Meeting the mighty elephants

I just about managed to wolf down the morning cuppa as politely as possible, quite aware and appreciative of the kitchen staff’s effort at putting together a breakfast hamper and brewing a hot cup of masala chai at the ungodly hour before sunrise. Truth be told, I would have preferred to down the whole cup of tea in one gulp and get moving as soon as possible, but two things deterred me from doing that; first, the masala chai, painstakingly made by the chef just for us, the Indian guests, was delicious and it would be insulting to gulp it down without savoring every sip. The second reason was very simple...I’d end up scalding my mouth.

It was 5 AM and our guide revved the Landrover impatiently. I smiled apologetically, thanked the staff for the fantastic tea, and hopped into the Landie. The breakfast hampers safely tucked between the seats, my husband, also safely tucked into a comfortable seat, our quest for the mighty elephants had begun.

Once more, we found ourselves racing across the vast savannah. A lone Topi ( a type of antelope found in some parts of the continent) breakfasted on the short grass. Its silhouette against the backdrop of the rising sun was like a picture on a postcard. I quickly captured it on camera.

The skyline was now a rich mix of red, gold, and blue. The rising sun brought with it excited tourists in hot-air balloons, waving at us from up above. I had never quite seen anything like this and was awed by the dozens of brightly colored hot-air balloons that moved gracefully above. We paused for a bit to admire the view before setting off again, where our tusked friends awaited.

I truly believe that elephants are the soul of the jungles. A jungle that lacks elephants is without a soul, hence does not figure on top of my “must visit” list. Anyway, there we were, among a large family of noble and wise souls.  

The sight gladdened my heart. Time stood still as I gazed hypnotically at the family of the majestic African elephants! I heard the telltale rumble of an elephant’s stomach and turned around to figure out if the baby was communicating with its mother, or perhaps its sibling who was munching on some strange-looking pods. 

It’s amazing how animals have their language and say what needs to be said through behavioral cues and sounds that humans cannot hear and don’t always understand. Maybe that’s a good thing. Imagine if we could understand elephant-speak. I’d be a tad hurt if I’d heard junior tell his mother that the pesky humans were back to rudely point fingers at them!

The herd moved closer, and our guide wisely backed up. All animals have an invisible line that demarks their safe space. Under no circumstances should this line be crossed. To do so can sometimes spell disaster, for it is the equivalent of someone breaking into your home and threatening you. It cannot possibly end pleasantly, can it?

We must have stayed with the herd for over an hour, simply watching them go about their lives. I was fascinated by the fine tusks that adorned both genders, unlike their smaller Indian cousins, where the females lack tusks. The differences between the two giants belonging to the Asian and African continents are rather distinct. If you look at the ears of an African elephant, for instance, you’ll see that they’re shaped somewhat like the continent itself! Fascinating isn’t it?

My reverie was broken by another, familiar rumble. This time, it emanated from a human… me! My stomach signaled that it was time for breakfast. I offered a sheepish smile in response to the guide’s amused chuckle. However, he understood the non-verbal communications emanating from my stomach and drove away from the herd towards a clearing where we could tuck into the eggs, sandwiches, and most importantly, tea.

“Wait here,” he said, before disappearing for a few minutes. He popped back and crouched as if he’d misplaced the Landie’s key somewhere. Scanning the undergrowth thoroughly, our guide then gave us a thumbs-up, indicating that we could get off the vehicle and open the hamper. 

“What were you looking for?” I asked as he enthusiastically peppered an egg.

“Oh, the usual, you know. Lions snoozing in the shade, occasionally buffaloes or rhino. They get curious sometimes,” he said nonchalantly while pointing to the riverbank. 

“Look carefully,” he said. I squinted against the sun and watched the water bubble and sputter before a huge head popped up. It was followed by another huge head, then another, before the whole family of hippos came up for air. 

“Breakfast with hippos!” he declared, breaking into a grin. As I stared at the massive teeth and tusks, one of them grunted noisily. 

“Did you know that hippo poop transports essential silica into the river, which is vital for the aquatic ecosystem?” our guide enquired between a mouthful of bread and eggs. I momentarily lost my appetite and gently put back the cup of tea on the bonnet. Somehow the hot, brown liquid lost its appeal, for the time being at least. “Do tell” I responded with a tepid smile. “Well, their poop has silica that comes from the grass they eat. This is important for the algae, which in turn, is food for various forms of aquatic life. So no hippos mean no hippo poop, which means no silica, no algae, and no aquatic life!” he explained, the humor in his eyes replaced by a seriousness that suggested absolute devotion to nature in all its forms. “Wow!” my husband whistled appreciatively, “We certainly didn’t know that!”

