Moonidhi and Dhemomain
I was employed as a service engineer working for Anderson Strathclyde (A Coal Cutter Manufacturer), when I got my first overseas job, to install and commission India's first fully mechanised Longwall double ended shearer. That was way back in 1978 and the first of many return visits to work in various coalmines within this fabulous country, fabulous as in fabled, not as in luxurious.
I was given two weeks notice of this first trip, my first ever flying experience let alone working in a foreign country. It was two weeks of hysteria, two weeks to learn about a machine type that I had never seen before let alone worked on, two weeks to pack a suitcase, unpack a suitcase , repack a suitcase, what should I take with me, shorts and tee shirts were obvious but did I need a suit ? or a raincoat ( I remember from school that India was constantly being Monsooned). Shoes, sandals,wellies?, pit clothes and boots and most definitely chewing bacca and Park Drives. The next trip was a lot easier to pack for, two pair of shorts, half a dozen tee shirts, one pair of socks, pair of jeans, bacca, cigs, as many tins of corned beef as I could carry and away!
It was also two weeks to convince my new found partner that six weeks was not a major part of our lives to be separated, six weeks would fly by and we would have enough extra to buy a carpet for our new home, fourteen weeks later we were reunited as it were, I hadn't realised that Indian weeks were equal to two of our weeks and that their tomorrows rarely occurred, that a one hour delay meant two days waiting, and more importantly no one cared very much about schedules except in the instance of rail travel ( a left over reminder of Victorian British Raj discipline no doubt).
Heathrow reached and negotiated without the expected fears and problems that a first timer was expecting, here I was sitting sweating in my Burtons woollen suit, shirt and tie on board a BA jumbo jet, brilliant, a real sense of adventure overcoming the fear of flying the eight hours to Calcutta, engines switched on big revs, movement ……stop engines throttled back and eventually a word or two from the captain, small mechanical problem, engineers looking at the problem now, expected delay of fifteen minutes. It could be that the air crew were Indians, the estimated fifteen minutes did eventually reach the eleven hour lapse, but eventually we were back on-board taxiing for take off, having disembarked twice and boarded for the third time, the minor hydraulic problem now resolved, (thoughts of hoses repaired with reusable ends, valve springs packed off with washers and overload valves bypassed to overcome slippage racing through my thick pit fitter's mind).
What a flight, never even felt it so comfortable, so easy, so grateful for the Johnny Walkers. Landed at Dum Dum airport mid morning, "Thank you" to the air hostess at the top of the steps and then WHAM! the heat , the humidity, the shock of walking into a furnace in an instant the sweat was running down my trouser legs, woollen suit ….first big mistake! Wrestled my fifteen hundred weight case and holdall through immigration, customs and after changing money found a taxi to take me to the Hindustan Hotel, well the taxi found me really with the assistance of about fourteen official porters and twenty unofficial taxi touts, rupee tips were exchanged in return for one smiling face and thirty three mixed Anglo Indian expressions of negative gratitude.
An estimated twenty mile (possible three mile) taxi ride into the City Of Joy, introduced me to the strict Highway Code practices of this densely populated corner of the world, the main rule being the constant use of the horn, the second being the one way systems, it is essential that you drive on the correct side of the road at all times, the correct side always being the one with the least amount of traffic on it, right or left.
But the hotel was another world, an oasis in the middle of an human jungle, air conditioning, a swimming pool a bar with cold beer, luxury bedrooms, peons at your every move, carrying, pampering catering for your every whim, even before you whimmed, if this India then I like it. I woke up two mornings later at 5.0am in a whitewashed room about six foot by six foot in bed with a string mattress, tented by an essential mosquito net, boiling hot, wet through with sweat and the stench of damp moist mould and rotting vegetation thick in the air, now this was more like it, the real taste of India after my first night spent at the Moonidih Colliery British Engineers Bungalow, in the State of Bihar some two hundred kilometres north west of Calcutta.
Two special fried eggs and toast for breakfast, with tea, nearly English except for the fact that the eggs although the size of crows eggs and were the proper shape, the colour wasn't quite right, the yolks were the same colour as the "white", the toast looked like toast but tasted like a sweet and sour cake mix but the tea was excellent, made the getting out of bed worthwhile. Picked up my flask and walked to the mine (Big Daz). "The flask" and the boiled, filtered, fridge cooled water it contained became the most essential piece of underground kit, I searched all of India for a five gallon version of such a vessel but ended up settling for a double barrelled two litre version, it carried just about enough to replace the water losses of the first three hours of face work.
In desperate times the shearer spray water saw us all through the shift, outbye belt stoppages signalling a queue to be formed around the drum sprays, drum out of gear and a refreshing shower with warm, sulphurous filthy mine water, one of the few pleasures of longwalling in India.
