On My Way to Samarkand: Memoirs of a Travelling Writer (45 page)

In fact, we were called into the Head Manager’s office and did not even have to open our mouths. They put us in the best hotel in Jaipur, another grand palace, and added a bonus of a visit to Ranthambhore Game Park. I put on my fiercest expression on leaving the office, so that Subish could see we had been obdurate. I nodded to him grimly.

‘Best hotel in Jaipur,’ I said.

Subish nodded back, firmly, obviously pleased that he was not driving a pair of wimps around the Rajastan plains.

Ranthambhore is one of the best places in India to see a tiger and we were delighted to be going there. However, we were warned that seeing one of these regal beasts was still very chancey. Bill Clinton had just left the region after two weeks at Ranthambhore and had not even glimpsed one of these shadowy creatures. We were to have a single afternoon.

Back out on the plains again, on our way to the game park, we had to pass through a remote village. As we drove down the main dirt track which led through the shacks we were aware of something happening. There were raging mobs of people, wailing and screaming hysterically. A group of men came storming up to our Panda, which Subish had brought to a halt, and one of them immediately cracked our windscreen with a rock. Subish quickly slammed the vehicle into reverse and shot backwards all the way to the edge of the village. Things seemed a little calmer there, though there was still a bad atmosphere.

Subish called a man over and asked him what was wrong. He told us a lorry driver had just ploughed into a crowd in the market killing four people, including a child. The whole village was grief-stricken and on the rampage. In the east a hysteria builds up in such situations and the people attack anything and anyone who is not of their community, whether innocent or guilty of the crime that has taken place. Subish knew he couldn’t drive through the village now, so he took a route over the ploughed fields and ditches. We found others, vehicles that had been behind us on the road, following us across the landscape. Fortunately the Panda had a high chassis and though it got a battering we made it to the other side of the troubled village and on to Ranthambhore, thanks to the cool thinking of our excellent driver.

We stayed at yet another hunting lodge. Here there was another British couple, the only other guests, who had braved SARS and the out-of-season heat, only to fall sick of enteritis. (We always go vegie in India, since a great percentage of the population are also vegetarians and the food choices are wide and excellent.) A jeep came to pick up Annette and me, to take us into the game park. In the front was a driver and sitting next to him, a guide. However, in the back was another very distinguished looking gentleman. The guide explained.

‘This is M.D. Parashar (sic),’ he told us, ‘the famous painter of tigers. Mr Parashar painted the logo for the Esso petrol company.’

We shook hands with Mr Parashar.

‘I hope you don’t mind,’ said the artist, ‘but I’d like to come out with you. I have a free afternoon and I want to take some photos. Afterwards I would be glad if you would join me in taking some tea at my studios, not far from here.’

We were quite happy with such exulted company. The guide whispered to us a little later that we were very lucky having Mr Parashar with us, because he was allowed into areas of the park that tourists like us were not normally permitted to enter. In fact the artist was a very amiable and knowledgeable man, who gave us a running commentary on all that we saw, from sambar deer to ruined lodges. We could not have had better company. And indeed, he knew where to find the tigers and led us first to a big male, who it had to be said stayed in the shade under a thorn bush and made himself very difficult to see, but then in the early evening to a beautiful female who walked right in front of us, clawed the trunk of a tree while we watched, then strolled away into the forest.

Unfortunately my camera (the old-fashioned film kind) was not working properly and we got only one poor shot of her, but still we have that precious photo now in our album. Afterwards we did indeed visit Mr Parashar’s studios where he showed us his latest paintings of tigers, both by himself and by his students, all of which were far too expensive for Mr and Mrs Kilworth of Tattingstone, Suffolk.

So ended our first taste of India. We saw the Taj Mahal, the Pink Palace, the Red Fort, and all the other buildings of course and like many others before and after us could not fail to be impressed. We’ve since returned twice more, but those latterly times to Kerala, Karnataka and Tamil Nadu. Kerala is our favourite state in the more green and pleasant south, it having a wonderful bird sanctuary, Thattekkad, with hundreds of species of birds, from the Sri Lankan Frogmouth to the Pied Kingfisher. As usual we wanted a homestay at the bird sanctuary for our accommodation, which is a bit like a bed-and-breakfast except one eats with the family as well as sharing their home with them. Annette called a man named Gireesh and he confirmed that he had a room free.

