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The tigers and the unfazed wild child


 

By Sankha Guha Financial Times 13 December 2003 My memories of being brought up in India take on a golden glow when I conjure up holidays spent in wildlife reserves in the Kumaon Hills or Rajasthan. My childish imagination was fired by the books of the legendary man-eating hunter Jim Corbett. Tigers lurked behind every crackling twig and swaying branch. Every moment was charged with savage potential. And though I never saw a tiger, the frisson of being in the same physical space was enough to give the landscape a special aura. Can the happiest gifts of your own childhood be wrapped up and passed on to your children? Having been brought up in south-west London, my nine-year-old son Tom's fantasy life is more likely to be inspired by computer games and Pop Idol. Could the thrills of my childhood compete? At what age would he be receptive to the experience? How would he cope with the journeys, the discomforts and even the hazards? Tom is sick when we arrive at Bandhavgarh National Park. The previous night has been spent on a train from Agra. I had no sleep. On board, a notice warned passengers to be wary of vendors and miscreants trying to drug and intoxicate passengers. It was packed, none too clean, and our narrow bunks in the corridor had a noisy procession of people barging past them all night. While I had reacted grumpily, Tom was bouncing with joy. He was dancing to the rhythm of the train, oblivious to the grime, discomfort and lack of privacy. Tom's diary said: "When we arrived at Bandhavgarh, I looked around. It was really cool - I even saw a parrot we haven't seen before. I think it was the plum-headed. We went in the jeep but came back early because I was ill. Then I vomited. I think it was because of my lack of sleep." A swift shot of Calpol and a good night's sleep sorts out Tom. It is the only incident of Delhi belly in the entire three-week trip. Bandhavgarh National Park is in the heart of India. It covers 450 sq km though only about a third is open to the public. It's breathtakingly beautiful. Dense sal forests, open grassy meadows, bamboo thickets, hills and ravines - all set off against a steep escarpment topped by an ancient ruined fort. It's tiger-country. We start at 5.30am. At this hour, our unheated room is as cosy as a fridge. Outside, it's dark and even colder (in December, it can drop to -2 °C). Thankfully, Tom is fine. Our jeep - driven with buccaneering verve by Papu - is first into the park. We hare off to the right by a marsh. Within seconds, we hear alarm calls from beyond the scrub in the ridge rising to our right - first the high pitch barks of Chital deer followed by the mechanical low grunt and growl of Langurs. We stop and listen - it's deathly still and very chill. The echoing alarm calls are dramatic. We hold our breath and wait for a predator to break cover. Papu says it's a leopard, because the calls are moving along the hill too fast to be tracking a tiger. Something menacing is moving out there but if it's a leopard, the chances of seeing it are slim. Tom's diary: "Alarm calls are made by animals which are scared because they've seen another animal that likes to eat them." Suddenly we hear a whistle - the signal that another jeep has contact. Now we are racing and I tell Tom to hold on tight. Up the track, we find five jeeps positioned with intent. Papu is breathless - It's B2, the dominant male tiger in the park. We see him through a fuzz of jeeps and brush near the road to the right and he looks dominant. A feline Tyson. Huge, unhurried and quite majestic. He's trying to cross the track but the jeep train is blocking his path. We join the fray. Now there must be about 10 of us revving furiously, kicking up dust and spewing fume, overtaking, undertaking, blocking the road amid much shouting. It's deafening. Through this circus B2 is trying to negotiate a way. First we see him pacing away from us - then realising the jeeps won't give way, he turns back towards us and strolls across the track a few feet away. Now my thumping heart is the loudest sound I am aware of. The immense tiger slips into the sal forest and melts away. Tom's diary: "B2 got his name because he was born with two other cubs - they are called B1 and B3 and the B stands for Brother." We are high as two kites. Over breakfast, we thaw out in the sun on the terrace, the temperature rises dramatically (by midday, it will be in the 30s). I tell Tom it's not fair - he's already seen more tigers than I had in my entire childhood in India. But I warn Tom that beginner's luck is not reliable. By the end of day two, our tiger tally has risen to eight. Much has changed in India's wildlife parks. I have fond memories of staying in colonial bungalows and having dinner with the game warden who would regale us with his jungly tales, a spitting log fire in the grate. A close encounter with the biggest cat was never a guaranteed part of the package. But now you seem to get