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The Reluctant Traveller - India Part II - 28/03/10

THE RELUCTANT TRAVELLER

(The journal of a fishing widow)

 

FIVE STAR IN INDIA

by

Sandra Armishaw

 

As far as I’m concerned, the mark of a great holiday is how much you want to go back and how soon.  Our latest fishing adventure more than fulfilled my wish-list and as I write, I’m planning our return to the foothills of the Himalayas where Keith and his angling buddies fished the Ramganga for mahseer and the rarely-seen goonch, and we all experienced the beauty, thrill and mystique of Northern India.

          Our group totalled eight people, plus our organisers Chris Summers of India Angling and Ellie Gibbons, professional photographer. 





Together we explored the Jim Corbett National Park in search of tigers, travelled to Agra to visit the Taj Mahal and marvelled at the Red Fort of Agra, a UNESCO World Heritage site, but it wasn’t a trip for the faint-hearted as we soon found out.

 





Chapter one – Journey to camp

 

“You’re doing what!!!?”  My 29 year old daughter Jenny was incredulous.

“Dad’s fishing for mahseer and goonch in India, and I’m going to ride an elephant and search for tigers,” I replied.

“But you’re a pensioner,” she cried.  “You should be at home with your feet up; why don’t you just read about it!?” 

“Sod that” I said, “I can do that when I’m old!”

          Previously, in February 2008 I’d travelled to Southern India with my husband Keith and a group of friends, mostly anglers.  They were fishing for the spectacular mahseer on the Cauvery river.  I stubbornly refused to go, mainly because I’m a scaredy-cat who didn’t leave my home town in the Black Country until I was 30 years old, but I’m so thankful I did tag along, for that trip had a profound effect on my life and I believed that nothing could equal the experience.  That is, until this latest adventure.

          It was 25th February, 2010 when Keith and I boarded a train from Tiverton to London Heathrow.  Everything was running like clockwork.  Zak ‘the Reservoir Dog’ was being cared for by Keith’s sister Elaine and her husband, Chris; they were staying at our home in Devon and I knew the house was in good hands and that we wouldn’t be returning to frozen pipes and no central heating as we did on our return from Florida a few weeks earlier.  I also knew that the tidy-fairies would have worked their magic whilst we were away and that we’d come home to a cosy, cobweb-free home.  Great, I thought, as I sat back to enjoy the train journey.  It really is a doddle travelling that way.  Provided you book at least three weeks in advance, the cost is minimal, around £75 return for two of us and no hassle of having to drive back when you’re dangerously dog-tired from a long-haul flight.  Chris and Elaine would be there to collect us from the station; no problems.

          At Heathrow, we joined the rest of our group; Keith (Elliott) and Riva, Reg Talbot and Barbara and Chris (Elliott) and Jenny.  The Virgin Atlantic flight to Indira Gandhi International Airport, Delhi took around nine hours and we arrived late morning on Friday 26th February to glorious sunshine, and warmth that reminded me of English summers pre-‘global warming.’  There we were met by the organisers of our Indian adventure, Chris Summers of India Angling (formerly a leading sales consultant for Leeda, fishing tackle manufacturers) and Ellie Gibbons, professional photographer and tour manager supreme!  She handed me a box of freshly-cooked pakora (deep-fried indian fritters) for my onward journey; immediately I knew from their warm welcome that we were in good hands.  As we boarded the air-conditioned mini-bus for the next leg of our journey to the Jim Corbett National Park in the state of Uttarakhand, Northern India, my enthusiasm for this latest ‘fishing trip with a difference’ finally kicked in.

          Leaving the airport, I couldn’t help comparing it with the chaos of Bangalore.  In Delhi, the road systems appeared modern; tall buildings reflected economic investment and I felt we could have been in any prosperous city in the world, and then I spotted a cow being chauffeured in the back of an open truck, and I was reminded of the real India as we left the tarmac roads behind.  In 2008, I’d struggled to absorb the sights and sounds of this extraordinary country and this trip would prove just as fascinating.  Mile after mile of roadside vendors lined the route; most seemed to be offering dusty packets of the same snacks, bald tyres and recycled inner tubes – who were they selling to I wondered?  Every available space was occupied by someone’s enterprise and entire families worked together to make a living.  Local fruit and vegetables were displayed alongside shoe-menders, carpenters, furniture makers and numerous barbers’ shops, where pampered customers were being shaved with cut-throat razors.

          The journey to our hotel Tiger Camp in the Jim Corbett National Park, Ramganga, would take around seven hours, with a short wee-break included; it was then that I encountered my first ever stand-up loo!!  I say ‘stand-up’ although in my case, I lost my balance and nearly toppled inside the black hole in the floor and I was totally unimpressed with the acrid aroma and buzzing flies which accompanied that most unwelcome experience.  Everyone else was drinking chai (tea) and eating dosas in the roadside cafe whilst our driver was busy changing a flat tyre (so soon!) but I was itching to get to the Hotel, and was glad when we finally re-boarded the bus.

