. I was dying to have a game and wanted non playing Jyoti to have a round with me. I might have even stood a chance of beating someone for a change! Or maybe not. Alas the course was closed and so a stroll had to suffice.
Better to be Mr. Late, rather than the late Mr.
Great road signs #4 and possibly the last, as I haven’t seen any others for ages
Usually my head can be all over the place. Age, ignorance or stupidity? But today it was firing on all cylinders. And once I’d checked in, I remembered that Shillong is the home of “Siat Khnam” and we were still in time to witness today’s events.
SIAT KHNAM: All around Shillong, gambling booths offer “forecast” odds on Siat Khnam. A semi circle of Khasi men fire hundreds of arrows at a drum shaped target for a set time before a canvas curtain is raised to keep further arrows off the target. Those that stick in are counted and bets predict the last two digits of this total (copyright and thanks to Lonely Planet)
We hailed a taxi and he took us to the arena. By the time we arrived, the arrows were already sailing through the air and the drum was well and truly peppered. Finally, on a countdown, the canvas was raised and the final count began. Blimey, the tension was palpable. Big chief arrow counter came to the fore. With great ceremonial flourish, he threw arrows into the ground in front of him. “One…Two…Three (the crowd hung on every number)…Four…FIVE…(folk were already on their mobile phones contacting people back in town with the result)…SIX!”. And there we had it, the result for 4pm was 56.
It was a bit of a rush but I still wanted to see Bara Bazaar. This is a huge market area dominated by the Khasi people who flock in to sell anything and everything. The women all had betel stained teeth but seemed affable enough. I was given some strange fruit to try which only grows around Shillong. It was like an elongated pale red grape. If you get chance have a look at my flickr page and there’s a picture of them. I bit into it and it was as sour as sour can be and I dislike sour immensely. The Khasi women howled when they saw my expression of distaste. I’m right chuffed I could bring a smile to them. They looked like a gang of zombies having a right good laugh. Which was nice.
Back at the hotel, it was time to order a beer to savour whilst writing this tripe. It should be simple really, considering they couldn’t keep away earlier with freebies.
“Hello, room service”
“Hello, I’d like to order a beer to be sent up to room 101”
“Hello….?”
“Hello, I’d like to order a beer to be sent up to room 101”
“Hello… you want a (sounds like splbumbleglomp)… hello…tsk…hello?”
“Hello, I’d like to order a beer to be sent up to room 101”
This is going to go on for some time I can feel it in my water……
Filth
All this toilet humour has to stop. Right now! You at the back, the one making botty burps with the palms of your hand, it’s not big and it’s not clever. Unlike Derrick with dwarfism who recently gained his Msc.
Life’s not all about japes, jokes and quips you know, so stop tittering Wigglesworth minor. I’m now a changed man, for tonight I went to the theatre for an evening of classical dance. I didn’t know I was going to be honest. I’d just had a traditional Assamese dinner, risking even the chicken curry after abstaining for the past few days. Let’s hope that decision doesn’t come back to sting me in the ass in more ways than one. So, meal eaten, curry down my front, we passed by the local library’s auditorium. Jyoti was first to sneak up and see if we could go in. Success, it was a free (I love the word free) function performed by local young people and we were welcome to enjoy the evening.
It doesn’t take long for heads to turn when a middle aged white man walks through the door on performance of classic Assamese dance. I got to my seat as inconspicuously as possible and performance. Though after only five minutes I was invited up to the front to be guest of honour. Oh no, not his time thinks I and politely but firmly declined their kind invitation. Colour galore, the dancers were amazing and how they remember the myriad hand and feet movements is beyond me. The young people’s proud parents were out in force taking snaps of their pride and joy performing. It’s proper good to see young people keeping in touch with their heritage and it was also a joy to see both them and their parents enjoying themselves so much.
If you’re owt like me, you’ll know nowt of classic Assamese dance. So, I’ll try and describe the goings on to try and give you a bit of an insight. The girls, for that’s all I saw, lots of girls, were dressed in vibrant traditional dress that reminded me very much of Balinese dancers. Or Thai maybe? I’m presuming this goes back to Ahom days when the Ahom kings came from Myanmar/Burma and ruled over Assam? I’m also probably totally wrong but once again I have no net access, so can’t check it. The girls had trousers on but with a piece of material that comes down to in front of the the knees in a sort of half moon shape. They had little bells on their ankles that chinged every time they twisted and shook their legs or feet. The hands and feet are used to describe actions in the storyline and their eyes are very expressive. The dances can go on for five minutes or more with thousands of foot/hand combinations. Well, that’s the best I can do I’m afraid, like it or google it.
I have to admit that before my cultural evening, the rest of the day had been a hard slog. Mind you it was a delight to have a warm shower after I was awoke bright and early by the village dogs. Bark Bark Bark Bark! Spot on 5.30am. I lay there wondering how their owners could stand the noise without telling them to be quiet. And then I had a thought. I know, I really shouldn’t think, it leads to no good every time. Anyhow, I thunk… and I thunk…and do you know what I came up with? Well the population of the area is overwhelmingly Buddhist. The Buddhist people believe in re-incarnation. That dog that is barking non stop might be Uncle Joe that passed away just last Friday. “He always liked to chatter did Uncle Joe. Non stop he was, chatter chatter, gossip gossip. He did it in his past life and he’s doing it again no. Yes that dog is definitely Uncle Joe. So don’t tell it to be quiet Doris, let him have a bark, it’s what Auntie Mavis would have wanted”. Told you what happens when I think!
From there on, it was a long hard slog down the mountain, into the valley and then back up another mountain, through a forest and finally to leaving Arunachal Pradesh via Bhalukpong. Oh, I had a shave on the way costing me twenty rupees, the thieving hounds!
As we entered Assam, the temperature immediately rose and I began divesting myself of clothing bit by bit. Go on, imagine that eh? Fwooooaar eh? Ok, maybe not but at least I’ve put you off your dinner now. Two more hours later and we’d arrived at our destination. The town of Nagaon, where I’m due to stay at the Government tourist lodge seeing as there’s nothing else in town with anything like proper facilities. Still, the place is clean (apart from one huuuge dead cockroach lying to be swept up by the cleaner) and it has hot and cold running water coming from the taps and shower. What a novelty! Seeing as Assam is in the high risk category for malarial infection. I’m perturbed by the welcoming committee laid on for me. Six million mosquitoes, all sharpening their proboscis, in readiness for the oncoming feast. I’m slightly happier when the mosquito net is arranged over the bed. Let’s hope for a peaceful nights rest and a hungry one for the mossies.
So you oiks, take a tip from me. Curtail your common pursuits and take comfort in the finer things in life. Art, beauty, literature. For when I get back to dear old blighty and it comes to picking my new butler I want him to be able to converse with me in the manner for which I have now become accustomed. Yes indeed, I want my butler to butle bloody brilliantly!
Life’s not all about japes, jokes and quips you know, so stop tittering Wigglesworth minor. I’m now a changed man, for tonight I went to the theatre for an evening of classical dance. I didn’t know I was going to be honest. I’d just had a traditional Assamese dinner, risking even the chicken curry after abstaining for the past few days. Let’s hope that decision doesn’t come back to sting me in the ass in more ways than one. So, meal eaten, curry down my front, we passed by the local library’s auditorium. Jyoti was first to sneak up and see if we could go in. Success, it was a free (I love the word free) function performed by local young people and we were welcome to enjoy the evening.
It doesn’t take long for heads to turn when a middle aged white man walks through the door on performance of classic Assamese dance. I got to my seat as inconspicuously as possible and performance. Though after only five minutes I was invited up to the front to be guest of honour. Oh no, not his time thinks I and politely but firmly declined their kind invitation. Colour galore, the dancers were amazing and how they remember the myriad hand and feet movements is beyond me. The young people’s proud parents were out in force taking snaps of their pride and joy performing. It’s proper good to see young people keeping in touch with their heritage and it was also a joy to see both them and their parents enjoying themselves so much.
If you’re owt like me, you’ll know nowt of classic Assamese dance. So, I’ll try and describe the goings on to try and give you a bit of an insight. The girls, for that’s all I saw, lots of girls, were dressed in vibrant traditional dress that reminded me very much of Balinese dancers. Or Thai maybe? I’m presuming this goes back to Ahom days when the Ahom kings came from Myanmar/Burma and ruled over Assam? I’m also probably totally wrong but once again I have no net access, so can’t check it. The girls had trousers on but with a piece of material that comes down to in front of the the knees in a sort of half moon shape. They had little bells on their ankles that chinged every time they twisted and shook their legs or feet. The hands and feet are used to describe actions in the storyline and their eyes are very expressive. The dances can go on for five minutes or more with thousands of foot/hand combinations. Well, that’s the best I can do I’m afraid, like it or google it.
