In Pursuit of the Apex Predator
Traveling to India is often an adventure in itself. Upon stepping outside the manicured airport gates, a barrage of noise, human traffic, and heat slam into you. It takes some significant planning to get anywhere, as the addresses can be difficult to read and the roads are mostly unlabeled. I depend on my family members there to do anything, because even being fluent in Hindi is just not enough. I was headed not to New Delhi, where I landed, nor to Jaipur, the large city and the capital of Rajasthan from where my father hails. We went further, to a small town called Sawai Madhopur. There was to be a wedding there.
It's a bit out of the way for everyone, but there is a train that runs there. Trains are the principal mode of transport for most of India, and they are similarly difficult to use. Maps are scant, and trains can be unreliable. Seats usually have to be booked far in advance. This is not an issue for main line trains, such as the venerable Shatabdi Express from New Delhi to Jaipur, but from New Delhi to Sawai Madhopur is more difficult. I relied again on my uncle for transport.
From the only station in town, which was a quiet reprieve from the cramped cities, we took an hour-long car ride to the venue of the wedding – in the middle of the relatively poor town, there was a grand palace wedding venue. From Atlanta, I had carried roughly thirty pounds of camera equipment on my back just to get here. It struck me then as I finally unpacked and laid out in my room how far I was. But the next day, we were scheduled to go further yet.
Ranthambore National Park is a nature preserve, famous for its population of wild tigers. Sightings are rare: only one in ten visits into the park actually spots one. It stretches a wide swath of land at the southern end of the brutal desert that finally gives way to forest. An enormous temple complex of the same name dates back several centuries, including a gate that has stood for a thousand years. A group of us charter a Canter truck – a model of truck from 1985 rigged up with an open top and seats – to take us into the forest. This was at four in the morning. Fog billowed from our noses – it was cold.
There are only a few times in my life that I’ve genuinely feared for my safety. This ride, obviously with no seat belts or anything of that ilk, was one of them. Our impetuous driver barreled through the dirt roads in that uniquely Indian style of driving, one unfettered by pesky rules. This was fine in the flat roads of the plains we started on. But once we entered the mountainous forest, we were concerned when he didn’t let up the gas. I bought a cheap novelty hat from a roadside vendor from the convenience of my seat ten feet in the air. Something to take home if I saw no tigers, I figured.
If we were terrified with his driving then, we were almost mutinous when he received reports of an actual tiger sighting. We had at this point seen much of the wildlife around, including herds of peacocks and peahens, various deer-like grazers, and the occasional primate. At the bottom of a crevasse we even spotted crocodiles. But the very report of a tiger sent our driver into a frenzy. We careened madly through the roads scarcely wide enough for a sedan. And then, without explanation, we came to a stop in the middle of a clearing.
Someone pointed and shouted. She would later claim the glory of having been the first to spot the beast. I hurriedly unpacked my camera with frozen fingers and attached the lens. And then, gracefully, the ten-foot female leapt silently from her perch to the ground near us. The truck grew deadly silent. It struck us for the first time the absolute difference between seeing a tiger in captivity and seeing one in the wild. She rippled with muscles, flexing and stretching with each motion. She stared me down for a brief moment – I took no photos of this, terrified of provoking her with an accidental camera flash. There was nothing but a eight-foot jump between us and the tiger, a few paces away. If she were aggressive, you could very well be reading my obituary. Then, coolly, she turned and paced away in front of the truck. From there I took nearly fifty photos for the brief, fleeting moments she would tarry. At the top of a small hill, from behind a tree, she looked back. I snapped the photo.
And then she left, without so much as a growl.