‘Take me to the Pink Temple,’ I said, ‘that one over there.’

I was pointing from the top deck of the R.V. Sukapha, anchored mid-Hoogli River, somewhere deep in West Bengal. Without purpose, plan or design, Dogster had arrived in Jangipur - a city he’d never heard of until this particular moment, a city of no particular note, no great attraction; a splodge of a place half-way up West Bengal, spread out either side of the Hoogli, both sides connected by a large concrete bridge. By a quirk of my schedule I was to spend three nights here, a fact that I hadn’t really given much thought to – until now.

Young Mr. Udit blinked in that keen Indian way. He was a trainee tour guide on his first cruise, full of enthusiasm, intense, highly-educated and anxious to please. He had drawn the short straw; freshly appointed personal guide and assistant to Mr. Dogster. I was his first solo encounter with ‘a foreigner’ in an illustrious career in tourism that extended back all of six days. Udit was like an excited puppy – but I tamed him very fast. Before the morning was out I had him sitting under a tree, head sunk deep in his hands, all the colour drained from his eager face. It was to be, quite literally, a baptism of fire.

The Pink Temple was just back down the river, camouflaged by trees. I had no idea what it was but it was big, pointy and pink - that was good enough for me. Getting there from our anchorage in the middle of that river involved a clamber into the country boat, a whoosh, a quick zoom to the bank, a jump out and a chat to the locals, a short walk, a negotiation, a trishaw - and a few stops on the way.

‘First, one shave!’

Udit blinked again. Why would a rich tourist want to do such a thing? We inspected the barber shops en route, found one that just passed muster, I submitted myself to the shave, the massage, the slap and bash of a brutish Jangipur barber, paid too much and left, neither better nor worse for the experience. Udit went with the flow - he had little alternative. I was in full discovery mode, a man on a mission. Quite what the mission was, I had no idea, but a good mission always began with a shave.

After all that shaving I was exhausted and demanded chai. We’d made it about two blocks from the boat. Udit’s eager brow furrowed. Why would a rich tourist want to sit in a grubby chai shop and chat with low-life scum? Why would he shake their hand?

He wasn’t the only one thinking this - Jangipur would not be high on the list of must-see’s for the casual visitor to India. Even the good citizens of Jangipur couldn’t, for the life of them, imagine why this great boat was anchored mid-stream for three nights, and why indeed, anybody would want to get off it to go see their horrible town. So the solitary white tourist sitting in a doorway sipping chai attracted attention.

Now the celebrated Mr. Dogster has done a lotta chai. For the uninitiated, this involves the rapid selection of some street-side hovel, a plonk on a grubby bench and one raised finger. ‘Chai,’ is all you have to say. By then every pair of eyes in the place will be upon you. From then on in it’s up to you - there’s always a conversation to be had in India. Sometimes you don’t need words. From somewhere truly disgusting a tiny, steaming cup of chai arrives. Think very sweet, very milky tea. You drink it – pay - then go.

Yet within this simple ceremony lies a whole world of subtlety, a delicate ballet of tiny interaction; a look, a smile, the merest of head wiggles – two creatures observing each other, across space and time. Men drinking chai in Jangipur are just like men drinking chai anywhere. Some are young and want to talk about cricket, some are old and couldn’t care less. Some are in-between. They are the best conversation.

Post-chai, with Udit the mandatory ten feet behind me, keeping watch for destructive forces, I ploughed along the line of shops cunningly built under a gigantic overpass that led to the bridge. All of Indian retail life was here, the usual hoi-polloi of plastic ornaments, bundles of thongs, clothes for little children, brooms, coloured flowers, plastic buckets and tea shops – and, to my astonished eye, a row of stalls selling the most ferocious porn I had seen outside Amsterdam.

Was I in India? Here the film stars don’t even kiss each other on screen. Now, in broad daylight I’m faced with a splay of legs akimbo, a wiggle of willies dangling down against the wall. I had the feeling my guide may have seen such things before. He had once spent two years at sea.

‘Udit!’ I said, ‘what is this, Udit?

I just wanted to see the expression on his face.

He peered in to the wall of willies, the heaving breasts and pouting lips.

‘Pornography, Mr. Dogster,’ he said brightly.

‘What is that for?’ I asked with a perfectly blank look. In Udit’s world it was quite possible for an elderly foreigner to know nothing about such things.

‘Hand practice, Mr. Dogster.’

Bless him. I had trouble keeping that straight face.

‘There’s a cinema today,’ Udit added proudly, then consulted in rapid Hindi with the trishaw driver, ‘just over there.’ He pointed with one thumb at a canvas covered opening between two stalls. I made him take me over. A man sat at a desk selling tickets from a roll, behind him another reprobate stood waiting with a torch. Both were very friendly, in a lurid kind of way. I shook their hands and winked.

