William's Gift

by Helen Douglas

  Peggy knew I loved riding cross-country and went to great lengths to arrange a Hunt for me with her friend, Alicia, in the Berkshires. This, however, was to be the real thing — they hunted live. We arrived at her farmhouse after a drive of three or four hours through the famous brownstone villages of the area west of London. Alicia and her family were farmers and were therefore considered working class in the area the Hunt used. They were not the grand lords and ladies of the manor houses we had seen spotted infrequently around the countryside, but hardworking cattle drovers and dedicated horsemen. They had a large, plain-stuccoed farmhouse in the centre of an open yard. Stables with Dutch doors ran the length of one side of the ancient cobblestone court, and the cattle operation was off to the other side. The house was full of manure-covered boots, various bits of tack, and innumerable Jack Russell terriers.

  I had one day to ride with Alicia before the meet. She gave me a dun-coloured gelding, not much bigger than a racing thoroughbred. I was disappointed not to have been able to ride one of the big gray Irish hunters they owned, but after following her around her humble cross-country course, I began to change my mind. My horse was delightful, surefooted, easy to handle, and took good care of me no matter what the obstacle. Our two-hour ride tired me out, but not Alicia or her two horses, which were very fit for hunting season. I had no idea what was ahead of me the next day.

  The Hunt met at noon at an imposing gray manor house. The entire picture was truly one from a painting. The horses were absolutely gorgeous, the setting old-world, and many of the ladies rode sidesaddle in full costume, with face nets and skirts. It was clear and sunny. Some sixty strong, we set out trotting down a narrow, paved lane. I was a bit nervous, but my mount was behaving. It was the only live hunt I had ever been on, or would ever be. There was no sign of the “anti’s” that day. In fact, no one spoke to me of the growing opposition to the Hunt, or the political forces that would soon end fox-hunting for good during my stay at Alicia’s.

  The pack of dogs turned into a lane, narrower than the last, then through a gap into a field and took up the chase. The horses set out at a gallop as if they were one unit, and in the next half-hour we traversed obstacles no one at home would have considered. We galloped up hills and down, squeezing through winding lanes and jumping out of hock-deep mud. We galloped on pavement, sparks flying from the horses’ shoes. We leapt through hedges into wet fields of clay. One by one, the sidesaddle riders came off, and finally I met the ground as well. My horse caught a wire hidden in a hedge and somersaulted into the red clay of a ploughed field, narrowly missing landing on me. As it galloped off I trudged after it, boots covered with heavy, slippery clods of clay, covered with orange-ish mud from head to toe. Alicia brought my horse back, and I set off again, boots slipping in the stirrups. I felt exhausted, and we were only just beginning.

  I lasted three hours with them. Finally, when I realized I was so tired I wasn’t really riding any more but was simply a passenger who had become a hazard to my kind horse, I asked to go home. Some others had pulled out before us, and Alicia had chores to do, so it worked well for her to depart and leave the hard core of the field to ride until dark. Once again, I had been surprised by how different things were here than at home, where drag hunting now seemed so safe and controlled. There was no get-together afterwards, as everyone went home to look after their horses. Peggy and I left for home the next day.

  I had already met numerous horse people and now, for some reason, I needed contact with veterinarians. It’s a draw, a passion for most of us that is always there beneath the surface. I screwed up my courage and called the two largest horse practices in Newmarket and asked if I could spend time with each of them. Newmarket is world famous for racehorses, and, in my world, famous for horse vets of the highest calibre. They were courteous and explained they often had international vets visit to observe. In fact, they recommended a B & B where I could stay. I could come right away, as no one else was visiting. I was off on the train for my next adventure. Waving goodbye to Peggy, I promised to be back in plenty of time for Christmas.

