In response to many requests - well, one - here's a re-written, more polished report on a surreal little adventure in Assam. This is better - but it's long. I think it'll be more fun to stre-e-e-etch it this time. [Sorry MaryW heh].

So grab that beverage, settle down round our weekend camp fire. Pit your contemplative hat on and drift down the Mighty Brahmaputra with me.

This week life, love and a lot of sex in Assam. Alas - none of it for the Dogster.

He was looking for his willy in the shower the other day. He couldn't find it. It had dropped off from lack of use. True story. Would I lie to you? Ahh - but I digress.

This is for you, weltraveledbrit. Here's the first part. I'll drop the rest in if I think anybody's listening. So let me know if you are. It helps. Or else I'll go off and sulk.

And that's NOT pretty.

Imagine a blank sheet of paper. Turn it on its side. Draw a line across the middle. Add a thin stroke of sandy white above it, a shimmer of brown water below – and that’s the mighty Brahmaputra, wide and flat and long.

I was sailing on the liquid moon. Sandbanks stretched flat into the distance, a tuft of grass, a cow – nothing more, all the way to the far-off trees, a thin corrugated strip against the horizon. There were days when each mooring seemed exactly the same as before, as if we hadn’t travelled at all: the ship moved slowly down the river – the river moved slowly up the ship. We sailed and sailed and stopped and sailed down a river that never altered. I’d open the window, look out and there would be a new place that looked exactly like the old place - but wasn’t. Sometimes the river bank was crowded - mostly not. There were fairs and festivals and the music of prayer, dancing, singing and more - but always that profound calm, that moment at night when the sky and the stars and the river melt into one and pull this old dog into space.

Every night, at precisely eleven p.m. the ship’s generator was turned off and the Great Silence fell - a brick of peace that swamped the boat, a sudden wall of... nothing. I’d sit with my windows open and suck it up. An hour would go by; maybe two, as I sat and I smoked and gazed into blankness, tumbling the events of my day into coherence, processing them, filing them away.

That night we berthed beside a river bank, much like all the other river banks of Assam, equally stark, equally silent – but this one had a village just a kilometre away. Dinner was over, I had a buzz on from my regular Kingfisher Beer, this was my signal to prowl the upper decks with a smoke in my hand and smoke dreams in my head. I stood at the railing looking out at the night.

The moon was nearly full, white river sand shone silver into the distance, a slap of water up against the bow, the occasional cough of the crew down below me, a cabin door opening, closing – but that was all, just Dogster and the Mighty Brahmaputra. That’s when the real conversation began; words between nowhere and nothing.

From over a small rise came a black shape. It seemed to hesitate on the ridge then disappeared into the darkness - then another, then another. I could hear drums. A flood of dark figures appeared over the brow of the hill. Twenty, thirty people walked together towards the boat. They were all having a lot of fun. There was no threat here. They arrived, like a great moveable party and laughed and stumbled around on the sand directly below. All the lights were out on deck. They couldn’t see me. Then they began to sing.

Song after song, dance after dance, the young men and women showed off, tried to out-do each other, danced provocatively to roars of laughter, whooped and hollered or listened quietly when the best of them crooned. Sometimes the songs were tear-jerkers, sometimes raucous sing-along but all of them were about romance and sexual love, requited or not. Mostly not, I suspected from the love-sick looks on the faces of these happy young men. The dancing was gently rude, never vulgar, but there was no doubt as to what was going on: this was a mating dance and the ladies were not at all shy.

For one beautiful moment the lights from the boat clicked on, spread long silhouettes across the sand, a writhing mass of shadowy joy then, as secretly as they had arrived, the group dissolved. With a final shout they disappeared over the hill and into the moonlight – an unexplained moment in the gentle Assam night.

Neamati Ghat is just a vast sandbank with a great many people trying to get on to a dozen overloaded ferries heading for certain disaster. This is where Assamese families come to die or so it seemed to me; my eyes hadn’t yet adjusted, couldn’t see the organisation in the midst of this chaos. I sat in the dirt on the riverbank watching the bedlam.

‘It’s so busy, Bongo,’ I said.