I was surprised by the appearance of the pithead at Moonidih, huge head gear and engine houses so modern as to deny the fact that coal was being loaded onto railway wagons lined up on adjacent tracks, by ladies of all ages carrying it in wicker baskets on their heads up planks and simply tipping it into the trucks, clear symbols of both mechanisation and sexual equality. (On the sexual equality side I must say that the real hard work to this coal transportation system was conducted by the men, i.e. two men knelt down putting a shovel full each into each basket, two other men then picked up the basket and swung it up onto the waiting females head, all they had to do was then to walk with about forty pound of coal balanced on their head for about two hundred yards, negotiate a plank at thirty degrees and tip it into the wagons, about turn and back again, and we thought we were applying advanced equality in Yorkshire at the time ).
Note: - I was later to install another shearer at a drift mine in West Bengal, a props and bars Longwall with AFC and Stage Loader, the gate and main conveyor were the responsibility of the mine to supply and install, they never happened, the coal ran off the stage loader and continued its outbye journey using the pre mentioned basket method, this time only male basket carriers were used carrying it off the main gate and deposited it into waiting rope hauled tubs at the level end, the manager reckoned it was more cost effective and maintained essential staffing levels.
Back to Moonidih, the shaft and initial workings had all been made under a Polish /Coal India collaboration under the main supervision of Polish Engineers, and a great job they made of it too. It later transpired that it was initially intended that the first Mechanised Longwall would be all Polish equipment, but for some political reason perhaps this was never installed and the British Company of Dowty ended up with the contract, supplying the roof supports and contracted Anderson to supply the shearer and if I remember AFC, Stage Loader, gate belt loop take up, drive etc.
The face installation was almost complete before my arrival and it was just a matter splitting the machine on the surface, loading the sections onto trams, nipping it underground and bobbing it together in situ…dead easy really, well nearly!! Because I will later refer to it, some forward thinking British Mining Engineer, had expressed the essential need for a large stable hole to be made at the tail gate to facilitate chock turning, and machine assembly etc, it maybe that something was lost in translation because I remember reaching the face for the first time and finding myself in an amphitheatre the size of Blackpool's Tower Ballroom, and apparently it would have extended even further down the retreat gate if the undermanager had not been stopped by a member of the Dowty team. Still it did come in useful, ensuring that in the absence of lifting tackle, chains and such that a hundred labourers could get to man handle the three-ton sections into position on the bed frame.
The machine was assembled, powered and tested, commissioned and ready for off, ok " Who are the shearer drivers?" I asked knowing that thorough initial training had been given to the hand picked face crew, err…… not one hand raised, ok " Who knows how to switch the machine on?"……. still no response, ok " Who wants to be a shearer driver?" I ask in the certain knowledge that they would all want this most prestigious of jobs, still no response, might be my thick Barnsley accent, so I asked the undermanager who had been allocated as driver, "We thought that you would select someone to do the various jobs as and when needed", at this point I realised that the role of British Service Engineer was hardly preparation for what was to come. Out into the gate and conduct a series of interviews, names and educational abilities, previous experience etc. What an amazing experience that was, amongst this team of colliers we had one doctor of medicine, one of philosophy, arts, three of electrical engineering and on and on, only about six of these guys had worked for any amount of time underground, and obviously never with anything more technical than a shovel and wicker basket. (In fairness it did transpire that they were the men for the job, picking up their eventual roles quickly and in the main working to the best of their ability, adapting from the standard Indian work practises to as near a Barnsley method as I asked of them, I probably became more Indian than they converted to English).
Try as I might the Indian personal names in the main defeated me, but they without exception took to my translation or replacement, the senior face electrician became Charlie, because he had a Charlie Chaplin moustache, selected a shearer driver on the basis that I liked him and when I spoke to him he rose to attention and stuck his chest out, speaking back with full enthusiasm, I called him Digger because he had a wild massive black beard and reminded me of an Australian gold prospector, another I put in charge of the AFC loading point and maingate drive pushovers, I called John but later changed this to Jonah as it seemed that everything he touched either broke or disappeared. Along with the two Dowty Service lads we eventually seemed to have a worked out a role for everyone.
Ready for the first clean up run, water on "Charloo carro" (my best phonetic Indi), power on, drums in gear, cowls over, AFC belts running we are off, spalled coal flung onto the chain, rush to the back, clean up superb, back to the leading drum, wet through, exhilarated, proud but fearful, had anything been forgotten, safety checks all to the book, all done ………………except the bang and the flash and sudden stop, oh shit!! the cable loop, oh dear forgot didn't I, but I was never taught how to deploy people at the Training Centre, so I could hardly be responsible, could I ………yep I could and was, spare cable still in a box on the surface. But the main thing was that the shearer worked, a couple of days would see the new cable in place, and a duly appointed loop watcher appointed, instructed and introduced to the threat of physical abuse if the only other cable in Indian Continent was damaged or even scuffed, bless him.