          The journey along the bumpy roads and through small villages seemed an eternity and as darkness fell, I catnapped - until we passed through a small village full of sound, light and throngs of people.  The locals were celebrating the festival of Lord Shiva, one of the principle deities in the Hindu faith.  With a strong feeling of déjà vu, I wanted to join the festivities as I’d done two years earlier in Karnataka, but disappointingly I was outvoted.  Fatigue was taking hold of everyone as our driver manoeuvred the bus through the crowds of people and on into the dark night.  Luckily, he was still sharp-eyed as minutes later, he jerked the bus to the right, narrowly missing a huge pile of bricks someone had left in the middle of road!  ‘Why there?’ I wondered.  The remainder of the journey was a series of swerves to avoid oncoming trucks, cars, cows, people on bikes, people walking – where were they all going in the dark?  You can imagine our relief when, more than ‘ten minutes’ later, we arrived at our luxurious Hotel in Ramnagar and Chris (S) finished his tale of a man-eating tiger and an unfortunate jogger - we were in Jim Corbett territory.

          With marbled floors, photos of magnificent tigers on the walls, cool well-equipped rooms with modern bathrooms and, tarrah! - tea-making facilities; I smiled.  ‘This’ll do for me’ I thought, and even though it was dark and the air alive with the sounds of the night, I couldn’t resist a wander around the manicured gardens - so unlike the jungle of my imagination. 

 

Vivid flowers, trees and illuminated pathways led to the round thatched restaurant where we would later eat our meals; each room had its own private fan-cooled terrace.  Roughly 24 hours from Devon, Keith and I finally fell into our large comfortable bed with its white linen sheets, and I dreamt of elephants, tigers and the golden mahseer waiting to be caught the from the fast-flowing Ramganga river.

 

 

Breakfast next morning was a civilised affair and starting the holiday off on the right foot, I dressed ‘Cartland-like’ in the Indian clothes Riva and Keith gave me for my 60th birthday.  Seated at a long table covered with crisp linen, we sampled our first taste of chai (masala tea) and tucked into Indian dishes, porridge and freshly-cooked omelettes with toast but enjoyable though it was, we didn’t linger too long at the Hotel. 

 

We were more than keen to reach our base camp in the foothills of the Himalayas, so with eagerness, we boarded the minibus for the final leg of our outward journey.

All I can write here is I’m glad I hadn’t paid attention to the itinerary, for what followed was, for me at least, more terrifying than the most scary fairground rides at Alton Towers, Blackpool Pleasure Beach, Disneyworld, and then some!

          Rising 1800 metres into the mountains, the road was mostly single track with passing places here and there.  ‘It’s not too bad,’ I thought as I was took my seat on the left-hand side but as the mountainous, boulder-strewn, pot-holed road rose ahead of us, the bus snaked alarmingly from left to right.  I tried to relax and humming distractedly, I looked across the bus and down into the valley below; big mistake!!!  I screamed.  I was petrified.  Riva offered me a tranquilliser which I swallowed; (it tasted of peppermint and I was sure it was a Tic Tac!).  My nerves jangled; my imagination got the better of me and with each sharp intake of breath, my humming changed to a screech and I uttered expletives each time the road fell away.  It was a long, long, long way down to the valley floor and I crossed my fingers, legs and toes in the fervent hope that the driver hadn’t bought his tyres from a roadside vendor in Delhi.  After what seemed an aeon, Chris Summers said: “only ten minutes to the top.”  We didn’t realise he was on Indian time!

“I feel sick,” said Ellie.

“Keep your eyes on the horizon, that’s what Reg told me to do when we sailed to Lundy through an eight-foot swell.”

“What horizon,” she said as the bus careered into low cloud.

“Here, have a lollipop,” said Chris Elliott, trying to distract her.

“Are we nearly there yet - I need the loo,” I cried.  Fear was tightening its grip.

“Oh,” said Chris “there isn’t one ‘til we reach camp.”

“How much longer?”  I persisted.

“Ten minutes,” he said optimistically.  I was unconvinced.

“Ooooooh.”  I squeezed my thighs to breaking point.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “we’ll stop for a photo-break and chai .”

‘Great,’ I thought.  So an hour later when the bus stopped at a small temple high in the mountains, I rushed out of sight to answer that most urgent call of nature.  Everyone else was busy taking valley shots of the spectacular scenery.  Who would have thought that a bus-load of people would pass me by as I was (em)bare-arsed in the Himalayas, but it did, and blushing a deep shade of crimson, I consoled myself.  At least the passengers wouldn’t recognise my face!

