Brian on the Brahmaputra

by David Fletcher

  It had started with Sujan’s concerns about the tiger population, here and in Assam, and how he suspected that their reported numbers were now more a matter of politics than of science. Essentially they were now disappearing at such an alarming rate that their decline could not be officially acknowledged. Instead there was a “conspiracy of optimism”, which apart from being dishonest was positively dangerous for their survival as a species. This debate then led on to the threats they faced from poaching and the degree of “robustness” that should be adopted in tackling the poachers, and whether this was currently anywhere near what was needed to deter them effectively. Nobody had much to say in favour of a “light touch” approach.

  Dwindling tiger numbers then led on to dwindling personal wealth and the culpability of the financial services industry for this calamity. Here there was a similar reluctance to speak out on behalf of the bankers or the regulators or the responsible politicians, and one or two around the table made some suggestions concerning the bankers that would have seen them meeting a similar fate to those who poached tigers, and it didn’t involve anything to do with community service.

  The subject of politics was then raised. First of all politics in West Bengal, where the party in power was the Communist Party, and where after the forthcoming elections, Sujan believed it would still be the Communist Party. He explained how it now had such a tight grip on power that it would be almost impossible to dislodge, and how the exercise of this power was now costing this part of the country dear. Why, if you were an international business looking to establish yourself in India, would you choose Kolkata or some other town in a Marxist province, with all that meant in terms of restrictions and corruption, when instead you could set up shop in the more liberal locations of Mumbai or Delhi – or in any one of another thousand locations anywhere outside West Bengal? It was a no-brainer. You didn’t come here. And all the Nature-seekers had seen the results of this reluctance to come here: a gruesome capital and an impoverished society within it and around it.

  Then it was the turn of British politics, and as everybody in the group clearly held such similar views about their government back home, there was barely any food for serious debate. Instead Alan suggested that there should be a discussion about who might qualify as the very worst British politician of them all. This suggestion was quickly adopted and the initial front runners were soon identified as Blair and Brown. However Bill, on a point of order, succeeded in eliminating Blair. It was wrong, he argued, to regard a man who was now undergoing a process of self-sanctification allied to a quest for unlimited wealth, still to be regarded as any sort of politician. Yvonne then argued that Brown should be similarly barred from the competition. A politician, she claimed, is a person who is versed in the theory of government or the art of government. So how could a man, who had shown himself incapable in every aspect of government, possibly be considered a legitimate politician? He couldn’t be, and therefore he was eliminated too.

  That left the field open for three other hopefuls: Margaret Beckett who was judged to be pompous and useless, Peter Hain who was considered to be annoying and useless, and Jack Straw who was seen to be simply unprincipled and useless. Hain was dropped quickly; all politicians are annoying and useless to varying degrees, and whilst it was pointed out that he was unnaturally tanned as well, he had to be dumped. There were stronger contenders. Straw looked to be gaining ground, but Pauline made the very obvious case that any politician who submits him or herself to the party system has to be prepared to discard any principles he or she might hold quicker than you can say ‘a three line whip’. So he went too. Leaving as the winner of the worst politician of all, the delightful Margaret Beckett, loved by farmers and freedom of information campaigners in equal measure, and someone whose pomposity wasn’t only unique in terms of its scale but also remarkable in terms of its lack of justification.

  Brian thought Sujan was a little left out of this discussion. How could he know all the names – and what they did in the government? Nevertheless he seemed to be paying close attention and he seemed also to be deriving a great deal of enjoyment from seeing a group of grown-up English people behaving like schoolchildren. Then he spoke.

  ‘Where has that sense of respect for authority gone?’ he asked. ‘I thought all English people were proud of their institutions and looked up to all those who ran them.’

  This produced a look of confusion on the faces of all those present which was on a par with those apparent after Brian’s surprise distribution of books. But then Sujan smiled.

  ‘The next thing you’ll be telling me is that you don’t like Peter Mandelson.’

  Brian then realised that Sujan knew infinitely more about British politics and British politicians than any of the rest of them knew about West Bengali politics or even Indian politics. He felt suitably humbled, and then when he remembered that he’d given this erudite man two of his stupid books he felt simply embarrassed. Was there no way he could turn back time?

  13.

  It had been a marginally cooler night. Brian and Sandra had decided to risk a little more ventilation in their cabin. They had opened all the windows and had relied upon the mosquito screens within them to keep out not just mosquitoes but also any itinerant tigers. This had apparently worked. There was no evidence of tiger intrusion anywhere. And whilst it was just about conceivable that a very dextrous tiger might have made it inside by peeling back the Velcro that held the screens in place, it was certainly not conceivable that he or she would then have been able to reattach it on his or her way out. The chance of that happening was about as high as Sir Alex Ferguson running out of chewing gum or the Queen running out of clean underwear. So effectively no chance at all. Their room really had remained tiger free.

