On the Tail of Tigers

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Electrified Skies

I awoke softly at around 4am, the earplugs seemingly doing their job, turning the noise on the train to more of a background muffle. As I roused and looked around I became aware of lots of activity. We were at a station and people were shuffling through the cabins with their bags making their way off the train. I gathered my sprawled possessions and lent over the edge of my bunk to ask if this was Ramnagar; no, Ramnagar is next stop, I was informed. I lay back down and dozed a little, though the rest was light as I was aware we were close to my stop. After realising I would sleep no more on this train, I climbed down from my bunk and sat on the edge of a now empty bed, reading my book in a slither of light that cracked through from the next bay. Daylight began to dawn as we pulled out from our penultimate station and I noticed flashes of light coming through the window. Still half asleep, I assumed this was caused, as in the UK, by electricity jolting to life from the joints in the power feed to the tracks. As my mind cleared, I realised this was a diesel train and thus the lights couldn't be electricity, at least not from the train. Craning my neck too look out of the window behind a young couple, I saw a huge bolt of lightning crease across the dawn sky, shattering at the end towards the earth and the heavens. A storm was raging outside, though I couldn't tell if it was raining or not. The day continued to dawn and the sky continued to light fires in the clouds. I felt a growing curiosity as to what world I was going to emerge into when I left the train.

Alighting the train in Ramnagar, I felt the static in the air. Rain spat lightly down in the humid morning light. The wind was blowing, but with a tenderness that stopped short of it being unwelcome, yet still enough for me to seek shelter under the roof of a platform tea shop. Gathering my thoughts, I got myself a cup of Masala Chai – a bargain at just 6 pence. I felt it's warmth begin to bring moisture back to the surface of my skin, and the light hit of caffeine began to bring my mind and my senses fully back to life. Finishing my chai I left the station, stepping over the homeless and the waiting, all sleeping peacefully inside the station entrance. Despite the apparent chaos of the scene, there was a sense of tranquillity that I struggled to comprehend. Outside, as the rain began to ease, I began to flag down rickshaws, trying to bargain a fair price. I knew my destination was only a few minutes away, yet I had no idea which direction to head and I could see from here that the town I'd arrived in was much bigger and much more densely packed than I'd anticipated. Looking to the distant mountains and being aware that a heavy band of rain was approaching from their peaks, I eventually gave in and paid the exorbitant and seemingly non negotiable 100 rupee fare to get myself to the Corbett Motel.

Arriving at the motel around 5.30am, the driver beeped at the closed gates and helped unload my bags, almost dropping my small bag with my laptop and camera into a stream that ran beneath the bridge to the gates. A young boy came out from the grounds and opened the gates, beckoning me to follow him into the leafy green mango orchard in which the accommodation sat. I'd rang to book a tent, as this was the cheapest option, but was instead shown into one of the clean, double rooms. I asked if I could instead take a tent, but was told that with the rain it might not be a comfortable place to be. I asked to take a look and as the boy opened a tent for me, I was faced with a cloud of mosquitoes and a wet dog, sat panting on the middle of the bed, having rolled around in the sheets to dry itself. I'll take the room. I tried to bargain for the price of the room, but this was a popular place and I got nowhere. As I set up my net and began to get settled for the sleep I was lacking from the journey, my mind whirred with wonder at how I was going to arrange my tour, and get to my next destination the following day. Suddenly a loud knock at the door made me jump. It was the site owner, he needed my passport to book me in, as is procedure. He also said he had a Jeep leaving that afternoon for the reserve, three girls had booked places and one was left if I wanted to take it, for 1000 rupees. The price was in fact slightly less than I'd been expecting to for out, so I agreed and arranged to meet the Jeep at 3pm. I asked about getting to Rishakesh the next day and the helpful man gave me all the bus times and details of the top of his head. With everything now in hand, I slept for a solid 4 hours.

