phew. That's it for this part. Sorry it was so long - but I didn't want to break it. Forgive my self-indulgence.

Your self-indulgence is our delight. You truly have a gift. I feel honored to read your reports. Have you ever been to any place named Cambridge?

Dogster, thank you so much for spending the time to share your experiences with us. You have a rare ability to tell a story such that we are transported, allowing us to experience your adventures with you. The best travel IS a stumble -- wandering in unfamiliar territory, meeting personalities who are as unlike as they are like to ourselves and those with whom we are most famiiar, and glimpsing both the ordinary and the spectacle with the result of enlarging and enriching our own narrow views of life on this planet. Its the thrill of discovering what awaits around the next bend in the road -- and that is how I feel when I read your posts. Writing is as exhausting as it is cathartic, so I for one want to let you now I appreciate your efforts to include us. Your poor friends don't know what they are missing! Thanks for putting some fun in our days away from the road!

Wow - I go off to eat lunch and do a little research for my next trip, and come back to lots of vintage dogster! Definitely Extreme India! And I too can't imagine how come your friends aren't interested - have you sent them a link to this?

Amused you say you visited the flick "in the interests of research, you understand" - I just slogged through the latest Theroux and discovered his whole research technique seems to be based on hanging out in the red light districts. I prefer your style - nothing like variety.

What a great adventure. Thanks for sharing. Your clever story telling has created vivid images in my head and a smile on my face.

Thanks guys - you are all very kind. But which Cambridge do you mean Gpanda? As a child I was taken to the Cambridge airport just outside Hobart, Tasmania - could this be the one? Or that university town in England? Alas, my diploma only came from life itself, not the esteemed university..

Is there another Cambridge I should know about? I've heard there might be a town of that name - err.. in Massachusetts?

And jaya: you're so supportive. 'instant familiarity to unfamiliar places' - what a great turn of phrase..

travelaw: yup, it is kinda draining to write this, but such a good way to download after a trip. This time home my pals have simply given up enquiring where I've been. In their minds I'm lost, somewhere in space.
But as I realised earlier today, I've been on the road in India for nearly a year. Even I'm getting a bit confused...

'Vintage Dogster' eh, thursday? Lol - all of the Dogster is vintage, these days. I had my 59th birthday in Kolkata. I wonder where I'll be for my 60th..? Certainly not sitting at home knitting with my friends...

And erwench: thanks for reviving this port from Page Two oblivion. I know it's a slab of prose, not entirely suited to a forum like this, so thanks for sticking it through. Every time I post in here I learn a little more of how to do it. I just had a beer attack and posted it all at once - I shoulda stretched it...

Dogster, I really appreciate all of your postings, at the end I feel - although I have never been to these countries/places - just a little bit closer, who knows maybe one day I'll travel in the footsteps of the venerable Dogster... India is on our agenda if not this year then sometime soon,
Pauline.

Ahhh, twotravel: 'the venerable Dogster' indeed...

Substitute 'incredibly stupid' for the word 'venerable' and you might be closer to the mark. But I do appreciate your words. They inspire me, give me energy to write. And I'm learning thru the process.

Let ME do your travel itinerary for you when you finally pluck up enough courage to go... I could show you some stuff... but, hey, in my own funny way, maybe I already AM.

This is a slice of India I never saw and probably never will. Thanks so much for taking me there.

Well, moremiles - it's all in the details, isn't it? It's all there - just waiting for you to take that idiot step into the dark, that last wander sideways, the stumble into Mother Ganges - all there.

It's only fear, my friend, that stops us - that, and a healthy dose of self-preservation...

Dogster has given up on fear. He has embraced stupidity... so far, with a couple of bumps and bruises,
so good.

So, that said - here's the next installment. These will finish off the Hoogli over the next few days. You can relax - it's a lot less gruesome this time.

The Devil, I note, continues to hide in the details. It'll be interesting to see if anybody's still reading it...

‘Mmmmph!’ blurted the woman, ‘I see he’s getting special treatment!’

She was talking about me. I’d just sat down to breakfast. I’d never seen any of them before.

By now, nine days into my cruise, I had a breakfast ‘thing’ going on with the crew. They knew what I wanted, where I liked to sit – so I sat and let them do it. Papaya, fresh limes on the side, eggs beaten loose with the tiniest drop of milk then lightly scrambled in butter, stirred with a wooden spoon, tomatoes, a hint of onion, no toast, no jam, no preserves. They knew that conversation was best left alone with Mr. Dogster in the morning. Even a smile could be too hard. I’ve always thought it best not to show too much facial emotion in the mornings, lest small chunks of me fall off.

