that was my first encounter, and it left me in no doubt that Staines was a missionary of the hazardous variety: a true fanatic.
But I had a job to do.
I should have done more research, been more cautious, but I didn't have the luxury of time. How is one to know that misfortune lurks just beyond the next bend in the river, ready to throw one in?
My investigations into Christian activity in the area had quickly borne fruit... although that is too generous a description. I had seeds that could be planted, an encouraging start en route to the garden of delights that I was anticipating: a baptism by Christians of a young woman was to take place at a nearby village and a number of the villagers were anxious and annoyed. The primary reason for the baptism appeared to be the promised marriage of the girl to a Christian boy. Why not convert the other way around? It did not take much on my part to fuel the villagers discontent into a commitment to action. The plan was for a group of men to ambush the baptism and prevent it from happening. I, of course, would be present, together with my impressive camera, to capture the evidence.
I had to leave the house well before dawn to reach the place. After a long walk I made my way through the riverside reeds to find a suitable hide, a spot with a view of what I hoped was the location where the baptism would take place.
At the time, I remember, I was excited. I expected a successful disruption of the baptism, good photos with the telephoto lens and an excellent article to hand in to Mishra. If luck was on my side, I thought, Staines would not only be present, but also conduct the baptism. I still had a lot to learn.
That early morning was filled with anticipation for me. Even the mosquitoes could not suck it from me as I huddled at the water's edge, the steam gently resting just above the surface of the water, beautiful lilies, kokaa, a scattering of pink along the banks, opening up as if offerings on my part to the Goddess of Wealth.
It was not long before the tell-tale put-put of a motorbike approaching interrupted my dreams of Mishra's pleasure and my inevitable success. I remained hidden, practising patience. I had the right place; all I had to do was wait for the action.
The small group of Christians gathered at the waterside exactly where I had expected, but there was no sign of Staines -disappointing, but not ruinous to my expedition.
I waited, camera ready, for the moment of disruption as a local pastor took the young woman into the water, snatches of his words reaching me across the water.
"...The way, the truth..."
"...Do you believe..."
I could not hear her replies.
"...Of your own free will..." (I remember being struck by that line).
But it was happening too fast.
I risked raising my head above the reeds, scanning for the promised villagers.
"I baptise you in the name of the Father..."
And in she went, disappearing under the water, and still no sign of the disrupters. What was I to do? When next would I have such an opportunity?
Impulse urged me to action.
I intercepted their retreat to the road, determined to question the woman and challenge the proceedings, nullify them if I could. My anticipation of an easy success had heightened my disappointment, which in turn fueled my anger and determination to get something worthwhile out of this event.
The Christians quickly closed ranks around their prize who was now wrapped in a blanket against the cold, shrouded in her new cloak of protection and supposed righteousness, they hustled her away from my approach and the reality I represented. The pastor intercepted my inquiry, turning to block my advance and prevent me from getting anywhere close to the girl. He was smiling, pretending friendliness. He didn't just smile; he couldn't stop smiling - at his victory, I was sure.
I moved to get past him, calling, "What have you been promised?"
He bluntly blocked my path again, making it quite clear that he would physically prevent me from speaking to the girl, as if that insolent smile of his was compensation.
"Only what God promises, Sir."
He had the impudence to call me "Sir" while still standing in my way, no intention of treating me anything like a "Sir". I tried to push past him.
"I want to talk to her."
"You can talk to me, Sir."
"Where's your legal documents? Your affidavit?"
"Those are for the proper authorities, Sir, not for you."
It was the "Sir" again that really did it, and the superior attitude. I grabbed the wooden cross he had hanging around his neck.
"You think this gives you the right? Huh?"
With my other arm I shoved, really only trying to get past him...
I'm still not entirely sure how it happened. I suppose I pulled harder on the cross as a counterbalance to the push of my other arm. And he tripped as he stepped backwards, adding to the weight. Maybe I even tried to stop him falling - I don't know - but I do know that the thin leather around his neck snapped, and I know I was pulling hard at that moment, and I know that the bottom point of the cross with its metal cap smashed into my camera lens, badly cracking that expensive lens.
It sounds like a cliché to me now, but I honestly could not believe my bad luck. My first report, and I had not even taken a photo yet. I could not imagine what I was going to say to Mishra. I could see the certainty of a permanent position fading fast.
It took me a while to realise the pastor had hit his head on a rock when he fell. He was being assisted by a young man from the group, now shirtless as he wrapped it around the pastor’s head to staunch the flow of blood. I vaguely heard “you may need stitches” as I tried to come to terms with my own tragedy; hardly a tragedy, but I was young and selfish, and that was how it seemed to me at the time. The first carefully cultivated opportunity for my garden of provision had been ravaged by a flash flood, the top soil carried away, leaving me with a few sick and straggly seedlings. In that moment I could not imagine how I was going to salvage the story, let alone rescue my reputation.
Ah, how experience of real tragedy changes perspective!
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