Rafting > Articles > Adventuring in India

I‘m alone on a beach on the Upper Ganga in the northern Indian state of Uttar Pradesh, dining by lamplight on sublime vegetable curry and freshly cooked chapattis. 30 kilometres downstream, the towns of Rishikesh and Hardwar are bursting at the seams with a million devout pilgrims who’ve come from all over India to bathe in the holy waters of the pollution-choked river. Here, however, on the silver shores where the water runs clean and fresh, I am a solitary tourist, alone except for five non-English speaking Indian boys waiting on me hand and foot, and a gregarious, flea-ridden local puppy.

I hear a storm approaching, progressing down the valley like a marching army, stomp stomp stomp. Well-fed and satisfied, I retire with Puppy in tow to my Imperial-Raj style tent, close the flaps, blow out the kerosene lamp, and wait…

The army is now a rampaging monster, its roar echoing through the foothills of the Himalaya. Deafening thunder claps bounce between the peaks, tripling the intensity. The wind starts to howl, tearing at the flaps of my tent. Flashes of forked lightning illuminate the ghostly world outside, strobe-lights of brilliance, more frantic by the second.

I can hear the river start to churn as it gorges on the pelting rain. Visions of rising floodwaters, cascading boulders, mudslides and avalanches flash before my eyes in unison with the electrical display outside. I think of the pilgrims further down river, sleeping under plastic canopies or even in the streets; I think of illness and death, surely the result of such exposure to the elements.

Inside my bone-dry, stable and comparatively palatial tent it is pitch black. My trusty box of Aussie Redhead matches prove useless, failing to light strike after strike, fizzling in the moisture, snapping in half. I lay quivering on the hard table-top bed in the eerie darkness, grateful for the comforting whimpers of the mangy pup scratching at its fleas, evidence of life in a world where I’ve never felt so alone, so vulnerable, a victim of the forces of nature.

I am scared. Well, terrified. Not so much of dying, but of getting really, really wet. I pray for an end to the furious tempest. It doesn’t come. The storm lasts for nine terrifying hours.

Suddenly I wake – have I really slept? – to a gentle voice outside. “Madam, chai… wake up madam.” I stumble out, grateful for a warming cup of over-sweet tea, grateful for a smiling face, grateful for life. The sun is rising over the misty peaks of the emerald foothills; and the Ganges, swollen and purified by the rain, gurgles happily besides the crystal beach. It as if nothing had ever happened.

The locals call this area ‘The Abode of the Gods’. I now understand why. Not only is it achingly beautiful, but it’s a place where existence is at its most intense. Here, man and nature are as one. Life and death co-exist. The Gods create; the Gods destroy. And it appears the Gods were very, very angry indeed last night.

Legend has it that the Ganges was once a river-goddess whose fall from the heavens was cushioned by the quick-thinking and hirsute Shiva, his matted dreadlocks saving the world from her destructive floodwaters. Ganga is the most sacred river in India, the Mother Goddess, the Giver of Life. Her waters purify every Hindu home, and millions of devotees bathe in ghats along her banks in the hope that they will be released from the cycle of death and re-birth.

Having experienced Ganga on a bad night, however, I decide I’m more than happy with my cycle just the way it is. I vow to give the Mother Goddess a wide berth.

I had come to this part of the world to experience adventure, Indian-style. “Expect to get wet ‘n’ wild on the river; then high ‘n’ dry in the desert”, the email from TigerPaw Adventures had said. The former referring to a whitewater expedition; the latter to a horse trek in the sandy wastelands of Rajasthan. It sounded great, if somewhat daunting – I’ve never attempted rafting before, and India isn’t the obvious place to learn. Images of body parts floating in the river, rapids choked with plastic bags and overcrowded hospitals flashed through my mind.

“Don’t worry, it’s a holy river,” Inder Jit, the owner of TigerPaw, had joked. Yes, but did that mean she would be kind to me, or demand my eternal soul?

My fears were soon allayed once I laid eyes on Ganga in the flesh. After the filth and chaos of Delhi, she appeared serene and beautiful; her wide jade belly was clean and pure, her rapids relatively gentle and the beautiful silver sand beaches a sight for tired, pollution-infected eyes. The steeply-terraced Himalayan foothills gracing her banks were verdant and rich, emerald green, ablaze with the kaleidoscope of Indian life. The whole scene was one of idyllic tranquillity. It’s little wonder that this area is a magnet for those seeking spiritual enlightenment. Yoga centres and ashrams abound; pilgrims wander from shrine to shrine, offering prayers and incense to the complex pantheon of Hinduism; and sadhus and holy men meditate silently on the river banks.

Curiously enough, the Upper Ganges has also become a magnet for adventure seekers. It is the stepping-off point for trekkers taking on the Indian Himalaya; there are some brilliant rock-climbing and abseiling peaks; elephant treks explore surrounding national parks; and cheap skiing is available in winter. Most popular, however, is whitewater rafting, which in the past ten years has become a burgeoning industry, particularly amongst middle-class Indians enamoured with anything remotely Western.

At least 20 rafting camps litter the banks of the Upper Ganges, white colonial tents pitched to perfection on a myriad of silver beaches. The river is rated from grade one to five, depending on the season; after the winter snows melt, she flows with an icy furore through evocatively named rapids such as ‘Rollercoaster’, ‘Three Blind Mice’ or ‘Golf Course’. The rafting season runs from October to May.

TigerPaw’s beach camp at Seng-Tali in the Garhwal district is not a dedicated rafting outfit as such; rather, it is a simple retreat on a private beach where one can observe bird and animal life, trek the foothills or relax in a truly magnificent wilderness setting. High paths and vantage points afford glorious views across the river, where sheer cliff faces blend with jungle to screen small villages, tucked away on agricultural terraces. Guests can be as active or inactive as they wish; contemplation of one’s naval in such an environment is practically mandatory.

