Part 2.
(by Richard Sullivan)

Having finally obtained permission to enter the park pre-dawn each morning, the next difficulty we encounter is getting our parks’ driver and guide to be up and ready to leave by 5am.

As we head out into the Park in the safari jeep, Sarah, wearing her trademark Annie Hall hat, rides next to the driver as forward spotter, camera at the ready. Andrew stands with the guide on the tailboard, alert as a tailgunner, rapid-fire zoom lens on call. We move through open grassy woodland past huge clumps of bamboo that loom like ‘Howl’s Moving Castle’, providing shelter for herds of roaming chital. Climbing over sparsely wooded hills along a two-wheel track that dodges exposed granite boulders, we wind our way into a sheltered valley.

We stop at a place above a small stream, where Andrew hopes to be able to record varied birdsong as the sun rises over the ridge. Nobody speaks; the sound equipment is handled carefully and quietly as Andrew sets up where the cleared area near the road meets the jungle. A tall hill behind us echoes any sounds we make and yet masks distant village and road sounds.

We do not move too far from the vehicle. We are aware of the alertness of our driver and guide to the presence of big animals, and the possibility that we may need to evacuate the area quickly. Andrew and Sarah are also cautious, and act accordingly. The driver has shown us tiger paw-marks on the track earlier that morning – marks bigger than an adult man’s handprint. We had also noticed fresh, steaming dollops of elephant dung beside the track.

Our recent experience in the jungle at KN’s estate outside Bangalore made it clear that elephants – and by association, leopards, tigers and gaur – can move more quietly and quickly than we might expect for such big animals: During a walk on his estate, KN pointed out fresh dung and damaged vegetation near the track, and told us this showed that elephants had been in this spot not five minutes ago. The only thing we could hear were the early morning breezes and the sporadic sounds of small birds.

The quietness of the place Andrew has chosen to record makes us listen and watch. The bird and cricket song begins; surround sound. The high-rate tapping of a woodpecker. A loud gulping sound of a hidden and unidentified bird or animal. The ‘whistling-the-dog’ calls of an oriole. The low incessant, ‘zippers-being-opened-and-closed’ sounds of crickets: an orchestra without a conductor. The sound of a group of birds taking off, accompanied by the alarm calls from other birds. The bird songs have now settled into a sort of chatty conversation that has a Morse-code-like rhythm. Birds moving through this habitat seem to make considered comments about these conversations as they pass by. We hear the deep, almost guttural, ‘gowhooing, gowhooing’ of langurs further down the valley. I try to make up a symbol system to codify the birdsongs I’m hearing. Dot, dot, dash; dot, dot, dash; up, down, up, down, dot, dot, dot … up, up, down down … Olivier Messiaen, where are you? Later, as Andrew bemusedly listens to my descriptions of my codes, he accurately mimics the bird calls he has heard that morning and his accompanying gestures tell me he has heard a lyricism in the sounds that transcend the binary code I had heard.

We hear the sound of a large animal below on the opposite side of the gully before we can see it is an elephant. The sound is like a determined clearing of nose or throat rather than an attempt to trumpet. The sound changes to match the jerky movements of its head and trunk as it snacks on the vegetation around it, snorts and grunts of exertion. These movements contrast with the slow, rolling, ambling gait of its body. It’s shock absorber footpads muffle the sounds of its feet trampling the jungle floor. It appears to be alone. Gradually it disappears into the jungle at its own pace. No predators other than man and age. The sun is now warming our faces; it’s 7.30 am.

Bandipur Soundscape

Birds seem to be on-song as soon as they sing. They don’t seem to need to warm or tune-up, or clear their throats. As we pack up around 9 am Andrew tells us that we have heard Bulbuls, Kingfishers, Parakeets, a Jungle Owlet, Babblers, and announces, in typical fashion, that ‘there might be some nice stuff in there’ nodding towards his small field recorder. He puts on his earphones and replays parts of his recordings, selecting snippets to share with the driver and the guide. The glances shared between them convey their pleasant surprise that the sounds they are hearing are so clear, and their joy that they can recognise and perhaps imagine the sources of these sounds.

It was remarkable to Prue and I, observing on many occasions how Andrew gained the respect of local naturalists for his knowledge of Indian birds. His curiosity indicated that he was learning all the while. Nevertheless, he seemed to be able to predict with reasonable accuracy which species were likely to be present in any particular habitat, and identify each by their sounds, even when there were many species ‘on the airwaves’.

Now we move off in the jeep to follow a circuit that leads back to the Park office. We stop to photograph wildlife as they appear intermittently, including Peacocks, Grey Jungle Fowl (related to our domestic chooks), bison-like Gaur, shy Sambar, skittish Chital, dragonflies weaving in unpredictable flight paths, and gorgeous butterflies. An Indian Monitor Lizard… a magnificent Malabar Giant Squirrel. Two elephants cross the track about eighty metres ahead. By the time we get to the spot they’ve disappeared along a narrow path through the dense criss-cross of lantana branches that form the mid-story vegetation in this part of the forest. We are amazed at the quality of the photos that Sarah and Andrew take with their sophisticated equipment compared with those we take with our point-and-shoot digital.

Further along the ridge we get out and clamber over granite boulders that are like the backs of blue whales, a good vantage point for photos of the mist and clouds that hover and drift across the mountains to the south. These ranges, the Madumalai Hills, signify the border between Karnataka and Tamil Nadu.

Breakfast beckons. We can imagine the thick, alluring sweet taste of Indian coffee already.

Back at the Park office, Andrew outlines to the driver and the guide his plans for our next excursion into the Park. He knows he will need to return to the office later in the afternoon to confirm these arrangements. Plans can change quickly in India.

And the least expected can happen…

Read on: part 3 >>

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