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!”
Wednesday, 10 March 2010
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.
Jorhat to Majuli
I’m bursting for a wee. I’ve been holding it in now for about two hours and I really can’t put it off any longer. Problem is, I’m staying in a traditional Assamese bamboo house and the only “facilities” here is a hole in the ground. Look, even I can cope with that but this house is fifteen feet off the ground. Supported on bamboo poles and that’s a long drop, when you’re taking a drop, so to speak. Even that I can cope with. What I can’t cope with are the six billion mosquitoes that have made the bathroom their home for the night.
I moved off from Jorhat at about eight fifteen am after a hearty breakfast of two fried eggs, tea and toast. Most civilised! A ten minute journey later and we stop down a dirt track on the way to the ghat from where to catch the ferry to Majuli (pronounced Mazuli) Island, We’ve stopped here because I’m to be introduced to Manooj’s (see, I was wrong with that spelling too) maternal cousin. Bless them they’re really nice people and want me to stop for some food and drink. Unfortunately, I’ve a ferry to catch. So we bid them a fond farewell and away we’re off once more. Down at the ghat, it’s a hive of activity and I’m mercifully left to my own devices. I take the opportunity to photograph as much as possible. It’s fascinating.
Jyoti soon arrived on the incoming ferry and in no time at all we’re setting sail for the island. Majuli Island is in the middle of the Brahmaputra river and is the largest inhabited river island in the world. I;m a mine of useless information aren’t I? It’s also homed to twenty two satras, which are monasteries dedicated specifically for vaishnites. If I’ve spelt that wrong, tough! It’s roasting on the top deck and my shaved head is soon burning like a red hot coal. Why did I not bring a cap? Because I’m thick that’s why. After an hour’s journey we disembark and rive up the dustiest road I’ve ever been on. It’s like the Dakar rally as a host of 4x4’s jockey for position and, horns blaring, jostle for the lead.
I’m taken to Jyoti’s office where his cook has prepared lunch in my honour. Bless them. Despite having nowt they’re always keen to share what they do have. I have a hearty Assamese meal of rice, spuds, pumpkin, dal, soya bean and egg curry. I pass on the egg plant, bloody vile stuff. From there it’s off to my bamboo jungle hut for the night. It’s damned impressive but that bathroom certainly wasn’t designed by Magnet. There’s no running water either, so there’s a hand pump to get water up direct from a bore hole for tomorrow’s shower. I really must stop talking about bathrooms and water; it’s doing my bladder no good at all.
Out at three and we’re visiting a Mising village. The Mising tribal people came to Majuli from Arunachal Pradesh ooooh, a while back. They have a village elder that I had to speak to before looking around the village. But he wasn’t in, so we walked about regardless. I was warned not to take pictures of the women, which is fair enough. We stopped and chatted to some womenfolk who were bashing a load of rice with a couple of big sticks. They were separating the chaff from the actual rice. Looked bloody hard work to me and I think I’ll just carry on going to Asda for my rice if that’s ok? Two minute later and there’s a terrible oinking and squealing coming from the yard outside one of the huts. Thye’re killing a pig for a festival tomorrow. Yes, I know it’s normal. I know it’s what happens. There are no Morrisons out here. But it’s still not nice to listen to.
Anyroad up, back to the plot, thin enough as it is. Jyoti had bought some sweets for the Mising children and he gave them to me to distribute. Bugger me; I’ve never see so many kids in my life. It’s pretty obvious what the TV-less Mising people get up to at night to pass the time! A bit further into our stroll and I’m offered Apong. Home brewed rice beer. I’m tempted but when I find out it’s only 2%, I politely decline. Well, my wee is stronger than that first thing in the morning! By this time, my head can be seen from space it’s pulsating that much. Kids walk by saying, “Hello Mr. Swan Vesta” God it’s painful and still we have one more visit to make. We drive a little while until Jyoti tells the driver to stop. Up there in a tree is a flock of storks ready to settle down for the night. How good is that? I completely forget about my tomato head for a good ten minutes!
Back to my room and just as I’m looking through the photos from the day… we have a power cut! Bugger!! Night comes fast round these parts and within fifteen minutes, it’s pitch dark outside. Now I know I’m am useless but, I hope, not totally so. Dusk/night in the jungle means mosquitoes. I cover myself in “Jungle formula” insect repellent and then remember about my shaved head (have you noticed, I’m avoiding using the word bald?) The little sods will bite anywhere, so I cover my head in repellent too. What a mistake. The repellent must have then irritated the sunburn. Good God, the pain was incredible! I could have put my head in a pan of boiling cheese fondu and it would have been a relief compared to this! I ran to the bathroom and pumped for all I was worth. That was to get some water up. Just in case you thought it were the lentils playing their part again. I poured the water over my head with the villagers thinking it must be some curious UK custom to have a red headed man, screaming and throwing water over him. Watch this space; they’ll all be doing it tomorrow.
