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.