Five full cuts later we were all getting the hang of it, Digger was almost able to swing the cowls over without my hand being on the top of his on the valve handle, he could at least switch the machine on and off once he remembered to turn the water on first, "CHARLOO CARRO DIGGER, GET THE FRIGGING WATER ON FIRST", " Ok Baboo, sorry", and we were off. We came to the end of the stable hole in the tail gate and were coming into the fist time full cut at the tail gate end, when the belts stood outbye, I isolated the machine and jumped over the face side to check the picks, looks ok then a glance to the coal we were about to cut, and I mean about to cut, some six inches away from the leading pick something caught my eye, about half way up the eight foot seam, looked like a piece of wire, quick poke and brush off of dust revealed a hole complete with det wire dangling from it, oh boy another one and another, " Mr. Undermanager", "Don't worry Mr.Daz I will got a man to take them out", the man arrives armed with a pick twenty words exchanged and he attacks the face randomly striking the coal, " Hold it, is that safe?" " Of course it is the man is very experienced ", "Just give me five minutes to clear the scene please, thank you, good day". The very experienced pick wielder did in fact remove all ten pills of powder complete with detonators without causing unneeded noise, and after half an hour of checking every inch of uncut coal I drove the shearer in to complete the very first full face cut.
All down hill after that, the face line quickly became established and it was running like clockwork, well a clock based on Indian time keeping that is a little erratic at times but at least the face was producing, I was also into the rhythm now I knew exactly when to stop to empty the sweat out of my steel toe capped wellies, and when to stop to exchange a chew of Black Pigtail with Digger for a lip full of his "Kyni " (Indian tobacco leaf smashed into tea leaf sized bits and then rolled in the palm of his hand with a paste of slaked lime), "Very good for energy" Digger assured me, he was right of course but the form of energy was heat, it certainly took the skin of the inside of my lips, but after the third layer had gone and healed I grew accustomed to that as well.
The trips into the pit were normally uneventful and I always felt confident in the Polish engineering control, occasionally meeting up with the resident Poles at the shaft side and exchanging the polite "Jin dobre", again my phonetic Polish (man of many languages, ugh!), the normal ingress was the downcast shaft, a lovely ride. One morning I was diverted to ride the upcast shaft a much smaller affair set up in the middle of a nearby field, not looking like part of the same pit at all, nothing elaborate here, a Meccano headstock with a five man wire passing through a round wooden cover made up of pallet boards, the cage arrived with a bang and lifted the wooden lid as it decked, it was at this point I noticed the unusual factor of everybody waiting for this draw had a folded umbrella with them, folded that is until they started to board the ten man cage, and then the brollies went up, it was also about this time that I realised that at six-foot I was about one foot taller than the average Indian collier, my turn to get on, forcing my way in with the brolly spokes at just about eye level, I bent a few that were of immediate danger to me closing them at that side to being closer to the shaft handles, not one word of resistance from anybody in fact a couple of thank yous, the cage dropped, the lid banged closed above us and then somebody turned the water main on, over my head or so it seemed, I have never known a shaft as wet hence the mystery of the brollies solved. A mate of mine travelling the same shaft sometime later being drawn out was stopped and held in the cage some few yards from the surface for about half an hour, the water pouring down on him so hard that it was difficult for him to breathe, close to panic he was eventually decked and demanded to know what the stoppage had been for, it was explained to him that it was an act of God and couldn't be helped, not just a simple mechanical failure,  a cow had chosen to step onto the lid and spend its period of contemplation without even a shuffle, the banksman being a devout type of guy had hit the emergency stop, and then waited for this most holy of creatures to make its own travel arrangements. My mate Steve no doubt expressed his atheist preference for cows in McDonald format.
Snakes, the one thing about India that caused me real suffering, never even made contact with one but I saw plenty, I have this inexplicable fear of snakes, inexplicable in the sense that no snake has ever threatened me and I was constantly assured by everyone that even the venomous ones were safe if left alone, ugh! I just don't believe them, especially when all the Job's comforters always go on to tell you about the exceptions that they have experienced or know of, like cobras never attack any human, except for the one last year in the officers tennis court that bit three players, oh! and the Coal Snake common to the State of Bihar, that surface after the monsoons and tend to chase people seemingly for the sport, they can be deadly, but these are exceptions, of course if you inadvertently tread on one or disturb it when you climb into bed or open a cupboard then you can expect to be bitten. Hence the tiptoe eyes glued to the floor mode of walking that I still use to this day even in my own garden.