I had lately refined the breakfast ‘thing’. On another of my many adventures in downtown Jangipur, I’d bought half a dozen huge green coconuts – they lay languishing in the ship’s refrigerator, one to be delivered to Mr. Dogster’s table each morning, freshly lobotomised, chilled and delicious - with a bent white straw stuck jauntily in its hole.

It was the appearance of Mr. Dogster’s breakfast coconut that produced the storm.

‘Mmmmmpht! He gets a coconut!’ she hissed.

It’s always best not to tangle with a hungry dog in the morning – and never on a boat. I stifled my urge to lunge at her throat. She was too far away, seated at the head of a long table of complete strangers. I had chosen a posse on my own, as far away as the tiny dining room would allow, and affected cheery indifference. I was a new kid on their block; Les Voyageurs Jules Verne had already flown out from London, spent a night in Kolkata, travelled up to Jangipure, boarded two nights ago, been off on tours, active, busy as little British beavers. Their group dynamics were well in place – they had bonded – as much as elderly British tourists do; they more ‘tolerate’ than bond – and now, suddenly at breakfast, an uninvited visitor had stumbled into their party.

My upper lip was curling, I could feel a bite coming up. With an effort of will and remarkable muscle control I turned that curl into a ferocious smile. With cold, twinkling eyes I stared vacantly in her direction.

‘Ahhh, my darling...’ I oozed.

I always think patronising them first is a smart move. That worked like a charm. I could see that devil look of deep Anglo-Saxon distaste, the lift of two ruthless black eyebrows, heard the gentle plop of her lower lip dropping as she sucked fresh Hoogli air into her lungs in surprise.

‘You can have special treatment any time you like...’

I’d broken all the rules, of course, answering as I had. We hadn’t been properly introduced, I wasn’t a part of their ‘group’, it was already day three of their cruise and who was I anyway?

‘Just get off the boat and buy yourself some coconuts, my darling,’ I heard myself saying, ‘then get a slave to lug them back to the boat, stuff ‘em in the ‘freezer and, with a snap of your vice-regal fingers, special treatment will be yours.’

Well, that had everybody’s attention. She spluttered. The Hoogli air, trapped in her lungs, had turned rancid. While she was thrown off-guard I rose to my feet.

‘Ladies.’ I bowed slightly. ‘Gentlemen...’

There was a rustle of greeting and some grunting, ten pairs of startled eyes looked back.

‘Good morning,’ I said formally. ‘I am the mystery guest from Room Eleven.’

‘Good morning,’ they twittered back.

‘Do-o-o enjoy your breakfast.’ I smiled. ‘I’m sure we’ll all meet more in the fullness of time...’

And with that, I sat down and slurped at my coconut juice. Across the room, at the head of the table, a black cloud hovered. The Wicked Witch of Walthamstow glowered over at me.

‘Ph-h-h-ht...’ I heard her say.

They were all good people but as a group, particularly limp. My new companions from Voyages Jules Verne on the return voyage were mostly just scared, bless them, timid and shy, with an alarming tendency to huddle like sheep in public, thread their way cautiously through the villages, looking neither left nor right lest they make eye contact and clump alarmingly close to the guide. They took the ‘look, don’t touch’ approach to a new and radical height. But they were there – and, limp or not, the mere fact that they wanted to go up the Hoogli was, I thought, a good sign.

It did occur to me after a couple of days that the word ‘cruise’ may have figured more in their travel planning than the word ‘Hoogli’ but who was I to judge? Certainly several of them showed little real interest in what was going on. Other than the designated bouts of ‘sightseeing’ they took to their books or their cabins with great alacrity. They were always on time, always polite, hurtling to their positions exactly on schedule, orange life-jackets firmly fastened, ready for that next murderous hundred metre dash in the country boat over to shore. They tolerated me lurching roughshod into their little world for three days, I tolerated them lurching into mine. They may well feel they got the short end of the stick.

But I thought they were sweet. Well, most of them. Three couples, a single man and five single women of certain years all travelling alone, one of whom was the Wicked Witch. I came late to their party and left early, talked a lot and drank too much beer.

There was, of course, a reason for all this riotous behaviour. Dogster was off the wagon - a wagon, I might add, not of my choosing. For reasons only known to the Assam Bengal Navigation Company and the Liquor Licensing Control Board of West Bengal a liquor licence had not been procured for the R.V. Sukapha. Dogster spent the first eight days in the floating pub with no beer.

The day after the arrival of Les Voyageurs Jules Verne, doubtless with the swift application of a wad of cash to someone’s back pocket, the licence to serve alcohol was miraculously granted. But, as we were way, way up river, somewhere in sunny Jangipur – the only beer available was extra-strong Kingfisher ‘Dogslayer’ Beer, 90% proof.

