Tomfoolery and self-deprecation in extreme circumstances

I knew it would be one of the most adventurous, thrilling and downright hilarious trips of my life – a six day expedition down a section of the Brahmaputra in India.

I’d said a sad goodbye to Helen, leaving her in a strange country while I departed for an even stranger one, and dropped everything in New Zealand to join up with my friend, Roland Stevenson, who had foolishly started a white-water rafting company, River India. Not only that, he was to be based out of the remote and largely restricted region Arunachal Pradesh (pronounced are-a-nutch-al prah-desh), the north-eastern most state, out on a limb from India, bordered on three sides by Bhutan, Myanmar and Tibet.

Oh, and China immediately issued a statement saying they didn’t recognise the region as Indian.

Tomfoolery and self-deprecation in extreme circumstances are Roland’s strongest assets. If anyone could organise the logistics for a six day rafting trip down the mighty Brahmaputra in the world’s most famously bureaucratic continent and still come out laughing, it was him. This was to be River India’s first expedition.

Jan 4^th-6^th

Christchurch to Sydney. Sydney to Dubai. Twenty-four hours in a Dubai hotel. Dubai to Delhi. I spent the majority of my time eating, sleeping, sleeping, reading, eating, sleeping, writing, eating, sleeping, and so on.

Jan 6^th

“Don’t panic,” read the sign above the baggage carousel. “There’s always rebirth.”

I wasn’t panicking, but was perhaps mildly anxious. This was my second time in India. The first had been with Helen and our Californian friend, Jasmine, almost a year ago exactly. I’d already learned from the words of a fellow Scot, William Dalrymple, that “nothing is ever as good, or as bad, as it first seems” in this invigorating country. The sign was part of a series promoting the country on behalf of Incredible India. It showed an old school kayaker dropping into a large recirculating hole. The words were to be our motto for the adventure ahead.

Foolishly, from the sanctity of New Zealand, I had tricked myself into thinking that staying somewhere near the airport and away from the backpacker’s mecca of Pahar Ganj and having someone meet me at the airport would make life easier. Instead I had to endure the driver’s endless sales pitch on where he could take me in the city before he dropped me off at a guesthouse [www.ajantaguesthouse.in] in the middle of nowhere. To top it off they were obviously rebuilding half the place and so as I sat, in a daze, on my solid mattress with its solid pillows (surely an oxymoron) suddenly pining for my wife, I had to endure the inconsistent sound of mass construction.

These old colonial Indian buildings are full of stone and marble, radiating cold. I went for a walk, and sure enough, there was nothing around, just a residential area with a plethora of engine workshops and small food shops. Very noticeable that I barely turned a head wandering around the streets, not like my previous visit to India with Helen and Jasmine when we were accosted from all angles. After a take-away dinner I stood in the marble bathroom and rubbed at my smooth chin: a beard is a necessity in the land of facial hair.

Delhi-Guwahati-ULFA

Jan 7^th

I hadn’t heard too much about the troubles in Assam (you have to travel through Assam to reach Arunachal) but the hotel staff were almost hostile when I told them where I was going. They told me it was a lawless region. That I should go somewhere else. What do they know? I said to myself.

Never again will I arrange transport to and from the airport. After giving the driver almost all my rupees for a twenty minute drive I wandered into the domestic terminal. Wow. It was oh so much more Indian than its international counterpart: chaos of noise and people, queues ass-to-groin, the classic head tilt in every direction:

“Is this seat taken?” – head tilt.

“Will the flight leave on time?” – head tilt.

“Is this coffee?” – head tilt.

My growing sense of lonely unease was quelled when I made it through security and met up with Bridget Crocker, fellow river guide and writer. She met Roland while working a trip on the Kern River in California. Now she was here penning an article for National Geographic Adventure. Her height, Californian tan and blonde hair ensured we were the centre of attention.

We sat steadily soothing our collective worries over Assam with life-story swaps while watching the “delayed” times for our flight ticking over. “Air Sahara apologises for this most regrettable inconvenience,” sing-songed the PA repeatedly in staccato Indian-English.

After three hours we were taken to our plane by bus and were greeted by a ridiculous show. For forty-five minutes we stared in disbelief and shared a faint sense of amusement with our all-Indian co-passengers as two well-dressed men in leather jackets worked at the main door to our plane with hammer and chisel, attempting to pry it open. Crazy, we all agreed. Nonetheless, when the door popped open we all stepped on board with nary a second thought.

The Brahmaputra is sometimes so wide on the plains of Assam that one cannot see the other side. But it begins in Tibet as the epic Yarlung Tsangpo. It’s a tight and monstrously deep gorge - the biggest in the world, 8 times as steep and 3 times as wide as the Grand Canyon - of which only small sections have been navigated.

We were to be running a section in the middle of these two extremes. As we flew alongside the snow-capped Himalayas out to the east with Everest visible against the blue sky, I imagined the river, replaying lush images from magazines and documentaries

And I pondered the Three Gorges Dam, the world’s largest, holding back so much of that raging white-water on the other side of those foreboding mountains, and the increasing furore surrounding the Chinese interest in diverting this water into their own country at the Great Bend – where the river does a sharp 180 degree turn back to the west – and building a new dam that would generate twice the power of the Three Gorges Dam (some 40000MW alone). This mammoth project is scheduled to begin in 2009. Water is fast-becoming the world’s most precious commodity. Chinese interest in Tibet makes a lot more sense to me now. It also reminded me how the Sierra Nevada canyons in California are still fought over – no longer for gold, but for water.

I have written an article - We All Live Downstream - about this situation, I may have to remove it if it gets published, so check it out on my writing blog while you can.

Bridget drew my attention away from the view to a newspaper. It reported on the tension in Assam, originating from threats by ULFA, a militant group, who have been attempting to drive out Hindi-speaking non-natives – made up of the mainly poor labour force driven to the area by economic compulsions sometimes as long as two or three generations ago – in an effort to divide the region along sectarian lines.

ULFA see themselves as “sentinels of Assamese culture”. Twenty murders in the past twenty-four hours was the current tally.

The newspaper used buzzwords like “mayhem”, “moral-less criminals”, “volatile”, “anarchic” and “psychosis” to describe a state where “law and order had totally disappeared”. (The Assam Tribune, Vol.69, No.8, Pp.1-3.) The army had been mobilised. We distracted ourselves by reading the personal ads where young men and women advertised themselves for marriage.

A burst of aggression from a female passenger directed at the immaculately attired stewardess got us worried. We learned that our flight would not be touching down in Dibrughar as planned. Due to the delay we would be arriving at dark and the runway has no lights. Instead we were being taken to Guwahati. Of course they knew all this before we took off. Deep breath and let the adventure take you.

