Tiger Bite

A story set in India. 



Think Rudyard Kipling 'Jungle Book', except this was no fairytale!

Tiger bite

It is an early start in preparation for a 6am pickup. The air is cool just before sunrise, the only people about are a few hotel staff and my jeep safari driver. I am introduced to Mullikum, a lean and wiry young man who speaks just basic English, although it is a lot better than my Malayalam which is limited to a simple greeting, ‘namaskaram’.

‘See you at 3pm’ says the ever-smiling hotel receptionist.

This confers with one of the two pieces of pre-safari verbal briefing notes I received, a nine hour safari deep into a designated conservation park, the other being wear shoes, bring nothing else. You can appreciate it was easy to follow and comply. I am full of anticipation and curious as to how the day will unfold. Mullikum is not about to pre-empt anything as we traverse the streets of Thekkady, me in the passenger seat of an open jeep, its bodywork decorated with colourful painted scrolls and symbols, Ganesha, the elephant headed God figurine prominently displayed on the middle of the dashboard. We bounce along over potholes and speed bumps, around the police control chicanes, relatively easy going as traffic is light at this hour, many people waiting to catch buses and going about their morning rituals, the boisterous street energy yet to fully wake.

We travel for ten kilometers or so and turn off onto a road stenciled every fifty metres with a hammer and sickle and the letters CPIM. The same is also on a red flag fluttering at regular intervals along the roadside for maybe another five kilometers where we come to a small village. Mullikum pulls over and stops, jumps out.

 ‘Tea?’ he enquires and points to a small lean-to where people are gathered.  

He orders and then hands me a milky chai tea as he wanders off for a cigarette. This village must house some aspect of the local state Government, currently a party known as the Communist Party of India (Marxist). Numerous flags and street bunting create a carnival like scene, oddly colourful in this out of the way village.

The road starts to twist and narrow to a single lane as we pass farms and increasingly sparse homes and villages. School and local buses rattle past, our vehicle quickly going off-road to avoid a collision. The landscape is lush, this being a high rainfall area. In recent times flooding caused the loss of many homes through water ingress and landslides. As a result, the road is extremely rutted and potholed and progress is very slow. 

A uniformed officer mans a checkpoint. Mullikum goes to pay and receive the required paperwork, the boom gate is lifted and we enter Kerala State Forest. The road, now mostly dirt continues to be severely potholed. Driving slowly Mullikum leans right out of the jeep to maximize sighting wildlife. We are both men of few words due to the language barrier, but occasionally he will slow to a crawl or stop and say:

‘Elephant fresh’, pointing to large bits of dung on the side of the road,

‘Elephant cross here’, looking at a stand of bamboo on the side of the road that has been bashed about, bamboo being a favourite apparently.

‘Smell elephant!’ he animated and inferring elephant close, me high with anticipation!

Then our first sighting, a black monkey (Nilgiri Langur) sitting on a long horizontal limb of a tall tree about twenty metres away, an all black body with what looks a bit like a long brown/grey wig surrounding its black face. We stop and all look a bit startled before the monkey scurries into the thick foliage.  

This find gives us both encouragement, Mullikum leans further out of the jeep, I stand and look across on the opposite side. Boggy watercourses indicate where animals have been, not just elephants but possibly bison, wild boar, and deer as well. We continue in this fashion for another hour, sensing animals close but no sightings, apart from distant birds. A hut off the side of the road is labelled ‘Anti-poaching camp’. I presume the Government has outlawed the hunting of animals and there is an active presence to deter would-be poachers, but it is an enormous area, over three hundred square kilometres. 

A short time later it is a surprise when we arrive at a lake area and buildings signed ‘Gavi Eco Tourism’. There are a few rowboats on the lake and a handful of other jeeps parked near a large tree. Mullikum goes into the office and returns with a ticket. Handing me the ticket he points to a large roofed structure near the lakefront. It turns out to be an open-air canteen where I join about twenty-five other people waiting patiently, all Indians in family groups. Inspecting the ticket I first notice Guest name, Paolo Angelo Grossi! Definitely no Italians, Europeans or South Americans in the mix that I might have been confused with so I’ll just go with the flow as it were. Paolo for a day sounds good. Listed on the ticket is a schedule of events: breakfast at 8.30 am, followed by some possible activities such as boating and cardamom plantation visit, followed by lunch at 1pm. With Mullikum stretched horizontal across the jeep seats under a tree I figure he is good for a five hour sleep. For me, presumably, they have other ideas!

