Dogster: The Great Stumble Forward - India
Jun 21st, 2008, 09:46 AM
#161
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Now that I have gpanda writing poetry in my praise I know I've truly arrived at my destination - lol
But I'm glad to see I'm not the only one to meet blank faces when I get home. Kathie's point is particularly apropos to me: my travel choices are getting so obscure that nobody in their right mind would even think of going. I'm on a mission and someimes that leads me to strange places. My pals certainly havn't heard of them - quite a lot of the time, neither have I.
After reading Smeagol's lovely post I've realised that this trip report is, indeed SO long that you need a day off and a calming beverage to get through it - but this [sigh] is the penultimate epistle. Suitably graphic and bloody: look away if you love animals.
Just Varanasi to go...
But I'm glad to see I'm not the only one to meet blank faces when I get home. Kathie's point is particularly apropos to me: my travel choices are getting so obscure that nobody in their right mind would even think of going. I'm on a mission and someimes that leads me to strange places. My pals certainly havn't heard of them - quite a lot of the time, neither have I.
After reading Smeagol's lovely post I've realised that this trip report is, indeed SO long that you need a day off and a calming beverage to get through it - but this [sigh] is the penultimate epistle. Suitably graphic and bloody: look away if you love animals.
Just Varanasi to go...
Jun 21st, 2008, 09:47 AM
#162
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GUWAHATI:
The Kamakhya Mandir has been on top of a fine hill outside Guwahati since 1655 and has grown like Topsy ever since. Today was an auspicious day but I’m not quite sure why. All through this New Year Festival there were anniversaries, occasions, the significance of which were quite beyond me. By happenstance this temple was charging at full tilt the first day I was there. I threaded my way through one long street of shops all selling religious items, materials, spiritual tat with hundreds of red, purple, orange bridal veils hung from each shop front, each veil covered in thousands of gold sequins. Then, outside the main gate, a million shoes, piled in racks that reached the sky, each somehow sorted, somehow catalogued by a team of shoe-wallahs [for this, in 21st. Century India, read entrepreneurial young men] who ran a tight, tight ship. Mine joined them.
Inside a sea of red - red seemed to be the colour of priests and acolytes, of sadhu’s and weddings. It was everywhere, draped on and around hundreds of men. One enormous line of people lolled in what looked like cages – apparently the only way of controlling the huge flood of Guwahatis who had come specially today to exercise their faith. The cages led off to the side wall, then upstairs, then more stairs, then more - crawling up and around the walls overlooking the temple. This long stairway was also crammed with people, patiently watching from above as the events unfolded inside. It was all one enormously long queue that disappeared somewhere up above me, curled round, I later discovered, to flank two huge pools where, first cab off the rank, all these worshippers came to bathe and ritually cleanse themselves.
I was somewhere in the middle of it all, just abandoned to the occasion. I could tell that I sure wasn’t going to get inside the main temple on this occasion so was content to roam around the complex outside. I passed a dozen goats. It didn’t take long before I heard that familiar refrain... ‘maaa-a-a-aah’, chop!
Goats went to God with a bleat and a chop. Some were carried up the hill and through the temple grounds in their owner’s arms, sweet little white bundles, perfectly happy to be taken off on a ride, each christened with a vermillion tikka. Others waited in a line outside, contently sitting, looking around quite unconcerned – killing time before they were to be sold, tikka’d and slaughtered.
Amidst that crowd of happy, red-swathed men, one in particular seemed to be the designated goat-chopper. It was all very efficient. The goats were carried or led to a small path of bare earth. Sticking up from this patch of earth was an off shaped block of stone, looking rather like an elongated stone slingshot. This patch of earth was enclosed with concrete, covered in bloodied light brown tiles. It was a floor of considerable gore. Maybe the goat-chopper said a brief prayer, I really couldn’t tell but with little ceremony and maximum speed those little goat necks were swiftly placed in this ‘slingshot’ device, effectively trapping their heads and those deadly little horns in a pincer – then their bodies pulled back, all in the one movement.
I learnt to recognise the quite distinct sound of an assassin’s knife chotting through a young goat’s neck. There was always a last desperate ‘maa-a-a-aaah’ and then this particular, clean, quick thud. Bye bye goat.
The heads were thrown onto that disgusting tiled floor. Seven or eight of them lay in a line, all with the same startled look, those staring wide eyes, spattered with their own blood, a lurid little cameo against the light pink tiles of the back wall. The bodies were swiftly disposed of, hurled by their back legs onto a small area just outside – a little open box paved with a distinctive blue and enclosed with a tiled wall on two sides. There was blood everywhere, walls and floor: a shiny explosion of colour against those light blue tiles. The goats were still twitching as their owners picked them up, drained them out, then neatly popped them into a plastic bag and carried them away. It would be goat pie tonight.
I must have seen thirty or more goats go their goat heaven in my three visits to Kamahkya Mandir. I’ve observed the goat sacrifices from pretty much every available angle: up close, far away, over the wall, through the window, from above – I’ve pretty much had the goat sacrifice experience. The sound of ‘maaa-a-a-aaah – chop! - was everywhere. Nobody turned a hair.