tigers on demand. The charm of my childhood experience has given way to more commercial set-ups. Tiger Trails is part of a chain of purpose-built wildlife resorts in the style of African safari camps. Modern tourism means the inevitable buffet dinner has arrived, as has the folkloric performance and the tour groups. But so has a new level of professionalism - there are trained trackers, drivers, guides and naturalists to enhance encounters with India's wilderness. While everyone who comes is consumed by tiger-mania, it is worth noting that Bandhavgarh is home to 22 other mammal species and about 250 birds. Wildlife is so abundant that it spills out of the park - spectacularly plumed sunbirds, bee-eaters, barbets, kingfishers, bulbuls and parakeets squawk and squabble around the camp from dawn to dusk. Occasionally, the safari dynamic is reversed, with animals coming to visit you in your habitat. I am in the shower when, out of the corner of my eye, I become aware of a grey shape scuttling along the floor of the bathroom. My yelp draws Tom's attention. Tom's diary: "Daddy shouted 'Shrew!' (that was what it was - a grey musk shrew and it's as rare as a leopard). I ran to the bathroom but the shrew came out. It was so cute, but unfortunately we had to make it get out of the room." The cheeky rodent is not discouraged easily, ducking back under the door when our backs are turned. It promptly disappears under my bed. I find it under my pillow. Unfazed by our pursuit, it sticks its long thin snout out from under the pillow and sniffs. Tom is right - it is cute. It scuttles into the bathroom and takes cover behind a bin. Both Tom and I are watching like hawks when I move the bin, but the animal has vanished. Magic shrew. We never see it again. The following morning we opt to give the jeep a miss. I am disturbed by the harassment of B2 the previous day. It feels unnatural even if there is little outward evidence that the tigers are distressed by the rowdy antics of mechanised tourists. In fact, the opposite seems to be true. Time and again during our week, we see tigers break cover and make a point of coming out in the open to be seen. On one occasion, a nearly fully grown cub approaches the massed ranks of jeeps and sits down within 5 yards, causing absolute pandemonium. I swear the animal enjoys the attention. Today, we go into the jungle on elephant-back. We are more or less assured of a sighting because a tigress has made a kill in the area and is feeding with her family of three mature cubs. Swaying through forest, the mahawat points vaguely at a clump of bushes ahead and whispers that the mother tiger is lying up in the vicinity. We are repositioning the elephant to get a better view when there's an enormous roar and the tigress launches herself out of the grass. Tom's diary: "LEAP! CHARGE! POUNCE! ROAR! SMASH! BANG! WALLOP! It was the female tiger trying to catch and kill a boar - but boars are hard animals to kill. They are massive. We saw the tiger trying to suffocate the boar and it was fighting back with its humongous tusks. It was squealing which attracted the cubs. Soon we were surrounded by tigers but they weren't interested in us - they were only interested in that delicious boar." An electrical crackle is running through the jungle. The tigress has the frantic male tusker in an iron grip - her canines are clamped to the throat of her prey. The boar is gurgling and squealing pitifully and there's blood. Our elephant is trembling beneath us, my hands are clammy and too shaky to wield a camera. Nature was never quite so red in tooth and claw on the BBC - a timely cut-away usually sparing viewers the full horror - but the boar hasn't read the script. The death drama seems endless and I wonder how to shield Tom from this non-video nasty. We leave the scene after 20 minutes - the weakening boar still visibly alive and now being pawed by four tigers. What nightmares will these images engender? Back at base over breakfast, I am slowly coming down from the adrenaline hit. The resort's resident naturalist says in the four years he's worked here, he's never seen a tiger make a kill. People gather round to hear our story. Tom is unfazed. He is tucking into his omelette with gusto and playing to the gallery: "Me tiger, this boar. Grrrrr!" By the end of our stay, we have notched up 20 tiger sightings. Not to mention the umpteen other species of animal and bird life which have studded our six-day stay. Could such adventures be rendered banal simply by over-familiarity? On our last night, I ask Tom what he liked best. "All of it," he grins. India's wild frontier has won a new fan. One day he will want to return - with his son.
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The tigers and the unfazed wild child
The tigers and the unfazed wild child

My memories of being brought up in India take on a golden glow when I conjure up holidays spent in wildlife reserves in the Kumaon Hills or Rajasthan. (22/12/2003)

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