Bamboo is a most versatile structural material. I saw bridges, ladders, carts, plows, furniture, and buildings made from it. A form of "plywood" is made from strips flattened out to allow them to be woven into panels using patterns that vary from region to region.

Hotels often carry signs offering Lodging and "Fooding." One sees many modern buildings seemingly erected without planning among the pervasive squalor, filth and decaying infrastructure. Unprotected high-voltage transformers are common, making me wonder what parents tell their children about the hazard.  
During my three days in and around the National Park I saw plenty of mosquitoes, but not a single critter chose me for lunch during my stay in the Wild Grass Resort. One morning while waiting for my breakfast I heard someone in the kitchen clearing their throat and spitting with great gusto. I wondered about the general hygiene in the preparation of our food here.

Accommodations at the $29 Wild Grass Resort are luxurious by Indian standards, though rustic creature comforts required some compromises. There are no television sets in the rooms; they would be impractical anyway given the unreliable electrical power. Electrically heated hot water is available only when the city power is on.  City power fails constantly and the auxiliary generator pauses about twenty seconds before resuming power for essential lights and equipment, which does not include the water heaters. Four inch thick Polyurethane mattresses insure all visitors will have the experience of sleeping in a monk's cell.

The grounds of the resort are tastefully landscaped to blend in with the natural forest environment, even though people long ago cut down most of the forest for firewood. Flocks of birds roost in our little wooded oasis and their songs and calls create a gentle ambience. My room is situated under a pigeon coop and scratching is audible throughout the night. In the morning before daybreak the birds all start their cooing, making for a most unusual alarm clock, certainly better than the amplified 05:15 call to prayer of the Muslims in Guwahati. Military guards armed with automatic weapons discretely patrol the grounds of the resort day and night. Most of the guests are Indian. 

The first morning in the Lodge I took a driving safari into the eastern area of the park. There we saw every variety of animal except the tiger, though we did see a tree where one had left its claw marks to alert other cats in the area of its presence. My driver told me he had seen only three tigers in the first three months of this season. That afternoon I took a Jeep safari into the western section of the park and missed spotting a tiger seen by another party by five minutes. 

The second morning I booked the later 07:30 elephant safari into the tall grass where I learned we would see many rhinos up close. My beast had room for the mahout, a father and his two young, excited daughters and me. The Elephant Grass is aptly named as it grows so tall the largest elephants and their riders quickly disappear in the lush vegetation. As my beast swayed to and fro lumbering through the grass, it followed a tortuous path of its own making. Suddenly we would be upon one or more rhinos grazing in a small clearing. Tigers lurked around every little bend in the jungle trail... in my mind, at least. The last tiger census found somewhat less than a hundred cats in the entire park. My feet straddled our elephant just behind the mahout in such a way its ears occasionally brushed my shoes. That's one way to get a free shoe shine. Another is provided by the tall wet grass constantly scraping elephant and riders.  

As the accommodations were reasonably comfortable and inexpensive I decided to stay another day to see if I could find an Internet cafe. During my search serendipity led me into a meeting with Arfan Ali a 25 year old student visiting his father, Dr. Ashraf Ali during the Muslim festival of sacrifice called Qurbani (an Urdu word meaning sacrifice from the Koran). His entire family had traveled to be together at his father's sister's house. Arfan invited me to observe the festivities for a few minutes. Close to my resort entrance he led me into a compound screened by hanging "bedspreads." Inside I found the ground covered with giant palm leaves and six or eight men squatting over two recently killed cow carcasses. They were in the process of removing the hides from the animals and eviscerating them. I saw surprisingly little blood.

After introductions, Dr. Ali explained the activity and the religious significance of the sacrifice. While we talked the beasts were being dismembered and the large chunks of meat cut into smaller pieces. During the hour the process took the men ushered me through the modest hard packed dirt floor living compound to a surprisingly clean parlor, complete with new-looking furniture. Everything looked spotlessly clean, including the hard packed dirt floors! Once seated, Arfan asked if I would take tea. With some trepidation I said I'd be delighted, wondering how any semblance of hygiene could possibly be maintained in such modest surroundings. A few minutes later, an older woman introduced as Dr. Ali's sister arrived with a beautiful silver tray tea service, complete with a single beautiful bone china cup. She poured and I drank, declining the proffered cookies with the excuse I had just eaten. 

After we men finished our discussions of cultural differences and religious practices, we adjourned to the slaughter compound where the two cows had by now been reduced to several piles of butchered meat being placed in large containers for distribution according to the Koranic prescriptions: a third to other family members and close neighbors, a third to local poor families, and a third retained by the "wealthy" family head who had made the sacrifice with his own hands. 

The unpretentious house consisted of a spotlessly clean large living room-dining room combination, a simple kitchen with a gas hotplate on a broken concrete counter with running water and a sink, a fully tiled bathroom that made me think of the boys locker room back in high school, and two bedrooms, each containing king-size beds... and not much more. The ladies could not have been more gracious, scraping together tea and cookies for the unexpected guest.  As it turned out, the only Internet access available in this area had closed in observance of the Muslim holy day, but the trip had hardly been wasted from my point of view. Mrs. Ali may never speak to her son again, however. 

I've long known that shaking hands is a common way colds are transmitted from one person to another. A friend recently sent me a list of statistics regarding the various other pathogens we pass around by the simple social gesture of shaking hands. People in this part of the world have long practiced a non-contact form of social greeting, the Thai wai or the Indian namaste. The gesture looks like a brief prayer accompanied by a slight bow. It conveys the sentiment of respect and holiness at the same time.  The Western hand-shake is an anachronism that has outlived its relevance; it is uncivilized and unhygienic! As a kid I remember how everyone accepted the inevitability of smokers doing their unhealthy thing. It had always been that way and no one could imagine smokers giving up their "right" to smoke anywhere they pleased, anytime they pleased, regardless of the adverse health impact on others. My how things have changed! Is it possible the unhealthy practice of social hand shaking could be doomed to a similar fate? Think about it.

Enter almost any store in India for almost any reason and someone is sure to order you to "sit down." I think it is meant to be a gesture of hospitality, but seems a bit much for someone who has just popped in to ask directions to a nearby street.

After three nights of rustic living I headed back to the comfort of the Dynasty Hotel in Guwahati to plan the next leg of my journey into Bangladesh. Over coffee, another traveler informed me he had obtained a visa for the country in Agartala Tripra state. A flight to Agartala costs only $60 and after two final nights in Guwahati I flew south.

That's the story of Kaziranga. Until the next chapter,

Peace,

Fred Bellomy

PS: For anyone following my wanderings it will become apparent there often is a significant delay in getting out the postcards. At the moment I am in Dhaka Bangladesh.

Peace,
Fred L Bellomy