‘Men are men,’ I shrugged, ‘all over the world...’

Stuck to a flap on one wall was a hand-written sign and a picture of a lady with breasts. That was apparently enough to draw a late-morning crowd in Jangipur. This was a fly-by-nighter, kamikaze porn dive, a theatre rented for a day, gone tomorrow – all they needed was a ticket, a torch, word-of-mouth and a sign.

Tickets were ten rupees. On an impulse I slapped down my cash on the desk, took my sunglasses off with a flourish and headed inside. I’d forgotten all about poor Udit. I stopped in my tracks and turned around.

‘You coming?’

Udit trembled on the brink. I don’t think escorting his clients – in fact his only client, ever – into pornographic movie theatres was on his job description. I left him dangling there for a juicy moment, stranded between a rock and hard place - then did what I was always going to do and decided for him.

‘You stay here and watch for policemen, Udit.’

He seemed relieved.

‘You are an innocent young man,’ I laughed over my shoulder, ‘I’m not going to corrupt you.’

With that I turned and followed a man with a torch into the dark.

Heh. More later.

Oh my, Dogster - you are full of surprises...

and, of course you have left me on the edge of my seat waiting for the next installment.

Can't wait to see how this all plays out. A cruise on the Hoogli is on my list.

tap, tap, waiting for next instalment, are you busy opening another bottle Dogster, it's gripping stuff, poor Udit...

Hand practice!!!! That's awesome!

Today I have to interpret for the very boring US government, and during a break in the non stop action here I started to read your TR on my phone, and busted out laughing! All the suits looked at me like I was crazy!

Your fluid writing style is a very welcome break from all of this mumbo jumbo crap I have to interpret today!

Thanks dogster!

LOL, wonderful!

Thanks guys for coming for the ride. I'll just push this on a little further. I cut this next bit back somewhat - for good reason... sometimes there really is TOO much information. Too late, I realised I had written myself into a situation that I couldn't POSSIBLY describe. Not in these hallowed halls, anyway. Lol.

That caveat established, here's the next installment, while I'm on a roll.

I’d better confess and tell you right now - I’d never heard of the Hoogli.

As it turns out, it’s a great fat brown river that diverts from the Ganges, cuts through the middle of West Bengal about half-way up and rolls right down past Kolkata into the Sunderbans. The Portuguese, the Dutch, the British East India Company, the French and god-only knows who else had apparently been up the Hoogli for centuries, fighting wars, building forts and little empires, leaving crumbling bits of Europe behind them – not that I knew.

It might have helped if I had researched my trip – but I didn’t. A guide book might have been an appropriate purchase but, alas, an attack of stupidity prevented that. All I saw were some very attractive last-minute rates and a river I suddenly decided I had to go up – and down. Fourteen days on the Hoogli; Barrackpore, Chandernagore, Kalna, Plassey, Murshidabad; half-remembered names from half-forgotten places – wherever they were, whatever they are, whatever they had to show me - I was going.

I didn’t know where I was and you’ve probably never heard of it either - so I won’t bore you with a list of the temples, the ‘sites’ and sounds of the trip. The muddy waters of the Hoogli churned behind us as we pushed further and further upstream, lost in a strange architectural kaleidoscope, but all out of sequence, all out of time – I soon abandoned any attempt at understanding the meaning of any of it, choosing to glide through the adventure with a secret smile and an empty head. We went to see things I didn’t know existed in places I’d never heard of, walked the streets of towns I never knew. Lots of lovely little empty-headed things happened, lots of little frozen moments of empty-headed joy; we were all on a sweet guided collision of cultures – but always, we were watching, we were watched - we were safe, we were secure.

Good fortune smiled upon me on the way up to Jangipur; my eight fellow cruisers, our guides, the crew, the timing and the adventure all combined in an agreeable bubble of companionship that chugged up the river, stopped at interesting places, ambled around, ate and chatted happily, interacting when we felt like it, left alone when we didn’t. It was lush riverbanks and rural scenes, waving children and distant temples - pleasant company on a pleasant boat with leisurely stops at very odd places - delicious. All my companions were great fun, each had a story to tell, each revealed themselves at their own pace, all had skills; conversation was free-flowing and entertaining - really, I couldn’t have asked for more.

It was exactly what we had bought – a ‘soft adventure’ - and that was fine by me. The soft adventure had a lovely double bed in a roomy, light cabin, perfectly acceptable, sometimes even good food, amiable companions, comfortable chairs and great service. It was a great trip. A great deal of the time we were the tourist attraction. We observed the river life and the river life observed us. But here’s the point. We observed. We took a lot of photographs. We had a bit of a wander, occasionally interacting with a local or two, but mostly we looked and didn’t touch. We stood and watched as it rolled right by, waved regally from the deck at the wide-eyed children on shore - but we weren’t quite there. Not in the true Dogster sense.