  Breakfast, however, was accompanied by animals. The camp dogs had apparently overcome their initial reticence and were now in attendance around the dining table. This, of course, earned them some pieces of omelette and some affectionate stroking. After all, Brits come to India not to carve out an empire anymore, but instead to enjoy India in whatever way they choose – and, if it seems safe, to make friends with dogs. Brian was surprised that this pack of mutts had been so slow off the mark, and that they hadn’t exploited this well-known British foible as soon as they’d seen the Nature-seekers arriving in camp. Maybe they’d somehow mistaken them for Koreans. However, he was also sure that they now knew the score and this meant that the Nature-seekers would now have a canine complement whenever and wherever they were in camp. This companion party would be made up of the permanent contingent of one adult bitch and two male puppies and whichever other dogs might be visiting at the time. The camp’s own trio were all small and all under-exuberant – although the puppies did occasionally indulge themselves in a slow roil or even a half-hearted run. But one could very easily see that they had already learnt everything there was to know about the enervating effects of extreme heat and the importance of conserving energy. Sundarbans dogs were all destined to be lazy.

  Bill didn’t join in any of this newly initiated dog-bonding. He’d already explained how he’d once had a less than cuddly experience with a rabid dog in Kenya, and how this had made him wary of all dogs he met abroad. Brian thought that Bill would only have had to give even a rabid dog one of his more belligerent expressions and it would have reconsidered its actions immediately – and would then have run a mile. But at the same time he understood his reservations. Not too many air ambulances had passed overhead and there was always a risk. (That said, the chance of catching anything off these charmers was so infinitesimally small, we are back to the realms of Alex Ferguson’s chewing gum and the Queen’s drawers again.)

  Breakfast, this day, was notable not just for the emergence of the dogs, but it was also notable for the emergence of comments on Brian’s books. Yes, some of them had already been opened! Sujan made a reference to one of the characters in “Crats”. Lynn admitted she’d dipped into “Eggshell” and had been rebuked by Alan for
keeping him awake with her laughing. And most incredible of all, Bill said how much he’d enjoyed the item in “Eggshell” dealing with macadamia nuts (which reveals how they are an Australian joke on the rest of the world, and are not nuts at all but just bleached kangaroo poo – served up as a delicacy to all those unsuspecting Pomms). Brian was amazed; they hadn’t even reached an “empty time” yet, and here were some of his companions reading his works when they should have been getting to sleep. Of course, he was also hugely delighted.

  But now it was time for Nature-seeking again, and the day would begin with another visit to the lookout that had proved so fruitful the day before. Before it became too hot again.

  The party arrived there after an hour or so of drifting along the channels and an hour or so of not spotting tigers. Instead there were just birds, crabs, mud-skippers – and a solitary dolphin. It was quite enough for Brian, who, if the truth were known, was still more absorbed in his books and their initial reception. But he didn’t let it show. He still maintained a careful watch on the mangroves and called out everything and anything he saw, including quite a few mud-skippers.

  Now, however, there was a chance of seeing something more, maybe something none of them had seen before. And indeed, immediately there was a new sighting; not of a tiger but of the Tiger. They had landed at the lookout’s other landing-stage, where parked above the level of the water, and clearly never intended to have any further dealings with the water, was a derelict catamaran with painted on its stern the word: “Tiger”.

  Sujan explained how this vessel had been commissioned by the reserve authorities (at an astronomical cost) as a patrol boat for the whole of the Sundarbans, capable of deterring poachers and at the same time gathering all sorts of important scientific information necessary for the maintenance of the reserve’s World Heritage status. Unfortunately this capability was never tested as it lacked two further capabilities: the capability of functioning like a real boat and the capability of taking to the water at all without making a measurable addition to global warming. It was essentially unseaworthy and did little more than float, and for the short time it was afloat, it ate more diesel than a pair of Ark Royals did. It had therefore been withdrawn from service before its service had really started, and it now had a new role: that of the most expensive reserve warden’s office in India. For that is what it had become – in addition, of course, to its use as a laundry aid. The rigging above its rusting superstructure, as was apparent this morning, now served only as a drying place for the reserve warden’s washing. Which meant that if one discounted the office function (on the grounds that it must have been far too hot inside that lump of metal for most of the day to be anywhere near tolerable), that worked out at about a million rupees per foot of clothes line – which must have been some sort of record. Sujan thought that it was probably the worst financial investment ever made in West Bengal, and Brian could only agree. It had to be up there with putting money into a Bernie Madoff fund or into the Sinclair C5. No doubt about it.

  Fortunately this wasn’t the only new sighting the Nature-seekers made. For when they’d stationed themselves on the lookout tower, they were treated to a variety of new pleasures – and something very special indeed. Because in addition to the appearance of white-breasted waterhens, spotted doves, a common hawk-cuckoo and a greater coucal, there was genuine slice of magic…

  Derek had spotted it first. He had been filming a large tree about forty yards from the tower, when something at its base had caught his attention. It was the very slightest of movements. He then forsook his camcorder and instead trained his binoculars on the tree, focusing on where it met the ground and where it was surrounded by leaf litter. He could see nothing. Maybe he’d been mistaken. But no, he knew he’d seen something. It was time to call in Sujan.

