Before your imagination runs wild, I went to the forests around Agumbe in the Someswara Wild Life Sanctuary range as part of a volunteering exercise assisting the Forest Department of Karnataka in a monkey census. This was to assess the population status of the endangered lion-tailed macaques (Macaca silenus) in the rain forests of Kudremukh in Western Ghats. The lion-tailed macaque is classified as endangered because of its highly selective feeding habits, limited range of occupancy (ca. 2500 km2, majorly in three southern Indian states namely Karnataka, Tamil Nadu, and Kerala), delayed sexual maturity, long interbirth intervals, low population turnover, and a small remaining wild population. The population census is also crucial because comprehensive information on surviving numbers in the fragmented rain forests is not readily available.
The census had faced a roadblock earlier owing to the severe resource crunch, an acute shortage of field staff, in the forest department of Karnataka. The department, however, has found a novel way to tackle its resource crunch. The Forest Department of Karnataka and the Ecotourism Board are enlisting civilians into its fold as volunteers, tapping into the pool of willing enthusiasts to forge long-term partnerships and provide a rare glimpse into the department’s wildlife conservation efforts. Owing to the successful programs conducted earlier to enlist volunteers, the department can afford the lion-tailed macaque survey without any glitch to its existing resources.
I attended the Volunteer Training Program (VTP) conducted in May and was certified as a eco-volunteer. When announcement for this census came up, I jumped at it though I was back from a rather long trip only recently. After all, who wants to pass up on an opportunity to trek in the forests everyday (otherwise inaccessible for civilians), looking for an endangered monkey?
So armed with a GPS (the readings of which I botched up a first few days) and a local forest guard named Santosh, I walked in the forests braving leeches, mosquitoes and other creepy crawlies looking for the elusive monkey. I didn’t find one until the last day of the survey. But instead, I breathed fresh air, saw giant malabar squirrels skittering in the high reaches of tall trees and numerous birds. The exercise only lasted for a few hours in the early morning so I had the rest of the day for myself.
Creatures like this are found in and around the forests of Agumbe.
We made complete use of the better part of the day by exploring the nearby towns and villages. The fish curry meals at Hebri, the neeru dosa at the Ganesh Hotel at Agumbe, the charming Udupi, malpe’s sunset and the numerous walks we took inside the campsite (Seetanadi Nature Camp) made the entire trip worthwhile. Here are a few images.
You could be part of the Volunteer Training Program (VTP) run by the Forest Department and Ecotourism Board of Karnataka as well. Leave a comment and I will keep you posted on when it happens.
Hanakon: I have very clear memory of articulating the word to the mini-bus conductor in Karwar before boarding the rattling mass of automobile that is somehow, clutching its life in its hands, speeding down the narrow main road. I see signboards for Canacon and not of Hanakon and I suddenly grow wary – is it Canacon the bus is heading to? The dreary youngster of a conductor proves fractious, maintaining a sullen expression as if to avoid conversation with strangers. It could be the heavy-eyed, foggy morning on which he is forced to work when the entire world is still wriggling inside its sheets.
I call Diwan, chief instructor at the Riveredge where I am headed and confirm my navigational orientation. The bus drops me off at Hanakon, so infinitesimal a village wedged somewhere along the Karnataka – Goa – Maharashtra border, even Google maps chose to ignore it. As I try to make sense of my coordinates to reach the resort, I – a seemingly lost, lone stranger become a subject of curiosity for the villagers on that uneventful morning.
But they are friendly, suggesting shortcuts. “Look for Rajesh’s house. He works for the resort, he will take you,” the shopkeeper says. Rajesh and his house prove elusive but I continue walking and increasingly meet with head bobbing and lip pouting signifying lack of information. A middle aged man working on his field helpfully hands me a staff warning of stray dog nuisance. After about fifteen minutes of ambling around, I stumble upon a neglected wooden pathway built across the mangrove bushes leading to what seemed like civilization.
