Why, I wonder through the fog of sleep, do we need shaving foam? Dawn light seeps into the sky as our speedboat nips across the placid Tawa Reservoir. We nudge into a reed-filled inlet, and pause alongside what the boatman optimistically calls a jetty. Alighting gingerly, we wave farewell to the departing boat, its whirring engine fading away into silence.
No, it isn’t shaving foam, I realise. Instead, our guide, Avinash Dhurvey, brandishes a canister topped with a bright-red horn – a signal horn. This, he announces brightly, is just in case we encountered a sloth bear who might take offence. One good blast, and it should flee. And since we’re on foot, it’s also best to bunch together to appear larger (there’s no canister for that). Now I’m wide-eyed and wide awake.
Home to an estimated 45 tigers, Satpura Tiger Reserve stands in the heart of Madhya Pradesh, India’s heartland state. Covering about 2,100 square kilometres, it’s also one of the largest reserves, and somewhat less well-known, particularly to foreign tourists, than the state’s other similar offerings, such as Kanha and Pench.
Uniquely, for the past seven years, Satpura has permitted guided walking safaris – no one actually says “walking with tigers”, because it sounds rather foolish, but you can’t help thinking it. So far no visitor has fallen prey to big cats, angry bears or venomous snakes. If you want an experience that echoes the milieu of Rudyard Kipling’s The Jungle Book, this might be the place.
Kipling, born 150 years ago, set his celebrated tales in the “jungle”, or rather forests, of central India. Based briefly in the northern city of Allahabad, he never penetrated the remote forests of Madhya Pradesh, but rather read of them and heard stories of life in the interior. His inspiration for Mowgli, the “man cub”, was rooted in bizarre if harrowing cases of feral children who, lost or abandoned by their parents, somehow came to be nurtured by wolves.
Accompanying Dhurvey and I are two trainee guides and the Bhopal-born Aly Rashid, a naturalist and co-proprietor of Reni Pani Jungle Lodge, my home for three nights.
By 7am, we set off from the jetty. Rashid reminds me that tigers tend to be more active in the mornings. “Right now,” he adds, “there’s a patrolling male who’s getting around quite a bit. So, let’s see.” We stroll in single file along a slender, grass-fringed path, cross a driving track, and navigate a series of sandy streambeds separated by little rocky banks and shrubbery.
The thrill is in the possibility of an encounter, but you embrace this strictly in hope rather than expectation. Rashid knows of only one on-foot tiger sighting, but has seen leopards and sloth bears quite a few times. Once, having come across a leopard feasting on a gaur, or Indian bison, his party suddenly heard alarm calls behind them, and hurriedly moved aside – another leopard ambled past to join the first. “That,” he admits, “was incredibly lucky.”
Yet the real joy is in the simple pleasure of walking through forest where the best guides can bring all its nuances to life. Most outsiders – city-dwellers in the main, rather like myself – may as well be blind. We probably wouldn’t notice things such as termite nests in tree trunks, or realise that the peculiar scrapes on tree bark show where sambar stags, the largest Indian deer, have rubbed their handsome antlers. Nor would I spot little scorpion holes, into which Dhurvey shines his torch so we can see their blue-black claws as they retreat farther inside.
Minutes later, one of the trainee guides yells; we turn to find him pointing at the ground with a stick. There, in the ravine’s sand, are old, faint leopard prints. Fifty metres away, we come upon another set – a tiger’s – which, to my unaccustomed eye, look identical. Rashid pulls out an identification leaflet to show me the difference; a leopard’s are smaller, and its four digits are more rounded compared to the elongated, almost pointy shape of a tiger’s.
More alert, we walk on, eventually climbing up the dark rocky slopes of “Sloth Bear Hill” (where Rashid admits he has never actually seen a bear). Dhurvey is adamant that the bears aren’t intrinsically aggressive when encountering people, but agrees they’re unpredictable – and this gives them a reputation as the forest’s most dangerous animal. Clearly they’re anything but slothful. Later, I hear that their markedly curved, almost sloth-like claws had muddled 18th-century zoologists, who initially considered them related to sloths.
From our elevated viewpoint within sight of the sparkling Tawa, we pause to eat a picnic breakfast: fruit, egg rolls and muffins, washed down with tea and coffee. I could stay hours, but we have to rendezvous with the boat. Strolling back, Rashid and Dhurvey point out particular trees such as amla, or Indian gooseberry (famed for its Ayurvedic properties); tendu, or coromandel ebony (its leaves wrap millions of traditional beedi cigarettes); and ber, or Indian jujube (its fruit is rich in vitamin C).
