This unique lowland area in the northwest of India lies between the southern edge of the Thar desert and the Arabian Sea. With each monsoon, floodwaters flowing south get backed up here, creating a vast lake often less than a metre deep on which local villagers go fishing. In the dry season it becomes the moonscape we were now traversing. Even in the driest months, the Rann has RAMSAR-listed perenial wetlands, a refuge for huge numbers of waterfowl. Also dotted amongst this remote vastness were isolated ‘islands’ of thornscrub, known as phets, and it was to one of these that we were being driven in the predawn.

Our dilapidated Land Rover – with no windshield or doors, atrophied suspension and a top of speed of 30kph – felt like one of NASA’s Apollo moon rover buggies. Micro-fine dust was being kicked up by our wheels, and settled over everything, eerily flowing almost like liquid.

Beside me, our local driver Mahboob, his head completely swaddled in a shawl against the night chill, reminded me of some desert alien from a Star Wars or Dune film. In the days he had driven us around the Rann, despite little language in common, we had grown to enjoy his quiet, good spirits and easy smile. How he navigated unerringly around this featureless region was an utter mystery.

But now my faith in his uncanny ability was faltering. When we had set off, the setting stars of Orion had hung over our bonnet as we headed west. During the past five minutes they had drifted slowly to our left side, and were now almost behind us. A few minutes later they were over my right shoulder. We were going in a huge circle.

I looked over at Sarah huddled in the back, a pulled a face. Mahboob looked aglance at me, smiled broadly and wiggled one hand in the air. Yep, we were lost.

During the previous few days, we had been based at the Desert Coursers Lodge at Zainabad on the edge of the Rann, and Mahboob had driven us out each morning and afternoon to likely recording locations.

At first sight, the barren Raan didn’t look like a promising place to be recording nature sounds. Even Sarah was finding the empty landscape a challenge to photograph. It had atmosphere, no doubt about that, but at first we were wondering whether we would get any worthwhile recordings at all.

On the first morning, our doubts were swept away. Mahboob rolled the old Landie to a halt at the edge of some low bushes, and indicated that we should walk on. Pushing through them, we found ourselves on the shoreline of a broad, expansive wetland. Before us, mirror-still waters were covered with the graceful pink and white forms of hundreds of Lesser Flamingos. It was such an unexpected scene in this barren landscape, that Sarah and I found ourselves in a state of childlike wonder. It was a sight we had never anticipated to see. Ducks, pelicans, stilts and cranes were also out on the waters, silently feeding in this surreal place.

Later that morning, we came across a small herd of Wild Ass, or Onager, Equus hemionus. Found only in the Rann, loose family groups of these rare animals subsist on the sparse grasslands. They have a habit of hanging their heads over each other’s neck, which is quite endearing.

That afternoon we identified a promising recording location. Exploring one of the thornscrub phets, we found it to be a haven for small birds; babblers, prinias, silverbills, bee-eaters, coucals, doves and bulbuls were prolific.

Just on sunset, groups of Grey Francolins, Francolinus pondicerianus, began calling, their cackling calls echoing across the landscape, revealing them to be a much more numerous than sightings alone suggested.

So for the next few mornings we recorded among the thornscrub, and encountered some of their more secretive inhabitants. We were surprised to find Nilgai and other deer in such desolate surroundings.

Stone Curlews and Short-eared Owls were seen at dusk, and occasionally we’d come across small groups of Common Cranes, Grus grus shyly feeding among the scrub or flying overhead in stately formation on lazy wingbeats.

The Rann was slowly revealing its wonders to us.

With the first pale light of dawn arriving in the east, we were still lost on the Rann. Just as I was beginning to think we would miss a recording of the dawn chorus, a line of short grass appeared in the headlights, and beyond that ‘beachline’, a wall of low thornscrub. By good fortune, we’d found a phet, although probably not the one we’d intended. Relieved, I bundled out with my recording gear, and made my way into the scrub.