Delhi had been a cool six degrees Celsius. Guwahati was a considerably warmer twenty-six degrees. There may be more to Guwahati, but my appreciation of it was summed up by a display cabinet at the airport: in a glass case a sack of cement was proudly lit up for all to see. After fighting for hotel vouchers and pre-paid taxi slips from the Air Sahara staff we were taken into a city of depressing monochrome: beige brick, bleached dust and, yes, concrete. We weren’t expecting much of the hotel but it turned out to be a considerably cosy 4-star place, Hotel Dynasty. We had dinner, hot-showers, failed to reach Roland to inform him of our delay, but I slept happy after catching the closing minutes of Man U vs Aston Villa as old friends Larsson and Solskjaer won the match.

Guwahati-Dibrughar

Jan 8^th & 9th

We got hold of Roland by phone and it was great to talk to him again. His almost autistic need to laugh in the face of danger relaxed me, but not Bridget, who could only hear my high-school giggling in return. Roland reiterated the fact that once we got to Arunachal “all your troubles will be left behind”. After returning to the airport we took to the skies again.

Ended up chatting to a young man who I wasn’t sure about at first. He was a student working for Indian Oil (Assam is all about tea and oil) and had plenty to tell us about the region, oil, environment and carbon emissions. He was studying “flaring”, where ozone-damaging methane gas is released when drilling for oil. His study was examining the possibility of this gas being piped to a nearby town where it could be processed and used. He also talked at length about carbon trading – waaay more interesting than it sounds.

Given tantalising first glimpses of the Brahmaputra amongst low hills and green forests we approached Dibrughar in a state of excitement. We were glad to leave behind the relative claustrophobia and blandness of Guwahati. We stepped off the plane straight onto the tarmac, something which creates a tangible feeling of actual travel rather than the somnambulistic traipsing from one elevated covered walkway to another. Roland was leaving for Delhi on the plane we arrived on, to meet the clientele for the trip. After a quick stone-paper-scissors (or row-sham-bow) it was decided Bridget would go and try to talk to our leader while I collected the bags. His response to the killings? “Namaste and welcome to India! The show goes on.”

Met by Hotel Little Palace staff in a VIP jeep we drove past the famous tea-fields of Assam, all aligned in neat rows with large trees for cover, and into town along a largely vehicle-, cow- and people-free road, something very rare in India. This was due to the military-enforced “bandh” (curfew) in the area. Shops were shut. Army trucks rolled past with mounted machine-guns. Soldiers stood in the empty streets with automatic weapons as locals stared out from doorways and windows. The murder count was 57 for the weekend. ULFA had attacked soft targets: rural communities of farmers, fishermen and brick-kiln workers, and were now apparently hiding in the neighbouring forests of Arunachal to the north. Our collective confidence was waning, despite Roland’s uncanny upbeat nature.

We had the whole hotel to ourselves. Over the next two days we gorged on gorgeous Assamese food: chicken butter masala, paneer shahi (white cottage-cheese gravy), peas pulao, gulab jamun or ram goulash (hot sweet milky balls is what we termed these), and heaps of buttered nan. Locked in we drank endless cups of chai, watched the news on TV, and chatted to Roland in Delhi and the rest of our compatriots in Arunachal over the phone. The first evening some random guy came and sat himself down and chatted to us after dinner. Giving us ideas of what to do if our ferry to Arunachal didn’t leave he said we should go to some place where there was a crude oil museum! Only three hours drive away!

The second day the bandh was lifted and we decided to see if the ferry would be leaving for Arunachal. The Hotel Little Palace staff said it was “not possible” but we were seasoned travellers and knew best. A driver took us to the ferry point and wanted to leave us there, even though we couldn’t muster more than two words of Hindi between us and no one was around. Ensuring one of us kept close to the jeep, the other investigated. The ferry would not be leaving. Sheepishly we arrived back at Hotel Little Palace as less seasoned travellers.

We decided to treat ourselves to something in town as way of morale building. Amazingly we found a Baskin ‘n Robbins (American brand ice-cream parlour) near the bank. As an ice-creamaholic I deemed it to be merely a mirage, but Bridget knew otherwise. Within five minutes we were munching away happily on sundaes watching the passing pedestrians and traffic through the window. Almost turned off our delicious treats by the sad sight of an injured cow limping past, stopping every few paces to awkwardly turn and lick its red raw backside, but we persevered and managed to finish.



I am writing this blog entry based on memory (not nearly good enough) and a diary (much more sound) I kept while travelling. From time to time I have decided to include the diary verbatim, and will do so in italics, as the shorthand nature of it can sometimes be amusing.

Had another long frustrating administrative chat with the hotel staff. It was all sorted out eventually, but I reckon the manager only really paid attention once I told him we were journalists. Dollar sign. Ker-ching. Now we’re not just walking hamburgers but double-doubles!

Ferry to Oriamghat

Jan 10^th

IT’S GROUNDHOG DAY! Same itinerary as yesterday. Off early we drove back to the ferry, fingers crossed. There was a hive of activity. Success! After 48 hours in Dibrughar we could continue our journey. Finally we were to be floating on the life-giving Brahmaputra. It was to be a seven hour journey up-river in a small fifty foot ferry. This was our Heart of Darkness moment – chugging towards the distant shadowy Himalayas away to the northeast.

But there was no dense jungle or foliage upon the river banks. Wide open sandy desert plains stretched out in all directions. We saw very little apart from some ducks, river dolphins and a few fishermen. Bridget and I were both happy to leave the troubles of Assam behind.

When we finally ran by the edge of a jungle we’d arrived in Oriamghat, border to Arunachal, where the remainder of our team greeted us: Kevin Thomson (Californian, safety kayaker, media guru and social networker), Erik Meldrum (Californian, trip leader, photographer and all round too good to be true guy), Arvind (Indian, co-owner of Red Chilli Adventures and a big friendly talker), Joshi (Indian, Red Chilli driver, impressive handlebar moustache with twiddled ends and very little English) and Tiluk (temporary manager for Donyhango, the adventure camp Roland had commissioned for our base). I was presented with a waistcoat in an Adi (major local tribe) style, and Bridget with a shawl. We were also happy to be gifted a fruit basket (for Bridget) and a bottle of Bagpiper (for me).

Arrival in Arunachal Pradesh

After crossing into Arunachal we did a quick tour of Pasighat town centre and then retired to the Donyhango camp on the outskirts.

It all felt very colonial with rows of canvas tents, a dinner hall, and a team of cooks and cleaners. I was reminded of the Monty Python sketch where the Brits are hunting in the jungle and one of them wakes to find his leg has been “bitten awf, damndest thing, but I’m sure it’ll grow back”.

It sparked more memories of my recently deceased grandmother, Elizabeth Balneaves, who had made films, books and paintings after extensive travelling and working in Pakistan and the Hindu Kush. She would have loved all of this. The attention. The sheer novelty.

