Day 48: Nicobar Diaries

25th December 2017

Christmas. And now thirteen whole years since the tsunami wrecked havoc and changed the lives and personalities of nearly everyone on this island. 

I just made myself a stiff cup of tea and an omelet. My white-dog visitor, who trots in through the back door every morning is now looking at me with pseudo-paavam* in his eyes. He seems disappointed about my lack of leftovers. My rice-and-potatoes from yesterday have clearly raised his expectations, and my stiff roti isn't doing anything for him tonight. (It's averaging 40 degrees C with max humidity - I'm without a fridge and can't store anything, so I'm finally learning to cook for one.) What a darling, I still can't bring myself to name him.**

~~

Post-chai: Helene Hanff once signed 20 copies of 84 Charring Cross Road for some booksellers in Australia on 26th July 1971. The inscriptions say 'To an unknown booklover'. I had a brief moment of tearful eyes imagining holding one of those 20 books in my hands. 

I am very emotional these days, and I break down a lot. Living alone sure lowers one's inhibitions. 

Also - Helene was alive until 1997 - it's thrilling to think we overlapped for three years on this planet, although we would have been wrinkly (for different reasons) and far away from one another the whole time. 

Today's idle pondering led me to think about how I have the mind of an introvert but the heart of an extrovert. That the things I love to do, or dream of turning into a career, involve long periods of solitude or time with my thoughts. Too much time with my thoughts, though, can get a bit much. Apparently, I can think at 150 kmph, especially during long scooter rides at 30 kmph. I wonder if I'll ever strike a balance between these different versions of myself.

Yesterday was a long day, as were all the others between my entries. I've been distributing my citizen science calendars all over the island and it has taken me into the homes of a wide assortment of people and tugged viciously at my heartstrings. I had already given out ~100 by the 23rd, and had hoped to cover as many homes as I could (5? 10?) - holiday haze had already set in. 

The first family I visited was supremely enthusiastic about my work, and took me all over their plantation to show me some of the damage 'my' monkeys had caused - eaten coconuts left atop leaves or dropped to the ground, banana trees that had clearly been ravaged, some without a single fruit left on the stalk, young trees that had been killed because the monkeys yank out the apical bud which is full of juicy nutrients. They had put nets around the plantation, but I couldn't understand how they could ever work; they were no more than five feet high and the monkeys would have no trouble getting over them. A lot of these precautions are well-meaning, but fall short in execution because of the inordinate time needed to see them through, or their in-affordability. Monkey-proofing isn't cheap, and their steadfast problem-solving abilities don't help. They also have dogs tied around the farm that seem to be one measure that works - I later discovered several dogs kill monkeys during altercations; everyone keeps it mum, but they don't stop it from happening either. 

By this time I had already spent over an hour there, and they welcomed me into conversations like we'd known each other for months. Being Sunday, the two lounging brothers and one of their daughters offered to show me the Joginder Nagar beach where sea turtles come to nest. I agreed even though I'd been there before, and I'm glad I did. I got an in-depth tour of the areas where the tsunami hit them worst; where the old road used to be, how far the fields once stretched and, of course, the turtle nests. They seemed happy to have someone to remember the fateful day out aloud with - perhaps it was just the time of year. There aren't many nests so far, it's still early in the turtle season - one leatherback and four olive ridleys. One of the brothers mentioned that the appointed forest guards tend to inflate the number of eggs laid every year to maintain Joginder Nagar as an important place for turtle nesting. If not, they could get posted far off in Galathea***, and no one wants that if it can be helped. I followed them on my scooter along tire-width sand tracks by the coast to come to a tiny lagoon where one can occasionally see saltwater crocodiles. We returned to their home around noon after the informal tour, where the brothers said they were impressed with my skillful riding along the narrow gullies, when in reality I was certain I would skid the entire while. My stomach had unclenched only when my wheels hit tar again. 

For those who depend on agriculture/plantations, life isn't easy. They need to be (and have) watchdogs everywhere. Along the coast, they face cows and need to smear cow dung over the young trees to keep them away. They showed me the older coconut trees that were still standing after the tsunami. The point where the water hit them had shriveled, and all the growth ever since has been narrower than the rest of the tree. Some of them don't even fruit anymore. 

After much chatter and now with an irrefutable camaraderie, I ended up having lunch with them after all. Now, in the late afternoon, I realized there wouldn't be any point visiting more homes that day - everyone was either leaving to go to the Gurudwara or preparing for Christmas. After they (excitedly) shared some photos of a couple of whale strandings that they told me about at Joginder Nagar from years ago, and of them siting on a pregnant leatherback turtle (this seems to be a trend among the islandic youth), I took their leave and headed home. 

Enroute, I stopped at Mugger Nala to sit by the sea for a while, which was, as always is, lovely. I welled up again. It's been an overwhelming month so far - the travel, the solitude, the home-hunting, the forging of new friendships, the disappointments, the seemingly endless monkey-caused strife, building empathy, the independence, the grandeur of the island, and the helplessness of it all. I then felt tired of feeling so listless and sorry for myself and decided I'd go to the community church for midnight Christmas mass. I drove up to a sweet Nicobarese home I had visited before and enquired about the specifics of their celebrations - I'd come prepared. I purchased a Nicobari lungi and stitched it up for the night. I love it already and could live in it, they are uncomplicated and comfortable to wear, especially in the humid heat. (I also finally managed to get some good vegetables in the bazaar.)

Time to go find my monkeys - more later.

--

* paavam is a Tamil word that implies 'poor thing' 

** My neighbours and I did, ultimately, agree on 'Pandu'

*** Galathea is a bay at the southernmost part of the island, far removed from the villages and separated by ~5km of forest. It's quite a grueling posting for the forest guards, and rarely their first choice of work place!

Locked In

 Dear Readers,

I write to you from an elite sense of entrapment, with supplies being delivered at my doorstep, garbage magically disappearing and the self-fulfilment of staying indoors and contributing to ‘flattening the curve’. While I sat in my balcony this afternoon feeling sorry for myself, running my mind through clichéd thoughts of knowing the value of freedom only when it’s taken away, I tried to remember the last time my movement was this strictly restricted. 

My mind took me back to 2005, when I was still in school and my only worries were unit tests and mid-term exams. The state board curriculum that educated me was dull in every manner, and I’d always put off studying until unavoidable. I was thankful for any delay in my need to commit text to memory, only to purge my brain of it all the very next day in a half-dazed flurry of ‘Answer in Brief’ and ‘Give Reasons’. To add insult to injury, my first set of exams each academic year coincided with my birthday. I could come to terms with not being able to distribute sweets to my classmates or have celebrations, but having to study on my special day always seemed cruel. That year, however, had other plans for me. 

I remember sitting at my study table in our 2BHK in Bombay, overlooking a narrow street, reading reluctantly for a geography exam the next day. My attention would often drift to the window in front of me, staring into the downpour that hadn’t let up for the past two days. Bombay rains have always been an intrinsic part of growing up, a sign of good luck and respite from harsh summers. For a young school girl, heavy rains also came with the hope of school holidays and half-days. My selfish thoughts would wish for our reliably blocked drains to clog up and relieve me of my books and teachers every time it rained for over two hours. This day was no different, and I crossed my fingers and muttered in hope to the clouds for them to keep showering until the next day - my birthday - was declared a holiday. 