Well, I may be exaggerating just a little, but a large brown bottle of their finest Dogslayer was a fine start to any meal. I pity the poor Voyageurs my babble, I apologise en retard for any language that caused offence – but I had reached a point of subtle danger – that beautiful moment when you and the Dogslayer just don’t give a damn.

R.V. Sukapha pulled away from the river bank at Matiari with scarcely a shudder. The small crowd on shore drifted away. I didn’t hear the splash.

I looked back and saw two men on the bank, beating at an animal down below. There was a sheer drop of a metre, maybe more in parts, carved away with the relentless force of the river. Trying to clamber out, trying to claw its way to safety was a huge buffalo. It would lunge up, the men would beat at it and then inevitably the beast would fall back into the water.

Poor Buffalo, I was thinking. Why are these people hitting him? Swim, buffalo, swim...

Now, I don’t know if buffalos can swim. Generally ‘swimming’ and ‘buffalo’ are not words that live in the same sentence - but what do I know? Evidently this one was not a particularly aquatic buffalo - he didn’t last very long. I watched for another lunge, saw the frantic paddle, heard the whack, a bellow and then it was all over, red rover. Two grey horns sank quietly beneath the muddy waters of the Hoogli. I watched and waited but they never came up.

Now, I thought, that’s something you don’t see every day.

‘Killer buffalo,’ said the manager from over my shoulder.

‘So they drowned him?’ I asked, still searching for those horns.

‘He had a horrible look in his eye.’ He wiggled his head. ‘They’ve been waiting for us to leave so they could do it.’

‘Not in front of the passengers, eh?’

Had there been an entry in the daily schedule; ‘Killer Buffalo Drowning – 3.oo p.m.’ I’m sure they would have all been lined up at the railing taking pictures and asking intelligent questions – but, as it transpired, everybody remained blissfully unaware. Several of them sat chatting upstairs, broad British backs to the surrounding countryside, two couples were sprawled out asleep on the front deckchairs, either side of the wheelhouse - the youngest of the three couples was holed up in Cabin Twelve, shagging away like abandoned rabbits.

They had firmly delineated lines of control. Sightseeing was sightseeing and must be done. Sightseeing must occur as per schedule and all things mentioned in the itinerary must be covered. Lunch and dinner must appear exactly on time. Times spent not sightseeing or eating are private and are not to be disturbed – certainly not by a life and death struggle happening close by.

‘He is a monster buffalo. He killed two people. He had the evil eye.’

‘Now, he is an ex-buffalo,’ I said seriously and wiggled my head back at him.

The manager laughed and laughed and laughed. He’d never heard that before.

The killer buffalo of Matiari tumbled over and over in the current, still plunging down the river on its way to the ocean. Wide buffalo eyes stared blindly into muddy water, those great grey buffalo horns carved a path through the soft Hoogli mud.

I looked away.

It's such a delight to follow along with you on your adventures. Some, I'd like to be there, other parts I say better you than me - lol.

Heh, Kathie - yup, sometimes I feel like that canary they take down into the mines, testing for dangerous gas.

When the canary stops singing - it's time to get out.

One day Dogster's posts will cease abruptly, somewhere deep in Pakistan,Sulawesi or Turkmenistan. Dogster will become an ex-canary.

Better ME than you then, Kathie.

I'm addicted to your tales-hopefully, you will never cease to write from wherever you are.

Been away on a small, lush, isolated Pacific island; no mobile, no Internet. Could no longer access the Dogster Tails ... suffered severe Mongrel deprivation.

On returning, first on the agenda was catching up with your marvellous travelogues - and oh my, just as addictive and mesmerizing as the first stumble.

Dear doG, better than ever.

More, more please.
Jackie

Dear Mr Dogster, You make my day - I now scroll eagerly for anything with a "Dogster" tag. I spend far too much time on this computer reading your reports but you give me so many laughs and a view of places I'd love to go but may never get to especially if I don't get off my butt and start doing some work!

Thank you so much.

Lol moremiles: I hope I continue too, but one day that Great Dane from Hell will drag me back into the murky waters of the Ganges and I won't come up. You can't squeeze a trip-report out an ex-canary.

Ahhh, FurryTiles and MaryW: such fulsome praise. 'Severe Mongrel deprivation' eh? Well, I like that turn of phrase very much. You make me feel good when you say stuff like that - and a happy doggie is a productive one.

So here's a little bit more, just for you guys. I'll finish this off tomorrow. Mary W - stop reading this and go back to work... right NOW!