Back at Reni Pani, I rest for an hour or two either side of lunch. My cottage overlooks a seasonal, sun-dappled stream, and I recline on a charpoy lounger on its shaded terrace. Chital deer – a doe and her fawn – pass by cautiously, their ears twitching at the faintest noise or movement. I keep hearing odd, abrupt rustlings, but soon match these to the large, ragged teak leaves that fall continuously in the faint breeze, making little crunching sounds as they tumble.
The lodge is named after wild reni berries, on which, in season, sloth bears happily gorge. Designed by the Goan architect Dean D’Cruz, Reni Pani has taken a leaf from Africa’s high-end “ethno-chic” safari lodges. The central reception, dining and lounge area faintly resembles a vast lofty tent shaped like a five-pointed star – but built mostly with natural materials, including a woven bamboo ceiling laid on eucalyptus beams. Tribal portraits and rustic crafts adorn its walls and side tables; in the centre stands a firepit. Twelve irregularly shaped, well-spaced cottages boast similar materials, along with a traditional wall plaster of dried cow dung mixed with crushed hay; it feels utterly organic, and looks beautiful.
After a refreshing dip in the kidney-shaped pool (where I admire gorgeous iridescent dragonflies), we return to cross the reservoir again, and set off for an afternoon game drive. As in all Indian tiger reserves, these usually follow prescribed routes to help disperse vehicles. Rashid explains that only about five per cent of Satpura is open to visitors, and in light of a recent court decision, this is unlikely to increase.
Soon, the thickly forested Mahadeo Hills – the highest part of the Satpura range – loom close ahead. Geographically, they resemble the “navel” of India, and cradled within their folds stands Pachmarhi, a faded Raj-era hill station with colonial bungalows and wonderful views from its south-facing cliffs.
We drive through strands of forest and more-open grassland, our mandatory reserve guide endlessly scanning the terrain. Sometimes, we pause to listen for alarm calls – of monkeys or deer – that strongly suggest a prowling tiger or leopard. Meanwhile, Rashid keeps a running commentary on the bird life; about 300 species have been recorded here, and merely as a casual observer, I have soon ticked off three dozen on my checklist, including beautiful kingfishers, rollers and racket-tailed drongos.
Rugged tracks weave into the foothills, and we inch up a few, spotting some edgy sambar that regard us with doleful ‘what’s up?’ expressions. Finally, down in the grassland, we happen upon a shaggy bear and her two cubs, as they snuffle and snort in search of termites and ants. Even barely 10 yards away, they hardly seem to notice us, and carry on regardless.
Heading back to the main gate at dusk, we hear a strange, almost spooky call that reminds me of a mischievous chuckle. “Now that,” exclaims Rashid, “is one I haven’t heard for a long time: a dusky eagle owl.”
That evening in the lodge, there’s brief drama. It’s barbecue night, so we dine outside amid flickering candles while chefs grill succulent meats and pull freshly baked naan from a clay tandoor oven. “Snake, snake!” shrieks one of the staff. The naturalists, who always dine with their guests, leap up to investigate, and within seconds, our slithering intruder is seized – all 25 centimetres of it.
It’s a little wolf snake, its name far worse than its bite: non-venomous, nocturnal and desperately trying to sink its tiny fangs into the fingers of the naturalist holding it aloft.
“Now, the trouble with these,” he says, “is that they closely resemble a common krait, one of India’s most dangerous snakes.” Then he pauses. “So we’ll know for sure tomorrow morning.”
Satpura’s other unique activity is canoeing, so early the next morning, Rashid, a park guide and I paddle across the glassy Tawa towards a blazing sunrise. Bar-headed geese fly overhead in a near-perfect V formation. Fishermen in coracle boats cluster by the northern banks, away from the reserve, while we head to the other side and Satpura’s watery boundary. Essentially the Tawa is the dammed Denwa River, and we paddle to its confluence with another river, and turn in towards the hills.
Our gentle approach to the muddy bank gives close views of wading lapwings, herons and egrets. Cormorants dry their wings in the sunshine; a fish eagle gazes sentry-like from a tall tree stump. It’s utterly still, and certainly the most blissfully tranquil experience I’ve had in any tiger reserve. We step ashore via gently sloping rocks to enjoy another leisurely picnic breakfast. For all I know, a tiger or leopard might furtively have watched us. As any guide will confirm, they’ll always see us before we see them.
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