“It
is Sal, Sir,” my guide Pandey answered patiently. It was the sixth time that I had asked for
the name of this familiar tree by the kuchha road, each time getting the same
answer; clearly I have a problem identifying trees in general and the sal in
particular. “You are one out of ten
tourists, Sir,” Pandey continued, “who come to Corbett National Park to see
anything other than the tiger.” It was a way he had of making me feel a bit
better, possibly.
We –
my family of four - were in the Bijrani range of the Tiger Reserve at around 3
pm in the afternoon in a Gypsy. A number
of vehicles – all Gypsies painted forest green – had entered the park at the
same time, carrying brightly dressed, excited tourists, each talking about
exactly where they had seen the tiger last – Kanha, Bandhavgarh,
Ranthambore.... Clearly, it was not just
seeing the tiger that was important, you must have seen it in different forests, if you wished to be
counted. We drove slowly into the
beautiful dry deciduous forest, the majestic stands of Sal and Silk Cotton
creating a breath-taking canopy in which we heard macaques and langurs swinging
from branch to branch with dexterity and below which we saw small herds of
spotted deer and heard the call of a peacock.
It
was at the first stream that Pandeyji asked us to look away to our right: a small
flock of Black Cranes, which is absent in the South, were in the water. As our vehicle stopped to allow me to view it
through the binocular, the Gypsy immediately behind began to prod us ahead, its
Delhi Punjabi tourist clearly impatient with our sense of priorities; it would
seem that he had made a prior appointment with the tiger deep inside and
synchronised watches as well. He, like
many Delhi Punjabis, live their lives on the Three-Rules Theory:
Rule 1: I am always right.
Rule 2: Everyone must always make way for
me
Rule 3: Never forget Rules 1 and 2
We
therefore made way for the Gypsy behind us and, as he passed, he gave the Black
Crane a glare and then looked at me in the curious way people do when they wish
to say, “What an odd chap you are!”
We
drove on, now at the rear end of the convoy by quite a distance. More sal, more teak (all planted up), Amla,
Cassia Fistula (though, of course, not in bloom), the odd Flame of the Forest,
Acacia Catechu (or Khair, the bark of which is used in the making of ‘chuna’
for paan), Bahunias....the guide and the Gypsy’s driver knew them all, both by
their local name and the scientific name, which was hugely creditable. We stopped to take a good look at the
Chestnut-headed bee eater, which must surely rank as one of India’s most
beautiful birds and at a stunning pair of rock thrushes by the stream.
....and
ahead there was a revving of engines and a cloud of dust as a few Gypsies took
off all of a sudden. A tiger, sorry,
TIGER, had been spotted entering a thicket.
We followed as well, just in time to see the hind of the animal
disappear behind a tree to our far left at about 10 O Clock.
“Don’t worry, he will appear again,” the
guides assured the tourists, as all the Gypsies huddled together.
Engines were switched off and silence descended.
While
we waited for the big cat, I found the behaviour of others around - the 25 odd
tourists in the six Gypsies around us – most interesting. In the Gypsy out in front, two fellows were there
in their best Navy Blue suits (I am not making this up), and one of them was
impatient at waiting for the tiger which clearly had no sense of
punctuality. He spent his time surfing
on his mobile phone, on Facebook first and then looking up old messages and
deleting them. The lady in the front
seat of the same Gypsy fiddled about uneasily with the canvas fabric. Others whispered inane stuff to each other,
waiting for the guides to spot the animal.
About
ten minutes later, the lady (the fiddler) ordered the Gypsy driver to move on
with a brief ‘Jao’, and the Armani men seated at the back looked relieved. After another ten minutes, the Gypsy behind
us asked us to move on, as we were blocking the road (this time though it
wasn’t the Delhi Punjabi).
Engines
on.
We
took the lead in the convoy and had moved just about twenty metres down the
path, when the tiger appeared to our left, clearly visible and about to cross
the road a few metres in front of us.
What
followed was mayhem. Vehicles rushing
forward to gain gained pride of place in the Sher-Darshan, cameras and mobile
phones out and incessant clicking as the animal, with utter disdain, walked up
to the path in front of us and then down the road at the head of the
convoy. Engines off.
“Tiger,
four years old,” proclaimed a Know-All in one of the Gypsies.
“Tigress,
six years old,” contradicted a guide, who clearly knew this animal.
The tigress
was in no hurry. She showered
her spray on a couple of trees, which act was filmed with great excitement, and
took a leisurely walk down the road, while tourists stood on every part of the
Gypsy (including standing on the seats with their shoes on, something I
intensely detest) to get any picture they could, the vast majority of which would
have been of her lean posterior. No
human celebrity can claim this exalted status of having her posterior filmed
with such gusto.
No
sooner had the tigress turned the corner than the Gypsies revved up again and
rushed behind the Lady. Clearly, she was
inured to thronging multitudes of idiots.
We stayed behind; I have strong views on these things and am happy to
have these opinions – it is not only a question of values; it makes me feel a
superior as well, and a bit closer to the Renunciated Man.
Around the bend, the Gypsies shut their engines off and silence descended
again. About a few minutes later, two of
the Gypsies reversed, turned around and headed back. “They are done with the safari, Sir,” the
guide explained, unable to hide the contempt in his voice. As one of them crossed us slowly, I saw two
foreigners examine their cameras, editing their footage, a prelude to the Facebook-Snapchat-Flickr
routine. We were the last Gypsy to leave
Corbett that evening and I did not regret it a bit, for the macaques, langurs,
birds and deer in the haunting light of the setting Sun were worth observing
over and over again. The question I kept
asking myself through the drive though was “Is this really what wildlife
tourism is meant to be and what possible good could it do to conservation?” Like many of the questions we ask ourselves –
rhetorical ones – the answer seemed unambiguous.
The
next morning, while on a walk, another knowledgeable guide, Dinesh, suddenly
pointed at the top of the canopy to my right. A Great Indian Hornbill glided majestically
over the trees and flew out of sight, as we watched in wonder. I heard its call – a high-pitched cackle - in the forest yonder; it seemed to be
expressing its unreserved opinion on the homo sapien species and I felt, in all
humility, that it was right.