I nodded agreeably, reaching for the tea while watching the hippos with newfound respect. It was a breakfast to remember... if there is such a thing. The hippos snorted, and grunted joyously, probably gossiping about who among them contributed the most silica into the water that morning, while we polished off the sumptuous breakfast, my appetite back with a vengeance. “So, what do you want to do next?” the guide asked, warming up the Landie. “Do you think it’s possible to see more elephants? A different herd, maybe?” He grinned, winked, and nodded, as we headed to the Kenya-Tanzania border, looking for our next tête-à-tête with the mighty mammals.

Whistle in case of an emergency!

Sundown in the African savannah possesses the kind of timeless beauty that inspires even the most poetically-challenged to pen a verse or two. We had just disembarked from our light aircraft and had about 3 hours to go before dusk, so breaking into Frost or Wordsworth could wait.

No sooner did we collect our luggage, which was simply stacked within an elastic, netted contraption at the back of the plane, our guide and driver, a strapping young man from the Masai tribe, greeted us with a cheerful hello. 

“Let’s head straight for the game-drive,” he said as he loaded our bags into the Landrover. 

“Huh? Aren’t we going to the camp first to freshen up?” I questioned, quite aware of how I must look and smell after not having showered in the last 24 hours, since leaving India.

Scarface and I

He grinned, shook his head, and convinced me that the wildlife won’t mind the occasional unshowered, disheveled human. I agreed sheepishly, unable to refuse his offer to drive through the vast grasslands that stretched endlessly and invitingly ahead. So, it began, our very first game drive through what I believe to be one of the most beautiful places on this planet.  

We made a beeline to a scrub that housed a massive, male lion, aptly christened “Scarface” inspired by the battle scars that ran across his massive face. At first, I was stunned to be so close to this magnificent beast with his shaggy, thick mane, and paws the size of dinner plates. Scarface couldn’t care less and continued to alternately gnaw at the wildebeest remains and yawn lazily as the tiresome flies buzzed around. Once the shock waned, the awe took over. I was at once overwhelmed and mesmerized by his presence. My first lion in the wild and it was Scarface... I just couldn’t believe my good fortune!

Scarface after a good meal!

The rest of the evening was a blur of many firsts, each one more amazing than the next. My first cheetah in the wild, first hippo, first giraffe, first river crossing in a Landrover, I was simply flabbergasted by the sheer species of wildlife that lived within minutes of each other! 

“There’s your first Ostrich!” shouted our guide to make himself heard against the wind as we sped towards our camp. 

The memory is as strong today as it was on the day I saw the silhouette of the magnificent bird as it walked seductively against the backdrop of the setting sun. The engine turned off, I stuck my head out of the sunroof, savoring the moment, as dusk set in, bringing the eventful day to an end. 

It was time to head to the camp.

The night had set in by the time we reached our camp. Truth be told, I had no idea how our guide knew one track from another, especially in the dark. Everything looked the same to me...a combination of vast plains, dotted by scrubs, and the occasional river crossing, which I will come to later. But I reckon, having driven across the same tracks for years, posing this question to the guide would only invite a quizzical glance, followed by a well-rehearsed, obvious answer to a very silly and unnecessary question. So, I refrained. 

We were exhausted to the point of collapse and wished we had more energy to fully appreciate the welcome dance that the staff so graciously put up for us. Tired and hungry, we swallowed the hot meal that was laid out and headed to our tent, after being warned several times over not to venture out alone after sundown. 

We are warned of running into ill-tempered Cape buffaloes or highly territorial Hippos that ventured into the camp that was set up in the middle of the Mara. Point taken. I didn’t fancy a clandestine tête-à-tête with either beast in the middle of the night and assured the accompanying tribesman of my noble intentions, which involved a wash and bed. 

He nodded agreeably and handed us a whistle each. Once more, I raised an eyebrow, which seemed to be a regularly used form of expression ever since my arrival a few hours ago.

“If you need us,” he clarified, grinning ear to ear. 

“A Masai guard will be posted outside your tent. Use the whistle if there’s an emergency,” he continued as he dropped us off. 

He disappeared before I had the chance to ask him what qualified as an emergency. I stared at the tiny whistle and hoped I’d never had to use it. My imagination ran wild, with images of angry hippos tearing through the tent while we slept, or snakes slithering into the blankets for warmth. Who knows, maybe a curious hyena might make an appearance. 

I don’t know if any of this happened, for I slept right through everything. I remember the snorting of hippos as they splashed around the river by the tent, the call of the hyenas, and several other sounds as they lulled me to sleep on my first night in Africa. Maybe a lion or two sniffed around, deciding unshowered humans were not worth the trouble! 

Nevertheless, exhausted as I was, I couldn’t wait to jump into the Landrover the following morning. We were going to see the mighty elephants! 