It was 26th July 2005. By noon (and 2 of 8 chapters in), the water had risen to an adult’s knees or an adolescent's hips. I climbed into the box grille and watched cars chug to a halt, people wading in opaque, brown water and the strewn garbage from our street floating to the surface to get caught in drain currents. At the corner of my lane, I saw how the water began to pour into a small hole in a building wall. Frantic, a whole family of rats was swimming against the gaining water, trying to find higher ground. Full-grown rats had emerged first, their fur matted and glossy from being drenched. They stood on a fine ledge, urging the semi-hairless young ones to follow them out of their once-dry home. That visual is still so vivid in my mind, and I can imagine the squeals that must have filled the air at that spot.

I was conflicted – was I happy about this incessant rain or was I scared of the consequences? I was, however, but an almost-12 year old, and found myself leaning towards 'happy'. Two hours later, I got word from school that our exams were being put on hold until Bombay dried up. I tossed my textbook in joy (followed by stern disapproval from my mother) and sat by the window watching the goings on for the rest of the day. Needless to say, it wasn’t pretty.

We were starting to worry about how long this would continue, and we only had enough supplies for a couple of days. Our electricity had been shut off for hours, and water had begun pouring into the ground floor apartments. In the evening, our downstairs neighbour thumped on our door. She was frazzled and asked us (the pet-owning family) to rush downstairs. A stray dog had floated into our building and had gotten badly stuck in a spikey grille by the scruff of his neck. He looked miserable and had no control over his body. He was exhausted. Barked-out. Fading. My father’s hands were too large to manipulate him through the burglar-proof grille. I knelt down in the cold, filthy water and slipped my hands right through. I pet the floating dog, who looked up at us for the first time since we found him. He looked straight at me, weak and shivering, with deep brown eyes. I could tell from the new ripples in the water that he was using his last bit of energy to wag his tail, responding to the warmth from my touch. I pulled him closer to relieve the strain against the iron, and released his skin from the menacing arrow in the grille. He jumped in the water and spun a little, immediately kicking off and away. I was terrified and happy simultaneously. I dreamed about the little brown guy that night.

The next morning, it was still pouring. I opened my eyes to my mother staring out the window with my sister on her hip. She looked worried. My father had decided to wade out and get some groceries and candles for the next few days - it didn’t look like things would get better any time soon. It had already been an hour since he left the house and I could see every shade of panic on my mother’s face, reflective of the worst-case-scenarios she was playing in her head. A neighbour had made things worse by striking up conversation about potholes and open manholes that lay hidden beneath murky waters. We sat together by the window, tense in solidarity.

Another two hours passed before my father returned. His characteristic knock on the door brought the widest smiles to our faces, and we greeted his haggard form with more love than he expected. His hands were full of bags, indicative of his successful waterlogged adventures, and we heaved a large, familial sigh. 

Later that evening, when the excitement and worry had died down, I was sitting in my room reading Matilda when my parents called me to the kitchen. I walked in to find them around the dining table in the light of twelve candles. Potato chips, a single pastry and three samosas filled the table. My father had wandered through the morning until he found a Monginis open and bought up the last surviving of their party snacks. I nearly cried. I had written off my birthday and retreated into quiet until this moment. 

Regardless of all the subsequent parties and warm gestures from friends and family as the years have rolled by, that one candlelit evening with shared laughter, the smell of deep fried samosas and gushing rain outside will always hold a special place in my mind. 

Yours in quiet midday reverie,

Ishika

Day 10 - Nicobar Diaries

18th November 2017, Haddo Warf

This was my last day in Port Blair before heading off to Campbell Bay in Great Nicobar, and it was a long one. I started the day making long lists of things to do, buy and pack before getting on that ship. I also had to find good network and internet to send some emails to the officials at Campbell Bay confirming my arrival dates (now that I had tickets) and follow them up with phone calls to account for all bureaucratic and internet-related inefficiencies in Great Nic.

I had also discovered two things:
1. My scooter was giving me great mileage.
2. I wouldn't be allowed to load my scooter onto the ship if it still had petrol swishing inside its fuel tank.

I decided to set out early and run all my errands in a non-parsimonious order so as to use up maximum fuel since I filled her up entirely like a fool yesterday. Since I didn't know about photocopy machines and printers in Campbell Bay just yet, I also got some data sheets and permit letters in place. Since the island authorities keep track of every new person to set foot on the island, I also got my photo taken, so I could attach it to my application. It turned out blurry-eyed and sweaty, with large patches under my pits thanks to the sweltering day and my running around.

The cargo ticket said I needed to be at the loading docks by 5 pm. I hurriedly finished all my work by then and reached Haddo. This is a fairly large dockyard from which the heavier passenger and cargo vessels leave. It has multiple entries - all leading up to the same places - but open at varying times. It has broad walkways and cement platforms, large enough for trucks and cranes of immense girth to pass through. Having to walk from one end of the docks to the other takes forever, and the expanse of platform seems never ending. It's got 30-foot-long shipping containers piled up in colourful columns to one side, which I've only been trained to look at as a potential site for an action/horror film shoot.

I had to sign myself and the scooter into the docks, providing the necessary paperwork, and was then let in. Once I got there, though, I found four others with their two-wheelers, making multiple rounds of the wharf to use up their remainder petrol. My tank was so far from empty, I felt even sillier. I needed to find a way to manually empty it there itself, now that I had done the long-drawn entry procedures. In addition, I was told that it would easily be another three hours before the crew would get around to loading our bikes. These would be the last cargo to go in, after all the other inter-island supplies, that came with their own sarkari paperwork which had to be checked by the Captain.

In all that time waiting and twiddling thumbs at the dock, I made conversation (dare I say friends?) with the Captain and few men from the crew. They were all pretty helpful and sympathetic about everything taking so long. Two others who had a little too much fuel in their tank used mine (with the most petrol) to scout for pipes and bottles that we could use to suck out the excess. I had nearly two liters still inside, which was great news for mileage and scooter potential, but a real pain at the docks that evening. The yellow fluid was like precious gold, and everyone stood clutching theirs cautiously so as not to mix it up and end up with less than their rightful share. Once the accessible petrol had been drained, we left our scooters on and running to burn up any traces that may still be there. The Captain would walk by, rock our bikes side to side and give us a disapproving shake of his head if he felt any swivel. My conscience burned with the petrol.

It was past 8:30 and very dark by the time our tanks were dry and in line to be loaded. I walked the scooter up a narrow, angled plank into the bottom of the ship, now filled with vegetables, fruits, mechanical parts, fish stock and other supplies. After watching these things being transported into the ship's hold for nearly four hours, I was amazed to see so much room still available. I then strapped my scooter in with scrap ropes to some potato crates and left after saying hearty byes to the crew and others at the dock, as though I'd known them for years.

Since it was already so late, I had long missed the last bus heading home. I requested Ravi, ANET's trusty cabbie, to come and get me. I got back to the base at nearly 10. I gave Sachin (another researcher) all my extra free fuel for which he gave me a rare smile, had some cold dinner, packed up my bags and crashed.

Lots to come.

