Nominate a warrior for the Jumbo Foundation Awards

It takes more than eco-tourism or tokenism to save the tiger. Improving the lot of conservation's foot-soldiers can be a good start.

Forest officer Prabhu Swamy at one of the best-maintained anti-poaching camps in Bandipur. It is a permanent masonry structure equipped with solar panels for electricity and a handpump (which elephants destroyed). Not all camps boast such luxuries.

It's Wildlife Week. Apart from routine ribbon-cutting and exhibitions of photographs trophy-hunted in the wild, we armchair conservationists will do what is expected of us, and various agencies responsible for making the right noises will do what is expected of them. 


With the coincident holiday season and the monsoon receding from our skies, tourism to wildlife sanctuaries will see a humongous rush. Particularly tourism with an "eco" prefixed precariously to it. Last year, the total foreign exchange earned from tourism in general was Rs 64,889 crore -- I don't have figures for what proportion of these earnings came from adventure and wildlife tourism. However, it is clear that the Ministry of Tourism is driving so-called eco-tourism hard, with plenty of incentives for hospitality concerns. Awards such as "Best Eco-friendly Hotel", "Best Responsible Tourism Project" and "Best Eco-friendly Practices by Tour Operators" are rewarded every year. No doubt, the sector is set to grow even as forest cover is increasingly fragmented and urbanisation exerts increasing pressure on forests.


While we Green Ogres might lean in favour of the budget jungle holiday and, on principle, patronise government-run hospitality as far as possible, most eco-tourists prefer the luxury of privately run eco-lodges and camps on the fringes of wildlife reserves. Although many of these concerns have revenue-sharing partnerships with the forest department (which issues entry permits and manages related administrative tasks), tourists are never exposed to the circumstances under which forest staff work.


Clearly, it takes more to save the tiger -- described somewhat facetiously on the Tourism Ministry's website as "Our National Beauties" -- than pumping up tourism. For forests to remain relatively inviolate and for tigers to continue to inhabit them, encroachment, fragmentation and poaching must be checked. Everyone from the high-profile cricketer to the oomphy starlet wants to save tigers, but photo exhibitions, mega-events and suchlike publicity extravaganzas are not going to do it. Tokenism isn't quite enough. 


For Arun and me, that fact became clear when we were invited to visit an anti-poaching camp in Bandipur at the behest of the Kumble Foundation. The experience opened our eyes to the abject reality of conservation, the plight of the foot-soldiers who police our forests at the lowest level of the hierarchical ladder. Their lives are plagued by poverty, ill-health and worries over an uncertain future. And you want them to save the tiger?


In the next two week, we will present to you a detailed report on the reality of life in an anti-poaching camp. But before that, do your sincerest bit on the occasion of Wildlife Week. 


Go to the Kumble Foundation's website and nominate a forest worker that you know of for the many categories of Jumbo Wildlife Awards for 2011. Make haste -- the last date for accepting nominations is October 16.

No porking please, we're boared

Thoughtlessly constructed and idiotically placed dustbins in a tiger reserve can turn a well-intended sanitation initiative into a howling travesty. How do you keep wild boar from scattering the trash you've conscientiously thrown away?


It was a beautiful afternoon in Bandipur. The sun was tucked into the skirt-folds of dark, purple-rimmed clouds and so many busloads of busy tourists had made sure to fill up the dustbins (and places within 500 metres of them) with all kinds of interesting garbage. There were fruit peels, corn cobs, half-eaten takeaways, packets of crisps with neglectfully wasted leftovers, et cetera. To perform a complete inventory, you needed to stick your head into the dump and rummage hard. Only a creature with a snout deserving of this luxury could get to the bottom of this mysterious treasure trove. 

Along came a pig. Not any ordinary pig. This, a large female wild boar (Sus scrofa cristatus) fattened habitually on human excess, sauntered by, snorted and regarded the dustbin with greedy curiosity, snivelling all over it. Its object of interest was a large, deep bucket of concrete, larger and heavier than itself, and made even more so, encumbered as it was with aromatic treasures.

As Arun and I watched, the pig sniffed around, tried to knock over the bin, and then gave up. Then the sow walked a short distance away and charged at the dustbin -- her belly-girdle of teats a-swinging -- and knocked it over. Satisfied with her effort, she tucked into the buffet that was now spread at her feet. Talk of pearls before swine!