That last morning yielded a very good recording, with flocks of tiny Silverbills, Lonchura malabarica, winging overhead, and a diversity of delicate birdsong drifting over the landscape. The ringing of cowbells and occasional yell of a cattle herder in the distance added a human touch to the ambience.

Returning, something caught my eye on the ground. A pattern in the now-dried mud had been made by a large animal (deer or cow maybe) urinating. It was utterly unique and distinctive. But the extraordinary thing was that I had noticed this exact mark yesterday. Looking around, I recognised the patterns of scrub – it was precisely the same location that I had been on previous mornings. Mahboob’s navigational abilities were indeed redeemed!

Back at the Landie, Sarah shared some atmospheric dawn landscapes she’d photographed, and we prepared to set off. Mahboob fired up the engine but it promptly died. He leaned down and held up the accelerator peddle; sheared off completely. Despite everything, there was something amusing about our predicament. Mahboob wobbled his head and ‘tut, tutted’ to himself. Whilst not being alarmed, we were curious how we were going to get ourselves out of this one.

Mahboob rummaged around under the seat and emerged with… a used fan belt. Great, very useful… More rummaging, this time under the bonnet. A few minutes later, he’d tied the fan belt to the throttle cable and fed it back into the cab through a gap in the chasis under the steering wheel. He turned over the engine again, pulling on the fan belt to rev the motor happily. Big grins all round – the man was truly amazing!

Our album ‘The Great Rann’ presents nature sounds from this unique part of the world. On this 3 minute sample from the album, you can hear excerpts from each track.

Track 1 was made in the darkness of pre-dawn on the edge of one of the Rann’s wetlands. Waterfowl including stilts, ducks, teal, cranes and flamingos are heard calling quietly in the darkness. From the wetlands, we move on to the thornscrub phets, beginning with a dawn chorus of francolins, and progressing through that lovely morning of drifting birdsong. Towards the end a group of Common Cranes call as they fly leisurely overhead (track 3). Finally, on track 4 you will hear the dusk calls of francolins merge into a cricket chorus of nightfall.

The nature sound album ‘The Great Rann’ is available on CD or by digital download from our website: www.listeningearth.com

What is the most beautiful songbird in the world?

If we mean ‘musical to our ears’, then surely one of our favourites would be the Malabar Whistling Thrush, Myophonus horsfieldii, of India. Also known as the ‘whistling schoolboy’, this bird has the most haunting and tuneful of songs – it is indeed like overhearing someone whistling to themselves as they walk along a jungle path.

Our first encounter with this songbird was completely unexpected. Sarah and I were at the beginning of our first field trip to India, and the most of the birdsong we were hearing was exotic and unfamiliar.

We had chosen to visit Cotigaon Wildlife Reserve in Goa, on India’s Malabar coast. Cotigaon is an extensive evergreen forest nestled among the foothills of the western Ghats, seasonally drenched by the monsoon off the Arabian Sea. It is a truly beautiful place.

Although we didn’t fully appreciate it at the time, it was also an easy park to access. Due to a low population of large mammals such as elephants, it was relatively safe for us to find our own way around, even after dark. We simply hired a pair of scooters, and that first morning set off at 4am to ride into the core forest area where we had identified a likely recording location; a footpath leading through a dense part of the forest.

I left Sarah to await the dawn while I set off on foot with my recording gear. Everything was silent, with just a pattering of dewdrops falling from the canopy. Not far off, a softly raucous call broke the stillness, a sound that I would soon come to recognise as a Jungle Owlet.

I set up my microphones, and put on my heaphones, with little idea of what to expect of this exotic new environment. You can perhaps imagine my feelings; a mixture of cautious awareness and expectation.

I was listening intently. Another Owlet called, and the soft susurration of crickets permeated the air. Then the most inexplicable sound arose in the dark. Someone was whistling a tune… slow, soft, immensely beautiful, and with a carefree sense of aimlessness about it. It seemed to just hang in the air like the humidity itself. Listening, I was dumbstruck, in a state of suspended animation.