  Sujan appeared and with Derek’s guidance trained his own binoculars on the base of tree. Within seconds he made an announcement, and the announcement was just one word. ‘Wryneck,’ he said.

  This had a remarkable effect. Within just a few more seconds all the Nature-seekers were surrounding him and were studying the foot of the tree with their own binoculars. He had told them where to look and what they were looking for. And as first one and then another of the Nature-seekers located their prize there were gasps and exclamations, and from those who had yet to be successful, groans of desperation. This was time for a truly mutual effort, and all those who had already found the wryneck’s exact position were now helping all those who hadn’t – until everybody had. There then followed a long period of sustained, ecstatic viewing, where binoculars were only ever renounced in favour of cameras with adequate zooms. Brian had a crack at a few photographs himself, but the tree was a long way away, and his subject was so small and so discreet that it was almost impossible to identify it in the viewfinder. It was more a case of pointing his camera at where he’d thought he’d seen the bird with his binoculars and just hoping that one of the most cryptic birds in the world was still within its scope when he pressed the button. It was. But none of his photos was quite up to publishing standard. He knew that straightaway. He also knew that this sighting would be the highlight of the day. Certainly for him and for Sandra, and, he suspected, for most of the party. Because a wryneck is a quite exceptional creature.

  Many people like birds. Even those who are not that interested in them find them pleasing. They are often colourful, they sing, and they are a very visible manifestation of that thing we call nature – as they fly around in the sky or perch on branches. Who could not like them – even accepting that sometimes they might crap on your car or steal your ice-cream? But those are just little wrinkles in what is otherwise a generally very welcome phenomenon: the presence of birds in our environment.

  Of course, if the birds are not colourful, they might not attract so much positive attention. Nor will they if they are quiet or if they are difficult to see when in flight or at rest. And if they combine all this visual and behavioural discretion with a small size, an innate shyness, a tendency to move only slowly when on the ground and what can only be described as Grade-A camouflage, they might be overlooked completely, especially if they are few in number. Indeed most people might pass through life without even knowing that they exist, even most people in Britain where the wryneck is found. Conversely, however, for those people who are interested in birds, all these characteristics manifesting themselves in a single species is what makes the wryneck such a marvel and such a triumph when they find one. Brian and Sandra had never before seen one, and never in a million years had they expected to see one in a mangrove forest in India, not here in the Sundarbans. But there it was, still pecking around in the leaf litter and still being almost impossible to see.

  The wryneck, or to give it its wonderful Latin name: “Jynx Torquilla”, is just 16 centimetres long, has a small head, a slim body and grey-brown plumage. It spends much of its time feeding on the ground and when threatened will raise a small crest on its head, spread out its tail and twist its neck from side to side like a snake. And this last action is key to understanding what a wryneck looks like – when viewed from somewhere like a lookout tower in the Sundarbans; it looks like a reptile. This is what had foxed Derek. He had been looking for a bird at the base of that tree, not something which appeared more reptilian than avian. And it had taken Sujan’s professional skills to see what it was.

  So this is why Brian and all his colleagues were quite so excited. They had within their view a bird, which if not very rare, was still extremely uncommon and extremely difficult to find – anywhere – but also a bird which was discreetly beautiful, superbly cryptic and probably more like a reptile in its movements and it its appearance than any other bird in the world. Their spotting of it wouldn’t make the front page of the “Indian Times”, nor would it be a cause for celebration by the locals, but for Brian and his companions this extended sighting of this remarkable creature was a genuine high point of the whole holiday. In Brian’s own mind, it was no less a
n event than the sighting of that Bengal florican back in Assam or those views of a pied harrier in flight. All three episodes he would remember forever.

  There again, he would probably never forget the ants either.

  They lived on the boat. They were small and highly opportunistic, and they would appear in large numbers from cracks in the decking whenever food was around. So now, on their way back from the lookout to the camp, Brian had a cup of coffee in one hand, a biscuit in the other, and around his feet, a multitude of insects. They didn’t appear to want to bite; they were more interested in biscuit crumbs. But that wasn’t entirely correct according to Sujan. The master of the boat lived on his boat – and they bit him in bed at night. For years apparently he’d been trying to get rid of them, but without success, and probably because he carried too many careless and sentimental Brits on his boat, people who would always provide them with food but who would never willingly kill them. Hey, ants have to make a living as well. And if the master was really concerned he’d long ago have banned the biscuits. Such was Brian’s thinking on the matter.

  The ants remained on the boat as the Nature-seekers left it at the Mayan steps. There they were greeted by the camp bitch. She had so understood the soppy nature of the camp’s current residents that she had awaited their return and was now going to provide them with an escort. Having identified Brian as the soppiest of them all, it was he who had her in close attendance all the way back – and he who had to stop her from joining him in his cabin. Even soppy Brits have their limits.