Journeys Beyond the Front Door Read online

  As we arrived back at our chalet, we slammed the door behind us and breathed a sigh of relief. Finally we could tend to showers and clean ourselves from the exhaustive day of travel and activities. Being in a gracious and hospitable temperament, I let Sarah have first use of the facilities whilst I sat out the front of our room at the tables and chairs provided. The fog had started to descend over the gardens, with only the noise of the Koreans being occasionally overpowered by the trumpet of one of the various elephants in the area. As the chill began to bite in the air, it presented the perfect opportunity to smoke cigars and sip scotch whilst huddled deep inside my trusted poncho. It was during this quiet time of reflection on the days events and the fearful prospects of what tomorrow would bring - being Christmas and all - the English weirdo from earlier stopped by. With introductions and pleasantries already being out of the way from the earlier stroll, he began to tell me the unwanted story of his travels thus far.

  This oddly couple had apparently arrived in Nepal a couple of weeks earlier, leaving their office jobs behind for a trip to the mountains, with the intentions of climbing to Everest base camp. Whilst trekking, the wife, Anne, began to fall sick and this only got worse as they scaled upwards. Despite the altitude sickness setting in, they still decided they soldiered on. They managed to get within sight of base camp when she began to pass in and out of consciousness until inevitably slipping into a coma, eventually culminating in her being brought down by helicopter to spend the best part of a week in a third part hospital. He was very much nonchalant whilst telling his story, perhaps even to the point of being very annoyed that they never made it to camp, whilst being restrained enough to not overtly place all the blame on Anne. He did, however, seem to enjoy saying that he had conquered Everest though. A lot. Continuously. Upon hearing his tale, I shared obligatory stories about ambulance rides through the jungles and escaping roaming bands of Islamic death cults and parted ways. I had also finished the last of my scotch and I took this as my cue that it was definitely time for bed.

  Chapter Thirteen: A Jungle For Christmas, An Elephant Jamboree

  And so it was Christmas. I awoke bleary eyed and not so bushy tailed after the previous night’s indulgence of cheap liquor and found that Sarah herself was under the weather as a result of the banquet of oddities that constituted dinner the night before. Sensing that she had already become disenchanted with the animal cruelty she had seen and would thusly attempt to worm her way out of the days activities and leave me with the repugnant English couple, it required a matter of convincing to pry the creature out of bed. Throughout the journey so far I had been picking up trinkets as we went which would then be given as gifts to Sarah when appropriate. Being Christmas morning this was one such time. Crystal obliques and cymbals from Nepal, pirate gold and jeweled bracelets and an ornate nose ring from Bangladesh, all in their own pretty little boxes. She opened these gifts with a mixture of delight and apprehension, knowing that she had not anything to offer in exchange. The large cosmic space mandala painting she opted to open once we were back home as we would no doubt not be able to put it back in its packaging.

  Whilst Sarah was opening her assortment of goodies and I engaged in a traditional morning swig of scotch, we were repeatedly informed of the time left to go for breakfast and that we would be leaving very shortly and if we could please hurry up. With much persistence and pessimism, we emerged from our den and were quickly whisked away by a banged up jeep to the outskirts of town. The village center had seemingly bloomed with activity over night as the village community began to prepare for the tenth annual elephant games, which were to be held in the open grounds dividing the village and the jungle. Teams of brightly painted elephants walked the main street, both as a movement of parade and as a dominion of labour as they hauled fencing and timber down the road. We passed what would soon be the elephant soccer pitch and disembarked at the banks of the river.

  One by one, we crossed the resourcefully constructed bridge to make our way into the woods. There was a brief introduction and warning as to what we might expect from our adventure into the green inferno, that there should be deer roaming around and birds scattered throughout the trees and there could be tigers and wild rhinoceros, of which we would be defended against by the use of a large stick if it all got to be too personal. Whilst it was encouraging that our small and skinny guide would put himself in harms way to protect these wayward travellers, the stick he brandished required a lot of faith being put behind the unavoidable swing. We passed some feaces along the path and with excitement our guide proclaimed that it was from a tiger, no doubt the remains of bird and feather. We exchanged glances as we stared at the non-specific mixture of dirt and grime presented to us, unconvinced.

  We strolled on, walking a wide arch through the jungle, passing by large termite mounds that popped up amongst gnarled and ancient vines. Many small rivers and tributaries meandered over creek beds of stone and timber, with small waterfalls throughout. The old trees towered overhead and played green, spindly reflections over the occasional lake. There wasn't, however, any animals. In silence, we stalked the path that had been carved out and well trodden with only the crunch of our feet and the occasional slipping and camera mania from our English comrades. Numerous photos were taken of trees and vines, many times at different angles. As we walked back to our starting point by the river, we passed a farmer taking his domestic oxen out to another pasture. In a way that counted as fauna I guess. Instead of crossing back over the innovative bridge, we continued further along the bank until we arrived at the fabled elephant breeding facility. I had been looking forward to this portion of tour for days. We had been promised by that scoundrel Romand back in the city that we would be able to play with baby elephants. And to do so on Christmas was my own present to myself. I was also intent on striking a pose for photographs whilst elephants had sex in the background. It would have been perfect. Sadly, we were out of season for it and as we entered through the gates, we found ourselves in a similar situation as the day before. The elephants stood sullenly around their huts as the foot or so of chain that separated their shackles and post and allowed for no movement. Unfortunately the practice of tying both front feet together was also a common practice with even the smallest of elephants. Psychosis was evident in each of their faces as we rounded the complex.