It lasted perhaps a minute, and before it had finished, another tune began from behind me. In all I think there may have been three birds singing that first morning, each moving from one songperch to another, so the forest seemed filled with sweet, sad melodies. Then they fell silent again.

I had just heard the Malabar Whistling Thrush giving its predawn song in its favourite haunt, the dense undergrowth of India’s evergreen forests.

I continued recording as the dawn arrived and the forest came alive with a wonderful diversity of other birdsong; Flamebacks, Hornbills, Yellow-browed Bulbuls, Drongos, Fulvetas… Particularly delightful were the groups of tiny and iridescent Sunbirds that darted among the canopy and understory.

That morning’s recording can be heard on our album ‘Sunbird Forest’. But while Sunbirds were numerous at Cotigaon, it is the Whistling Thrushes who are the real stars of the album. They feature on the opening track, which I’ve entitled; ‘Melifluous’, as I can think of no better word to describe the song of the Malabar Whistling Thrush, surely one of the most beautiful songbirds in the world.

Listen to a sample from ‘Sunbird Forest’ – the Whistling Thrushes can be heard during the first minute or so.

The nature sound album ‘Sunbird Forest’ is available on CD or by digital download from our website: www.listeningearth.com

My heart sank. “How do you know?” I replied.

“It is part of my area as Field Officer for that park, and I never hear any birds in that area.”

“But it is the heart of the forest, there must be birds there, surely?”

“No sir, if you want birds you must be going here, by the lakeside”.

I looked down at the park map on the desk between us in the gloomy office, and followed his finger indicating a large dam marked outside the park boundary. Nearby were several villages, a town, a major trunk road and, finalising any remaining doubt, a temple. “No, this area will not do. I wish to record forest birdsong. There are villages here, and a road, it will be noisy…” I didn’t mention the blaring devotional broadcasts I expected from any temple in rural India. Instead I pointed to the centre of the extensive Sunabeda Wildlife Sanctuary. “We need a quiet place for sound recording. Here must be the best area”.

View Larger Map

I really had no idea. I was looking at the map for the first time, and guessing. We had taken a week driving to this remote part of western Orissa state. The roads had been appalling, even for India, and the continual jarring had injured my back, leaving me in considerable pain. We had come because Sunabeda looked a promising park to visit; an extensive plateau of dry woodland country in central India, much of it inaccessible, and reportedly with its own remnant population of rarely seen Tigers. Now we were in the dusty back-block town of Nuwapara, at the decaying regional headquarters of the Indian Forest Service, with a park ranger telling me in all sincerity that we had made the journey in vain. The Field Officer smiled even more at my resolve to go to the forest anyway, and gave that wonderful sign that can has many meanings; the Indian head wobble.

Sarah and I were soon in an adjoining office, with senior staff all seated around. Our Field Officer was there, but it was an intense Muslim man with an impressive henna-died beard who was leading proceedings. Not for the first time in Orissa, surprise and curiosity at our presence was expressed, and we learned we were their first western visitors. We presented our papers and explained our purpose.

When in this kind of situation, being quizzed by Indian officials about what we hoped to do, we had learned to feel somewhat concerned. Rules are rules in India, and we knew from experience that our aspirations could be squashed by the most helpful of staff who bring up some regulation that is impossible to get around. However on this occasion, we were amazed at the assistance offered by these park staff. Not only were we granted full permissions, but we were to be assigned a cook for our 4-day expedition, and accompanied by our smiling Field Officer as guide. And there was more: “The Indian Forestry Service will contribute 1000 rupees towards your expenses”.

2 hours later, our cook had bought up half the market, and we had enough food packed into the back of our vehicle to feed an army. He climbed into the tiny remaining space, balanced 50 eggs on his knees, and signaled he was quite comfortable. I however found my front seat had to be vacated for the benefit of our Field Officer, and spent the next few hours and 70km being tossed around in the back, attempting vainly to protect my back from further injury.

