Burning Bright

It's just past midnight and I'm suddenly wide awake.  Something is wrong.  Something very very primevally wrong, but I have no idea what it is.  I can feel it in my gut.  I've never felt this way before in my life.  I'm not a person who gets afraid and this isn't quite it -- this is dread.  Impending doom.

 

What.  The.  Hell.  Is.  Going.  On.

 

It's dead still.  There's nothing in my room.  Nothing strange. 

 

I'd heard something hoofed moving just outside my room before I went to sleep, and saw a couple of hyenas.  But I'm not hearing anything now.  Just crickets.

 

The air is thick.  Thick like right before a lightning strike in the Rockies that just opens up the sky and lets 'er rip. 

 

I don't move.  I haven't moved.  Something, somewhere, is happening.

 

What.  The.  Hell.  Is.  Going.  On.

 

And then there is the loudest, most unbelievable, roar you've ever heard.  It rattles the windows in my frames and clatters the fan against the guard.  The animal making this sound is huge. 

 

Goose bumps raise across my body and my hair stands up on end.  My heart is racing and outside there is nothing but stillness.  One thing is for sure: whatever was alive is dead now.

 

And I don't think the tiger making that sound is even that close, relatively speaking -- I'll bet it's half a mile away.

 

Holy Jesus Christ.

 

Now there aren't even crickets.  Now there is Nothing.  With all the kids here I'm amazed that I'm not hearing shrieks of terror.  But there's Nothing.

 

Two things are for sure: I'm not looking out that window and I'm not opening that door.  I'm not going to make anything "move" that can be seen from the outside.

 

It takes about two hours before I can drift back off to sleep.

 

I wake up at 05:30, the night is fading to a dull grey, and I get up to go.  My dobi wallah brings tea and biscuits.  I slug down a cup (In. version of Western tea is never bad, but it's also never good) and head out.

 

My jeep is already waiting for me.  It's a goddamn Murati (which I believe is now owned by Suzuki).  You know, Special, I have to tell you ... If I ran the world, one of the very very first things I'd do is have all the third world manufactured cars crushed: Skoda, Lada, Murati, Hindustan Motors, Trabant, Yugo, and all the rest.  I don't even give a damn if they aren't even made anymore, I'd say, "Okay, you get this new Toyota.  You only get this one.  And I'm going to take your crappy little third world Commie vehicle and turn it into an oxen yoke.  This is a good trade for you.  It will last longer and run better than this piece of crap you've been nursing down these Shiva-foresaken roads on bald tires for the last 10,000 kilometeres.  Oh, and here's a big plus that'll really surprise you -- you don't have to fill the radiator at every town ... Which, by the fricken way, you should have been doing with the engine running for circulation you cow worshipping freak."

 

It's essentially an open-top Land Rover (<- also a piece of crap) knock off.  The roll bar behind the driver is perfectly positioned such that a quick stop while riding in the elevated rear seat will knock all my teeth out.

 

The morning is cold and misty.  My breath is coming out in big puffs of steam.  I'm wearing my heaviest long sleeve t-shirt and my track suit jacket, it's just warm enough.

 

The drive to the park is short, maybe half a block, and there are 19 other jeeps waiting at the front gate.  I'm the only one with only one tourist and am, very conspiciously, the "rich guy" as a result.

 

My driver motions to me to go up to the registration office and I fill out a series of forms in duplicate.  I'm informed that the park admittance price is typically RS1000, but because of, that's right, fricken Holi, all prices are doubled.  Just getting into the park is $50.  I sign all the forms and then am told, "Well, sir, if you come to the park tomorrow, it will be back to 'normal price.'"  Thanks pal.  How much of this fee are you personally pocketing anyway?

 

We're randomly assigned a compulsory guide.  Although the park is always described in propaganda as being "small" it's about 100 sq. kilometeres, which is plenty big.  They make it a point to assign every jeep to a specific sector of the park to avoid traffic jams and any other strangeness that might occur.  The park opens for three hours, then closes; and then re-opens for three more hours before dusk.

 

As we enter, the guide asks me if I have a camera.  "No," I point at my eyes, "this is my camera," I point at my head, "this is my film."  And, weirdly, he and the driver are both very impressed.  Turns out they sort of hate camera toting tourists and think they're essentially missing the point.  Okay, great, we're all on the same page.

 

Now what's surprising here is the general layout.  The general feel.  You think "jungles and tigers" and you think of big green mossy overgrown things, and vines, and really thick tree growth. 

 

The park isn't like that at all. 

 

In fact, if I had to use one general word to describe it, I'd say, "dusty," maybe.  It's very very reminiscent of the Gold Country in California.  Large, sweeping planes.  Golden and green grasses in the flat areas.  The hilly sections have some type of leafy tree that's vaguely reminiscent of a maple -- that's certainly the right general feel.  The ground in the forests has very little undergrowth -- just a fairly thick layer of dead leaves.