 A toy rubber snake bought by one of he Dowty jokers and introduced to every guest house new comer's bed became Internationally famous and survived an estimated two hundred killings by pit boots, alarm clocks, copies of the Fiesta and Playboy not to mention being battered against bedroom wall on numerous occasions, somewhat belying the adage that the only safe snake is a rubber one.
Rats and other animals were abundant but never bothered me on a personal basis…except as they say, until I woke up one night to find a rat in bed with me, startled but not afeared, I attempted to vault out its way only to realise that I was trapped in by the mosquito net that I had learned so carefully to tuck in under the mattress frame, must have been worth a video, the rat doing a wall of death impression whilst I ricocheted from side to side like a Sumo wrestler in a bouncing castle, stronger than you think those cotton nets! Mice and Geckos were constant companions, frogs the size of dinner plates provided late night serenades and a constant atmosphere of flying, biting, buzzing things made the Piriton and anti-malaria tablets worthwhile.
After five and a half weeks of this wonderful experience, a few days before my relief was due to arrive and the pre planned rapid hand over it started to rain, not the standard English pouring it down type of real, but real serious Indian rain, it continued to rain for two weeks, not stopping for even a moment, things began to look serious, areas began to flood and even the dessert like plains soaked up their fill of water and started to become bog like, no sign of a replacement service engineer, so a trip to the post office to send a telex home asking where, when and why? The reply came two days later, delivered by a guy on an "amphibious motorbike", just what I wanted to hear; -" Sorry to hear about the flooding. Hope that you are safe. Have cancelled John's flight until we hear that the rain has stopped and the railways are back in operation."…………What railway operation? A swift enquiry at the main office revealed that the main line to Calcutta had been washed away in numerous places, bridges collapsed and miles of roads under impassable water levels, and nobody thought to mention it to me. So just keep going down the pit everyday and dream of home at night, the main thing was that the shearer behaved itself, the only restrictions seemed to be with the electrical power supply to the face, this was sorted eventually by the Polish engineers.
We as a team had become as friendly as the Poles wanted us to and eventually a night of drinking was organised in their bungalow, O.M.G. what a night that was, Saturday night through Sunday morning, Daz on nights Sunday to complete maintenance on the shearer, I went but wasn't sure what I had serviced. At the time of this get together I was feeling pretty rotten, circumstances meant that I had to extend my trip by at least three weeks (little did I know). I went to the Polish hostelry feeling badly treated but after a brief introduction and a guzzled bottle of vodka each the language barrier was broken and suddenly I was aware that my sentence was a mere distraction compared to their two year and five year contracts, like or lump it deal arranged on their behalf by the Polish government, no wonder the Poles drink like they can do! (I love the Polish miners to bits they are without doubt the best working miners in the world, and the hardest drinkers to boot, I hope that one day their country is able to recognise that and provide them with everything they deserve)…………..meantime it was still raining, cyclonic being the description thrown across the front pages of what few newspapers managed to get through to us, the worst rains in living memory, hundreds if not thousands feared drowned, Bangladesh, West Bengal and Bihar suffering the brunt of it, trust me to have caused all this ! Another telex from the UK. brilliant, bet it's stopped raining in Calcutta and John Kaye is on his way, just like John Wayne to relieve the worn out troops at camp Moonidih, well not quite that, it read something like this: - Hope that you are still ok. We have a problem here at the office (they think they have problems?). We were due to send another service engineer out to Dhemomain Colliery in West Bengal. The weather problems have obviously prevented this. We have confirmed with Moonidih that you can be allowed to travel to Dhemomain to commission surface trials of a single ended shearer there. Thanks Daz. Hoping the journey can be made safely…………what sort of people did I work for???
