First half of our Northern India Tiger Tails and Cultural Tales Trip

Cryptic creatures and a colourful cacophony…

India

We are up early, when the air is still cool and the light dim. The chatter is quietly excited as we greet our guides and load ourselves in to waiting jeeps, seats still wet with dew. Enormous cameras (think small cannons) swathed in camouflage are lugged by camouflaged arms: vehicles, guides and hats each a different shade of camouflage green. The air thickens as we wait tensely for the electrified gates to open, that immutable strain at the start of a race. And then… we are off. A swarm of vehicles, engines revving, lunge toward the gates. They duck and weave like schooling fish, for all but the first must eat the dust kicked up by the over-eager tyres ahead. We move at speed through dusty tracks to where the tiger isn’t, then, with equal purpose, turn and race in another direction, multiple jeeps lurching and zig-zagging across great dusty swathes of India.

Once a tiger is actually sighted, the pace becomes frenetic. The driver shouts “hold on”, and we clap our hats to our heads with one hand and hold tight to the roll bar with the other (queue Indiana Jones jeep chase). The vehicle screams around the stump of a once giant tree before it was struck by “sky-fire”. There are loud alarm calls as groups of deer scatter and grand peacocks take flight, begrudgingly dragging their heavy tails behind them. We passengers are flung about like safari themed rag-dolls.

As the vehicles converge upon the serene (nonchalant even) creature, urgent young men stand seeking a view, their heads and faces wrapped to protect from the dust. Again jostling for position, the vehicles bristle with those giant cameras, all pointing at a single, lone target. We look like the bird-watching division of the Taliban.

In one park we came across a particularly rude Japanese tourist and his equally rude driver and guide. They cut off the track to get in front of all the other vehicles, approached far too close to the tiger and blocked everyone else’s sightline. After a patient few minutes, a couple of people started to call to them to move. They did not. “Konichi wa” calls Tony “wasabi, ichi ban”. When Mr. Japanese man fails to respond, I hear “rude prick, doesn’t he know we won the war?” I shushed him madly, only to hear an English voice from the jeep beside us, “I agree with that - he’s a FUCKING rude prick”.

In this part of India, the tigers live in Sal forests. Sal trees are quite spectacular. They are very tall, and form graceful leafy arches a hundred metres above the track. The trunks look like as though they are made of concrete through which someone has dragged a stick to make it look like a real tree. Intense rain has washed the soil away except that protected by an exposed root, leaving the curious impression that the trees are wearing platform shoes.

When nature calls, we pee behind the few toilet blocks, as a) the stench is enough to fell a hardened sewer dweller, and b) swarms of giant bees circle the bowl. The hum of their flight echoes from the porcelain loud enough to be heard from 15 metres.

The smells here are pungent and ever changing. We move from incense to putrid sewer, from wild jasmine to rotting carcass. A tiger kill is really quite special after three days in 40°C heat. Tony has never recovered his sense of smell, so remains immune. (Unfortunately neither of us are particularly well. Tony is coughing like he has TB, and I have constellations of mouth ulcers, but being truly intrepid and brave we push on).

From our short time observing the locals in situ, we note that scores of people are forever sweeping, yet nothing is ever clean- a coating of dust covers everything at all times. We have also noted how much time the men spend either urinating or picking their noses. Perhaps they have given up smoking en-masse and are unsure of what to do with their hands?

In conversation, we regularly hear how much the ‘Bridishers’ are resented for coming to their lands and uplifting anything of value (which is so true - the Brits pilfered and looted like there was no tomorrow). It is indeed perverse that these same folks are deemed ‘immigrants’ when they enter the UK and charged to see their own pillaged treasures where they sit in the British Museum. They are aware that NZ was also colonised by Bridishers. Tony and I amuse ourselves by watching their faces change as we respond to the inevitable question, “When did the Bridishers leave your country?” with a jaunty, “Actually they didn’t. We are the oppressor.”  How else to deal with it?

The people appear overwhelmingly gentle and respectful (except for the hawkers at tourist spots), a tribute to the peaceful practices of Jain, Hindu and Buddhist beliefs which all began here. Most surprisingly, we have yet to see the starving beggars and trampled underclass expected. The odd beggar that does approaches us has clean clothes and a designer hair-cut! Cows, water buffalo, goats, sheep, chickens, dogs and boar wander the towns freely, and all seem well fed and watered. There are water bowls and food aplenty for the dozens of birds. In one town we watched as several cows, attracted by the temple bells, climbed the stairs, lowered their horns and entered the temple. Locals say they like the peacefulness and add to the spirituality.

Culturally, it is good karma to take care of other living things, and this has formed a lovely and gracious basis for daily living - no doubt aided by enormous the economic growth India has recently undergone, which has demonstrably improved the lives of those at the lower end of the scale.

It is comical to see how we in the west have reinterpreted parts of Indian culture. At the end of my yoga classes in multiple western countries (yoga began here around 5000 years ago), we reverently raise our hands to our chest in prayer form. Gratefully bowing to our teacher, we utter a heartfelt “Namaste”. We are told that this equates to ‘the life force in me recognises and values the life force in you’ or something along those rather lofty lines. Here, it just means ‘hello’.

Although many roads are basically conjoined dusty potholes, the major roads are far better than we had imagined. There are decent tracts of four lane highways connecting cities, with smooth seal and marked white lines. It’s just that no-one told the people how they should be used. Our driver cheerily drove the wrong way up an exit ramp onto a four lane (each way) highway, turned sharply left and casually joined the flow of traffic, which included highly decorated disco-tractors complete with lights and enormous speakers pumping out Punjabi music, colourful trucks decorated with glittering tassels and strips of flapping fabric, small groups of cows, and electric tuk-tuks hauling everything from ladders to cow dung patties for the cooking fires. There are countless motorbikes and scooters hauling hefty loads of overstuffed bags, brass milk canisters and people, the record for the latter being seven - four adults and three children. Helmets are only to keep cell phones to the driver’s ear and rear view mirrors are for losers. The soundtrack is of constant and intense horn tooting.

The food is spectacularly good and plentiful. We were enjoying a meal in a local restaurant the other night when the power (as it regularly does) went out. Barely a few seconds into the silence and an Aussie voice could be heard “chuck your keys into the middle”. After gorging ourselves on myriad vegetarian delights, we lie like snakes in the heat, waiting to digest.

Today we move on from the beautiful city of Udaipur. It is known as the Venice of India due to the stunning palaces and homes that fringe the lake - which was man-made in the 1300’s. We have been staying in a gracious 350 year old hotel with marble floors, ornate brass locks and amazing wooden doors. (As an aside - the spikes that feature on many gates and doors were to protect against charges by drunken elephants! Raiders could not easily broach city walls, so would get their war elephants drunk and then make them charge the gates.) The hotel is a taste of the sophistication and elegance that the Bridishers must have found when they first arrived - well, for the wealthy few at least. In the evening, we sit on our deck, sipping cold beer and watch as thousands of bats stream overhead.

Next stop, looking for leopard…..