The road into the park was arduous. After threading through fields and villages we arrived at the foot of the range. The dirt road ascended in one long gradual incline, but it soon degenerated into a path of rocks and boulders. Frequently we would all have to pile out to give the vehicle enough clearance to continue. Our usually jovial and easy-going driver, Shiva, was getting seriously concerned for his vehicle. Only the Field Officer’s assurances, and an encounter with another vehicle similar to our own going down, eased his anxieties that the road would be impassable ahead.

Once on the plateau, the wet deciduous forest of the slopes thinned to open woodland, and we immediately knew we’d made the right choice in coming here. It felt like Australia. Here was open savannah country similar to what we were familiar with back home, particularly the tropical scrub we knew from places like Kakadu. The landscape was a mosaic of open rocky areas, grassland, scrub and woodland – the kind of country that we were confident would be home for a wide variety of birdlife.

After dark, we arrived at the Forest Lodge, and our cook got to work in the humble kitchen, managing to serve us up a truly spectacular meal. That evening, the Field Officer (I wish we could remember his name, but it escapes us) asked what we expected to hear in the morning. He was not in the least defensive of his earlier assertion that there were no birds here, indeed he seem to have forgotten ever saying it. “Well…” I began, “in the pre-dawn we might get the last calls of Owlets as they go to roost, and after a short break, we might hear a Drongo, as they’re usually the first diurnal birds to call at dawn. A few more species will likely join in for a dawn chorus, but I’m not expecting it to be very loud or prolonged. Then it will probably go quiet for an hour or so until the sun actually rises. Once the air warms a little, the birdsong will get stronger, and with luck we may get a few hours of good diversity until mid morning, when it will taper off until only species like Parrots and Orioles are left calling.”

I had experienced mornings in India that followed this pattern, but I had no idea of whether it would happen like that here. Or happen at all.

At 4am the next morning, we were up and driving out to a likely location, a mosiac of open and wooded habitats we had earmarked the previous evening. Sarah and I left our ‘team’ by the vehicle, building a fire to warm themselves against the pre-dawn chill. We walked off into the scrub, hoping any tigers were indeed as unlikely here as they were supposed to be. I set up my microphones in the stillness of pre-dawn, and Sarah moved off with her cameras to await the light.

It was a wonderful morning, one of the best symphonies of nature we had heard in India. Not that the birdsong was particularly loud, dense or overwhelming, it was just very beautiful. Lovely melodic songs from White-browed Fantails and Indian Scimitar Babblers entwined with each other throughout the morning. At one time there was a small bird, which I didn’t identify but could have been a Prinia or Flycatcher, singing its heart out from the top of a shrub. Tiny Yellow-capped Woodpeckers climbed tree trunks, giving a rapid drumming reminiscent of a door creaking open. Turtle Doves ‘coo’ed happily, and even the Barbets, which can be monotonous in their calling, were here somehow more expressive. One even sounded uncannily like a Kookaburra laughing for a moment! For the first time I definitely identified an Alexandrine Parrot calling, a distinctly more gravely-textured cry than the more common Plum-headeds. Not only the birds were calling; nearby a family of Hanuman Langurs were moving in the treetops, their occasional full-bodied whooping echoing across the landscape in the crisp morning air. Finally, to cap off a perfect morning, a pair of Indian Grey Hornbills flew in with a subtle whistle of wings, and began feeding in a nearby fig tree.

Eventually everything quietened down and I packed my gear. I found Sarah nearby, sitting on a rock contentedly composing leaf pictures. After all the uncertainties of achieving anything in India, we were feeling the kind of elation that comes from sheer emotional exhaustion.

We walked back, and found our team still standing quietly by their fire as we’d left them, rugs draped around their shoulders. We must have approached with broad smiles, to which our Field Officer responded with an equally warm grin and an energetic head wobble. “Ah, very nice”, was all he said. A very nice morning indeed.

Listen to a sample of this morning of birdsong, from the album ‘Indian Woodland Birdsong’. You can purchase the full album as a digital download directly from our website: www.listeningearth.com

But it is no laughing matter.

Noise pollution like this not only threatens our health with subtle and cumulative effects, it is destroying the natural soundscapes that we are just beginning to appreciate.