The real theatre came with the buffalo slaughter. That attracted quite a crowd – including me. Baba was right beside me but looking decidedly green: he was dutifully guarding his client who demanded a ring-side seat – but clearly Baba would have preferred another client right at this moment. He didn’t care for this blood and gore, just didn’t like this whole sacrifice thing. Like most of us, I guess.
I found it fascinating, strangely unmoved by the blood and the muck – I stared right into this extraordinary thing happening right in front of me, was amazed at how it all worked. I was invisible in the midst of a powerful piece of theatre that’s been going on for a thousand years.
We were inside the slaughter hall. Outside, ranged on rows and rows of tiered steps reaching up thirty or more feet, sat hundreds of onlookers looking down towards us through large open gaps in the wall. They were seeing everything inside framed inside a box.
The buffalo was led in, protesting. Twenty or so men swathed in red went into action – they were quite a team. The beast was lead forward to a two wooden stakes fixed in the floor at an angle and led through the barrier. Both stakes were jammed together in a pincer movement and its head pinioned between them. A bar was jammed down on it from above, locking the animal’s neck.
There was usually a ‘Mwww-e-u-e-u-egh!’ at this point. Ten or so men simultaneously threaded poles through the buffalo’s legs then, at a signal, they pulled those surprised legs out from under him. I couldn’t see exactly how they did it, it was all happening very fast, but before I and the buffalo knew it, he was pinioned by the neck, his back legs splayed out behind him, just about to die.
I was barefoot, standing on a very disgusting floor, right in the front row. Everything was happening very quickly, just three metres from my amazed face. People pushed all around me as the show got under way. Tiny children squeezed around my legs, picking their thin bodies in the gaps between grown- ups, anxious to see.
Ropes were slung around the bull’s horns and, as the men behind pulled back on their poles, the men on ropes all pulled forward. This, I think, took a few heave-ho’s before it was mission accomplished. This wasn’t a moment to be taking photographs, everything is a blast of confused memories - but I saw that buffalo neck get longer and longer and longer. His bloated tongue poked out its mouth.
I was quite lost in the theatre of it all. The neck was stretched out by more than a foot. Suddenly the intensity changed, the excitement leapt up a notch or two. The drumming increased dramatically, there was a surge from the crowd as the priest raised his knife - a tangible current of what I can only describe as ‘blood-lust’ ran through the building – then the heavy thud as machete sliced through that stretched buffalo neck - in a millisecond it was done.
Head and body fell apart. A splash of arterial blood slashed across the crowd as the torso collapsed on the ground. There was a collective gasp of wonder from the crowd – then suddenly it was all over. The men on the legs casually unthreaded their poles and walked away, quite relaxed - in a few seconds they were chatting to each other, unconcerned. The crowd dispersed. The buffalo’s body just sat there on two bended knees – about as dead as a dead buffalo can be.
The head was already being carried round the temple, bleeding droplets on the floor, taken in to where I cannot go, to be blessed and boiled, for all I know. The crowd had gone - instantly melted away, their attention diverted in the endless sideshow of this place - just another buffalo gone to Lord Shiva’s great herd in the sky.
The Kamakhya Mandir has been on top of a fine hill outside Guwahati since 1655 and has grown like Topsy ever since. Today was an auspicious day but I’m not quite sure why. All through this New Year Festival there were anniversaries, occasions, the significance of which were quite beyond me. By happenstance this temple was charging at full tilt the first day I was there. I threaded my way through one long street of shops all selling religious items, materials, spiritual tat with hundreds of red, purple, orange bridal veils hung from each shop front, each veil covered in thousands of gold sequins. Then, outside the main gate, a million shoes, piled in racks that reached the sky, each somehow sorted, somehow catalogued by a team of shoe-wallahs [for this, in 21st. Century India, read entrepreneurial young men] who ran a tight, tight ship. Mine joined them.
Inside a sea of red - red seemed to be the colour of priests and acolytes, of sadhu’s and weddings. It was everywhere, draped on and around hundreds of men. One enormous line of people lolled in what looked like cages – apparently the only way of controlling the huge flood of Guwahatis who had come specially today to exercise their faith. The cages led off to the side wall, then upstairs, then more stairs, then more - crawling up and around the walls overlooking the temple. This long stairway was also crammed with people, patiently watching from above as the events unfolded inside. It was all one enormously long queue that disappeared somewhere up above me, curled round, I later discovered, to flank two huge pools where, first cab off the rank, all these worshippers came to bathe and ritually cleanse themselves.
I was somewhere in the middle of it all, just abandoned to the occasion. I could tell that I sure wasn’t going to get inside the main temple on this occasion so was content to roam around the complex outside. I passed a dozen goats. It didn’t take long before I heard that familiar refrain... ‘maaa-a-a-aah’, chop!