By a process of elimination, at the end of the first seven days, I found myself the last man standing, lost in the gap between one group leaving and the next tour arriving, hovering on the brink of day and night – in this instance poised in the doorway of an illegal porno den in deepest West Bengal with no definite plan in mind.

Just grabbing a brief Dogster moment – in the interests of research, you understand.

The back door to the porn theatre was covered in sheets of dark plastic. I entered through a fold and suddenly plunged into darkness. A torch flickered on and pointed to an empty seat in the back row. I slipped in unnoticed; nobody was watching my grand entrance. Their eyes were glued to the screen.

I walked into a soft curtain of musky testosterone; two hundred men sat in rows that disappeared into the darkness, lounging on each other, growling, soft murmurs of appreciation rippling through the crowd at the events on the screen. The video froze, juddered, fast-forwarded, stopped, flew backwards then started again. Shouts and jeers from the mob. A few more minutes of bouncing flesh then the whole stop-start process began all over. I was far more fascinated by the audience than the screen.

I knew it was white, I knew it was moving – but I couldn’t see quite what it was. Not anticipating a visit to the porn cinema that morning I didn’t have my glasses with me – eventually I had to put my prescription sunnies back on to see just what was happening up there. I looked completely stupid, like Stevie Wonder at the movies, but like I say, nobody was looking at me. It took a while to focus and realise what I was actually seeing. Then my jaw dropped. Whoa.

This was not just porn. This was not just your usual bounce and fumble, moan and gasp - this was much, much worse than that. This was violent and bloody and degrading to the max – and then some more. This was either a snuff movie – or a very faithful recreation of one. I’ve never seen a snuff movie so I really couldn’t be sure, but it was snuff enough for me. Those grunts and groans were screams. That blurry splodge on her body was blood. This was the whole carnivorous horror; rough, extreme explicit pornography, sex, blood, violence, death – all wrapped up in one. Trust me, right here, right now, you don’t need detailed reportage. Don’t even try to imagine it. Something very nasty was being set loose that morning in Jangipur and right then and there, I wanted out.

Now, I quite pride myself on my ability to roll with the punches, to sit and not judge, to be invisible in a foreign space – but the ferocious pornography of down-town Jangipur quite took my breath away. In fact, it was as genuine a moment of Indian travel as any other – as intense, it its own murky way, as foreign, as abnormal a moment as you could ever hope for, a perfect ‘Dogster Moment’ - but for once I tumbled over my threshold, took one step too far into the darkness and saw a little more of India than I bargained for – which, of course, in India just means you see a little more of yourself than you bargained for. This was the growl of the monster, the great killer-bull inside us all.

I eased up and out of my seat, squeezed in front of the hand-practicing youths along the row, pushed open the door, slid through the plastic curtain and into the daylight. Even the polluted streets of Jangipure looked sweet to me. I gulped in the murky air. Udit looked startled. I hadn’t been inside very long. I don’t know what he thought I’d been doing but sensed that had I settled back in the trishaw for a calming post-masturbatory cigarette he wouldn’t have been at all surprised.

He smiled a manly smile. I didn’t tell him what I had just seen.

‘Very horrible,’ I said, ‘very horrible, indeed.’

I pulled a face.

‘Don’t ever go in there, Udit. You’ll go blind.’

The ferocity of his wiggling head, the wideness of his rolling eyes was a wonder to behold.

‘It’s time for the Pink Temple, my friend,’ I gasped. ‘Quick! I need salvation...’

Imagine a huge fluted ice-cream cone, paint it lolly pink and stick it upside down on an orange building - garnish with stripes of yellow and green. Cover the interior, floor to ceiling, with pink bathroom tiles and fill with women at prayer, a bobbing sea of multi-coloured saris - I’m sure Lord Shiva would be very happy with the result. This was the Pink Temple of Jangipur.

I hovered outside, watching respectfully from a distance. It was apparently Ladies Day at the temple and this old white man wasn’t going to blunder in. I sat on a ledge listening to the prayers, watching that undulating floor of women, drinking it up. Soon I was deep in conversation with an advocate. Such things occur all the time in India. He introduced me to a number of his friends, all sitting around outside the temple, chewing the fat. Everybody seemed very relaxed.

The women dispersed, the temple emptied out, my new friends wandered away. I sat for a while, went for a walk and came back, still not ready to leave. A priest began closing the green steel shutters around the entrance. He smiled. I saluted him, bowed slightly and moved off, down towards the water. There was a break in the clouds; a shaft of sunlight poured through and for just a moment the lolly-pink cone glowed electric against a pure blue sky. A goat crossed the road. Suddenly I was at the river bank.

