Tiger Number Nineteen

http://www.flickr.com/photos/62281924@N07/5671838622/in/photostream
Click above if you want to see her take a stroll.


She's only three-and-a-half and lives near her sisters and litter-mates Numbers Seventeen and Eighteen. The ranger said they're hoping for happy news from her this year. The female tigers have individual territories 3 or 4 km square,while the males have a much larger range with several females within it.

There are about 30 adult tigers in the park now, with 11 cubs- as well as leopards and sloth bears. We didn't see either of those but we'd only been going into the park by jeep for 20 minutes when Number Nineteen wandered across the track. She loped ahead of us for a moment and then settled herself down in a shady spot.

We watched her for an hour or so; at one point there were four 5-passenger jeeps and a "canter" (open truck holding about 10 people) all keeping quiet, awestruck. The only sound was the click of cameras, including some impressively massive telescopic lenses which practically needed their own separate jeep for portage. In a private jeep, there was a camera team from National Geographic; shattering my illusions, as I'd always imagined their cameramen scaling waterfalls with the camera in their teeth rather than getting a tourist jeep just like anyone else who could afford about $NZ 50.00.

It comes with the supermodel territory: paparazzi. She ignored us with a polite but imperious disdain.

The ranger said he thought #19 was probably very hungry as she hadn't killed for a few days. Well, she might have a touch of morning sickness, if his other prediction is true. She certainly didn't look like she felt like rushing around much. The other thought that did occur to me was that, if #19 was more than a little peckish, there were some 30 tasty humans within fairly easy reach, varying between rather tough-looking and scrawny Indian rangers and much more juicy well-fed city and expatriate Indians and no-doubt-slightly-strangely-spiced foreigners. Not all of the open jeeps would have been able to start their engines and get out of the way of a reasonably determined tiger.


Good job the tigers prefer a snack of peacock or a lunch of spotted deer. One thing we weren't too keen to see: Bambi becoming tiger tiffin.

If you were a twitcher, this park would be a splendid place to visit, with many brightly-patterned birds. There was a mongoose, too, from the Snake Control Department, going about his business.

But we'd seen what we came for, heading straight for the top of the food chain; Rereata's twentieth birthday present, a real live tyger burning bright although surprisingly well camouflaged in the forests of the not-night.

Bundi is best

http://www.flickr.com/photos/62281924@N07
If somebody asked me where they should go to stay in Rajasthan, I'd tell them to go to Bundi. Qualify this with the fact that I've spent about 24 hours there, at the absolute skinny-monkey-tail-end of the tourist season. Qualify it some more: the questioner needs to be someone else that wants to get away from tourist-packaging, tourist-marketing and glitzy palaces that have been restored to a movie-set pristine-ness. Bundi is 25 k or so off the main N-S motorway (a motorway,incidentally, which is at least as good as if not actually much better than any we have in NZ, although there are fewer cows wandering across the 4 lanes in NZ, and you are unlikely to see an elephant parked in a signposted "lay bye". And, just while we're on the subject, lay bye makes a lot more sense than layby. You lay around for a bit and then you go bye.)
The road to Bundi is narrow, splintered and pockmarked as if it had been hammered with a hundred thousand cannonballs but it runs through charming villages where water buffalo lumber into ponds and bullock-carts puddle around the potholes.
Bundi itself is a small town, clustered into a fold of some sizeable rocky hills. The streets of the old town are narrow, too narrow to be navigable by car, jeep or tuktuk although that causes no hesitation in the minds of the average local driver. We took a tuktuk ride back from the market which was far more exciting than anything you'd meet at a funpark, if slightly less safety-padded. It was a hold-on-tight-and-pray-a-bit experience, like all such rides, with the shops and crumbling buildings whirling past kaleidoscopically.
In fact Bundi is one of many Indian towns that has perfected the art of crumbling gracefully in stone without actually falling down, although I'm sure that buildings do collapse sometimes. This is an earthquake zone as is all of Northern India.
The palace, perched above the town, is threatened with restoration- so here is a message to the Rajah.
Dear Sir- or Your Majesty, if you prefer-
If you're thinking of smartening up your palace- think again! What you've got now is the most atmospheric, impressive palace that we've visited on our tour of Rajasthan. Okay, it's a bit smelly in places and the bats and the monkeys are a bit of a pest. (Thanks! by the way, for the loan of the sturdy bamboo canes for chasing away those simians. Luckily, we didn't need them.) But the unrestored miniature wallpaintings are truly exquisite and no matter how good a craftsperson the restorer may be, he or she is bound to ruin them. Just pop down to your colleague the maharajah of Udaipur's palace if you don't believe me: yes, the place is impressive and glitzy, just like when Bond was swishing around doing Octopussy- but do you really want things to be quite that manicured and OTT? And also by the way, the kids in the street outside are just like any kids anywhere and have not been corrupted by tourism into asking for money, pens and chocolate. Which is a very good thing and you might like to think about employing a few of them to take when you pension off the knowledgeable but slightly doddery retainers you've got up there now. The truth is , what you've got at Bundi is truly majestic, your Majesty- so please keep it that way. Just prop up the bits that are falling down and maybe give the latrines a bit of a hose down and a splash of Dettol.
Yours very gratefully,
two kiwi visitors
(yes, that's right, our cricket team are just the try-hards at best. No need to point it out.)