Day 9 - Nicobar Diaries

17th November 2017, Phoenix Bay

I woke up before my 3 am alarm and was ready at 3:30 am. Paranoia began to set in and so, I left for Phoenix Bay. I rode in the dark by the aid of my new headlight earlier than necessary. It started to rain a little near Manjery, but I braced myself and kept going. By about 4:30 am, I had reached Bathu Basti, where I stopped to withdraw money. Chandni (our coordinator back in Bangalore) felt bad about my funding being held up and wired a little bit over to me for the time being so I could buy ship tickets for my scooter and me. Street lights began coming on around then, although I wondered why they’d turn them on now only to switch them off half an hour later.

[If you're not sure of what's happening in today's post, read about Day 8 here.]

I got to Phoenix bay before 5 am but discovered I wouldn’t be allowed inside until 5:15 am. I had to patrol restlessly outside till then while the two cops on duty tried to figure out why I had bothered coming so damn early. They wanted to know why I came all the way from Wandoor myself at an ungodly hour when I could have paid someone else to do it for me.

The ticketing business opens up all kinds of job niches. There are people you can hire to stand in line physically for you until they’re nearly at the counter when you can take over from them. There are agents you can employ to pull a bunch of shady strings to get you the seat you want. There are sneak-approach individuals who will make their way through the entrance when the counters open and plead with the first few in line to buy an extra ticket for them. Apart from these, there are the supporting figures who come by very early to sell tea and water to those in line. The counter opens at 9:00 am. At first sight of the guards/policemen/policewomen who open up the main door at 8:30, riotous excitement bubbles from within the three queues (women, men, elderly).

The human rush this time around was not as much as my last couple of attempts. I was, however, stuck behind a slightly older woman in a thick nylon kurta. She reeked. To the high heavens - of sweat far too potent to be fresh. To top it off, fumes of saliva and tobacco hit me in waves every time she turned towards me. It was a bad day to be downwind. I put my head down and tried to focus on my book and umpteenth cup of chai. Three and a half hours after the absolute assault to my senses, we were let inside where the B. O. diluted into a large volume of cooler air.

The room we’re let into for ticketing is quite spacious with multiple air conditioners (all functioning on ‘fan’ mode, so it’s more breeze than coolness) and 10-15 different counters. Each counter deals with a different travel route, further divided into the same three categories of age and sex. To be fair, the cops controlling the crowds alternate between the men, women and senior citizens when letting people into the sought-after counters.

The race for a place in the ultimate line inside the room is a battle of wits, experience and human resource. Families will bring out their biggest guns to secure a bunk for their members. These guns are often the most frail of their elderly, made to stand in the shortest of the three lines and thereby, reach the counter first. I’ve seen 40-somethings in their worn sarees and cracked spectacles trying to wiggle their way into the ‘Senior’ queue only to be caught and sent to the back of the other overflowing lines.

At precisely 9 am, they decided to turn on the computers, but the computer at my counter wouldn’t come on. A gradual congregation of employees assembled around the CPU, muttering incoherently to each other, muffled by the thick glass between us and them. They were laughing, cracking jokes, looking at their phones and passively hitting the power button over and over again to no avail. Finally, one of them went off and returned with a screw driver. He took the cover off of the CPU and then… began hitting the power button once more, only now with the hood off. Watching this unfold after four hours in queue made my knees angry. Another fifteen minutes of them pretending to fix the issue, they opened up the next counter for us and I got a ticket! I always have a relieved-yet-deliriously-happy smile on my face after getting a ticket. Few other endeavours are as fulfilling in the end.

Now that I had a place to lay my head for two days at sea, I had to buy some cargo space for the scooter. I knocked against a closed glass door behind which I could see people drinking tea and reclining leisurely for a while before I was attended to. They didn’t realize that Coral Queen would be sailing on Sunday. Once they confirmed that this was the case, they handed me all the paperwork to fill out in triplicate (how much does a scooter weigh? Without any internet, I had to get a friend from mainland to Google it and tell me it was about 110 kg).

Got out of there in a victorious flash. Stopped at Bathu Basti for breakfast and then went right back to ANET. I indulged in a rare but well-earned afternoon nap and slept through lunch. It was wonderful.

When I woke up, I took the scooter down to ghumai and caught up on some phone calls. Things were finally falling into place - I was leaving on Sunday and it felt good to have a concrete plan. Scary, but good. I’m going to miss everyone.

Over dinner, I was very seriously asked to come back intermittently, saying that I’d get unbearably lonely if I didn’t. Maybe they’re right.

Day 8 - Nicobar Diaries

16th November 2017, Phoenix Bay

Visited Phoenix Bay today since the Directorate of Shipping Services (DSS) was being absolutely useless.

Phoenix Bay is where one has to go to book tickets for inter-island ships. It's an ancient first-come-first-serve process, where islanders and visitors far exceeding the number of available seats queue up outside the office at least three hours before the counter opens in hope of securing a bunk out at sea. When I was there for my recce in June 2017, it took three attempts and a cumulative effort of 15 hours of standing in sweaty lines before I got a ticket aboard the M. V. Campbell Bay to Great Nicobar. 

Ship timings are erratic, as are the schedules for when the single ship designated to the route you're interested in leaves the Bay. A couple of days before the ship is to set sail, a short ad is put in the 2-page local newspaper 'The Daily Telegrams*' following which, a mad rush of people gather outside the booking office a day before departure.
After combing through the Daily Telegrams every morning in the hope of finding a ship that leaves soon and trying to get through to the DSS that simply responded with a bored, "We will advertise when there is a ship leaving" I figured going to Phoenix Bay in person was the only option. Sure enough, there was a ship for Sunday (19th) and tickets for it would be sold on 17th - tomorrow! I called Naushad immediately and decided to get the scooter from him today itself so that I could ride it to the office earlier than the first bus from ANET and ensure that I get a ticket.

Dayani (who had motor-biked me into town) and I ate at Golden Dragon near Gol Ghar. It's a very homely place tucked away on the first floor, enclosed behind a grill door that is opened only if you ring their doorbell. A Chinese couple moved to Port Blair and started this restaurant there, although it feels like they've had to 'Indianise' their food regardless!


Around 4 pm, I bought the scooter. I was extremely excited and felt like the adrenaline of having to stand in line tomorrow had already kicked in. I even bought some snacks for the queue, keeping in mind how hungry I got in the past. I made sure all the papers were in place and left. I spent some time in Garacharma filling up the fuel tank and fixing up new mirrors. It was nearly 5 pm by the time I headed back to ANET. Darkness fell as I was nearing Manglutan and my headlights flickered weakly to a stop. There are no streetlights along that stretch, and a tiny Ishika sitting in my chest let out an internal scream. I made slow progress inching towards a tiny market along the way making use of when other vehicles passed me with their high beams and squinting in the moonlight. Luckily I found a place where I could buy a new bulb and convinced a closing mechanic to fix it up for me. It was nearly dinner time when I got back.

James** really liked the bike and thinks I got it for a steal, given the condition it's in. He played the guess-how-much-this-scooter-costs game with whoever he could find and beamed in his subtle James-like manner when its price was overestimated.

I was exhausted post-dinner and decided to turn in quickly despite the going-away party for a snake researcher who had been around for the past week. Since I had to be up and about for tomorrow's ticketing, I didn't face much resistance.