Rousing at around 11am, I walked to the camp restaurant for some much needed food. I ordered a chow mein from the tourist oriented menu, but when it came I struggled to eat it; my appetite seemed to be failing me. After leaving half of my small plate of food, I returned to my room and spent a few minutes finishing the final paces of Touching the Void. As I did, I felt my insides starting to tremble and I feared the worst. I spent a while sitting down during the next hour, but tried to look on the bright side, I got to make a start on The Alchemist, a philosophical book exploring life and destiny. I'd been wanting to read this book for some time and rather fortuitously, my cousin Richard had a copy which he's given to me when I stayed at his flat in London the night before I left from Heathrow.

When I felt a little more stable I set about hand washing my clothes, using duct tape as a plus I filled the small bathroom sink with soapy water and started to scrub. It became clear just how grimy Delhi had been, as I had to change the water after every T-shirt I'd been wearing while I was there, sometimes twice for one item. As I did this, I set my iPod to random and connected my speakers. A few songs by The gaslight Anthem played out and I though of home. I thought of countless summer evenings driving to Newquay with Lee, singing aloud joyously to this band at the start of yet another happy weekend in Cornwall. I continued washing and “See the World” played, a song by Gomez that I'd used on the video I made of mine and Lee's Portugal road trip. I turned up the speakers and sang along. Listening to these songs suddenly magnified the position I found myself in, half way round the world, travelling alone and only at the start of a somewhat epic adventure.

Blue Skies & Black Faced Monkeys

I finished my washing and hung it on my patio to dry. My stomach was telling me to sit down again, but it was two minutes to three so I had to head out for the reserve, packing some loo roll and hoping for the best. As I made my way to the meeting point three western girls emerged from a nearby room. I assumed these were the girls that I'd be sharing a Jeep with and struck up a conversation. Sure enough they were and we were soon deep in conversation as we waited for our driver to arrive. Climbing on to the back of the Jeep, we discussed whether we might get to see tigers or not. I told the story of the girl I'd met in Delhi who'd just returned from there, having seen three tigers in two days, though I held back my expectations, as a similar series of events had occurred when Charlotte and I visited the Kho Yai National Park in Thailand, and saw little more than a few monkeys.

The road to the park was long and I sat in the back of the Jeep feeling a little like some old explorer heading out into uncharted terrain. I realised of course that this was clearly not the case as this was a heavily tourist oriented and popular activity, but I revelled in this first taste of rural India, very aware of the contrast of this open landscape and blue sky to the haze and dense concrete towers of Delhi. In Delhi you have to climb to the third or fourth floor of a building to see the colour of the sky and the shape of the sun; at ground level it's shrouded by the haze of perpetual smog. Here, the sky was bright blue and the sun was beaming. The scenery was new and the horizon distant as we approach the forested area that marked the start of the reserve. After entering the park and bartering at the gate for binocular hire, we set off down the bumpy dirt road into the forest. We'd not been driving for long when the driver stopped to point out a troupe of Black-Faced Macaques, with monkeys with jet black faces. Soon after he pointed out a family of spotted deer, Bambi looking creatures on a nearby hillside, almost close enough to touch. As the forest gave way to scrublands, our guide pointed out numerous exotic birds, Asian birds of paradise and bright, parrot like creatures. We stopped by watering holes and waited, but nothing came along. No elephants, no tigers. We made a short stop at a refreshment hut and conservation centre, surrounded by big electric fences a la Jurassic Park, before continuing on through the park. We came across more monkeys and macaques of many species and sizes and took copious photos of each. We waited in a known tiger haunt and heard the warning cries of spooked deer in the forest, but we saw no tiger. Eventually, as the sun began to set, we were making our way back towards the edge of the park. We saw a huge barking deer, the tigers favourite food we were told, as we sat like savages, hoping for a tiger to burst from the bushes and devour this huge deer. Still no tiger. As we passed another watering hole, the Jeep stopped and the driver pointed us to a watch tower, sat high atop a mighty tree by the banks of the water. I took the lead climbing the steep and rickety steps that led up the eighty feet or so to the wooden tree house. The hut soon filled up as the occupants of subsequent 4x4s joined us in the tower, but still we saw nothing. As we carefully climbed down from the tree, we could see the sun beginning to set spectacularly on the horizon. A short time later, the driver stopped the Jeep so we could take photos of the impressive, fiery day's end. I showed the girl to my right a few tricks with her camera and we each got some fantastic photos.