Teaching people your language and the media in the world's largest democracy

It started with the guy with a sweet smile who looked up from the strip of resin he was bending around a red-hot stake and said kia ora -you want look my bangle shop? The kia ora he'd learned from some passing kiwi tourist ensured that we bought a few camel-bone and silver bangles from him and not from any of the dozens of other bangle shops.
You've got to have an edge to make a rupee, but really, how often do New Zealanders wander down that dusty, narrow street in Jodhpur? Kiwis that want to buy bangles, that is. To tell the truth, the charm and persuasiveness of Indian shopkeepers often means that when you set out to buy shampoo, you come home with a new shirt or a set of framed miniatures.
Everybody asks you what is country, and some try to pretend that the Black Caps are more of a success and less of an embarrassment compared with a team that proudly represents a billion people, many of them small boys who bowl and bat away for six in dusty villages.
But it was the guy in charge of shelves of sandals at a temple in Udaipur today that really impressed. Namaste, kia ora, haere mai, he grinned. Bells clanged, incense wafted and ladies in saffron and orange saris chanted . A boy shared out a cardboard box of barfi. The mothers-in-law come every day to gossip and wait for this moment, when the gilt-edged purple velvet curtain in front of the image is drawn back and the ebony face of the god revealed. And on the way out, hopping across the scalding-hot midday marble, the slipper guy said it again. Haere mai.
And this is the world's largest democracy: not a perfect one, as none are, but a country where in Jodhpur there is a free public newspaper reading room where people (men) gather to read the news. Literacy is around 60 % - higher for men- much improved in the last 20 years. The reception staff of the hotel we stayed in squatted on the verandah together, reading the news in Hindi and in English.
The Times of India, in English, seems a good solid newspaper. I've read stories about people fighting corruption, about scandals involving accidents and about women courageously fighting for justice over rape complaints and exploitation. Movie stars and their marriage plans, too. The death of the maharajah of Jaipur, reported very even-handedly. The death of Sai Baba, also not uncritical.
And, the other day, the story of the snake charmer's protest. They picketed the house of the Minister of the Interior, a woman because they want to be recognised as an official minority.
I hope they get their recognition quickly because, if I was the lady minister, some of the last people I'd want to piss off are the snake charmers of Delhi.

Jaipur Pink City

Jaipur is the pink city and the capital city of Rajasthan; so it's another loud, hot, jostling swirl of people and motorbikes and trucks and camels and dogs. When we arrived, we learned that the 84-year-old maharajah had died the day before and so the city palace and Amber Fort were closed for his funeral.
The maharajah inherited his title just at the time when Indira Ghandhi's government took away the last vestiges of his political power. Life seems to have revolved around business and polo and hobnobbing with other royalty, but he seems to have been popular. Our guide at Amber (silent B) fort said that he was going to the funeral the next day ( he was the secretary of a political party) and that there would be 20,000 guests.
The usual way up to the fort is by elephant, but the queue was too long and we didn't bother. It's not every day you can say that you couldn't be stuffed waiting for the elephant. It was good to learn that the elephants only do 3 trips and then they go home as it's a long way up.


The water palace where the maharajah's saffron was grown.

The mirrored hall in Amber palace and the zenana (women's quarters)- the guide said that the maharah would have 12 wives or so.

Life in a vast stone palace on a mountain crag surrounded by 12 km of walls involved a lot of infrastructure and engineering.

Water had to be hauled up from the lake far, far below, apparently by human hand. The shaft up which the buckets were dragged is now full of bats (Rajasthani royal version of having bats in the belfry, perhaps?) but there was enough water for these gardens in the central courtyard and for a system of copper piping that sprayed water around the scorching marble terraces, including the one where the royal children played and swung above a 200 m or so drop. It may be that some dodgy scrap metal merchant has made off with these pipes, but some sort of cooling system would not be out of place nowadays.

On the way into the fort, we visited a shrine and were garlanded and daubed with yellow powder. Note on yellow powder: take wet wipes when visiting shrines. Otherwise much of self will end up smeared in yellow. On the way out, we gave our marigold garlands to monkeys, who apparently find them quite tasty.
Note on maharajahs: there are quite a few of these knocking around, which is just as well for the likes of Eton and Harrow. And the Jaipur one used to pop in to the local bookshop quite regularly, according to the proprietor. This chap, who had the brandysoaked Christmas-cake richness of accent of the Indian Army officer (retired, on his wife's orders "if it was a choice between obeying my wife or my commanding officer- well-") showed us some shots he'd taken of a tiger about 8 metres away, in Ranthambore National Park. Photo shots, you understand. The tiger looked faintly harrassed but intent on having a peaceful walk around a nice spot of jungle.