Goats went to God with a bleat and a chop. Some were carried up the hill and through the temple grounds in their owner’s arms, sweet little white bundles, perfectly happy to be taken off on a ride, each christened with a vermillion tikka. Others waited in a line outside, contently sitting, looking around quite unconcerned – killing time before they were to be sold, tikka’d and slaughtered.
Amidst that crowd of happy, red-swathed men, one in particular seemed to be the designated goat-chopper. It was all very efficient. The goats were carried or led to a small path of bare earth. Sticking up from this patch of earth was an off shaped block of stone, looking rather like an elongated stone slingshot. This patch of earth was enclosed with concrete, covered in bloodied light brown tiles. It was a floor of considerable gore. Maybe the goat-chopper said a brief prayer, I really couldn’t tell but with little ceremony and maximum speed those little goat necks were swiftly placed in this ‘slingshot’ device, effectively trapping their heads and those deadly little horns in a pincer – then their bodies pulled back, all in the one movement.
I learnt to recognise the quite distinct sound of an assassin’s knife chotting through a young goat’s neck. There was always a last desperate ‘maa-a-a-aaah’ and then this particular, clean, quick thud. Bye bye goat.
The heads were thrown onto that disgusting tiled floor. Seven or eight of them lay in a line, all with the same startled look, those staring wide eyes, spattered with their own blood, a lurid little cameo against the light pink tiles of the back wall. The bodies were swiftly disposed of, hurled by their back legs onto a small area just outside – a little open box paved with a distinctive blue and enclosed with a tiled wall on two sides. There was blood everywhere, walls and floor: a shiny explosion of colour against those light blue tiles. The goats were still twitching as their owners picked them up, drained them out, then neatly popped them into a plastic bag and carried them away. It would be goat pie tonight.
I must have seen thirty or more goats go their goat heaven in my three visits to Kamahkya Mandir. I’ve observed the goat sacrifices from pretty much every available angle: up close, far away, over the wall, through the window, from above – I’ve pretty much had the goat sacrifice experience. The sound of ‘maaa-a-a-aaah – chop! - was everywhere. Nobody turned a hair.
The real theatre came with the buffalo slaughter. That attracted quite a crowd – including me. Baba was right beside me but looking decidedly green: he was dutifully guarding his client who demanded a ring-side seat – but clearly Baba would have preferred another client right at this moment. He didn’t care for this blood and gore, just didn’t like this whole sacrifice thing. Like most of us, I guess.
I found it fascinating, strangely unmoved by the blood and the muck – I stared right into this extraordinary thing happening right in front of me, was amazed at how it all worked. I was invisible in the midst of a powerful piece of theatre that’s been going on for a thousand years.
We were inside the slaughter hall. Outside, ranged on rows and rows of tiered steps reaching up thirty or more feet, sat hundreds of onlookers looking down towards us through large open gaps in the wall. They were seeing everything inside framed inside a box.
The buffalo was led in, protesting. Twenty or so men swathed in red went into action – they were quite a team. The beast was lead forward to a two wooden stakes fixed in the floor at an angle and led through the barrier. Both stakes were jammed together in a pincer movement and its head pinioned between them. A bar was jammed down on it from above, locking the animal’s neck.
There was usually a ‘Mwww-e-u-e-u-egh!’ at this point. Ten or so men simultaneously threaded poles through the buffalo’s legs then, at a signal, they pulled those surprised legs out from under him. I couldn’t see exactly how they did it, it was all happening very fast, but before I and the buffalo knew it, he was pinioned by the neck, his back legs splayed out behind him, just about to die.
I was barefoot, standing on a very disgusting floor, right in the front row. Everything was happening very quickly, just three metres from my amazed face. People pushed all around me as the show got under way. Tiny children squeezed around my legs, picking their thin bodies in the gaps between grown- ups, anxious to see.
Ropes were slung around the bull’s horns and, as the men behind pulled back on their poles, the men on ropes all pulled forward. This, I think, took a few heave-ho’s before it was mission accomplished. This wasn’t a moment to be taking photographs, everything is a blast of confused memories - but I saw that buffalo neck get longer and longer and longer. His bloated tongue poked out its mouth.
I was quite lost in the theatre of it all. The neck was stretched out by more than a foot. Suddenly the intensity changed, the excitement leapt up a notch or two. The drumming increased dramatically, there was a surge from the crowd as the priest raised his knife - a tangible current of what I can only describe as ‘blood-lust’ ran through the building – then the heavy thud as machete sliced through that stretched buffalo neck - in a millisecond it was done.
Head and body fell apart. A splash of arterial blood slashed across the crowd as the torso collapsed on the ground. There was a collective gasp of wonder from the crowd – then suddenly it was all over. The men on the legs casually unthreaded their poles and walked away, quite relaxed - in a few seconds they were chatting to each other, unconcerned. The crowd dispersed. The buffalo’s body just sat there on two bended knees – about as dead as a dead buffalo can be.
The head was already being carried round the temple, bleeding droplets on the floor, taken in to where I cannot go, to be blessed and boiled, for all I know. The crowd had gone - instantly melted away, their attention diverted in the endless sideshow of this place - just another buffalo gone to Lord Shiva’s great herd in the sky.
