Tigers I Never Saw

Valerie Cuthbertson travelled on our 'India - Tiger Marathon' holiday and submitted this entry to our writing competition.

Fisherman on the Ken River by Bret Charman

Dubai Airport was like a small town. It was 1am. People were settling down to sleep wrapped head to toe in their bright blankets. They lay straight, their heads tucked carefully under the benches safe from the danger of passing feet. This was the start of another adventure. A trip to India with my mother. I was nervous. Time would tell ...

In the village just outside Khajuraho we arrived at Ken River Lodge. It was dark and I had no idea what the place was like, just meandering paths through the jungle lit by hurricane lamps attached to posts along the way. The electricity in the cottage was out, as were the batteries in our torches. Apart from that, the cottage was basic but comfortable. I was tired but first had to have the obligatory tea - Tetley, strangely enough! I finally got to bed knowing I would be wakened at 5.15am for my first game drive. With yet another Tetley tea and biscuits.

Ken River Lodge was a fantastic place. Built on the edge of the river, at the mercy of the annual monsoon, some years ago it had been completely washed away - the cottages, the dining hall, the kitchen - everything was gone. Ever the optimist, Winnie Singh, the owner and chief guide, picked himself up and started again. Then disaster struck again. This time Winnie and his wife were on the verge of giving in. Too many shattered dreams, too many animals in continuous peril, and not enough money. They would sell up and leave. Sitting quietly by the fire one night Winnie was surrounded by a silent group of his workers. Shuffling closer, they begged him not to leave - they would help him rebuild and Winnie could pay them when he could.

Heading to the Panna Tiger Reserve to hunt for the elusive Tiger, we passed through the village where children chased the jeep calling, ‘Good morning! Good afternoon!’ while waving cricket bats in the air. Bad-tempered looking buffalo headed out to pasture, their brows low over their eyes. The sun was creeping over the horizon, tainting the clouds a warm pink. But the sun had no heat in it yet and it was cold despite my layers of clothing.

The village was already awake. The water pumps were hard at work, like old-fashioned nodding donkey oil wells in Texas. Arriving at the gates to the reserve, a ‘spotter’ leapt into the back of the jeep.

Having opted for a picnic breakfast instead of returning to the lodge, we’d specified that we must have breakfast in a spectacular setting. Winnie did us proud! Breakfast 1 - overlooking the gorge where the vultures nested; breakfast 2 - crouching in a look-out post above the river; breakfast 3 - the grassy plateau where wild boar decided we were not edible, but our breakfast of chapatis and homemade mango chutney might be! Domesticated elephants minus mahouts wandered past, eyeing my chapati!

Back at the lodge, we took a rowing boat on to the river, keeping high enough to avoid the basking crocodiles warming their cold-blooded bodies. The silence was beautiful - just the gentle slap of water against the oar. Even whispering seemed too loud. The noise of the boat hitting an island of rocks broke our reverie. Tetley time!

A group of three fishermen wobbled in their boat as they hauled in their nest; a lone fisherman paddles past in a craft made of an old tyre. His seat a plank stretched across its diameter. He nodded and grinned. We were speechless.

In the reserve were feral cows. They had been left behind when the villages had been cleared. Both livestock and people had been evacuated - some to new homes, some to big cheques. Some cows stayed where they were, resisting all attempts to round them up. Eventually they gave up, leaving the cows to wander at will. Wander they did, safe in the knowledge that they were untouchable. Their only predators were the leopards, crocodiles and, of course, Tigers.

I never saw a Tiger.

Read more about our 'India - Tiger Marathon' holiday.