We made our way north up along the coast to Mumbai before turning inland for a long haul to Madhya Pradesh. After three days of travel by train, bus and taxi, we were finally in Tala, the access point to the Barharghvard National Park. Exhausted we collapsed and resolved to figure out our safari in the park later.
What we found out was that the most popular gate, Gate 1, was booked up for a week. It was popular for good reason: we were told that there was a 99% chance of seeing Tigers. The other gates only offered chances half of that. Reluctantly we agreed to wait a couple of days to see if any cancellations would open up a spot in Gate 1 and then if not, go take our chances with one of the other gates.
Tala is much as you would imagine an old frontier town might have been in the western United States. One road with not much there, this one, however, filled with Indians. Sophie and I had exhausted the towns possible amusements with one twenty minute walk up and down the strip. While waiting for tigers, we resolved our bored predicament by the same means than most people in Frontier towns probably passed the time: we got drunk.
We were awaken at 5:30 in the morning, completely unaware that our safari would be that morning. The air was cold and the sweater I had wasn’t enough, but I was on my way to see tigers, I didn’t care how cold it was. Like an idiot, I turned to Sophie and sang a song of one impromptu line: “It’s tiger time, in India!”. Mr. Rogers would have been proud of my melody and cadence, I’m sure.
Our open back safari jeep pulled up to a long line in front of Gate 1. From what I could see, all the jeeps in front of us were filled with Indian tourists. Sophie and I were the only westerners. After much waiting. And after Sophie had gone through several cycles of being amused and annoyed with my safari jingle, jeeps started to filter in through the gate. Our guide approached our jeep with a solemn expression. We weren’t going through Gate 1, I could tell. He told us that we weren’t going through Gate 1. I knew it. We drove off towards Gate 2 and I tried to cheer myself and Sophie up with my unstoppable jingle. I explained to Sophie that it was actually a secret mantra and that the tigers could hear me. I told her I knew that it sounded childish, but it was actually a highly sophisticated tiger call. Sophie, cold, with her hands hanging on the string of her hood, pulled down tight over her face, looked at me, she was not amused. Abruptly, our guide rapped his hand on the head of our driver as if he were beating a drum and trying to catch up with the rest of a band. He yelled in Hindi and our driver put the jeep in reverse for a moment or two. Our guide pointed down at the sand beside the road. Three huge ovate divots crowned a fourth diamond shape imprint, a tiger paw print. Our guide told us it was only a few hours old. Ever skeptical, my immediate notion upon seeing the print was that it was fake, it just looked too damn perfect. I pictured someone crouching down on the ground before we arrived, pressing a tiger paw print stamp into the sand, carefully and conscientiously. An animal couldn’t possibly leave such a mark. As the driver put the jeep back into gear and we sped off towards Gate 2, I wondered if my experience of tigers in India would be relegating to forever wondering if I’d seen a real paw print or just some damned scam to placate unlucky tourists. I sang my jingle to reassure my spirits. We arrived at Gate 2 ( it looked far less ‘official’ than Gate 1 which further depressed my already skeptical spirits. Surely tigers would be more drawn to dwell closer to more official looking infrastructure.). A large elephant with a wooden cockpit bound to its back and sawed off tusks stood near it, ravishing a tree of chlorophyll. A few jeeps (far less than Gate 1) were congregated and waiting to enter Gate 2 (waiting for what, we had no clue). Our guide, standing in the passenger seat was yelling a conversation in Hindi with one of the park rangers. After a few minutes, their language became hurried and almost frantic. Our guide seemed to have garnered the essential information first. He rapped the driver’s head frantically once again and turned around, grabbing the jeep’s crash bar and pointed behind us, yelling “Look!”. As Sophie and I turned around, the jeep shot into reverse and we grappled the edges for support. In reverse we hurried through the cold morning air, our eyes flitting back and forth across the visual geography. I saw it first. I pointed and Sophie saw it too.
From the dark brush on the park side of the road extended paws through the short space of air as they aimed a leap down from a small incline. In a moment another lept from the thicket and as we raced towards the crossing our guide excitedly directed our eyes into the brush rushing past us on the right. Another tiger sauntering in the same direction as we peered out at us, looking for an agreeable opening to pass through.
In one sense, they were just big cats, and ultimately all they did was cross the street and look at us occasionally while they did so.
And still, there was majesty. The powerful supple movements of their flesh and bone - the way the fur turned and shimmered around calculating muscles that pushed and carried the contours of their bodies, the calm full circles in their eyes. The black stripes like black gashes into a pretense sight arming intent behind the fur against alert and awareness of preyed animals. Faces of lithe expression, untroubled and relaxed as they strolled in their slow morning walk.
Their movements were gone as quick as they’d come, filtering into the adjoining brush at the road’s twin edges. What a wondrous flight of moments.