A younger male sashayed over, eager to gate-crash her party. He tucked his snout into the lopsided bin, but the sow would have none of it. She grunted sharply and nudged him -- a little too hard for comfort. The aspiring usurper, whose relationship with her we could not quite fathom, crouched submissively and let her continue feeding. 

She munched away, undisturbed, while the other pig remained in position until the dustbin's original claimant had eaten her fill. Then, without ado, the sow walked away, leaving the bin to the younger pig.


And that's when we looked up and saw the sign.

Okay, we get the message.


So, how does one get wild boar to stop the annoying habit of scattering the litter that we have so conscientiously disposed of in dustbins? Simple: make the bins taller, of course, as the thoughtful officials at Parambikulam have done. 

Don't let their pitiable deprived expressions melt your heart -- or your resolve to dispose of garbage responsibly. Dustbins in a forest are for humans, not for wild boar.


Text and photos: Beej

Encounter: Dhole - the Indian wild dog

Watching one of our most efficient predators in the wild is a treat and a privilege. Most people might be obsessed with cats, but give it up for the Dhole, our very own wild canid

Just after I told my wife how endangered the Indian wild dog or Dhole (Cuon alpinus) was, we saw about ten of them on our first three trips together. Which, naturally, evoked the question: "Are they really endangered? I have seen more wild dogs than tame ones since our marriage..."

Sadly, they are...

At first glance the dhole is very like a dog

When, as a child, I saw the animated version of Kipling's Jungle Book, I grew to hate the dholes (red dogs) because they were enemies of the wolf pack to which the protagonist, Mowgli, belonged. Dholes were portrayed as an evil lot, hunting in packs and taking over the hunting grounds of the wolves.

The tail is a definite giveaway, though...

Since, I have heard a lot about dholes. When Beej first told me about the dhole he encountered (with Arun and Sahastra in BR Hills), I had not yet seen one. Soon, I was rewarded with my first encounter. We were driving through Nagarahole along the Mananthavadi road (although calling it a road would be a joke - rutted and potholed as it is, allowing an average speed of 10 kph along the 30 km drive). Suddenly, a canid crossed our track and Prasanna hissed: "Dhole!" It was a female and it lingered about our car, quite unafraid. Soon it was joined by a male that sat on the road next to the car for quite a while, allowing us a good view. He then joined the female and walked along the road before disappearing into the bushes.

The couple that entertained us at Nagarahole...

After that I have had multiple encounters with dholes, most in the last couple of years. Trips to Bandipur and Mudumalai would yield at least one sighting. But my best sighting was in Upper Bhavani in the Nilgiris. Prasanna, me and our wives were on a casual drive from Ooty when we saw a dhole leap right ahead of us on the road. It had a lustrous orange coat, which looked very fluffy, and a very dark tail. It bounded away, pausing ahead to stop and give us a backward glance and then vanished into the forest.

Contemplating...

Dholes hunt in packs. They are organized hunters and their skills have been well documented by Karnataka-based wildlife filmmakers Krupakar and Senani in their films Wild Dog Diaries and The Pack. Dholes are known to surround and bring down prey as large as the 1.5 ton Gaur, making them one of the most feared predators.

Tearing into a Sambhar (Photo courtesy: Joseph T A)

My friend Joseph TA was the luckiest of our group, having seen a pack of dholes hunt and devour a Sambhar. Generally, dholes are known to abandon their kill when intruded upon by humans, thanks to the old practice of hunters who used to leave the hunting to dholes and scare them off to take the kill.

Enjoying the feast (Photo courtesy Joseph T A)

Sport hunting and retaliatory killing by villagers whose livestock were taken by dholes have driven these canids to the edge. Thankfully, the active efforts of forest departments and NGOs involved in conservation are helping them recuperate.

Text and photos: Sandeep Somasekharan

Dhole hunting photos: Joseph TA (www.josephta.com | www.facebook.com/JTAPhoto)

My love, for you I would (if I could) give an elephant

 
It's how I met her. She wasn't yet my wife but I knew we were on our way to making that happen. We were at Bandipur one morning in January 2005. The trees around the forest office were throwing long shadows. The grass was soft with ungulate shit. My arm was unbroken. My heart was giddy. And my brain had no say in anything that was going on. We saw an elephant, me and her. We remarked that it was cute, me and her. And then we saw a calf, just a few months old, dart from between the cow elephant's legs. An elephant calf. A baby elephant. Nature's instrument of insurmountable cuteness pieced together with everything that connotes ugly in a human frame of reference - dark, hairy, rough-skinned, warty, fat and redolent of piss... 