Ok, half a bag packed and setting off on an adventure that made my leaving of England not only a distant memory but also seeming like a day trip to Alton Towers.A car was arranged to take me on the short forty kilometre journey across the Bihar state boundary into West Bengal (out of Mafia country into Highway Bandit territory, but that is another story), the car driver known only as PK was a hardy little guy, fingers in everything that could make him a rupee or two (I later heard that he managed to get himself incarcerated for life, no doubt as a result of his business dealings). We began the journey still in the non stop torrential rain and spent the first twenty minutes listening to PK telling me why the trip was destined to fail, how fruitless it was our setting off in the first place and describing the dozens of ways that we would meet our fate on this notorious stretch of GT Road. Hijacked, tortured and robbed, before being chopped up into tiny bits by the Dacoits, drowned in the torrential flooded rivers whilst trying to cross one of the numerous bridges that the GT Road crossed, that is of course if any of the bridges remained intact, or simply die of starvation when we became trapped in a totally isolated area, "gerrart yer wimp PK just drive on". Two hours and about fifteen kilometres later I began to realise that at least his prophesy of being washed away might be a possibility, most of this main road was under water sometimes totally invisible within acres of flooded plains, but somehow PK kept the nearly new Ambassador going, water nearly up to the pedals. We had to stop a few times for things like: - fishing nets stretched across the road by villagers taking full advantage of the flooded rivers, abandoned lorries, trees, swept away homes and hutments and most worrying of all disappeared bridges. Each time we came to a major obstruction a wading peasant was found and a bypass route prescribed, it transpired that a possible through route was still passable if we went fifty kilometres out of our way and climbed up into the mountains way out to the west of the direction we required. PK was now a changed man, not the wimp we set off with but now a potential Bollywood hero who would surmount all that nature at its worst could put before him, a determined Pony Express type of guy! I in turn was going the opposite way, arrogance gone considering now what PK had said on setting out…what is a Dacoit? (Only an armed robber that rarely stopped at just robbing his victims).
Up into the mountains and suddenly a miracle, sunshine and no water, well no rain anyway, a miracle, a new world, we even found a picnic area at the side of a chain of manmade lakes with a series of dams and took Tiffin with tea. But looking down the valleys we could still see the rain and little else, the downhill run went fairly well and we eventually arrived at the Dhemomain Guest house in the dark. More tea and bed, suitcase shoved under the bed, PK already snoring two beds away, dropped off with a satisfied "I knew I could do it" grin on his face. Still raining as I drifted off. Woke to the continuing pounding of rain on the roof, but with the first open eye I noticed my suitcase at the side of the bed, I had been burgled, jumped straight out of bed into three inches of water, not burgled just flooded. It transpired that on the previous evening a decision had been made by local government officials that it in order to prevent the catastrophic failure of the dams that we had passed earlier that day, these would be opened and the pressure relieved, in doing so the valley on the banks of which our guest house sat was flooded overnight. Only a small part of he story really, it turned out that hundreds of villagers had been drowned in this manmade inrush, a major enquiry was conducted revealing that although the decision to open the dams had to be made quickly warnings had been given to all the valley's villages to evacuate, not all taking heed.
To Dhemomain Colliery offices, where I met the manager who described to me what was expected of me, basically to "unwrap" the shearer and set it up on AFC pans on the surface in order to provide hands on training and obviously ensure the machine was working, sounded dead easy, nearly worth the journey. Well not quite that easy, I nearly forgot that this was India, "The Land That Forgot Time", the next few days were spent meeting important people of all ranks that needed to know about Longwalling, people like the Senior Stores Manager, who just happened to mention that before opening the box it would be necessary for me to check the inventory for all the spares held in the stores relating to the installation, every nut and bolt, every hose and spanner had to be found and confirmed as being correct to the initial order lists, the shipping lists, the parts list, their own goods received lists, individual shelving / location lists and that held by the local branch of Tesco.…..or so it seemed. This was my real introduction to Indian Industrial Bureaucratic "Tripleography", why do it once when three times will do! I must admit that here at Dhemomain I was allowed reasonable access to the Longwall Stores whereas in Moonidih I was asked to provide a thumb print each time I entered and left the armed guard check point, thumbs down to that I am afraid.
All spares checked and the missing 20% identified and listed in triplicate for someone else to look for, they had after all only been delivered a couple of years prior to my arrival so why rush now. Eventually I was allowed to open the box, with great ceremony the ginormous wooden crate was pulled apart to reveal the complete animal, an AB16"Single Ended Ranging Drum Shearer sat securely on its two foot high bed frame in turn sitting on two AFC pans, looking like new in its gleaming Blood Red livery, well it would have gleamed if it had not still been throwing it down and the rain somewhat taking the edge of this ceremonial unveiling. The crate was probably worth all the £5,000 it was likely to have cost, the water proofing had certainly proved adequate and the protective beams had ensured the shearer arrived undamaged after sailing halfway round the world. The chances that within hours of the shearer being removed from this Tap Room sized box, a village family would have taken up residence in it were pretty good, this adding even greater value to it.