We spent the evening catching up, and, of course, drinking the Bagpiper. Kevin, Erik and I had worked together for many years in California as river guides for Whitewater Voyages. Bridget also had a past with the same company but had never met me, and knew Erik only in passing. She did, however, share some stories with Kevin! Despite our remote location we still managed to listen to music on an iPod with speakers.

Kevin: more Adi than American

Kevin had been in Pasighat since November with Roland, while Erik arrived around Christmas time. Arvind and Joshi had rolled up just the previous night. It was agreed they’d had the journey to Arunachal most fraught with danger. Roland had drafted them in last minute due to the entire shipment of River India gear (boats, frames, drybags, boxes, client gear) being stuck in a bureaucratic loophole in Calcutta. The shipment had been there since November and was forever just a few days from passing the seemingly random customs stipulations. Therefore River India had been left with very little. Arvind came to the rescue by driving sixty-six hours with Joshi from Rishikesh, bringing a truck full of equipment. The road took them through some fairly hostile terrain, including Bihar, where gangs often rob passing vehicles at gunpoint and travellers have been murdered en masse. They avoided driving at night and stashed their cash in various panels around the doors and floor, and Arvind kept in touch with his army contacts.

t was no surprise to learn that Kevin’s integration into local life had been swift. Befriending a local man, Uchi, Kevin had spent the majority of his time hunting, cooking and learning the language. That night Tiluk declared Kevin was “more Adi than American”, and over the course of the next two weeks that statement was proved true on many occasions.

Kevin took us to Uchi’s sprawling abode near town and the bamboo meeting house cum kitchen with central open fire reminded me of the houses in Thailand. Everyone sits in a carefully arranged circle – generally eldest to youngest with guests at the entrance side.

Above the fire, protected from cats and vermin by a mesh metal container, various very black-looking bits of fish and meats were being smoked. We ate eel cooked by Uchi’s wife,

snacked on Starfruit (like a Golden Delicious apple) from his garden, drank Apong – a local rice beer –

and sang songs as we passed the guitar around. Uchi upstaged us all by blowing out, I think it was, Stairway to Heaven. In his very good English he also gave us a stark warning about the power of the river and of previous expeditions that had run into trouble.

Siang River Festival

Jan 11th

I was lucky enough to be in Arunachal during the Siang River Festival. Siang is another name for the Brahmaputra. The river brings together many tributaries and passes through a multitude of tribal regions, linking a largely diverse and scattered population. The festival was about celebrating that cultural difference amongst the various tribes. We headed into town to see some of the opening ceremony bus missed the release of white doves and balloons. A crowd had gathered in the town square to watch traditional dances. Each group of women on stage wore matching colours according to their tribe. There was also plenty of not so traditional dancing in the form of risqué thrusting to repetitive beats which would have left Britney’s choreographer chuffed.

It was immediately apparent that the makeup of this region was very different from the India I knew of. It reminded me of arriving in the mountainous tranquillity of Dharamasala the previous year, home to the Dalai Lama, after the manic energy of Rajistan. Both places are a part of India, but Dharamasala’s largely Tibetan population leant the area a mellow atmosphere in stark contrast to the hustle of Rajistan. Pasighat gave me a similar feeling after Guwahati and Dibrughar.

We were certainly the centre of attention, but there was a shyness and respect to it not evident in those other areas. Arunachal is open to foreigners with a special ten-day visa, and only on organised tours, therefore visitors are seldom seen. It took the curious youngsters a good half-hour before they finally surrounded us in the town square to demand autographs, the adults filing in behind, grown men wanting to shake hands and touch our skin, women posing with us for photographs. I finally have a sense of how The Beatles must have felt.

Due to the festival it was impossible to tell who was local and who had come in from the surrounding areas. The people were all so different: a melting-pot of Nepalase, Tibetan, Mongolian, Adi, Chinese and Assamese. Largely short, the women are striking with often painted large eyes and big smiles across a wide, round face with flat nose. And with the festival underway, many women wore traditional long skirts in bright colours, just like the women I had seen across Myanmar in the hill-tribes of northern Thailand. The men are largely short, with the Assamese-Indians more petite than their kin from the north.

It was also a surprise to see how seamlessly the western influence had merged with tradition in such a remote region. The younger generation often wore jeans with a more traditional top half or vice versa. Pasighat had one internet café, in the region’s first computer school, and many people walked around with earphones blasting.

Unlike other parts of India it was not uncommon to see couples expressing affection by holding hands. Not man and man, as is prevalent in Indian society, but man and woman.

This separation from the rest of the country was reinforced when Joshi, the Red Chilli driver, voiced his frustration at not being able to find roti and dahl – the staple Indian diet – and refused to eat the local produce. Most of the small and very busy restaurants served a combination of Tibetan momos (filled pastry dumplings) and Chinese-style chowmein, all either with pork, vegetables or chicken.

It was also possible to purchase barbecue-rat on a stick from the daily market.

Uchi's Adi Village

That evening Uchi took us to his Adi village a little further out of town so that we could purchase some Apong for our trip, and it was like arriving in the hill-tribes of northern Thailand around Mae Hong Son. Uchi led us from one bamboo house to the next. Each time our group of six strangers and Uchi surprised a house it felt like gate-crashing of the highest order. But within a minute the hosts would have us all sitting around the central open fire, piling us with snacks and jar after jar of Apong. Bridget doesn’t drink, and Erik wasn’t feeling too great, so it was left to Kevin, Arvind, Joshi and I to drink for everyone. We visited four or five houses, experiencing amazing polite hospitality, some broken chat, plenty of laughter, and far too much Apong. Considering leaving, we suddenly remembered the main purpose of our visit! That meant one more house and a few more rounds of Apong before we could purchase any.

I left the Adi village knowing that in the west that kind of social visit would not be possible with such complete strangers. There was no way you could stumble into such warm hospitality back home in house after house, surprising people like that. Perhaps only in the rural areas of Scotland I’d lived in, and even then it would have to be first-footing after New Year. Once again, in the same way Thailand had taught me, I left vowing to make my own home an open home, and to always greet strangers and foreigners with the same kind of curious humour.

75 kilos and counting

Jan 12^th & 13^th & 14^th

Kevin remarked often that he had put on a serious amount of weight since arriving in India. Travellers to India all expect to get sick at some point, and we had all thought the same thing, therefore stuffing your face at every available opportunity seems fair enough, as before long you will be projectile ejecting from all orifices for three days straight. Hadn’t happened to Kevin. In fact, no one had been too sick. The previous year I had a good 24 hours of throwing up but both Helen and Jasmine had been fine. The problem is the food in India is probably the best in the world. No dish is alike. The spices give your taste buds fits after the blandness of western fare.

