In Search of Tigers
There is a reverence involved in the art of spotting a tiger in the wild; a reverence, should I say, mixed with more than a little fear.
The Gypsy landrovers used for the safaris in Corbett Park are well built but open-topped; though this affords the best view, it leaves you feeling just a little vulnerable. Not to mention surprisingly cold, especially in the bitter climate of Kumaon in winter and before dawn.
But there is little if any danger today. Even though in the far east of Kumaon a human fatality was recently reported, in the words of Jim Corbett: “A man-eating tiger is a tiger that has been compelled, through stress of circumstances beyond its control, to adopt a diet alien to it.” Thus not all tigers are maneaters.
Indeed, it is the case that they are in more danger from mankind than we from them. Witness the savage depletion of India’s tiger population in recent years in order to fuel the market for Chinese ‘traditional medicine’ and the illegal fur trade. Even the national parks are not free of poachers and despite the authorities’ best efforts, news of dead tigers continues to make the Indian papers.
Entry to the park is strictly controlled and tourists are ousted for certain times of the day. Nevertheless, at dawn and dusk, when wildlife activity is at its peak, a small army of jeeps is allowed to enter and roam in search of tigers. Wrapped in jumpers and shawls against the chill, we arm our zoom lenses and survey the ground for a sign, any sign of a tiger.
Yet despite the plentiful supply of pugmarks, often fresh ones, no tiger. Nothing. A majestic male sambhur deer, his antlers a full five feet across, surveys us quizzically as if to ask why we should follow the big cat, not run away. But time is running out for us and that all important shot. “The taking of a good photograph,” Corbett reminds us, “gives far more pleasure to the sportsman than the acquisition of a trophy.”
And then, as hope had turned to resignation and our minds had slipped to thoughts of the warmth of the hotel and a hot breakfast, the driver accelerates and the guide utters the word we have been waiting for:
“Tiger!”
We join another pair of jeeps that were already here, every occupant silent and rapt with attention and excitement. There he lies, the owner of the pug marks. And he’s a big’un. “He must be about 200kgs,” whispers the guide. “Perhaps 10, 12 years old. Magnificent.” Even he is pleased, and he sees tigers every week. We must be onto something.
We couldn’t have asked for a more perfect specimen of tigerhood. Dozing in a patch of sun about 10 to 15 metres off, he is indeed enormous; the sheer size of the animal sends a sudden thrill of fear into you.
Bollywood to the hilt, the tiger knows he is the star of the show and as if to prove it gives us a couple of gaping yawns to show off his pure-white inch-long canines. The sound of twelve shutters clicking does nothing to disturb him though it is we who are the intruders and this is his domain.
For a moment, we exist peacefully together: the tiger at his morning nap, partially concealed by the foliage; the watchers enjoying their victory safely enclosed in the vehicles on the road.
Then, disaster. Another Gypsy arrives and a woman inside is just a bit too loud. The tiger wakes; he yawns; he stretches; and then he walks away. It’s all over.
But to have seen this animal at all is a rare privilege and one that is growing rarer and rarer. And those empty souls who see the tiger only as a commodity would do well to listen to the words of his guardian and protector, the last great shikar of Kumaon, Jim Corbett:
“A tiger is a large-hearted gentleman with boundless courage and when he is exterminated – as exterminated he will be unless public opinion rallies to his support – India will be the poorer…”