A Boat ride in Bhadra

The rain pelted the windscreen as we drove on, determined to make it in time for some hot lunch and rest. We were driving down from Jog Falls to a resort by the Bhadra River and were exhausted by the journey that took longer than expected. This was because of a large tree that came crashing down en route, just before our car passed. We thanked Providence and prepared for a long wait until the branches were sawed off and the road cleared. All the while, I alternated between admiring the lush vegetation and cringing at the sight of some enterprising travelers emptying their bursting bladders on either side of the road.

The harrowing journey was far from over. We were nearly there but had one last, and rather unexpected stretch to negotiate. A left here and a right there, and soon we found ourselves on a what resembled a bridge across the Lakkavalli Dam. Nearly 250 meters of brown slush, followed by a steep, muddy incline separated us from the resort. I stared at the mess in disbelief, convinced that our 14-year-old sedan wasn’t up to the challenge. To make matters worse, it started to rain once again, hampering visibility and rendering the task almost impossible.

“Isn’t there another way to get there,?” I asked my husband.

He shook his head and urged me to get moving before the weather changed from bad to worse. I took a deep breath, shifted the stick into first and attempted to drive through the muck.  Every time I pressed the gas pedal, I could feel the car shimmy and slide a couple of inches. Finally, ten minutes, numerous attempts and a very dirty car later, we were on the asphalt, albeit pockmarked road once again, the signs welcoming us to the resort. 

Why in heaven's name did we make travel plans in the monsoon, I don’t know. Although, we did manage to strike Jog Falls off our “must visit” list. I thought that the journey so far was rather adventurous; and how mistaken was I, for the adventure, and a rather unpleasant one was right around the corner.

It was a dull morning, the sky laden with angry, grey clouds when we hopped onto the motorboat for a boat safari. My fear of rivers ( read my blog, The River Rafting Misadventure), coupled with the crabby mood brought on by the depressing weather meant we were off to an inauspicious start. 

Osprey

There were eight other people on the boat, including the boatman and the naturalist, as we sailed down the monstrous Bhadravati river. The water seemed mildly turbulent when we set off and I tried to convince myself that I simply had to get over this fear, and this was a good time to start.

The boat swayed mildly as the wind picked up speed. I looked at the faces of the other occupants, and much to my chagrin, I seemed to be the only one on the brink of a nervous breakdown. The others were enjoying the rise and fall of the boat, and my husband, well, he was busy photographing the River Terns and Ospreys perched on the dead trees. I was too nervous to pick up my camera, sure that I’d drop it into the water.  An uneventful 30 minutes followed and I finally began to relax, even managing to get some good shots of Cormorants and an occasional Oriental Darter.

A little drizzle, followed by strong breeze rendered any attempts to photograph the birds useless. I sat down, hoping the drizzle would slacken. This, of course, was not to be, as it was no longer drizzling. The rain came down in full force, the sheets of cold water painfully jabbing my arm.

The boatman, who figured the downpour would abate in a couple of minutes, started the motor, proceeding at full speed. The vast river assumed the color of lead, the angry, grey waves tossing the boat up and down like a ping pong ball. My nervousness developed into full-blown panic, as I watched the boatman struggling to steer against the howling wind. I observed the anxious expressions around me, including my husband’s.  His grim appearance and quiet demeanor told me all I needed to know. If we didn’t turn around now, we were going to be in a lot of trouble. 

“Splat!” went the boat, as the boatman tried his best to turn around and head back to camp. Battling against the furious winds and torrential rains requires a certain level of skill and composure, something I prayed the boatman possessed. One of the women onboard had her head bowed down either in prayer or in fear, I wasn’t sure. She gripped the steel rod on the sides so tightly her hands seemed to turn grey. Once again, I found myself at the mercy of a river. That’s when I vowed I’d not set foot inside a boat, no matter how calm or serene the water appeared...if we managed to get out of this pickle in one piece first. 

“We’re heading back now due to the sudden change in weather,” announced the naturalist to a rather distressed audience.

“About time,” I heard my husband mumble under his breath.

The boat titled precariously as the motor propelled us forward, engaged in a fierce battle with mother nature. The helplessness of the situation dawned on all of us and I’m certain that we were praying for the same thing at that moment; to feel the ground beneath our feet. I could barely see ahead, so heavy was the downpour so I cannot imagine how the boatman finally managed to maneuver through the choppy waters. Steering deftly, he managed to get the boat, which was dangerously bobbing up and down, to the safety of the shore.

The adrenaline rush ebbed and I found myself shivering violently as my husband helped me get off, the relief apparent on his pasty white face. Some of the guests laughed nervously, while one lady simply threw up as the shock wore off. Needless to say, we were humbled by the fury of nature. 

The nightmare sometimes returns to haunt me, and I find myself slowing down instinctively when I drive over bridges or looking away when the airplane flies over a waterbody.

