A BOARing encounter

A number of my recent blogs having veered away from being strictly tea-centric, with this one I’ve decided to make amends by rewinding and turning the clock back all the way to 1977 when I was still an Assistant Superintendent with Malayalam Plantations, doing my two bits on Panniar estate under the tutelage of my father-figure boss – Abid Khan.

Panniar, on account of the estate being a 250 Hectare estate, was a single Assistant billet.  The upshot being that for any social interaction I was totally dependent upon Abid & Shamim.  I hasten to add that while I was always welcome in their bungalow and spent many an evening with them playing badminton and scrabble, there was no getting away from the fact that one can’t really let one’s hair down in the bosses house.  The High Range Club besides the fact that it was an hour and a half away from Panniar which, on week days was about as full of beans as the proverbial Dodo, come the weekend would suddenly spring back to life.  The upshot being that for the planting fraternity of the district, the club ended up being only the weekend getaway.

It being de rigueur that a somewhat high spirited youngster is required to let off a bit of steam every now and then and can’t just keep waiting for the weekend to do so, quite often during midweek post evening muster I’d hop on to my bike for the one hour ride across the valley to Surianalle which, being a large property, had four Assistant Superintendents at the beck and call of the formidable  Clyde Lawrence.  Getting into Surianalle by around 1900 Hrs, the usual form was that we’d ‘mess around’ till well past midnight when I’d head back to Panniar to catch a couple of hours of sleep before heading down for the morning muster at the crack of dawn.

Branching off from the main road, the approach road leading into Surianalle was a three KM mud road cutting through a forest.  Mud roads being prone to wear and tear and since it was the only access into the estate, on a regular basis estate workers would be employed to blind the road {which word the British Dictionary defines as “sand or grit spread over a road surface to fill up cracks“} the only difference from that description being that in this particular case it was not sand but the more economical and easily available loose soil which was liberally broadcast over the road surface.  A job which made the road fairly smooth when it was dry, but should it rain (which was ALL the time) that same surface, though bereft of any snow, could have easily been mistaken for a beautiful ski slope.  Being bad enough on a four wheeled vehicle, on the bike it was a treacherous run all the way along that three KM stretch with the tyres not getting any purchase on the surface and the bike simply sliding along with the rider kicking on either side to keep the bike upright.

On one of my many ‘need to blow off some steam’ forays, heading back to Panniar at the usual unearthly hour through the thick mist which conditions was simply par for the course, concentrating on keeping my bike from sliding off the edge, as I turned a corner in the faint light of my headlamp I could just about make out that there was a huge passel of wild boars literally spread around all across the middle of the road with the stragglers and fringe elements of the extended family spilling off on to both sides.    Instinctively I did what one should never do on the sort of surface I was on – I pressed down hard on my brake pedal. With the wheels locked, the bike immediately took on a mind of its own sliding broadside with me kicking my legs on both sides trying my best to keep the damn thing from landing on its side and me ending up on my backside in the muck, or more likely be faced with a much more serious outcome.  While I have no idea how that happened, what I do know is that my ungainly efforts ended with me coming to a sliding halt on a bike which was still vertical and with me astride my trusty steed.

It was only when I came to that sliding halt that I realized that during the time I had been doing my bike boogie gyrating all over the place, that the boars having quickly evacuated the middle had scattered to end up populating either side of the road.  What also became apparent, alarmingly so, in the next couple of seconds was that in doing their disbanding, most of the adults had all run across to one side of the road while all the excitable piglets enmasse, each with his/her tail up in the air like an antenna, had scampered off in diametrically the opposite direction.  And here was I bang smack in the middle of what was apparently a majorly extended family, straddling a machine which had decided to die on me.

What also became painfully apparent in the next instant was that big humongous ugly hogs do not appreciate being separated from their squealing progeny.  I have no idea whether it was the Mum, Dad or possibly even an uncle but all I do know is that one of that ménage, probably having decided that the youngsters needed to be rescued from this interloper to their party, came thundering down the slope straight at me.  In that split second before I was hit broadside by that filthy missile, I instinctively lifted up my leg which, had I not managed to do, would have definitely been mangled beyond recognition.  The upshot being that in the very next instant I found myself on my arse with my bike, prone on its side, lying between me and a very angry behemoth glaring at me through beady eyes and pawing the ground in a fit of temper.

If you were to ask me to relate how I did it, I’d have no answer.  All I do know is that keeping the bike as a buffer between me and the boar, I lifted it up to a vertical position, hopped on and with a trembling leg kicked the starter lever.  Must have had a guardian angel hovering over my head because the engine roared into life with the first kick.  Before one could say ‘bobs your uncle’ without so much as a backward glance I was away like a bullet out of a pistol, skiing across that last kilometer of the slope before I hit the main road. 

I finally arrived at my bungalow badly shaken up, disheveled and totally plastered in a mixture of glutinous mud blended with (I suspect) generous helpings of stinky pig dung.  Having put the bike on its stand a quick inspection told me that my friend, when it crashed into my bike knocking me over, the impact must have been on the foot rest behind the gear lever.  Obvious because, on inspection next morning, I found that the foot rest had snapped off, leaving behind only the small cast iron stump which it had been attached to.  Didn’t take much imagination for it to sink in that had my leg not shot up when I was assaulted, I would have spent the rest of my life hobbling around with one foot missing from my anatomy!

Regardless, come Wednesday of the very next week, I was back in Surianalle.

Have no qualms admitting that I have always been incorrigible!