          What astonished me most about the journey to camp was the sudden appearance of small temples and habitation so high in the mountains (not to mention the bus!).  In my youth, I’d walked to the top of Snowdon in Wales, and stood on top of ‘The Old Man of Coniston’ in the Lake District when it was covered with snow and the surrounding landscape gleamed as white as the Taj Mahal in the sun.  Though I clearly had no head for dizzying heights on this roller-coaster ride, I found my gaze repeatedly drawn way down in amazement at the splendour of the outer Himalayas.  Multi-layered terraces with verdant crops are neatly cultivated by local people, with fresh water being drawn by hand from roadside pumps and clusters of small villages are seemingly suspended from precipitous slopes as if by magic.  How they came to be built there, I’ll never know, but communities inhabit them and appear to survive happily without the modern trappings of western society.  This simple way of life is a common factor between southern and northern India, although curiously, many people still appeared to own the cursed mobile phone.  (I’d left mine at home in the airing cupboard at home, but that’s another story!).

 

          Roughly five hours after leaving the cool luxury of our Hotel in the Jim Corbett National Park and having encountered a surreal motorcycle protest in a nearby village, ascended to 1800 metres and descended to around 800, we passed through another small village, bustling with life.

 The vibrant colours, noise, aromas, shops and local people; that is what I wanted to experience but sadly we didn’t stop to explore; we had still some way to go before reaching our final destination in the foothills of the Himalayas.

          Having fleetingly passed through the village, I looked down into the valley where the Ramganga river, a tributary of the Ganga glistened tantalisingly, and as my eyes scanned for monster fish in its crystal clear waters, I noticed the wreckage of a jeep lying on the boulders of the riverbank.  I felt sure the driver could not have walked away; my anxiety heightened so when the gateway to our fishing camp finally came into view, I heaved a deep sigh of relief.  The first part of our Indian adventure was over.

 

Chapter two – The Temple, mini-mahseer and my Torrington rod

 

Home for the next five days was within the rooms of a beautiful marble temple, the grounds to which were bounded by white walls, and entrance was through an ornately decorated gateway.  In accordance with Hindu faith, alcohol is not allowed inside the grounds so having stowed our bottles in the dining tent and deposited our luggage, I wandered alone down to the river.

 

          In 2008, Saad, our host at Bush Betta camp, Southern India taught me to look for animal tracks, so that, coupled with my habit of searching for rocks, caused me to keep my eyes on the ground.  Imagine my excitement when I found what looked like a fresh pug-mark in the sand. 

I thought it too small for a tiger; maybe a leopard I hoped?  Lifting my gaze, I focussed on familiar scrub-land and suddenly remembered I was in truly wild country so quickening my pace, headed for the safety of the temple grounds.  ‘I wasn’t scared,’ I reasoned – I just wanted to catch mahseer on my little Torrington rod and reel before darkness fell!

          Some of the seasoned anglers in our group controlled their derision as I struggled to cast my tiny bait of atta (wheat) paste on my quirky rod. ‘Bloody useless reel,’ I said to Keith after I’d looped the line around it several times.  ‘Try this,’ he said, taking the reel off and tying the line to the rod.  ‘How do you expect me to catch a fish like that?’ I said as he demonstrated pole-style fishing and caught the first mahseer! 

‘Cheeky bugger – give me my rod,’ I said.  No sooner the words were out of my mouth - bump; the line jumped in my hand and I hauled in my first mahseer, a beautiful, scale-perfect little tiddler.

 

          At the start of the adventure, Keith smiled indulgently when I asked him to pack my Torrington (USA) rod and reel.  ‘I’m going to catch a mahseer on this,’ I said with conviction; then I’m going to write about it.  He was still smiling, but this time in bemusement.  Mission accomplished – I was smug!  My American-made rod had become my ‘lucky’ rod and as I cast again, I caught another mahseer!!  A perfect ‘mini’ of the whopper, which would be bagged later that week.

          ‘Time for a gin and tonic,’ I said, smiling broadly as we headed back for dinner in the tent and an inner voice said: ‘Extreme fishing - RG eat your heart out!’  I’d caught the second and third mahseer on a car-aerial of a rod, and the best was yet to come.

 

Chapter three – Temple etiquette

          It was early evening on our first night at camp and everyone was getting ready for dinner, so I took my camera and wandered into the Temple dedicated to Lord Shiva (a principal deity in the Hindu faith) and his wife Parvati.  Here, I admit, I made two mistakes in etiquette.  First, I was alone as I entered the temple and didn’t realise that I should have removed my shoes; a young priest appeared silently from the night, gently ushered me outside, and having left my shoes at the entrance, beckoned me to follow him back into the temple where he poured water on my hands as part of a purification ritual.  With grace and charm which transcended language, he opened the gates to the main temple in which stood the beautifully decorated marble statues of Lord Shiva, Parvati and their two sons, Ganesha and Kartikeya.  Paradoxically, the inner temple also housed a modern stereo system which I soon found out was used to good effect to call people from surrounding villages to worship. It was music to my ears, especially as each day dawned – better than any old alarm clock!