I have to admit that before my cultural evening, the rest of the day had been a hard slog. Mind you it was a delight to have a warm shower after I was awoke bright and early by the village dogs. Bark Bark Bark Bark! Spot on 5.30am. I lay there wondering how their owners could stand the noise without telling them to be quiet. And then I had a thought. I know, I really shouldn’t think, it leads to no good every time. Anyhow, I thunk… and I thunk…and do you know what I came up with? Well the population of the area is overwhelmingly Buddhist. The Buddhist people believe in re-incarnation. That dog that is barking non stop might be Uncle Joe that passed away just last Friday. “He always liked to chatter did Uncle Joe. Non stop he was, chatter chatter, gossip gossip. He did it in his past life and he’s doing it again no. Yes that dog is definitely Uncle Joe. So don’t tell it to be quiet Doris, let him have a bark, it’s what Auntie Mavis would have wanted”. Told you what happens when I think!
From there on, it was a long hard slog down the mountain, into the valley and then back up another mountain, through a forest and finally to leaving Arunachal Pradesh via Bhalukpong. Oh, I had a shave on the way costing me twenty rupees, the thieving hounds!
As we entered Assam, the temperature immediately rose and I began divesting myself of clothing bit by bit. Go on, imagine that eh? Fwooooaar eh? Ok, maybe not but at least I’ve put you off your dinner now. Two more hours later and we’d arrived at our destination. The town of Nagaon, where I’m due to stay at the Government tourist lodge seeing as there’s nothing else in town with anything like proper facilities. Still, the place is clean (apart from one huuuge dead cockroach lying to be swept up by the cleaner) and it has hot and cold running water coming from the taps and shower. What a novelty! Seeing as Assam is in the high risk category for malarial infection. I’m perturbed by the welcoming committee laid on for me. Six million mosquitoes, all sharpening their proboscis, in readiness for the oncoming feast. I’m slightly happier when the mosquito net is arranged over the bed. Let’s hope for a peaceful nights rest and a hungry one for the mossies.
So you oiks, take a tip from me. Curtail your common pursuits and take comfort in the finer things in life. Art, beauty, literature. For when I get back to dear old blighty and it comes to picking my new butler I want him to be able to converse with me in the manner for which I have now become accustomed. Yes indeed, I want my butler to butle bloody brilliantly!
phew
I must smell like Gandhi’s flip flops. I’ve worn and slept in the same clothes for too damned long. In fact I just caught one of my socks making a beeline for the door. Not so fast socky, if anyone’s getting out of here first it’s me! Luckily Jytoi is due at 7am and we are hopeful of getting back up the mountains and through the sela pass, despite it being bitingly cold and reports, yet again of heavy snow.
He’s on time and as we load the vehicle I wave bye-bye to the festering tip that is the Hotel Gourisen, Tawang. The thing that surprises me is that the latest Lonely Planet guide recommends the place! Now I wasn’t expecting The Ritz, or The Dorchester, we are in the hard to reach NE of India but I thought running water should be a staple. Am I going on about it a bit too much now? Ok, I’ll shut my clack and tell you about the rest of the day.
We’d decided to travel in convoy with another van carrying two other western tourist. We reckon that if the snow is as bad as is predicted, we’ll be better placed if there are more people around for help. Sounds feasible to me Gunga Din! Well, it didn’t take long to need help. We’d only gone about a mile and our van’s engine cut out, three times. No problem, they know the cause AND solution. Apparently it’s so cold that ice crystals are forming in the fuel tank. And the way to sort it? Set a fire underneath the fuel tank to melt the ice. Now, apart from turning the key and wheel, I know very little about cars but I was pretty sure this sounded dangerous. So I got out of the van to observe the proceedings from a safe distance. Bless them; the whole village came out to watch. Most interested was the village undertaker. Miraculously, it worked and as soon has half the village had climbed into our vans, we were away. This is how it works in this neck of the woods. Transport is scare and money scarcer. If you can help somebody out with a lift, jump aboard. I didn’t like to tell them that, in my head at least, the meter was running.
*SPEED IS A FIVE LETTER WORD, SO ALSO IS DEATH… brilliant road signs #2 in a series of until I get fed up*
So, on we plod. It’s difficult to describe the road conditions to be honest. Non existent springs to mind. There have been fresh landslides and the road is blocked in parts. The BRO (Border Roads Organisation) is out in force sorting the mess, they’re also responsible for the slogan up there. Great isn’t it? It certainly had an impact on me. The first time I saw it they’d forgotten to add the letter “A” to “DEATH”, so it made no sense whatsoever! It was just Jyoti, the driver and some other guy who is head chef at my hotel for tonight (what a place this is going to be!). We’re back at the same shack we used before crossing the sela pass. I shall not avail myself of their egg noodles this time; they might be the cause of my dangerous bottom burps. But once we sit down and the conversation flows, I discover it’s not just me with thundering trousers. Both my driver and guide have been suffering. It was then I had my most insightful thought on this trip so far.
If you’ve ever seen Monty Python’s “The Meaning of Life” you’ll be familiar with the scene when a group of guests at a dinner party are interrupted by the grim reaper telling them that they’re all dead. And the cause of their demise? The salmon Mousse! The driver, Jyoti and I all shared the same breakfast in Bhalukpong. The chicken curry! I could feel the grim reaper’s breath down the back of my neck as I remembered the spicy goodness. At least I’ll have a guide and driver if he comes banging his scythe on my door tonight.
And tonight’s hotel is probably a good place to be if I’m about to be carried off to the next world, or brought back to this one as something else. It took us eight gruelling hours to get here. It’s a guest house run by G.R.L. Gompa. If I were in the least bit considerate, I’d tell you what those initials stood for. But, to be honest, the initials are all you need. It’s all Tibetan and it’s a monastery. The shower works. The room is warm. It’s clean and I’m having a couple of beers (Meakins 10,000 – alcoholic strength exceeding 5% v/v but not exceeding 8% v/v)
The room service wallah has just been to ask what time I’d like my early morning black tea served, how very civilised! I’m going to have a shower and get rid of three days of filth. I’ve just thought, how much luck can I have in one day? Oh God, I hope the water’s hot!
He’s on time and as we load the vehicle I wave bye-bye to the festering tip that is the Hotel Gourisen, Tawang. The thing that surprises me is that the latest Lonely Planet guide recommends the place! Now I wasn’t expecting The Ritz, or The Dorchester, we are in the hard to reach NE of India but I thought running water should be a staple. Am I going on about it a bit too much now? Ok, I’ll shut my clack and tell you about the rest of the day.
We’d decided to travel in convoy with another van carrying two other western tourist. We reckon that if the snow is as bad as is predicted, we’ll be better placed if there are more people around for help. Sounds feasible to me Gunga Din! Well, it didn’t take long to need help. We’d only gone about a mile and our van’s engine cut out, three times. No problem, they know the cause AND solution. Apparently it’s so cold that ice crystals are forming in the fuel tank. And the way to sort it? Set a fire underneath the fuel tank to melt the ice. Now, apart from turning the key and wheel, I know very little about cars but I was pretty sure this sounded dangerous. So I got out of the van to observe the proceedings from a safe distance. Bless them; the whole village came out to watch. Most interested was the village undertaker. Miraculously, it worked and as soon has half the village had climbed into our vans, we were away. This is how it works in this neck of the woods. Transport is scare and money scarcer. If you can help somebody out with a lift, jump aboard. I didn’t like to tell them that, in my head at least, the meter was running.
*SPEED IS A FIVE LETTER WORD, SO ALSO IS DEATH… brilliant road signs #2 in a series of until I get fed up*
So, on we plod. It’s difficult to describe the road conditions to be honest. Non existent springs to mind. There have been fresh landslides and the road is blocked in parts. The BRO (Border Roads Organisation) is out in force sorting the mess, they’re also responsible for the slogan up there. Great isn’t it? It certainly had an impact on me. The first time I saw it they’d forgotten to add the letter “A” to “DEATH”, so it made no sense whatsoever! It was just Jyoti, the driver and some other guy who is head chef at my hotel for tonight (what a place this is going to be!). We’re back at the same shack we used before crossing the sela pass. I shall not avail myself of their egg noodles this time; they might be the cause of my dangerous bottom burps. But once we sit down and the conversation flows, I discover it’s not just me with thundering trousers. Both my driver and guide have been suffering. It was then I had my most insightful thought on this trip so far.
If you’ve ever seen Monty Python’s “The Meaning of Life” you’ll be familiar with the scene when a group of guests at a dinner party are interrupted by the grim reaper telling them that they’re all dead. And the cause of their demise? The salmon Mousse! The driver, Jyoti and I all shared the same breakfast in Bhalukpong. The chicken curry! I could feel the grim reaper’s breath down the back of my neck as I remembered the spicy goodness. At least I’ll have a guide and driver if he comes banging his scythe on my door tonight.
And tonight’s hotel is probably a good place to be if I’m about to be carried off to the next world, or brought back to this one as something else. It took us eight gruelling hours to get here. It’s a guest house run by G.R.L. Gompa. If I were in the least bit considerate, I’d tell you what those initials stood for. But, to be honest, the initials are all you need. It’s all Tibetan and it’s a monastery. The shower works. The room is warm. It’s clean and I’m having a couple of beers (Meakins 10,000 – alcoholic strength exceeding 5% v/v but not exceeding 8% v/v)
The room service wallah has just been to ask what time I’d like my early morning black tea served, how very civilised! I’m going to have a shower and get rid of three days of filth. I’ve just thought, how much luck can I have in one day? Oh God, I hope the water’s hot!