"Wow," she said. "Wow," I echoed. And nodded. And did other things that indicated agreement. I was content just looking at it. But she... she wanted to touch it. It was a tame elephant. And there was a mahout with it. But I, burdened by my faux environmental extremism and other shitshat hangups, came within an elephant's hair-breadth of screwing up my chances of a lifetime by advising her against it. 


In fact, good sense prevailed. I suspended all those silly conflicts for an instant. Lest I regretted them all at leisure for the rest of my wife-less life. I don't quite recall what I said to the mahout. But before I knew it she was there next to the cow elephant, looking as wide-eyed and eager as a child gifted with a new puppy. The cow shuffled nervously, but the mahout invited the love of my life to touch the calf. The calf gave a little whimper and hid near its mother's hind legs. The woman of my dreams then reached out and, in one swift movement, clutched the mahout by the hand. Thus anchored, she mustered the guts to stroke the little calf on its back. Then she scurried back to my side. Beaming. No one was harmed. Especially no elephants. It was then that I saw them -- the cow elephant's udders. Tucked between her forelegs (like a human, not like a cow). Moist with the milk of pachyderm kindness. And I understood that this, our undeniable mammalian affinity to all things living, is what makes women do these cho-chweet things. And makes us men so desire women.* 


I just had to marry this one. 


* This is a personal statement and those with strong gay-lesbian feelings and affiliations should just ignore my political incorrectness and move on. Politically, I am supportive of same-sex relationships as long as there's love there and no one gets hurt. Zoologically, though, I beg to differ. More on that later.

Mumbai's trash flows from urban jungle to national park

There's a good reason to keep humans out of forests: Trash!

Some people stood here to enjoy the scenery, and left behind evidence of ample enjoyment

At birdsofbombay, Sunjoy Monga posted about a cleanup drive in Sanjay Gandhi National Park. A tireless team comprising schoolchildren and other volunteers recovered a large amount of trash from the national park, which is a virtual ghetto inside the city. 


And guess what most of the trash consisted of? Booze bottles - some half-full, others half-empty. Empty foil packets of wafers and gutkha - that awful-smelling stuff that some people sprinkle into their mouths from an elevation of half a foot. Now, this is must be a truly amazing way to celebrate Wildlife Week, no? 


When the Forest Department wakes up from its stupor, maybe it will give us some sober answers. I've seen this happen in every national park that I have visited - Bandipur, Mudumalai, Nagarahole, Bhadra, Periyar. For most of us urban chameleons, national parks offer a perfect hideaway from the city. But what some people do when they go there is unpardonable. 


Most national parks have effete, unconvincing signboards emblazoned with some weak cliche about saving our forests. Few of them offer the real reasons why you should not travel with stuff that tends to become trash. And if you do, why you should take your trash home. Most forest department workers are not educated about this aspect in the first place, so enforcement is not even on the horizon. 

Was it illiteracy or plain insensitivity that led people to litter below a signboard entreating them not to do so?

I once travelled on a safari in Bandipur with a bunch of engineering college students. One of them was playing music on a Walkman so loud that all of us could hear the screech of the playback singer's sibilants and the thump of jhankaar beats. I'm sure the animals heard him, too, a mile away. And, helped ably by the rattle and trundle of the diesel van that took us on the safari, we saw nothing but jungle fowl and the backside of an elephant. 


At Muthodi, my friends and I came across a group of surly drunks at the Shegekan Guest House. We hoped to stay here in order to have convenient access to the sholas. The Forest Department put us up at the dormitory downhill, denying us permission to stay at the guest house because someone connected to a minister had booked the place. Driving up, we heard the tinkle of bottles even before the guest house came into view. 


And, even as we stood watching Crimson-backed Sunbirds in that horrible garden planted with many exotics including a Christmas Tree, a couple of unsavoury characters argued loudly on the balcony, their beers and rums having gotten the better of them. We grumbled to the caretaker but got nothing except a helpless smile. And steel tumblers of coffee, at our expense. I stepped close to him unwittingly, and - sniff, sniff - my nose discovered the reason for his nonchalance. Booze makes quick friends. And if you have a quarter bottle to spare, rules melt like an ice cube in a glass of neat double malt.