The naked body of an old man lay stretched out on the ground. He was about two metres away and very, very dead. The first things I noticed were the bright red soles of his feet. They had been recently painted. My eyes travelled upwards, past thin, bony legs to the pile of white cotton thrown carelessly over his vitals. I watched while his arms were placed across his chest, his hair smoothed back, his beard straightened. He appeared to be wearing green eye-shadow, liberally applied. In the background a thin young man wandered aimlessly about.

Udit went pale. The introduction of dead men with red feet was perhaps one step too far. He was stricken, rooted to the spot. His mouth opened and closed. His eyes never left the corpse. Poor Udit was twenty-six, he had seen his share of life – but, right at this moment, I realised he hadn’t yet seen his share of death. In a fatherly fashion I shoo-ooed him away to sit outside the temple and recover himself.

Sprawled under a tree were half-a-dozen men, friends of the advocate I had met before.

‘Sit, sit,’ they said and patted the stone bench.

I joined them. We watched the dead man on the ground in front of us. There was a long silence then a commotion as a young doctor appeared, brandishing a piece of paper.

‘Certificate,’ one said, helpfully.

‘No ceremony, no certificate,’ another said and, as I watched, the vital signature was attached, laid on the bench next to me with a stone holding it in place and the young doctor vanished. Those two red feet hadn’t moved. The dead man’s son changed into loose white clothes.

‘Will he shave his head?’ I asked my companions.

‘Not for thirteen days.’

Another man chimed in. ‘Low,’ he whispered, ‘low in caste. Very poor.’

The son was led around his father’s body three times then gently pushed away.

One turned to me.

‘Are you a Christian?’ he said lazily.

I took a breath, knowing that a simple question required a simple answer. I swung slowly round to face him, took my sunglasses off and looked him in the eye.

‘I think there is one God, my friend, and he has many different faces.’

He twitched his head and pointed at the corpse.

‘This was my friend,’ he said.

‘I think this was your good friend,’ I said.

He wiggled his head. I wiggled mine. We smiled a little sad smile. There was no other flicker of emotion on his face, nor on the faces of the other old friends sitting with me watching. They might as well have all been having a chai outside the local tea-house.

‘That is you - and that is me,’ I said gravely, glancing over at the corpse. Four pairs of sad eyes looked in my direction.

‘We are all men – same blood, same body - we all die just the same.’

‘Mmmmm...’ said one.

‘Mmmmm...’ said another.

Everybody wiggled their head at me. I seem to have passed muster. We returned to our silent observation of the body. There’s always something to see with a corpse.

Off to my right, about four metres from where I was sitting, a group of young men had piled logs for the funeral pyre. It was about a metre high. They moved over to the old man, then, one on each limb, lifted him up without any ceremony at all, carried him across to the pyre and dumped him on the logs.

But this was a poor man for a lowly caste - his pile of logs was just half-size. They placed the top half of his body, his torso and head on the pyre. From his groin the rest of him hung out over the edge, two scrawny legs slightly splayed out, dangling limply. He looked rather like a dead brown frog. The white cotton had long since fallen off. His genitals hung there, useless and forgotten, mute testament to a life once lived. One man placed a small board over them as a last gesture - then stood back.

I don’t know who lit the pyre. I’m just grabbing at shards of memory here - somehow, I didn’t think it was a Kodak moment. Everything was just getting imprinted on the memory board, hard-wired and locked in as it occurred. Let’s not pretend that this is something that happens to me every day. I was acutely aware that this was an extraordinary moment. I watched as the flames spread up, tickling the old man’s backbone, burning his long grey hair. Wisps of white smoke turned black, then red - then burst into flame. Soon he was all wreathing smoke, snakes of fire. I saw his scrotum catch alight.

‘Chai?’ said a voice beside me. It was the advocate.

‘What a good idea,’ I said and stood up.

Frankly, I was glad of the diversion. I’ve perfected the art of extremity, the impassive face of a man who has seen much life, can glide and smile my way through filth and destruction as easily as through joy and laughter – but the events of my morning in Jangipur had quite wiped me out.

‘Very extreme,’ I said to nobody in particular, ‘very extreme.’

Everybody turned away without a second glance as their dead friend lay curling in the fire. As we walked toward the temple the wind changed and blew the smoke from his body behind us, kissing us all with a last gritty whiff of burnt pork.

I passed poor Udit on the way, sitting on his haunches, hunched over holding his nose, his pale face staring up at me.

‘Too much, Udit?’ I asked.

‘Too much...’ he said and sighed.

‘Let’s go,’ I said and helped him up, ‘we need chai.’’

Thanks for writing again Dogster. For a few blessed minutes I was not sitting at my desk looking at a computer, but was tranfixed by how your words bring instant familiarity to unfamiliar places.