I amble further along the thicket of mangroves, lined on either side with stilted cottages and Diwan appears from his quarters with a loud call of welcome. I was shown my cottage whose bedside window opens to the mangrove duplicating a tree-house effect while the front door to the backwaters. In the following nights, I would wake up listening to the nocturnal movements of the forest – a falling twig, scampering of some animal, a cat or a snake may be – but too cagey to peep out into the darkness. The distance to my cottage from the dining area and access to it in the night also ensured that I constantly fear of accidentally stepping over a snake earning its wrath and a resultant swipe – or worse – a mouthful meal for a python.
Now though Diwan insists I take a kayak ride. He also adds that the water is very deep in some places and thinks I should not carry my camera. I persist. I slip into the kayak, with the help of Avinash, an ex-manager at the property, who spiritedly agrees to kayak with me. The ebb and flow of Kali’s backwaters has created a smattering of habitable islands with fields of paddy and vegetables cultivation.
The heaviness of the sunless, hazy day weighs down on me and I fall back on my paddling. Avinash is a spot in the distance framed by the huddling peaks of Western Ghats and the low, sluice gates of the river. Tiny kingfishers, cormorants and terns dart across looking to catch the fish leaping out of the still water. I slowly tire myself out and let the kayak bob in the water. That hard slog is thankfully supplemented with a meal that constitutes of fish fry and spicy pepper chicken.
The horizontal depletion of my resources is only complemented by the vertical ones, just the next day. On an extended trek through dense forests, Diwan takes me rock climbing. He comes equipped with sturdy shoes but omits the crucial detail about the shoes to me – I am in my hiking sandals designed for flat surfaces. ‘It’s ok sir, I have taken women for rock climbing with children in hand,’ he tells me as a way of assuaging my concerns. ‘Yeah but I am sure they had their shoes on,’ I think in my head.
At the sight of the steep precipice that was once a waterfall, my heart falls skipping several beats. I tell him I am not very fond of heights, sugar coating my acrophobia. But he is not around to respond. Rubbing climbing chalk in his hands, he is free-climbing with the orange rope hanging from his waist that he drops to me as a climbing rope, scaling the rock and fastening the rope in a tree. I wear my harness on with the help of the assistant, hook myself to the rope and begin my ascent clumsily.
‘Don’t use your knee, hold on to the rock,’ I hear instructions from above and below. My sandals threaten to slip me up but I scramble, hold on to dear life and tiny rock faces. In this manner, after what seems like hours, I reach the summit amid much encouraging hoo-ha. I can only feign a smile. Cautious to not look down, I rapidly oblige to Diwan’s instructions on rappelling down.
Are you still scared of heights, sir? Diwan asks me after the entire process is over. I do not bother to explain that one threatening ascend is not enough to ward off my fear of heights. Despite its non-existence in my imaginary bucket list, rock climbing (or scrambling) becomes the one thing I can easily add and tick off in quick succession. Soon after though, as we trek back to the main road over stories of bear attacks amid cackling of hornbills and the whoosh of breeze that rips the forest’s hush, my mood shifts; I gamely listen on.
As the battered jeep heaved on the uneven, boulder-strewn, mud road towards the Pandaramukki peak inside the Kudremukh National park, a mild rain started to fall. Evenings have been drippy in the past week with pre-monsoon showers already in order. Just as the monsoon sets in the shores of Kerala, Kudremukh also receives considerable rainfall in the Western Ghats. The rain increased into a strong banter, lashing on the metal sheets of the jeep and when we reached the camp site it had literally started raining on our parade.
We were to pitch tents at the location identified as the temporary Anti Poaching Camp up by the forest officials, as part of the certified volunteer program conducted by the Karnataka Ecotourism Development Board. Overnight stay at the APC, inside the reserve park area, is mandated to provide the volunteers with real-time, hands-on experience and ground level realities of the park conservation. Kudremukh National Park is located in the central Western Ghats covering 600.57 km2. The park is also a UNESCO world heritage site and home to numerous endemic species of animals, birds, amphibians and reptiles.