Jun 21st, 2008, 09:48 AM
#163
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SILGHAT:
The greatest goat I ever saw, the most transcendent of her race, was performing in a circus in Silghat, a tiny town about half-way down in river that, once a year at New Year, becomes flooded with tens of thousand of the surrounding locals, all drawn in to town for one reason. The carnival had come to town.
Perhaps ‘carnival’ is too strong a word. ‘Fair’ might be a better one. There was a Ferris-wheel, tied together, as usual, with string. A Wheel of Death where fearless Indian motor-bikers drove round and round a wall while a hundred spectators crammed above, looking down, waiting for their advertised Death. Two of the worst sideshows I’ve ever attended – one of which featured a tableau of Lord Shiva, come down from heaven and floating in a flimsy tent – unaided [gasp] by mortal hand.
This was, of course a young man sitting on a platform that extended, miraculously, from the back of a nearby truck. He was dressed rather like Father Christmas, with a thick cotton-wool beard and wiggled his head ferociously when I opened the flap to see my ten rupee miracle. I waved and feigned great wonder. Lord Shiva knew as well as I that it was the most pathetic miracle he’d ever seen, too but felt compelled to keep up his part of the bargain. More head wiggling and what have been a broad Shiva smile – it was impossible to tell under the cotton-wool.
Under another flap of canvas was the second promised miracle – the two headed man. Hold on to your hats. Why, gosh, halleluyah, truly I believe in miracles! Here was another unfortunate carnival lad whose punishment it was to sit pressed up against a [totally invisible, gasp] mirror. One visible leg on one side, his striped shirt up against one edge of the mirror, his head stuck out at an angle. My God, it truly was a two headed man! Incredible!
The two headed man may just have been smiling but the whole thing was so... woeful, I couldn’t really tell. The poor lad looked very uncomfortable I beat a hasty retreat. I didn’t want to put his neck out of joint. Baba was waiting outside.
‘Amazing, ‘I said very seriously, ‘truly amazing.’
Baba thought I was obviously a bit of a retard. I then made him take me to the Rock ’n Roll Bollywood Pop Star Tent. The show was just about to start. Woo hoo! Poor Baba.
I paid for our tickets – twenty rupees a head for this one – and we made our way in through an iron corridor, divided down the centre by a railing with two locked gates at the far end. Above was a sign. It read: ‘LADIES IN JEANS’. Make of that what you will.
We sat towards the back inside a large plastic tent. There was quite a wind outside. Suddenly a great chunk of yellow plastic roofing flew up, flapped then settled in a not very gentle cloud, on top of our heads. People ran for cover but the emergency was swiftly rectified. Lithe bodies clambered directly over us and yanked the offending plastic back into place. The show could begin.
The wayward sheeting was certainly the highlight of the next thirty minutes. In front of a painted backdrop of somewhere that looked vaguely like Korea appeared a ‘groovy’ young couple who absently mimed and danced to a recorded song blasted out over the speakers. They finished to a smattering of dazed applause then yielded to another couple who did the same thing – then another – and another – each dressed in progressively more ‘groovy’ and ridiculous outfits. Top of the bill was some ‘stunning beauty’ who appeared in rather fewer clothes than the average Assamese audience is meant to appreciate. Her tiny mini dress was hung with plastic pearls under a pink sequinned belt, her back totally bare but for two thin straps, one holding a pink sequinned brassiere, the other holding up a see-through red creation that covered up the front of her. Baba visibly puffed up with the erotic charge. It certainly didn’t take much to get these guys off. I looked around. My guide wasn’t the only young man suddenly glued to the action on stage. She pranced around limply for her mimed moment in the sun then, as the grand finale, the whole cast came out on stage to join her. They all mimed badly to another song. I clapped enthusiastically and stood up to go. Baba looked over and nodded. He loved it.
We wandered from stall to stall and looked at everything, we rode the Ferris-wheel - three of the most terrifying minutes of my life - we shot at balloons, I threw darts at more balloons, then watched fascinated as carnival con-men did that dice under the tumblers trick. Then all of a sudden a stray Superintendent of Police bore down on me with a broad smile and an offer I could not refuse.
‘Welcome to Silghat!’ he barked with one enormous hand stuck out in front of him. Soon I was strolling hand in hand with him up the police station to view his carnival feifdom. It was all a bit of a surprise.
I was Mr. Dogster, the only white man in Assam – again - and about to be shown off to every official in town. I can only assume that I was earning the Superintendent some kind of cosmic brownie points by my company on his extended guided tour - but that was fine by me. It was very strange - but I was going with that constabular flow. He fed me, forced tea on me, water, conversation – I was interviewed by another nervous young man and his microphone, reeled away quite overwhelmed with his hospitality – but, really, I wanted to be back in the crowds.
I wanted to go off and join the Circus.