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!

Ms. Ph-h-h-h-t! continued to look at me as if I’d crapped on her shoe. She was, I assume, a woman of solid proportions but it was impossible to tell. Draped from that luminous bosom to her ankles was a muu-muu of epic proportions. She had a suitcase full of them, regularly whipping out a new nylon offering at the slightest hint of perspiratory distress. The crew called her ‘The Tent’.

Her muu-muu’s were highly patterned affairs doubtless knocked up for a dollar in Cochin, one of which, when viewed from afar, gave the impression of a tie-died target zeroing in on her crotch - which kinda says it all. She was a juicy woman, not yet gone to seed. Those loins still panted for that one last man, her carnivorous thighs still ready to drag one victim into their embrace.

Over lunch I told Udit he would have to sleep with her as a matter of urgency. He was the youngest, least senior member of the crew. It was his duty.

The poor lad nearly fell into his curry in embarrassment.

She spoke to me as little as possible, so I took a certain perverse pleasure in engaging her in jaunty conversation, knowing she was much too, too polite to leave. Her voice, when she could be bothered to reply, came from somewhere deep between her shoulder blades, a faint distasteful minge, one that used the least amount of air and effort, as if this manky dog in front of her was really, too, too vulgar a thing to entertain - which, of course, just spurred me on. Armed with a bottle of the Dogslayer and a twinkle in my eye, I plonked myself opposite her at dinner one night. It was too juicy an opportunity.

‘So-o-o my darling, what did you think about today?’ I asked. I was going to ply her with questions and kindness, test her powers of endurance to the limit. She couldn’t get away.
From somewhere deep inside her a critique of the day unravelled, a check-list of minor infringements, a catalogue of infractions.

‘I do think that when their guests are disembarking the crew should genuflect,’ she said.

‘Oh, yes...’ I said.

‘And when drinks are served in the evening the glasses should be chilled.’

‘Oh, yes...’

‘And phw-w-w-aw laundry and phwa-php-wahhhh we were late, and ph-h-h-waugh bumpy rickshaw... don’t you think?

She was fading from my radar. All I could see were her breasts.

She was a woman for whom the tiniest moment of enthusiasm was an effort. Some ineffable fatigue seemed to dog her every word, she saw it all through a curtain of London society contempt. Her face was still round and full of life; it was her mind that had grown ineffably old and dry. She squeezed out the conclusion of her critique and, having finished with me, put her head down in the hope I’d go away. She grabbed at a spoon, looked at it, silently called the waiter over and showed him the offending object. A new spoon was brought, inspected and agreed on - all without a sound. She bent over her bowl and, with a delicate little slurp, sucked the mushroom soup from the spoon. Those luscious lips pursed, she looked briefly as if she had been poisoned - then, with the gentlest of motions, pushed the soup away. She attempted a gracious smile.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ she said sweetly, as the anxious waiter swooped, ‘take it away.’

I could tell that the affair of the mushroom soup would not be forgotten.

Her face uncurled a little.

‘And what is it that you do?’ she said, making it clear that she couldn’t give a damn.

‘I’m on a journey,’ I said.

‘Oh,’ she said.

‘Ee-a-augh-h-h’ is how she said it.

I didn’t offer any more information.

‘I’ve been tremendously impressed with your muu-muu’s,’ I began, not quite knowing where this was going to end up, ‘there’s one of them that looks just like a targe...’

That’s as far as I got.

‘Muu-muu,’ she said dreamily, with a soft killer venom in her voice. ‘Muu-muu – is that what you call it...’

‘Everybody has been amazed at your wardrobe,’ I lied, ‘your array of muu-muu’s is much admired. Many compliments.’

She simpered. She actually simpered. ‘Oh,’ she purred, ‘how very kind. They never say anything to me.’

If only she knew what they were really saying. Ms. Pht-t-t-t!’s muu-muu’s were the stuff of legeand. From that moment till the end of the trip she kept appearing in her myriad muu-muu’s, striking a pose, flouncing round with a new-found vigour, convinced that the passengers were secretly admiring her dazzling splendour. Her sartorial originality reached new and spectacular height as the voyage wore on, a fashion statement of startling vulgarity - exceeded only by her disdain for her fellow man.

Across the dining hall Young Udit stood up from his meal. I could see him over Ms. Pht-t-t-t!’s shoulder. I caught his eye.

‘Udit!’ I gestured, ‘Udit! Wasn’t there something you wanted to ask my companion?’

He blushed and ran out of the room.

‘Udit! It’s your duty!’ I shouted.

Heh. That's it for today. I have a bit of chanting to do to get me in the mood for tomorrow's post. You'll see why.