And as we had a cook all to ourselves, well, a jog was definitely in order. I was also curious to listen to the noises of the jungle and so we jogged up and out of town (typically I overdid it and injured myself), climbing a hill to leave the noise of traffic behind and open up views of the Siang below. But it was eerily quiet. I’d expected birds and monkeys at least. The reason for the lack of animal activity was clear as we walked back: four men crouched by the road with an air-rifle hunting. Later, Uchi told us that locals hunt and kill anything. Due to their expertise in this field, very little is left. This seemed strange as Uchi had previously talked at length about the Adi’s spiritual guidance from Animism – the need to respect the special force of nature.

Pasighat Preparation

While Bridget and Kevin took care of some shopping in Pasighat, Erik and I laid out all the gear at camp. With Arvind’s arrival we almost had enough bits and pieces to make the trip happen, but a third boat was really needed. As things stood, each raft would have: one guide rowing from a centre frame, a back-up guide stashed behind them somewhere, three or four clients in the front paddling, and then all the gear piled around, high. Very, very high. We were all a little nervous as none of us had actually run the river. Roland, Kevin and Erik had seen parts of it from the road; that was all. (See the story of Roland and Kevin taking the Jackson Kayakers on a tour of Arunachal’s whitewater.)

Donyhango owned an old ex-army bucket raft (not self-bailing) complete with leaky valve. But this was currently up north being used as part of the Siang River Festival by some of the staff who were ferrying a television crew around. Nino, who was leading that party, knew we wanted the boat and should be back in time to hand it over to us, but this is a country which forces people who are used to plans, deadlines and timekeeping to leave crying, “India stands for I’ll Never Do It Again!” Bridget, with plenty of worldwide expedition experience, was the voice of reason, comparing our situation to some of those she had endured and reminding us we were doing just fine.

The following day we heard a tragic story from the staff at the camp. Nino’s party had been travelling in two jeeps, and while driving through the mountains at night one of them had gone off the road at a switchback. A couple of people had died on impact, and the female anchor for the TV show had been badly injured. They had to continue driving through the night to locate medical services and before they could do that the woman passed away too. The producer to the show arrived at Donyhango late the next day to meet the team, unaware of their tragedy. As we all readied ourselves for bed her sobs could be heard echoing around the camp.

Bridget then got Erik, Kevin, Arvind and I together. She told us a story about a philosopher cum scientist who had carried out a test. While crystallising water he’d first pour negative energy – in the form of mediation and mantra – onto the liquid, and then repeat the process with positive energy. When he studied the crystals under a microscope he found that the negative energy had created a tangled web, while the positive energy had formed perfect radiant star shapes. His conclusion was that due to 90% of our body being made of water, our energy, and the way it was focussed, could drastically alter our physical wellbeing. So Bridget wanted us to form a ‘crystal’ each day by joining hands and then radiate positive energy amongst ourselves. There was no doubt she was from southern California! But in the face of our ongoing struggle to make this expedition happen, and now Nino’s team’s tragic accident, we needed all the positive energy we could muster.

Anyone who has been part of a team preparing for a wilderness trip will know how difficult it is to ensure you have everything, and that all eventualities for losing gear, food or time have been considered. Well, between us we had over sixty years of experience, but that couldn’t prepare us for shopping in Pasighat during only the second annual festival in the region. We were accosted by all manner of locals as we slowly crossed off the lines on Roland’s multiple-page packing list. And due to Roland being out of contact – currently on the ferry from Dibrughar – we couldn’t query some of the strange quantities. For instance, ten jars of honey? Why would we need so much honey? Did he have some strange fetish? Was it to be used as a trading tool in case of calamity? All these questions, and more, we had to contend with while we spread ourselves out in town trying to haggle the price of fresh herbs, have sleeping-bag liners make and locate various items like kettles, boxes and other odds and sods.

In the west we are quite used to finding all our shopping under one roof. Surprisingly, that was also possible in Pasighat. The shop that took care of almost everything was perhaps twelve feet by twelve feet. But what they lacked, they’d send one of their staff out to search for elsewhere, leaving us the luxury of pulling up a chair and just shouting out things on our list. “I need twenty four boxes of cookies! Bring me the biggest tarp you can find!”

Intrepid leader Roland arrives

When Roland arrived with the seven clients we had bought everything and were just putting the final items into the new non-waterproof boxes we’d managed to find in Pasighat. The evening was spent getting to know one another and Erik, as trip-leader, laid out the rough (this is India after all) plan for the next six days.

There was Rhiannon – a bubbly young woman from Canada who had never traveled outside the country. Shauna – a reporter for the Toronto Times. Joe – laidback Yoda of all things yoga who was scouting the country for a business venture. Tom – American man of leisure who travels widely after making his money in his own business. Jeff – Tom’s nephew, equally adventurous. Amanda and Emily - sisters who were friends with Roland at school in Pakistan, they currently live in Kenya and Canada respectively.

Roland had largely culled the clients from a popular internet forum. They had been able to open up an ongoing dialogue with Roland through the forum and this ensured they received first hand information regarding the trip. Nonetheless, I was still impressed by the clients’ sense of adventure on signing up for the expedition. They knew it was River India’s first trip, and they had heard the sensationalised reports on the unrest in Assam.

That evening Roland talked to me at length about his vision for River India trips. “In this age of global terror and fear, I’m especially keen to bring cultures together to learn,” he said earnestly. I asked him if he was nervous bringing paying clients to Arunachal at such a tense moment. “Many parts of the world are labelled ‘trouble spots’. Political motives overshadow the fact that there are many normal, like-minded people there. You can’t just sit and watch TV and believe what you see. You have to explore for yourself and share what you learn when you return home.

“It takes adventurous travellers, like these guys, to go beyond the camera lens and prove there is something behind the trouble and the extremists. These kinds of trips help both ways – western and eastern cultures coming together, even in just a small way.”

Roland had had his fair share of knocks with setting up River India, and he was aware that these initial trips may not bring the cultural awareness and knowledge that he’d envisaged due to these unforeseen events, but all that would come with time. To ensure this he would setup (and since our expedition he has now completed) the first whitewater guide-school (South Asian River Skills Institute) for local Arunachal guides using his western team. His dream is for SARSI to generate the best-trained Indian guides, one day leading to a self-sustaining business in the mould of NOLS (National Outdoor Leadership School) or Outward Bound (worldwide school in outdoor education), providing cultural, environmental and ecological awareness in a delicate region.

When all was said and done Roland and I had a ridiculous exchange of giggles and finished the evening in neighbouring beds …

Sojourn begins

Jan 15^th

… only to awake and find ourselves together, spooning: I hadn’t seen him for a while.

For our sojourn north we had three vehicles: Arvind and Joshi’s Red Chilli truck with the guides; reliable, dependable, laid-back NB (Roland had befriended him after losing a previous driver who ran over a policeman’s foot – see Jackson Kayak story) and his passenger jeep with all the clients; and hired help (drafted in at the last possible second after our arrangement with another group was cancelled, by them, for no apparent reason, about 24 hours previously) who drove a gear truck. Arvind would lead the convoy, mainly to keep in check the unknown quantity of the hired help (Indian driving is famously reckless) with NB bringing up the rear.