The third batch of the Volunteer Training Program, conducted in the third week of May, saw participation from 29 individuals from all walks of life. As similar as their interests are, their professions are as varied – fitness instructor, software engineer in their yesteryears turned organic farming consultant, software engineers in their present lives, students. The weeklong program aimed to impart knowledge on the basics of wildlife and conservation with speeches and presentations by naturalists, herpetologists, amphibian specialists and forest officials. The trained volunteers would be used for activities like pilgrim management, animal census and other areas where the forest department is crunched for staff.
The clouds ushered in more rains as we arrived at the campsite and we quickly set about pitching tents before the ground got too wet. As though on cue, as soon as the tent pitching was over, the rain stopped. With it, a red-wattled lapwing that had her nest somewhere close to the water body by which we had our tents, realized there is trouble in sight and started her ‘did you do it’ alarm call. She didn’t have to worry too much because lapwing nests are extremely difficult to spot – their dirt-colored eggs are camouflaged with their nesting ground.
With the rain out of sight and concern, the enterprising among us helped setting up the makeshift kitchen by collecting rocks, starting a fire and chopping vegetables for dinner. The others wandered off to the nearby peaks their arms extended with phones in search of cellphone network, like diffusers looking for landmines. After volunteering with Girish, the solar instrument entrepreneur from Hassan on preparing dinner, I took a short walk and was rewarded with sightings of Sambar and Gaur in packs, in distant hillocks heading home after a rewarding day of grassland grazing.
The Anti Poaching Camps are typically located deep inside the jungles where animals and the forest wealth (timber and other valuable plants) are vulnerable to the greater predator – the human being and other natural disasters like forest fire (also, sometimes started by careless humans). The forest guards usually set out on foot early everyday aided by a GPS device and record their observations and enter the same in the evening into the HULI software, developed by the forest department. This enables the department to monitor wildlife and habitat health.
Having decided on an early morning trek through the thickets of sholas and grasslands, we zipped ourselves up, retiring inside the tents quite early wishing each other an early night. The morning sun rose pink and purple above the peaks of Kudremukh as we commenced our trek the following day. The lapwing wasn’t letting up on her warning calls. We ambled along as the forest guards lead our way. The grass was awash with last night’s rain and snails, in yellow and white stripes, lugged themselves ahead languidly.
The thickets of shola forests are just a few yards away and everyone, except me and the forest guards of course, is armed with leech-proof socks that prevent these blood thirsty monsters from raiding your legs. Without much forethought, in an act brimming with pointless bravado, I refused to accept the leech proof socks when they were offered back at the base camp. I would soon pay for that ignorance. Thanks to their perennial water supply, shola forests are home to numerous endemic evergreen trees. Which also means the mulch inside the sholas is squirming with millions of leeches trying to hop onto a host to feed on blood.
Strewn with mossy boulders and haphazard tree growth, sholas are the antithesis of trekking routes. Walk precariously but if you are in a danger of slipping, holding onto your dear life and to the nearby tree covered with lichens, will be of little help. Lichens are organisms found in rain forests on trees with the perennial moisture supporting their growth. There began my dance with the leeches. Amid fear of unsettling nesting cobras and driving out grazing Sambars, I started stamping my feet to shake the leeches away but in vain. By midway, I realized I was hopelessly hosting at least 50 leeches, sucking blood from a single entry point they have made in my leg. A few enterprising ones have moved on to other unmentionable spots as well. Ineffectively, with the help of a twig, I got rid of the cluster of them and by the end of it I realized I had slowed down the trek party’s efforts as well.
The agile forest guards walked swiftly pointing to trees and plants to us and describing their medicinal values. A fig tree had borne the brunt of bear claw marks and another stood victim to a gaur’s horn marks that had stripped the tree of its bark considerably. Though poaching is not that rampant in Kudremukh the threats forest department faces include forest fires, some amount of local timber felling and eradication of invasive plants (predominant of them being the pteridium, a fern).