  Newmarket is set up, as are most small towns in England, around a High Street, where the majority of the small shops are concentrated. One of the practices was at one end of this main street, right in town, and the other practice was at the other end. What seemed remarkable was that the stables were downtown as well. The racing stables had “yards” with young horses in training scattered through the small town. Each morning, hundreds of young thoroughbreds were ridden out at sunrise along gravel paths where one would expect a sidewalk to be. The quiet parades in the half-light were beautiful young animals sporting multicoloured Newmarket quarter-sheets, babies going out to the heath for a gallop. The yards were three-sided affairs with a gate to the street and a centre courtyard for bathing and walking out. The brood mare operations were out of town on magnificent acreages with double board fences and manicured hedgerows, where expensive mares and foals stood knee deep in straw so clean a person could lie down in it. I was in the heart of British racing country.

  During my stay in Newmarket, I witnessed the inner workings of the stables and the lives of the devoted equine veterinarians. When it was quiet, I would talk to the assistants, wells of knowledge themselves, or peruse the shelves of medications, copying recipes. There were libraries to take advantage of as well, but usually I travelled with the vets, trying to be useful to them as I watched — exchanging ideas, sharing information. One practice was very different than the other, being more conservative and less surgically inclined, as its founder had a more “wait and see, give it time” approach. The other had a three-bay surgery suite and had recently developed new techniques for joint and throat surgery. In fact, one vet there lectured on throat problems all over the world. I knew I was absorbing valuable veterinary information daily in such a rarefied environment. On top of that, I had the rare privilege of being allowed to enter stables housing the most valuable racehorses in England, some belonging to the Aga Khan or the Queen. It was what I needed most: a reminder of how much I loved veterinary medicine and an opportunity to refocus — and it came with a refreshing lack of responsibility.

  One can feel when one wears out a welcome, and I realized it was time to move on and give these working people their space. They had been very patient and welcoming, yet I knew how tiring a string of volunteers and questions could be. It was time to think about my next step. The December rains were pounding England mercilessly, and I found the cold, gray, damp oppressive. I went back to Peggy’s and planned a trip to the travel district of London, one famous for offbeat and adventure travel. I had a two-week trip to the sun in mind, perhaps Spain or Portugal. But something far more exotic caught my eye.

  There are two streets in London renowned for travel shops. Signs shout out: “Discount travel!” “Exotic travel!” “Adventure travel!” to all possible destinations. Spain began to appear a mundane choice as I perused brochures on Nepal, South America, and Africa. If not now, when would I ever make such a trip?

  I brought all the brochures back to Peggy’s on the train and we pored over them excitedly. She also had been an enthusiastic traveller in her day, and we had fun debating the destinations, the pros and cons, the budget needed. My interest had been piqued by a six-week trip across India and Nepal. With a group, I would travel from Bombay to Kathmandu. There was seating available on an Air India flight with a group leaving in two weeks, if only I could get the inoculations and visas needed in time. It was affordable, even cheap. As an adventure tour, we would camp at night, with a few exceptions for city stays, and cook our own food daily. It completely intrigued me. I would be able to see much of India and the Himalayas with a built-in group of friends. The visas could be obtained in London at the embassies. It could be done. I called my mother.

  “I am leaving for India in two weeks.”

  “I can’t believe what you’re saying!” she replied. (I heard echoes of “Why, Ho
n, why?” from so long ago.)

  “It’s true! I’ll go with thirteen other people, so I’ll be safe. Our driver has done it many times,” I reassured her. “I have all my shots and I’m getting my clothes and equipment ready. It will be amazing. I’ll see the Taj Mahal, the Himalayan mountains,” I babbled on excitedly.

  “How will I know where you are?” she asked, starting to cry.

  “There are addresses you can write ahead to. I’ll send you our full itinerary and I’ll write you all the time.” I signed off.

  I flew to Bombay just before Christmas, by myself and totally unprepared for what was about to happen to me.

  I flew on Air India, a flight of twenty hours, landing once in Istanbul. Gracious stewardesses in saris served us samosas, rice, and chapattis. In Istanbul, several men in Muslim dress with wound turbans got on board. Many women were travelling stoically alone with several children, often with one on the lap. The smells, food, and music were exotic and thrilling. We landed in the dark in Bombay.

