Strictly Out of Bounds

by Jennifer Downing (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

I didn't expect to find India

Strictly Out of Bounds When someone tells me it‘s impossible then I just have to give it a go. An armed guard boarded the bus at the checkpoint, muttered something to the conductor, who unhesitatingly pointed at me. The sound of applause and good wishes followed me as I descended from the bus to be welcomed by a gentleman in a pink shirt. He told me he honoured me, and my country, was grateful I was visiting India, but I would not be visiting the ship breaking yards at Alang. All this before I had uttered a single word. The approach road flanked by stalls displayed the spoils of an occupation whose world-wide exposure as dangerous and exploitative by well meaning ecological groups had made visiting, let alone photographing, nigh on impossible. Life jackets, life belts, gilt framed mirrors, sumptuous sofas and silver cutlery, were there for the connoisseur collector. If I had seen the words ‘RMS Titanic’ on the crockery I doubt I would have been surprised. A rickshaw was hailed with the words “madam should return to town”. I explained I was disappointed and needed time to absorb the fact that I had been thwarted in my main reason for coming to Gujarat and told the rickshaw wallah he would not be needed. I entered the hut, where the dust was whisked from a plastic chair and was invited to sit down, handed a glass of chai, and asked if I had sufficient bottled drinking water. My companions went about their business, casting occasional glances in my direction, but offering nothing in the way of encouragement. I pleaded with them, asked if we could ‘phone their head office for an eleventh hour permission, but nothing doing. A white 4-wheel drive vehicle drew up and I was told that this was the ‘boss’. Thinking this might be a good thing in my mission I asked the occupants of the car if it would be possible for them to move up and allow me in. I was told in no uncertain terms, but with some polite reluctance, that could not happen. Having drunk my chai I was permitted to stand outside for some fresh air on the proviso I left my camera inside and didn’t try and walk around. The armed guard accompanied me. In the distance a cruise ship’s white superstructure taunted me. I shed tears of disappointment – so near yet so far. The guard gestured to my tissue and I handed him a clean one. Throwing it on the ground he held his hand out for the one I had used ! Since I had blown my nose into it – I declined - it wouldn’t have been a welcome souvenir. Re-entering the checkpoint hut, I noticed a cellophane wrapped bouquet of fresh and jauntily coloured gerbera had appeared in this most unlikely of places. Brushing away the dust from the wrapping, a middle-aged older gentleman, who had been chosen to hand the flowers to me, bashfully walked towards me, his eyes firmly on the ground. He looked up with a big grin as I took the bouquet from him, and touched his right hand to his heart. I returned the gesture. In the light of this unexpected development which heralded an end to hospitality, I had to accept that it was time to withdraw graciously and when a bus bound for Bhavnagar drew up I boarded, my unexpected gift cradled on my lap. Now it was my turn to smile. At my guesthouse the receptionist was keen to know how I had fared. “You were right”, I said,” they didn’t let me in”, then taking the flowers from behind my back, “but they did give me these”. The following day I made my way once again to the bus stand and watched the workers’ bus leave for the ship breaking yards. Suddenly all the windows on my side of the bus were pulled open, two grinning faces appearing at each one. As the bus turned towards the exit in a cloud of dust I heard ‘come on madam, give it another go’. ‘Climb aboard madam’. I just couldn’t put the checkpoint personnel through it. Maybe one day.