Safety in Thekkady

A good friend from England is planning to visit Kerala with her husband in January. She asked me if a raft ride in the Periyar river would be safe. My advice was that as long as I’m not in charge of navigation, they should be fine.

But who knows? As my forest guide who took me inside the Thekkady wildlife reserve at Periyar asked all those years ago,

“Who can predict wild animals?”

I was 25 years old then and roamed Idukky district extensively. I visited the forest so frequently that a distant relative had even named me “Thekkady Gopi”.

The first time, I went into the forest almost by accident. Strolling along the banks of Periyar, I saw a typical government-issue tent pitched just outside the forest on the river bank. An official told me that was where one booked for a walking tour of the forest. Seeing the look of alarm on my face, he reassured me,

“Don’t worry. In the last 20 years, only one person has been killed by a tiger.”

He also told me that a group of twenty Americans had signed up for the walk the next morning. Safety in numbers. I promptly added my name to the list. I had to sign a bond on a two-rupee stamp paper which absolved them of any responsibility in case I was attacked by wildlife.

The next morning, I arrived at the starting point expecting to see a sizeable group of Americans and a few armed guards to escort us. But there was no one there except for a puny young man wearing a lungi at half-mast and sandex (plastic slippers popular during the monsoons). He informed me that he would be my guide for the day. When I queried with some trepidation about the absent Americans, he simply said they had cancelled.

The only weapon he carried was a stick. I gawked at him, his stick and his apparel. I swallowed my disbelief and followed him into the forest. He was a man of few words, almost taciturn. We walked in silence into the deep forest. Although I had driven past many dense forests and perhaps gone inside some in protected vehicles, I had never really walked in one.

As we went deeper in, the harsh daylight was replaced by an almost dusk-like light, the canopy of lush foliage blocking the sunlight completely. The temperature inside had dropped a few degrees. A thick bed of leaves covered the forest floor. It felt like I was walking on a sprung mattress.

I had to deliberately erase from my mind the warnings my father used to give us as children when we visited Kunnoth (Ref Indishman) – never to step on dry leaves, abandoned ant hills or anything else where venomous snakes could be resting and, if stepped on, would bite us before we could say sorry. Other than flying like a bird, there was no way to avoid stepping on leaves.

There were no paths, designated or otherwise. I was relying totally on the lungi-man who seemed to know where he was going.

All of a sudden, he turned around and told me,

“If an elephant attacks you, run downhill. It gains speed uphill.”

My 25-year-old self had never experienced such raw, primeval fear.

“But, but…” I stammered, “you told me it is quite safe?”

“Yes, of course. But who can predict the behaviour of wild animals?” he replied casually.

The three of us – lungi-man, a bogeyman called Fear, and I – walked on. No tigers or elephants attacked us. A large group of wild boars, some with impressive tusks, scampered past but didn’t bore us to death. After a few hours we exited the forest.

I was never gladder to emerge from any physical space – or from a mind space consumed by fear – than I was that day.

But I am sure things have changed in Thekkady. Almost certainly there won’t be any walking tours in the forest. So you will float on the Periyar, lifejackets and all, watching wild elephants, sambar deer and tusked boars quench their thirst while your raft takes you on a staid and safe journey.