Recording of ‘Indian Jungle Dawn’, pt.5
Mar 4th, 2008 by andrew skeoch
A week later, and we have a crazy plan taking shape.
In this time we have crossed Orissa, travelling firstly to Kotagar forest in the southwest, and then Sunaberra in the far west of the state. The latter in particular has been fascinating and given us some lovely recordings. However somewhere along the many kilometres of rutted and potholed rural roads, I have injured my back with what I later have diagnosed as a facet sprain. Whatever it is, I am hobbling, unable to sleep, dosed up on pills and in excruciating pain.
I’ll tell you about this week later, as, despite my misadventures, it is a good story. But for now, we are heading back east towards Bubaneshwar and the end of our trip.
It is Saturday. Thus tomorrow will be Sunday. And our route is taking us right past Satkosia again.
Every Indian village has a telephone shop, they are ubiquitous throughout the subcontinent. Painted bright yellow with the black letters ISD, PCO and STD printed boldly, they are often the only access to land-lines that many Indians have (and explains why cellphones are just as ubiquitous). Every village we enter is now an opportunity to find a ‘yellow shop’, contact the Range Field Officer (RFO) at Satkosia, and request an extra night’s accommodation.
But I’m not having much luck. Lines go dead, numbers ring out, and when someone finally does answer, they cannot understand English and hang up. I suspect we have called through to the RFO’s home, and one of his family has picked up the phone. Shiva comes over to save the day. Yes, the RFO is ‘on station’ at the park, checking out the new tourist tented camp development. He will be back later. We drive on.
When, we finally do speak with him, he is delighted that we are returning. Not only that, but he is keen that we become the first overseas visitors to stay in his newly completed camp. Remembering the site on the banks of the ‘crocodile infested’ river, and imagining a rough night on campbeds, I inform him of my back condition and regretfully decline. I can hear the disappointment in his voice, but with my back, I cannot oblige his wish.
Not that the alternative is much better. The ‘Bison Room’ has been booked for the weekend by visitors from Calcutta, and we are relegated to a grotty fleapit a few doors down. It is called the ‘Crocodile Room’, but that seems an insult to the poor creatures. But the bed is flat. That’ll do.
At 4.30 we are woken by the alarm in our cellphone. After three months in India, its cheesy tunefullness is beginning to give us a neurosis. To this day it reminds us of being dragged from blissful sleep into the humid predawn for another morning of recording. We find that Shiva, the night before, has not only found the nightwatchman and told him in no uncertain terms to leave the gate unlocked, but has personally checked that it is indeed open before retiring himself. Bless him. He is earning a healthy tip for acts such as these.
Still hobbling, I get in the vehicle and we prepare to leave for our favourite spot. A feeling that ‘nothing can stop us now’ puts a smile on my face, at which Sarah reminds me that we are, after all, still in India. Anything can happen.
On this occasion however, it doesn’t. The morning is completely and delightfully free of drama. We arrive at our chosen spot in the predawn, and I set up my gear in the dark. Sarah stands quietly nearby, patiently awaiting enough light to photograph. Shiva parks the car a few hundred metres away, returning to sleep and possibly dreams of crazy westerners. The last of the Owlets are calling, and there is an anticipation in the air. It is my favourite time of day.
The dawn chorus that ensues is one of the most beautiful I have heard. Scimitar Babblers call frequently with their lovely fruity voices, Tailorbirds create intricate rhythms in the bamboo groves, small woodpeckers drum overhead and those Malabar Squirrels are well on form. My recording lasts three hours, and by the end my legs and back are screaming. But it has been such a beautiful morning. And… no cyclists! Not one. So Sunday really has been the right day to be here.
I catch up with Sarah on the path and we sit quietly and talk. Like me, she is fatigued after 3 months in India, and looking forward to being home again in Australia. She is close to tears with tiredness. In the heat of the jungle, a butterfly hovers around us, and amazingly, alights on her finger. She forces a smile as I pick up the camera to capture the moment. But she just looks strained and exhausted. We acknowledge that the ups and downs of our journey have taken a lot out of both of us.
We return to the vehicle, where Shiva is sleeping like a baby.Tweet
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