That said, there’s something that hair-raising situations often do to you. Once they pass and you manage to get out unscathed, you feel absolutely alive! I suppose that’s what drives the adrenaline junkies to lust after danger; the reawakening of the senses and that compulsive desire for adventure.

Nandi Hills: A Bird Watcher's Paradise

Back in the 80’s and some part of the early 90’s, Bangalore was a city that operated at an unhurried, relaxed pace. The lack of malls and shopping centers meant that weekends were spent either climbing trees in Lalbagh or riding the emancipated ponies in Cubbon Park. We’d wait for the summer holidays because this meant a special treat in the form of a day trip to Nandi Hills. We’d squeeze into my uncle’s vintage car and drive up, stopping multiple times either because the radiator threatened to erupt like a volcano or someone had motion sickness. Once we were afflicted with the disease called ‘growing up’, no one had the time nor inclination to drive to this picturesque piece of paradise.

Bulbul 

So nearly 20 years later, I revisited this holiday destination from my childhood at the behest of my husband, who’d never been here before. Of course, it would’ve been silly to expect the place to look the same. That said, the degree of change amazed me. To begin with, I was very surprised at the sheer number of people who’d thronged to watch the sunrise or check out Tippu Sultan’s summer retreat. Our agenda for the trip was, however, something else.  

Armed with our cameras, we broke away from the crowd and began exploring the vegetation for birds. I’d heard from a couple of our friends that Nandi Hills was a great place to photograph birds.  Although we heard a cacophony of bird calls, spotting them wasn’t easy because they’d hop onto to the highest branch at the slightest sound of a human voice. Apparently, some of the birds that are endemic to the Western Ghats are found here. Eager to leave the people and the innumerable monkeys behind, we looked for quieter places where we’d most likely find our feathered friends. Soon we found ourselves in a nursery attached to a small park. Attracted by the chirping and singing from within the trees, we tiptoed inside and stayed absolutely silent.

The Paradise Flycatcher

Sure enough, our patience paid off and we managed to get some wonderful shots of a bird that had long eluded us  - the Paradise Flycatcher. Although we’ve been on many trips to the jungles along the Western Ghats of Karnataka, somehow this species of the Flycatcher has dodged all our attempts to capture it. Little did we know that there was one right in the backyard of the city. We managed to get some beautiful shots of not just the Paradise Flycatcher, but also a couple of other birds including a Tickell’s Blue Flycatcher, some Bulbuls, and a Grey-collard Oriole, among a host of beautiful birds that throng the hills. If you’re into some serious birding, then you’d understand when I say that this is just the tip of the iceberg. There are so many species of birds that have made Nandi Hills their home, and we’re yet to photograph more than half, giving us all the more reason to come back.

That said, if birding is not your thing, then you could do a little bit of time travel as well. While the crumbling relics do little to take you back in time, they stand testimony to what was once Tippu’s Tashk-e-Janant that translates to the Envy of Heaven. The initial construction was started by his father, Hyder Ali, and later completed by his son. Following a quick glimpse at the summer rest house, we headed to the famous Tippu Drop. It is believed that prisoners condemned to die were forced down the 600-meter cliff. As the crowds started to build up, we decided it was time for us to head home. Before we decided to call it a day, we did check out the lovely nursery that was, unfortunately on that day, closed to visitors.

Nandi Hills has something for everyone. Fitness aficionados can hike along the numerous paths that traverse through the hills or join one of the cycling clubs that offer customized packages. You also have the Nandi Temple that’s dedicated to Bhoganandishwara and Yoganandeeshwara, and of course, a number of places to sip a hot cup of coffee during winters or a cold soda in the sweltering summers, although I wouldn’t recommend picnics, considering how audacious the monkeys are. Speaking of monkeys, I remember this rather amusing incident from when I was a little girl. A large group comprising my parents, grandparents, various aunts and cousins planned a picnic in Nandi Hills. No sooner did we open the food hamper, a dozen monkeys screamed and bared their teeth from the trees above, although they didn’t dare come down owing to the size of our group. This, however, did not deter the monkeys from calling out and watching the hamper from a safe distance. This continued for a few minutes, while my family, ignoring the bedlam, heartily tucked in.

This angered the monkeys who were used to terrorizing the smaller groups into parting with their food. One of the more enterprising ones then decided that he’d relieve himself from above. For reasons of privacy and respect for my family, I will not name who the recipient of the unwelcome shower was, but it was enough to send us scurrying into the car, packing the leftovers in a hurry.

Nandi Hills holds some fond memories for me. It is a reminder that not all vacations require complex planning and traveling all over the country or the world. If you’re looking for a quick and affordable getaway or some good locations for serious birding, there are several picturesque locations at a distance of between 60 to 100 kilometers from Bangalore that are ideal. The best part of such vacations is that they don’t burn your wallet!