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TRAVEL WRITING

Brahmaputra Diary: a journey to the source of Asia's greatest river

SHAHIDuL ALAM
IT started from a longing to cross other boundaries.
Reaching across boundaries of time, across boundaries of political space, across racial and cultural barriers of language, race and religion. To go back in time to how our environs were created. We searched for the answer in a river. Amazing as much for its physical grandeur as for the history hidden in its rocks and its exuberant flow. The Brahmaputra. The son of Brahma.
...Like a Hindu deity, the river has many incarnations, changing its name and nature as it flows along 1800-mile journey from its source near the holy mountains of Kailash through the icy glaciers in Tibet, the green mountains in India and through the fertile plains of Bangladesh into the Bay of Bengal. According to legend, Tamchok Khamabab, "the river coming out of the horse's mouth," spilled from a glacier in the Chemayungdung Mountains. The water was cold, the sands were composed of cat's eyes and emeralds, and those who drank from the newborn stream became as strong as horses.
...We planned furtively and began making plans for our first trip. From the glacial trickle at its source in western Tibet, where it is known as the Yarlung Tsang Po, we would travel east past Lhasa and the Everest, to the amazing 7000 feet 'drop' at Pei, work downwards into India, through Arunachal Pradesh and Assam, turning south past the Garo Hills, into Bangladesh. Here we would travel across the flat plains where the river is called the Jamuna, and then join the Meghna estuary, before following the mighty river into the Bay of Bengal. We would record the lives of the Tibetan nomads in the Himalayas, follow the transition from Buddhism to Hinduism through to Islam and look at the
lifestyle, the songs and the literature of the changing communities who lived on the banks of this great river.
...In search of the source, (we) spent our first days in Kathmandu, getting supplies. High altitude sleeping bags, mountain sickness pills, chocolate. We had tried to find maps to the source, but neither the Internet, nor any of the other sources we tried were of any use. Even the Chinese military didn't know where the source was. We were worried on day five. The only crossing on the
misty clouds, we had moved on to the barren rocks of the Himalayas and across the endless horizons of the Tibetan plateau. Flowers sprang from bare rock in these high climes, but we saw few people, and little wildlife. Except for the sheep, the yak and the occasional Tibetan dogs, there appeared to be little signs of life. It was as we approached the lake that we saw the first rabbits and mouse-like creatures. And then we saw the deer, and the hawks circling overhead. We knew we were near water. There were hun-
river has a hand-pulled ferry at Saga. The trip had been rough, and we had all been sick, and by the time we arrived, the ferry had gone. Luckily, we were able to send a messenger to the ferryman who, looking at our plight, agreed to bring the ferry back to take us across. The wind was bitingly cold, but we did make it to Saga that night.
We had gone though some amazing landscape. From the gushing waterfalls in Nepal, and
dreds of shrines in the hilltop from which we first saw the lake. The multi-coloured silk prayer flags fluttered in the gusty wind. Our driver and our guide stopped to pray. As we drove through a stream that flowed from the lake, the driver stopped the jeep and honked the horn. He didn't want to accidentally kill any of the sacred fish.
The holy lake Manasarowar, the mythical source of the river,
glistened in the distance, from emerald to turquoise to an iridescent blue. We stayed in the little village next to the lake where the Kailash pilgrims stay, but no one here knew of the source. We were ill, our reserves were low, and we were running short of time. The cloud cover never lifted sufficiently for us to see the peak of Kailash. Waiting by the lake as long as we reasonably could, we reluctantly headed back. On our way to the lake we had come across an old nomad, San Geur. He had heard about the river that
came out the horse's mouth, from his parents when he was a child. Ten years ago, while hunting, he had come across the source. It was exactly as his parents had described it. We weren't sure if, after ten years, he would still be able to locate the source, but he was our best chance. If everything went well, we would make it to the source and back in time. that was when the first disaster struck. The roughness of the terrain was too
much even for our Range Rover and the clutch plate gave way, and we had no spare. Though it was dangerous in these rocky roads, we had no choice but to be towed by our supply truck. Eventually we abandoned our jeep, moved all essential supplies to the truck, and continued on an extremely bumpy ride to San Geur's tent.
He greeted us with his broad smile, but he hadn't been able to get either horses or yaks. We were out of radio or telephone contact, so we camped near his tent and sent off our truck to get a replacement jeep. In the meanwhile, San Geur was going to try and get a truck that would take us to within horseback distance of the source. A truck did eventually arrive, and packing enough supply for two days, we set off. The others were too weak to continue the journey, so I set off on my own, with San Geur as the driver and the guide. We relied a lot on body language, and at one point, he pointed southwards to mountains on the right, across which we would have to go. I saw no signs of any road, and San Geur, with his broad smile, simply turned the truck and started climbing up the mountain. Petrified, I clung on to the seat as we lurched through the jagged mountainside. The dirt tracks we had traveled on earlier were sparsely populated, but at least there, we would come across people every few hours. Here, there was no sign of life, except for the odd wild stallion that would curiously stare at this strange blue, fourwheeled animal that had entered his territory. Sensing my fear, San Geur would look at me and smile, and pat the dashboard, to tell me that his truck was to be trusted, and that he knew what he was doing. I was scared, because I knew too well, just what he was doing. We only had water and food for two days. I didn't fancy our chances in the event
of a breakdown.
We came across streams that led to the river. The Tibetans called these the hair of the Brahmaputra. Undeterred, San Geur proceeded to pile rocks together to build a bridge, and drove his truck across! Towards sunset, we began to see the icy caps of the Chemayungdung mountains. There were no nomads to be found. And that meant no horse and no yaks. Eventually, we came to the edge of the river. It was thin stream, trickling down from the glacier ahead, but the cold, fastflowing water was treacherous, and took many attempts before San Geur made it across. I was left on my own, and the chill was setting in. I pitched our tent next to the river, and watched the setting sun light up the snow on the mountain top. This was the source of the river, where the water flowed from the rock that looked like a horse's mouth. The rock that San Geur's parents had told him about. But without horses or yaks, this was as far as we could go. The Chinese were strict about visas and we had barely enough time to make it back to the border.
We did find some nomads, but they had no horses, and though we waited the next day for a group that had gone out hunting, there were no more nomads or horses to be found, and reluctantly we headed back. Heady with the knowledge that we had finally found the source of the river Brahmaputra, but disappointed at not having been able to touch the rock with the horse's mouth. We headed down, back through Saga with the river rapidly widening and gathering speed as it churned its way through the Himalayas.
Shahidul Alam is head of Drik Picture Library, Dhaka.