‘I’ll meet you in the town,’ he told us, ‘outside the courtrooms at midday.’

We had one of those hairy rides coming down through the mountains of the Western Ghats, narrowly avoiding death on every corner and were duly in the right place at the right time. Just when we were getting twitchy a man in barrister’s robes came leaping down the courtroom steps and opened our car door. It was our host.

‘Sorry,’ he said, breathlessly, ‘still in the middle of a case – but my mum’s coming to fetch you. See you later.’

He then ran back up inside the courtooms.

Mum arrived five minutes later in another car.

‘Come on,’ she said, ‘jump in.’

She took us to a delightful two-storey house painted purple, nestling in the jungle of Thettekkad wildlife park and bird sanctuary. There were four generations: a three-year-old girl, Gireesh and his wife, mum and grandmother. All the adults spoke good English except grandmother, who spoke none at all, but insisted on hugging us every time she saw us in place of a verbal greeting. She was lovely and during the course of the week got out her photo album to show us pictures of her husband who had passed away just a few years earlier.

Gireesh’s father had also passed away, so he was surrounded by women. The whole household were keen bird watchers and guides, and mum took us out that evening to a lake where we saw three kinds of kingfisher. We enjoyed every moment of our stay with the family, having come from a homestay in a Karnataka wildlife park, where there was only one occupant of the house. However, it has to be said that particular host was the most wonderful chef and grew everything he cooked in his own garden, including the coffee beans.

We obviously met and joined occasionally with other travellers while we journeyed around south India. This included a group of four Australians. I developed a sort of friendly word-battle with Gwenda, one of the Aussies, in the way that Pommies and Aussies do.

At one point I dropped my guard and said to her, ‘You know, this is a great group. Often you get one person who spoils it for the rest, but we seem to have been lucky.’

Gwenda looked me straight in the eyes and replied, ‘So no one’s told you yet?’

Kerala is a Christian state, which also has local Communist councils. You see the red flag with the hammer and sickle flying from the towers and spires of churches and cathedrals. Very quirky and very Indian. One of my favourite advertisement boards stated that ‘Chadda Boiler Valves Are Serving God’s Country!’ But my all-time favourite company was the ‘Infant Jesus Radiator Works’. Such boards help to bring a smile to the face of the most weary tourist.

The kids in Kerala, as elsewhere in India, are endlessly, tirelessly playing cricket. Any spare piece of wasteland will find several matches going on, with a tatty ball and piece of boxwood for a bat. They will play from dusk until dawn and be there the next day. One homestay in Fort Cochi was opposite a ‘parade ground’, a flattened grassless area of packed earth which the police and army used to practise marching up and down. When the military weren’t there, the kids used this ‘maidan’ for their cricket pitches. We returned to this same homestay the second time we visited Cochin and this time I took with me two dozen cricket balls: twelve match balls and twelve practice balls. The utter pleasure on the faces of the children when I handed then round was priceless.

There is no easy way to travel around India. Using a car is highly dangerous. Travelling on a springless, crowded bus for hours is uncomfortable. The best way to travel is by rail. The trains, if a little grubby and insecty, are excellent. Food and tea vendors walk through the carriages, calling in soft voices, ‘Chai. Chai.’ ‘Curry. Curry.’

However, the railways do not serve every corner of India. If you want to go to a remote game park, you need at some point to go on the road, which means a car or bus. It has to be said though, the end is always worth the means.

~

In 2006, some Boy Entrants from my military school days in the 1950s arranged a reunion of the 29th Telegraphists. Eddie Owen and Bob Nottage worked hard to get us all together at a hotel in the Midlands. I recall there were only about twenty of us, out of a possible ninety. It’s quite strange walking into a room to find a bunch of old men you last saw 50 years previously. Some you recognise – those whose features remain fairly intact – some you have no idea who they are. My old Scottish pal Tam Keay was there, John Chidlow, Rod Williams, Bob Nottage, Alan Cake, Dorset, Ed, and others. We had a great dinner, with good speakers, and told many old stories. We all went home with warm memories stoked into fires again. Sadly, a short time afterwards Alan Cake had climbed onto the roof of his house to adjust the aerial to his ham radio – and fell, killing himself. A communicator to the last, Alan was the brightest of us and one of the most genial men you could meet.