  More tour groups joined our procession around the grounds and a large Korean family followed in our wake. Whilst we slowly walked and watched and were generally quiet in the midst of these solemn jungle creatures, this family ran and squealed loudly, taking turns in throwing corn cobs at the elephants, gaining louder cheers if they hit them in the head. We pushed our way further ahead and as we rounded the corner, there stood two baby elephants that were free of the chains of burden. They looked happy as they danced between their parents shifting feet and sprayed each other with dirt. One hulking baby noticed us standing quietly at the fence and trotter over to greet us. We shook hands with his leathery and inquisitive nose and patted his hairy hide. Our guide used his stick to tap on the fencing and our visitor preformed a trick that saw him begging for food. It was quite adorable. We shook his trunk good-bye and continued along the fence line. However, our newly acquired friend followed us along the fence until we came up to a section of non-existent gate that allowed the juvenile elephant to come onto our side to play. Since we were not beating him with sticks and he could no doubt smell the goodwill in our souls, he bundled over to me and received a cuddle to the head. He subsequently then promptly enacted a game of dominance, where he would first stand on my foot and try to push my leg sideways with his head – presumably with the intent of snapping my knee out of alignment. After a couple of tries he must have realised that his soft pads on my sneakers couldn't pin down my foot as I would continue to slip out of his grasp and take a step backwards. And so it was here that I found myself, backed up against the steel and wood fence, with a half ton elephant playfully trying to use his body weight to crush me. In my defe
nce, I was restricted to keeping one knee up into his ribs as I braced against the log fence while feebly calling out to Sarah for both assistance and for photos. Thankfully, before he could inflict serious bodily harm, our trusted noisy Korean family had arrived on the scene and were still proceeding to throwing food at the other elephants. With his attention re-directed to the noise that had just rounded the corner, my cheeky assailant released me from his punishing grasp and the little bull elephant stomped his way along the path, chased after the small children. The universe does provide the most novel of presents.

  We left this institute of elephant sex behind and retreated our steps back to the river, where we boarded a small wooden canoe and crossed over to a team of awaiting modified jeeps. At first inspection, these vehicles were creatures of necessity, with the roof cut out and removed, functionally absent of gadgets or instruments - bar the fuel gauge - and with the large holes in the floor where the transmission and other spinning parts could be seen. We were also greeted by two young Mexican girls who would join us on the ride through the jungle. We sprung into the jeeps and sped along the dirt track that led further into the jungle as our guide spoke of details of what would lay before us.

  There would be a crocodile farm half way through the journey and throughout we would be on the look-out for the different types of birds and animals that inhabited this part of the world. Being a national park, the animals were staunchly protected and the grounds themselves crossed into the lands of India and beyond. As poaching was still a problem for the local caretakers, military outposts were scattered throughout the wild lands and manned with guards holding muskets and steak knives. Our English compadres were evidently very excited for this portion of the tour and as old mate emerged from rummaging around his back pack with various cameras, tripods and lenses, he voiced the request that we stop and be able to photograph the animals we came across at every chance we get. There were many missed sightings of theoretical creatures along these well-worn tracks but there were plenty of birds. We stopped at every opportunity and these flying creatures were photographed with high precision, with various optics, at every given opportunity. Repeatedly. Whilst I could understand to an extent the excitement that the sight of the first wild deer that scampered across the road in front of us brought and to a much lesser extent the local wild birdlife, what was lost on me was the novelty value of the chickens. Surely London also has chickens. But alas, we stopped for each one and his memory cards were soon filling with very similar yet slightly different photos. Mostly of chickens.

  Three hours into this ordeal later, we emerged from the jungle and arrived at the crocodile park. After a small talk on the conservation reasons for this jungle reptile park and the ancient beauty of the crocodiles, we were told there was also a portion of the grounds dedicated to a tortoise breeding program. We made our way around a labyrinth of various giant concrete enclosures and found that the baby crocodile area were brimming with young, while the adult crocodiles lay comatose, chilling out in the sun in vast pools. With only chicken wire separating us from the large, toothy beasts, we made our way quietly to the desolate and empty tortoise pens, with their stagnant green pools. An underwhelming experience. We ducked out the door back to our jeep. While we waited for the rest of our tour group to finish doing their rounds, I made my way towards the small wooden huts that lay outside the high fences and found that they were what was being passed as store fronts, to which I stole the opportunity to re-supply my back pack with the traditional items of chips and chocolates.

