Tadoba tigers
Everything was tigers at Tadoba-Andhari National Park in late March. A hot Tropic of Cancer sun had beat the leaves off the trees and crisped the landscape to a golden shade of autumn. It was the beginning of summer in Maharashtra and the season for sightings, when tigers seek relief from the heat and come out of hiding from tangled bamboo and teak forest. Such was the case with Sonam, “the beautiful one.” She was soaking in a pool ringed by tall grass and thicket. Water holes make for cool cats. My first tigress! Stunning.
Tadoba reserve, the oldest and largest national park in Maharashtra, is known for its high-frequency sightings of cats, and in this regard I was not disappointed. I saw seven tigers over the course of my week in the park, from radio-collared cats to unfettered felines and cubs. I was most awed to see camouflage in action. Often, a tiger would be right under my nose and yet difficult to spot. Their stripes blended perfectly into the surrounding landscape of dried grasses, burnished foliage, and mottled light. The most thrilling encounter was with Maya, the “celebrity cat,” known as such for her ease in being around tourists. Undaunted by humans or vehicles, she padded down the dirt road straight toward me and within six feet of where I was sitting in the open jeep. Petting range!
I was there documenting the work of wildlife biologist Bilal Habib, a professor at the Wildlife Institute of India, and WII student researchers. Bilal brings expertise in carnivores, including tigers. Each day in the park was a Gypsy adventure by jeep or on foot as I joined them and sometimes forest officals down a labyrinth of roads and trails in search of tigers. Bilal chose to study tigers at Tadoba because of the park's high numbers of cats, and for its high-frequency of conflict between humans and tigers. Bilal studies these conflicts and the different strategies that villagers and forest officials use to avoid them. He also investigates the pressures the park faces from coal mining and gate dams. Industry impact in the area is high, and the nearly 650 sq km park and its connecting migratory corridors are critical ecosystems to protect. Evaluating Tadoba’s tigers, its wildlife and their habitat gives a baseline of facts that Bilal and other conservationists can use to communicate what is at stake. Citizen involvement in the area is strong and has thwarted irrigation projects. But for how long, the question is raised? Can conservationists and developers work together?
Bilal also talked about the importance of scientists building trust with forest officers by communicating their research clearly (bereft of jargon) so that those working in the park can connect the science with their day-to-day work. I observed a high level of trust in how the researchers and forest officials exchanged information. This trust extended to include me, and people shared what they could about tigers and their role in protecting them. Among others I interviewed were forest officials, guides, trackers, anti-poaching task force members, the Field Director and Chief Conservator of Forest, TATR, the Deputy Conservator of the buffer area outside the park, the Principal Secretary to the Chief Minister of Maharashtra, WII research students and outside conservationists.
Of everything learned, I was especially intrigued by the shifting narratives of the tigers’ lives, or tiger gossip — a generational soap opera that hooked me to the next episode of which tigers were mating, what was the status of their families, who was fighting whom and where, who was roaming the buffer and who was in the core, who was eating what, and the whereabouts of dispersing teens. The myriad family details got me curious. Did Sonam’s daughter push her mother out of the core in an assertive move to take over prime forest, or did Sonam give her daughter the best territory because mothers make sacrifices for the betterment of their children's lives? Are our human assumptions the actual narratives that are unfolding? On what basis are scientific conclusions made?
One recent episode involved Gabbar, an older, radio-collared male and a favorite tiger among tourists. His face was badly beat up in a recent fight, and tourists and others expessed concern about his condition and questioned whether WII and the Forest Department were monitoring the situation and providing treatment. Letters were written. Phone calls were made. Facebook posts escalated tensions. Bilal opined that Gabbar should not be treated, and explained his position to me from a science perspective. His reason was to let nature do as nature does and not intervene. Male tigers fight each other for females and for territory. The strong trump the weak, and the weak succumb. New, healthy males are needed to invigorate the gene pool. Gabbar might die or get pushed outside his zone, which may be unfortunate for him and his fans, but the tiger population itself would flourish for the change. And if he roars back, then, good for Gabbar! This scenario illustrates a different kind of conflict: the logic of scientists versus that of well-meaning tourists and animal rights activists. The Forest Department is often caught in the middle. Then again, wildlife conservation itself is an elaborate intervention of one kind or another, whether filling water holes for thirsty animals, tracking radio-collared cats or relocating tigers from one forest to another. If you allow one intervention, then why not another? It is like a chess game, one of high states strategy. Who gets to be the expert?