Yes, I had another Bongo. An Assamese Bongo this time. A handsome lad, in a solid, blank kind of way. Dependable.

‘Is it always like this?’

‘Yes, yes, always like this...’

Most of Assam was here too, trying to get on a ferry to the other side, laden down with parcels, cases, bags of every description, chickens, children and all the other detritus of a family on the move and all of them were trying to cram onto a single flat roofed ferry, a hundred or more, shouting and swearing, leaping onto the roof from the bank, their babies being passed through windows, twenty, thirty bicycles loaded on the roof, a dozen motorcycles, a car. Young men squatted on the deck and gambled, others chatted with mates and kept watch, below decks was crammed with women and children piled one on top of the other, anxious heads poking out of the open sides of the boat, gasping for air. Multiply this scene ten fold and that was Neamati Ghat.

‘Where are they all going?’

He didn’t answer. He was looking over my shoulder with a blank look on his face. We had company.

A car drove slowly through the masses and parked a short distance away. Out stepped a white lady of indeterminate years. Well, not quite out - the door opened, two legs swung free, a body appeared then hung uncertainly in space. Alas, the distance from the cabin of the four-wheel drive to the ground was too much for her little old lady legs so she hovered there, half in, half out, balancing on her little old lady bottom just this side of the point of no return. She let out an elegant squawk, crew members from the Charaidew rushed to her aid and she landed on the banks of the Brahmaputra with a thud, lost amidst a cluster of brown arms. Her hat and bag were passed to her and with an assistant on each elbow she was escorted to the edge of the river. Miss Jill’s voyage of discovery had begun.

She was a spritely seventy-six, neatly dressed in sensible clothes, crisp, clean and perfectly coiffed: dark blue slacks, a starched white blouse with pink stripes, her pure grey hair somehow boofed up and tucked back in a swirl. That face had a lot more yesterdays than it had tomorrows but retained a brittle freshness – she was one of those old ladies who still looked like a girl, rather like the elderly Lillian Gish. Miss Jill was ‘an unmarried woman’ – maybe that was why. Her face looked soft but those fleshy pink cheeks were the only thing soft about her – she was sharp as a tack and occasionally twice as dangerous. She had lived a considerable life.

As she was man-handled down the bank, a Charaidew slave flanking her on each arm, it was clear that my companion wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry. She gingerly pottered down to the gang-plank and wrenched one arm from her slave. She held out one imperious hand.

“Pleased to meet you,’ she said with a faint smile, ‘Miss Jill Salmon – and what is your name?’

That clipped British accent gave it all away.

‘Ahh,’ I thought, ‘I’m in trouble now...’

‘Mr. Dogster,’ I replied and shock her proffered paw. The merest touch and she withdrew but then, with a conspiratorial smile, leant towards me and smiled.

‘I’m so-o-o glad you’re Australian. In my experience, they’re always the best companions on a voyage.’

Well, she was right, of course. The one thing we both had staring us both in the face was that I was her only companion on the voyage - for the next two weeks.

The car screeched to a halt. There in front of us was a herd of decorated cows being pelted with slices of cucumber. This was something I’d never seen before. There are big miracles and little miracles – here was a little one. I got out of the car.

‘Lao kha, bengena kha, bosore bosore barhi ja,’ the woman in front of me muttered, ‘maar xoru, baper xoru, toi hobi bor bor goru...’

‘Eat gourd, eat brinjal, grow from year to year,’ she was saying, ‘your mama is little, your papa is little - but you’ll be a big cow...’

Various other intimacies were performed with the lucky animals while we watched; they were washed, garlanded, their big stupid foreheads smeared with ground turmeric, their horns and hooves rubbed with a paste of mah-haldi then lightly whacked with little bundles of dighalati and makhiyati twigs.

Whack, whack, whack!

‘Dighlati dighal pat!’

Whack, whack, whack!

‘Makhi maro jat jat!.’

The cows, to their credit, appeared completely unconcerned.

Her husband unthreaded the old pogha ropes from their neck and threw them aside with a flourish. He slapped his holy cows on the rump, shouted and threw more cucumber slices at them, anxious they taste their freedom - today was their one day of the year; they were allowed to wander anywhere they wanted.