Later, as we tracked our way back to the base camp and as the debriefing session was in progress, DFO Dr. Ramesh mentioned that staying inside the Kudremukh National Park was a rare experience. Kudremukh is one of the newest National Parks in the country and hence the virgin forests and grasslands are left untouched with little access to tourism infrastructure. Much of it is off public access and it is one of the few places where the shola forests and grasslands with their birds and animals are preserved in their natural glory – with bare minimum human intervention. On the other hand, the leeches would love to have some human company, I suppose.
An edited version of this appeared in Deccan Herald and can be accessed here.
The cave temples of Badami are jewels of the past. Beautifully crafted and artistically sculpted, they glow luminously in the sun. The intricate carvings, sometimes incomplete and defaced, are remnants of the spectacular craftmanship of the Chalukya dynasty belonging to the 6th Century AD.
Aihole’s ruins are charming. A cluster of them, the watch towers and other temple ruins, are walled and protected by the ASI and other are habituated by humans and cattle alike. Some of Aihole’s temples are beautiful. The cave temple of Shiva, drilled into a black rock has to be the most elegant of them. There is hardly any living temples in this region.
The cluster of ruins inside a complex in Pattadakal also houses a living temple, again walled and protected by ASI. The Virupaksha temple of Pattadakal attracts hordes of tourists throughout the year.
Among the other ruins of Karnataka, the famed Gol Gumbaz of Bijapur is high on my wishlist. I hope to visit Bijapur someday.
Have you been to any of these places? Do leave a comment and let me know.
As I sat gazing at the humongous, vermilion globe of sun dip slowly westwards, events of the day rushed over me with its leftover in the name of a headache. I need a coffee, a strong one. It’s seven in the evening and the sun has completely set but the daylight hasn’t faded away in total. I stared aimlessly at the ruins of Hemakuta Hill. I had earlier visited them during the day. A smattering of mandaps and stupas strewn across uneven, unsorted and unfinished in the midst of rock boulders precariously placed by nature. They sit there for thousands of years, perhaps waiting to be brought to life. But they look sad, as symbols of ‘unaccomplished craftsmanship.’ They are in ruins, and will be for probably another millennium, providing a sort of enchantment for tourists.
Dated way back to 3rd century BC, Hampi continues to excite archaeologists as its ruins are still being excavated by the ASI. Sitting by the banks of the Tungabhadra river, Hampi continues to allure tourists throughout the year despite the terrible heat. Some pictures. Another instalment of pictures of ruins from Aihole – Pattadakal – Badami is coming soon as Part II.
Virupaksha Temple – the only living temple among the lot
Hemakuta Hill – The hill besides Virupaksha has a group of unfinished temples and is also a sunset point
View from the Matanga Hill
Tungabhadra – the river that flows through Hampi
Vitthala Temple – the crumbling structure that is being preserved by ASI
The Elephant Stable
Have you been to Hampi? Of course, you have. What has been your experience? Leave a comment.
Karwar has all the makings of a sleepy seaside town – tiny fishing boats moored on the shore that hugs the highway, the bridge on the NH17 that runs through the confluence of Kali River flowing into the Arabian Sea, the tiny tree-fringed islands strewn across the ocean and the beach huddled by the Western Ghats.
Being a prominent coast guard navy base, a considerable stretch of Karwar’s beaches falls in the navy’s restricted area and is hence inaccessible to public. The recent integration of INS Vikramaditya into the naval fleet has called for another expansion for which about 25 km of the coastline has been acquired by the Indian Navy. The expansion, called Project Seabird, will also include the tiny beach called Lady Beach which will be soon unavailable for public access.
I arrive in Karwar on a cold morning when the catch of the day is being sold to fish sellers over much haggling. Avinash, whom I meet and befriend at the Riveredge resort I stayed in, agrees to take me around. The thing though is that he rattles off just way too many things to wrap my head around – Sadashivgad Fort, Warship Museum, Devbagh beach, Tilamati beach, Majali beach, Kurumgad Island. We finally agree on the specifics and set out in his bike.