The machine was oiled up and checked out as best I could before the power was provided and the moment of truth arrives, clear the scene of all spectators, who ranged from babes in arms through to little old ladies all of whom lived within spitting distance of this test site, there were even a couple of labourers who actually worked at the pit in attendance, everybody else that mattered were either checking some batch of triplicated invoice listings or taking the afternoon siesta, press the start button and ……….nothing, try again nothing, back to the antiquated supply panel pull a few knobs and press a couple of buttons in hope that something would become reset. Still nothing, a new game now, find the electrician and it is still raining. The next morning I lodged the complaint as diplomatically as I could, an electrician was found on the surface, a poor bedraggled fitter was dragged from underground and told not to leave my side, the electrician sloped off to rectify the power supply and I talked the fitter through the machine basics as written in the supplied service manual, what I never told him though was that we learned about the hydraulic haulage system at exactly the same time, it looked like the tried and trusted AB16"Haulage end that I had worked on thousands of times before, but I opened the service manual and saw a completely different hydraulic system, wonderful, inspired real confidence in me. It turned out that the haulage system was a one off special. Eventually power was supplied and the machine run up, without a hitch, the only problem being that pit yard had reached saturation level and the place started to hold water, by the end of the shift the whole of the pit yard was under two inches of water and still raining, not a pleasant thought particularly as the mine was based on several shallow drifts. I heard serious worries expressed at the pit about the real risk of flooding and that several smaller collieries in the district had been inundated and had been abandoned. Some years later I was told that a lot of these mines were never opened again as a result of this flooding, did I mention about the rain?
The fitter I called Ranji, it seemed to be the nearest to his proper name that we both agreed could be recognised and I settled for Das, this guy grew on me, he was only about five and a half stone wet through but was as strong as an ox and a grafter to boot, his English was only slightly better than my non existent mastery of his Bengali, but we eventually spoke fluently to each other in a tongue that only we two understood, I was to meet up and work with Ranji on many occasions later, socialising with him as best I could after work despite warnings from the aristocracy of mine officers that we upper classes should not be mixing with the lower orders, resulting in an explosive interview with a mines security officer who came to the guest house in order to show me the error of my ways and instruct me not to see Ranji after work, I suspect that this security man had never even heard of Polar Ajax, but he left having experienced its verbal equivalent, I remember that day well, it was the day it stopped raining.
Ranji came to work one morning with his head bandaged under his pit helmet I thought at first that he had become an overnight Sikh, but he eventually told me that he had been suffering headaches for a number of weeks and eventually gone to the mines hospital and spoken to a doctor, on being questioned Ranji told he doc that he smoked ganjha almost continuously once away from work, the doc told him that he must stop and if he didn't then his head would explode, whilst something may have been lost in translation I am sure that Ranji had bound his head against the risk of physical explosion, bless him. Worthy of note here is the fact that ganjha or cannabis leaves / grass, call it what you will, was legally available in government stores at that time and cost about twenty rupees a kilo (about £1.20p), a bottle of beer was about the same price. Get a lot of happy people with a kilo of ganjha, but not that many from a pint of lager……………Indian economics at its best.
At this point I feel that I must make comment on the food, I am sure than we…as foreign guests were provided with the best available and a lot of trouble had been taken to select cooks with previous experience of cooking for English or Western tastes, but I am afraid that on a personal basis I have an almost morbid fear of curries as in the form of a fluid poured onto a bed of rice, with disguised lumps of whatever rising from it with the occasional recognisable pea peeking from it as if in order to convince me that it is safe to eat, so I lived basically being as awkward as I could on a diet of egg and finger chips, vegetable samosas (for some reason I love them, perhaps because the contents are in plain view not buried in a brown sludge), tea and hot cross buns. The tea became really special to me and the day that I was introduced to Adrak Chi was a turning point in my life, a huge muslin bag of black tea suspended within a boiling cauldron of water and buffalos' milk saturated with sugar and the special ingredient of crushed ginger root added in the tea makes a true nectar. I make this at home occasionally and although it is still special it never quite reaches the Dhemomain standards, I am at present saving up to buy a Water Buffalo Cow. Rice I love and naan bread with a bowl of tomato soup and would you believe pickled onions, I did venture out to a transport café on the GT road and risked a brace of Tandori cooked Chicken, with plain boiled rice no fancy dips, dhal or sauces, just the plain chicken and of course the naan bread, plain an simple no problems……….spent two days with one leg in bed and the other in the toilet, stick to the chips and hot cross buns.
I was later destined to carry the brand of Mr Das Special Chi throughout India, no one cook ever being able to understand how much ginger tea could be drunk at any time of the year, when it was only known as an occasional winter beverage, India was always hot to me winter or summer, which may explain why I had the ability to drink gallons of it on a daily basis. At the Dhemomain surface trial it became a bit of a drag to maintain the numerous trudges up to the village encampment to effect the numerous tea break fixes that I now required so I negotiated a "transfer fee" with the local café proprietor who eventually saw the light and overnight built a clay based tea making assemblage at the end of the pan line and for an agreed daily fortune, ensuring that adrak chi was available to everyone that required one at any time, courtesy of Anderson Strathclyde via Entertainment Expenses.