  We spent another tedious three hours bouncing around this jungle of theirs, seeing nothing but the odd bird and deer or the occasional chicken and enduring unrelenting pit stops to allow the Englishman to fulfill his mundane photography fetish. At one point it was claimed that the driver saw a bear and our photographer easily convinced him that we should all go see it. The animal however proved to be elusive, either due to the screeching of breaks through the dirt or to its entirely plausible non-existence. As we exited the mild protection of the jeep and ventured off the road into the forest, we caught sight of slight flashes of black moving through the trees and the odd snapping of branches, but it was still claimed that we saw it. I would assume this is how many of the yeti stories have come to pass. It was during one such stop and search mission that Sarah began to show the now familiar signs of psychosis, remarkably similar to the neurosis as we had seen in the elephants during the day. Whilst I had been trying to fend off the impending doom and wrath of the she-beast with chocolate and soft drink, her blood sugar levels were bottoming out rapidly and she was now on the borderline of collapse - yet we were still stopping for photographs of chickens.

  We finally made it back to the river and the hope fires were raised as we took another canoe over the river before we exhausted the last of our energy to drag our feet back to the hotel. What a miserable day. Christmas dinner, it was told, had been prepared and was already waiting for us in the mess hall and so with grinding feet, we ascended the three steps and crossed the threshold to our hearty surprise. What lay before us in the large communal serving trays was probably the anti-christ of Christmas dinner – a morbid and entirely unappetising combination of egg soup, spaghetti, deep fried cheese balls, deep fried red cauliflower, rice and beans. All of which was cold. I attempted to pick at bits while Sarah sat sullenly across from me, clutching a stale piece of toast until it was agreed that this Christmas dinner was a 10/10 failure and would have to be aborted. As she had been emotionally and physically destroyed over the course of the day, Sarah staggered her way back to the room whilst I went across the road to the convenience store to load her up with a loot of biscuits and chocolate, digestive cookies and gummys treats. After dropping the supplies back at the hut, I would once again venture back into the town in search of something slightly more edible.

  I made my way out of the gates of the jungle compound, past the security guards who were soundly asleep inside their small hut and for the first time ever, found myself free to walk the back streets of a blacked out village, darting past sleeping cows and elephants towards a river in my search for food. It was also the first time I had walked around with a switch blade in one hand and a torch in the other. I made my way onto the Main Street and turned into the restaurant section, where I continued down to the river’s edge and found myself a plastic table and chairs. With a bland menu on offer I opted for the questionable sweet chilli chicken and litre bottles of local beer and sat back to watch the fog that had increasingly found itself rolling in through the national park and across the river as the night began to fall. Stalking their way between the tables and chairs were packs of the local stray dogs, dining on the scraps left over on plates as puppies chased each other through the reeds at the waters edge. A homeless man who was doing his rounds found me sipping my beer with my plate and its left overs on the ground, feeding my fur pals and he became quite irate at the lack of food that I had left to offer him. Through energetic hand motions it became clear that he thought I was some rich and unkind bastard, with my black heart and white man technology, so out of the sheer desperation and desire to be left alone, I handed over the equivalent of a couple of measly dollars and he wandered off happy, only to fall asleep laying on an adjacent wall for a few minutes before rising once more and shuffling off into the night. The sweet rhythmic tunes of Hindi music collaborated with the frogs and rustle of water and for a time, not an English voice was to be heard. That serenity was soon to be broken by the high pitched whine from a small group of west coast Americans that set the foundations of teeth on edge and it was thus time to sway myself through the back streets and retire.

  Due to our prior judgement call of skipping the bird watching portion of the following days events, we woke up at a sensible time, refreshed by the erratic and bizarre dreams induced by a healthy mixture of starvation, warped sub-consciouses and excessive amounts of melatonin. We had also awoke to find that the village pump had been repaired and we were able to partake in the
fine art of hot showers and the stank of the previous few days was removed. We then put the same faeces-laden clothes back on and wandered back off through the village to catch up with the annual Chitwan elephant jamboree.

  Upon arriving into the town center where we were greeted by the colourful sight of herds of elephants dolled up in equal measures of face paint, extravagance, jewellery and traditional garb, whilst processions of locals followed closely behind in rank, singing, dancing and twirling around beating drums and waving feathers. We stood under the shelter of a souvenir store to watch as the procession of oddities made their way down the street until it seemed like it would never end, so we followed alongside the trail. Sarah found herself pulled into the fray by what could have well been a local politician to dance for the cameras. Bidding a quick escape, we left the dancing to the only other smelly white hippy in the vicinity, who was entirely too keen to spin and twirl.

  With the passing of dancers and flags, the elephants made their way into the grounds. Clad in splashes of paint, the riders themselves were as extravagant as their beasts. With trumpets on hand, they danced and writhed upon the backs of their steeds, as drum troops engaged the crowds. We watched enthralled and continued our way into the grounds, lining up alongside the locals to watch the spectacle that would be the elephant soccer game and running races. Unfortunately, due to the time constraints we were due back at the jungle prison camp and had to bid the games a temporary good-bye before the soccer itself started. Sadly and rather ironically, upon arrival back at basecamp, we were placed back into the jeep and drove immediately back to the grounds of the elephant games to pick up the other passengers, who'd elected to stay and watch the soccer.