Winding our way up into the mountains soundtracked by Arvind’s bouncy Bangalore sounds we stopped to take in views of the Brahmaputra before eventually descending into the canyon and following it northeast. Traffic was scarce, thankfully, but we did meet a team working an elephant.

At various intervals bamboo bridges were strung across the river for access to remote villages. We stopped at one for a crossing. The entire thing was intricately woven, undeniably grand and incredibly creaky. I knew that before long we would be looking up at this bridge from the river. We were anxious to get on with the trip.

Halfway into our eight hour drive we stopped for a bite to eat at a roadside restaurant. Amongst the guides we had become increasingly anxious that this third raft would not materialise. Nino was heading this way, back to Pasighat, and there was only one road he could be on up to this point. But soon there would come an option. A fork. And we had no idea which road he would be on from then on. It was with a heightened sense of excitement then that Bridget spotted what had to be their truck rolling past the restaurant. Trying to withhold our desperate nature from the clients Roland calmly went out to meet them while Bridget and I continued to eat with the clients as if nothing was up. When I saw Kevin climbing onto the roof of our jeep and Erik and Arvind passing up the rolled raft, Bridget and I high-fived in true gay California style.

Afterwards, rolling our convoy on towards our final destination, Yingkyong, Roland remarked in the jeep how he had feigned nonchalance when Nino had asked if we wanted the raft. “Oh yeah, sure,” Roland had said. “Sounds good. Suppose we might use it.”

Our convoy arrived at Yingkyong at dusk, the twinkling lights of the town up high on the ridge. We turned off the main road and descended down, slowly, to the river. Our hired help were anxious to get away and before we knew it the gear was unpacked, on the ground, and they’d disappeared like a bat out of hell, no doubt infuriated by our need to go so slow in all things that we did.

As we had brought a lot of gear we could only use should we get the third raft, there was a large repacking job to manage. Pulling out what we needed to make dinner in the dark from a ramshackle of boxes and bags with a team who haven’t worked together before, and with some major language barriers, stretched our tired minds and bodies. NB, Joshi and Arvind took control and dinner was made, Indian style. That meant the food was delicious, there was enough to feed an army, and the kitchen resembled a bombshell. We pitched our tents and slept soundly, finally with the sound of the constant river in our ears.

Finally on the water

Jan 16^th

Woken at 4.30am to hear a tractor, voices and see the tent illuminated by headlights. Could just imagine their surprise at seeing all our gear spread amongst the rocks. Considered looking out but couldn’t be buggered.

When I did finally crawl out of the tent before 6am I was relieved to see all of our gear still sitting there. As we cooked breakfast the tractors returned. Each pulled a small trailer with two or three older women wrapped up against the cold in them.

Dishing out French toast and syrup we watched as they gathered rocks from the beach, probably for construction, definitely for a pittance. They had started before light and returned three times before we left the beach towards midday. It was yet another reminder that my life ain’t half bad.

After breakfast our mammoth task of rigging the boats began. With a third raft we could now dedicate one to just people, no gear. Part of the rigging process was sorting out the remaining packing – something I took charge of – and so for a good hour or two there was much head-scratching as food was grouped roughly into dairy, fruit and vegetables, dry goods, tins, and desserts, with things double-bagged and stacked according to menu needs and squashability. Our quota of eggs wasn’t trusted in the malleable sheet metal boxes and so we decided to go with a more traditional woven basket we had been given at the market. (This precious commodity survived the entire trip! We even had a couple of eggs left over!)

Due to the customs fiasco we were also scarily short of straps, rope and the like. After securing the frames, oars and large boxes we just had to improvise. The sun burned away the morning har and soon we were sweating with a curious growing crowd watching our progress. The rigging went badly for a while (looking up from the boats to see a pile of gear seemingly undiminished on the beach was demoralising) but then suddenly came together as it always does.

Bridget led our first group crystal (which was to become a daily occurrence before putting onto the water) culminating in wide smiles. After what had seemed like a lifetime of preparation, we were ready to go. There was a fair whack of current and an immediate need to be river right to avoid a rock wall and whopping hydraulic. Kevin had already disappeared ahead in his kayak, Roland was pulling hard on the oars in one boat with Bridget shouting encouragement, while I struggled in the other with an increasingly anxious Arvind, and Erik brought the clients last in the paddle boat. The boat was heavy, and my arms unused to the oars (had been paddle captaining in New Zealand the past few months), and as I pulled and pulled to get us right, Arvind became vocally uneasy.

“Pull Jamie. Come on. Pull. More. More!”

“I am pulling!” I laughed. “I’m giving it all I’ve got captain!”

Quarry and on

It was a slow start to the day so Erik decided we should take the 1^st decent beach we found. Probably rafted only six or seven kilometres that day. We had driven 160km to get to the put-in so we reckoned the stretch would be about 100km maximum. Kevin had been plotting our course (by road) on a GPS, so by the end of the trip we should have a decent map. We called the put-in and first rapid, “Quarry”.

The Siang is a big volume river, and when we rafted it towards the end of the season (January) it flowed somewhere between 10-12000cfs (cubic feet per second). During the monsoon in July the river often floods and there have been commercial trips as early as November led by the only other outfitter who runs trips in Arunachal, Aquaterra (an Indian company based near Rishikesh). On that note there had been some – what we termed – “friendly rivalry” as Arvind knew the Aquaterra boys very well. Text messages and the like had claimed our trip wasn’t a true Brahmaputra adventure as our put-in was lower than previous expeditions. We were well aware previous expeditions had started higher on the river but we also knew they had run into trouble, losing boats and the like. This was River India’s first trip in the region. Roland wanted them to continue. Punching above our weight too early could damage the company’s reputation.

The fluidity of our packing and unpacking, toilet setup (Kevin’s job), kitchen layout and menu management progressed well that first evening. Everything was done and dusted by 7.15pm. Had a shower in a creek and was in bed by 8.15pm, happy and knackered. The vibe amongst the trip was good and we had plenty of liquor to loosen those tongues.



Its been a couple of years since rowing, writing this I can feel my triceps complaining. Will need to stretch, as always, probably wont, as always.

Singing, performing and sinking

Jan 17^th & 18^th

I have my own personal gauge to determine my enjoyment and well-being in any job or aspect of life. And this is how much I am singing and performing (usually skits stolen from favourite comedy movies).

Over the next couple of days I rediscovered my singing voice and acted like Borat at every available opportunity as we cooked, packed, unpacked, floated, navigated rapids, built fires and generally sank into life in the canyon.