A resort stands in place of the Sadashivgad Fort that, according to the inscriptions, was built in 1715 by the Raja of Basavalinga of Sonda who named it after his father Raja Sadashiva but the Durgamma temple, restored and rebuilt in 1928, is still functional. The fort changed hands from Sonda dynasty to Portuguese to British. The approach road to the fort’s strategic view points, however, is non-existent. We ride an uphill road, precariously over loose gravel interspersed with huge gaping potholes. It is a wonder that even a miniscule of tourist population negotiates these tiny boulders to reach the resort.
The viewpoint amidst rusting cannons and boulders offer sweeping views of the estuary of Kali River. Thickly wooded rock faces emerge out of the ocean, as if strewn across hastily by some mighty force – Kurumgad, Devbagh, Lighthouse – Avinash cites the names of each island, pointing them to me. We tackle bushes and carved tree trunks to reach the other side of the resort for a different view – here, the NH17 runs through the river connecting Karwar to Goa in the north and the rest of Karnataka down south.
Serpent eagle’s soar overhead, scanning the landscape for possible prey. I can see the road hugging the coast. I am lured by the possibilities of boat rides to all these islands. A boat can be hired, I was told earlier. But there are also the best kept secrets – the beaches, visible from where I stand. We take a ride along the coast. At the Majali beach, crows and kites hover dangerously close to my head while picking the surplus shrimps shored up on the beach.
“I am taking you to places where tourists don’t bother to reach,” Avinash tells me. “You sure are,” I reply. He points to a lone, humungous rock just a few meters from the sea and tells me that the locals call it the bucket island. “Because it is shaped like a bucket,” he says. “An upturned one for sure,” I think. Along the ridge of Majali, just on the other side of the mountain is the Tilamati beach, the black sand beach.
Legend has it that Rabindranath Tagore wrote his play Prakritir Pratishodh in the Karwar beach. Honoring his love for the beach, the beautiful beach is named after him. I walk across the highway towards the beach benches and the vantage point and the deck for viewing sunset. A tattooed, dreadlocked biker couple lounge on a concrete bench gazing at the sunset over conversation – possibly on their way to the Karnataka’s hippie haven, lesser Goa, Gokarna. A bunch of snack vendors position their push cart for the evening’s business of heaped golden yellow bhel and tiny, crusty gol gappas. They are early as the sun is only now preparing to descend down the misty sky. They set their business up and lay in wait for truckers passing by and the locals who are out for an evening walk.
There is a lingering indolence to everything in this listless coastal town. The confluence of the river and sea seems to snuff out the tide’s vigor so the beach is laidback. Owing to the geographical location, the town straddles between the thickets of the forests of Western Ghats on the one side and the sea on the other. In Karwar, time seems to slow down. And the locals are oblivious to these endowments. Avinash only seems to agree.
“It seems like a bright day,” I think when I step out of the dormitory in Bhagamandala after getting ready for the cycling trip spanning a distance of 160kms over two days from where river Cauvery originates to a tiny village on the Karnataka – Kerala border called Jalsoor. The ride was to begin at 7am and the parking lot of the hotel is slowly getting thick with cyclists in their full gear – perky windcheaters in bright colors, padded cycling shorts, helmets, tiny backpacks with essentials for the road and so on.
Despite the previous night’s rather bumpy ride on a bus from Bangalore to Bhagamandala, I had slept well. My fault, since I did not confirm my participation after registration with a follow up mail to the organizers, who would have in turn allotted me proper seats, but that rather worked out in my favor. The last two seats weren’t filled up and I had them for myself that resulted in a good sleep, aided by ample leg room and all.
The spectrum of cyclists ranges from novices – some of them even first-timers (not me, for I have already put my knees and calves to test before) – to maven bikers who are quite regulars in the trips organized by the Bangalore based startup called cycling and more. This ride, one of their popular ones, promised to take the rider along some stunning scenery in the Western Ghats peppered with numerous little waterfalls by the side of the road and lush greenery amid untouched, virgin forests. Owing to its popularity, the same ride has been conducted four times in a row now and I only managed to find myself in the fourth installment.