The Great Performing Goat was the star of the show – at least as far as I’m concerned. Now, you don’t get to see a performing goat much in these politically correct days – and I’m all for that – more power to goats, I say, but when a performing goat is thrust upon a man and he does not watch - then the world, as we know it, should come to an end.
The Great Goat was not the only performer, of course, but after seeing her goatly magnificence– the jugglers, the trapezes, the contortionists – even the dwarf with a painted face and a clown costume – just didn’t get me off. I had seen the glory, I had been to the Promised Land. This was the Maria Callas of goat performers, the Edith Piaf – a beautiful white goat with a perky white tail and a look of great concentration.
Ms. Goat, artiste, was dragged unwillingly into the arena where she stood, looking stupidly around. In front of her was a steep wooden plank that led from the floor up about five feet to a tiny steel platform on a steel triangle, held up by more Indian string. She was given the traditional pre-show whack around the ears to get her started then took a few steps up the plank. She promptly fell off. Now she was lying on her back with all four legs waving wildly in the air with her trainer bearing down. A kick and she was upright, trotting back along that plank, up and up to her perch in the sky. The plank was removed and there she stood, hit by a shaft of sunlight, her four thin goat legs meeting in a pure point of contact with the perch.
What a thing of beauty: Ms. Goat, paragon of balance was standing on a platform no bigger than my palm - she then turned a full 360 degrees, still perfectly poised on this tiny surface and, as I watched, walked slowly along a piece of narrow steel not half an inch wide, stretched between her first perch and a second weeny perch - then one second strip of steel that culminated in one final tiny destination.
I confess I was the only man in this circus tent that found this quite so thrilling. I could see about five hundred of the rest of the audience in the cheap seats on the other side, staring down with confusion at this very peculiar sight – a white goat standing on a platform, turning circles. But that’s exactly what this talented goat did – but this time with a variation. Now the goat could lift one leg, crook it and lower its head – in a perfect little bow.
The Great Performing Goat of Silghat walked all the way across to that third tiny platform, turned in a circle, bowed, then walked calmly back all the way to the first one, paused for her applause - then leapt into freedom with one joyous bound. Her trainer grabbed the rope around her neck and they both trotted proudly out of the tent to – well, I do have to say it – ‘less than generous’ applause.
But I loved it. That goat: beaten and abused, bashed into submission: that damn goat got up and did its thing regardless – with a goat-ish resilience and a modicum of style.
I liked to think that old goat was a bit like the Dogster - and Dogster was a bit like that goat.
I get a kick in the head, I scramble up that travel plank, I tumble off, make a fool of myself, cop a thrashing – then pick myself up, dust myself off - and start all over again. I make it to the little perch, I sit, I balance or fall – then scuttle across a tightrope to another safe five star perch, do another 360 degree tourist turn for a week or so - then, if I’ve survived, allow myself a little bow of congratulation. The next day I’m on another tightrope, in another taxi, another airport, making another landing to reach another tiny perch, another tightrope.
Stumbling forward across India.
The greatest goat I ever saw, the most transcendent of her race, was performing in a circus in Silghat, a tiny town about half-way down in river that, once a year at New Year, becomes flooded with tens of thousand of the surrounding locals, all drawn in to town for one reason. The carnival had come to town.
Perhaps ‘carnival’ is too strong a word. ‘Fair’ might be a better one. There was a Ferris-wheel, tied together, as usual, with string. A Wheel of Death where fearless Indian motor-bikers drove round and round a wall while a hundred spectators crammed above, looking down, waiting for their advertised Death. Two of the worst sideshows I’ve ever attended – one of which featured a tableau of Lord Shiva, come down from heaven and floating in a flimsy tent – unaided [gasp] by mortal hand.
This was, of course a young man sitting on a platform that extended, miraculously, from the back of a nearby truck. He was dressed rather like Father Christmas, with a thick cotton-wool beard and wiggled his head ferociously when I opened the flap to see my ten rupee miracle. I waved and feigned great wonder. Lord Shiva knew as well as I that it was the most pathetic miracle he’d ever seen, too but felt compelled to keep up his part of the bargain. More head wiggling and what have been a broad Shiva smile – it was impossible to tell under the cotton-wool.
Under another flap of canvas was the second promised miracle – the two headed man. Hold on to your hats. Why, gosh, halleluyah, truly I believe in miracles! Here was another unfortunate carnival lad whose punishment it was to sit pressed up against a [totally invisible, gasp] mirror. One visible leg on one side, his striped shirt up against one edge of the mirror, his head stuck out at an angle. My God, it truly was a two headed man! Incredible!
The two headed man may just have been smiling but the whole thing was so... woeful, I couldn’t really tell. The poor lad looked very uncomfortable I beat a hasty retreat. I didn’t want to put his neck out of joint. Baba was waiting outside.
‘Amazing, ‘I said very seriously, ‘truly amazing.’
Baba thought I was obviously a bit of a retard. I then made him take me to the Rock ’n Roll Bollywood Pop Star Tent. The show was just about to start. Woo hoo! Poor Baba.