          My second mistake was to walk forwards out of the temple.  It is customary to exit backwards but the priest didn’t admonish me for my errors and later that week, as a member of ‘Team Mahseer,’ he played a strategic part in helping me land my third and most beautiful fish of the week!

 

Chapter four – Time for dinner

          Indian music filled the air and lamps glowed their welcome, as camp managers, Sharma and Shiva calmly prepared a three-course dinner for ten people; an impressive feat of culinary skill when you consider that all they had to work with was a few pots and pans, an ancient pressure cooker and two bottled-gas rings.  The food at camp was delicious; always fresh and beautifully presented.  Everyone was catered for and small changes – less sugar, salt, black tea and coffee were all adjusted to taste.  I still remain so impressed by their cuisine to the point where I’m practising some of the dishes at home in an effort to recreate them.  (See the recipe for Sharma’s Chicken Curry).  Paneer (indian cheese) was my favourite and I was especially happy to learn that everything used in the meals had been locally sourced, which is not only eco-friendly, but a great financial benefit to the community.  Amazingly, recycling in that remote location is of prime consideration.  Vegetable peelings and eggshells were thrown into a pre-dug pit which will be covered with soil when the fishing season ends and the camp managers leave the site without a footprint.  (May to September is monsoon time).  Bones and any leftovers were given to the camp dogs, who Ellie G had individually named!  (Those robust canines scared the life out of me the next morning when they pounded up behind me as I stood watching the sari-clad women working in the field – I’d been warned about the wild boar and thought they’d come to get me!)

 

          Later that week, I was even more impressed when a local man arrived to take away the empties for recycling and was astonished when he wrapped them in cloth and walked up a steep road with the bundle on his head!.  ‘Where was he going?’ I wondered.  KA had been talking to Guarav, our enigmatic and exotic companion (a fantastic wildlife photographer) about water supplies for guests.  He said that fresh water was provided in large containers so that each could keep their own bottles for refilling, so reducing the number of litre plastic bottles in use.  I like the eco-thinking that went into this adventure and wish that all tour operators and inhabitants had the same consideration for the environment.

 

Chapter five - Chris Elliott’s 42-pounder!

The morning after the previous night’s great dinner and a few large G & T’s – (actually, there wasn’t any ‘T’ - Indian tonic water - only fluorescent sparkly orange which was ‘orrible) - some of the group, myself included, were understandably a little reluctant to leave our beds.  The more dedicated rose at around 6.30 a.m. to join Chris Summers in catching chilwa for fishing bait.

 

          Here, I’ve asked my other half, Keith, to write the fishy-bit because as everyone knows, I’m not an angler (despite the fact that I caught two of the first three mahseer etcetera, etcetera …!) – what I will record is the excitement amongst the group which ran at fever pitch when Chris Elliott (a taxidermist by profession) hooked a 42lb. mahseer (tor putitora).  What a magnificent fish, the capture of which won its captor a bottle of champagne in celebration.  Everyone was happy for Chris; we were all taking photographs of him with his catch when something strange occurred to me.  As an angling widow, I’ve seen some spectacular fish but as I gazed into that fish’s eyes (and this sounds crazy) I had the strangest feeling that he was looking back at me, laconically asking: ‘what the hell’s going on?’  From now on and despite what science may prove or disprove, I will always regard mahseer as intelligent, seeing, beautiful fish of dreams and I truly hope that the Mahseer Trust can go some way to expanding our knowledge, and helping to preserve the species which suffers the effects of netting and dynamiting on a large scale.

 

 

          With all photos taken, that magnificent specimen was placed on a stringer and gently held in the current to recover.  Then, with a swish of his powerful tail and a flash from his gold and silver scales, he went about his business of feeding and growing even bigger.  I truly hope to see him again before too long and if so, I wonder if he will remember me?

          Back on an earthly plane, I can honestly say that I’ve never seen so many huge, beautifully-scaled, truly wild fish together one body of water (estimates of up to 70lbs each).  Little did we know at the time, Chris E’s catch would be the only big mahseer to be landed during our brief stay, despite the fact that there were several impressive near-misses, but the mahseer of the Upper Ramganga are an enigma, and far from easy quarry.  As part of the Mahseer Trust, I look forward to learning more about the species, and what a great excuse to return next year, although I think I’ll leave my little Torrington rod at home and get some expert tuition from Chris (S), Asharam, (our local fishing guide) and KA because next time, I want to catch the rarest and most extraordinary fish I’ve ever seen – a goonch.

 

Chapter six – Keith Elliott’s 60lb’er

If you’ve ever watched Jeremy Wade’s TV series, ‘River Monsters,’ you may well have seen him snorkelling in search of goonch (bagarius bagarius).  That rarely-seen species is a man-eater by all accounts, having apparently developed a taste for human flesh.  Not sure if that’s true, but when I spoke to him about his experience, he admitted he was a little nervous in the water!  Having seen the size of the jaws and conical teeth of the fish, I’m really not surprised.  Our anglers were fishing the pool where the film was made and taking it in turns to catch; it was Keith Elliott’s lucky day.