By now, however, the unpredictable weather has brought with it thick dark clouds and it had started drizzling softly. We were handed out the day’s maps and instructions on how to proceed to the first day’s target – Bekal fort in Kasaragod. The ride would cover about 80kms on the first day and would have a lunch break at a middle point. The target was to reach Bekal around 3pm since the entry to the fort is proscribed after 6pm.
Armed with the knowledge that there are support vehicles following us with water, supplies and repair assistance in case of need, I tugged my windcheater closely and set out into the drizzle following the expert bikers who are by now fast disappearing from my sight. The route is fairly straightforward (although the roads, hardly) and it is not difficult to lose your way if you are super challenged with directions. The deceptive turns branching into a narrow road could attract your attention or the conspicuous forks could obscure your sense of direction. Either way, you are never far from a fellow cyclist or better, the support vehicles that tag along. Besides, the map also consists of emergency contacts.
As if to mirror the map’s promise the ride is mostly downhill and the road, extremely patchy and riddled with potholes. The ride is hardly an issue because the landscape is worth much more the hard slog that is pedaling. The roads are thickly canopied with the monsoon-laden trees and the effect it creates when mist swims through the trees is quite magical. Picturesque attains new meaning here.
I pedaled along, often breaking the ride to take pictures. This proves to be a bit of an effort since the drizzle threatens to spray my lens, soaking it with droplets obscuring my view. Also my multi-layered protection of two bags to keep my camera from getting wet worked against taking any shots that needed to be in the moment. Thus trundling my way through the odd 80kms on the first day, I reached Bekal fort when the sun was still blazing, blinding me and overexposing my images. Since I was one of the early riders to reach the destination, I waited out for the rest and watched the crepuscular charm of the fort until our bus takes us to our hotel rooms in Kasaragod town.
That evening, after beseeching my roommates for the first in line bathroom-space – not that they cared because they were nursing their tired calves, spread-eagled on the bed watching the yammering of news anchors on the television – I wash, change and set out in search of fodder for my famished stomach. Earlier, on my enquiries about suggestions for a restaurant that serves good seafood in the town, the middle aged gentleman at the front desk of my hotel was pessimistic of my options. “The fish that is caught here is shipped to other places and your options are limited,” he told me. Consequently, as if to assuage my concerns, he advised I might want to try The Metro restaurant.
I proceeded to enquire a few more locals whilst on my way to The Metro and the restaurant seems to be the unequivocal suggestion by many. It stands facing a KFC on the opposite side of the road but the crowd at its tables suggested that it might still be the favored dinner haunt for the locals. The waiter reels off an assortment of fish dishes in a variety of fish but I quickly settle for the fish biryani – for ease of settling on an option and also since I haven’t been introduced to the pleasures of this unique moopla dish.
The fish biryani came in a stout metal container with chunks of deliciously cooked fish, buried deep inside flavorful rice and splendid masala. Suffice to say, I ate until my stomach muscles couldn’t expand any longer and concluded the meal with a suleimani chai – black lemon tea. Thus having circumscribed my chances of eating any other fish dish, I dragged my feet back to my room and quickly slip into a deep sleep.
The next day’s insouciance was a result of the largely descending landscape. The roads are in good condition and though my knee (ligament sprain, my doctor friend had said, before warning that there is a good chance it might recur) threatens its dissent with signs of disapproval, I managed to reach the destination, Jalsoor and terminate the ride by the banks of the Payaswini river. A hearty dip in the shallow river that had strong currents to wash off the remains of the day was in order, which was followed by random snacking of curiously shaped fried food and binge drinking of spicy buttermilk and nameless sherbets.
As I sat taking notes, I noticed the riders slowly gathering, culminating their trips but the trip leader, Vikrant, would have a hard time dragging them to the bus. For they have quickly realized that the river is harmless and safe for flapping around, even if you are a non-swimmer. And then there are those who trained their camera at the hanging bridge, the water body, the flowers and suchlike. It is their day out and Vikrant’s calls can wait.
This appeared in The Hindu and can be accessed here.