Happy Hour

by Kirby Browne (Canada)

I didn't expect to find Nepal

I was glad I had worn my sunglasses when the tears started to spill behind them. As I squatted on the banks of the Rapti River, amid the joyful shrieks and splashes of the tourists who had paid 300 Nepali rupees for the experience, an immense sadness began to yawn over me. The hotel manager had directed me along the lithe curve of the river, to a place where the banks were worn smooth by the comings and goings of large soft feet. I settled myself in the sand and watched a woman hang clumps of bananas from long pieces of twine, as I waited for the elephants to arrive. I had come to Nepal seeking what was still wild of the world, what was still wild of myself. I sometimes felt trapped in the comforts and conveniences of my life, at night dreaming of places touched only by the secret passage of wind and sun, and the soft pad and howl of wild things. At exactly 10am, two elephants, hand-painted in swirling mandalas, plodded obediently down the riverbank. It was obvious they had done this hundreds of times. They were set in the shallows facing the swelling crow. A small boy, bamboo stick in hand, sat atop the head of each, calling shrill commands. “Chhop” meaning “spray water” was a crowd favourite. A few tourists became part of the spectacle, climbing onto the elephants’ backs to be showered in fat brown droplets. Afterwards, I noticed elephants on every street, tethered at the ankles and swaying beneath rude thatch shelters. They are the sombre heart of the small tourist settlement of Sauraha, perched on the rim of wildest Nepal—Chitwan National Park, not two miles away, where Bengal tigers and one-horned rhinos are protected fiercely by armed soldiers, and wild elephants routinely destroy viewing towers and send tourists scampering up the trees. I escaped the heat of the day in a small restaurant where stray dogs littered the floor and a cocktail of languages could be heard most times of day. It was here that I was approached by Mike—a Canadian ex-pat, thin and rangy. He asked if I was there for the “elephant happy hour,” and something about his way made me answer this ambiguous question with a yes. After brief introductions, eight of us squeezed into the back of a jeep. We passed the squat, clay and thatch huts of the Tharu people as the edges of the road grew thick with jungle. Finally we arrived at a clearing where many swaying elephants were being saddled alongside tall wooden towers full of waiting tourists. We made our way through the clearing on foot to a small glittering stream that stretched far off to the West towards the Chitwan Park Border. A saddle-less elephant emerged from behind the screen of brush that skirted the clearing. Mike told us her name was Santi. She was 65 years old, and had been in captivity her whole life. After accepting a few outstretched radishes, she dismissed us and moved towards the water, where, against a horizon of vivid blues and greens, she showered herself in sunlit droplets over and over. After that, we followed her into the trees, and in the hushed heat of mid afternoon the eight of us squatted, nibbling on wild white berries and talking quietly. Long lazy Sal trees arched overhead as Santi rubbed casually on their coarse bark and made deep throaty noises of satisfaction. Mike explained to us that he rents a working elephant for an hour each afternoon. He removes her saddle and lets her roam. Sometimes she wallows, sometimes she rubs; sometimes she just stands still and breathing, hidden among the trees. It is the only time in her day she will not be working with tourists, or tethered. For Santi, it was one small hour, a punctuation mark to cleave the weary day. But as we paused on the fringe of the Nepali jungle, time stretched out like the slow and winding Rapti; Santi revelled in the simplicity of her brief wildness, and we in ours.