The Writer is Out There.

GJ’s not feeling so hot as we arrive at the train station, it’s only Dad and I who marvel at the sea of people crouched on the opposite platform, anguished expressions on most of their faces. Every single one of them found a space on the train which pulled up looking pretty full already.

 

And when OUR train pulls up, we find ourselves rushing down the platform in search of our carriage, figuring it would be easier than struggling down the carriages, filled as they always are with miscellaneous luggage and children to negotiate. GJ scared me with a moment of uncontrolled staggering, where, unable to grab him, I thought he’d topple from the platform. So whilst Dad rushes ahead to locate our car, I hang back with GJ, moving as quickly as his health allows.

 

A porter, in his bright red arm-banded shirt and turban, gestures wildly towards the train.

 

“Dad.” “Mike” We yell, pointing madly in the hopes he’ll understand, “get on the train, get ON the TRAIN.”

 

So busy are we trying to catch Dad’s attention that the train’s in motion before we ourselves heave our stuff up to the rather high doorway. For a horrible second I thought we were leaving GJ on the platform.

 

There were far more westerners on the train than I had expected, and all around us there was excited talk of tracking tigers. Seems we’re all for the same stop.

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Tigers: Ranthambore is awesome. Once you pass the flock of wild souvenir touts at the gate, you enter a striking natural environment, strange in its contrast to the outside world.

 

There’s something terrifically exciting and memorable about sitting in the back of a jeep, with your Dad and Grandad – 2 of the coolest travel companions on this earth – hunting for tigers; it’s every kid’s dream. Or maybe that’s just me :-S

 

The park’s wildlife, though unquestionably wild, is mostly unperturbed by the strange green metal beasts which share their space, and we found ourselves face to face with everything from bucking deer and wild boars, to a baby crocodile. And we DID see our tiger, a matter of metres from us, so close that as he cooled off in the stream, you could see every droplet of water trickling down his whiskers and forming fur-icles along his belly, so close that as he tore his meal to shreds you could see his claws unsheathe. We tailed him for almost an hour. He was huge, he was impressive. He was beautiful.

 

If you’re ever tracking large stripey cats, by the way, they, apparently make a loud ‘meeeeeow-womp’ noise. None of us were convinced by the guide’s attempt at tiger-talk, but you never know. It was amusing, anyway.

 —

Also in Sawai Madhopu: It’s a quiet little place, and besides our feline search and a late night trip to the doctor for GJ, who it seems was hit with pneumonia (scaring both Dad and I with the possibilities) there’s not a lot to tell.

 

Everyone in the town is tiger-mad. Each stranger you meet greets you with a cheery “Hello – have you seen the tigers?”

 

2 street-side restaurants advertised ‘Chinese food’ in bold lettering, but contained nothing remotely Chinese in their menus, which rather disappointed me.

 

And one man was convinced that my father and I were an item;“you 50, she 20, you – strong man!’. We laughed about it all the way back to the hotel.