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.