The Courier & Advertiser (Perth and Perthshire Edition)
Earning stripes on an Indian safari
Park closures and red tape have made Bengal tiger safaris controversial in the past few years. Sarah Marshall joins wildlife photographer Paul Goldstein on a safari to Maharashtra’s Tadoba National Park, where a glimmer of hope burns brightly
Scanning a barcode of regimented bamboo stems, I wonder if anything in this forest has a pulse. It’s a quiet day and nothing is stirring. A zigzag of movement momentarily sets my heart racing but it’s no more than optical illusion. I have, it turns out, been bamboozled.
According to a report published by WWF and Global Tiger Forum in April this year, the wild tiger population has increased for the first time in more than a century. Having not clocked even a tuft of orange fur in six game drives, I’m finding that hard to believe.
Experts are equally sceptical; in light of shrinking habitat, the numbers seem incredulous. Issuing new census figures days before a Royal visit to India might also be considered cynical.
Dispirited, we hurtle in tin-can Gypsy 4WDs through Maharashtra’s Tadoba Andhari National Park, leaving a tunnel of hot dust in our wake.
A storm is coming, which could explain our run of unusually bad luck. Bengal tigers may be fierce, stealthy hunters but a drop of rain will send them scurrying into the bushes, tails between their legs.
“You should have been here last week,” says Aditya Dhanwatey, whose family own the Tiger Trails Lodge on the park fringes. Tadoba’s queen bee tigress, Maya, he tells me, was seen hunting in clear view.
The truth is, tigers are in trouble. Poaching remains a grave problem and as the human population grows, conflict is inevitable. In the midst of this, the cumbersome government initiative, Project Tiger, seems to be strangling itself with red tape.
Aditya, though, sees a way through it. He has big ambitions to open India’s first conservancy, managing tiger safaris on private land he hopes to buy from neighbouring villages.
“We already have tigers coming to our watering hole,” he says, pointing to a collection of TV screens in the dining room, all connected to camera traps. The fuzzy monochrome images look more like a snowstorm in the Himalayas than the 48C furnace outside but I trust his claims.
Crucially, a conservancy would enable greater freedom for game drives and, by giving employment, would incentivise communities to protect wildlife.
So far, Aditya is making great progress. Maharashtra now has the relevant legislation in place and a search is under way for funding.
For now, we have to play by the rules – something that doesn’t come naturally to my guide, Paul Goldstein, a restless wildlife photographer and campaigner who is rarely satisfied. Pacing up and down outside the park’s Khutwanda Gate, a five-minute drive from the lodge, he curses furiously until dithering, bleary-eyed officials arrive with keys at 6am.
Once inside, we rattle along boneshaking roads, lined with pillars once strung with lanterns to herald the king’s arrival. Clearly, they know Paul is in town. Two startled sloth bears bundle across our path, followed by a family
Coming eyetoeye with a tiger is overwhelming. Time and time again, I ride a rollercoaster of awe, fascination, anger and sadness
of wild dogs wearing hazy early morning halos. Prettier than their scraggy African counterparts, they look more like well-fed foxes.
There’s no radio communication in the park, so we split off in different directions, searching for pug marks and dividing time between watering holes – the best place to find hot, thirsty tigers.
It may lack the historical grandeur of Ranthambore or the beauty of Kipling’s Jungle Book setting Pench but Tadoba is arguably one of the most progressive parks in India.
In 2012, when the Indian government ill-advisedly banned tourists from core tiger areas, Tadoba defiantly stayed open. The Forestry Department has also shunned a zoning system, meaning all visitors can enjoy the available space. Paul obviously has faith in the park. He’s been guiding tiger safaris for more than a decade, previously in Bandhavgarh and has literally shed blood, sweat and tears for the species.
The day before we departed for Nagpur via Mumbai, 53-year-old Paul ran his 13th marathon in a 9ft, 30lb tiger suit to raise money and awareness for tigers. Ignoring an injury and doctor’s orders, he completed the charity fundraiser in six hours and 25 minutes.
Now though, he’s in agony – a pain exacerbated only by the refusal of his striped beneficiaries to show up. After a mildly amusing diversion to spot a motionless nightjar camouflaged on the ground, we return to the lodge. “Anger and frustration, that’s what drives me,” admits Paul. “Tigers are still dying; we’re not winning.”
The following day, we schedule a meeting with Shree Bhagwan, the state’s chief wildlife warden, to discuss improvements in the park.
Sat beneath the shade of a teak tree, Paul hammers through his suggestions, drawing a plan in the sand for improved access routes. Shree nods in agreement.
Enthusiasm renewed, it’s time to find our tigers, who are most likely on a sambar or gaur kill. Tadoba has an excellent prey base, part of the reason why there’s a healthy tiger population.
Our eager-to-please driver heads in the direction of the “frozen” nightjar and I worry this is becoming a euphemism for not spotting a tiger. “How much Araldite did they need to stick that down?” scoffs Paul sarcastically.
Fortunately, we don’t have time to check; Maya and her cubs have been found. Tugging at a kill, every muscle in their bodies flashes with brilliance.
Over the next few days, we watch cats paddling in the water, staring at their reflections and snoozing in the sunshine. A jungle cat furtively skirting a watering hole is a bonus.
No matter the distance, coming eye to eye with a tiger is overwhelming. Time and time again, I ride a rollercoaster of awe, fascination, anger and sadness. I quickly understand why Aditya and Paul have chosen such a difficult battle to fight. As we drive back to the lodge, black, swollen rain clouds gather overhead. Another storm is brewing. It won’t be the last.