Before turning in, we had a short gathering at the dinner table about ANET's plan to have an 'open house' of sorts, where the base would be thrown open to all the residents living around it. There's always been a vague question-mark air among our neighbours in Wandoor about what all of us do at ANET. There will be stalls and props and visual representations of all the work that goes on behind our gates (which in reality are rarely kept closed). It's on the 14th of Feb next year and seems like a genuinely great idea. I hope I can come back to be part of it.

________________

*The Daily Telegrams is a double-page newspaper that is circulated within Port Blair. We usually read it a day late, since one of the ANET staff who lives nearby is the only one who subscribes. He brings it to us a day after his family is done reading it. The front page usually has very local news about ceremonies held, some politics, often a programme where someone was awarded a book or certificate, etc. The two pages inside have ads, vacancies, obituaries, birthday wishes and other birth-wedding-death announcements. The last page has some sports news and notices about shipping schedules. It's the cutest 4 sides of islandic information you'd ever come across.

**James is a beautiful man who has been part of the ANET field staff for many years. He's extremely curious and intelligent, and loses no opportunity to learn more about natural history. He can ID plants and birds better than most people (researchers included) on-base. All this being said, he's extremely modest and hard to impress, which means you have to have spotted something super rare to get his eyes to widen a millimeter more than their usual size.

Mansi - The Chirput.

Field work was full of surprises, as often happens when your subjects of interest are two incredibly intelligent primate species. Of all, the best one was discovering that I would help take care of an abandoned infant macaque - affectionately named Mansi by the local Forest Department.

I was working on field one annoyingly sunny afternoon, when my troop decided to scale two cliffs and make me work up an even heavier sweat. They were just settling down into a clump of Pandanus trees for an afternoon snack and siesta, when a family I had come to know ambled along. They were there to lop some wood in that secluded forest patch, and they brought their bumbling, black-and-white dog along to keep watch. The dog, however, promptly hurtled towards the snoozing macaques, wagging his tail eagerly in hope to play. The macaques found in him a play thing rather than a playmate, slapping his snout and then jumping just out of his reach.

While the husband and son dodged the monkeys and got down to their business, the wife hid behind me, worried that the large male near my feet would jump up and swipe her. While she hid, she asked me if I had seen the Forest Department's "new baby monkey". She wasn't the first one to mention its existence, and I was beginning to take this rumour seriously. There was an air of secret celebration, as though the fertile Department had borne an infant to the island.

Before I knew it, I was brought face-to-face with this fragile, wrinkled, scrawny thing. She looked alone and crinkled in her makeshift cage. While I held onto the still-solid portions of my melting heart, I scooter-ed off to the marketplace where I found some milk powder, overripe bananas and a mother-macaque-sized soft toy. I whizzed back to the piddly one with these items to find her clutching the cane that formed the mesh of her cage. Her wet, brown eyes looked up at me with piercing longing, melting all that was left of my cardiac muscles.

I opened the door and offered her my arm, which she took with all four of hers and held onto with resolve. I could feel the thirst for contact in her grip, which seemed only to tighten with time and trust. She swung from my clothes, body and hair - never losing hold of me. I was starting to understand directly how these infants cling onto their mothers as they leap between trees and rooftops. With fingers and wrinkles which provide arboreal certainty across media, any movement was possible, no matter how petite. I remembered the way my sister wrapped her hand around my finger as a baby, and couldn't help wonder about how unimpressive human babies are when compared to our evolutionary sisters.

She clung for three hours - initially playing and eventually falling asleep. She climbed her way up into the inside of my shirt collar and slept in the warmth of my neck. I cupped her thin body with my palm, enveloping her entirely, as I felt her chest heave against me. She hugged my neck with her delicate, long, pink fingers. Her skin felt as soft as a newborn's, but had the texture of someone much older.

I felt a fierce protectiveness towards Mansi instantly. Spending that time with her felt more profound than I thought it would be. This young macaque had lost her mother, and somehow found her way into the human realm. Not so different, albeit larger, I found how I was a plushy candidate for the role of 'mom', and wanted nothing but to give her the best care within my control. If I was there only for another few months, I was going to try to do what was best by her.

When I peeled Mansi away and returned her to the enclosure, I felt cold and bare where she had been resting. I left her that night hoping ardently that she survives to an age where a troop would accept her. In the following days, we grew increasingly fond of each other, and I watched with hope and pride as she grew more dexterous and agile. I selfishly rejoiced on the inside when she preferred my arms to others, but always felt the bitterness of having to leave her island home soon.

Now, nearly 2000 kilometers away from her, with only sporadic updates about her health, I miss her ardently. Regardless of whether I see her again, the intensity in her eyes, the softness of her fur and the smell of her pee will forever remain etched in my mind.

Mansi, you lanky bit of jet-black hair, I hope you keep hanging on.

Anthropo-why?

Over the past couple of years, I've stumbled over, actively pursued and devoured several books on the topic of animal behaviour and cognition. It's a field that seems to be spoken about more frequently in books, which can be passed off as extended opinion pieces, rather than in factual, objective, scientific papers. Perhaps that's also because most long-time behaviourists find it easier to put their thoughts out into the larger, more accepting public than have them critiqued in the cautious world of scientific journals. The primary reason for this discouragement of juicy, emotional material in the academic world is one giant, taboo word - anthropomorphism.

I've wanted to write about this for nearly two years, but haven't because I was constantly reminded of the several unread, cognition-based books lying on my shelf that could change my mind about the topic. What I've found instead, with more reading, is nothing but mounting evidence for why the constant cautiousness regarding anthropomorphism may be unneeded. I received a final push to support the 'Of Course Animals Have Emotions!' team after reading what Carl Safina had to say about the matter.

"Evidence and logic can be trustworthy guides. In fact, one term for evidence+logic is: 'science'." 

This is the stance that seems to be lacking in the community of behaviour scientists who look solely at descriptive ways of recording behaviour and actions without attempting to interpret them. It is widely accepted to say, "The elephant approached her dead calf, ran her trunk over him slowly, and stayed with its carcass for three days before joining her herd that had moved on" but not to say, "The elephant was experiencing grief". By fearing that one is anthropomorphising an animal in doing so, one is being all the more anthropocentric.

I've finally learned that there is a wealth of undeniable evidence, from a cumulative of several hundred years of observations, of intelligence and emotion in the animal kingdom. This, combined with the logic that any scientist (or layman) who has been exposed to certain species for several years possesses, could come together to produce wonderful science, finally laying the foundation literature that better understanding of animal cognition must rest upon. An unnamed scientist once loosely mentioned, "I have no way of knowing if that elephant is any more conscious than this bush". I feel compelled to point out that elephants are known to make decisions, care for their offspring and, perhaps even more interestingly, share nearly the same nervous and hormonal systems as human beings. This is just one of many cases of ignoring hard evidence in the hope of remaining an objective, well-reputed researcher.

