One More Jump

For the first time in my life, I'm at a ticket counter too early to check-in, so I poke around until they finally let me.  As I'm getting through some guy (clearly from a right hand caste) is going insane over the fact that they aren't letting him to the gate simply because he's missed the check-in time.  I mean, he is going on and on.  I laugh and he looks right at me, full of fury. 

 

I say to him in slow English, "Hey man, this is your country, not mine."  If he lunges at me, I'll take him down.  I hate these kinds of overt displays of machismo and caste.  They, in turn, hate me for not fully playing by the rules.  He goes back to screaming at the authorities.

 

The flight from Delhi to J. is a small prop plane.  With a name like Jet Airways, I guess I shouldn't be expecting any less.  They have open seating and it's madness just to get in the plane.  I stand back, and even though I'm last on the plane, to my amazement the front seats -- with twice as much legroom as everywhere else -- are open.  Yes, that's right, everyone was fighting just to be first on a rear-entry aircraft.

 

Great. 

 

I take my seat and sleep the whole way.

 

Landing in J. is an experience.  They appear to have some type of military problem here, possibly a very severe one.  There are armed troops everywhere and boarding cards are required as we exit the aircraft.  It's all In. nationals and two other whiteys -- the whiteys will be tiger people, for sure.  There's no other reason to be here.

 

M.P. is at the dead heart of In.  It's simultaneously in the middle of everything and no where.  It's sort of hard to get here, and a little harder to get out.  There's nothing in J. to speak of, but it's the nearest city of size for tigers, also the best place for fossils and Jain temples.  It's too much of a stretch to say you're off the beaten tourist path (it is, after all, the way to get to tigers), but the tourist path is very thin and very direct.  Stray much and you're in a slightly more wild and wooly environment.

 

It's H. in a big way here.  More so than G., by a long shot.

 

The airport is tiny tiny.  Military are crawling like ants on a deserted twinkie.  There's a driver holding a sign that says "MP Tourist Department," and those people are precisely who I'm going to see in town.  If I act stupid and tourist-like here I might be able to get a free ride.

 

I point (full hand, not a finger, of course, which is considered to be rude bordering on obscene) and say, "You're my man."

 

Now I know who he's here for.  He's here for the whiteys, but they suddenly thought it would be a good idea to take a picture of the military at the airport.  This is never a good idea.  Never as in where the original contraction comes from, "not ever."  They've been detained.  They'll be a while.

 

"Just one?" he asks me.

 

"Yes."  And we're off.

 

Well, I wasn't planning on actually hijacking their ride, but it would take me about 30 minutes to explain what happened, so I just keep quiet.  About half-way he gets a call on a cell phone. 

 

I already know where this is going.  We turn around and he explains that there are more people there.

 

Then we get another call and we turn around to head back to town.

 

Then we get another call and we turn back for the airport.

 

Well, my idea almost worked.  The problem now will be that the airport will be closed and there'll be no taxis.  I can work this out.  I've handled much worse.

 

We get back, I apologize to the whiteys saying that I wanted to go to the tourism office and assumed it was a shuttle.  They're fine with it because they're Brits and I'm instructed to wait on the platform.  Which I do.

 

Then I'm instructed to wait off the platform.  Which I do.

 

Then I'm instructed to board the police bus.  Which may or may not mean I'm arrested. 

 

But I don't care because I'm pointed toward J. in the distance.  A big, Muslim who looks every bit like an ultra-pissed off Samuel Jackson is driving.  There are big time military heavy weights on board, both of them with three stars -- every military person we pass salutes them.  They don't make eye contact with me, nor each other.

 

The driver is given instructions to drop me at the top of a block, but he ignores it and drops me at the train station.  This is precisely where I want to be.  They drop me, I salute the generals, which pleases one and pisses off the other and go into the tourist office.  I need one thing: a car.  And would really like another: a reservation at a lodge.

 

And as I make my way into the station, I can't help but notice, there are people here still celebrating Holi.  Goddamn zombie holiday.