I was also being treated to some very lucid dreams. A spell had been cast. I wondered if perhaps Kevin had ground up some of the Tari beetles he had been collecting from under rocks and had spiked my food. The Adi toast them, or eat them alive, picking off the wings and legs and poisonous gland – they squirt an orange poison when you catch them. But if you eat a bad one it can send you loopy. You will curl up and want to hide underneath something, perhaps even try to fly. It basically makes you act like a Tari beetle! As Kevin was “more Adi than American” I wouldn’t have put it past him. Both nights I had vivid imaginings involving close members of my family. But this is common for me while on wilderness trips, probably because of the freedom for my mind to wander, and the stirrings the untouched landscape can create in your soul … or something.

Getting into the groove

Highlights as we got into the rhythm of the trip (each guide rotating from one boat to the next so that the clients had each of us for a day) included:

people from shore throwing oranges to us (not at us you understand); a group yoga session on the beach led by Joe;

lying back on the raft and returning the cries of “I love you!” from folk above while floating under the bamboo bridges (very different to the famous “Rafters must die!” graffiti of the Tuolomne bridge in California);

catching glimpses of the mighty snow-capped Himalayas far behind us where the river is a very different beast;

a ridiculously long scout of the biggest rapid so far (named “Cargo”) with subsequent clean navigation; and Roland in hysterical fits of laughter screaming “Bail, bail!” as the old Donyhango bucket boat took on water in the middle of the rapid.

Day three

Our lunch-spot on day three was close to a settlement and we’d prearranged to meet the drivers there, Joshi and NB. A crowd quickly materialised to watch Jeff and Tom play cards.

We all felt rather embarrassed stuffing our faces with the usual deli delights while a beautiful but rather under-nourished roving gang of children stared wide-eyed at the enormity of our mouths.

Roland sadly left the trip at this point so he could catch up on the daily pestering of the Calcutta customs he had missed out on. River India had another Arunachal expedition a couple of weeks after this one, on the Subansiri.


Under the bridge where we waved goodbye to Roland, NB and Joshi, there were markings providing the details of a proposed dam which would create a lake of the majority of the white-water we had so far run. Arunachal, as it is gradually opened up, has been marked out by the Indian government for its huge hydroelectric capabilities. Of the 50000MW estimated as necessary for the rapid expansion of the country, around 30000MW of that will come from Arunachal alone. (On River India’s subsequent expedition on the Subansiri they were floating in the freedom of the wilderness one minute and then turned a corner to be faced with mass construction of one of the largest proposed dams the next.)


We had a nice night at a steep sandy camp, found a hot-spring ...





... and watched Kevin spin firey poi in the night. All very Burning Man. But without the nakedness. Pity.

Erik - high/low spirits

Jan 19^th

Erik has to be the nicest man on the planet. Since day one he has slowly been coming down with a flu-like bug. Despite that he is crazily upbeat, unbelievably patient, and patently ill. He has also sacrificed sleeping in a tent and instead sleeps out every night in a bivvy sack.

It gets cold here at night, is freezing in the morning, and the dew is heavy. Tucked up warm in the shelter of my tent I can hear him hacking away through the night.

In comparison to Erik I am a blubbering baby. Feeling less than hot I took the paddle boat on day four and was in fair spirits up to lunch as we passed through a couple of decent big-volume wave trains. In the afternoon though my energy level dipped and I was a silent, forlorn looking figure sagging in the back of the raft while everyone else chatted away merrily.

Looking back though, I realise with hindsight that I was not really ill, I was just missing my playmate Roland! We had been spending the majority of our time together. It was separation anxiety! With no one to giggle with in the tent my mind had been granted the space to wallow in the mire. My personal frustrations with writing and the common anxiety of how one is viewed by others all crept in.




I am a selfish miserable bastard.

Don’t panic.

There’s always rebirth.

Reflective

Jan 20^th

It’s impossible not to become reflective while on a wilderness trip like this. Everyone is sharing life stories and searching for meaning and wisdom. I was reminded constantly by the clients how lucky I am to be able to work and travel as a river guide. And this is something that Roland and I had discussed when thinking about the way our mentor Bill McGinnis had setup and run Whitewater Voyages and his guide schools. Bill takes a lot of time (and I mean a lot of time) in ensuring his guides are aware how they impact on the clients, and how they can truly be role models in terms of empathy, understanding and leadership in an environment usually new and challenging to the clients. Roland and I agreed that Bill’s tutoring had had a big influence on how we viewed not just river trips, but life itself.

However, I fear that on this trip I was searching as much as everyone else, and as such was not as open and social as I usually am. I apologise to everyone for that. Being a river guide really does provide an enormous amount of perspective and freedom. As an aspiring writer it also gives me the physical outlet I need to balance the creative frustration that drives me through life. For a couple of days on this trip though, that frustration was too evident.

Bridget's Crystal Energy

Amazing how quickly things can change when you talk it over. From the energy sapped and creatively frustrated Jamie in the paddle boat one day, I was the bright, eloquent and positively fun Jamie with Bridget the next. Bridget had created something of a fanclub amongst the young ladies on the trip. All this before they’d even met! Bridget’s website and writings had garnered much respect. And her laidback, positive and spiritual outlook in person did nothing to dent this. It was my time with her in the gearboat pushing through a long section of flat water that helped me talk through the frustrations. Thank you Bridget!

Ponging Rapid

To make a great day memorable, we reached the biggest rapid on the trip, right next to an Adi village, Ponging. We wanted to run it two boats at a time and shoot some video but it was late afternoon and we didn’t have long before we lost the light. Parking the boats at the top of an island in the middle of the river the guides ran down to scout.

There were two channels. The right channel was short but steep and the move between two munchy holes was tight. The left channel was long and wide and it also had a couple of munchy holes. But we picked out a line and in a few minutes were pushing out to finally run a rapid where we were actually committed. Many of the previous rapids allowed a highly conservative line due to the width of the river. Not so here.

To make a memorable day special, we also had a large crowd of villagers watching and shouting as we ran the rapid. Definitely had our peak on. Kevin in his kayak. Me rowing with Bridget navigating. Roland rowing behind with Arvind worrying. And Erik taking the clients in the paddle-boat last. The haystack waves were Grand Canyon size. Rolling water that pulled you down low into the rapid and then sat you up high as a bird. We all ran it nice and clean.

Final Camp

Suddenly we were at our final camp. We took some group pictures and ate like kings.

It was probably the most beautiful spot we were lucky enough to stay at. A side canyon cut into the huge rock wall on the other side brought a large tributary. And we were on a wide beach with a narrow spit of ledged sand that created flat pools of water. Kevin setup his best toilet yet, with views out across the wide canyon.