Well I did try for an hour to do some work but just had to sneak back for a quick look - and was rewarded.

You are a naughty doggie aren't you - much the best sort.

So now back to it and do some real work - won't look again until tomorrow but can't wait.

I'm hoping to stumble into a bookstore in Melbourne and find a book of your musings under the name "Dogster, The Dogster?" Give me a hint so I can find the book that will enthrall me for the many hours on a plane.

Ain't nuttin' in no bookstore with my name on it, moremiles...

Publishing in Australia is run exclusively by youthful lesbians with bright red lips and very bad haircuts. Even though I am an 'honorary lesbian', I fear my line of communication with Sappho's literary sisters has, finally, snapped.

So, apropos of nothing at all, here's my latest post...

‘Hare Krishna!’ cried the man and lifted both arms in that special Hare Krishna way.

‘Hare Krishna!’ I replied and smiled my special Hare Krishna smile.

This is my brainless, ‘wow, how great to be here, wow, what an incredible place, wow, I am just blown away,’ smile. This is my empty-headed, enthusiastic embrace of all things Hare Krishna smile. This is my great facial lie.

I’m in Mayapur, walking down the main boulevard of ISKON, The International Society for Krishna Consciousness. Strangely, it reminds me of Main Street in Disneyland. There is a sign that says ‘Do Not Disturb Krishna’s Birds’ and another that reminds me ‘Not to Drop Litter on Krishna’s lawns’. In a low-lying temple just inside the gate is a non-stop, twenty-four hour, three hundred and sixty-five days for twenty-million years prayer vigil. People come, people go, the beat goes on forever.

On the other side is a bizarre, Italianate temple for something or other. The huge dome floats in the air like a great white ribbed teat. This is Mission Control Hare Krishna World – the centre of the known universe if you are of the Hare Krishna persuasion - this is where they all come from, those orange-clad, cymbal-clinking, chanting bald people. This is where they breed. This is Planet Hare.

This is obviously where all those donations went.

The Dogster was carrying baggage. All those years of loose living in the Seventies, all that dreary ‘Hare Krishna, Hare Rama, Krishna Krishna, Hare Hare...’ parading up and down the streets for the last thirty-five years – that irritating Cling! Cling! Ching! Ching! – those pious empty-headed, student novices sent out to spread the word of – whatever... that irritating sense of certainty, the loss of independent thought, the mindless mantra - something was pushing my buttons, something had locked on and wouldn’t let go. I realised I could see nothing at ISKON but my own attitude, reflected back at me.

‘Hare Krishna!’ they smiled and shouted.

‘Hare Krishna!’ I shouted back.

Keep smiling, Dogster, keep that Krishna smile clamped tight on your face.

I wandered into the temple and nodded to an old monk sitting cross-legged on a throne. No response. He was looking straight at me. That was a bit rude, I thought. I nodded again and wiggled my head. ‘Hare Krishna,’ I mouthed and smiled.

Nothing.

Oh, well – bugger you, I thought and turned away.

The life-size plaster statue of Sri Caitanya Mahaprabhu continued to stare placidly ahead.

I felt like a bit of a fool.

Perhaps this was the first lesson Lord Krishna was offering. Perhaps I should just dump a bit of that baggage I’ve been collecting and carrying around unnoticed for years.

‘Hare Krishna!’ she said as she zeroed in.

‘Hare Krishna!’ I smiled and bled a bit more inside.

Both eyes radiated inner wisdom, she beamed a beatific smile. I gestured widely around the room. I was standing in a vast empty theatre, with a stage dominated by an array of life-size gold statues, all dressed up in the finest fabrics, posed against a backdrop of extraordinary rouched curtains and drapes.

‘Well here I am,’ I said, full of ersatz Krishna love and joy, ‘in the centre of the world!’

She liked that a lot.

‘You know about the Lord Krishna Consciousness?’ she asked. She had a gentle New York accent.

‘Well, I’m fifty eight, I’m an old hippie,’ I laughed, ‘there was a lot of Krishna consciousness around.’

“I’m fifty-nine,’ she said. ‘I joined in 1967.’

Gawd, I thought, that’s a long time without a drink. She was one of them – one of those flower children who found religion. It didn’t much matter what it was at the time. She found it and it found her and unlike most of her chums – she stayed. She’d been a pilgrim for over forty years. She’d been living in Mayapur an eternity, through all the bickering, the resignations, the in-fighting and soul-searching of internal Krishna politics in that time – and now. We chatted away, rather as if we were at a diplomatic cocktail party, her eyes always searching the crowd, keeping watch for gormless travellers. I think she’d already given up on me. There was a New York edge to her piety, a cut and a thrust to her chat. She was a businesswoman – all in the service of Lord Krishna, of course. There was rat-cunning in those eyes, I thought, a furtive dart, a flash, a trap for willing souls. She seemed a perfectly gentle woman, but I knew she could kill with a prayer...