People mill about, keeping a close eye on a small buffet and a busy kitchen area. Big pots of hot food come out:

Idly (fermented lentil and steamed rice cake), 

Sambar (tamarind broth with lentils and vegetables), 

Pongal (Indian porridge with rice, split peas, ginger, cumin, cashews, and curry leaf), 

Masala omelet (mixed vegetables, chilli, and spring onion),

Aloo paratha (thin unleavened wheat dough filled with spicy potato),

Coconut and tomato chutneys, 

Toasted white bread, butter and pineapple jam, 

Bananas, 

Tea and coffee. 

There is a bit of an initial crush so I just hang back so I can take my time, enjoying the chance to savour the delicious Indian food on offer. Interesting that the white bread looks very ordinary at best but it is so popular, particularly with thick lashings of butter and jam. There is something about holidays and having something different from the familiar. Give me the spicy and subtle Indian breakfast any day.

A young forestry officer arrives, sits down at one of the tables looking very sharp and in charge. He opens a large book as numerous men in forest green clothing line up behind him. The family representatives come forward, show their ticket and are introduced to what will be their guide for the morning. I’m last again, Paolo dutifully ticked off and assigned to Arun. He takes me aside and much the same as Mullikum, in a sort of English shorthand says, ‘long or short trek?’ Trek is said so fast and short, like without the k, that I hesitate, not really comprehending. Uncomfortable in the awkward silence I just say, ‘Long’, without thinking too much about it, but instantly wondering what that would entail. 

Arun just disappears into the building so I was left to ponder the prospect. The other groups start walking off, some go to the rowboats, others prepare for a trek, but I’m soon to realize they have all chosen ‘short’. Arun returns with a pair of canvas leggings, and motions for me to take shoes off. Leggings are like a long pair of socks that go to your knee then fold down and tie tight. They are to stop leeches from getting into your shoes or on your legs under trousers. No one else has been given leggings to wear, even Arun. A man about the same age as me, he wears thongs along with his threadbare guide uniform of long pants and short sleeve shirt. He puts two bottles of water into a small backpack and that’s it, we set off. 

I follow along on a track as we leave the compound and are soon into a forest with tall trees and dense ground cover. It is quiet, the only sounds our own footsteps as we traverse up high to a ridge, no sign of any other walkers or human activity. Arun constantly glances up and into the forest looking for wildlife. The day is now warm but a pleasant temperature to walk. We continue at a steady pace following a narrow track, occasionally having to clear away fallen trees, clamber over rocks, or duck low to clear undergrowth. I am surprised how quiet it is, very few animal or bird noises. Every so often Arun will stop to point out something of interest: 

‘Elephant slip’, a large footprint on the edge of the track;

‘Elephant rub’, as he rubs his hand across the bark of a tree made smooth by elephants.

We walk for about an hour and reach a high point with views over nearby hills and valleys where we stop for a drink. Arun points to a distant white building just visible in a sea of green.

‘Temple, walk seven k’, he says.

‘Arrh huh!’ I suddenly realize that this must be the famous Sabarimala Hindu temple. It is not seven kilometres from where we are (more like fifteen) but pilgrims have to walk seven kilometres to reach it from the closest transport point. Our driver Bala for the last week has been telling us about the pilgrimage devotees make coming from Tamil Nadu. We have seen them dressed in black at various temples en route, travelling in flower garlanded buses, existing in a state of reverie as the ritual that starts a month before and involves all sorts of abstinences, culminates in reaching the temple devoted to Ayyappan, the Hindu god of growth, son of Shiva. Tradition has it that it is a male-only temple, females being forbidden. Ayyappan was a celibate bachelor. The temple is reputed to receive thirty million visitors a year but in September 2018 the Supreme Court of India decreed that females had the legal right to also visit. This has led to massive protests, hours of television current affairs debate and even one male auto-rickshaw driver self-immolating and dying as a result. The very insensitive news coverage banner headlined it as a ‘Burning Issue’. Female groups taking up their new legal right have been attacked and stopped even by police, possibly out of a protective intent although it is unclear, and police could well be implicated in the violence. To an outsider, it has the appearance of a patriarchal India, but it is complex, time-honoured rituals and belief meets contemporary equality movements.