          Shouts of excitement bounced off the cliff face and everyone raced to the corner pool, cameras at the ready.  KE had hooked a monster which had craftily sought refuge behind a boulder in the river bed.  It was a goonch, the size of which put a serious bend in the carbon rod.  They tried to dislodge it; Chris Summers grabbed the rod from KE and dashed along the riverbank.  Bizarrely, as he played the fish, a local man with a train of mules crossed the river right next to him.

 He was ferrying bags of sand from the far side but Chris was oblivious to the disruption.  With rod still in hand, he, Asharam and KE forded the river over slippery rocks, as the monster attempted to swim deeper into its lair under the rock face.  The rod bent alarmingly under its weight, but slowly and expertly, the goonch was brought to the riverbank by KE.  His audience applauded the catch and got ready with their cameras.  Two specimen fish in just two days - what a pity we’d already drunk the champagne!!

 

          Here, I must record the fact that I’ve never seen anything to equal the goonch in appearance.  It looked prehistoric.  ‘Bring the unhooking mat!’ Chris (S) shouted to me as they attempted to lift the fish – he had one mat ready but it wasn’t big enough!  As everyone manoeuvred to get a closer look and take photographs, I looked on in amazement.  Its head, gaping jaws and fearsome teeth reminded me of the film, ‘Predator.’  The creature was a dead-ringer for an alien life-form and I’d like to know more about its origins, but I suspect little is accurately documented.  You can imagine how surprised I was when I stroked its black, glistening skin.  It had markings but no scales.  Smooth and silky, it felt like one hugely-powerful muscle.  KE struggled to hold its weight for the photo-call and as it was returned to the river, I, for one, felt more than a little privileged to have seen and touched this extraordinarily-scarce fish.  I wonder if I’ll ever see another?

 

Chapter seven – Shiva’s Festival (it’s not about fishing, so blokies may well want to skip this part!)

In part one of this journal, I wrote of the festival and the mythology of Lord Shiva.  Two years ago, I stood with a friend in a crowded, dusty field in Southern India.  As the sun went down, we both experienced first-hand, the mysticism and powerful influences of Shiva and his followers.  So on arrival at our latest camp, I was especially happy to find that, not only were we staying at a temple dedicated to Lord Shiva, his wife Parvati and their family, but our visit coincided with the annual festivities.  Ellie had arranged for the young priest to accompany some of our group on a visit to the oldest temple in the grounds, built several hundred years ago.

          Having removed our shoes, we were taken to the rear of the modern marble building into the shade of a tiny temple dedicated to Shiva; a small pit contained the smouldering embers of a fire, and the air was heavy with the fragrance of incense.  Entrance was through a low, narrow, arched doorway and the interior housed a flower-decorated shrine.  Once inside, we were greeted by a frail, elderly man of indeterminate age.  We responded with ‘Namaste,’ a greeting used especially in Nepal and India and often in western yoga and meditation.  It is from the Sanskrit and generally means ‘I bow to you.’ (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Namaste). In turn, he blessed each one of us, placed a flower in our hair and then, repeating our greeting, we exited backwards through the doorway into the courtyard of the modern main temple.

          The young priest stayed with the group as they took shots of the spectacular statues I’d photographed on my first night, so I wandered towards a group of women and girls who were seated in a circle at the entrance.  At the centre sat a young woman; she was drumming rhythmically and the seated ladies and children sang and clapped in time with the music; it sounded so joyous.

 I’d no idea what they were singing but heard the name Parvati (Shiva’s wife) several times and I wanted to join in.  Ellie, using her trusty phrasebook checked with the priest that it was ok and we sat down, cross-legged on the marble floor.  Then to our surprise, the priest appeared with a plush red carpet on which he gestured we should sit; but not for long.  The elders of the group smiled their welcome and motioned for us to join their circle, so the red carpet was whisked away and re-laid on the steps where we sat singing and clapping in unison.  It’s customary during festivals for vibrant colours of dried powder to be thrown at people, or a sandalwood paste Tilaka (Sanskrit for third eye) to be placed on the forehead.  Each of us was decorated with powder and the women, curious about their guests, signed questions.  ‘Were we married?’  ‘Why weren’t we wearing traditional clothes?’ ‘Why weren’t we wearing nose-rings?’  (I might just get one to shock my daughters!)  ‘Where was my husband?’  They gestured for me to remove my sunglasses so that they could see my eyes and wanting to enter into the spirit of the festivities, I briefly left the circle to change into my Indian clothes.  When I returned, I noticed a group of men who appeared to be debating.  I’ve seen this once before when Buddhist monks from the Tashi Lunpho monastery brought their music and culture to Torrington, Devon – (debating is an important part of monasterial life and is carried out with great vigour, noise and many smiles).  Then I watched as the male group linked arms to form a big circle and moving in time to the music, performed what appeared to be a Greek dance.  I wondered about its origins.