‘What’s going on, Bongo? This is very strange.’

‘Ohhh,’ he said absently, ‘we love our cows in Assam.’

In Assamese Sibasagar is pronounced ‘Hiba-hagar-r-r’, best said with a guttural growl. Try it. Pretend you’re a pirate. Lower your voice to a sexy purr, add a bit of a throat-clear to the letter ‘h’, imagine you’re seducing a handsome Spaniard and say it:

‘Hiba-hagar-r-r-rrrr...’

Very satisfying.

Much more interesting to say than to see.

I’d already had that privilege on the way down to Neamati Ghat. It’s a perfectly ordinary Indian town about half way between Dibrugargh and Jorhat with an odd temple complex of aesthetic note and some very uninteresting ruins.

Today it was full of life. Something was happening.

‘Why is it so busy, Bongo?’ What’s going on?’

‘Ooo-o-o-oh, this is not so busy,’ he said, ignoring the multitude threading their way past us, ‘just a normal day.’

I think Bongo might be telling me a little fib.

A steady stream of the faithful pushed their way between rows of beggars up the long flight of stairs to those strange conical temples on the hill. They walked across a well-tended pathway to a corrugated iron roof on poles, shelter to the dozen or so sadhu’s lined up inside. The holy men dispensed blessings and sold items of interest to the faithful: bits of string and strange powders wrapped in paper, clay prayer lamps - and I suspect goats, judging by the four wandering around contentedly nearby. Shiva is quite a bloodthirsty god – he likes a bit of ‘maa-a-a-a!’ chop! Watch out goats.

The outer wall of the temple was painted bright red; against this backdrop worshippers said prayers and lit more lamps, placed them on a multi-layered wrought-iron stand by the door, knelt, bowed and whispered their secret prayer to the butter lamp chandelier before walking barefoot into the darkness.

‘Deva deva Mahadeva
Nilgriba Jatadhar
Bat Bristi harang deva
Mahadeva namastah-h-h...’

Through arches I can hear the sound of prayer, a splash of water; saw a long dark corridor into the inner sanctum, a high-vaulted ceiling and blackness everywhere except for the flickering of flames from thirty tiny lamps on the floor. I felt my way inside and sat down. On one side a priest crouched on the stone floor receiving a queue of faithful, bowing and whispering, offerings piling up. On the other a new altar set up with a massive statue of Mrs. Shiva, the one with many arms.

Oh, God of gods, my Mahadeva,
blue-necked, knot-haired divine.
I have blessed you Mahadeva.
Now, destroy the storm and rain

Mrs. Shiva had her own priest and her own flock of admirers, all standing there in three dimensions, sparkling and shining in the flames. More blessings, more offerings, then off, like all the others, to the Shiva lingam, to pour milk and oil over it – then leave. There’s no hanging around in this Sibasagar Temple – make your offering, get your blessing and move on. That includes tourists. It was time to clear a space, time for a break from the whispered prayers, the blood and muck of worship. It was all a bit fervent. Something was going on.

Miss Jill was sent off the uninteresting ruins. I thought that was appropriate.

I headed happily off down the main street on an adventure on my own. Bongo trotted along behind me in a bewildered fashion while his client wandered vacantly this way and that. This was his first experience of Mr. Dogster off the leash. It’s always a bit of a learning curve. He didn’t seem too concerned. He has a toddler at home.

After many stops and many starts we stumbled across a gathering in the middle of the main street. I looked at Bongo. He shrugged. No idea what was happening.

‘Let’s go!’ I said.

So we did. I saw a stage on which sat a great many important men perched patiently on red plastic chairs, waiting for something to begin. They were all dressed in white and each wore a similar scarf hanging loosely round their neck. This scarf is a gamosa and has some great significance for the people of Assam. Each gamosa has an individual hand-woven border used by different cultural groups and at the highest level is a badge of honour, of belonging. I was admiring the easy grace of these men when twenty or so post-pubescent lads arrived in a pack, dressed in pressed white sarongs tied with a red sash, loose golden Muga silk shirts with their gamosa wrapped around their heads and promptly began bihugeeting in the street. The performers were evidently the local student dance group and more than made up for their lack of technique with boundless enthusiasm.