Paaaaaaaarp
Why is it when Michael Palin is travelling the globe so we don’t have to, we never see him stuck in the toilet with the screaming habdabs? I’ll tell you why not because he doesn’t go anywhere apart from a nice studio where he walks about in front of a blue screen. The places and incidents are all added later by sophisticated digital witchcraft. I know it can be done because I have the pleasure of working with two sophists of the art of digital chicanery. I’m looking at you Peopleprint! Ok, I’m quite prepared to admit that he just might go on these fantastic trips but come on; he must get the galloping gut rot from time to time?
You can see where today’s entry is leading can’t you? Well, I’ll flag the warnings up early then no-one can have a go at me later. So, if you’re of a weak disposition, are adverse to common language depicting scenes of graphic filth, skip the next bit. Oooh, I know, I’ll sound a warning siren and then, when it’s all clear, I’ll sound it again! Bloody hell, If it works I might patent the idea. Ready? Good because here it comes……
…..PARP PARP PARP PARP….
Ok, if you’re still here you deserve it. Nope, sorry, I meant Yay! Now you too can share my most intimate experience of being a traveller. So, I was freezing my nads off in a filthy hellhole. I’d gone to bed in what I’d worn all day, it was that cold. I had my sweatshirt on with the hood up, and a beanie cap on top of that. I’d asked for an extra blanket and by around midnight, it seemed to be having some effect. Being the devil I am, I removed my hat and scarf. An hour later, I threw caution to the wind and stripped down to my thermal combies. Oooooh, it’s a good job we told the softies to leg it, they’d be getting all hot under the collar now. Dear Sir, I write in reference to your NE India blog. I began reading it under the misapprehension that it might just remind me of my time in the colonies. My wife, Cynthia and I were horrified when, upon further examination, it turned out to be nothing but a stream of filth (quite right there Major - rob) I therefore wish to end my subscription to this blog forthwith. I intend to stay with “Horse whipping, pig sticking and other fetishes” Yours sincerely Major Bagshot (Rtd)
It was all going so well too.
In the early hours, my normal morning trumpet voluntaries had begun. But by three, it had turned into a full blown Reveille, with lumps. I know, I cringe even whilst typing it. I did worse at the time I can assure you. It was straight out of bed, bloody hell it was cold. Into the bathroom, with no light as they were experiencing their usual power outage, to endeavour to remove the long johns asap. Bollocks, the bathroom floor was slippy as hell. Remember the plumbing was crap? It’s hard removing long johns at the best of times but in the dark, on a wet floor, with a seat pant full of stuff you just don’t want to touch. Well, it should be made into a gameshow! It’d be a damned sight more interesting than Strictly Come Dancing or X-Factor, or whatever else the TV schedulers think we’ll swallow. Eeew, what a terrible analogy considering the current subject matter, I do apologise.
Where was I? Ah yes, so its pitch black and I’m attempting to do a Houdini from my long johns, in the dark, on a slippy floor. Yay, I succeeded without breaking my neck! I’ll just sling these in a bucket of water to soak and I’ll sort them out in the morning. Wrong! Every tap I turn, not one drop of water. Ironic really when you consider how much water is on the floor already. Ok, I’ll wait till morning and perhaps the water will be on by then.
I’m glad I didn’t hold my breath. I’d be as blue as Krishna, or is it Siva… the blue one anyway. No water, full stop. Not in the shower (not that there’s a shower head), not in the taps, not even coming out of the tap at the side of the toilet that you are supposed to use for… need I elaborate? So, there they stay. I’m buggered if I’m putting them back in my case in the state they’re in. Even if I find a laundry person, there’s no way they’ll dry. Sod it, Matalan should be having a sale on by the time I get back. They can have a new life in India. With a bit of luck the manager of this shit tip will spot them after my departure and fancy a new pair for himself.
…PARP…PARP…PARP…PARP…
Welcome back my friends to the show that never ends, we’re so glad you could attend come inside, come inside…(I never thought I’d be quoting ELP ever, least of all sat in a hotel in NE India and talking about…oops, nearly forgot you’re back with us)
It’s a crisp, wet morning and I’m in no mood for breakfast. So we’re off to the main purpose of my visit to Tawang, the Gompa (Monastery). It’s a stunning place. It’s deserted apart from a couple of monks strolling about with that smug look on their face, knowing something about life that I haven’t sussed yet. But on the whole they’re pleasant enough people and once I’ve visited the library (with content created using the blood from some dalai lama’s nose – what’s that all about?) and the prayer hall, complete with humongous gold Buddha, it’s time for off. We’re going to the mountains to see some beautiful scenery!
No, we’re not. There’s been heavy snowfall in the mountains and we are turned back by the army. Remember, we’re less than ten miles from China. Bugger, that’s it, that’s my day. I return back to Tawang town, have a brew, buy some tablets to stop the diarrhoea and by the time I’ve messed about cleaning camera equipment, it’s almost 4pm. The town is closing, it’s still raining heavily and it’s as cold as Anne Widdecombe’s bedroom. I might as well go to bed, so I did. Bollocks to “Strictly come Dancing”, “X-Factor” or even “Celebrities dancing on ice with a banana up their nose”; I’ve got one that’s perfect…. “I’m a tourist, get me out of here!”
You can see where today’s entry is leading can’t you? Well, I’ll flag the warnings up early then no-one can have a go at me later. So, if you’re of a weak disposition, are adverse to common language depicting scenes of graphic filth, skip the next bit. Oooh, I know, I’ll sound a warning siren and then, when it’s all clear, I’ll sound it again! Bloody hell, If it works I might patent the idea. Ready? Good because here it comes……
…..PARP PARP PARP PARP….
Ok, if you’re still here you deserve it. Nope, sorry, I meant Yay! Now you too can share my most intimate experience of being a traveller. So, I was freezing my nads off in a filthy hellhole. I’d gone to bed in what I’d worn all day, it was that cold. I had my sweatshirt on with the hood up, and a beanie cap on top of that. I’d asked for an extra blanket and by around midnight, it seemed to be having some effect. Being the devil I am, I removed my hat and scarf. An hour later, I threw caution to the wind and stripped down to my thermal combies. Oooooh, it’s a good job we told the softies to leg it, they’d be getting all hot under the collar now. Dear Sir, I write in reference to your NE India blog. I began reading it under the misapprehension that it might just remind me of my time in the colonies. My wife, Cynthia and I were horrified when, upon further examination, it turned out to be nothing but a stream of filth (quite right there Major - rob) I therefore wish to end my subscription to this blog forthwith. I intend to stay with “Horse whipping, pig sticking and other fetishes” Yours sincerely Major Bagshot (Rtd)
It was all going so well too.
In the early hours, my normal morning trumpet voluntaries had begun. But by three, it had turned into a full blown Reveille, with lumps. I know, I cringe even whilst typing it. I did worse at the time I can assure you. It was straight out of bed, bloody hell it was cold. Into the bathroom, with no light as they were experiencing their usual power outage, to endeavour to remove the long johns asap. Bollocks, the bathroom floor was slippy as hell. Remember the plumbing was crap? It’s hard removing long johns at the best of times but in the dark, on a wet floor, with a seat pant full of stuff you just don’t want to touch. Well, it should be made into a gameshow! It’d be a damned sight more interesting than Strictly Come Dancing or X-Factor, or whatever else the TV schedulers think we’ll swallow. Eeew, what a terrible analogy considering the current subject matter, I do apologise.
Where was I? Ah yes, so its pitch black and I’m attempting to do a Houdini from my long johns, in the dark, on a slippy floor. Yay, I succeeded without breaking my neck! I’ll just sling these in a bucket of water to soak and I’ll sort them out in the morning. Wrong! Every tap I turn, not one drop of water. Ironic really when you consider how much water is on the floor already. Ok, I’ll wait till morning and perhaps the water will be on by then.
I’m glad I didn’t hold my breath. I’d be as blue as Krishna, or is it Siva… the blue one anyway. No water, full stop. Not in the shower (not that there’s a shower head), not in the taps, not even coming out of the tap at the side of the toilet that you are supposed to use for… need I elaborate? So, there they stay. I’m buggered if I’m putting them back in my case in the state they’re in. Even if I find a laundry person, there’s no way they’ll dry. Sod it, Matalan should be having a sale on by the time I get back. They can have a new life in India. With a bit of luck the manager of this shit tip will spot them after my departure and fancy a new pair for himself.
…PARP…PARP…PARP…PARP…
Welcome back my friends to the show that never ends, we’re so glad you could attend come inside, come inside…(I never thought I’d be quoting ELP ever, least of all sat in a hotel in NE India and talking about…oops, nearly forgot you’re back with us)
It’s a crisp, wet morning and I’m in no mood for breakfast. So we’re off to the main purpose of my visit to Tawang, the Gompa (Monastery). It’s a stunning place. It’s deserted apart from a couple of monks strolling about with that smug look on their face, knowing something about life that I haven’t sussed yet. But on the whole they’re pleasant enough people and once I’ve visited the library (with content created using the blood from some dalai lama’s nose – what’s that all about?) and the prayer hall, complete with humongous gold Buddha, it’s time for off. We’re going to the mountains to see some beautiful scenery!
