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

Light up the darkness, smoke out the evil?

Over the three or so decades of my life, I have seen many Deepavalis come and go (true to my chauvinism, I prefer the South Indian 'Deepavali' to the globalised 'Diwali')*. The essence of our festival of lights, I have been variously informed, is to symbolise the victory of light over darkness, of good over evil, and such. So it stayed for many years, as firecrackers blasted the wits out of the demons of darkness and sulphur fumes cauterised flying insects in the air. Suspended particulate matter notwithstanding, it's all for the good. Over evil. More recently, however, it has been about spending and buying. About trashing the old, and celebrating the new. Never mind our ailing banks, our fairy rings of malls and supermarkets and hypermarkets - BIG retail, as we know it - has helped ensure that we have lots of new to buy. So we trash the old, yea, and we trash it good. And we buy, buy, buy more new. By next year, new becomes old, and old becomes trash. And thus, good and evil live like twins separated at birth. Happily ever after. Or until the world ends. Whichever is sooner. And what of light and darkness? It's relative, isn't it? Like old and new. About seven years ago, flying to Bangalore from Mumbai, I would press my nose to the window to see as far as I could. From that redeye flight, all the world looked dark and inky black. Somewhere in the warped horizon, stray patches of light burned like matches dying in an ashtray. Most of our villages, and most of our roads, were just shades of darkness upon a field of darker dark. In a sense, it felt good to imagine that there were places out there in the hinterland that still enjoyed their share of night. Recently, even that has changed. Two months ago, as I flew back from Mumbai late at night, I stared out at the darkness. And didn't see it. It is heartening to know that many more of our villages have electricity. Many more villages have become townships, and many more townships have become towns. And electricity keeps them alive and well. Their roads are thin veins of light creeping deeper and deeper into the surrounding morass of blackness, seeking out its inky heart. We keep the lights on late into the night. So that darkness has no place in our lives any more. And light pollution? Oh, is that something we need to worry about? So this Deepavali, I wish your eyes well. May they crave the dark of night again. May they be able to look up and wonder if Orion and the Pleiades still occupy their rightful places in the sky. Unless we have blazed them out along with our demons. Have a blast! Actually, don't. * Postscript: Another dyed-in-the-saadamkolumbu South Indian, Krish Ashok, has defined at some length how Deepavali dropped the pa when it ascended that uncertain territory north of the Vindhyas.

Does God really live in Plastic Palani?

Last week, I was in Palani, covering the destination for a travel publication. Shock and awe are the two words that can best describe how I felt. Add to that sub-tones of revulsion, derision and the urge to get away from there as fast as a Tata Indica with a TN registration could take me. Now, nearly everyone knows that Palani is the seat of Murugan worship in southern India, and a magnet for the faithful. What they tend to forget is that Palani is also the gateway to the Palani Hills, which are a part of the Western Ghats and the Nilgiri Biosphere. In other words, it's an important link in a very critical ecosystem. However, like any religious destination, Palani is being trashed by tourists with a fervour that defies imagination. Plastic is everywhere, despite effete signboards banning its use. Trash forms a parallel mountain very near the shrine of the lord. And driving 13 km away on the Palani-Kodai road, I came across a signboard that told a sad story. And it struck me that the problem is really deep-rooted. It's not one of literacy or the lack of it. It's not the defiance of the rule of law. It's a hopeless apathy that runs agonisingly deep. And what's that someone said about cleanliness and godliness?

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.