We left the park having seen no tigers, or elephants, but having had a memorable experience non-the-less.

Arriving back the camp, I freshened up a little and joined the girls for dinner. I ate cautiously little as, despite making it through the park without incident, my stomach didn't feel good. We talked for some time about travel and life at home and the girls told me about an international demonstration of sorts that was taking place the next morning; a 5km walk to support Save the Tigers. The walk was set to begin at 8.30am and I arranged to meet them at 8am to go along, with coverage from National Geographic Magazine it sounded sure to be interesting.

We left the table around 10 and I spent the last few hours sitting outside my room, covered in mosquito repellent, reading The Alchemist, between trips to the loo. I was thankful that it was only my stomach that was off, as I'd spoken to many people who'd been bed ridden for days with delhi-belly. There's still time yet, I thought to myself as I lay in bed, drifting off to sleep.

Immodium

My alarm rang out at 7am, but my sleep had been intermittent at best and I wasn't really ready to wake. I snoozed for just long enough to make the run up to 8am a stressful one. I hurriedly packed my washing, shaking off the hundreds of mosquitoes from the shirts I'd left outside for the night. I made it out of my room and to the restaurant a few minutes to 8, not long enough to get breakfast, I thought. After greeting the girls and reviewing the schedule, I ordered some plain toast and asked them to hurry, as I sat with the owner to review the bill and check out. It had been an expensive 24 hours, but I'd gone there expecting that, after all, it's a unique place with a selling point guaranteed to turn it into a tourist trap. I couldn't help but feel I'd be happier spending that sort of money if I'd seen what I went for, but I didn't dwell.

As I threw my toast down my neck, made tastier by a donation of peanut butter from a nearby table, I put my bags into the owner's office and set off into town with the girls to meet the tiger walk. We arrived at the meeting point 30 minutes late and got the details from some of the event organisers that were still hanging around. The group was now meeting at a nearby park gate, from where the walk would start. A car was coming soon and we could get a lift up with them. Unfortunately, I had to be back in town with all my bags for noon to take a bus on to Rishakesh – being out in the park would leave me essentially stranded and I didn't want to miss my bus and have t pay another 600 rupees to stay in Ramnagar again. My stomach was also doing back flips again and I decided I'd leave the girls to go ahead and make my way back to the camp. “Perhaps we'll catch up in Shimla.”

As I trudged back to the Corbett Motel, sweating in the increasing heat, I began to be pestered by begging children and old women. Some were very persistent, even gripping hold of my fingers and trying to yank me back to give them money. Some ran alongside me, bashing my hips with their small silver begging bowls. For some reason, they all dressed in red, though so dirty as to appear brown. I realised as I walked that I'd been too busy chatting and looking for a cash machine on the way up and hadn't paid much attention to the route. I walked the way I thought must be right, but eventually began to question myself. Looking around I could see few people I thought might be able top help, so I pressed on, the pressure in my stomach steadily building. After some thirty minutes I saw a fork in the road that I recognised and soon after I was back, asking frantically if there was a toilet (mine was now locked in the room I'd checked out of). I sat around for a few hours, knowing I wasn't safe to go anywhere more than a few minutes from loo. I drank water and read the guidebook about Rishakesh, between the frequent darts to the loo. Eventually time began to get on and I decided to cram some Immodium down my neck and brave the journey. Soon after this, a miscommunication with the owner had a rickshaw on site waiting for me and I had to leave sooner than I'd have liked, my safety window for the Immodium cut short. I crossed my fingers and hoped.