Don’t go there, Doggy, don’t you dare. She is connected to the mother-lode, she is the Queen Bee. She’ll suck you away with her certainty, she’ll cripple you with her correctness and she’ll unravel you, unhook you and drag you away... run, Doggy, run! Soon it’ll be you, shaven-headed, draped with robes, adrift with a look of blissful Krishna consciousness on your face, dancing gaily down the street.

Some bleak certainty had crawled into my brain all those years ago, some karmic rucksack of fear. It all said far more about me than it did about Lord Krishna and his devotees – my spiritual blinkers, I discovered, were jammed on tight.

So this was the second lesson of the day.

I was in a powerful place.

‘Hare Krishna...’ said the woman.

‘Hare Krishna...’ barked the dog.

i thought for a minute you were hooked....and i thought that poor pious woman would be led back to the bad way of a ny'er.....she is the lucky one....

did you mention the tent to her?

As I realise, after your post, rhkk, both women were remarkably similar. Both trapped in that tragic sense of certainty, lost deep in their own decisions - and both, in my humble opinion, needing a good shag. Heh.

[just as well THAT comment is buried deep in a trip report... lol]

(pssst... Doggie... one of our businesses is publishing)

I think I'll continue on before I get abused. I'd like to finish this off now - I have some writing to do about the Sadhus of Maheshwar...

So here are the last available pieces of that great Hoogli jigsaw puzzle.

For some reason I have this old, old song running through my head..

'We're Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Heart's Club Band..
We hope you have enjoyed the show.
Bhoomp Bhoomp Bhoomp Boom

Sgt. Pepper's Lonely...
Sgt. Pepper's Lonely...

Howard was a big-bellied, fun-loving ex-publican who had recently lost his wife. He couldn’t yet shake the grief. Every so often a cloud would cross that big open face and you could see him thinking; ‘If only Janine was here right now.’

Alas, Janine was up in heaven and she’d left Howard bereft and all alone. His grief for her was as big as his heart and Howard was a man with a big, open heart. He was guileless, an innocent abroad, a man who had been loved and coddled and fed and cleaned for all his life. Now she was gone and his heart was broken. But, like the Hoogli, life meanders on. Howard, to his great credit, had decided to take a river cruise...

Howard liked a drink and, at the conclusion of the designated sightseeing, found himself all alone on the upper deck with a Dogslayer in his hand. We were sailing, so of course the Voyageurs had retired to their cabins, to snooze and read and grizzle. On occasion I’m sure they glanced out their window for a glimpse of where they were, a snort of delight at something ‘rural’ but generally the top deck was left alone. This afternoon Howard tied one on. By the time anybody knew it there were empty bottles of Dogslayer littering the deck, Howard was suddenly very loud and it was way, way too late to stop him.

Then the Bauls of Bengal got on.

The word Baul means ‘afflicted with the wind disease’ – by this I don’t think they meant flatulence. They are ‘minstrels, uncaring travellers, selfless wanderers - lost in search of their souls.’ Charles H. Capwell, the noted ethnomusicologist, noted that ‘the Bauls are the folk heroes of Bengal, strange people who forsake all comforts and binds of the family and choose streets as their home, austerity as their way of life’. They sing of love and life and politics, question and provoke without fear, ‘carry with them from village to city the soul of Bengal, perhaps of India...’

I felt like a bit of a ‘Baul’, myself.

So, seven Bengali Bauls arrived on bicycles, changed into suitably Baul-ish costumes and presented themselves on the upper deck for a ‘cultural event’. One played the drums rather well and looked wistful, one sat on the floor and tootled a flute, one sat serious and rattled a pink plastic jingly thing, one man, dressed entirely in orange, sang his heart out in his own private Paralympics of sound. Sometimes he made it to the finish line, sometimes he didn’t. One young girl sat silent the entire time, sang one song rather badly then sat down again and yawned. She quite forgot that she was on stage at one point and had a little chat with a close pal on her mobile phone. One man sat there and didn’t appear to do anything at all.

The leader of the group was the last to perform. He passed over the strange box-accordion he had been playing and stood, a little uncertainly, to sing. It did occur to me that the Bauls of Bengal, as witnessed that night, may have had a passing acquaintance with the divine fruit of the Ganja tree on their way to work.

He held his head back and belted out the most divine song you ever heard. His voice rang pure and clean and loud, sent shivers up my spine. He was doing a little jig, his bum held out, a shuffle-dance round the deck and as he sang the air grew quiet, the engines stopped, the hum of the boat fell away – it was just him and the Hoogli and that song... ahhhh, that song...

Then Howard let loose from the darkness.