Let's hope we get that close to a tiger, too. Next week.

Multistorey bamboo scaffolding in Jaipur.

The view from the Amber palace

12 km of walls surround the fort.

Pushkar

We were in Seventh Heaven in Pushkar- literally, as that is the name of the converted haveli that we stayed in. Rose petals were strewn around the marble fountain in the courtyard and on ledges and windowsills. Food was delivered to the rooftop restaurant via a basketwork-pulley arrangement which seemed to work well.

Another of the many hotels is called Pink Floyd- yes, this place is on the hippie trail all right. Apparently Bruce Chatwin "holed up" in a hotel near here to write one of his books- I used the quotation marks because, despite the numerous tourists, a foreigner would not go sufficiently unnoticed to gain that much seclusion. But this would be a place where you could come and write peacefully- except during the camel fair and religious fair, when apparently 200,000 people come here and camp.
Pushkar is reached over a winding, rocky hill road called the Snake Mountain, which has plenty of sharp bends on which to overtake trucks, buses, motorbikes and camel carts. Our taxi driver, Ravi is a pretty cautious driver compared to the average Indian road merchant but even he seems plenty daring to me. Heart occasionally in mouth and slight concern about whether Indian version of WOF (MOT) involves checking brakes.

The town is supposed to surround a lake, but we couldn't find it when we set out on foot. What we did find was temples- there is a gold-plated temple to Brahma-, cows, cow flops and the usual merchants trying to inveigle us into their shops. Far too many of these guys address me as "auntie" - although this is a term of fond respect in India, it is disconcerting to acquire many, many Indian nephews of all shapes, sizes and states of dentition.

The next morning, Ravi took us to the lake on our way out of town, after too brief an overnight visit. Part of the reason the lake may have eluded us is that it is quite small, although in the early morning sunlight it was golden and peaceful, with only a handful of people diligently lathering themselves at the bathing ghats which surround it.

Yes, this is a place I would come back to, a place to chill out and drink mango lassi on the roof of the seventh heaven...

Jaipur

It is possible that we are getting slightly acclimatised to being in India. Monkeys jumping onto parked motorbikes hardly faze us. We're getting quite good at ignoring shopkeepers who do everything short of dragging you into their shop bodily. (It's more honest than TV advertising, in truth.) Child beggars and manic traffic: no, there's no getting used to those.

But neither of us wanted to get to close to the snake charmer just setting up for the day outside the City Palace in Jaipur. When I was a child, I'm sure I had a Ladybird Book of Peoples of the World with a picture of the very same snake charmer; perhaps it was his Dad or Grandad. Snakes coming no poison, he said. What do they do with the venom when they milk it out of the cobra's fangs, I wonder. Not stuff you want to have hanging around, surely.

The City Palace was impressive, with the late Maharajah's Merc parked in the courtyard under a special Merc car cover with a little pouch to cover the Merc bonnet -what are those things called? Logos? Best to have plenty of flunkies in white outfits plus turbans and sashes to polish the shiny metal bits. No shortage of flunkies at the City Palace, anyway, all with splendid moustaches and hopes of earning a tip by posing for a photo with a visitor.

The palace had a morning-after feel with canopies and mats still laid out for people who'd come to pay their respects to the maharajah who died on Sunday. Much polo paraphernalia in evidence, and plenty of dusty chandeliers. Beautiful doorways: one for each season into the inner courtyard. Don't know which season R is adorning here.

Rereata has turned into a demon bargainer, beating local jewellers down by many many dollars. This previously unknown talent for haggling is turning out to be very useful. On to Pushkar yet (not pushing a car though, happy to ride in it)...

Holy Cow

That cows are everywhere in India is hardly a revelation to anyone who knows anything at all about this country. Sacred holy animal, meandering through the dessicated mud of the streets, chomping on a thorny branch, munching a hunk of bread, licking hopefully at a split sack of flour. Big cows and little cows in tasteful browns and greys and creams and fawn. A cow with a broken horn lingering outside a marigold-strewn temple doorway. Cows unheedingly holding up traffic on the motorway, a cow hesitating about the wisdom of crossing three lanes of manic motorcycle, truck and van traffic on a city street.

I'm grateful to cows for bringing us here. I wrote a story called Cattle Love and won the tickets from Cathay Pacific. The story was inspired by a woman student, a refugee from East Africa. We went to a farm park and she found the cows and could not tear herself away from them. She said, they are like my cows, I miss my cows so much, we had so many cows when I was young. And I thought that a person can lose a great deal in their lives but if they have lost their animals, then the animals have lost them, too.

Perhaps the person that judged the stories came from here and knows that cows are special. Good for you, cows; lurch elegantly between the market stalls and the rickshaws, look neither to right or left; come to a halt, and rotate your head slowly through a full-circle view of the rubbish heaps and scraps. Find something to eat and move on, taking your own good time. There is plenty of time, on the sacred cow beat.