The driver was kind and helpful, charging half the rate of the previous morning and stopping at the bus station to ask a shop keeper to help me find the bus to Haridwar, my changing point for a bus to Rishakesh. I waited by the shop and was soon tapped on the shoulder as my bus pulled in.

Journeys

The bus was crowded, I managed to get a seat by the window but was asked to move by the ticket inspector – that was his seat. Soon after I was moved again, but this time to a more spacious seat further back, though now my rucksack was out of sight. I felt I should worry about it, though something within me was relaxed enough about it to let me doze for an hour as we drove through countless crowded, poor villages. The bus ride was 6 hours so I was glad to pass at least one of them with ease. The bus was hot, but I dared drink only minimum amounts of water, fearful I might give my angry stomach too much ammunition. I read my guide book and re-read chapters of The Alchemist. I'd finished the latter book earlier in the day, but there were some deep messages within the pages that I wanted to re-read, to understand and interpret for myself. I spoke to a young girl nearby to confirm the time and the length of the journey that remained, we still had a long way to go. Soon after, a girl in the seat behind was sick on the floor, peppering the backs of my legs in watery vomit. The hot floor seemed to vaporise the mess, filling the bus with the smell of sick, on top of the already sweaty atmosphere. My thoughts returned to my stomach and I searched for distractions, as I swallowed another Immodium capsule. Recommended dosage was slowly going out of the window as I fought to avoid an embarrassing catastrophe.

A couple of hours in we stopped at a closed level crossing. We seemed to be waiting a while, the engine of the bus turned off and the cooling flow of air that had been coming through the windows was halted. As we sat stationary in the sweltering heat of the day, the driver began to make frenzied phone calls, it was clear there was a problem with the crossing and for now we were going nowhere. The crossing being down didn't seem to bother the locals however, as hundreds streamed across the tracks in either direction, pushing motorbikes, trading carts and even struggling to get their pedal rickshaws under the barriers. Several trains passed, some within inches of fleeing pedestrians, each with hundreds of Indians crammed on board, many still hanging dangerously out of the doors, holding on to the outside of the trains. As we sat in the heat, every occupant now sweating, I tried not to think of my tender gut. One man left the bus, leaving a vacant seat at the front, next to my bag. I moved and sat down with a clear view out of the windscreen, next to a young Indian woman dressed in blue silk. She seemed uneased by my presence – a warm smile and hello on my part doing little to change this. I sat away from her as best as I could on my small seat and observed the ongoing chaos at the broken rail crossing. By now, the entire crossing was clogged up, as people had failed to get under the barrier and created a bottleneck of stuck people, carts and cows.

Flowering Trees to Colour the Silk

Eventually the barriers lifted and a dense crowd of people and vehicles flooded onto the tracks. Police blared their sirens as they tried to forge a path, but no one seemed to notice. After clearing the jam, using a petrol station as a shortcut, we continued onward, through more villages and small towns. After some time the road opened up and the dusty tracks gave way to old tarmac and green surroundings. He greenery continued to intensify and soon we were driving through flowering trees and grassy surroundings. The flowers on the trees were a colour I'd never seen anywhere else, but they had a familiarity about them. Deep oranges and vibrant purples adorned the treetops and I soon realised why it seemed familiar – the colours were those worn by many Indian women, the dyes clearly inspired by the beauty of nature around them.

The rest of the journey seemed to flow smoothly. The driver ignored hundreds of people at the roadside that tried to flag the bus down. Signalling to one clearly angry man that he was late and hungry. He managed to find time to stop for half an hour for his lunch break a little further up the road; I welcomes the chance to stretch my legs and wash my feet and face in a nearby hand-pump. The water stank when I splashed it on my face, though the queue of Indians waiting to take a drink didn't seem to mind.