‘Mmph-h-h-h!. Ooooh-h-h! Aw-a-a-a-agh-hh!’

This was a terrible explosion of misery, a grief that could not be contained.

‘Mmmm-g-h-h-h!’ from the deck.

I looked around. Six of the Voyageurs were fast asleep, open mouths yawning, all pretence abandoned, gone directly to god. The rest were heading for a huddle around Howard, who was howling his eyes out.

‘Mrrr-g-g-h-h-h! Wao-o-o-o, Jani-i-ine... smr-r-r-rpfh-h-h-h!’ he said.

‘How-a-a-a- rd’ shushed Jan, my favorite.

Jan was sixty-three with bright purple hair, growing old disgracefully. I don’t mean purple in the ‘purple rinse’ sense – I mean purple as in, well... purple! She was a great gal with tons of style and an outlook on life that belonged to a woman thirty years her junior.

‘How-a-a-a-rd...’ shushed Jane, her companion.

Jane and Jan were travel chums out on a girl’s vacation to adventure. They both laughed and cried with great abandon, relishing their time together, away from home and hubby and grown-up kids.

‘Mmmr-o-o-o-o-o!’ sobbed Howard, ‘If... only... she’d... been... h-h-he-e-e-re...’

‘How-a-a-a-rd...’ they both said at the same time

He knocked over his bottle of wine. Luckily it was empty.

‘Argh-h-h-h,’ he said, ‘I’m sho sorry... I’m s-h-h-ooo sorry-y-y...’

He noisily sucked in a lung-full of air.

‘Snor-k-k-k! Oh-h-h-h...’

Poor Howard couldn’t finish the sentence. He was really ‘tired’ and extremely emotional, bellowing out his grief with a passion that surprised even him. It certainly surprised the Bauls of Bengal. A swift despatch had to be sent to assure them that yes, this was an unhappy man and yes, he was really drunk - and most importantly no, it wasn’t their fault...

There was more Bauling, from both sides, then the evening crumpled to an end with the presentation of enormous tips from a still-emotional Howard, now looming passionately over the band, ungainly hugs all around as confused Bauls tried to wrap themselves around his enormous belly, a huddle of the few sober Voyageurs still left awake and an escort of crew to get him to his cabin left he fall headfirst down the stairs.

carol---do you publish pornography or on the edge items??

‘Uncle, what is your name?’

So began the letter by the boy from Baranagar. It was written laboriously in large ‘joined-up’ letters with a leaky ball-point pen – along with a great many crossings-out. At the top of the page was the name and address of the author, one Kalgan Mandal. He stood in front of me at that moment, holding the folded piece of paper.

‘Is this for me?’ I asked gently.

‘Yes, uncle,’ he said seriously. Young Kalgan was about thirteen.

I unfolded the letter and started reading.

‘Uncle, what is your name? Please tell me. You know uncle when you and your party are come at our village, I am very happy. Yes, uncle, yes. But when you and your party will go from our village, I am very sad.

I can speak little english not more.

I have a wish that I want to go with you in your country but I and our family is very poor. The previous year when your party was come at our village I am very happy but they are went again so I am very happy.

Our village name is Baranagar. It is a historyele place.’

There was a line of arrows pointing sideways, then the last line.

‘Thank you for read.’

He stared up at me silently and smiled. I truly think that, at that moment, this young lad believed that I would adopt him there and then. In his mind, it was just a matter of popping home, grabbing a spare pair of trousers, saying a cheery farewell to Mum and Dad and heading off to New York.

Now, how to break the news gently...?

‘I could change his life,’ I whispered to Sunit, our guide, as I showed him the letter later.

‘Yes, you could,’ he said evenly. He smiled. ‘Then, next trip, there’d be a hundred children clutching letters...’

‘Sukapha’ slipped away from the bank and slowly turned downstream. We sailed and stopped and sailed and stopped, for the next five days following the bloated body of that killer-buffalo all the way back to Kolkata. I grew reflective on the return journey, withdrawn, content to sit and watch the world glide by from my open cabin window.

Perhaps those two cone-shaped packets of Jangipur’s finest ganja had something to do with it; perhaps it was the giddy thought of diving into Ms. Pht-t-t-t!’s ample breasts – or maybe the Bauls of Bengal had me lost in their thrall – I didn’t know. I didn’t know anything. I was tumbling down the Hoogli - I’d moved on.

Wonderful reading! Thank you.

Thank you Dogster. Love reading your stories along with everyone else here.

Keep in touch with us.

Yes, thank you very much!

Thanks Dogster - now I've read this I'll get on with todays work.

When and where is the next trip or is that yet to be decided by the choice of wine for the night? A couple of Moombaki or Howard Park could give an interesting itinerary.

Fantabulous!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!