Ah, talking of tomorrow it’s the Hindu festival of Holi. The local musicians are practising even as I type. Holi is the festival of colours and folk take great delight in showering everyone with different coloured powders. Should be good for a few pics I reckon. Right, I can put it off no longer. It’s nine pm and time for bed. I’d better make a dash to that bathroom and do the business. Let’s hope the mossies make straight for my head. If there’s any justice, a good wind (lentils again) and any bit of luck they’ll burn their noses and toeses.
I moved off from Jorhat at about eight fifteen am after a hearty breakfast of two fried eggs, tea and toast. Most civilised! A ten minute journey later and we stop down a dirt track on the way to the ghat from where to catch the ferry to Majuli (pronounced Mazuli) Island, We’ve stopped here because I’m to be introduced to Manooj’s (see, I was wrong with that spelling too) maternal cousin. Bless them they’re really nice people and want me to stop for some food and drink. Unfortunately, I’ve a ferry to catch. So we bid them a fond farewell and away we’re off once more. Down at the ghat, it’s a hive of activity and I’m mercifully left to my own devices. I take the opportunity to photograph as much as possible. It’s fascinating.
Jyoti soon arrived on the incoming ferry and in no time at all we’re setting sail for the island. Majuli Island is in the middle of the Brahmaputra river and is the largest inhabited river island in the world. I;m a mine of useless information aren’t I? It’s also homed to twenty two satras, which are monasteries dedicated specifically for vaishnites. If I’ve spelt that wrong, tough! It’s roasting on the top deck and my shaved head is soon burning like a red hot coal. Why did I not bring a cap? Because I’m thick that’s why. After an hour’s journey we disembark and rive up the dustiest road I’ve ever been on. It’s like the Dakar rally as a host of 4x4’s jockey for position and, horns blaring, jostle for the lead.
I’m taken to Jyoti’s office where his cook has prepared lunch in my honour. Bless them. Despite having nowt they’re always keen to share what they do have. I have a hearty Assamese meal of rice, spuds, pumpkin, dal, soya bean and egg curry. I pass on the egg plant, bloody vile stuff. From there it’s off to my bamboo jungle hut for the night. It’s damned impressive but that bathroom certainly wasn’t designed by Magnet. There’s no running water either, so there’s a hand pump to get water up direct from a bore hole for tomorrow’s shower. I really must stop talking about bathrooms and water; it’s doing my bladder no good at all.
Out at three and we’re visiting a Mising village. The Mising tribal people came to Majuli from Arunachal Pradesh ooooh, a while back. They have a village elder that I had to speak to before looking around the village. But he wasn’t in, so we walked about regardless. I was warned not to take pictures of the women, which is fair enough. We stopped and chatted to some womenfolk who were bashing a load of rice with a couple of big sticks. They were separating the chaff from the actual rice. Looked bloody hard work to me and I think I’ll just carry on going to Asda for my rice if that’s ok? Two minute later and there’s a terrible oinking and squealing coming from the yard outside one of the huts. Thye’re killing a pig for a festival tomorrow. Yes, I know it’s normal. I know it’s what happens. There are no Morrisons out here. But it’s still not nice to listen to.
Anyroad up, back to the plot, thin enough as it is. Jyoti had bought some sweets for the Mising children and he gave them to me to distribute. Bugger me; I’ve never see so many kids in my life. It’s pretty obvious what the TV-less Mising people get up to at night to pass the time! A bit further into our stroll and I’m offered Apong. Home brewed rice beer. I’m tempted but when I find out it’s only 2%, I politely decline. Well, my wee is stronger than that first thing in the morning! By this time, my head can be seen from space it’s pulsating that much. Kids walk by saying, “Hello Mr. Swan Vesta” God it’s painful and still we have one more visit to make. We drive a little while until Jyoti tells the driver to stop. Up there in a tree is a flock of storks ready to settle down for the night. How good is that? I completely forget about my tomato head for a good ten minutes!
Back to my room and just as I’m looking through the photos from the day… we have a power cut! Bugger!! Night comes fast round these parts and within fifteen minutes, it’s pitch dark outside. Now I know I’m am useless but, I hope, not totally so. Dusk/night in the jungle means mosquitoes. I cover myself in “Jungle formula” insect repellent and then remember about my shaved head (have you noticed, I’m avoiding using the word bald?) The little sods will bite anywhere, so I cover my head in repellent too. What a mistake. The repellent must have then irritated the sunburn. Good God, the pain was incredible! I could have put my head in a pan of boiling cheese fondu and it would have been a relief compared to this! I ran to the bathroom and pumped for all I was worth. That was to get some water up. Just in case you thought it were the lentils playing their part again. I poured the water over my head with the villagers thinking it must be some curious UK custom to have a red headed man, screaming and throwing water over him. Watch this space; they’ll all be doing it tomorrow.
Ah, talking of tomorrow it’s the Hindu festival of Holi. The local musicians are practising even as I type. Holi is the festival of colours and folk take great delight in showering everyone with different coloured powders. Should be good for a few pics I reckon. Right, I can put it off no longer. It’s nine pm and time for bed. I’d better make a dash to that bathroom and do the business. Let’s hope the mossies make straight for my head. If there’s any justice, a good wind (lentils again) and any bit of luck they’ll burn their noses and toeses.
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