Little Rann of Kutch

The Lesser  & Greater Rann of Kutch, with their unique geology & vast, barren landscape make for a very different ‘forest’; how do you see an animal or a bird without disturbing it if you have neither trees for cover nor rocks to hide behind? The Little Rann is a seasonal salt-marsh & the dried-up deposits lend a white coating to parts of the desert. LRK, as it is popularly known, is the last remaining home of the Asiatic wild ass, Khur. 

This is the second in a three-part blog about my Gujarat trip. Read part one, about the Velavadar grasslands, here. Read part three, about the Greater Rann of Kutch, here.

Once again, I bring you stories straight from the horses’ mouths.

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Ha! There’s my morning dose of laughter. I always enjoy people-watching; oh, the eccentricities I see! Two morons are walking towards me at a slow pace, almost bent-over double. Do they really think that walking like this is going to make them un-noticeable to me? I don’t move; not because I can’t see them approaching me but because their ‘tactic’ is too hilarious to miss. In the Rann, with not even a twig for cover, they could try all they liked to be ‘invisible’; we’re always going to see them. I’m surprised that the hilarity of the situation is lost on them.

When my friend rolls in the mud to cleanse & groom himself, the humans are amused. “Crazy-ass”, they say. Little do they know how amusing they look when they pour water & rub a strange stone over themselves each morning, by the water-pump. The humans, hitherto standing, suddenly plop down prostrate. Even ‘Crazy-ass’ pauses for a dekko.

Crawling on their bellies, they come a little closer & stop. They watch us & shoot photos: ‘crazy-ass’, the mother & fawn and my friend who’s mounted a lovely lass. A few of us huddle, discussing if we should move ahead.

In the evening, they come looking for us once more. We’ve been walking & playfully trotting in the distance. These humans love it when we run; once again, they lie down on the ground and go ga-ga over us. Their excitement also has something to do with the setting sun, the big orange orb that is slowly dropping towards the ground. I pause to look at these poor people; it must be so sad to never be able to enjoy the sun set, while in their own cities. Only when they travel do they have the time to appreciate sunsets. I feel so bad for them that I decide to spread some cheer. As the sun drops low, I gallop. The humans click away. I can feel their happiness. There; my good deed for the day is done.

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Like every year, I’ve arrived this year too, with the rest of my flock. I like it here; there’s enough water & food for us. But, of late, I’ve been losing a few of my friends during the journey. Bare electric wires above the ground are our nemeses.  We can’t see them at night & some of us have unfortunately died, flying into them. I wonder if I’ll be able to leave from here unharmed. Even if I do, I wonder if I can return unharmed, next year. All these thoughts have been stressing me out this morning; I decide to focus on the food & dip my beak into the shallow water.

We do make for a beautiful sight & we choose our backdrop well; an in-born sense of aesthetics, you know. Our pink bodies, against the blue water & blue skies; how’s that for contrast? Little wonder that we attract so much attention. This morning, a group has arrived. We retract back into the waters, unsure if they’ve come to catch us. They approach the shore & lie down at a distance. We realise it’s the photographers. We eat away, unworried. My leg aches from standing since morning. I take a break from eating & lift one leg up to give it some rest.  The photographers love it and click some more photos. A few Black-winged Stilts walk past, some ducks float by; I enjoy having these little ones for company. And, you should watch the Stilts do their acrobatics on one leg; they’re comical.

I’ve eaten to my heart’s content now. I think I’ll fly off; maybe join the group that’s flying overhead. I take my head out of the water to see that the photographers are still lying motionless on the shore. Gosh, it’s been more than an hour! Are they asleep? The sand is so comfortable to lie on; it does that to you, sometimes. Well, good night to you humans…here I go!

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I run as fast as I can. I’d been standing in the open & looking at their jeep. I thought I was safe as I hadn’t been spotted; they were busy admiring the McQueen’s Bustard, who was at a distance. As the group admired the Bustard, the jeep driver looked around, bored. Our eyes met. He said something rapidly & urgently to the others. All four heads turned in my direction. Their faces lit up. That’s when I knew I had to run.

So coming back to where I started off, I run as fast as I can. The jeep is right behind me. It’s unfortunate that the rann’s landscape is such that I have no cover. I see some scrub in the distance & dash for it. Once safely inside, I stand to watch. The jeep is on the other side of the scrub. They furiously click my photographs. I hide behind a bush. When I peer out a few minutes later, they’ve left.  

I needn’t have run; it’s just my instinct, though. I don’t blame them for wanting to see me. I’m quite cute and can only be found in dry, desert regions, quite unlike where they come from. When I was a baby, I was even cuter & you should’ve seen even the most hardened humans melt, looking at me. When I do have my own cubs, I’ll have to ensure that my den is secluded & secure. Earlier, I just had to worry about other predators turning up at my den for my cubs; now I have to worry about the barrage of photographers too.

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I travelled to Gujarat:

With naturalists & wildlife photographers Harsha J & Dilan Mandanna

For information & tips about LRK, read this:

http://nomadandabag-guides.blogspot.in/2013/01/gujarat-information-tips.html

Not Just Another Summer Day

 

“Are you absolutely sure?” asked the apprehensive voice at the other end of the phone. “There is no fan, air-conditioning, fridge or cold water”. After reassuring the very reluctant Gemar that I did not want any of these, and that I could tolerate the April heat and wouldn’t faint midway, he agreed to let me visit his home. 