My goal, however, was to take on the Mother Goddess in a raft…but it was not to be. Thanks to the stormy outburst the previous night and continuing ominous weather, my whitewater expedition was cancelled. So was a scheduled elephant trek through the nearby Chilla National Park. Despite my brush with nature’s wrath the previous night, I couldn’t help but be disappointed – my enthusiasm for adventure had not been dampened, even though everything else had been.

There’s one soft-adventure activity, however, which rain cannot put asunder – walking. The hills surrounding Seng-Tali abound with trails, rumoured to be inhabited by leopard, bear and stags. The paths cut through mountain passes, into tiny mountain hamlets, past shrines and over suspension bridges, a legacy of British rule. In the humidity, it is a challenging climb, demanding on the knees and punishing for the lungs – the perfect training ground for anyone taking on the higher Himalayan peaks. The mini-trek is a feast for the senses – lush sub-tropical vegetation and spectacular vistas across the river; the aroma of incense, wafting from the doorways of shrines; and the distant chatter of Indian women en-route to a local market, a herd of goats in tow.

In India, there is always a human presence; even on the quietest mountain trail, you’ll inevitably stumble across a noisy schoolyard, workers tilling the field, or even a local cricket match, enthusiastic youngsters rehearsing for a life of glory and fame. Also unavoidable is the overwhelming Indian hospitality – in the middle of nowhere, you’ll inevitably be invited into a stranger’s home for a cup of chai and probing questions about western life and its impact on this fascinating part of the world.

From the sublime to the ridiculous – or perhaps visa versa – Stage 2 of my TigerPaw tour would lead me to a vastly different landscape. Rajasthan is as flat as the Upper Ganges is high; a dusty, dry, monotonous wasteland, harsh and inhospitable. In this desert state of 56 millions souls, water is the most precious commodity of all, every drop pumped from the ground savoured. No flash floods here – the region has been suffering from a crippling drought, the life-giving monsoon rains a thing of the pre-Global Warming past.

For all its natural drabness, Rajasthan is ablaze with the colours of a rich and exotic culture. Iridescent greens, canary yellows, chilli red and electric blues abound in a sea of turbans and lavishly embroidered saris – the effect is simply dazzling, a joy to behold, and reflective of the warmth and hospitality of the people.

This is particularly true in the northern region of Shekhawati, a place relatively undiscovered and untainted by tourism. Here, to be a wealthy white tourist is a curiosity; to be a visitor on horseback is a miracle, a truly fascinating sight. At every village, we were greeted with enthusiastic shouts and waves; sari-clad matriarchs would giggle shyly at our daunting presence, and children would dash across fields of mustard seed for a close up view of the weirdly-dressed riders. “Hello, hello, namaste”… the warmest, most genuine welcome in the world.

It is this effusive hospitality that makes riding in India a special experience – but what makes it a true adventure is the horses themselves.

The Marwari is one of the world’s great equine enigmas, a breed relatively unknown to the Western world and largely neglected in its native India. Bred as battle companions for the ruling Rajput nobles in medieval Rajasthan, this breed, descended from Oriental stock, is fiery, proud and intelligent. It has a strong, arched neck and high head carriage, topped by distinctive lyre-shaped ears, which, when pricked, form a perfect arch. A fine, silky coat and long, dewy eyelashes are other evolutionary traits, designed to ease the burden of desert dwelling.

Incredibly beautiful, these horses are also hardy, fit… and fast. The rides are conducted at a cracking pace; a command to “trot” inevitably leading to a full-on gallop through the dunes, for three, four… perhaps more… kilometres at a time. For riders used to leisurely trails, this can be an exhausting, if exhilarating experience – a high standard of horsemanship is mandatory, and riding fitness a definite advantage. Long hours in the saddle, combined with the furious pace make this a truly physical experience.

Countering this, however, is the luxurious treatment you’ll receive after a long day’s ride. The rides are based at Dundlod Fort, owned by Kanwar Raghuvendra Singh, a descendant of the town’s original founder. Better known as ‘Bonnie’, this tall and distinguished nobleman is an incredible horseman who has almost single-handedly saved from Marwari horse from extinction. His breeding stables are the largest and most impressive in the country, and his prized stallions and mares are now being exported to the United States where they sell for over US$25,000.

Ten or so years ago, Bonnie, astute businessman that he is, jumped on the tourism bandwagon, converting his family fort into a heritage hotel, beautifully decorated and modestly luxurious with unique, charming rooms and an impeccable level of service. His riding safaris are conducted with similar pomp and circumstance; after a ‘red carpet’ welcome, guests head off on their rides accompanied by a team of over 30 staff members – grooms, chefs, tent pitchers - guests barely need to lift a finger.

There are no ‘orange and sandwich’ breaks on these rides – lunch consists of a three-course hot meal, delicious curries, wine – you name it. And at the end of the day, there are comfortable beds, set up in impressive Imperial Raj-style canvas tents – a cosy end to a wearying day in the saddle.

As well as extended safaris into the Shekhawati desert, exploring hilltop towns, bustling villages and lavishly decorated mansions known as ‘havelis’, short rides are also available for guests staying at Dundlod Fort.

TigerPaw Adventures is a specialist agent for horse-riding and adventure holidays all over the world. Owner Inder Jit Singh, based in both Delhi and Canada, is an experienced horseman with a particular interest in polo and a passion for Marwari horses. IJ will organise custom trips to Dundlod Fort as well as set-date safaris; he’ll also organise accommodation, extension trips to cities such as Jaipur, and activities either end of your horse-riding adventure, including whitewater rafting at his Ganges beach.

Storms, according to IJ, are not intentionally scheduled. I’m not so sure…

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