I paid for our tickets – twenty rupees a head for this one – and we made our way in through an iron corridor, divided down the centre by a railing with two locked gates at the far end. Above was a sign. It read: ‘LADIES IN JEANS’. Make of that what you will.
We sat towards the back inside a large plastic tent. There was quite a wind outside. Suddenly a great chunk of yellow plastic roofing flew up, flapped then settled in a not very gentle cloud, on top of our heads. People ran for cover but the emergency was swiftly rectified. Lithe bodies clambered directly over us and yanked the offending plastic back into place. The show could begin.
The wayward sheeting was certainly the highlight of the next thirty minutes. In front of a painted backdrop of somewhere that looked vaguely like Korea appeared a ‘groovy’ young couple who absently mimed and danced to a recorded song blasted out over the speakers. They finished to a smattering of dazed applause then yielded to another couple who did the same thing – then another – and another – each dressed in progressively more ‘groovy’ and ridiculous outfits. Top of the bill was some ‘stunning beauty’ who appeared in rather fewer clothes than the average Assamese audience is meant to appreciate. Her tiny mini dress was hung with plastic pearls under a pink sequinned belt, her back totally bare but for two thin straps, one holding a pink sequinned brassiere, the other holding up a see-through red creation that covered up the front of her. Baba visibly puffed up with the erotic charge. It certainly didn’t take much to get these guys off. I looked around. My guide wasn’t the only young man suddenly glued to the action on stage. She pranced around limply for her mimed moment in the sun then, as the grand finale, the whole cast came out on stage to join her. They all mimed badly to another song. I clapped enthusiastically and stood up to go. Baba looked over and nodded. He loved it.
We wandered from stall to stall and looked at everything, we rode the Ferris-wheel - three of the most terrifying minutes of my life - we shot at balloons, I threw darts at more balloons, then watched fascinated as carnival con-men did that dice under the tumblers trick. Then all of a sudden a stray Superintendent of Police bore down on me with a broad smile and an offer I could not refuse.
‘Welcome to Silghat!’ he barked with one enormous hand stuck out in front of him. Soon I was strolling hand in hand with him up the police station to view his carnival feifdom. It was all a bit of a surprise.
I was Mr. Dogster, the only white man in Assam – again - and about to be shown off to every official in town. I can only assume that I was earning the Superintendent some kind of cosmic brownie points by my company on his extended guided tour - but that was fine by me. It was very strange - but I was going with that constabular flow. He fed me, forced tea on me, water, conversation – I was interviewed by another nervous young man and his microphone, reeled away quite overwhelmed with his hospitality – but, really, I wanted to be back in the crowds.
I wanted to go off and join the Circus.
The Great Performing Goat was the star of the show – at least as far as I’m concerned. Now, you don’t get to see a performing goat much in these politically correct days – and I’m all for that – more power to goats, I say, but when a performing goat is thrust upon a man and he does not watch - then the world, as we know it, should come to an end.
The Great Goat was not the only performer, of course, but after seeing her goatly magnificence– the jugglers, the trapezes, the contortionists – even the dwarf with a painted face and a clown costume – just didn’t get me off. I had seen the glory, I had been to the Promised Land. This was the Maria Callas of goat performers, the Edith Piaf – a beautiful white goat with a perky white tail and a look of great concentration.
Ms. Goat, artiste, was dragged unwillingly into the arena where she stood, looking stupidly around. In front of her was a steep wooden plank that led from the floor up about five feet to a tiny steel platform on a steel triangle, held up by more Indian string. She was given the traditional pre-show whack around the ears to get her started then took a few steps up the plank. She promptly fell off. Now she was lying on her back with all four legs waving wildly in the air with her trainer bearing down. A kick and she was upright, trotting back along that plank, up and up to her perch in the sky. The plank was removed and there she stood, hit by a shaft of sunlight, her four thin goat legs meeting in a pure point of contact with the perch.
What a thing of beauty: Ms. Goat, paragon of balance was standing on a platform no bigger than my palm - she then turned a full 360 degrees, still perfectly poised on this tiny surface and, as I watched, walked slowly along a piece of narrow steel not half an inch wide, stretched between her first perch and a second weeny perch - then one second strip of steel that culminated in one final tiny destination.
I confess I was the only man in this circus tent that found this quite so thrilling. I could see about five hundred of the rest of the audience in the cheap seats on the other side, staring down with confusion at this very peculiar sight – a white goat standing on a platform, turning circles. But that’s exactly what this talented goat did – but this time with a variation. Now the goat could lift one leg, crook it and lower its head – in a perfect little bow.
The Great Performing Goat of Silghat walked all the way across to that third tiny platform, turned in a circle, bowed, then walked calmly back all the way to the first one, paused for her applause - then leapt into freedom with one joyous bound. Her trainer grabbed the rope around her neck and they both trotted proudly out of the tent to – well, I do have to say it – ‘less than generous’ applause.
But I loved it. That goat: beaten and abused, bashed into submission: that damn goat got up and did its thing regardless – with a goat-ish resilience and a modicum of style.
I liked to think that old goat was a bit like the Dogster - and Dogster was a bit like that goat.