Final day on water - takeout

Jan 21^st

Without ever really knowing exactly how close we were to finishing we worked hard on our last scheduled day on the water. It was mostly flat, and the river meandered wide as it neared Pasighat. Finally we saw the uncompleted stanchions of the bridge just outside town and we knew we were back. The bridge has been eighteen years in the making. Truly remarkable, even by Indian standards. As we reached it I swear there was one man walking around working on the top. I watched as a group at the bottom took great care in winching up what looked like his lunch to him. Eighteen years! That’s job security.

Take-out is never much fun. Everyone just wants to be in a shower in fresh clothes with a cup of something nice. We sent the clients back to the Donyhango camp and went about packing everything up.

Pasighat-Dibrughar

Jan 22^nd & 23^rd

I decided to return with Roland and the clients to Delhi, passing up an opportunity to drive with Arvind and Joshi all the way back to Rishikesh. That would have been a remarkable adventure in itself, but Roland and I were going to hang out in Delhi for a few days while he waited for the next crew to arrive for the Subansiri expedition.

It was a sad farewell to my new friend Bridget (thanks for the sarongs for Helen and we’ll always have Hotel Little Palace) and old friends Erik (You look so hot right now!) and Kevin (so long and thanks for all the fish). I would see Arvind and Joshi in Rishikesh in a week or so.

With Roland, NB and our merry band of men we retraced our steps back to Dibrughar on the ferry. Seeing our jeep drive onto the ferry on two very unstable planks will live long in the memory. As will the need for anyone wishing to get from one end of the boat to the other having to either climb through the jeep or slide across the bonnet. I listened curiously as Jeff and Tom were busy making plans for their next worldy adventure, but soon we all settled into quiet reflection as we motored down the Brahmaputra.

Back to Dibrughar where Roland and I treated ourselves to an Indian shave as it also involves some head massage. We came out with pencil moustaches that resulted in us, while talking, holding our index finger over the hair in question due to its unseemly nature.

Back to Hotel Little Palace and our staple diet of Kingfisher where I have to recount an incident worthy of a Fawlty Towers episode. Roland and I were quietly losing it in the restaurant as we waited, and waited, and waited, for breakfast. All we’d asked for were bananas, toast and tea. After forty-five minutes Roland went into the kitchen to try and speed things along. Eventually he came out armed with four pieces of toast and two small bananas spooning on a plate.

Later we were again waiting, and waiting, for what the hotel had charmingly called “Blunch” rather than “Brunch”. Waiting for round one – orange juice, lassis and cornflakes – Roland went into the kitchen to find nothing much going on. One waiter picked up a pot as he entered, the other stood there looking a little sheepish.

Roland: What’s going on? Where are the lassis?

Waiter 1: Head tilt. Coming sir.

Roland: Where?

Waiter 1 puts some yoghurt into the pot and begins to search for other ingredients.

Roland: Where is the orange juice?

Waiter 2: Head tilt. Coming sir.

Roland: Where?

Waiter 2 arranges some oranges and then scratches his head.

Roland: Exasparated. Well squeeze them then.

Waiter 2 squeezes some oranges into a cup and then pauses.

Roland: Squeeze them again!

Delhi

Jan 24^th & 25^th & 26^th

The crew parted ways in Delhi but we would see each other again before everyone left the country, except for Amanda and Emily who were returning to Nairobi, Kenya.

Back to Delhi, a place where blowing your nose leaves the tissue black and seeing an elephant walk past a Dominos Pizza is no surprise. It’s hard to describe a city like Delhi. Imagine complete sensory overload. Where walking down some of the narrowest streets in the world becomes a competition due to every available inch of space being eaten up by angry cows, high-speed motorcycles, rattling bikes, crowds of pedestrians, in your face street vendors, sheep-like tour groups, anxious backpackers, limbless beggars, convoys of trucks, limitless busses and honking cars. If you can rise above the immediacy of putting one foot in front of the other, there is actually a flow to the whole thing. Tune your ears and look up, and soon you can separate the layers, picking out the warning clicks from the mouths of cycle-rickshaw drivers, and judging gaps in a seemingly ceaseless surge of traffic. Moving around the metropolis is kind of a microcosm for India itself – on first appearances you wonder if there is any kind of system. There is. And it actually works.

I remember arriving back in Bangkok after leaving India the year before and both Helen and I thought there must be a public holiday in the city it was so quiet in comparison. The guest house rooms were so clean. The streets so uncluttered. A very different appreciation to that we had the first time we landed in Bangkok (and the first time we had been to Asia) a few months earlier.

The organising of River India’s logistics had clearly taken its toll on Roland. Travelling back with the others to Delhi and listening to everyone trying to make travel plans I realised what he’d had to contend with this past few months (and why he had been so reluctant to travel with a group of us the year before). As well as taking care of everyone’s demands, he’d also had to deal with some rather frustrating Indian people who promised one thing but then delivered nothing. I overheard his phone-calls to the folks at Donyhango regarding permits for the guides and he was stuck in a perpetual loop of inefficiency. He always managed to laugh at the absurdity of any given situation but there were signs of cracks around his throbbing temples.

One hilarious incident found the pair of us hopping into a tuk-tuk in Delhi and heading to Connaucht Circle. The tuk-tuks almost never use the meter, but Roland insisted it should be used. He flicked up the arm to kick it into life. The driver said, “No, no. No good. Broken.” And pushed the arm back down. Roland, with inane grin, flicks the arm back up. Driver, face dropping into anger, slams it back down. Roland, waiting for the driver to face the traffic, flicks it up. Driver slams it down. And on and on this went. I watched in disbelief. Eventually the driver pulled over and still they battled with the meter until I got out and hailed another tuk-tuk.

Seeing this I did my best to make sure he had nothing to contend with for the two days before the Subansiri crew arrived. So we spent our time running around Delhi, eating take-away pizza delivered to our grotty room in the backpacker Mecca Pahar Ganj, drinking lassis and giggling like school-girls so loudly that the staff would have to come to the room to tell us to be quiet.

We met up with Rhiannon, Shannon and Joe who were in the Intercontinental Hotel, and then spent a couple of days with Mara (another old Whitewater Voyages friend) and Beth who’d arrived for the Subansiri trip.

Mara and Beth took a beautiful room in the luxurious Park Hotel (complete with Burning Man style pool and garden bar resplendent with giant disco ball and reclining booths). Staying briefly in these luxury hotels I realised how little you would learn of the real India when staying somewhere like that. I actually missed the grit and grime of Pahar Ganj! It was all too easy. After dinner with the remaining crew – Jeff, Joe, Tom and Rhiannon – at the secluded but disappointing Lido Gardens, it was suddenly all goodbyes again.

Wished I was going on Subansiri, more to hang out with all these great guys than anything else.