No, we’re not. There’s been heavy snowfall in the mountains and we are turned back by the army. Remember, we’re less than ten miles from China. Bugger, that’s it, that’s my day. I return back to Tawang town, have a brew, buy some tablets to stop the diarrhoea and by the time I’ve messed about cleaning camera equipment, it’s almost 4pm. The town is closing, it’s still raining heavily and it’s as cold as Anne Widdecombe’s bedroom. I might as well go to bed, so I did. Bollocks to “Strictly come Dancing”, “X-Factor” or even “Celebrities dancing on ice with a banana up their nose”; I’ve got one that’s perfect…. “I’m a tourist, get me out of here!”
Thursday 4 March 2010
Tezpur to Dirang
I like a challenge. I like doing things that I wouldn’t normally do. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not about to parachute out of a plane. Or even worse, tie an elastic band to my ankle and leap off a mile high bridge. Nope, calculated risk is my game. I like a thrill but I want the odds in my favour. Many years back I used to be a member of a casino. I used to enjoy a flutter on the blackjack and the roulette. But then it hit home. The odds are in the house’s favour and I don’t like losing. But today, I think I’ve been playing roulette of a very different variety.
The day began with a start at around 5am when the local muezzin called the faithful to prayer. I’m a tolerant kind of guy, I really am. Each to their own and all that; just don’t bother me. So when he started his wailing right outside my bedroom window, I was more than a little miffed. Never mind, I had to be up early anyway. Jyoti was coming to pick me up at 6.45am and I had brekkie booked for 6.30am. But first, a shower. How simple does that sound? Just a shower. Remember I’d been washing myself from a bucket for the past few days? Today there was hot water! God, it was marvellous!
Way back I mentioned ying and yang? For any new readers (hahaha, that’ll be a miracle!) ying and yang means when sommat good happens, sommat bad always comes along to bite you on yer ass and keep the equilibrium. So it was when my breakfast was delivered. A bloody masala omelette with more peppers and onions in it than you could shake a stick at. Yuk!
Bloody hell, I do apologise. Some of the poor sods round here dance a jig when I give them 20 /- and I’m whinging about an omelette. I deserve a good kick in the nads. Ooof, thank you Gupta.
I’m off to the restricted area of Arunachal Pradesh today. Historically, Arunachal to the Indians and (pronounced “A-roon-a-shall”) has been a source of conflict between India and China. China sees the area as lower Tibet (pronounced “even more china”) and still demands the land. As recently as 1962, the Chinese invaded and were beaten off with a shitty stick by the Indian army. Only last year, during China’s 60th celebration of communist rule, they sent the army up to the border. Consequently, the Indians responded in kind. Therefore the area is now flooded with Indian army personnel and I have to pass several checkpoint waving my Restricted Area Pass. Even though I have the correcxt paperwork, I’m not allowed through until the big officer comes and signs the papers. But, as ever, the Indians are more interested in making a couple of bucks. So after paying baksheesh to the border guards, I’m in.
Arunachal is nothing like the rest of India, in that the place is staunchly Buddhist. The people have more Oriental features and instead of folk living on top of one another, the place is sparsely populated. However, the infrastructure for getting about is appalling. My destination for today is Dhirang, a mere 180km away. The road at Bhalukpong starts normally enough and then rises sharply. We are entering the foothills the Dafla Hills, a precursor to the Himalayas. Then the road runs out entirely. Worse still, it’s been raining and the road is full of mud. Mud, again!! I thought I’d seen enough mud to last me a lifetime. There’s hippies that have attended Glastonbury every year without fail that hasn’t seen more mud than me over the last 24hrs.
On one side of me is the hill, on the other side a sheer drop of about 100ft. The vehicles are also going both ways. It’s terrifying and we are still climbing into dense jungle. Still what else can go wrong? Then the fog comes down and we can see about 20 yards ahead.The climb amongst the jungle foliage continues for about three hours. We are travelling at anything from 40km ph down to 20km ph, whatever they may be. I notice from a sign that we are at14TF. Now, I’m no meteorologist but I’m sure TF must stand for thousand feet? The van is skidding from one side to the other and, once the fog clears, I’m staring over a bloody huuuuuuge precipice.
Oh, you’ll love the next bit! All over India, there are signs extolling the road users to be careful and here is no exception:
• Speed Thrills – But also kills!
• Take care – Someone is at home waiting for you!
• Better to arrive late – Than not at all!
• Stay married – Speed equals divorce!
• Go for you life – you were wasting it anyway!
Ok, you got me, I made the last one up.
Eventually… and I do mean eventually, we arrive at Dhirang. It’s taken us almost 9hrs. My spine is twisted in two and my bottom has been bounced black and blue but I’m here, in one piece. I really feel for the poor driver if I’m honest. I get narked at home when there is a bit of snow and it’s a bit of an inconvenience. This journey must have been bloody hard on him and he’ll only be picking up about 1800/- for his pains. I’ll buy him some tobacco for his pains. This reminds me, the Indian government has completely banned smoking in public places. I really never thought it would work as last time I was here, everybody smoked like a trooper. Well, it seems to have worked, apart from now everyone carries a little pouch of chewing tobacco around with the, They mix it with lime, in the palm of their hands and then stuff the resulting concoction in front of their bottom teeth and suck. Ok, the incidence of lung cancer will probably go down but I bet oral cancer will be on the increase soon enough.
So here I sit in a Tibetan hotel, named Awoo resort. I really hope that doesn’t stand for the noise made by dinner guests taking their early morning ablutions. Bugger it, it comes down to calculated risk again and I ponder the dinner menu long and hard. I can play safe and have noodles or go for blackjack and have Yak meat with aloo thong-si. Go on, what would you have?
The day began with a start at around 5am when the local muezzin called the faithful to prayer. I’m a tolerant kind of guy, I really am. Each to their own and all that; just don’t bother me. So when he started his wailing right outside my bedroom window, I was more than a little miffed. Never mind, I had to be up early anyway. Jyoti was coming to pick me up at 6.45am and I had brekkie booked for 6.30am. But first, a shower. How simple does that sound? Just a shower. Remember I’d been washing myself from a bucket for the past few days? Today there was hot water! God, it was marvellous!
Way back I mentioned ying and yang? For any new readers (hahaha, that’ll be a miracle!) ying and yang means when sommat good happens, sommat bad always comes along to bite you on yer ass and keep the equilibrium. So it was when my breakfast was delivered. A bloody masala omelette with more peppers and onions in it than you could shake a stick at. Yuk!
Bloody hell, I do apologise. Some of the poor sods round here dance a jig when I give them 20 /- and I’m whinging about an omelette. I deserve a good kick in the nads. Ooof, thank you Gupta.
I’m off to the restricted area of Arunachal Pradesh today. Historically, Arunachal to the Indians and (pronounced “A-roon-a-shall”) has been a source of conflict between India and China. China sees the area as lower Tibet (pronounced “even more china”) and still demands the land. As recently as 1962, the Chinese invaded and were beaten off with a shitty stick by the Indian army. Only last year, during China’s 60th celebration of communist rule, they sent the army up to the border. Consequently, the Indians responded in kind. Therefore the area is now flooded with Indian army personnel and I have to pass several checkpoint waving my Restricted Area Pass. Even though I have the correcxt paperwork, I’m not allowed through until the big officer comes and signs the papers. But, as ever, the Indians are more interested in making a couple of bucks. So after paying baksheesh to the border guards, I’m in.
Arunachal is nothing like the rest of India, in that the place is staunchly Buddhist. The people have more Oriental features and instead of folk living on top of one another, the place is sparsely populated. However, the infrastructure for getting about is appalling. My destination for today is Dhirang, a mere 180km away. The road at Bhalukpong starts normally enough and then rises sharply. We are entering the foothills the Dafla Hills, a precursor to the Himalayas. Then the road runs out entirely. Worse still, it’s been raining and the road is full of mud. Mud, again!! I thought I’d seen enough mud to last me a lifetime. There’s hippies that have attended Glastonbury every year without fail that hasn’t seen more mud than me over the last 24hrs.
On one side of me is the hill, on the other side a sheer drop of about 100ft. The vehicles are also going both ways. It’s terrifying and we are still climbing into dense jungle. Still what else can go wrong? Then the fog comes down and we can see about 20 yards ahead.The climb amongst the jungle foliage continues for about three hours. We are travelling at anything from 40km ph down to 20km ph, whatever they may be. I notice from a sign that we are at14TF. Now, I’m no meteorologist but I’m sure TF must stand for thousand feet? The van is skidding from one side to the other and, once the fog clears, I’m staring over a bloody huuuuuuge precipice.
Oh, you’ll love the next bit! All over India, there are signs extolling the road users to be careful and here is no exception:
• Speed Thrills – But also kills!
• Take care – Someone is at home waiting for you!
• Better to arrive late – Than not at all!
• Stay married – Speed equals divorce!
• Go for you life – you were wasting it anyway!
Ok, you got me, I made the last one up.