I get a kick in the head, I scramble up that travel plank, I tumble off, make a fool of myself, cop a thrashing – then pick myself up, dust myself off - and start all over again. I make it to the little perch, I sit, I balance or fall – then scuttle across a tightrope to another safe five star perch, do another 360 degree tourist turn for a week or so - then, if I’ve survived, allow myself a little bow of congratulation. The next day I’m on another tightrope, in another taxi, another airport, making another landing to reach another tiny perch, another tightrope.
Stumbling forward across India.
Jun 24th, 2008, 12:51 PM
#168
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Genius.
Thank you for sharing.
A personal favorite ...
"Jane XX wasn’t her real name, of course, it was her stage name. She was, as she was quick to explain, really an entertainer. I could see her already, stuffed inside a green lurex frock, belting out of tune Shirley Bassey hits to drunks in Working-Men’s clubs in the North of England, telling off-colour jokes and introducing the dwarf-throwing as the next act."
Thank you for sharing.
A personal favorite ...
"Jane XX wasn’t her real name, of course, it was her stage name. She was, as she was quick to explain, really an entertainer. I could see her already, stuffed inside a green lurex frock, belting out of tune Shirley Bassey hits to drunks in Working-Men’s clubs in the North of England, telling off-colour jokes and introducing the dwarf-throwing as the next act."
Jun 25th, 2008, 07:13 PM
#169
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I just thought I should bring this back to the top before it fell into 51st position and out of sight....out of mind. Eveyone should get the chance to read this entertaining tale before it becomes a "Made for TV mini-series"
Jun 26th, 2008, 03:36 AM
#170
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OK Dogster, I'm only halfway through your India thread, but I had to post a remark. I started reading last night (haven't been here in a while, but got a nudge email from Bob in BKK last night telling me that I was being paged in the forum--I love that Bob watches out for me 
So, I was laughing so hard when I read this line (after it was suggested you might want "company" on the ship)<i>"Frankly, that was the last thing I needed. Now, having been cast in the role of lecherous roue, I faced fourteen days of the crew thinking I wanted to jump the Ukrainian chamber-maids."</i>
Seriously, tears were running down my face I was laughing so hard.
I wanted to keep reading, but I decided I needed to go to bed (it was after midnight and I do have a job). When I got up this morning, I read the line again and burst out laughing--again. I started reading your stuff this morning rather than the NYTimes. How's that for addiction to your wonderful writing! I am now with you in Goa, but alas must head off to my source of income for the day. I'll be back tonight.
You are one of the best travel writers I have ever read--professional or amateur (in the latin sense of "ama" teur) . I'm not kidding. You need to pull together all your stories into a compendium, have an editor take a swipe at it and get it published. You are an absolutely addictive writer--a unique and rare talent.
"Travels with Dogster" or "Dogster Tracks" could be a big hit, and I'm not kidding.
So, I was laughing so hard when I read this line (after it was suggested you might want "company" on the ship)<i>"Frankly, that was the last thing I needed. Now, having been cast in the role of lecherous roue, I faced fourteen days of the crew thinking I wanted to jump the Ukrainian chamber-maids."</i>
Seriously, tears were running down my face I was laughing so hard.
I wanted to keep reading, but I decided I needed to go to bed (it was after midnight and I do have a job). When I got up this morning, I read the line again and burst out laughing--again. I started reading your stuff this morning rather than the NYTimes. How's that for addiction to your wonderful writing! I am now with you in Goa, but alas must head off to my source of income for the day. I'll be back tonight.
You are one of the best travel writers I have ever read--professional or amateur (in the latin sense of "ama" teur) . I'm not kidding. You need to pull together all your stories into a compendium, have an editor take a swipe at it and get it published. You are an absolutely addictive writer--a unique and rare talent.
"Travels with Dogster" or "Dogster Tracks" could be a big hit, and I'm not kidding.
Jun 26th, 2008, 08:26 PM
#171
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Wow - I come back after a couple of days to find extravagant praise - that's so kind. I love Gpanda's phrase 'You are a goat amongst men.'
That's why I thought this would be a good place to stop. There's more - but then, there always is... how long is a piece of string? But its been an excellent ride - writing this in real time and just posting has been great fun. A real challenge - with a few limitations - now I'm diving back and correcting the bad punctuation! And a few cuts and corrections... and some additions.
Funnily enough I've found reading my words back quoted as favorite phrases is a real blast. So thanks for the feedback Boston, Chicago, Ny. Everybody really..
I've found the whole exercise strangely empowering. What a group of supportive, enthusiastic people! I'm a lucky guy.
Now I'm planning the next trip. I leave in two weeks.
That's why I thought this would be a good place to stop. There's more - but then, there always is... how long is a piece of string? But its been an excellent ride - writing this in real time and just posting has been great fun. A real challenge - with a few limitations - now I'm diving back and correcting the bad punctuation! And a few cuts and corrections... and some additions.