One of the reasons why most scientists only tell stories and write articles or books about their evidences for feeling and emotion in animals is that such 'stories' or 'anecdotes' fail to fit the scientific framework of collecting empirical data, analyzing it, and producing statistical evidence for or against their hypotheses. But, quoting an eloquent professor of mine, "there's no such thing as anecdotal data". This is further substantiated by an uncomfortably small niche of literature like this one. If more behaviourists or ecologists began publishing isolated instances of interesting behaviour, even if purely descriptive and non-inferential in nature, these so-called anecdotes could potentially collect over time to produce the statistical support needed to validate them within that very scientific realm. The collective support of past researchers who took the effort to inform the world about their chance anecdotes could encourage others to look closer for similar (or identical) behaviours, together building upon the subject and enriching it.

From Jane Goodall who speaks of emotion in chimpanzees to Rick McIntyre who studied wolves, multiple researchers and authors have passionately advocated for the recognition of emotion in the animal kingdom. A recent book, 'The Hidden Life of Trees', speaks of how trees, too, communicate and feel. The fact that animals perceive and respond to others around them and feel fundamentally physiological emotions like pleasure and grief, or feel the need to play and relax may be more readily accepted among the pet-owner community. I highly doubt that anyone who's known a dog, cat, pig, bird or any other (hopefully non-exotic) pet disagrees with the fact that animals can make bonds with other living beings and emote in ways that we can, at least partially, understand. Whining dogs or spitting cats are understood by their owners, behaviourists or not.

To truly understand an animal, we must delve into topics like consciousness, awareness, intelligence and emotion. None of these, however, have any standard definitions. Each of these could mean different things based on the fields we come from, and so, sentience - an amalgamation of all of these - remains undefined as well. We distance ourselves from these topics, trying to have an objective, outsider view of things, but this seems to me like losing valuable data. We are already on the inside. We share so much of the physiology that a plethora of other animals have, that we ought to be using our knowledge of how emotions manifest in our minds to better understand that of other beings.

Our evolutionary relationship with animals is sadly misinterpreted due to years of convincing ourselves that "humans" and "animals" are two completely separate categories. It's us versus them. Although we train animals to work for us, share diseases and living space, it's near impossible to believe or even imagine that we fall into the same bracket of beings. Our insecurities as a species are beginning to creep into our science and hinder it from progressing.

So sure, we may be one of the only species to feel sadness, happiness, love or pain in the poetic sense. But it's time we realized and acknowledged that these emotions do exist in other species that we've spent decades studying. Even if their grief is different from ours, it still exists. Truly comprehending the nature of these emotions is a huge task which will probably require the use of future advancements in science, but admitting that they exist is the first step towards it - one that we should have taken a long time ago.

Cynthia Moss, who spent over 50 years studying elephants in Amboseli National Park, had this to say:

"I'm interested in them as elephants. Comparing elephants to people - I don't find it helpful. I find it much more interesting trying to understand an animal as itself. How does a bird like a crow, say, with so small a brain, make the amazing decisions it makes? Comparing it to a three-year-old child - that doesn't interest me."

This is our biggest clue to overcome our ingrained fear of objectivity in studying animal cognition. We need make inferences about the animals we study without bringing to them our own emotional baggages and insecurities. Anthropocentrism, if not dealt with soon, could plague our research for good. The qualities and characteristics that we so staunchly believe are purely human, like friendship, compassion, sorrow, happiness did not suddenly come into existence with the evolutionary step into a world of Homo sapiens. These are deep-rooted in times that predate mankind. Our brain's origin is inseparable from that of other species'. Just like our mind.

The Bandra Canvas

Growing up in Bombay kept me away from the career I am now pursuing - wildlife biology. Our Sanjay Gandhi National Park is but a bubble that I wasn't allowed to explore alone until I was older. All my exposure to the serenity of the world beyond clogged civilization was restricted to short vacations around Mumbai and later, the internships that I landed during and after college. In many ways, this made me feel more at home in the wilderness, in areas that were a complete antithesis of the metropolitan that is Bombay. I found myself running away from associating myself with a city that reflects so little of my personality.

But I'm beginning to wonder otherwise. When I delve into my memories of the city itself, I realize how it nurtured me in little ways, simply by supporting me in my growing years. It is more than its cacophonous reputation to someone who has built a life there. Having lived there for 20 years before breaking gravity, Bombay forms the context to all I see. This sense of realization of where I come from isn't always on top of my mind, it's fleeting, cushioned and beckoned by momentary remembrances. But it exists, and it ought to.

I found this collection of images from two years ago lying abandoned in my drafts, much like my love for Bombay. These are images from in and around Bandra, a place made up of a concoction of cultures and religions. It's increasingly becoming a place of expression in the city, where people are free to dress the way they're most comfortable, make fashion statements, or showcase their talents. One such form of expression is seen boldly plastered across its ageing walls and streets in the form of graffiti or street art. At times, these 'vandalisms' are white-washed to restore normality, while some places cherish and flaunt them as pieces of art. Chikoo (another one of my treasures from Bombay) and I armed ourselves with our own creative weaponry and began photographing these colourful streets together. These images remind me of all the time that Bombay gave me to pursue my interests, explore the lesser spoken of gems that the city holds, and nurture friendships that I would hold onto for years to come. Consider this my minimalist tribute to where I grew up.

Ladakh and the Andaman Islands

(All photos and/or videos to be added at a later date once stronger internet connection is obtained.)

Since 2013, I’ve been fortunate enough to have worked in and/or visited several places; twelve, to be exact. Of all these wonderful places in India, two have stood out with auras of emotional flamboyance – Ladakh and the Andaman Islands. Lately I’ve been wondering what it is about two places so completely different in their position, biodiversity and climate, that captured my attention so adhesively, and have come to realize they have more in common than what meets the eye.

ONE: Getting there can be challenging, yet beautiful.
Three things can come in the way of traveling to both Ladakh and the Andamans. (1) Weather – snow or rain, (2) prices – being spontaneous burns a deep, deep hole in your pocket, and (3) their exotic reputation – a sense of it being an unusual place to simply go to. But once you get there, good lord, it tugs at your breath better than Rowling’s dementors. Whether it’s the vast expanses of the Himalayas that throw the skies and land open as far as the eye can see, or the dense forests of the islands that filter sunlight and rain several-fold before they reach you, they’ll force you to stop and absorb them.

TWO: It’s expensive to get there, but cheap to live there.
Which is why I’ve devoted large amounts of my thinking time to figuring out ways in which to get there and never leave. Renting a small flat in Ladakh is a fourth of the price (if not lower) than that of an equivalent space in Mumbai. In the Andamans, it’s about a third. Either way, it makes up for the cost of getting there, and in return you get the serenity of nature with enough amenities to get you by over long periods of time. It’s perfect.

THREE: Developed, but not entirely.
Both places have a central, developed town/city which has restaurants and some hotels for tourists, small food shacks which are frequented by the locals and a bunch of general stores. Ladakh has its quintessential marketplace in Leh where anyone can buy woolens and household items, eat at a handful of restaurants or buy souvenirs from handicraft emporiums. The markets in the Andamans that compare are in and around Port Blair, but they are certainly more city-like than the quaint shops that line the streets of Leh. Sanitation, electricity and internet are available across both areas, though they are never entirely reliable. As Calvin’s Dad would say, these kinks in the global definition of ‘development’ build character and add to one’s learning of the places’ cultures and strife. I’ve learned more about life and work from my time in these places than I have living in Mumbai, and I’ve come to treasure those bits of me.