Eventually… and I do mean eventually, we arrive at Dhirang. It’s taken us almost 9hrs. My spine is twisted in two and my bottom has been bounced black and blue but I’m here, in one piece. I really feel for the poor driver if I’m honest. I get narked at home when there is a bit of snow and it’s a bit of an inconvenience. This journey must have been bloody hard on him and he’ll only be picking up about 1800/- for his pains. I’ll buy him some tobacco for his pains. This reminds me, the Indian government has completely banned smoking in public places. I really never thought it would work as last time I was here, everybody smoked like a trooper. Well, it seems to have worked, apart from now everyone carries a little pouch of chewing tobacco around with the, They mix it with lime, in the palm of their hands and then stuff the resulting concoction in front of their bottom teeth and suck. Ok, the incidence of lung cancer will probably go down but I bet oral cancer will be on the increase soon enough.
So here I sit in a Tibetan hotel, named Awoo resort. I really hope that doesn’t stand for the noise made by dinner guests taking their early morning ablutions. Bugger it, it comes down to calculated risk again and I ponder the dinner menu long and hard. I can play safe and have noodles or go for blackjack and have Yak meat with aloo thong-si. Go on, what would you have?
We gotta fet outta this place...
I was really stuck for how to start this entry (ooer missus) but good old Chuck Berry came up trumps. And it’s nowt to do with my ding-a-ling before you start. So, and I’m paraphrasing here, “If you ever plan to motor west, Jack take my way it’s the highway that’s the best. Get your kicks on National Highway 52. Oh it goes from Majuli, down to Tezpur, North Lakhimpur, that sounds so …” Ok, I think I’d better leave it there.
An early start today, about 12.30 a.m. to be honest. Not that I had to set off until 7am but my rain dance from yesterday had worked better than expected. It had wazzed down all night! And when it rains in Assam, it rains. Impressive rolling thunder too. It’d have been quite impressive if I hadn’t have been absolutely knackered and craving sleep. On the hour every hour I was up, tossing and turning all night. Come 6am and instead of the rooster and the expectorating village men, it was me up and about first for a change.
Although I don’t know why I bothered, seeing as Jyoti didn’t show till after 8am. I’ve used some excuses about being late into work but his was a cracker. I’ll just set the scene for you. His house is in an area full of monkeys. He also has a tin roof on his house. Got that right? Right, now get this. It seems the monkeys were fed up with the rain, well I can understand that. So, they got under the tin roof, between the roof and the plaster ceiling. They must have been so pleased with themselves at their cunning plan that they were bouncing about like kids on space hoppers. Consequently, they knocked down, through the plaster and into the front room. What a mess! Therefore Jyoti was late. Nothing to do with it being Holi yesterday and there were fun and frolics till late.
Rather than leave Majuli the same way as we arrived. We are going northwards. Apparently there is a way out over a couple of rivers that is rarely used, least of all by any tourists. The rain, remember, is still lashing down on us as we drive past remote villages heading toward the fabled river Stxy. And then, there it is in front of us. The only problem is the ferry is on the other side. No matter, the ferrymen spot us and they swiftly cross the river. You know, I say ferry but in actual fact it was two canoes strapped together with a few bamboo poles. The van is driven onto the middle of this contraption and soon we are safely deposited on the other side.
Apparently, on this side, we are still in Majuli. We have to traverse one more river and then we will be on the mainland heading toward North Lakhimpur. So on we drive, through villages that haven’t seen a white man since Lord Tetley arrived in Assam looking for somewhere to grow his tea. The road… hang on I’ll start that again. The dirt track has, in places been totally washed away and just when we thought we had it cracked. We are stuck. Well and truly stuck. We throw leaves, branches, anything to hand under the wheels to gain traction. Nowt. The villagers come out, see me in my pith helmet and think oooh, let’s help the white man. Actually, the dollar signs in their eyes gave them away to their true thoughts. Nevertheless, that’s why I pay for a guide. He let’s them get on with shovelling dry sand under the wheels and then pays them a grand total of twenty rupees. Bless them, it took about thirty minutes before we made headway and they were delighted with that pittance.
We arrive at the second river. Oooh, it’s a big ‘un too! And guess what? Yup, there’s no ferry. It’s on the other side of the river with a flat battery. It’s decided that we take the battery off our van, transport it over the river by fishing boat, jump start the ferry and bring it and the ferry back to us. We can then cross the river and away we go. Meanwhile, still the rain teems down.
Once we arrive on the far bank, we have to get the van off the ferry and up the steep embankment. The rain has taken its toll and we’re going nowhere. We push, pull, shovel sand, pray, shovel again and the van ‘aint going nowhere! The offer of money brings a group of bandidos out of the woodwork. After another thirty minutes of shovelling, pushing, pulling and even more praying, we’re free again. Hurrah. There’s also a family travelling to a marriage and they’re stranded in this God forsaken place. They desperately need a lift to the marriage they are attending, can we help? Come on then, get in. Bugger me, the world and his wife clamber aboard!
Hooray, we’re off again. I thought where we had been the dirt track was in a bad way, over here it was worse. Wheels spun, slipped and skidded. Until we came to *drum roll and big booming voice*, “The valley of death!” The dirt track as was, was no more. Even worse, we were atop a ridge. Either side it was a twenty foot drop and the mud must have been five inches deep. Of course we had nowhere else to go, we had to go forward. Until the obvious happened and we got stuck, fast. Then it was everybody out. Now bless them (again) they wanted me to stand on the side and do nothing as the men got covered in mud attempting to free the vehicle. But, I’m nowt if not a trier. So I was in the middle with all the rest pushing for all I was worth.
At one point, we moved the van about two feet… I’ve just realised, should I be using metric doodahs? Nah, sod it, old money is best for me. Anyway, two foot later we were stuck again. Back to the shoving and praying. I was covered head to foot in mud and getting more annoyed, yet determined to move this vehicle if it was the last thing I ever did. This was looking more likely by the second. I summoned up all my strength and pushed harder than I’ve ever pushed. The van moved. Oblivious to all in my exertions, I began shouting, “come on, come on, come on, go, go, GO!” Haha, the little Indian chap next to me, who could speak not a word of English, must have been encouraged and, as he pushed he yelled “Come on, come on, go, go, Go!” I even managed to yell out “Come on you….bugger!” and he attempted the expletive but failed miserably.
Miraculously, the van moved and continued moving. It skidded and slipped its way all the way through to the tarmac, some quarter mile ahead. We had made it to the fabled National Highway 52. It had took us four hours to go about four miles. We now had 215km (whatever they are) in front of us. With an added sense of purpose, the wind in our sails, nothing could stop us it was Tezpur or bust!
An early start today, about 12.30 a.m. to be honest. Not that I had to set off until 7am but my rain dance from yesterday had worked better than expected. It had wazzed down all night! And when it rains in Assam, it rains. Impressive rolling thunder too. It’d have been quite impressive if I hadn’t have been absolutely knackered and craving sleep. On the hour every hour I was up, tossing and turning all night. Come 6am and instead of the rooster and the expectorating village men, it was me up and about first for a change.
Although I don’t know why I bothered, seeing as Jyoti didn’t show till after 8am. I’ve used some excuses about being late into work but his was a cracker. I’ll just set the scene for you. His house is in an area full of monkeys. He also has a tin roof on his house. Got that right? Right, now get this. It seems the monkeys were fed up with the rain, well I can understand that. So, they got under the tin roof, between the roof and the plaster ceiling. They must have been so pleased with themselves at their cunning plan that they were bouncing about like kids on space hoppers. Consequently, they knocked down, through the plaster and into the front room. What a mess! Therefore Jyoti was late. Nothing to do with it being Holi yesterday and there were fun and frolics till late.
Rather than leave Majuli the same way as we arrived. We are going northwards. Apparently there is a way out over a couple of rivers that is rarely used, least of all by any tourists. The rain, remember, is still lashing down on us as we drive past remote villages heading toward the fabled river Stxy. And then, there it is in front of us. The only problem is the ferry is on the other side. No matter, the ferrymen spot us and they swiftly cross the river. You know, I say ferry but in actual fact it was two canoes strapped together with a few bamboo poles. The van is driven onto the middle of this contraption and soon we are safely deposited on the other side.
Apparently, on this side, we are still in Majuli. We have to traverse one more river and then we will be on the mainland heading toward North Lakhimpur. So on we drive, through villages that haven’t seen a white man since Lord Tetley arrived in Assam looking for somewhere to grow his tea. The road… hang on I’ll start that again. The dirt track has, in places been totally washed away and just when we thought we had it cracked. We are stuck. Well and truly stuck. We throw leaves, branches, anything to hand under the wheels to gain traction. Nowt. The villagers come out, see me in my pith helmet and think oooh, let’s help the white man. Actually, the dollar signs in their eyes gave them away to their true thoughts. Nevertheless, that’s why I pay for a guide. He let’s them get on with shovelling dry sand under the wheels and then pays them a grand total of twenty rupees. Bless them, it took about thirty minutes before we made headway and they were delighted with that pittance.