I’d been in Jodhpur, Rajasthan, for a few days now and wanted to explore the fringes of the Thar Desert. Gemar Singh lives in the village of Hacra, near Osiyan, and guides visitors around the desert during cooler climes. Much as I wanted to, it was too hot to stay for a couple of days at his home; I settled for a day’s visit instead. Though I had finally convinced him to guide me, I now harboured doubts about whether I would indeed survive the infamous Loo (hot desert wind, said to make you sick, sometimes fatally) without inflicting any embarrassing medical emergencies on Gemar. 

As I worked my way through breakfast the next morning, seated in my palatial hotel, Gemar arrived to pick me up, two bags in tow, bursting to their seams with vegetables and other assorted ingredients. “For your meal” he grinned. We set off without further ado, in a jeep, through dusty hot roads that gave me a taste of what was in store for me. A couple of hours later, we stood at a railway-crossing, waiting for a train to pass. Across the barrier, the road melded into sand. And, beyond the very same barrier, I had a surprise awaiting me - a camel. I was even more surprised when Gemar stopped the jeep and alighted, bag and baggage, motioning for me to do the same.

Did I dare ride a camel? It definitely was more exciting than the jeep; besides, Gemar said that a camel ride would be away from the motorable road and would take me through villages. It was the local means of transport and if I wanted a taste of what it felt like to live here, riding a camel was an inseparable part of it. I clumsily hoisted myself onto the saddle; the only support to prevent me from falling off was a wooden piece jutting out from the saddle in the front. As the camel stood up, I almost slid downwards and held on for dear life. Setting off towards Gemar’s home, it took me a while to accustom myself to the gentle rocking motion of the beast, not unlike a ship. A joke I made up, inspired by the moment, made me chuckle – “this is why camels are called ships of the desert”. Once I overcame the ‘sea-sickness’, I began enjoying the ride, with Gemar walking holding the reins of my camel, narrating stories about the desert.

The largely monotonous landscape was sometimes surprisingly peppered with patches of green, mostly thorny shrubs or solitary, scrawny trees, under which herds of Blackbucks valiantly sought shade and dried grass. A dash of colour would be infused by peacocks running across or a lone maiden in her bright saree, carrying water to her home. As the April sun beat down on me, I held on to my life-saving floppy hat, which was threatening to blow away in the breeze. I now realised that the ghunghat and the turban were not part of the locals’ attire merely due to tradition; they were very much a climatic necessity. 

Blackbucks

A Village

Villages with thatch-roofed, circular houses appeared at the horizon; these were devoid of too many signs of life, what with people seeking refuge indoors at this time of the day. A solitary woman in her magenta saree was threshing hay outside her home. The breeze brought with it screams of “goro aayo”, “goro aayo”, and I turned around to see village children running towards us. I smiled at their cry, which in local parlance meant “the white man has come”; in this far-flung region of the desert, I too was alien to them, a foreigner. I smiled and waved back until their cheerful faces and tiny waving hands disappeared into a speck. Not long after, we reached Gemar’s home; time on the hour-long ride had flown!

The Loo begins to blow

Our card buddies

After the camels were given water and had settled under their favourite trees, Gemar busied himself preparing lunch. He lives in a traditional mud and stone home with his wife and child, both of whom had gone to visit her parents for a few days. The house has a series of huts around an open courtyard. Some spaces are walled for privacy, while others, like the ‘living room’, are open on one side. We sat down on the mud floor in the living room. A group of boys, who were herding their families’ cattle nearby, rushed into the home, gaggling. Those herding cattle take shelter at this time, every day, in the nearest hut; such is the welcoming nature of the people here. As soon as they spotted us, they stopped short, unsure of what to do. Gemar suggested a game of cards to break the ice. 

Soon, the boys overcame their shyness, teaching us their favourite card game, guffawing at our mistakes, cheat-peeking at everybody’s cards and playfully fighting each other. Outside, a gentle storm had begun to brew, which soon turned ferocious. The whooshing sounds heralded the arrival of the afternoon Loo. I poked my head out of the window only to be blinded by dust and sand; I hurriedly retracted. 

Gemar's house from the outside

 

View of the house, inside

Finally milking the goat!

Card game in progress

The fragrance wafting from the kitchen soon had my stomach growling approvingly in response. Between card games, I sneaked peeks into the kitchen and watched bowl after bowl fill up. The simple, hearty and traditional meal was so delicious that not a morsel was spared.  A siesta threatened to tempt me and an inviting khatiya (traditional woven cot) in the room definitely didn’t help my already-drooping eyelids. I snoozed even as the others continued to play. A while later, a goat bleated repeatedly in what I thought was a dream.  I lazily opened an eyelid and scanned around, only to be greeted by an amusing sight - two grown men chasing a goat. They smiled at my nonplussed countenance and declared that it was time for some chai. And, the milk for this tea was to be fresh, straight from the goat; if she was willing to give any, that is! Here, no co-operation from goat meant no tea. Soon enough, tempted by fresh grass, the goat let Gemar milk her. Fortified by the tea and hastened by the dimming light, we bid adieu to the boys and mounted our camels again.

The Loo had disappeared as stealthily as it had arrived. The camels and I cast soft shadows on the sand, which had earlier been hot enough to roast peanuts in, and was now alarmingly cold. The gold-tinged vistas of the morning had been replaced by a uniform blue tinge of the setting sun. Gemar gently guided my camel towards some sand dunes, from atop which I surveyed the rapidly darkening desert. As I ran my fingers through the icy sand, I was overcome by an urge to stay and not head back to ‘civilization’. A day had been too short and I told Gemar as much. He invited me to come back another time, during cooler weather, when I could stay without worrying about my health. I reluctantly plodded my way downhill, the sand making it even slower for me to walk away. A few hours later, I was back at my palace-hotel, eating dinner at a table on a manicured lawn. The day in the desert seemed like a mirage. 

Contact details:

Gemar Singh

http://hacra.org/