North to Rishikesh

Jan 27^th

With Roland gone I realised just how much he took care of on a daily basis with his broken Hindi and ability to laugh at anything. Joe and I were heading north to Rishikesh so off we went to the bus station near Kashmiri Gate. It wasn’t a great experience. Stunned by completely misleading information – or no information at all – from various officials and fighting off an aggressive bunch of touts, we attempted to get the public bus, but nothing was really happening. Eventually we kowtowed to the touts and were lead to their “deluxe bus”, a little alarmingly, outside of the bus station and around the corner. We had been joined by an Irish fellah, Ross.

There was absolutely nothing deluxe about it. It rattled like hell. Metal plates held together by loose screws. The door didn’t close. Hotter than hell. Took an eternity to leave Delhi. Glad that in true Indian style I relieved my aching bladder by jumping out the window of the bus to piss when a policeman stopped the driver briefly to check paperwork on the outskirts of the city. In the no man’s land after Delhi, as we neared Rishikesh, we could see entire small towns of malls and houses in various stages of development, California-style.

Growing sense of unease as I heard the driver’s assistant tell embarking passengers “Hardiwar” repeatedly. Sure enough the bus terminated in Hardiwar and as everyone drifted off into the night the assistant told us “No, no go Rishikesh” despite paying for a ticket to Rishikesh and being told we would go there by the tout. Fandabby. Pretty sick of being lied to we stood around for a while looking pissed off. Eventually the driver spotted us and gave us money to get a tuk-tuk the remaining hour or so to Rishikesh. There was a young Indian guy from Delhi who had also been mislead and so he joined us for this portion of the journey, thank god, as when we found a tuk-tuk the driver was up to no good too. He wanted more money or for us to wait until there were 10 people in the tuk-tuk. There were only seats for 6. And we already numbered 4. Ended up getting another tuk-tuk to Rishikesh and then having to pay more to get up the hill to Luxmanjhula. Finally arrived at the Red Chilli Adventure office sometime around 9pm. That’s travelling in India.

Rishikesh - Red Chili

Jan 28th – Feb 2nd

Well looked after at the Red Chilli house. Unfortunately Arvind was heading home to his family the day after we got there so we had a brief evening to catch up before he disappeared with Joshi. Vippin, Arvind’s partner in the business, was there though and I knew him from our visit to Rishikesh the year before. Spent the majority of my time with him, his German girlfriend Helen, Joe and our new friend Ross who turned out to be an interesting guy. He is a photo journalist and film-maker and needless to say his passport was well stamped.
Rishikesh – or at least the settlement of Luxmanjhula above the city on the hill – is what Ross called, “Yoga shopping capital”, and I like that term. It is traditionally a dry (as in alcohol-free) pilgrimage holy-place but now one of the fastest growing commercial destinations in the north. Large-scale construction everywhere, land prices soaring, a multitude of restaurants, cafes, bookshops, yoga centres and massage parlours. Ashrams sit side by side with luxury hotels on the banks of the Ganges where bodies are cremated and white-water rafts float past crammed full of backpackers. Rich Californians sweep down the steep cobbled lanes in designer sandals clutching books on meditation in henna-tattooed hands while Sadhus rattle jars for money.

Between the Sadhus, Gurus and institutionalised begging, it’s hard to tell who is what in Luxmanjhula.

I spent a lot of time catching up with emails, blogs and the like from the smart new Red Chilli office and internet café. The small balcony provided stunning views across the valley of the Ganges and we watched many a sunset from there. Vippin also saw a leopard down below one morning.

Joe, Ross and I wandered the streets like everyone else, dodging the aggressive monkeys who managed to steal Ross’s lunch.

They’re clever bastards those monkeys. Vippin told a story where someone threw food at one who had a lady’s glasses. Monkey caught the food in its free hand. Guy throws more food. Monkey transfers glasses to his foot and catches the food. Guy throws more food. Monkey transfers first food to other foot and catches next load of food. Guy throws even more food. Monkey drops glasses, catches the food and buggers off happy.

We wandered to the end of the town, where the line of shops end and the only folks around are the odd Guru or Sadhu washing themselves in the river or sitting meditating. After a quick drink on the roof of “Last Chance Café” we carried on to see The Beatles’ Ashram where John Lennon and company spent a lot of time in the 60s/70s. I can report it is now depressingly defunct and drab, with moss-covered walls and rusty gates, tucked away under a cliff in the gloom. I could imagine Ringo’s bored, pissed off voice, “Fookin’ ‘ell George, is this it like?”
After two days Joe left for Delhi and America with promises of a return to setup his own business.

After a particularly heavy session of Old Monk rum the previous evening I got up early as I was going to guide a raft for Red Chilli on the Ganges. Ended up pulling the cistern off the wall after a slip in the shower. Not a great way to start a hungover morning.

Rafting went well. Beautiful hot day. Met some Nepalese dudes at put-in who knew my friend, Kamal. It was a good bunch of clients, including Ross, except this Indian guy, Yogi, who has been living in England for the past 20 years. He was cool at first, but got increasingly annoying – putting in strokes, not listening, calling commands of his own – and then fairly moody and pissed off. Not really sure why. He knew the river really well and had been down it a bunch over the years. I think he just thought he knew it all and I knew nothing. Not far off the truth really.

Had a bloody great Paneer Masala Dosa with Ross before he left for Delhi.

My final evening was a hair-down drunken affair as one of the trekking guides from Ludak had a friend from Delhi visiting. The friend – I forget his name – was a breath of fresh air in a fairly withdrawn Red Chilli house. He brought a lot of crazy energy and a fun-loving attitude. Before we knew what was happening we were all dancing in the dining room. Unfortunately the manic man accidentally knocked a plate of food out of the cook’s hand when he was bringing it in. It went everywhere, and made the shape of a small splatted animal on the wall. That was the end of that.

Feb 3rd & 4th

Back to Delhi where Ross and I hung out. Accompanied him to the Pakistani embassy as that was his next destination for an assignment.

Before I knew it, it was Delhi-Dubai. 24 hours in Dubai. Dubai-Sydney. Sydney-Christchurch. Yet more sleeping, eating, sleeping, reading, sleeping, writing, sleeping, eating and so on.

Why is it I feel a sense of calm, purpose and almost noble belonging when sitting with a book, notepad, pen, coffee and cigarette?

Thanks for reading, and thanks to everyone on the expedition whose pictures I have used!

Arvind Bhardwaj
Emily Coolidge
Bridget Crocker
Joe Gass
Tom Graham
Amanda Hopkins
Jamie Johnston
Rhiannon Mabberley
Jeff Malsam
Erik Meldrum
Shauna Rempel
Roland Stevenson
Kevin Thompson

Comments are welcomed.

Part 1: River India - January 2007 Siang Expedition

River India founder, and international man of mystery, Roland Stevenson, has put together a DVD of our sojourn into Arunachal Pradesh last January.

My own blog entry will soon appear (to replace the earlier ones) but for now enjoy this.

Part 2: River India - January 2007 Siang Expedition