It was in 2006 too, that myself and many of my classmates received the Pingat Jasa Medal, awarded to us by the Malaysian King and his Government for the Malaysian Campaign. Those of us who served in Malaysia and Singapore between 1957 and 1966 were awarded the medal which the British Government immediately told us we could not accept, even though the Aussie and Kiwi governments had accepted theirs. Lobbying ensued in parliament and eventually we were told we
could
accept the medal but not wear it. What? I’m not likely at my age to have an occasion to wear a gong and being a Quaker now I probably wouldn’t have done so anyway, but being told I
can’t
by those twits in Whitehall makes a massive difference. If ever I have to join a military parade again, or attend a formal dinner, that bloody medal will be on my chest alongside my GSM for the South Arabian Campaign.

~

In the same year my young adult novel
Attica
was published by Little Brown. It’s a story about an attic that expands to become a continent across which three young adults trek and meet various adventures. The children are accompanied by a three-legged cat called Nelson, who in real life was our Hong Kong friends Cath and Richard Beacher’s moggy. Nelson was a Tabby Persian, one of those tangle-haired scruffy-looking cats whose fur seems to be unravelling. He was a real character, Nelson. Unfortunately he died during the writing of the novel thus ensuring the book was dedicated to him.

Unlike other portal-into-another-world stories – the Narnia tales for example – the attic does not change its physical characteristics. It doesn’t become a world with grass, rivers and trees, but remains essentially an ordinary attic of boards, rafters and junk, though of course there are supernatural elements. Warner Brothers purchased the film option and four years later, in 2011, exercised that option. The film is now supposed to be in the making having been subcontracted to Johnny Depp’s new movie company Infinitum Nihil, but I was told not to hold my breath, which I took to mean it will be a long time coming.

~

At the end of November, 2009, my great friend and sometime collaborator Rob Holdstock died suddenly of multiple organ failure at the relatively young age of 61. It was a devastating blow, not just to me, but to all his friends. He was my rock in the writing world. Without him I would never have been the multi-published author I am today. He encouraged, he praised, he assisted. Above all he was good at laughing and making light of things bad like savage reviews. One of the main needs of a writer is to talk to another writer. Yes, there are those I can still talk with, but none can replace Rob, who was always there, always ready to help dispel the fears and discouragements, the insecurities that writers labour under. He was also a wonderful companion, who along with Sarah came on many holidays with Annette and me, and many long walks in wild places. Others too are as bereft, for Rob was a universal man, who was loved and valued by all who knew him.

Rob had a non-religious funeral attended by many, many friends and relations, several of whom had their Rob Holdstock stories to relate. The place was festooned with photographs of this well-loved man who went to a green resting place in a wicker coffin. He now stands as a young oak on a hillside in Kent, the county of his birth.

~

My biography effectively ends here. My children are well and seem happy with their lives. My grandchildren are almost all grown up, the oldest two are adults already. I am happy living in my two villages, La Herradura in the winter, Tattingstone in spring, summer and autumn. I play golf twice a week with some good old boys at my Seckford club. The village cinema club is thriving, Annette and I are are still volunteers at Sutton Hoo Anglo-Saxon site, and Annette is a Suffolk Wildlife volunteer, teaches English to immigrants and is probably more busy than she ever was as a working person. My former skills – especially that of a Morse code operator – are mostly obsolete. I experience what a blacksmith must feel as he watches cars go flashing by. Probably worse, as there are indeed still
some
horses to shoe in the world.

Through Facebook I have reconnected with several old friends from my distant youth – two being Tom Hasler and Dave Thompson – both of whom live in my part of Spain. With John Porter, my now retired King’s College professor, I go on visits to art galleries in London. Writing friends, Hong Kong friends, they are mostly all still thriving. My darling Annette, love of my life, is still at my side and ever patient with an author who drifts off into a dreamworld every now and again.