We arrive at the second river. Oooh, it’s a big ‘un too! And guess what? Yup, there’s no ferry. It’s on the other side of the river with a flat battery. It’s decided that we take the battery off our van, transport it over the river by fishing boat, jump start the ferry and bring it and the ferry back to us. We can then cross the river and away we go. Meanwhile, still the rain teems down.
Once we arrive on the far bank, we have to get the van off the ferry and up the steep embankment. The rain has taken its toll and we’re going nowhere. We push, pull, shovel sand, pray, shovel again and the van ‘aint going nowhere! The offer of money brings a group of bandidos out of the woodwork. After another thirty minutes of shovelling, pushing, pulling and even more praying, we’re free again. Hurrah. There’s also a family travelling to a marriage and they’re stranded in this God forsaken place. They desperately need a lift to the marriage they are attending, can we help? Come on then, get in. Bugger me, the world and his wife clamber aboard!
Hooray, we’re off again. I thought where we had been the dirt track was in a bad way, over here it was worse. Wheels spun, slipped and skidded. Until we came to *drum roll and big booming voice*, “The valley of death!” The dirt track as was, was no more. Even worse, we were atop a ridge. Either side it was a twenty foot drop and the mud must have been five inches deep. Of course we had nowhere else to go, we had to go forward. Until the obvious happened and we got stuck, fast. Then it was everybody out. Now bless them (again) they wanted me to stand on the side and do nothing as the men got covered in mud attempting to free the vehicle. But, I’m nowt if not a trier. So I was in the middle with all the rest pushing for all I was worth.
At one point, we moved the van about two feet… I’ve just realised, should I be using metric doodahs? Nah, sod it, old money is best for me. Anyway, two foot later we were stuck again. Back to the shoving and praying. I was covered head to foot in mud and getting more annoyed, yet determined to move this vehicle if it was the last thing I ever did. This was looking more likely by the second. I summoned up all my strength and pushed harder than I’ve ever pushed. The van moved. Oblivious to all in my exertions, I began shouting, “come on, come on, come on, go, go, GO!” Haha, the little Indian chap next to me, who could speak not a word of English, must have been encouraged and, as he pushed he yelled “Come on, come on, go, go, Go!” I even managed to yell out “Come on you….bugger!” and he attempted the expletive but failed miserably.
Miraculously, the van moved and continued moving. It skidded and slipped its way all the way through to the tarmac, some quarter mile ahead. We had made it to the fabled National Highway 52. It had took us four hours to go about four miles. We now had 215km (whatever they are) in front of us. With an added sense of purpose, the wind in our sails, nothing could stop us it was Tezpur or bust!
Holi
It’s the first of March and I’m in India, do you know what that means? It’s Holi, the festival of colour. Which means it’s 9am and already the kids of the village are up and about throwing coloured powder over anyone they think is fair game. Some of the cockier teenagers have already looked up at my bamboo house and intimated what they’d do if I were on their level. I’m staying put till it’s deemed safe!
At 10am Jyoti arrives on his motorbike. If he accompanies me into the town, we’ll both be covered in the stuff. If I go alone, I’ll be safe. There’s an added worry. Apparently, the more devout of the adult Hindu pilgrims don’t bother with colours. They, in defference to Lord Krishna, cover themselves in watered down cow dung. They’ll also be happy to cover Jyoti in the stuff if he’s caught. So, alone, I walk to Jyoti’s office. I’m caught twice by kids wanting to smear the strange white man with colours. Bless them, they really are good and only put a smidgeon on my high forehead.
At Jyotis’ office, who by this stage has a bright purple and red face from all the powder the local kids have thrown at him. He really doesn’t fancy the cow dung and who can blame him? So the driver and I (I still don’t know his name, I’ve asked but instantly forget it) walk it down into the main town to see the procession from the temple. Just as we are approaching, we hear the noise of the crowd and the drums. And there they are, a large crowd, covered in cow dung and throwing dust high into the air just to get a bit dirtier. They look to be having a high old time, truth be told and seem totally unconcerned about cow dung getting into their eyes and mouths. There are buckets of the messy cow dung slurry being poured over folks heads, yet still they dance, chant and sing. Their clothes are caked in the stuff. If Danny Baker calls when they get home with the Daz doorstep challenge, he’d take one look at them and admit defeat.
Photographs taken, the crowds disperse and it looks to be all over for this morning. Jyoti tells me it all starts again this afternoon when the powder chucking reaches fever pitch. It’s a 1.30pm start and I’m advised not to be late. Bloody hell! What did I say about those cocky teenagers? They’ve just walked past my hut and, as pleasant as you’d like, asked me a couple of decent questions. It was all a ruse to get me down to their level. I’m now covered in bright red vermillion and I’m back to looking like Mr. Swan Vesta.
1.10pm and the motorbike has been sent to pick me up. He whisks me down to the main street and the party is in full swing. Drums, chanting and most of all powder whizzing high into the air. The procession moves off and alone, I’m following it. You can bet your life what happens next. Get down to Ladbrokes now and get a bet on. Hang on, don’t bother you’d only get odds on. Yes, I’m star attraction once more. I thought I’d tag onto the back of the procession, just behind the women and kids. Now since I’ve been here, the women have all been genteel retiring creatures who won’t say boo to a goose. Where does that saying come from anyway? Why would anyone, in their right mind want to say boo to a goose? Anyways, today’s the day the ladies when the ladies are anything but retiring. Ululating as one, they turn and see me. Out comes the coloured powder (gulal, apparently) and, despite pleading for just one little dab on my forehead, I’m covered. I look like a bad accident in a washing machine.
Worse was to come. One lady was obviously the village nutter and stood stock in front of me, urging me to dance. Now let me make one thing clear, I don’t do dance. As an eleven year old school kid I was touted as the next Fred Astaire. By thirteen a person with false legs and one of them a club foot, would beat me in a dance off. So there she is, doing the south Asian expressive arms dance. There are two hundred ululating women and me, the explosion in a paint factory. What would you do? Decline and upset/insult them all? Feign an injury? Run? I know what I did. I danced like I’ve never danced before! Expressive hand gestures, arms twisting this way and that. The crowd adored it and urged us both ever on. Daaahling, I was sensational! That bint at the Royal Opera House was never as good. At the end of my performance, remembering the old adage of leaving the public wanting more, I retired gracefully. My one off performance, never ever to be repeated…until my public demands I return once more!
I returned back to Jyoti’s office. Walking back was like walking some kind of catwalk. Everybody, simply everybody in village smiled, laughed and greeted me like a long lost relative. Then the strangest thing happened. Back at Jyoti’s office, he fired up his motorbike, I clambered aboard and off we went on a tour of the neighbouring villages to give them all a glimpse of this crackpot rainbow coloured man. Now, as a postscript, get this; Assam hasn’t had rain in about four months and none is due until the end of May. Perhaps my dance did something to satisfy some God somewhere but it’s just started raining! Which is a right bummer to be honest as I’m trying wash the gulal out of my clothes before travelling to Tezpur tomorrow.
I think that in years to come, my performance at Holi 2010 will still be talked about. Perhaps not by the people in Majuli but it certainly will by me.
At 10am Jyoti arrives on his motorbike. If he accompanies me into the town, we’ll both be covered in the stuff. If I go alone, I’ll be safe. There’s an added worry. Apparently, the more devout of the adult Hindu pilgrims don’t bother with colours. They, in defference to Lord Krishna, cover themselves in watered down cow dung. They’ll also be happy to cover Jyoti in the stuff if he’s caught. So, alone, I walk to Jyoti’s office. I’m caught twice by kids wanting to smear the strange white man with colours. Bless them, they really are good and only put a smidgeon on my high forehead.
At Jyotis’ office, who by this stage has a bright purple and red face from all the powder the local kids have thrown at him. He really doesn’t fancy the cow dung and who can blame him? So the driver and I (I still don’t know his name, I’ve asked but instantly forget it) walk it down into the main town to see the procession from the temple. Just as we are approaching, we hear the noise of the crowd and the drums. And there they are, a large crowd, covered in cow dung and throwing dust high into the air just to get a bit dirtier. They look to be having a high old time, truth be told and seem totally unconcerned about cow dung getting into their eyes and mouths. There are buckets of the messy cow dung slurry being poured over folks heads, yet still they dance, chant and sing. Their clothes are caked in the stuff. If Danny Baker calls when they get home with the Daz doorstep challenge, he’d take one look at them and admit defeat.
Photographs taken, the crowds disperse and it looks to be all over for this morning. Jyoti tells me it all starts again this afternoon when the powder chucking reaches fever pitch. It’s a 1.30pm start and I’m advised not to be late. Bloody hell! What did I say about those cocky teenagers? They’ve just walked past my hut and, as pleasant as you’d like, asked me a couple of decent questions. It was all a ruse to get me down to their level. I’m now covered in bright red vermillion and I’m back to looking like Mr. Swan Vesta.