  The airport was chaos, but outside the airport was a scene of even more disorder. Welcoming relatives shouted, taxi drivers beckoned, and purveyors of goods and hotel rooms crowded the sidewalks beckoning to me. For some reason, unknown to me now, I had no reservation, no hotel room awaiting me. A man with a wool cap and striped knee-length tunic over cotton pants steered me towards a taxi.

  “Hotel room, hotel room, take Krishna hotel, good, reasonable rates,” he chanted.

  “Take this taxi, reasonable rates,” from another vendor.

  I approached someone who appeared fatherly and low risk. “Will you take me to a safe hotel?” I asked, exhausted and confused by the chaos.

  The cabbie nodded, wagging his head jovially from side to side. He repeated “Hare Krishna Hotel, open,” and we set off.

  We drove though the late-night streets. I caught glimpses of people crouched around fires, seemingly camping on the streets, and many dogs. Loose cattle wandered everywhere appearing suddenly in our headlights. We passed the occasional bicycle rickshaw. The smell of smoke filled the air, strange in such a big city, a smell associated with wood stoves and winter at home. Finally, we pulled up in front of the Hare Krishna Hotel, which had smoked glass doors and a dingy grey lobby. A monk in an orange robe showed me to my room.

  I lay on my bed, reeling with culture shock. How had I possibly thought I could do this alone? The room was acceptable, but subtly, disconcertingly unfamiliar. Two cots with thin mattresses were set side by side in the small room. The bed coverings were worn wool blankets, the sheets grey and rough. The bathroom had a tile floor and walls, with no tissue evident and the shower sprayed into the room at large, rather than into its own cubicle. Everything seemed damp. The light switches and ceiling fan were grimy from pollution.

  Despite my apprehension about being in such a faraway and different place alone, I fell asleep quickly.

  The next day, everything seemed worse — the light of day revealed to me a world I could never have imagined. Putting on a brave face, I started out on foot to find food and coffee, as there was no coffee shop in the Hare Krishna Hotel. I got a map and headed out, hoping I could find someone to speak English and to give me direction or encouragement. I walked for hours, trying to take in what I was seeing. Piles of garbage rotting on every corner were obviously the feeding places for the many loose dogs and cattle. Brahmin cattle wandered languidly, and the foot and vehicular traffic worked around them and the lumbering ox and donkey carts. There were people everywhere, as I had expected. But they all looked as thin, dark, and wiry as I felt oversized: a soft, fat, pink slug carrying all the excesses of North American society on my frame.

  A woman dipped her teapot into a puddle for water, and at the other end a cow drank. A young mother knelt to milk a water buffalo that had stopped to eat discarded produce. Small vendors cooked samosas in black pots full of bubbling oil and put them out on newspaper to sell, where flies assailed them. A little boy with a metal rack offered me hot, sweet tea, “chai,” from his tally of six steaming glasses. Soon children gathered around me, pulling at my sleeves, looking up into my face. “Rupees, rupees?” they asked as they followed me along. In lieu of a coffee, as no restaurant had materialized near the Hare Krishna Hotel, I had “chai” and a hot, unidentifiable pastry and retreated to my room. I wasn’t sure I could cope, and felt unsure of what to do.

  I decided, almost in tears, to telephone the hotel slightly north of the city where we were to meet as a group before our departure two days away. Yes, I could come now, early — they had a room, and other members of my tour had started to arrive as well. I took a taxi, past miles and miles of shops; low, grey concrete apartments, many seemingly half built and never finished; and then slums beyond description. Children stared at me as I stared back at them, trying to take in what I was seeing: houses of fabric and cardboard as far as my eye could see, people relieving themselves in a field, others lined up at an overflowing pipe for water. I felt heavy, exhausted, upset, my heart hammering hard in my chest. We pulled through some yellow stucco gates into a courtyard, and I heaved a sigh of relief. The owner came to greet me with hand outstretched and in English welcomed me. He took me to my room overlooking the grassy courtyard on one side and the Indian Ocean on the other. Several blue tents had been erected on the grass below me, and shortly a few Australians pulled up in a bicycle rickshaw. I met the first of my twelve companions for the next six weeks. That night, I slept well under my netting and when I woke the next morning and looked out over the sparkling water, things did not look so ominous or feel so threatening.