After various technical setbacks primarily relating to the fact that our machine could not negotiate the Indian made AFC pans it was accepted by all that the machine was as specified and passed its initial trials, the AFC pans were scrapped and new ones made that lined up in abutment with a little less than the 22mm offset of the first batch.
I had two days R&R in Calcutta awaiting me before my trip home to face my beloved and attempt to explain why I had stolen an extra eight weeks of tropical holidaying and lounging, it transpired that most of the letters that I had painstakingly written home had either been lost in the floods or had the stamps stolen from them before they even entered the postal system (a stamp costing about the same as a surface worker's day wage). John Kaye my mate and Moonidih replacement was able to take his mid term break at the same time as I was returning to Calcutta, so we managed to contact each other and meet up at a railway station on route to Calcutta, brilliant what a joy, two days to chill out together, err… not quite, yet again, the tracks were impassable, no trains, but no great deterrent to two young pioneers, get a taxi we will drive down, the first twenty taxi drivers just fell down laughing at the suggestion, but then another Pony Express type of guy, "Why not? Give me a handful of rupees and we can have a go" and have a go we did, in fact covered the two hundred kilometres in about twenty hours having spent four taxi drivers, waded waist deep for what seemed like miles, cajoled lifts on the back of oxen carts and eventually travelling the last thirty kilometres hanging onto the side of a local commuter train.
No Hindustan Hotel rubbish this time we were splashing out on a couple of nights in the Oberio Grand, the grandest of all hotels, a night here was about the same cost as a week in the Hindustan, but we had earned it, (well that was the intended plan when we were under the spotlight in the Export Directors Detention Room being debriefed and held accountable for the overspend of expenses). Stepped as haughtily as we could from the final taxi bringing us in from the flooded Howrah Railway Station, onto the palatial steps of the Grand past the disbelieving commissionaires and squelched our smelly, muddy, tide marked selves up to the front desk, thoughts of Mags and other things flashed before me as the immaculately saried beauty booked us in with the most artificial of flashing white smiles, bless her. Saturated cases were pulled to one side by bellhops looking as though they were handling the innards of a slaughterhouse cow carcass. A quick glance round and spotted the pool side bar, "Beer before a shower?" "You bet we are" err…. yet again wrong. "Two bottles of Black Label please" "Sorry sir, it is a dry day, we are respecting the death day of Ghandi", of all the bars in all the world, on today of all days, to us of all people, after all we had been through I really felt a sense of sorrow for the passing of Mr Ghandi. However I did recall having been told by one of the Dowty reps. who had been to India previously, that anything obtainable in the world was always available in Calcutta, just ask so I did just that, nipped back onto the hotel steps and a quick glance identified what I was looking for, a slinking shadow of a native spiv, eying me up from behind a hotel canopy pillar and wishing me out of the jurisdiction of the sword carrying commissionaires, I walked out onto the pavement and he intercepted me with the speed and accuracy of an Exocet missile, " You want a young lady, sahib, fresh young schoolgirls, Chinese, Indian all virgins sahib" " Err no thanks nothing like that" "Ok sahib , no problem you want older lady perhaps" "No thank what I would like though is…." "Very old lady perhaps then sahib" " No, no, no what I want is….." "Ah ok sahib I know, you prefer boys perhaps, I can get you those as well no problem" at this point as Tony Capstick would say I gently picked him up by the throat and said "Just shurrup and listen, what I want is some beer, ice cold beer and a lot of it, like now, straight away" " Ah ok sahib thank you, it is no problem either, I can get you beer and a lady or a boy as well" an arrangement was made and I rushed inside up to the room and we showered and put the driest cleanest jeans and tee shirts that we had on and dashed back outside.
A taxi was waiting and about five minutes later we found ourselves in the notorious School Street area, followed the tout down a shoulder wide passage with John walking backwards behind me like a tail end Charlie. Arriving at a wooden door in the side of the passage our guide knocked gently and a hatch opened at eye level, two million words were exchanged in a five second discussion and the bolts were drawn door opened and we were inside. At this point exactly as the door was banged shut and the bolts slammed back in place I looked at John and read in his face exactly what I was about to say, " Are we mad or what?" A really well dressed guy approached us from the stair case immediately in front of us and in impeccable English asked what kind of lady we preferred, I explained that there was no way women were to be involved and that we had only called to collect some beer, he laughed and said that his business was to supply beer with woman, not just beer, negotiating skills to the fore, " If I bought one woman and twenty four bottles of beer how much would that be?" " Five hundred rupees", that meant that the beer was twice the price we had been paying out in the sticks, "And do we get a rebate if we don't take the lady?" a simple NO clinched the deal and we took the beer at the inclusive price of the lady but never even saw her. Thanking the proprietor very much we left with my suggestion that the unknown lady should at least get a tip out of the profits.