6 hours after the bus had left Ramnagar, we pulled in to Haridwar. The bus station was a dusty, stony patch of land on the edge of the city. I wandered around asking drivers where to find the bus to Rishakesh, each one vaguely pointing me in the general direction and giving me instructions I didn't understand. A young boy approached me, he was selling strips of cucumber from a tray on his shoulder; a few flies were also having their lunch on it. He didn't tried to sell me his fruits, instead he simply said “Rishakesh?”. I acknowledged him and he told me I had to wait on the corner of a road across from the far corner of the station. I thanked him and he seemed happy to have helped.

A Helpful and Friendly Contrast

Arriving at the prescribed corner I was beginning to feel the heat of the strong sun, though once again a haze hung above me that distributed the burning rays into a more even and humid intensity. I asked around for Rishakesh and a young man came to my assistance with broken English. We couldn't communicate well, but he told me he knew how to get there as he too had been there from here and said he'd stay and help me. Having been in Delhi and surrounded by cheats and liars, I was unsure what to make of this help and as he tried to flag a shred 4x4 for the journey I was quick to jump in with the fact I wanted a public bus. I waited uneasily for a good half hour. He told me to take my big rucksack off so I could stand comfortably, but I made a weak excuse for not doing and continued to question his motives. A short while later he sprung into action, grabbing my hand and running with me amidst a mob towards a bus that I assumed was bound for Rishakesh. He pointed me on to the bus and I did as I'd learned, shouldering my small bag on my front as I ran and leapt on to the side of the bus, holding on to a railing and jostling to get inside the doors. The bus never actually stopped, everyone had to jump for it. I managed to dig a chunk out of my shin on the step as I did so, but in the chaos of the moment I didn't notice. As I tried to get on, a hand took my loose arm and pulled me from the bus. It was the young man that had helped me on it to begin with. I had begin to trust him now, so I jumped off the moving bus and, holding my balance with my heavy load, managed to stop myself without falling. The young man took my hand and rushed me across the street. “Another bus” he was saying. He led me briskly back to the bus station and on to a waiting bus in the middle of the dust bowl. I double checked with a couple of passengers that this was indeed the right bus before thanking the helpful young man and feeling a little bad for not trusting him in the first place, after he went so far out of his way to help a stranger. I took a seat at the front, feeling warmed by the generosity I'd experienced and a little confused at how there's been such a difference in the motives of people after just a day or so of travelling from Delhi. I'd been told that Indian people were very kind, generous and giving. Delhi had made me question that but now I was beginning to sense that Delhi may have been an exception to the norm.

As the bus pulled away, the man by my side sat leafing through a map of India. You going to Rishakesh? He asked. I acknowledged this and we began to chat. He told me he was a Hare Krishna Pundit (priest) from the south of India, on a pilgrimage to the source of the Ganges to bath in it's holy waters. He explained how once every 12 years, a 2 week period occurs in which the Ganges is at it's most holy, a truly auspicious window for Hare Krishna followers in which the soul and mind can be truly cleansed. He expressed his dismay at how his family and friends in the south had been “modernised” by the ways of the west, abandoning their religious traditions and questioning him for being crazy enough to embark on a five day journey to sit in the ice cold glacier melt water at the start to the Ganga (Ganges). We talked about meditation and he handed me a card from his temple, which had on it the Hare Krishna Mantra, to be said 108 times, moving a finger from one prayer bead to the next inside a special bag until all 108 beads had had the mantra recited on them. I read the text and recognised it at once. A friend of mine, Lorna, who runs the hostel in Newquay, had said it to me several times over the summer. I thought of a conversation we'd had as she helped me plan my route in India (in truth, I'd still have no idea where I aimed to go had it not been for her), she'd asked me to bring her home some holy Ganga water, but we'd reasoned as it was my first stop on a round the world trip that it'd be simply too impractical. Now however, my sister was coming to Nepal and I thought it the perfect way to get some Ganga water home. With the river being at it's holiest for 12 years I knew how much Lorna would appreciated it and I decided I was going to make sure I bottled some. At the thought of that I realised I craved a drink and retrieved a bottle of water from my bag that I'd picked up from a street vendor that morning. I was dismayed to see the water was the wrong colour and I'd been ripped off with some dodgy re-bottled water. I was gasping for a drink but was in no physical state to be taking further risks with what I was consuming.

