Recording of ‘Indian Jungle Dawn’, pt.1
Feb 26th, 2008 by andrew skeoch
The story of how we came to make this recording begins not in the depths of the forest, but like many of our endeavours in India, in a major city, chasing down bureaucrats.
We have arrived in Bubaneshwar, the capital of the eastern state of Orissa, after a three day train journey across the subcontinent. We are exhausted. It is new year’s eve. We find our hotel, put ‘do not disturb’ on the door, and sleep.
6.55am: the doorbell rings. BZZZZZZT!! – a soul-piercing electronic jangle. The ringer sounds loud enough to be mounted in the bedhead. Roll over, whoever it is will go away. A minute later: BZZZZZZT!! We haven’t ordered breakfast, they must have the wrong door, they’ll work it out if we don’t answer, and go away. BZZZZZT!! Stick head under pillow. BZZZT! “We don’t want breakfast. Go away!!”…. pause…. BZZZZZZT! Sarah rolls out of bed, stumbles to the door and opens it a fraction. Standing there is one of the hotel boys, dressed immaculately as if on his way to an important ceremony. On his arm is cradled a silver plate, piled with bouquets of red flowers, one of which he holds out to Sarah. “Happy new year, Madam!” he says, his face beaming.
Later, at reception, we inquire about the location of the government offices we need to visit. “Oh yes sir, they will be open today, no doubt!’” “But it is new year’s day” we caution. “Not a problem, all government offices are open!”. The same beaming smile. One of the hotel boys disappears out of the lobby door onto the street to hail an auto-rickshaw, and tell the driver where we wish to go. Half an our later, we are rattling up and down a dusty arterial road looking for the office block in question. Eventually, we find it, closed and deserted. Only the guard is on duty at the gate. Today is public holiday. Tomorrow open.
The following day we arrive at 9am sharp, and ask to see the Chief Conservator of Forests (CCF). We are ushered through a gothic maze of corridors, past groups of office workers sipping their first chai of the day, into an office where a dynamic young official rises from behind his desk, smiling to welcome us. We have no sooner introduced ourselves and shaken hands, than there is a knock on the door, and a colleague enters, bearing a red flower. The flower is accepted, “Namaste”s exchanged, hands shaken and brought together in blessing, best wishes offered for the coming year, all with much smiling. The colleague nods cheerfully to us and backs out of the door. The CCF returns to us; “And where are you from?” he asks. “Australia”. His eyes light up “Oh wonderful!” he says. We anticipate being asked who is our favourite spin bowler, but before the question comes, there is another knock on the door. This time two staff members with their flowers and well wishes. The CCF then continues; “Australia – Steve Irwin!” It turns out that through the shows broadcast on Animal Planet cable TV, Irwin has been the inspiration for him embracing wildlife conservation as a career. His life story is interrupted by other visitors, culminating in a group of about 20, who crowd into the room, one by one offering their greetings. The desk is now covered in flowers.
“And so” he says finally, “What can I do for you?” “We wish to make nature recordings in the national parks of Orissa, and would like your permission and written approval.” “I have no problem with your request” he responds, “but I am not the person you need to ask. The person you must see is the Principle Chief Conservator of Forests. His office is on the other side of Bubaneshwar.”
Another hour later, we are in a similarly decrepit office. Every wall supports floor to ceiling mahogany shelves, bearing hundreds of dust-covered, manilla-bound files of official documents. Many have wax seals and are tied with string. I imagine a Medieval monastic scribe would be at home here. If my dust allergy survives this, I can survive anything.
The Principle CCF is a more austere gentleman, and if he has received flowers this morning they are now nowhere in evidence. He already looks harried on this first day of business. However he approves our request, and passes us on to one his staff to organise the paperwork. In finishing he asks why we have come to Orissa. I reply that the forests of Orissa are rich in unique birds and animals, and no one has recorded here before. His matter-of-fact response astonishes us: “You are the first western visitors we have had in this office.”
Later that day, we acquire a hire car, a rather glitzy 4WD (that is actually only 2WD), plus driver. Shiva is a solidly-built man with a ready smile, but little English. He chews pan continually, and as we leave Bubaneshwar that afternoon, weaving through frightening traffic, he occasionally opens his door to lean out and spit.
We are heading for Satkosia Gorge Wildlife Sanctuary, an area of forest where the Mahanadi River cuts a dramatic valley through the hills on its way to the coast. The river itself is certainly ‘Maha’ – Great. We cross it downstream via a kilometer-long bridge, then turn west to follow its course inland. We pass through numerous small villages on ruined roads, the chaos of rural life before us; cattle, traffic, people – all softened by a smoke haze in the glow of the setting sun.
The town of Angul is an hour’s drive from the park proper, and the local Range Field Officer (RFO), with whom we must arrange our visit, has his office there. But by the time we pull into town, all is not well. We are in the last weeks of our 3 month stay in India, and for the first time, Sarah is feeling nauseous and dizzy. We decide to stop in town for the night, finding a hotel named after Durga, the Hindu goddess revered as the killer of demons. Lets hope she can deal with tummy bugs.
That evening I leave Sarah resting and visit the RFO, who is very welcoming and helpful. But by the time I get back to the hotel, I too am feeling queasy. This is not a good start to two weeks in remote forest areas.
The next day, we are both still feeling weak and unwell. In the afternoon I decide to make a quick drive into the park, just to check the place out. Arriving at the park gate, I make a dismaying discovery. While Indian nationals can enter the park for a few rupees, foreign visitors to Orissa’s parks are charged 1000 rupees – per day, per park entry, per person. We have never encountered such fees in India before. Why have none of the officials we’d visited mentioned this? $US25 one-off is fine, and we don’t mind paying more than local visitors. But multiplying it by 14 days, 2 people and possibly multiple park entries per day… I calculate it will add up to around $1000 over the next two weeks. A complete budget blower. We simply cannot afford this extra expense.
Knowing the intractability of India, we feel crushed. Having come all this way, to be thwarted by something like this is so disappointing. Nevertheless, I phone the RFO to see what we can do. “These fees are set by the government, there is nothing we can do.” he informs me. “We actually feel a little embarrassed about them ourselves, but you are our first western visitors, so we have not encountered this problem before”. That night Sarah and I begin discussing our options and alternatives. Nothing we came up with seems very viable.
The following day, with no great hope, but recalling the words of our man in Bubaneshwar – “if there is any further assistance you require, please contact me” – I phone the Principle Chief Conservator’s office. “Unfortunately, there is nothing we can about the fees, they are set by the government…” he begins, “however we can issue you a research permit, which has a different fee structure; 1000 rupees per park, and you can stay as long as you need.” My hopes rise, minutely, this at least is an affordable proposition. “But we are not researchers” I reply, “We are not scientists, and not affiliated with any university…” “Oh this is not a problem!” he replies buoyantly “we can issue you a permit without difficulty!”
Cautiously relieved, I still expect wasted days returning to Bubaneshwar to obtain the magic piece of paper. But an hour later, our permit appears on the hotel’s fax. We are now honorary academics, a new aura of authority that will bemuse us over the coming weeks.
It is extraordinary how in India, problems can materialise, and then vanish miraculously, leaving you wondering what has happened. Was there ever a problem to begin with? Some times the only trace a whole episode leaves is on one’s shredded nerves. The next day, emotionally exhausted but physically somewhat recovered, we set off for Satkosia.