Within minutes there must have been a crowd of five hundred good-humoured locals watching with another hundred or so sitting on more red plastic chairs down in front of the stage. I moved in amongst them, being a tourist, taking pictures, trying to be as unobtrusive as I could. Luckily, for the most part, the dancing was far more interesting than me - but not to the sharp eyes of the important men, stuck there on the stage.

Two policemen in uniform came from nowhere and stood beside me, body-guarding some local dignitary dressed entirely in white who appeared in front of me in a flash. Hands were shaken, shoulders were clasped in that manly Assamese manner then with a gesture, he smiled and invited me up to join them.

I didn’t really have much say in the matter, to tell you the truth - the foreigner was going up on display whether he liked it or not. I had no idea who they were but wasn’t about to argue – I was hauled up to the platform by more smiling policemen and sat feeling stupid on a spare plastic throne. The dancing built up. Five sweet girls joined in. They were dressed in national costume as well. The songs they sang were the Bihu songs, the bihu gits, or bihugeets. It was all very playful, energetic and pure – but by no means antiseptic.

There was a definite sexual energy in the dancing now: whoops of joy and happiness, a bang of drums and whirling silk. These young ladies were very mischievous. To my eyes it looked almost Balinese, a sensuous dance of many poses, intricate gesture and rapid-fire energy with a very rude edge - I found out later this dance was a celebration of female fertility. No wonder the boys were whooping.

But the fabulous Mr. Dogster - was stuck on a podium, three feet in the air, covered by a black and white striped awning, surrounded by men in white, rather than down there in the middle of it.

The bihugeeting threatened to get out of hand. It was going on and on, becoming a little too enthusiastic, a little too fertile. My official friend stepped forward and held up his finger - suddenly there was silence. I had the feeling this was quite an important man. He lifted a microphone to his lips and began to speak. I had no idea what was happening or what he was saying: I’d only been in Assam three days, the subtleties of the language still escaped me but I feigned respectful interest. My bodyguard was nowhere to be seen, waylaid in the crowd. I was all alone with no idea what to do next so sat very still with a faint smile on my face hoping I was looking benign - faintly retarded might be a better description.

I slowly became aware of a subtle change. Many smiling faces were turning to look at me - I heard the words ‘Australia’ and ‘Mr. Dogster’ – little by little it dawned on me what was happening. I was being introduced.

It was like those dreams where you find yourself naked in public.

The important man in white approached me and held out his hand. I stood up, waved sheepishly to the assembled multitude then reached out and shook his hand. He gently pulled me forward and, to my complete astonishment, propelled me to the front of the stage. He said something into the microphone, reached back to a table and grabbed a Japi, a large circular bamboo hat, placed it on my head with words I could not understand, hung a white gamosa around my neck then stood proudly aside - and handed me the microphone.

‘Perhaps you’d like to say a few words,’ he whispered in English.

Did I know who these people were? No.

Did I know why these people were here? No.

Did I know what was going on? I didn’t have the slightest idea. But here I was in front of several hundred of them wearing a stupid hat, a gamosa round my neck - with a microphone in my hand.

So the celebrated Mr. Dogster made a speech. It was brief and very gracious – he thanked them all for the privilege of being there, wished them luck in all they did, told them all how fortunate he was to be in such a place on such an auspicious occasion, complimented them on their beautiful town and thanked the organisers profusely for inviting him up on the stage. Pictures were taken. The speech was succinct but powerful, a moving paeon to the many glories of Assam, as fine a soufflé as Monsieur Le Dog had ever whipped up at short notice, the ne plus ultra of bull-shittery – he was magnificent – even he agreed with himself on this matter. Then, at the pinnacle of his triumph, with a slight bow to his host and a wave to his adoring public he concluded the performance and sat down.

He was to be in the local paper the next day - the most famous [and only] white man in Assam. They all seemed very pleased and clapped warmly, made clucking noises and went ‘ahh-h-h-h.’ Mr. Dogster returned to his red plastic chair, removed the stupid japi and sat down, flushed but happy.