          As the singing ended, my friend Jenny and I were offered sweet masala chai (spiced tea) and freshly-cooked pakoras, which we shared with the other women and their children.  No sooner had we finished eating and drinking than my tiny Indian companion pulled me to my feet and dragged me off to join the singing group who were now dancing in a circle.  Two steps to the right, one to the left – in Meerkat speak – ‘seemples!’  Not!!! – I felt like ‘Bambi’ learning to walk!  One thing I noticed immediately was the strength of that lovely lady who proudly told me she was 75 years old and proceeded to whirl me around at speed, crouching down, then jumping into the air.

 When the celebrations finally ended, I was exhausted from laughing and dancing but what an experience.  I’d taken some things for the children and these were given to one of the young mothers; amongst the books and pens was a brightly-coloured recorder.  The children seemed pleased with their gifts and I thought no more of it, until a few days later when Reg told me he’d heard a young boy playing the recorder up near the bridge – I smiled because I knew it had found a good home!

          As everyone left the Temple grounds, I parted company from my lady.  Bowing to her, I said ‘Namaste.’  She embraced me as she looked up into my eyes and it was a moment I will always remember - two people from different worlds, at one with each other for just a brief moment in time.

 

Chapter eight – In search of a sari & more

When I had the idea for this trip to India, I wanted to experience as much local life and culture as possible, that’s why the days spent fishing the Upper Ramganga were restricted to just five.  As you can imagine, I wasn’t too popular with the anglers in the group, but I reasoned that the last trip to Bush Betta had been mostly fishing, so this was my wish-list for the latest adventure. 

          I wanted to ride on an elephant; search for tigers; visit a festival; travel by train; eat local food; experience village life; buy a sari and visit the Taj Mahal – oh, and catch a mahseer on my Torrington rod.  Well, by around day four, I’d experienced some of my wish-list which was expertly put together by Chris and Ellie, and it was time to visit a local village in search of a sari and more, so the ladies and Chris (E) (brave man) climbed into waiting jeeps.

          After a ‘ten minute’ drive along narrow mountain roads lined by fissile rock cliffs, we were especially happy to reach our destination.  Small open-fronted shops lined both sides of a dusty through road.  The bright, sunlit street frothed with activity as people, trucks, boys-on-motorbikes with sari-clad women riding ‘shotgun,’ dogs and cows moved in all directions, each with a sense of purpose. Warm air, tainted with odour from open trenches, mingled with the fragrant aroma of cooking and Indian spices.  Colourful food - sweetmeats, pakoras, samosas and dishes of white noodles; all were open to the elements and no-one seemed to notice the swarms of black flies as they flitted from dish to dish.  Gold jewellery, cooking utensils, rich fabrics, shoes, TVs, sewing machines, water-filter jugs, fresh fish and meat, highly-coloured soft drinks and familiar packets of snacks, posters of Shiva, spades and ironmongery – all were offered for sale by shop-keepers as, cheek by jowl, they jostled for space in the little market town.

          Chattering villagers gathered together.  Curious about their western visitors they followed through the streets, although I think Ellie (G) was the main attraction.  Her open approach, enthusiasm for people and willingness to speak Hindi made her a more-than-welcome visitor.  Indeed on our next visit, I popped into an iron-monger’s shop to buy a spoon and was asked by the owner if he could marry Ellie, who he thought was my daughter.  As a warning, I told him he couldn’t as she already had a big, strong boyfriend close by!

          On another occasion, her attempts to learn Hindi did cause some amusement to Guarav, but that’s another story!  Using her well-thumbed ‘Lonely Planet’ phrasebook, she soon located a fabric shop in a long narrow side-street where, with a winning-smile, she proceeded to order a sari, tunics and trousers for our group and found herself invited to lunch with the family!

          To my embarrassment, I was the first to be relieved of my shirt and measured for a bodice.  I’m not a small person and soon, inquisitive faces crowded the shop doorway.  Children giggled as the shopkeeper whose name was Santosh, busied herself with a tape-measure, but my blushes would pale into insignificance when Ellie and I returned to the village two days later!