FOUR: Land-locked, sea-locked, remote and isolate.
The Himalayas that fall in Ladakh rise tall around the modest strip of runway at the Leh airport. Flying into Leh is gorgeousness, for it feels like gliding over a giant raster of geographic elevation, occasionally obstructed by blindingly-white clouds. The skies are always a limpid blue and the mountains are continuous and unrelenting. Layer after layer of peaks make you wonder where you’d ever land and about all the animals you’re flying over. When the little buildings and fields emerge from the landmass, they seem desolate and, in personification, content. Flying to the Andamans gives you the same feeling of gaping vastness and detachment from familiarity. The ocean is the same bright blue of the Ladakh sky and the coastlines gleam with their slivers of sand. Every island is a cluster of bright green vegetation – something I hope will hold true even years into the future. Both places are distant – in time if not in kilometres.

FIVE: Un-capturable landscapes.
You cannot photograph the Himalayas or the Andaman seas and forests without losing their overwhelming presence. No photo can capture the way these landscapes envelope you and stretch far out to the horizon. A photograph is 2D, but what you see with the naked eye is beyond 3-dimensional. It’s several added dimensions of wonder, intimidation, smells and sounds, which are completely lost once your shutter goes off. That being said, one can never take a bad photo of the mountains or sea. It’s a limbo of oomph, but a compromised oomph.

SIX: Tourists, people, and their animals.
Both these places are tourist hotspots and function seasonally, given their unfavourable summers and monsoons. If you go to Ladakh between December and June or the Andamans between September and March, you’re bound to meet a range of tourists – from loud joint families to solitary observers. The descendence of these tourists have come to dictate the lives of the locals, and now, their livelihoods rotate around these months. You'll find a clear distinction between the locals and anyone else who attempts to integrate. The people of the land are a humble, helpful and self-assured kind, dotted with colourful and unforgettable personalities. From caring for up to fifty domestic animals per household to dealing with feral dogs and animals, being a local comes with its share of challenges. I refrain from calling the people from these places simple, for that’s an unfair label to give them. Even though they don’t live in metropolitan cities or drive swanky cars, they lead complicated lives which are often harder than we realize. Visiting and living with them have taught me a great deal, and I’ve come to criticize and value various aspects of my life ever since.

SEVEN: The elusiveness of their wildlife.
The Himalayas are known for their large mammals, however, the snow leopard isn’t its only ‘ghost of the mountains’. It’s a landscape full of camouflaged wildlife that isn’t easy to track or spot. The Andamans house far fewer mammals, but is teeming with bird life which isn’t the easiest to find amidst its dense trees and vines. In both places, the wildlife teases you, with calls and signs, poop and tracks, but rarely graces you with its presence. If one of these wonderful creatures does show itself, live the moment. Don’t fumble for cameras or tripods or lenses, for that moment won’t last. Simply absorb it, etch it in your mind, make it a memory that you’ll hold onto forever.

EIGHT: No matter where you are, a picturesque landscape is never more than 15 minutes away.
This is a virtue of point THREE above. Perhaps this will change with time, as the Border Road Organization hacks away at the mountains or as deforestation progresses in the islands. But until those sad times befall us, these landscapes are always nearby, waiting to be gawked at.

NINE: There’s more to be known about them than is known already.
Ladakh and the islands are rich in ecological and social history. There are traditions and biodiversity that are yet to be explored and scrutinized. As time passes, more and more researchers seem to be showing interest in these scientifically uncharted fields, and rightfully so. Both places pique my curiosity more than places like the Western Ghats simply because there’s so much we’re yet to learn about them.

TEN: Disconnection from the rest of the world.
Finally, these places give you the option of unplugging every electronic device and living in the present. Disconnection from the world isn’t necessarily a direct result of poor internet or telephone towers. These places tend to make you cherish the option of switching off and using your phone and email only for the essential few communications. You can rely on newspapers for news and wave goodbye to social networking. And the best part is that you don’t miss it. Even slightly (disclaimer: this could be only my perspective). I maintain that the less my friends and family hear from me, the fewer pictures I have and the more notebooks I fill, the more fun I’m having.

I hope fervently that things stay this way even in the years to come, however romantic or idealistic that hope may be.

What is a woman?

I say ‘what’ and not ‘who’ because objectification is the path we’ve taken as a society to build gender stereotypes. This afternoon, I asked a friend, jokingly, about whether I qualified as a woman, given the fact that I’m rarely ‘feminine’. Then, I stopped. I realized that unknowingly, I let myself lapse into the norm of femininity. Being one who criticizes the way sexes are put in boxes, I found that I too was a victim of what can only be termed as brainwashing since I was a child.

Asking anyone to state the differences between a man and a woman (setting aside the obvious anatomical separations that one would most likely see) yields painfully predictable adjectives. Understanding, intuitive, gentle, caring, strong, dominant, protective, athletic, analytical. I can confidently leave those there and leave you, the reader, to put them into their typical categories – whether you personally agree with them or not. This is the bread and butter we’ve been brought up with – the girls having been taught how to butter the bread while the boys to eat it.

This isn’t an article about feminism. It’s but one of speculation and unfortunate observation.

Impassioned online activists would be appalled by my passivity, but I stem from a staunch disagreement with most of the sex-related aggression flying around. The fact that women are classified the way they are isn’t wrong. Sure, we are gentle creatures, however, the definition is incomplete - dangling from its poor architecture. With Women’s Day coming up, so are the various empowerment posts and articles – not to mention the angry ones about how there isn’t a Men’s Day for want of equality. The fact that these articles need writing or that there are battles in need of settling lend hand to how far our world is from fundamental equality.

The human race, for all its intelligence, virulence and dominance, is wonderfully diverse. We’ve spent eons putting ourselves on pedestals that balance tactfully on the point of every food pyramid. Why, then, can’t we offer ourselves enough credit to share our adjectives between genders and truly appreciate the multitude of combinations that are born from them to produce billions of inimitable individuals?

I leave here an old poem I once wrote about homosexuality, which, I now sadly find, holds true even in light of this post.

We put people into boxes and pack them away

Label them with thick, black markers

And stow them under strong tape.

Until being boxed up eats at their muscles

Causing their minds to atrophy

And their limbs to ache from cries for freedom.

Until their tired fists pound hard enough

Against the feeble cardboard,

Bogged down by insults and spite

Bogged down by hatred and judgement

By the weight of fear.

Until those pounding fists meet fresh air

Contaminating it with the beating blood

Of someone hungry for love.

You missed a comma.

There's a little bit of my grandfather in people all around me. In the vegetable seller outside my hostel, the night watchman, or even Dr. George Schaller.

Perhaps it's only when you lose someone dear to you that you realize how well you had memorized every bit of them - their mannerisms, their eccentricities, the way they held a pen, the way their eyes crinkled around the edges, or how they meticulously handled groceries. There's a lot more to a person than their interests, careers and legacies. A lot more than the objects they leave behind or the stories people share about them. We build our lives around goals and careers, and hold those ultimate targets higher up in our minds and hearts than our true everyday lives. But it's the little things that make us who we are, who made them who they were. The language, the gestures, the slow blinks of reassurance and unwarranted criticisms.  And, although this seems clear today, it's only in retrospect.