I anticipate writing more on this subject in the future, but for the meantime, and as an introduction to this subject, the BBC have an online program that we recommend. If you think that noise is a minor issue compared to the other environmental problems we currently face, think again.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/worldservice/programmes/globalisation/noisyplanet/index.shtml

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.

A few hundred meters on, and are hopes are dashed. At the edge of the compound is a fence and gate. For the first time since we have been here, the gate is closed, a heavy chain and padlock looped through the metal bars. What the…? We stare at it bleary-eyed, illuminated in the headlights. There is no getting past this without a key.

There is a small walking track we remember that may go around the gate. A few minutes later, and that has proved to be untrafficable. The only chance is to find the nightwatchman and get the key. We double back a few kilometres to the village.

Shiva walks up the steps of the ranger’s quarters, and eventually we can hear sleepy voices in the dark. A lantern is lit, and shadowy figures wrapped in blankets are seen moving about. As Shiva’s voice continues, we get the sense things may not be straightforward. Now he is returning, and gets silently into the vehicle. The nightwatchman has not slept there last night, he might be in another building. A few minutes later, another discussion in the dark. Once again, Shiva returns, I don’t know whether I imagine it, but there seems a dogged stomp in his walk. The nightwatchman has been found, drunk, but he does not have the key anyway, another man has it. We move on to a smaller hut, and Shiva again disappears into the dark.

By this time, we have wasted nearly an hour. We can hear the first stirrings of dawn birdsong. So we have already blown our chance of getting to our favoured location on time. When Shiva returns still unable to find the mysterious custodian of the key, we decide to give up. There is another location, not as far away, that we had checked out a day earlier. Whilst it is not ideal, it is our only option for the morning now. Feeling a bit slumped and silent, we follow the village roads north and west.

This could easily be the end of our Satkosia adventures, for the morning is a washout. The forest, whilst it looks good, is quite silent. It is curious how one can be in what appears to be rich and undisturbed habitat, but find it subdued and deserted of birdlife. So it is here. In the distance we can hear vehicle traffic, maybe a tractor in the fields. Sarah at least finds a picturesque stream flowing through the forest, and gets some nice shots of the first light hanging in the misty air.

Dewfall in the forest

Nearby, the Indian Forest Service has a captive breeding program for the Garial, or Indian river crocodile. Highly endangered, the Mahanadi has been recognised as one of the few remaining rivers where they can still be found. They are prehistoric-looking animals, with that curious little bump on the end of their snouts. We look at them lazing in their cages, and try and square this up with the vision of a crocodile infested river nearby.

At this point, the Mahanadi flows against the far bank, and a broad sandbank has formed below. We notice several of our picnickers now walking close to the water’s edge. As Australians, cautious of our saltwater crocodiles, it immediately occurs to us to be an unwise thing to do. A few hundred metres away however, we can see where a new tented tourist camp is being established on the sands. So maybe the crocs are not as numerous or dangerous as we imagine.

Walking back, we notice a delightful hand-painted visitor’s sign: “Be careful! Do not bend to touch water. A crocodile may shake hand with u!” So the mystery remains. Meanwhile, Sarah discovers the ladies’ latrine.

The following day, we return to our tributary junction, in hopes of getting some more sound from this magical location. I have about an hour of success, but shortly after sunrise we hear the first cyclists coming down the track through the forest, and decide to move on and explore further afield.

This becomes a day of exploring jungle tracks between one village area and the next, a frustrating exercise of following braided paths through fields and degraded forest. At one point we find some nice forest, but piles of still warm elephant dung convince us it is not a safe place to linger. In the late afternoon, we wind our way back to Tikapada, through rice-stubble fields grazed by docile cattle with accompanying Black Drongos perched atop their backs.

The following day is similarly unproductive. Roads become pathways and then fragment and disappear altogether. Shiva, we can tell, is becoming a bit tired of all this, and ever concerned about damage to his vehicle. But his desire to assist us is evident, and his good humour bolstered by the opportunity to a wash in a village irrigation channel.