Later in the day, Sophie and I learned that the jeeps that had gone through Gate 1 had seen no tigers. We were the only ones to see the cats.
What we found out was that the most popular gate, Gate 1, was booked up for a week. It was popular for good reason: we were told that there was a 99% chance of seeing Tigers. The other gates only offered chances half of that. Reluctantly we agreed to wait a couple of days to see if any cancellations would open up a spot in Gate 1 and then if not, go take our chances with one of the other gates.
Tala is much as you would imagine an old frontier town might have been in the western United States. One road with not much there, this one, however, filled with Indians. Sophie and I had exhausted the towns possible amusements with one twenty minute walk up and down the strip. While waiting for tigers, we resolved our bored predicament by the same means than most people in Frontier towns probably passed the time: we got drunk.
We were awaken at 5:30 in the morning, completely unaware that our safari would be that morning. The air was cold and the sweater I had wasn’t enough, but I was on my way to see tigers, I didn’t care how cold it was. Like an idiot, I turned to Sophie and sang a song of one impromptu line: “It’s tiger time, in India!”. Mr. Rogers would have been proud of my melody and cadence, I’m sure.
Our open back safari jeep pulled up to a long line in front of Gate 1. From what I could see, all the jeeps in front of us were filled with Indian tourists. Sophie and I were the only westerners. After much waiting. And after Sophie had gone through several cycles of being amused and annoyed with my safari jingle, jeeps started to filter in through the gate. Our guide approached our jeep with a solemn expression. We weren’t going through Gate 1, I could tell. He told us that we weren’t going through Gate 1. I knew it. We drove off towards Gate 2 and I tried to cheer myself and Sophie up with my unstoppable jingle. I explained to Sophie that it was actually a secret mantra and that the tigers could hear me. I told her I knew that it sounded childish, but it was actually a highly sophisticated tiger call. Sophie, cold, with her hands hanging on the string of her hood, pulled down tight over her face, looked at me, she was not amused. Abruptly, our guide rapped his hand on the head of our driver as if he were beating a drum and trying to catch up with the rest of a band. He yelled in Hindi and our driver put the jeep in reverse for a moment or two. Our guide pointed down at the sand beside the road. Three huge ovate divots crowned a fourth diamond shape imprint, a tiger paw print. Our guide told us it was only a few hours old. Ever skeptical, my immediate notion upon seeing the print was that it was fake, it just looked too damn perfect. I pictured someone crouching down on the ground before we arrived, pressing a tiger paw print stamp into the sand, carefully and conscientiously. An animal couldn’t possibly leave such a mark. As the driver put the jeep back into gear and we sped off towards Gate 2, I wondered if my experience of tigers in India would be relegating to forever wondering if I’d seen a real paw print or just some damned scam to placate unlucky tourists. I sang my jingle to reassure my spirits. We arrived at Gate 2 ( it looked far less ‘official’ than Gate 1 which further depressed my already skeptical spirits. Surely tigers would be more drawn to dwell closer to more official looking infrastructure.). A large elephant with a wooden cockpit bound to its back and sawed off tusks stood near it, ravishing a tree of chlorophyll. A few jeeps (far less than Gate 1) were congregated and waiting to enter Gate 2 (waiting for what, we had no clue). Our guide, standing in the passenger seat was yelling a conversation in Hindi with one of the park rangers. After a few minutes, their language became hurried and almost frantic. Our guide seemed to have garnered the essential information first. He rapped the driver’s head frantically once again and turned around, grabbing the jeep’s crash bar and pointed behind us, yelling “Look!”. As Sophie and I turned around, the jeep shot into reverse and we grappled the edges for support. In reverse we hurried through the cold morning air, our eyes flitting back and forth across the visual geography. I saw it first. I pointed and Sophie saw it too.
From the dark brush on the park side of the road extended paws through the short space of air as they aimed a leap down from a small incline. In a moment another lept from the thicket and as we raced towards the crossing our guide excitedly directed our eyes into the brush rushing past us on the right. Another tiger sauntering in the same direction as we peered out at us, looking for an agreeable opening to pass through.
In one sense, they were just big cats, and ultimately all they did was cross the street and look at us occasionally while they did so.
And still, there was majesty. The powerful supple movements of their flesh and bone - the way the fur turned and shimmered around calculating muscles that pushed and carried the contours of their bodies, the calm full circles in their eyes. The black stripes like black gashes into a pretense sight arming intent behind the fur against alert and awareness of preyed animals. Faces of lithe expression, untroubled and relaxed as they strolled in their slow morning walk.
Their movements were gone as quick as they’d come, filtering into the adjoining brush at the road’s twin edges. What a wondrous flight of moments.
Later in the day, Sophie and I learned that the jeeps that had gone through Gate 1 had seen no tigers. We were the only ones to see the cats.
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