It's the reason why I watch an elderly biologist giving a lecture, know he reminds me of my Thatha keenly, but still have no idea why. It's a constant feeling of I-know-you-but-I-can't-put-my-finger-on-how feeling, where flashes of familiarity draw my attention and leave me perplexed as I wonder about what I'm missing so ardently. I find that I miss the presence and nuances more than the whole. The emptiness comes from a space of lacking interaction rather than physical vacuum. Little can replace a stray fit of laughter from a well-placed bad joke or the silent introspection from receiving a lengthy sermon.

With time, it's the laughter I remember more than the tears.
How can it not be so?

The Ladakhi Way

The first homestay I went to was in Saspotchey - small and warm and cold. The Tongspan Himalayan Homestay. Looking at the old man who owned the house instantly took me back to my primary school days when I first read Tintin in Tibet. He looked just like the Sherpas that Hergé used to illustrate, with his dusty, worn-out jacket, woollen cap covering the top of his head exclusively, his slouched but sure walk, and his homely smile that brought out a hundred new wrinkles across his face. The familiarity was welcoming, and I felt certain of having met him before, at least in a dream far away.

I’m back in Ladakh, ‘The Desert in the Skies’. I’ve been craving more of this rugged, barren gorgeousness year after year since I came here to work with Snow Leopard Conservancy (SLC-IT) in 2013. Finally, this winter, I found the opportunity to fling myself into the Himalayas once more and I grabbed it in a heartbeat. I’ve been working on a project here that’s trying to understand the interactions between wolves and snow leopards, and field work has added to my mental stash of mind-blowing experiences by the truckload. I’ll elaborate once I’ve let those moments sink in and once the temperature allows me to write and type with more ease.

For now, I leave you my general wonderings.

Over the past two weeks, I have lived in five different homes and experienced first-hand what running a home in this frigidity means for its members. Last time I was here, living alone meant being left to my own devices, and I came up with my own logical ways of dealing with household tasks and daily routines. This time, I’m learning to do it the real way. One of my primary insights after having shared living space with so many hospitable, embracing families is that economic status and/or availability of disposable income has no bearing on the lifestyle that comes by virtue of living in Ladakh. No amount of monetary stability can battle facts like (1) water doesn’t flow through pipes in the winter, (2) no matter what material your home is made of, it will get cold if not kept heated, (3) availability of vegetables is limited and expensive, (4) food is tedious to prepare and is inadvertently simple in nature, (5) there are no functional bathrooms anywhere, and traditional dry compost holes-in-the-ground are far and few, or (6) the slightest gust of wind is enough to remind you that all your layers of clothing are futile attempts for warmth. Homes have heaters of several kinds that use firewood, oil, kerosene or gas cylinders, but every home uses them for the same purpose. They all have a vessel full of water placed over it, heating up for the smallest of requirements. A plastic drum full of water covered with a lid is placed someplace convenient, like the sink or the stove, and a mug is kept over it. This water is used to refill the vessel on the furnace every time water is taken from it, like an endless and intuitive cycle for the whole family.

For someone who’s lived most of her life in Mumbai, where it’s either summer or summer-with-rain, the concept of one’s whole way of life changing with the seasons is fascinating. Here, with the onset of winter, homes shift into the single room with the heater (generally the kitchen), thick rugs are hung from every doorway, windows are insulated with paper or polythene, the carpets are brought out and made to cover every inch of flooring, dung is dried for burning and firewood is collected diligently. Every morning begins with a glass of hot water followed by a cup of hot tea. One needs that kind of warmth from within to provide the motivation needed to go outside in the cold and brush up for the day. Solja, or tea, is made and served constantly. Butter tea is drunk in boredom and of habit. Their elegant ceramic bowls are refilled immediately even after drinking a single sip, attempting to keep the salty, pink fluid warm. All gaps in conversation are filled with observations about the weather and comparisons between the days and years. Between all the tea and gossip, it’s a wonder they get so much hard work done.

I’m currently living with one of SLC-IT’s members - a smart woman whose brain I’ve enjoyed picking over the last couple of weeks. I asked her once about why people are as nice as they are in Ladakh. What makes them different from the rest of this big bad world? What is right (or wrong) with them? Her opinion is that the extreme hospitability of every Ladakhi household came about as a survival strategy, and that if people didn’t help one another, life would be much harder than it already was in this hostile environment.

Ladakh was a land of simple folk, where the barter system existed up until less than a hundred years ago. Today, tourists from India and around the world are reshaping some of these traditional households and lifestyles, bringing money and stereotypical economic development to the locals. There are pros and cons to this, and perhaps they deserve a post of their own, but I hope with all my heart that this town of Leh and all the villages in Ladakh never lose sight of how intrinsically rich in culture and beauty they are.

One of the many villagers who insisted we come in for tea during an interview survey.
"kschyot le!"

A wood furnace with some soup 'naam tuk' boiling in the vessel over it.

The amale from a homestay in Saspochey.

Hergé's Sherpa trying to spot a golden eagle with our binoculars.

This old nun lives alone in the only house near Rhisdung monastery with her many ferocious dogs.

Our goofy shadow as we interviewed the people of Tarutsey.

The skull of a wild ungulate, as seen hanging from several homes.

An interviewee of Tarutsey.

Traditional garb. Avec sunglasses.

Old, married women sport two plaits and all the beads they have come to own.

Lady of the house from our homestay in Tarutsey, and her visiting feline.

Chikoo, it's all yummy.

Dear Chikoo,

I write to you with a content smile across my lips and a cool, spicy tingle on my taste buds. Imagine a blissful glaze across my wide-open eyes as I watch the chaat walahs layer my masala puris with nothing but meticulous love.

Turns out, Goa has kickass street food.

You know how Mumbai has those chaat carts on wheels like our bhel walah’s? Goa has them too, but with little fancy embellishments. Each cart has both chaat and pav bhaaji. Mmm. The vendors give you a little bowl full of flat puris sprinkled with chaat masala to chomp on while they prepare your order, no matter what it is. Their sev puris are made in round puris, so they fill your mouth with an explosion of chatpata flavour. Their meetha chutney is tangy and sweeter than the ones we’re used to, but in a good way. In an interesting way. Their pani puris are large, filled to the brim with icy-spicy pani. Their aloo tikkis are soft and filling- making the ragda even more delicious with them.

Now, all this being said, I still prefer the chaat back home. But the pav bhaaji here is a buttery dream. This is the closest it has ever come to tasting as good as it smells. And that’s saying a whole lot.

I think I’m this excited about the street food here because of how low I placed my expectations when I first got here. I was dejected to think that I won’t have real chaat for six whole months, and although I was excited when I first spotted a bhel walah, I was also prepared to be completely let down. But now my cravings will be ever-satiated, and I can fall asleep each night knowing that no matter what goes wrong, there will always be a cart of chaat waiting for me at the end of it.

The road perpendicular to our office is dotted with a series of chaat walahs in the evening and Tanisha and I drive past them all every day on our way home. We are now regulars at the ‘Miramar Goa Spacial’ bhel puri stall and the vendors wave and smile at us even when we don’t stop to grab a bite. In a strange way, that makes me feel like I’m settling down into this place more than anything else.