          Together, we’d braved the mountain roads once more and gone back into town to collect the clothes.  They were made in the back of the shop by two male machinists.  My sari was ready.  ‘Try it on,’ the shop-keeper insisted – Ellie was busy with her phrasebook.  A small group of people had gathered outside the shop and looked on in bemusement.  First, I had to try on the bodice so was relieved of my loose-fitting shirt – I kept my vest on!  She slipped the bodice over the top and strained to fasten it – too small (by six inches!).  She looked amazed. ‘Wait - we’ll alter it – have some chai,’ she said.  ‘Ten minutes’ later, the enlarged top was ready and she was determined it would fit so when it didn’t, she grabbed my boobs, one at a time, and stuffed them up inside!  I felt like a Christmas turkey and I was a little surprised by the swiftness of her hands!  Had anyone else done that to me, they’d have received a hefty ‘right hook,’ but it all seemed so normal in this remote mountain village shop.  The bodice was so damned tight I could hardly breathe but by this time, chai had arrived and Santosh was busy winding me into my sari – a beautiful coral colour with ‘blingy’ sequins.  More people arrived on the doorstep and the noise levels increased. Ellie slipped off with Sonu, our fishing guide, to buy beer for the blokes back at camp.  I was alone with the Santosh, her family – and the crowd!  One way, then the other, she wound the sari; she tied it in a knot.  She untied it.  I wondered if she’d ever dressed a large westerner before!  A heat-generating ten minutes later, Ellie and Sonu returned; they were anxious to get back to camp to take the guys fishing, but hey, this was sari-time.  So, nearly an hour later, chai had been supped and I’d been ‘mummified.’  We stepped into the dusty street to be greeted by a crowd of giggling, smiley-faced people.  I was glad I was wearing my huge sunglasses to hide my face.  Tittering, I started to walk the longest walk up the hill to the waiting jeep. I had no idea how I was going to climb in but at that moment, it was the least of my concerns.  Men popped out of shop doorways with their dreaded mobile ‘phones – they gestured for me to pose – I was their entertainment.  Ellie smiled and snapped away with my camera.  They might have been laughing at me, but I was laughing even louder at myself!  I have to admit though; I did feel like a ‘celeb’ as the jeep finally pulled out of town and I smiled, waving regally to the crowd.

          On the way back to camp, Ellie still had my camera when I caught sight of a small cat on the road ahead; I had no idea what it was but it lynx-like and light brown with large black spots.  Before she could get a decent shot, it had effortlessly scaled the rock face and was glaring down at us from a height.  I still haven’t identified it but was told that it was probably a domestic cat – not the kind that curls up on your lap and purrs, but one which falls into a general species group and would probably give you a nasty suck if you got too close!

          Despite the cool mountain air, I was still red-faced when we got back to camp and Ellie said: ‘let’s show the guys your outfit.’  Reg was fishing on the far bank and was so engrossed, he didn’t notice the appearance of a 5’6’’ bright orange sari topped with blonde hair and sunglasses and the sight of Riva trying on her tunic and bright red trousers.  I have a feeling the fish did though because there were no more catches that day!

 

Chapter nine – Cooking, Sharma & Shiva-style

Another thing on my wish-list was a cookery lesson.  I love Indian food and often try different recipies at home, but I wanted to experience Indian cooking first-hand and where better to start than with camp managers, Sharma and his brother Shiva who are both skilled cooks.

          Lit by lamps, the small tent was both kitchen and home to the brothers whose families live in Nepal.  Five of us were seated on the ground in the gloom, away from the heat of the two gas rings.  We were helping to cook dinner for ten people; each of us had taken a cutting board and prep-knife and were given simple tasks.  A huge bowl of washed okra (bhindi) to top, tail and slice - the vegetable (which I don’t normally like) was dipped in atta (wheat flour) and spices, and deep-fried to make a crispy, tasty snack.  (Mixed with cow-dung, atta makes great bait for catching mahseer!)

          Working together, we grated fresh ginger, garlic and onions and Ellie was given the job of chopping chicken, whilst Shiva was busy grinding spices between two large stones from the riverbank.  We were making authentic curry and using an antiquated pressure cooker, the ingredients hissed away as Sharma prepared a huge crème caramel in a bain-marie – talk about fusion cuisine!  Everything he did seemed effortless; working quickly with his hands, he showed us how to make parathas – flat unleavened bread made with atta flour, water and ghee.  With each component part of the meal bubbling and steaming away, the aromas of the freshly-cooked food massaged our taste-buds so when Chris (E) appeared at the entrance to the tent to take photos, I called: ‘time for a G & T,’ and in anticipation of a great dinner, we left Sharma and Shiva in peace to finish our banquet.

 

 

 

Chapter ten – ‘Team Mahseer’

All too soon, the days at camp came to an end.  I wasn’t too upset because I knew there was more adventure to come and I also believed that soon, we would return to the tranquillity of the Temple and its beautiful people.  But before boarding the minibus for the next leg of our journey, I was determined to catch my third fish of the week - the one Reg caught on MY rod, using MY much-ridiculed cooked chicken and rice didn’t count!  I also wanted Jenny to catch her very first fish and on that final morning in bright sunshine, fishing from the bridge with the expert assistance of ‘Team Mahseer,’ we both struck lucky!