The trek works its way down. We cross small watercourses and marshy, boggy country where there are signs of animal activity. Arun stops at a large tree and makes a clawing motion running his hand down the bark.

‘Tiger sharp’, he looks at me showing his fingernails.

‘Ohh right! Yes, tiger sharpens claws’. I inspect the tree and sure enough, there are deep gouges running vertically. I have a quick lookup knowing that tigers climb and hang out in trees … nothing!

‘How many tigers?’

‘Forty-four’. 

A very definite answer I think to myself. ‘What tiger eat?’

‘Bison …’ he replies, considers more but for reasons known only to him leaves it at just bison.  

For better or worse we haven’t sighted any bison, although there has been plenty of evidence in the watery bogs and watercourse trails. No sign of any apprehension from Arun, he continues on, I get the feeling he is really enjoying himself, probably doesn’t get to do a long trek just with one guest very often. But we have no weapons, best of my knowledge he has no phone, mine has no signal as I just checked, we are kilometers from anywhere, we have taken many forks and narrow tracks, and have not seen a human being for hours. There are no signs, didactic information panels, arrows, distance markers …. just forest ... and forty-four tigers!

Arun stops at another big tree, prizes off some bark, smells it and hands it to me.

‘Cinnamon’ he says. I smell and sure enough, the aroma of cinnamon, a huge tree, must be hundreds of years old. I’m keeping a good lookout behind, of the two of us my full body good living western self sure to appear more appetizing than the lean and sinewy Arun. My mind is rerunning those Tarzan after school TV shows. It was always the last in the line that was picked off. Tarzan himself would come to the rescue fighting wild beasts with bare hands and a small knife. Me and/or Arun … I don’t think so! 

He stops and waits ahead, when I catch up he points to the ground where there is some dung.

He just says ‘Tiger’, and keeps walking.

I could have asked if it was fresh, but I decided to content myself with the fact it wasn’t. This is the point where the movie version inserts the sounds of jungle drums. Here right now, I am currently listed as Paolo Angelo Grossi. Media reports of our demise won’t even reach Australia. ‘Guide and Italian national mauled to death’. Scott Avery will just be a mystery, never to be seen or heard of again.

We pass another huge tree, this time a Banyan with its buttressed trunk growing over rocks and spreading support for the tall tree standing proud. Off the track about fifty metres in the middle story I notice some medium size trees moving vigorously and given there is no wind it could mean only one thing. Arun crouches and slowly moves in closer; I just follow for reason of feeling increasingly incapable about what/where/how.  Then there is a screech and we see that it is a family group of black monkeys playing in the dense foliage as they chase each other and jump across, tree to tree. Teenagers tag and tease, then run and jump blindly grabbing the outer branches, the tree swaying backward and forwards as they run to the top and do it all again. 

As I take in the spectacle Arun casually bends over and dislodges a couple of small leeches from between his toes, pointing to his little finger,

‘Wet season 50ml blood’. Meaning they are as big as your finger and full of blood.

I’m pleased it’s dry season! 

We start to climb again, away from the valley floor zigzagging up towards a ridge. The forest starts to open up a bit with some grassy hillsides and views out to the tops of trees down below. Suddenly as if out of nowhere coming towards us on the track is a man walking along carrying a small scythe. He is friendly, obviously knows Arun, and they exchange head nods, then he is gone. We stop and rest a bit, have a drink, and admire the view.

‘Cardamom worker, Lanka’, says Arun, pointing in the direction the man came from. I presume he means he is a Sri Lankan working on the cardamom plantation that must be nearby. 

We continue on and soon enough come across a group of huts overlooking steep hillsides where cardamom is growing. Arun holds and lifts an electrified fence for me to climb through.

‘Solar, only night’, he says, meaning that the fence is electrified at night. I presume this is to keep out elephants that I’m sure would just love to wrap their trunks and tear off the succulent green leaves. Cardamom, a plant about two to three meters in height, is similar to ginger and seems to like to grow with a degree of shade as there are tall trees dotted throughout the plantation. Pods grow from the base on a thin spindle like growth, they are picked one at a time as green pods, then in most cases dried for use in cooking, and of course chai tea. 