Now all I need is a sudden gush of monetary wind that will let me gorge every evening and I’ll be the happiest girl you’ve ever met.

Love always,
Poodle

PS: They call pani puri ‘water balls’.

Dolphin Watching (Hello, Goa)

Last year I visited Ranthambore National Park and spoke spitefully of the tourists there, and of how the gypsies and canters drive through the forest like lunatics, disturbing all the wildlife within. (See rants here.) I was certain that the situation couldn’t get much worse than that. I was wrong.

Life has been eventful post-Ranthambore. I spent two months working with Madras Crocodile Bank Trust (during which time I neglected my blog entirely), and now, I’m volunteering with WWF in Goa. I’m hoping to treat Teental as my conservation/travel journal during my six months here, because my daily journal entries have taken a backseat with all the commuting to work, cooking and general being-an-adult-ness. I think I’m aging.

All views and opinions mentioned henceforth are mine alone, and do not reflect the ideas or agendas of my friends, colleagues or workplace.

Goa is the holiday state of India. The place where Indians and throngs of hippie/retired foreigners descend on to rent bikes, drink, get tanned, dive and go dolphin watching. WWF did an extensive study of the tourism in Goa that revolves around Humpback dolphins and the coral reef surrounding Grande Island. After reading more about this project, Tanisha and I decided to go out on a dolphin watching boat and see what the situation was like ourselves.

Tanisha is a very pretty, curly-haired girl I’ve known for the last four years and have come to know intimately due to our working together in Chennai, and now Goa. She is one of many vibrant, wonky personalities, and you shall hear of her often in my upcoming posts.

We went to Sinquerim Jetty in North Goa and got tickets to get onto a boat that could accommodate roughly twelve people. As we waited for there to be enough people to set out with, I noticed little pools of petrol leaking into the water from the engine at the back of the boat. I then turned around to find a large family of over-enthusiastic photo-takers chatting excitedly about the boat trip they were about to take. I mentally greeted my to-be co-passengers and hoped they wouldn’t make me regret the trip later. My hope was short-lived, for even before the boat pulled away from the jetty, the daughter-in-law of the family pulled out a selfie stick from her purse and began experimenting with angles. I made a large-fonted ‘DEATH TO SELFIE STICKS’ note in my diary and tried to stare ahead.

I pictured the boat trip in a very peachy way before we set off. I imagined a boatman up front who navigated and spoke to us about what we were looking at and far fewer tourists. What we had instead, was a boatman who stuck to the back of the narrow boat with the engine, and tourists who piled into the boat in numbers so large, we ran out of life jackets. The boatman stood up briefly and mumbled to the crowd to keep their hands inside the boat and off we went. The boat rumbled away into the mouth of the bay where it joined about seven other boats before slowing down. We passed floating seagulls and beer bottles on our way- both being present in rather large numbers. The amount of garbage in the water was appalling. There were glass and plastic bottles, little bits of thermocol, a petrol can and wrappers. Truth is, each floating bit of anthropogenic waste was distanced from the other, making it seem like there wasn’t too much of it. But in retrospect, the fact that all that waste had travelled two kilometres past the shore itself proved just how much crap is being chucked into the water regularly. 

Speaking of waste, the tourists on our boat had already taken 275 selfies collectively (or individually? Who can tell?) by the time we reached the mouth. Everyone was a model and director- shouting instructions and pose ideas across the boat. The couple up front (who had been accommodated on loose plastic chairs) had been leaning backward into the water, staring at their mobile phone the entire time. I was torn between hoping they fell over and wanting to strap them into their seats. The trash, seagulls, sparkling water, beach and distant cliff were nothing but changing backgrounds for their boat-time photoshoot. The vibrant couple, for vibrant they were, looked up and over the edge of their phones only 15 whole minutes into the trip, when we saw the first dolphin surface.

I expected the dolphins to be at least 50meters away from the boats. I remember seeing dolphins at a distance of roughly 100meters from the ferries in Mumbai on the way to Elephanta islands and figured this would be similar to those sightings. I sat there, looking into the distance for signs of movement in the water, when an adult popped up 10meters away. There were simultaneous shouts from everyone on our boat and from the other ones as well, followed by exaggerated gesturing and attempts to take pictures of the dolphins. All the boats’ engines revved together and they headed aggressively in the direction of the animal. I couldn’t figure why the boats needed to be any closer. One didn’t even require a primitive pair of binoculars to see the dolphins clearly. After that first sighting, there was nothing but violent chasing. It felt like I was part of a predatorial chase. The boats zoomed madly toward the dolphin, crossed its line of movement, nearly bumped into it (twice) and even moved straight toward its head. We saw two dolphins emerge together at one point, and I can only assume that the boats confused them, for they surfaced individually afterward. The first dolphin was seen travelling quickly away from the boats initially, but was soon completely surrounded by the encircling mob of boats. There were times when the dolphin emerged for breath less than 2meters from the side of the boat. It was so easy to forget that this was a wild animal in its natural habitat. I spent those long minutes growing stress lines, feeling confident of running over the dolphins. By the end of it all, there was no time or space left to admire the beauty and elegance of these creatures.

The boatman didn’t say anything about the dolphins. He called out to the passengers the first time it emerged, and thereafter devoted all his attention to navigating the boat toward them. He didn’t even mention that they were Humpback dolphins or ask the people on board to sit down and maintain any kind of quiet. Although, it seemed like the people we were travelling with weren’t interested in gaining that kind of information, or perhaps they didn’t expect to receive any. People from other boats took pictures of the waving tourists on ours, hooted at one another, and tried hard to take pictures of themselves with the dolphins in them (expressing their disappointment if and when that didn’t work out). It was becoming rather evident that the dolphins were nothing but bonus excitement for most of these people- they were just there to have a good time on a boat and feel the sea breeze in their hair. Fundamentally, there’s nothing wrong with wanting to be on a boat and take pictures or being uninterested in the fauna of a region. But to pursue an animal with such unfettered dedication for people who couldn’t care less about it seems completely pointless.

The only time the boatman addressed the crowd was when he pointed out an 80 crore rupee bungalow upon the cliff where famous Bollywood movies had been shot, the Aguada jail and Vijay Mallya’s fancy-schmancy boat. The tourists excitedly spoke about these sights and exchanged notes about the movies shot there, and about how large and expensive Mallya’s boat looked (Note: the crew was playing loud music on the boat). By this time, the boatman turned back toward the shore and everyone else grouped up to take their last few pictures together before the trip came to an end. Not so far away, I could see the gulls circling an active fishing boat, with the wafting rumble of popular Bollywood music in the air.

When I got off the boat, I was far from happy or excited after having seen Humpback dolphins at such close quarters. I had pictured myself with my face cupped in my hands staring in wonder at the dolphins. Instead, I hung onto my seat as we chased after them and felt pangs of guilt every time they resurfaced.

A lot of good can come of having Humpback dolphins so close to the shore- and these tours can be more sensitive and informative than they are now. But these are goals that will clearly require the combined effort of the boat operators, tourists and locals, and time. It’s hard to say how long it’ll be before the situation gets any better, considering the small number of people who seem to acknowledge the faults within it.

The optimist in me still thinks there’s hope.