  Our group gathered there over two days — nine Aussies, two Brits, two Americans, and myself. Several others were alone. My instant band of friends was youthful and entertaining. We forayed out by taxi often and came back to our enclosure at night after feasting on wonderful, spicy, inexpensive food. One of the most beautiful sights I saw in India was the flower bazaar in Bombay. We wandered tiny, narrow alleys that proffered nothing but flower shops. Wreaths, sprays, necklaces and bouquets hung from the walls and ceilings of the small, dark booths and outside them, under canvas canopies, crisscrossing the street over our heads. Vendors sat inside the shops, cross-legged, on mats, shoes off, working with their flowers. Block after block of these alleys twisted and turned, and we felt lost, our senses overwhelmed by smells and colours. On the way home with my small group, my nerves were jangled by the cruel incongruity of our happiness against the sight of beggars on almost every street corner, some of them lepers, some reaching into our taxi to implore us for rupees. I had gone, within moments, from the beauty of the flower bazaar to witnessing absolute despair.

  We pulled out of the courtyard on a Sunday, three days before the New Year. Our large Mack truck was outfitted with two long benches and a canopy and pulled a wagon with our suitcases and tents. Cook tables were fastened to the sides of the truck and food staples were stored under the benches. Simon, our valiant driver, had done this trip many times and reassured us he could do everything from change an axle to negotiate our way out of trouble.

  “Do not under any circumstances lose your passports,” he warned us, “or even I can’t get you home. They’ll ask for them at checkpoints as well, and you need them to leave the country.”

  I patted the moneybelt under my T-shirt, reassuring myself.

  We climbed all day, gradually away from the sea and reached the plateau that began to define the southern tip of the Rajasthan Desert by nightfall. Hot and dusty, we ran off the road into the sandy plain about a kilometre and set up our first camp.

  Simon explained the drill to us: we were to dig latrines and garbage pits. We could shower with a portable unit that one pumped up and then held over one’s head with one hand, bathing with the other. And each day, two people would cook all three meals and two other people would clean up. The day before, the cooks would receive a food allowance and shop in whatever to
wn we passed through for the next day’s meals. Seemed simple enough. What I didn’t know then was that many days, we would live on bread and peanut butter, supplemented by the dehydrated food under our bench seats.

  It was cold at night, even in the desert, and I cursed myself for bringing such a thin sleeping bag. But my tent mate, Vicky, a nurse from Australia, was easygoing and friendly, so that was a great bonus, and I could always borrow a blanket from her.

  The first three days were a good introduction to India, as bumping along in the dusty truck was interspersed with visits to the cities of Jodphur, Jaipur, and Udaipur. We saw the Raj castle built on an island and the Red Fort. No one was ill yet, and we got a kick out of the continual game of chicken Simon had to play negotiating the narrow roads. All approaching traffic, especially the wildly decorated Tata trucks, forced us off the pavement onto the shoulder, dust flying, as Simon attempted to miss the oxcarts and pedestrians in our path.

  On the evening of the third day, disaster struck Vicky and me — and it was my doing. She ran every night, a few kilometres, no matter where we were, and I guarded her moneybelt. That evening, as I sat on a low stool with her moneybelt under me and enjoying a cool drink, several men with bicycles approached our group. We had already realized that within minutes of setting up our camp, village people would start to arrive and watch, but this night two men had blankets to sell. I had had three miserable nights shivering in the little tent and was very interested in buying one. I swear to this day I didn’t stand up, but somehow, in leaning forward to look at the blankets, I exposed the moneybelt, and when they left they took it with them. When Vicky arrived back from her run, she had no money, passport, or plane ticket.

  What it amounted to was that we were as close to New Delhi as we would ever be in our tour. We would have to leave our group the next morning to travel there alone and attempt to get it all replaced. Simon, our leader, shook his head.