1.10pm and the motorbike has been sent to pick me up. He whisks me down to the main street and the party is in full swing. Drums, chanting and most of all powder whizzing high into the air. The procession moves off and alone, I’m following it. You can bet your life what happens next. Get down to Ladbrokes now and get a bet on. Hang on, don’t bother you’d only get odds on. Yes, I’m star attraction once more. I thought I’d tag onto the back of the procession, just behind the women and kids. Now since I’ve been here, the women have all been genteel retiring creatures who won’t say boo to a goose. Where does that saying come from anyway? Why would anyone, in their right mind want to say boo to a goose? Anyways, today’s the day the ladies when the ladies are anything but retiring. Ululating as one, they turn and see me. Out comes the coloured powder (gulal, apparently) and, despite pleading for just one little dab on my forehead, I’m covered. I look like a bad accident in a washing machine.
Worse was to come. One lady was obviously the village nutter and stood stock in front of me, urging me to dance. Now let me make one thing clear, I don’t do dance. As an eleven year old school kid I was touted as the next Fred Astaire. By thirteen a person with false legs and one of them a club foot, would beat me in a dance off. So there she is, doing the south Asian expressive arms dance. There are two hundred ululating women and me, the explosion in a paint factory. What would you do? Decline and upset/insult them all? Feign an injury? Run? I know what I did. I danced like I’ve never danced before! Expressive hand gestures, arms twisting this way and that. The crowd adored it and urged us both ever on. Daaahling, I was sensational! That bint at the Royal Opera House was never as good. At the end of my performance, remembering the old adage of leaving the public wanting more, I retired gracefully. My one off performance, never ever to be repeated…until my public demands I return once more!
I returned back to Jyoti’s office. Walking back was like walking some kind of catwalk. Everybody, simply everybody in village smiled, laughed and greeted me like a long lost relative. Then the strangest thing happened. Back at Jyoti’s office, he fired up his motorbike, I clambered aboard and off we went on a tour of the neighbouring villages to give them all a glimpse of this crackpot rainbow coloured man. Now, as a postscript, get this; Assam hasn’t had rain in about four months and none is due until the end of May. Perhaps my dance did something to satisfy some God somewhere but it’s just started raining! Which is a right bummer to be honest as I’m trying wash the gulal out of my clothes before travelling to Tezpur tomorrow.
I think that in years to come, my performance at Holi 2010 will still be talked about. Perhaps not by the people in Majuli but it certainly will by me.
The Mishing Festival
How wrong could I have been about last night? If you remember I was due to visit a Mishing festival and was convinced it’d all be over once I got there. Jyto came to pick me just after 8pm, assuring me that there were “thousands of people” there already. Now two things I can’t do with are crowds and late nights, so all was not boding well. A night owl, I am most certanly not. We drove towards the festival site where I had been earlier and sure enough there were plenty of folk milling about. But the stage area was deserted. As we sped on past, I began to wonder just where were we parking. The lights from the festival faded and still we drove on into the night.
Old fears come to haunt pretty quick when you are travelling alone. Let’s be fair, I’m easy prey to a couple of blokes who fancy “doing me over” and stealing not only my money but also my identity. So with senses becoming more highly atuned, I pluck up courage to ask where we’re going. Jyoti assures me we are going to the Mishing village to see “a drummer” and to ask what time it all starts. A couple of minutes later and a village hall affair came into view and it seemed to be a hive of activity. Peeking through an open window we see various children being painted in theatrical make-up and once I’m spotted, I’m the star attraction.
Non-Mishing are not allowed into the main arena, so it’s a great honour to be invited in. Once I’ve removed my shoes I’m ushered into the make-up room and encouraged to watch the proceedings. A very nice Mishing lady takes charges, fielding questions about me from men, women and children alike. I’m then presented with a present of rice flower and molasses. I know from experience they taste minging but how very kind of them to share their food with me. After twenty minutes or so, a gentleman come into the room, took my arm and directed me into the main performance arena and I’m asked to sit in prime position. Oh no, they’re making me the star guest for the night! I sit cross legged and chat to the gentleman who turns out to be an economics professor from some university or other. With my backside becoming increasingly numb, I’m still sat there fifteen minutes later. I’d love to stand up at this poing but I’m convinced that it would be seen as a major snub to the attending populace that this white man, invited int their When I’m assured the performance will begin a further twenty minutes later, at around 10pm, I seriously begin to worry for the state of my back.
Eventually, the performance gets under way at 10.20pm, with me in serious pain in my lumbar region. No matter, the acting bythe kids is superb, with only one small lad forgetting his lines briefly. It’s a performance from the Rumanayah. I like this idea of keeping the kids in touch with their heritage and the kids seem to enjoy the dressing up and acting if nothing else. Bless my guide and his driver. They come looking for me when my back could seriously hold out no longer. “Am I ok?” he inquires, I thankfully take this as an opportunity to gush my apologies for not being able to stay any longer and make my escape. The time is almost 11pm and I’m dying of a bad back and tiredness. I’m told later that the performance normally goes on to around 1am or maybe later. I’d never have walked again if I’d have stayed. Into bed as soon as possible when I got back and no matter how lumpy that bed is, it’ll be a blessed relief from sitting on that floor.
Old fears come to haunt pretty quick when you are travelling alone. Let’s be fair, I’m easy prey to a couple of blokes who fancy “doing me over” and stealing not only my money but also my identity. So with senses becoming more highly atuned, I pluck up courage to ask where we’re going. Jyoti assures me we are going to the Mishing village to see “a drummer” and to ask what time it all starts. A couple of minutes later and a village hall affair came into view and it seemed to be a hive of activity. Peeking through an open window we see various children being painted in theatrical make-up and once I’m spotted, I’m the star attraction.
Non-Mishing are not allowed into the main arena, so it’s a great honour to be invited in. Once I’ve removed my shoes I’m ushered into the make-up room and encouraged to watch the proceedings. A very nice Mishing lady takes charges, fielding questions about me from men, women and children alike. I’m then presented with a present of rice flower and molasses. I know from experience they taste minging but how very kind of them to share their food with me. After twenty minutes or so, a gentleman come into the room, took my arm and directed me into the main performance arena and I’m asked to sit in prime position. Oh no, they’re making me the star guest for the night! I sit cross legged and chat to the gentleman who turns out to be an economics professor from some university or other. With my backside becoming increasingly numb, I’m still sat there fifteen minutes later. I’d love to stand up at this poing but I’m convinced that it would be seen as a major snub to the attending populace that this white man, invited int their When I’m assured the performance will begin a further twenty minutes later, at around 10pm, I seriously begin to worry for the state of my back.
Eventually, the performance gets under way at 10.20pm, with me in serious pain in my lumbar region. No matter, the acting bythe kids is superb, with only one small lad forgetting his lines briefly. It’s a performance from the Rumanayah. I like this idea of keeping the kids in touch with their heritage and the kids seem to enjoy the dressing up and acting if nothing else. Bless my guide and his driver. They come looking for me when my back could seriously hold out no longer. “Am I ok?” he inquires, I thankfully take this as an opportunity to gush my apologies for not being able to stay any longer and make my escape. The time is almost 11pm and I’m dying of a bad back and tiredness. I’m told later that the performance normally goes on to around 1am or maybe later. I’d never have walked again if I’d have stayed. Into bed as soon as possible when I got back and no matter how lumpy that bed is, it’ll be a blessed relief from sitting on that floor.
Majuli day
I had a dreadful night. My own fault for being paranoid really. Sleeping in the jungle takes practice. I wonder if Tarzan struggled for the first few months? If not him, Jane? Everytime I heard a noise I was wide awake. And believe me, there are plenty of noises in a jungle at night. Notwithstanding the noises, I have the lumpiest bed in India. Even the poor beggars who sleep outside the temples have a comfier floor than my bed. I think it must be stuffed with rocks, boulders and gravel. “Haha, that’ll show the white man! Coming here with his fancy ways. A bucket and a hole in the ground not good enough for him eh? Well, we’ll see what he’s like after a crap night’s sleep!” I can even imagine the jungle animals chuckling, clucking and chirruping in agreement.
The day began as it always does round these parts. A rooster crowing for all he’s worth and the sound of every man in the village expectorating. Majuli hasn’t experienced rain in about four months now. Consequently the roads are parched and nothing but dirt tracks. Every time a vehicle passes by, anyone who happens to be in the vicinity is covered in a huge cloud of dust. I won’t horrify you with the contents of my nasal passage this morning, just to say, it wasn’t nice.
Shower time! I’ve been dreading this since I was shown the pump and bucket yesterday. I’m a wuss at heart and I really like a nice warm shower in the morning to start the day off. I pumped the handle and the water gushed into the bucket almost tempting me to remove me clothes and get wet. Plucking up courage, I decided that I stunk more than the water could be cold, so I took the plunge, literally. I don’t know how the lady in the Timotei advert went on years back but I nearly had a coronary gasping at the shock of the icy cold water. I needed three bucket loads to do the job adequately. Perhaps it’s my fault for being of the large persuasion…I refuse to use the word fat. Hey ho, job done and breakfast ordered. It was quite nice sat outside in the early morning light partaking of omelette and Assam tea.