Tomorrow is Sunday morning, and we plan to leave Satkosia for our next park; Kotagar in the hills to the south west. So we have one more morning at Satkosia. After our unproductive explorations, we are in a quandary. Where to spend our final morning? Then it occurs to us… Sunday, it will be a day off, the villagers may not be commuting. We could return to the tributary valley that has been the richest habitat we have found here.

Shiva is advised to be ready early, we leave at 5am.

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.

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.

Singly and together, our emotions and needs focused. By the time we reached the spot where we estimated that the leopards had entered the scrub, they had disappeared. We move another twenty or so metres down the track and park the jeep. We notice the silence. The driver and guide are as excited as we are. It is rare to see Leopards, and rarer again to see two together, as they are solitary animals except for the three weeks they get together to mate. There’s a sense that we need to be extra alert – if we are all focussed on the one thing we may put ourselves in danger.

Andrew, Sarah and the guide grab their photographic gear and creep expectantly back along the track, their body language portraying their excitement and caution. As we watch them from near the jeep we notice their sudden, animated gestures that say simultaneously ‘Be quiet’ and ‘Look up there’.

One of the leopards is draped in the Y-fork of a tree some four or five metres above the ground, about twenty-five metres into the scrub. The paw of its leading leg is tapping the air as it rolls its head in time with its low growls. Movements just like a domestic cat playing with a ball of wool in the loungeroom.

Where’s the other leopard? The question bites everyone at the same time. Levels of alertness regroup, as zoom lenses stay trained on the leopard in the tree. After several minutes it lithely drops to ground level. The photographers take this cue to quickly move back to the vehicle. Their bodies are orientated so that they can look back over their shoulders and yet move forward toward safety. They look like kids who have just had their first scary ride at a fun park.

A small herd of Gaur eye us warily.

As Prue and I reflect upon our travels with Sarah and Andrew now, some months later, we truly value the roles they played as diplomats and mentors in showing us how to deal with the people, customs and bureaucracies in India.

Robyn Davidson, in her book ‘Desert Places’, about her travels in Gujarat, captures a sense of the bafflement of many western visitors to India:
“[It] was like being in a room full of mirrors. Just when you think you have worked out what reality is, you bump your head on glass.” (p. 32)

We were also aware that despite their earlier travels in India, Sarah’s and Andrew’s patience and determination in dealing with the necessities of every-day life were tested during this trip. Things such as seeking information, dealing with contradictory instructions, buying or changing train tickets, negotiating prices with auto-rickshaw drivers, queuing for service or suffering apparent indifference to your needs (‘I have a train to catch in five minutes!’). And, of course, gaining access to National Parks to make recordings in places where the sound of human activity would not infiltrate.

All of us were often left feeling worn down because it seemed harder than it needed to be to get things done. Again, as Robyn Davidson puts it:
“Why don’t people go mad; why don’t they stab and shoot each other as they do in America; why didn’t they pick petty bureaucrats up by the scruff of the neck and beat their brains out?” (Ibid p. 45)
An overstatement no doubt, but close to the mark.

Perhaps it’s because Indians regard ‘being’ as important as ‘doing’. Rather like the way Sarah and Andrew engage in their work at Listening Earth. It’s both their living and their life.

Our listening and watching with Sarah and Andrew in India was a great gift from them to us. It took the form of a reminder to do what you love no matter what sort of muddles and puddles you get into. And, especially, an invitation to listen to the world – it’s amazing what you hear and learn.

Two weeks after Sarah and Andrew finally returned home in Australia, we were all shocked to hear of the death of our friend KN, in an accident on his estate. We were privileged and honoured to stay with KN and his wife Shoba at their forest estate near Bangalore. Part of this privilege was to hear KN speak about his life, how he educated himself and became the ebullient, determined and visionary social ecologist that he was. It seemed in character that we learned how he had survived not one, but two, near-fatal cobra attacks. KN was larger than life, and his memorial will be the inspiration his life leaves for others, and the national parks he established in his home state of Karnataka.