          Baiting with my trusty spiced-chicken and leftover paratha, I optimistically dangled the tasty morsels off the new steel bridge which was built to enable villagers and their children easier access to the Temple.  It’s functional but unfortunately, it flexes each time someone crosses and sounds, I imagine, like the murderous dynamite used in some places to kill mahseer.  I wondered if that was why the fish in the pool were so easily spooked.  They didn’t seem to mind the presence of people in brightly coloured clothes, which was just as well because the young priest from the Temple always dressed in white.  He wants to become a fishing guide and with great enthusiasm, became the latest member of ‘Team Mahseer.’

‘I’ve got a bite,’ I yelled to Keith – ‘told you the chicken would work.’ 

‘I’ve just rebaited with atta,’ he said.

‘Oh,’ I replied – ‘well the hook must smell of chicken!’

‘What do I do now?  I can’t haul it up – feels like a monster’ I shouted.  Everyone came running.

‘Give me your rod – I’ll climb down the rocks and try and land it from there,’ he said.

‘No you don’t.’ I panicked as he started to scramble down.  Keith’s accident-prone and the last thing I wanted to see that morning was him pitching headlong into goonch-infested water.  Anyway, a splash that size would have ruined the fishing!

          From nowhere, a crowd of school-children thundered onto the bridge where Guarav stood with his long-lens camera.  Chris (E) left Jenny to fend for herself and rushed to help me down the riverbank in readiness to land my catch.  Keith passed the rod under the bridge to Guarav who was hanging from the other side.  It snagged on the rocks and the young, white-clothed priest joined the mayhem and clambered down to free the line.  Landing the ‘monster’ was touch and go but when it was finally brought to the bank, our prize was a magnificent Ramganga mahseer of around a 1lb.  Its scales the ‘crown jewels’ of the river, shimmered gold and silver in the late morning sun.  It may have been a little ‘un but with the laughter, cheers, photo-calls, applause, my knocking knees, and explosions from the bridge all adding to the chaos, it was one of the highlights of my week. 

 

Looking downstream, I could see our experienced anglers, rods in hands; they were determined to catch, but who needs a big fish when you can have that much fun with tiddlers and ‘Team Mahseer.’  And then, it was Jenny’s turn!

          With just ten minutes to go before leaving camp, Jenny had the full attention of Keith and Chris (E). 

In charge of the camera, I’d climbed down over rocks to get a better view.  Guarav stood by, long lens in hand.  We were willing her to catch, when suddenly the rod tip dipped and once again, ‘Team Mahseer’ sprang into life.  It was like watching an action replay of earlier events.  Jenny handed Keith the rod; he passed it to the priest who scrambled under the bridge, passing it to Guarav.  He handed it to Chris and Jenny, who by that time had raced down from the bridge and were waiting in readiness to land it carefully on the flat, stony beach.  Although I angled to get the best shot, Jenny’s catch was obscured by her support team so it was a good job Guarav was close by to capture the moment for posterity.  Jenny’s first fish - a beautiful golden mahseer.  I handed her a keepsake stone from the riverbank.

‘It’ wasn’t as big as yours,’ she said to me smiling, as we left the river for the last time.

‘I’ve always believed that size is not important,’ I replied.  (At least, that’s what Keith always tells me!)

 

Chapter 11 – Snow-capped mountains

  Two open-topped jeeps and a mini-bus loaded with people and luggage, wound their way up the steep track to the road and away from camp.  We were en route to our next destination; the Jim Corbett National Park.  But first, what goes up must come down and I steeled myself for the hair-raising ascent and descent to the Tiger Camp hotel, a drive of around 150 kms.

          Chris Summers said we’d take a shorter route back.  ‘Great,’ I thought, until we left the main road and drove down a dirt track which crumbled under the weight of the bus.  We were in an old quarry with a ford at the bottom where people were washing a very smart 4x4.  ‘This is interesting,’ I thought as rocks rolled down the hillside.  I tried the old distraction technique of humming to myself and as the bus hissed its way through the cold mountain stream at the base, I wondered what lay ahead.  Higher and higher we drove into the mountains; the scenery was breath-taking and I cursed my old eyes when the group spotted a snow-capped mountain in the distance. 



No matter how I tried, I couldn’t see it as it disappeared and reappeared in the clouds.  When in camp, Shiva had given me a rock he’d found on the riverbank.  He said it was shaped like Mount Kalaish, the most sacred mountain in the world.  It is believed to be the contemplative seat of Lord Shiva and his wife Parvati and I believe it has never been climbed by anyone and is surrounded by a protective zone such is its revered status.  I long to see it at close quarters and hope to do that one day soon, so I wasn’t too disappointed that I couldn’t see the mountain in the clouds.



Since writing this diary entry, Chris's soulmate and our friend Jenny was tragically killed in a road traffic accident.  We loved her in life and remember her with fondness and a smile.  This is dedicated to her memory.  R.I.P. dear Jenny.