Recording of ‘Indian Jungle Dawn’, pt.2
Feb 27th, 2008 by andrew skeoch
We drive round a corner to find a dozen villagers running along the road ahead of us. They cast anxious glances behind them as they scatter, but smile as we pull alongside. An animated conversation ensues with our driver, Shiva. “Elephant!” he reports. They have just seen an elephant in the fields nearby and are prudently beating a rather animated and haphazard retreat.
We can see no sign of the great animal, but can easily imagine one being here. Although the landscape around is terraced rice fields with scattered villages, there are extensive swathes of dense evergreen forest and tall bamboo groves in the hilly terrain. The villagers are right to be wary, as elephants are unpredictable, and will occasionally raid crops that border their usual forest haunts.
This is our introduction to the forest of Satkosia. Armed with our newly acquired research permit, formalities at the park gate have been straightforward, and we motor on into the park. A mosaic of primary forest and villages typifies the area, as we pass between wild and cultivated areas. Eventually we arrive at the village of Tikapada, on the banks of the mighty Mahanadi River. The river, a half kilometre-wide flow of pale grey water, has cut a narrow valley through the surrounding hills here – the Satkosia Gorge the park is named after.
Visitors are accommodated in a collection of decaying guesthouse buildings set on the bank, and we are shown to the better of them, the ‘Bison Room’. Dinner that evening is supplied from a small canteen at the nearby village, a wooden hut with earth floor, where we are made an omelet comprising of two eggs and six green chillies. It is almost inedible, but our hunger overcomes the destruction of our tastebuds.
5.30am the following morning, and we set off along the track heading east, a dirt path following the river bank. To our right, a steep slope drops down to the still river below. The forest is undisturbed here, dense and quiet in the early morning gloom. Upslope, a tangle of ferns carpets the rocky ground, and lianas and vines hang between exotic hardwoods, some of which are truly massive trees. The track is winding, and we come across a bamboo bridge that creaks ominously as we proceed over it. Shiva is understandably nervous.
Even though we have left early, progress is slow, and we are missing any dawn chorus. After some 40 minutes the track ahead opens up into flatter topography, as we approach the junction of a small stream. Here bamboo grows in dense groves, and the forest is lush and verdant. For the first time, birdsong fills the air. An emergent tree is full of Bulbuls, chirruping away contentedly. A Malabar Giant Squirrel calls nearby, a loud, sputtering machine-gun chatter. The first rays of the sun are striking the crown of a rocky range of hills that overlook us.
Calls of Malabar Giant Squirrels
For the next half an hour I remain under that tree, contentedly recording bulbuls, while Sarah explores further on with the camera. Sunlight is now penetrating through the forest. As I listen, I become away of a birdcall that is unusual, a persistent repeated squeak. Its the kind of sound you would expect a small bird to make softly, but it is sounding some distance off. It is gradually getting louder, and there’s something not quite right about it…
Presently, a cyclist comes into view, riding one of those archaic village bicycles found throughout India. His legs, in voluminous white cotton pants, push the peddles laboriously round, and with each slow revolution; squeak…squeak…squeak… He rolls to a halt next to me, a quizzical expression on a face surmounted by a loose turban of colourful cloth. He smiles uncertainly, but is silent. We have no language in common. I can only imagine his thoughts on so unexpectedly meeting a lone westerner on his morning commute. He gazes at my gear; tripod, microphone unit, cables, the LED lights on the recorder still winking in response to sound levels. What can he be thinking of all this?
I smile at him, and his face too breaks into a broad smile. Still nothing is said, and I realise I have a problem. I would like to return to recording, but my new friend is showing no sign of losing interest in me and moving on. I am about to try some gestures when a movement catches my eye; another two cyclists are approaching. The awkward silence is soon replaced with animated discussion. I am being asked something. “Australia” I guess in reply. More smiles and rapid conversation, in the midst of which I catch; “Ricky Ponting”. Even here in remote jungle, Ricky Ponting.
But this area is not really so remote. No sooner than those squeaking peddles eventually make their way off and around the next bend, a new gaggle of cyclists appear, obliging another amicable exchange and suspension of recording. Shortly after, a vehicle trundles along, a 4WD precariously laden with people and goods for market. Yep, this bush track is a major highway.
Consulting the park map later it is easy to see why. The park is home to several traditional villages, and the river track appears to be a major commuting path, not only for local villagers, but for vehicles destined for towns downstream. If we are to find quieter recording locations, we shall have to explore further afield.