‘That was the Governor of the Province,’ Bongo said as we left, ‘and the Chief of Police.’

I blinked and smiled and wandered on, just as confused as ever.

Golly gosh - the plot thickens. I need a cup of coffee, a Bex and a good lie down.

Brief intermission. Just chat amongst yourselves. There's a policeman at the door. They found Dogster's willy. I won't even begin to tell you where it was.

Back later.

THANK YOU dear Dogster for posting. It isn't the same around here without you!

I'm getting my tea ready and will be back shortly to enjoy...(it's early am here - have to start out with the easy stuff!).

Oh, a new adventure! Thanks. No time to read it now, but I'll savor it later with a fine beverage.

Here's the rest of it.

Now I knew something strange was going on. My Bongo was clearly not going to tell me what it was. I wondered what else had to happen before he ‘fessed up. I was waiting for a volley of cucumber slices and a blessing. Perhaps if I got lucky someone would rub my horns with mah-haldi.

Bongo was an upstanding, clean living twenty-five year old with a wife and a child - I was his ‘duty’. Quite what he thought of me I’ll never really know – tolerable, I suppose, occasionally amusing, rather old, rather strange - an obligation, a bit of a drudge. He was professional and somewhat distant, stoically followed where I would go, stood off to the side and let me run, translated when I needed, kept silent when I didn’t – perfect.

He had adequate English but nothing to say; my Assamese wasn’t coming along too well either so deep conversation was cast aside – we had enough language between us to communicate the basics and a bit more but we were light years apart: that was fine by both of us - he was happy to wait, I was happy to wander. I didn’t want a new Assamese best friend, nor was he offering.

His ‘duty’ was to guide where appropriate, facilitate movement from A – B, make sure I wasn’t mugged and get me back alive. This he did perfectly well. I was a ‘thing’. The less this ‘thing’ knew about what was going on the better. He’d never maintain his schedule otherwise.

We were driving back to the boat. I was still trying to find out just what had happened in Sibasagar. I liked saying it so much I kept asking questions.

‘In Hiba-hagar-r-r-r what was happening when...’

‘When we were in Hiba-hagar-r-r-r...?’

‘Do the people of Hiba-hagar-r-r-r, the Hiba-hagar-r-r-rians like to...?’

It was all very adolescent. I think Bongo got tired of it before I did. I didn’t care. I was trying to wear him down. He had to tolerate me, whatever my eccentricities. He was my tour guide. This was his duty. It was only when Miss Jill roused herself from her customary torpor and told me to shut up that I did. I’d forgotten she was there.

A mile down the road we stopped. Twelve little girls, exquisite little bundles of cuteness, stood by the roadside just waiting for me to arrive, so it seemed. Various mums and dads stood behind them, looking on with all the joy of a parent at the primary school Nativity play. Each child was impeccably dressed in the newest of new traditional costumes, clothes, each girl with a wild orchid curled around the buns in their hair.

The appearance of a foreign monster from the front seat of the car seemed to overwhelm them, however. Smiling like a loon, a huge white boogie man leapt out and lined them up for a picture. One little girl looked very uncertain indeed and needed a great deal of hide-and-seek from the monster before she would consent to pose. Their shyness evaporated, like kids all round the world, once the monster Dogster did his show and tell and the image was passed around.

Bongo smiled benignly. Now this was more like it. This was what tourists should do. He was running on empty. It was the end of the season. Only one thing could rouse him from his torpor; the sight of a beautiful woman.

She was staggeringly beautiful, posed accidentally in front of her house. Bongo was like a Cocker Spaniel on heat. We screeched to a halt yet again. Out tumbled the white man from the circus to take her picture while the guide and the driver stood and ogled. I could see why they stopped. Orchids in her hair, the widest of wonderful eyes, dressed in her absolute finest – this was art. She was joined by her mother, her sister, her aunt and with much persuasion, her grandmother for the obligatory tourist picture while the Bongo and the driver salivated and giggled behind their hands. There was a lot more than spring in the air. These guys were taking this fertility business literally.