Funnily enough I've found reading my words back quoted as favorite phrases is a real blast. So thanks for the feedback Boston, Chicago, Ny. Everybody really..
I've found the whole exercise strangely empowering. What a group of supportive, enthusiastic people! I'm a lucky guy.
Now I'm planning the next trip. I leave in two weeks.
Jun 27th, 2008, 04:27 AM
#172
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"What a group of supportive, enthusiastic people!"
I think that Dogster has hit the nail on the head.
I find this forum to be very helpful and informative with none of the backbiting and caustic remarks--apart from the "Great Furry One"--of some of the other travel sites.
It seems that every poster on this site has a desire to share their travel experiences and support newbies and not so newbies.
I'm so glad that I found this site before my trip to Thailand--it helped immeasurably.
PS. Gpanda, you know I'm only joking!
I think that Dogster has hit the nail on the head.
I find this forum to be very helpful and informative with none of the backbiting and caustic remarks--apart from the "Great Furry One"--of some of the other travel sites.
It seems that every poster on this site has a desire to share their travel experiences and support newbies and not so newbies.
I'm so glad that I found this site before my trip to Thailand--it helped immeasurably.
PS. Gpanda, you know I'm only joking!
Jun 27th, 2008, 06:27 AM
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Dogster, we look forward to the next adventure. Have you ever thought about exploring the wilds of Massachusetts?
R-mac-it's sort of quaint reading that you were actually concerned with my reaction to your aspersions. Our fur is thick.
R-mac-it's sort of quaint reading that you were actually concerned with my reaction to your aspersions. Our fur is thick.
Jun 24th, 2009, 11:56 AM
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I was surprised to learn that Hindus still engage in animal sacrifice. Your description of standing knee deep in blood --- have you ever heard of the Roman taurobolium (en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Taurobolium)?
Jun 25th, 2009, 10:10 PM
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In October/November 2007 we did a very similar trip to Dogster’s but on the Sukapha, a sister ship of the Charaidew. They try their best to follow the Pandaw formulae but like so much in India, they don’t quite manage.
I’m happy to report that when we visited the Kamakhya Temple they were not performing animal sacrifices, but there was ample evidence, both to the eyes and the nose, that animals were sacrificed on a regular basis.
The Hindu community are not the only community in India that engage in animal sacrifice; the Muslim community also does. Some years ago when I was working in Bombay I found myself passing through a Muslim area where there were dozens of goats, all of them needing a good wash, particularly around the nether regions. Those were the lucky ones, the previous day had been the Muslim day of sacrifice and many a goat found itself with its throat cut. This feast day commemorates the story in the Old Testament of Abraham being prepared to sacrifice his son to God.
The really scary thing about reading Dogster’s reports is the knowledge that later this year I am due to spend twenty three days cruising through India with him! All told I have spent over seven months in India, but I have never encountered anything like the adventures that Dogster seems to encounter daily. The nearest I have been to a riot was being in a Bar, when Pakistan beat India at Cricket.
I think it likely that we will be flying into Calcutta on the same flight. I wonder will the Devil of Calcutta be meeting the plane? Will Dogster want to go off and see how Guru Bloody Mary is getting on? Will he want a companion?
Ouch!
Oh well that is still a few months off. We are off tomorrow to spend a few days in Kuching and are then cruising on the Rajang. A chance of encountering the odd head hunter I guess, but I’m sure there will be nothing to compare with a jilted Indian suitor!
I’m happy to report that when we visited the Kamakhya Temple they were not performing animal sacrifices, but there was ample evidence, both to the eyes and the nose, that animals were sacrificed on a regular basis.
The Hindu community are not the only community in India that engage in animal sacrifice; the Muslim community also does. Some years ago when I was working in Bombay I found myself passing through a Muslim area where there were dozens of goats, all of them needing a good wash, particularly around the nether regions. Those were the lucky ones, the previous day had been the Muslim day of sacrifice and many a goat found itself with its throat cut. This feast day commemorates the story in the Old Testament of Abraham being prepared to sacrifice his son to God.
The really scary thing about reading Dogster’s reports is the knowledge that later this year I am due to spend twenty three days cruising through India with him! All told I have spent over seven months in India, but I have never encountered anything like the adventures that Dogster seems to encounter daily. The nearest I have been to a riot was being in a Bar, when Pakistan beat India at Cricket.
I think it likely that we will be flying into Calcutta on the same flight. I wonder will the Devil of Calcutta be meeting the plane? Will Dogster want to go off and see how Guru Bloody Mary is getting on? Will he want a companion?
Ouch!
Oh well that is still a few months off. We are off tomorrow to spend a few days in Kuching and are then cruising on the Rajang. A chance of encountering the odd head hunter I guess, but I’m sure there will be nothing to compare with a jilted Indian suitor!
Jul 4th, 2009, 07:54 AM
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WOWOWOWOW! I came across your travel journal, dogster, and what a wonderful gift you are, and it is.....now I just sit on my couch, computer in lap, and don't ever have to travel anywhere again. I too am an addict - I surrender - I am all yours Dogster, whether you want me or not
