Soaked in cooling mud up to his belly, he’s refreshing himself in the dying light of the evening, waiting for the night hunting time to come. Amid bouts of frenzied camera clicking, the tourists watch in awe and delight, gasping excitedly at every minor movement the tiger makes. More jeeps arrive, more cameras are trained on the bathing tiger.
Tigers in Ranthambore are used to jeeps and tourists. During the dry season dozens of them traverse the bumpy roads within the designated tourist zones, all scouting for the tiger.
This one seems relatively unconcerned by the presence of several jeeps, but he’s not altogether relaxed either. He drinks water, pink tongue lapping like a house cat, in a crouched position with his eyes permanently fixed on the adoring crowd. A few times he starts to stand, threatening to leave, as though he’s had enough of his fawning fan club, but the cool pond is irresistible in the hot, dry air, and he settles back into the mud, eventually relaxing enough to take his eyes off the jeeps and flick his long tail contentedly. In the end, we have to leave the waterhole before the tiger does. It’s five to seven in the evening, and park gates close at seven. We still have several kilometres to cover to get back, so our jeep regrettably pulls away. We could have watched this incredible animal do nothing for hours. But the endangered big cats need their privacy, as much as they need India’s tiger reserves for protection.
Despite the overwhelming mystique attached to the tiger, it’s an unfortunate fact that the tiger’s days are numbered. Ranthambore covers an area of 392 km² and the last tiger census estimated a population of 39 tigers. In fact, that may even be too many. One tiger requires a vast territory, but all over Asia, tiger populations are squeezed into tiny pockets of wilderness. When there are too many tigers in one area, they are killed in territorial fights or pushed outside of the park boundaries where they are inevitably killed by humans or vehicles. Realistically, this means there’s no chance for tiger numbers to ever appreciably increase – at least in India. Every tiger death by human hands is immensely damaging.
A world without wild tigers. The thought is nothing short of devastating.
But on to our travel experience. Ranthambore is extremely dry in May, but while i’ts less picturesque than it is after the rainy season, the lack of dense cover and the need for animals to stay near water makes it great for wildlife spotting. On our first morning safari we don’t spot any tigers. We do though, see a scores of spotted and sambar deer, langur monkeys, a huge assortment of birds and a gorgeous lake, teeming with fish and water birds and surrounded by a rocky gorge. Here we see a very well fed looking crocodile launch out of the water in pursuit of a mongoose, which narrowly escapes. Our jeep driver, however, manages to cause even more excitement by being alarmingly incompetent. For one hair raising moment he loses control of the jeep and slides towards a rocky-drop off for a good metre or two before the guide yells at him to brake.
Our second safari is in the afternoon. After talking to other safari-goers we feel like we’re one of the few who weren’t able to see a tiger within their first few hours in Ranthambore. So, not saying it but knowing we’ll be disappointed if we don’t see a tiger, we set off in the heat. As our safari nears the end, we are quietly disheartened. We haven’t seen as much wildlife this time, although our driver is at least slightly more talented. As much as we want to see a tiger, the game drives are definitely a little too tiger-focused. Our guide receives a tip-off from some forest wardens that a tiger was seen in a certain area, so we race off along with three other jeeps to stake out the alleged sighting spot. There’s a lot of circling, and waiting around, and guides talking amongst themselves about ways of flushing the tiger out. Instead, we could be admiring Ranthambore’s many other unique and exciting life forms, but the tiger always comes first.
After a frustrating period of stalking the non-existent tiger, our guide says we have to head back as the park gates will be closing. We drive past a scrubby area of dry, leafless trees when suddenly Ben, excited but trying to be discrete whispers “tiger, tiger!” I look over and camouflaged in the scrub is a male tiger, incredibly big. He sees us and crouches down, watching. He’s too well hidden for a good photo, so the guide, in his government department verified wisdom, decides to predict which way the tiger will walk out of the bushes and on to the road, and confidently orders the driver to drive away from the tiger. Meanwhile, the other jeeps have gotten wind of our sighting, and the guides decide to encircle the scrub and wait for the tiger to appear on the road. Of course, the tiger never comes out, and we’ve lost what could be our one and only chance to watch this magnificent animal in its natural habitat.
It’s time to go, it’s getting dark and we’re far from the park gates. We’re all quite annoyed by the guides’ behaviour but still glad to have a fleeting glimpse of a tiger. The jeep takes off at breakneck speed on the hazardous trail. Several kilometres from the exit, we see another jeep has pulled off the main trail and is parked near a waterhole. “One more tiger,” grins the guide.
And there he is. Close enough to see the detail in his piercing amber eyes. One of the world’s last wild tigers. The heartbreaking reality of just how damn lucky we are to see him doesn’t hit till later. In the moment of seeing we are enraptured.
After every safari the hotel staff at Ranthambore ask, “did you see the tiger?” We say yes, and exchange genuine, beatific smiles, as though as long as we can keep seeing the tiger, there is still hope left in the world.