This was not the rut of randy young men, not the slash and burn and run, this was a pagan juicy thing with the whiff of the beginning of time. The girls were frank and strong, they feared no man, let alone a boy. All of them swayed in the service of nature, engrossed in the task at hand. Everything was new.

Bongo looked at his watch then at me. I got the hint, I left.

‘Why were they standing there by the road? Is it dress-up day – what?’

Bongo was still juiced up from the beautiful girl. He was full of the wonder of life. He forgot to lie.

‘It’s New Year’s Eve!’ he said.

The great Bohag Bihu celebrates the arrival of the Assamese New Year in mid-April, the coming of Spring, the beginning of Bohag, first day of the Hindu solar calendar and this year at least, the unexpected arrival of Mr. Dogster – quite a confluence of events.

It’s a big deal, very significant, the largest, most popular festival in Assam. That Dog had arrived in the middle of it with no idea this event was taking place was, by now, par for the course. It was equivalent of him arriving in London at Christmas time and wondering who all these funny fat men in red suits were. He was eminently capable of idiocy like this. He shouldn’t be allowed out.

This Assamese New Year goes on for a week. Today was the first day of the festival, the last day of Choitro or ‘Chait’; the last month of the Bengali calendar. The Bangla calendar is a traditional solar calendar used in Bangladesh and India's eastern states of West Bengal, Assam and Tripura. The current Bengali year is 1415. The year begins on Pôhela Boishakh, which falls on 15th April in India. I guess you knew all that.

No? Well, neither did Dogster.

They call this day ‘Goru Bihu’. ‘Bihu’ means ‘festival’. ‘Goru’ means ‘cow’.

This is a kind of cow birthday party. Everybody needs a birthday party – this is the cow party. Cows are vital to the agrarian economy and rural life of Assam, they need a bit of praise – but it’s a little bit like throwing an extravagant bash for a one year old. I’m not sure they really know what’s going on. Cows are a lot more stupid than a one year old child. Maybe it wasn’t for the cows after all.

On the Goru Bihu day, they all get a bath, a ritualistic cleansing. The birthday cows are rubbed with a paste of Matikalai, a local vegetable mixed with mustard and turmeric, they get a beautiful necklace made of flowers then given a spa treatment in the ponds. With the help of a small three pronged shaped Bamboo implement, like a baby Shiva trident, vegetables like gourd, brinjal, turmeric and bitter-gourd are cut up and thrown at the livestock. I’m not quite sure why.

Their cowshed is smoked with incense to kill the bugs then given a thorough spring-clean. The cows get a big dinner of fresh vegetables and rice cakes, another scrub with the Dighalati leaves’ – a plant with medicinal value – then, in the evening, tired and emotional, they are tied up again ready for the New Year using new ropes.

So that’s what was going on. It was New Year’s Eve.

This is a big deal family time. Like everywhere on New Year’s Eve, people visit their family and friends. Of course. No wonder Neamati Ghat was full. They pay respect to their elders with gifts of these white gamosa; blessings are sought, young boys and girls bow before them. Was this why I was dragged up on that platform? Not because I was foreign, but because I was very, very old? I got a gamosa and a funny hat. Then I looked very, very old and very, very stupid. Lordy, say it isn’t true.

People greet the spring season and pray for a plentiful and rich harvest. It’s a day to pray to the weather gods too, implore them to stop the yearly flooding, protect their farms and house from all the natural calamities their god seems intent on bringing down on them. ‘Now, destroy the storm and rain...’ That could just be why the temples were full.

All those little children? Husori singing begins today. Clumps of children in national dress dance in a kind of ‘trick-or-treat’ ritual – packs of them, lined up by the road, each dressed proudly by their mother, perfectly in costume. They travel from house to house in their village, troupes of children and young women, the girls forming up outside in two lines of four or five while the boys bang their dhol’s furiously, then launch into their Husori song and dance.

Every tiny village we passed had this going on completely spontaneously. For the first few I insisted on leaping out and taking pictures but it was soon clear that I was frightening the children. Miss Jill wasn’t very impressed but Bongo thought it was great. He got to look at more pretty girls.