Chasing elusive tigers and slow-moving trains, pt. 1
We knew our chances of seeing a tiger at the Rathambore National Tiger Reserve were slim. Supposedly, there are only thirty-five at the park, and they rarely come out for meet and greets. Most of the stories we heard from others who had visited included woeful phrases like "just missed the tiger by an hour" or "came out the next day." Our story includes the woeful phrase: the High Court of Rajasthan ordered the park closed to private safaris ten minutes after we arrived. Or, when we looked at our watches, 5:10 am. We knew our chances were slim when we began our journey. Our chances plummeted to zero once the agent announced the high court's decision. If this isn't a story about the joy of the journey, not in the destination, then no such story has been written.
Friday, December 8. We jet off for Sawai Madhupur on a dusty blue Indian train from New Delhi railway station. Everyone in our group was present and accounted for, as was the train, so far, so good. About an hour into the ride, a youngish Hindi-speaking Belgium guy boarded with his best friend Radhebaba, an elderly Brahmin yoga instructor. We, being young single women, and they, being who they were, supplied each other with sufficient entertainment for the better part of the six-hour ride. Cheerily, we bid them adieu at the Sawai Madhupur railway station, clearly still under construction but the least of our concerns. Eleven pm in a small town, what were the chances of getting an auto rickshaw? Apparently, pretty good as one driver literally sprinted across the parking lot in a flash of pink flannel and halted in front of me, at our immediate service. Impressed by his commitment, we accepted his offer and he efficiently dropped us at the Pink Palace, surely the grimiest hotel in Sawai Madhupur. As I surveyed the pink cement walls, and ripped sheets, my flatmate opened the bathroom door and heaved. (For some reason, she stood in the middle of the floor and couldn't get over to the trash can). One room change later, my flatmate was snoring and I began a four hour contemplation of whether I would be attacked by the gigantic spider in the bathroom.
At the crack of black, as my girls say, Pink Lightning returned and zoomed us to the reserve to receive the dreadful news. No safaris. Oh, the devastation! Last weekend in India, and no tigers. Five am at the closed Rathambore National Park, and no tigers. Lonely Planet, what do we do now. LP's spare descriptions of other sites in SM, some random fort and a distant bazaar, tactfully implied we should high-tail it back to Delhi.
Via a hitched ride on a passing jeep (an easy Rs. 100 for the three drivers), we went back to the train station and I forced myself to the front of the line, an acceptable manner of joining a queue in train stations here.
"Is there a train to Delhi today?"
"Yes, but no availability," declared the silver-haired agent. No seats on any of the trains to Delhi from SM. Clearly, high-tailing exists neither as a Hindi phrase, nor a mantra in the train system. What we could do, he suggested, was ride to Jaipur, then catch the evening train to Delhi. We'd be back in Delhi by...10 pm. It was 10 am, we'd been up since 4 (I never really slept), and no tigers. Did we want to spend an entire day on the train? We surveyed SM once more: skanky black-haired hogs noshing on raw sewage, curious crowds of men staring at the disoriented tourists, and crumbling food stands. Too much character for us. To Dilli we returned.
Friday, December 8. We jet off for Sawai Madhupur on a dusty blue Indian train from New Delhi railway station. Everyone in our group was present and accounted for, as was the train, so far, so good. About an hour into the ride, a youngish Hindi-speaking Belgium guy boarded with his best friend Radhebaba, an elderly Brahmin yoga instructor. We, being young single women, and they, being who they were, supplied each other with sufficient entertainment for the better part of the six-hour ride. Cheerily, we bid them adieu at the Sawai Madhupur railway station, clearly still under construction but the least of our concerns. Eleven pm in a small town, what were the chances of getting an auto rickshaw? Apparently, pretty good as one driver literally sprinted across the parking lot in a flash of pink flannel and halted in front of me, at our immediate service. Impressed by his commitment, we accepted his offer and he efficiently dropped us at the Pink Palace, surely the grimiest hotel in Sawai Madhupur. As I surveyed the pink cement walls, and ripped sheets, my flatmate opened the bathroom door and heaved. (For some reason, she stood in the middle of the floor and couldn't get over to the trash can). One room change later, my flatmate was snoring and I began a four hour contemplation of whether I would be attacked by the gigantic spider in the bathroom.
At the crack of black, as my girls say, Pink Lightning returned and zoomed us to the reserve to receive the dreadful news. No safaris. Oh, the devastation! Last weekend in India, and no tigers. Five am at the closed Rathambore National Park, and no tigers. Lonely Planet, what do we do now. LP's spare descriptions of other sites in SM, some random fort and a distant bazaar, tactfully implied we should high-tail it back to Delhi.
Via a hitched ride on a passing jeep (an easy Rs. 100 for the three drivers), we went back to the train station and I forced myself to the front of the line, an acceptable manner of joining a queue in train stations here.
"Is there a train to Delhi today?"
"Yes, but no availability," declared the silver-haired agent. No seats on any of the trains to Delhi from SM. Clearly, high-tailing exists neither as a Hindi phrase, nor a mantra in the train system. What we could do, he suggested, was ride to Jaipur, then catch the evening train to Delhi. We'd be back in Delhi by...10 pm. It was 10 am, we'd been up since 4 (I never really slept), and no tigers. Did we want to spend an entire day on the train? We surveyed SM once more: skanky black-haired hogs noshing on raw sewage, curious crowds of men staring at the disoriented tourists, and crumbling food stands. Too much character for us. To Dilli we returned.
posted by Rhonda Henderson at 12:01 PM
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