‘One kilo, two thousand rupee’, he informs me. 

Picking is slow and all by hand and I wonder why this small plantation is operated by Sri Lankans? They live in this isolated environment some thirty kilometres from a town or even a village, the nearby Gavi Eco Tourism being largely just a daytime tourist season enterprise.

A ridge runs down to the lake. On a muddy bank, Arun points out,

‘Elephants cross here night’.

The lake is very shallow across to an island wherein the distance we can see bison grazing on the lush grasses growing in wetlands. At the top of a dead tree, some twenty metres into the lake sits a cormorant’s nest with three babies and an adult. 

The Gavi complex comes into view and the trek concludes back at the canteen area. I carefully take off the leggings and happily, there are no leeches. Lunch is being prepared and I bid farewell to Arun with a handshake, smile, and tip. Other groups are here already waiting. I can’t understand the various languages, probably Hindi, Tamil, and Malayalam but no mention of the ‘tiger’ word. I think I have earnt a good lunch and it doesn’t disappoint; dhal, chickpea stew, vegetable coconut korma, Kerala rice, chapatti, poppadum and chutneys followed by payasam, a beautiful coconut milk dessert with rice vermicelli, cardamom, dried fruit, and cashews.

In the ticket office whilst I wait for Mullikum to be roused, I read that the park once contained traditional villages that were relocated to form the conservation area. Where possible, displaced village people and ex-poachers are employed as park staff, to compensate villages and prevent poaching. Arun? Possible, but I’ll never know! 

It is now jeep safari in reverse as we make the long trip back to Thekkady, in much the same fashion as this morning, Mullikum driving slow and hanging out of the jeep. My thoughts this time consider a prospect of a tiger confrontation given totally open small jeep and no weapons. I recall Bala telling us a few days ago in response to my question about tigers attacking humans, whilst there have been none in Kerala, there have been attacks in the neighbouring state Karnataka where there are several fatal maulings each year. Kerala is not a big state and I wouldn’t mind betting that the border is closeby, if not part of this forest park as well. 

Mullikum suddenly stops, reverses and points to a tree where on a horizontal limb sits a Malabar giant squirrel, about twice the size of a brushtail possum. Not at all deterred by us, it nibbles on some succulent shoots. Other jeeps pass us going home but I detect Mullikum is determined for at least an elephant sighting if not more. The road ever potholed, just as well lunch agreed with me! Another sighting, this time a brightly coloured wildfowl just off the road in the undergrowth. We pass the anti-poaching hut and there facing the outgoing direction is a sign, ‘Periyar Tiger Reserve’. Well, now they tell me! Unlikely from here, I think to myself. 

Within minutes Mullikam is again slowing, reversing, and low and behold on a hill a little distant we see a group of elephants. He gets fully in the jeep and hits the accelerator. We roar around a couple of bends and stop on a closer high point where we see the family group, a large bull with about six elephants from baby upwards. They are grazing on long grass, picking off big clumps down low with their trunks and then coiling to their mouth to chew. They are spread out as if in formation all facing the same way, taking the occasional step forward. We stand on top of the jeep bodywork to get a better view, the elephants about fifty meters away. All the other jeeps must have missed them. It’s an amazing sight! We stand and watch, the elephants unperturbed by our presence.

Back on the main road, we are now amongst the traffic, cars, buses, auto-rickshaws, trucks, dust, chaos and horns. I sit with head down thinking the wildlife sightings are over when suddenly Mullikum skids to a halt on the side of the road and jumps out. He walks a short distance and then beckons me to follow. Just off the side of the road between two metal poles is a big spider’s web, and dead center a huge colourful spider as big as my hand.

‘Tiger spider’, he says.

The body of the spider is long and elongated, striped black and yellow.

‘Poisonous?’ I inquire with a mimed gesture indicating deadly.

Mullikum nods, ‘Tiger bite!’

*

Post-script: 

On 1^st January 2019 women stood in solidarity to form a 620km human chain stretching from one end of Kerala state to the other to advocate for their right to enter the Sabarimala temple.

Scott Avery 

2018