 

I'm swarmed by about a dozen con artists as I enter the station.  All I need to do is find the tourism office.  I scan the walls, being ever-aware of my pockets, as I see what I want.  One of the vermin acts as though he's helped me find the place and escorts me over.  He'll be wanting more, but that's a problem for later.

 

I go in and the head tourism official is unbelievably helpful.  His English is pretty good, but his will and ability to communicate is even better.  He knows what I want and he can help me.  I'm low on rupees and he goes ahead and books a reservation at my #1 choice place and hires me a car anyway, "You can go to the Bank of In., change money, then come back and pay."  Great.

 

It's right about here than Samuel Jackson shows up again.  He drops in and we all have a cup of chai as we're waiting for my car.  It takes me awhile to figure out why he's here ... Oh, I know why: he's expecting baksheesh for the ride. 

 

Sure enough, not two minutes pass and he brings up the topic.  His English is bad enough that I have to confirm with the tourism official what he wants.  I pay RS200, which he is fine with and leaves, but this puts the official off on a small lecture to an aide about "this being the problem and no way to treat tourists."  Everything he's saying is in H., but his intent is clear enough.

 

My driver arrives.  He speaks no English.  That's fine.  If I know someone doesn't speak, I continue to communicate, it just changes the frequency and the channel.  I know where I stand.  In fact, in many ways, it's harder if someone speaks a little because you're never full sure if you're getting through or not.

 

We go to the bank, it takes about half an hour to get US$300 changed (including a writing down of the bill serial numbers) and then I go back to the tourism office to pay for everything that's due.  I also lay the grounds for my next steps -- namely I know which train I need to catch when I leave town in the future ... Whenever that may be.

 

I bid him goodbye and we plow out through the crowded streets of J.  I ride in the front seat, which takes the driver by complete surprise, but it has three big perks: better view, more leg room and a seat belt.

 

It's RS2000 for a car, but it's a direct shot.  It takes awhile to pull through the madness of J., but after some time it breaks up into intermittent chaos crossed with something I've never seen in In. before -- a wide open road.

 

K. and B. are in the same general direction.  K. is more famous because Rudyard Kipling wrote The Jungle Book about that spot, and it's larger.  B., however, has a higher tiger-per-kilometer ratio and is arguably in a more interesting physical location.

 

All of the smaller traffic (Land Rover-like vehicles) are people in cars going to see tigers.  The vast majority veer off and away when we get to the turn-off for K.

 

The roads start to deteriorate markedly and in a few miles we're there.  The White Tiger Camp is expansive -- the swankiest of rooms (meaning those with AC) are right up against the main office.  The room that I want, however is near the river -- and the river is the boundary to the park.

 

Unfortunately it's absolutely littered with kids here.  I don't know, maybe 50?  And Ins. essentially let their kids run wild -- so they're sort of everywhere doing everything.  Why are they here?  Oh that's right, it's Holi.  Even though the fricken holiday was supposed to be over last Sunday.

 

Rooms are RS1600 including food.  For that I get the classic "marriage bed," that is two doubles pushed together, a fan, a closet and hot water on demand (which is actually a pretty big deal in a place like this). 

 

I take a shower and a brief nap.  About 20:30 I head to dinner -- it's just being served buffet style.

 

"Good evening, sir.  Do you like In. food?"

 

"Hi.  No, I don't.  But considering the fact that I haven't eaten in 54 hours, I bet you'll find that I don't complain much."

 

They don't understand.  I don't care. 

 

Indian food all has names, but I find it to be all remarkably similar -- namely vegetables in puddles.  The only thing that really varies, in the straight veg world, is the amount of spice.  I get cauliflower in white puddles and sliced beans in green puddles.  They also have some stir-fried noodles (a dish I typically love, but these are terrible) and some overly dry fried rice.  I eat about three bites of everything, have two Cokes, give some laundry to my dobi wallah and head to bed.

 

I need to be up at 05:30 to be in the park at first light.

 

Tomorrow, for the first time in my life, I'll look for tigers,

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