I’d no sooner washed my clothes in the bucket (I could have sworn the water was getting warmer) when Jyoti and my driver arrived. It’s a tour of the island’s Satras today. The Satras are amazing in their own right. At the first one, the chief monk is crashing a cymbal together all by himself in a great big prayer hall. Bless him; it keeps him out of mischief I suppose. But as we leave the Satra, Jyoti asks if I’d like to meet a very old Sadhu who lives near the Satra. Well, in for ten rupees in for twenty I suppose. They opened this door and a sight greeted me, the like of which I’ve never experienced before. There was a semi-naked eighty year old man sat there. His long, matted hair twined about his body. There was a charcoal fire burning and he was quite clearly stoned out of his head on bhang from his chillum. The room was an absolute tip. From floor to ceiling and every available space in between nothing but rubbish and, funnily enough, coconuts for some reason no-one ever explained. Still he was a pleasant chap and gave me two blackened bananas and three dried up dates that he must have got as christening presents.
Onto the next Satra and we pick up a monk to guide me round this one. I don’t know why I do it but I try to make small talk. So, I mention Michael Palin visiting Majuli for his Himalaya film series. His reply was quite surreal, “Ah yes, Michael Palin! He’s a friend of mine. Do you know him? An awfully good journalist!” It was like being introduced to the Maharaj of Rhajpur by Viscount Crumbly in some Victorian tableaux. Still he was a decent guide and next he showed me to some villagers making pottery. If I’m honest this just seemed like a ruse to give the poor family ten rupees. However, I’m that thick, it was lost on me and I just grinned back at the old harridan with betel stained teeth. Her teeth, not mine I hasten to add. Next to a Satra that makes masks used in religious festivals. Once again, the chanting was going on in the prayer hall and I was introduced to some priest or other. I really wish they wouldn’t tell me their names. I forget them instantly. Rude of me I know but that’s just me I guess.
Back to the bamboo house… Ah, I know what it’s called now it’s “La Maison de Ananda” so if you’ve got google handy and, let’s face it apart from me, who hasn’t? Have a look and see what it says. You never know there might be a picture, seeing as once again I forget to take one today.
My driver came back for me at 4.30pm. The Mishing (yes, I know I spelt it Mising in my last post but I was wrong, ok?) people are having a festival today and we are all invited. Yay! I’m promised lots of tribal singing, dancing and Apong! Well, we get there and it’s all finished. Just about sums it up doesn’t it? So bugger it, I go and get my beard trimmed by the local barber. He takes yonks over it and he really does a good job. I’m not surprised considering how much he charged me. A whole ten rupees! I don’t know why he didn’t just wear a mask, the flamin’ footpad! I’m joking, it’s a bargain and I now look like Omar Sharif… if you screw your eyes tight and take lots of the Sadhu’s bhang.
I’m back at the bamboo hut again now waiting for dinner. I’ve only just remembered, I’ve had nothing all day apart from the omelette for breakfast. So, I’ve ordered a feast. The food is prepared by a local family. Pork curry, roti, rice and Apong. Which has just arrived, so if you’ll forgive me.
It was erm, interesting. They had no rice beer (I bet it’s all down at the festival) but the water was enough in all honesty. The rice… I’ve never had rice like that before. It was presented on the steel plate as a long gelatinous mass. No idea how they managed that but it was a new experience anyway. The real novelty came about with the main event, pork curry. It should really be re-christened pork fat curry. Each lump was about an inch thick with the teeniest tadge of meat attached, if you were lucky. Otherwise it was just fat. I sampled one piece and, not wanting to spend all day tomorrow on the hole, that was enough for me. Still the sauce was nice and spicy! I’m clutching at straws here aren’t I?
After that little lot, I’m due to go back out to the festival again. I’m assured everything is starting at 8.30pm. You know the score, lots of singing, dancing, Apong….. Watch this space; I might be back in thirty minutes. In fact, I’ve just been outside to see what all the noise is and, I can hear the festival in full swing. I’ve got a vision of them all having a great time whilst the white fellah has his dinner. I’ll probably get back down there and they’ll all be so drunk from Apong that they’ll be incapable of dancing and the only singing will be a rousing chorus of “Four and twenty virgins” that some passing missionary taught them after he himself got blitzed on Apong.
The day began as it always does round these parts. A rooster crowing for all he’s worth and the sound of every man in the village expectorating. Majuli hasn’t experienced rain in about four months now. Consequently the roads are parched and nothing but dirt tracks. Every time a vehicle passes by, anyone who happens to be in the vicinity is covered in a huge cloud of dust. I won’t horrify you with the contents of my nasal passage this morning, just to say, it wasn’t nice.
Shower time! I’ve been dreading this since I was shown the pump and bucket yesterday. I’m a wuss at heart and I really like a nice warm shower in the morning to start the day off. I pumped the handle and the water gushed into the bucket almost tempting me to remove me clothes and get wet. Plucking up courage, I decided that I stunk more than the water could be cold, so I took the plunge, literally. I don’t know how the lady in the Timotei advert went on years back but I nearly had a coronary gasping at the shock of the icy cold water. I needed three bucket loads to do the job adequately. Perhaps it’s my fault for being of the large persuasion…I refuse to use the word fat. Hey ho, job done and breakfast ordered. It was quite nice sat outside in the early morning light partaking of omelette and Assam tea.
I’d no sooner washed my clothes in the bucket (I could have sworn the water was getting warmer) when Jyoti and my driver arrived. It’s a tour of the island’s Satras today. The Satras are amazing in their own right. At the first one, the chief monk is crashing a cymbal together all by himself in a great big prayer hall. Bless him; it keeps him out of mischief I suppose. But as we leave the Satra, Jyoti asks if I’d like to meet a very old Sadhu who lives near the Satra. Well, in for ten rupees in for twenty I suppose. They opened this door and a sight greeted me, the like of which I’ve never experienced before. There was a semi-naked eighty year old man sat there. His long, matted hair twined about his body. There was a charcoal fire burning and he was quite clearly stoned out of his head on bhang from his chillum. The room was an absolute tip. From floor to ceiling and every available space in between nothing but rubbish and, funnily enough, coconuts for some reason no-one ever explained. Still he was a pleasant chap and gave me two blackened bananas and three dried up dates that he must have got as christening presents.
Onto the next Satra and we pick up a monk to guide me round this one. I don’t know why I do it but I try to make small talk. So, I mention Michael Palin visiting Majuli for his Himalaya film series. His reply was quite surreal, “Ah yes, Michael Palin! He’s a friend of mine. Do you know him? An awfully good journalist!” It was like being introduced to the Maharaj of Rhajpur by Viscount Crumbly in some Victorian tableaux. Still he was a decent guide and next he showed me to some villagers making pottery. If I’m honest this just seemed like a ruse to give the poor family ten rupees. However, I’m that thick, it was lost on me and I just grinned back at the old harridan with betel stained teeth. Her teeth, not mine I hasten to add. Next to a Satra that makes masks used in religious festivals. Once again, the chanting was going on in the prayer hall and I was introduced to some priest or other. I really wish they wouldn’t tell me their names. I forget them instantly. Rude of me I know but that’s just me I guess.
Back to the bamboo house… Ah, I know what it’s called now it’s “La Maison de Ananda” so if you’ve got google handy and, let’s face it apart from me, who hasn’t? Have a look and see what it says. You never know there might be a picture, seeing as once again I forget to take one today.
My driver came back for me at 4.30pm. The Mishing (yes, I know I spelt it Mising in my last post but I was wrong, ok?) people are having a festival today and we are all invited. Yay! I’m promised lots of tribal singing, dancing and Apong! Well, we get there and it’s all finished. Just about sums it up doesn’t it? So bugger it, I go and get my beard trimmed by the local barber. He takes yonks over it and he really does a good job. I’m not surprised considering how much he charged me. A whole ten rupees! I don’t know why he didn’t just wear a mask, the flamin’ footpad! I’m joking, it’s a bargain and I now look like Omar Sharif… if you screw your eyes tight and take lots of the Sadhu’s bhang.
I’m back at the bamboo hut again now waiting for dinner. I’ve only just remembered, I’ve had nothing all day apart from the omelette for breakfast. So, I’ve ordered a feast. The food is prepared by a local family. Pork curry, roti, rice and Apong. Which has just arrived, so if you’ll forgive me.
It was erm, interesting. They had no rice beer (I bet it’s all down at the festival) but the water was enough in all honesty. The rice… I’ve never had rice like that before. It was presented on the steel plate as a long gelatinous mass. No idea how they managed that but it was a new experience anyway. The real novelty came about with the main event, pork curry. It should really be re-christened pork fat curry. Each lump was about an inch thick with the teeniest tadge of meat attached, if you were lucky. Otherwise it was just fat. I sampled one piece and, not wanting to spend all day tomorrow on the hole, that was enough for me. Still the sauce was nice and spicy! I’m clutching at straws here aren’t I?
After that little lot, I’m due to go back out to the festival again. I’m assured everything is starting at 8.30pm. You know the score, lots of singing, dancing, Apong….. Watch this space; I might be back in thirty minutes. In fact, I’ve just been outside to see what all the noise is and, I can hear the festival in full swing. I’ve got a vision of them all having a great time whilst the white fellah has his dinner. I’ll probably get back down there and they’ll all be so drunk from Apong that they’ll be incapable of dancing and the only singing will be a rousing chorus of “Four and twenty virgins” that some passing missionary taught them after he himself got blitzed on Apong.
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