 By way of a change we decided on a rickshaw back, the poor guy who selected us on hailing a hand drawn carriage was coughing and spluttering before we even set off, so John being the gentleman that he is jumped out and beckoned a second rickshaw for himself, ten yards advance and the guy pulling me had to stop for another cough, so I jumped out picked him up and placed him on the seat grabbed the shafts found the balance point and ran off with a screaming, spluttering ex rickshaw driver believing that he had been hijacked by an alien half wit. He was mostly correct in assuming that, but I had no real intention of hijacking the vehicle, half wit and only there on a visa, yes! I could hear John behind shouting, I just said "Race you back to the Grand", turning with some difficulty to glance behind I saw John nearly to blows with his driver whilst bundling him to the seat, here comes the alarming bit, I tried to slow down to allow John to catch up, but couldn't. Each time I tried to place my feet flat on the road the balance of the rickshaw just bounced me up off the road, it was like running in air with no means of slowing down, the driver obviously recognised what was happening and his screaming mellowed to a tone of mere panic, I did eventually manager to stop the thing but only thirty yards past the Grand after three quarters of a mile spinning round corners on one wheel shooting across honking car filled main roads and side streets alike, at an estimated control rate of about twenty five percent, not a deal worse than the professional rickshaw operators really. The commissionaires of the Grand ran to my assistance as I bounced to a stop only to be brushed aside as John went streaming past shouting "How the friggin hell do you stop it?" John was always the better technician but never as practical as me. I turned to the driver expecting him to attack me to find him curled up and laughing hysterically, he had grown to enjoy the trip and even more so, my dilemma and near panic had brought some light relief to what must have been a totally boring existence. Anyone that has been to Calcutta is unlikely to believe the next bit, but when I tried to pay the man he refused the money telling me that I had done all the work, I had to force a bundle of rupee notes into his hand before I grabbed the beer and dove into the hotel before the police posse arrived. Strange looks at the front desk when I went for the key but Indian etiquette prevented any verbal comment. The beer was warm and tasted vile!!
The flight home was uneventful, apart from the time spent queuing outside the toilets, the grade of urgency reaching about eleven out of ten at times, the Delhi Belly syndrome had become acceptable over the last thirteen weeks, a toilet being only a moderate dash away within the guest house and underground even more accessible, but the Boeing 747 was hardly designed with this factor in mind, perhaps commode type seats should be considered for flights to India and other like Montezuma ruled countries.
The previous chapter events were continued for some weeks after my return to the UK with near terrifying consequences for some of the guys that had stayed at the Moonidih guesthouse. A week or so after my return whilst working at a Yorkshire pit I turned up on days only to be crippled by stomach cramps after drawing my checks, half stripped I had to dash to the loo and was still there well after riding times, I made the decision to go home and visit the docs. I got dressed and went for a cup of tea in the canteen, just as I sat down a colleague from Anderson dashed in and said " Thank goodness you haven't gone down the pit, you have to ring this number and speak to the Dowty doctor straight away it is urgent". Needless to say I rang from the control room at the pit, no idea why the urgency, the words that mattered were as follows: - Tommy Logan Dowty service engineer in hospital, amoebic dysentery, bleeding, dangerous, life threatening get to your own doctor or hospital straight away for tests, don't worry too much but don't leave it, do it now. Whoosh gone! Straight into my doctors morning surgery he listened and smiled "Are you bleeding?" what's he mean "Thick?" perhaps, "Oh that! Don't know never looked", "Take this sample jar fill it and take this letter with it to the hospital". I did and the NHS wheels never turned quicker, this Amoebic Dysentery thing really cocks ears up, shoved into a side room and within thirty minutes the results were back "Take this to your doctor " she said handing me a sealed letter, " Does this mean I have this dysentery thing or not?" "Can't tell you the results, see your doctor". Caught him just leaving the surgery, and credit due he unlocked it and took me back in, read the letter and said (genuinely said), "Well good news and bad news really" "You haven't got Amoebic Dysentery thank goodness, but you appear to have every other creepy crawly that the eastern world can provide" " Take a month off and this medication". Dead easy really, other than the fact that he put travellers enteritis on my sick note and my boss wouldn't recognise that, " Get yer arse in here in two days time, and consider your holiday over". The good news was that Tommy Logan survived the bout, but took a long time to get back into the swing of things.
Mags eventually started talking to me again and we married in time, but in between other foreign adventures and extreme heartache on both our parts.
Copyright © Daz Beattie.
All Rights Reserved.
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