I continued to speak to the friendly pilgrim at length, I learned much about Hare Krishna and about Indian culture in General. He talked of the Caste system, similar to the class system of old England but more formal. Every Indian at birth, he told me, is issued with a birth certificate and a caste certificate, the latter would determine your opportunities in life. The castes, in order of importance he said, are (paraphrased) Priest, Soldier, Businessman and working class. A further caste exists which he referred to ass the untouchables – people of the forest, the homeless, cavemen. You can never change caste regardless of what you achieve in life and in some cases, so much as touching someone from a distant caste can be a punishable offence. He told me that despite being officially scrapped in India, caste politics played a pivotal role in society. He was a priest at his temple, but he was of the wrong caste and so would never be permitted to perform rituals in the more sacred temples. A person born into the Businessman's caste, regardless of qualifications or achievements, would be all but guaranteed a good job. He said the very conversation we were having would probably be offending people on the bus who were of a higher cast than he was.

We continued to talk all the way to Rishakesh. He told me that being from the south he struggled to understand the language here (there are tens, if not hundreds of different active languages in India) and was considered by the rickshaw drivers to be just as much of a tourist as I was and was subject tot he same inflated prices and endless bartering. He told me how to find the source of the Ganges high in the mountains and I told him about home, about life in the UK and my experiences in India so far. When we left the bus, he offered to help me find a room, though I already had a plan for where I was going. We shook hands and wished each other well, as I left to find a rickshaw to head north.

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Photos

The Tents
A line of tents in the Corbett Motel, soaked when I arrived and home to a wet dog

Corbett Tiger Reserve
An early view of the tiger reserve, not far from the entrance

Birdwatching
A colourful indian bird perches on a dead tree

Safari
Two of the girls I was in the reserve with stand up in the jeep in front of where I stood

Catalogue Pose
The guide took several photos of each of us - I didn't intend to be such a poser!

Corbett Reserve
A local guide explains the park zones to us as we come to realise the true scale of the park. We'd only manage to cover a small corner in half a day

Watering Hole
...with little wildlife watering there

Spotted Deer
Whilst not the best photo in the world, the spotted deer are clearly visible in the trees near the jeep trail

The Sun Lowers
The lowering sun casts powerful light the the vine covered jungle trees in a dense area of the forest

Monkey Business
A black faced macaque sits in a leafy tree, seemingly oblivious to our presence

More macaques
It turned out that they were everywhere

Many, Many Monkeys
A monkey of a breed unknown to me scarpers up a tree as we approach

Barking Deer
The barking deer, out guide told us, is the tiger's favourite food. Perhaps right now they weren't hungry

Claw Marks
The territory marking scrapes in the tree were about the closest we got to a tiger

High Hide
An unsafe wooden hide sits high in the tree, the photo taken moments before we scaled the creaking old steps.

Bus Station
As I sat in Ramanagar, I watched as my bus to haridwar arrived; not the most modern of things

Crammed In
No space was left to spare on the bus to Haridwar, as I was moved around by the inspector repeatedly

Ramnagar Alleys
A parting shot of Ramnagar, taken from the bus window

Dirt Road Truckers
A colourful truck sits waiting for its load in the midday sun

Crossing Trouble
Chaos ensued when a broken level crossing was eventually raised and masses of people tried to cross at once

Service Station
Perhaps they were trying to promote something..?