 

After just a few minutes driving we're by ourselves making our way down the path.  And the park is just crawling with wildlife.  We see two different species of deer (maybe 75 head), two different monkeys (100 maybe) and some wild boars.  What's funny is these two are clearly after a tiger.  The wildlife we see they mention almost in passing, a brief stop, a point, and then a quick "OK?" which translates into, "You're done looking at that, we need to find a tiger."

 

Animal people are funny, nearly all of them, to a person, are birders -- people who like birds.  And they go crazy about it -- having things like life-lists and destinations that they'll save a lifetime for merely so they can see something like a Crazy Purple Vulva Snitcher.  And I'm not a birder at all.  In fact, I sort of hate 'em.  So the first several birds we see they stop and point and when my general attitude is "yeah, yeah, it's a bird," they get it and focus on critters -- pointing out only the really far out birds (and even I have to admit there are some really striking ones -- like the bee catcher).

 

We break into an open meadow filled with elephant grass.  There's a sweeping view and in the distance you can see the rising hills with temples carved into the side.  "Romantic" was not a word I truly understood until the first time I went to In.  Not in the huggy huggy, kissy kissy sense, but in the idealized, if not superlative way.  You look across here and you know you're looking across time itself.  So much of In. feels so beaten and worn that when you're in a place like this, that is essentially pristine, it feels almost like you've been transported through a looking glass of illusion.

 

Everyone's looking for tigers and as they get ready to pull out I ask to sit just a couple minutes more.  I want to take it all in.  This too really impresses them for some reason.  So we sit perfectly still and watch the morning dew evaporate in a slow crawling mist across the meadow.  We're there long enough that the wildlife is beginning to move out and among us. 

 

On the hill to the right I see a very large animal move and before I can even ask the guide says that it's a peacock.  It scurries a bit before I get an angle to where I can clearly see it, but once I do, I can see the thing is gigantic -- probably pushing 100 pounds.  It's a brilliant blue and green and it's doing whatever the hell peacocks do when they suddenly decide to run a hundred miles an hour.

 

We drive along and the guide spots tiger tracks in the dirt about 100 yards in front of us at 30 mph.  He has the driver pull up and we look.  "That's a very large male."  I ask him how he knows and he explains the nuances of what he's looking at.  I can see that the tiger track is on top of the jeep track left by the jeep in front of us.  That cat was just here.  Just here.

 

Both these guys are very good.  They talk a bit between themselves and decide to try a few different side tracks.  We poke around, poke around and poke around, but nothing.  They're both becoming pretty dejected.  So much so that I have to cheer them up.  "Hey, come on.  Look.  It's a nice day.  And it's getting warm and sunny.  And look at all the stuff we have seen."  They're not convinced.  "Think of all the crappy jobs you could have here in In.  This is a pretty good one.  I mean you get to look for tigers and ride in jeeps.  When you were little boys, this is the job you would have wanted to have."  This cheers them up a little.  "And hey, look!  No camera!  Where's my camera?  I don't have one!"  This does a little more.

 

We do a large loop of a sub-section of the park, occasionally stopping to listen for distress calls from animals.  Nothing.

 

On the way back, we see a couple of mahouts allowing their elephants to graze and then, just past that, a long line of jeeps.  And a long line of jeeps can only mean one thing ...

 

We pull up along side another vehicle and get the low-down.  There's a mother and two cubs bedded in the grass.  It's now going on 10:00 and the park will close in 30 minutes.  They both look at me, "What do you want to do?"

 

The answer's easy.  I've thought for hundreds of hours, travelled thousands of miles and spent as many dollars to be where I am right now.  "Wait."

 

The guide gets ready to say something but I cut him off.  "I know.  It's getting hot and animals don't move in the heat of the day.  We may be wasting our time.  It's fine.  We wait."

 

The jeep driver situates us in the only piece of shade and we sit.  The mist of the morning is gone now.  Heat waves are starting to rise from the grass.  An almost imperceptable breeze floats past.  The H's all talk to each other and the whiteys remain perfectly quiet. 

 

One by one people give up and leave.  Six jeeps are left.

 

"Sir?"

 

"Wait."

 

I have the patience of Job.  I have not eaten, slept in airports, ridden with the cops, paid baksheesh to the Muslims.  I have seen three fatal accidents and a dead body on the street.  I've had my throat swell shut to where I had to breathe through my nose.  I've waited three hours an an In. Embassy and had people treat me like an idiot.

 

I wait.

 

So I start staring at the grass.  Straight at the spot.  See a tiger.  I will see a tiger.  I stare.  I stare.  I stare.  See a tiger.  See a tiger.  My eyes water and my left eye is giving me fits -- I have streaming floaters like looking at pond water under a microscope.

 

Goddammit.  There is a tiger there.  I know there is a tiger there.  Just see it.  Just see it.

 

And then I do.

 

I can make out the outline of it, for sure.  It's so well camoflauged that it's more like an outline.  A shape.  A Picasso line drawing seen through a venetian blind.  But it's there.  It's big.  It's laying down with it's head to the left, but it's mildly alert.  It hears something. 

 

I look left.  It's those deer.  Way way over there.  I look back and the tiger is so well hidden it takes me a couple of minutes to find it again, even though I know exactly where it is.

 

But what happens next, I don't expect.  As I'm looking at the tiger, another tiger walks in front of it.  A cub.  Maybe a year old.  I have a unique angle looking into the bush and because of it, of the 40 or so people that are still here, I'm the only person who can see it.

 

And it's thrilling.  Tiger.  Tiger.  Right there. 

 

I go to tell my guide and before I can I'm being physically lifted by my arms -- my driver on my left, my guide on my right "Look!  Look!  Tiger!"  I'm laughing and there's a huge whirr and hum from the crowd.  Shutters clicking, the H. families are all screaming at each other. 

 

"Shir!  Shir!"

 

The other cub gets up and walks.  The mother gets up briefly, herds them a bit, then they all settle back down.

 

Three tigers.  And almost, for sure, that female is the one I heard this morning.

 

And I feel right this second the same way I felt when I saw rhinos in Assam all those years ago.  All this crap, all this damn Holi, worth it.  All worth it.  Tigers.  Right there.

 

The driver and guide are notably relieved. 

 

"See!  See!  I told you.  What's the answer?  'Wait!'  'Wait!'  It's an alien concept for you, isn't it?  The idea of having to wait for any damn thing."  They don't understand.  I don't care.  They're getting big tips, they know it.

 

It's getting hot as we drop our guide and head back to the camp.  He asks if I'm going again this afternoon and I say, "No, I'll go tomorrow when it's cheaper."  As I make my way to the room the manager comes up and in a prolonged conversation it becomes clear that, in fact, I've already paid for the afternoon.

 

Okay, fine. 

 

They ask me what I want for breakfast, running through a few suggestions, and I stop them on scrambled eggs and toast.  But I know, in the back of my mind, that this is a bad idea ... I just can't remember why.

 

The toast is good, but the eggs are weird.  Not only are they runny like those old time Prune eggs (do a search on this blog for that story), but they taste weird.  Sweet?  Are they sweet?  Yeah, they've added sugar. 

 

I'm actually thinking, "I'm not that hungry" when I come across, that's right, a cooked embryo. 

 

Whatever.  I saw tigers.

 

I go back to my room, take a quick nap and a shower and head back out.

 

My driver for the afternoon is the same, but I'm assigned a different guide.  There are fewer jeeps than this morning, but everyone I do see has already done the morning tour. 

 

We're assigned the higher elevations in the park and on the way out we see the jeeps lined up at the same spot as where the morning tigers were bedded down.  To the surprise of both my driver and guide, I shake them off waiting and we head for higher ground.  I've already seen those tigers, I want to see what else is there.

 

The ground gives way almost immediately to sheer cliffs of sandstone.  Imagine Boulder Canyon crossed with Red Rocks and you have the right idea.  There are some old caves cut into the rock and this is the only place in the park where they allow foot traffic.  I get out and explore around a bit. 

 

The views across the forest and valley are stunning.  It's quite a bit cooler up here in the higher altitude and you can feel the moisture from the expiration of plants in the air.

 

We weave and wind through rocks and trees.  There are deer everywhere.  In fact, it doesn't look like there's anything from the lowlands that doesn't live up here as well.  We come across a large woodpecker and a few other interesting birds including some sort of a crested hawk.

 

There's a large water hole where some samba deer are wallowing in the mud.  We stop and watch them for maybe half an hour.

 

We head back down where the tiger queue is still sitting and wait a few minutes.  I get my driver to reposition the jeep and the disturbance alerts the mother tiger -- she looks right at me -- but again the angle is such that I'm the only person that can see her. 

 

A jeep comes past with an English woman who says she can't see them.  I tell the driver to stop in H. and have her climb into my jeep.  I make a motion with my hand to show the tiger's head with my fingers and then orient it so she can see the way the tiger is looking. 

 

As I do the tiger turns it's head and we can clearly see the eye spots on the backs of its ears.  She shrieks in my ear and nearly dislocates my shoulder.

 

"Yeah.  It's great," I whisper.

 

We watch for about 15 minutes, with maybe 10 of those being me looking directly into the eyes of the tiger while it looks back, at a distance of maybe 75 feet tops. 

 

Time's growing late so I give the signal to go home.

 

On the way out we see an owl the size and shape of a medium size barrel.

 

This, my portly little friend, has been a very good day.  The thrill of tigers in the morning.  The unblievable sweeping scenes of the afternoon.

 

I go back to the lodge and read a bit before heading to dinner.  When I get there I'm pretty hungry, but as I'm sitting kids just swarm the dining room.

 

I don't need this.  Not now. 

 

I tell the manager I'll be leaving a day early and ask him how much a car back to J. would be.  RS2500.  It's a lot, but I'm expecting that. 

 

"Tell him to be here at 10:00."  That'll give me enough time to poke around in the morning and will get us well off the roads before sunset -- giving me a chance to get a place and get settled.  I'll need to buy a train ticket and that won't be trivial.

 

More as it happens,

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