The Travel Gods Must Be Crazy

by Sudha Mahalingam

  Masai villages used to dot the Serengeti plains, but in the last fifty years, most of them have been moved to the periphery of the national parks. The Masai people are perhaps not the original inhabitants of this land but were itinerant pastoral people who, in recent times, settled down in villages scattered across eastern Africa. The Masai claim they do not hunt wild animals. That they have lived in peace alongside wildlife for generations gives credence to this claim. However, they have learnt to move with the times and make the most of what tourism can do for their economy. The chief of the village we visit speaks impeccable English as he explains Masai customs to visitors. He tells us that they herd cows as much for their blood as for their milk. ‘We draw blood from their necks once every few weeks for drinking, but without killing them.’ He also tells us how the practice of female circumcision has been discontinued. Malaria and the tsetse fly, which transmits sleeping sickness, are the two factors that limit the Masai population. The Masai have never farmed, a fact in which they take much pride.

  The Serengeti safari begins long before you enter the gates of the national park. There is such a profusion of game en route that you wonder where the park begins or ends. Half a dozen giraffes amble alongside your vehicle, making you feel like a character in a Jurassic Park movie. Giant ostriches take a break from their pecking to regard you with curiosity. Their claws are so powerful that with one blow they can crush your vehicle. Playful zebras butt each other and then stand companionably neck to neck as if to let you know they were only bantering. And thousands of wildebeest kick up dust as they cross the road in single file. Seeing so many of them, you are lulled into a sense of complacency. Surely, nothing can be wrong in a planet where so many animals roam freely in the wild.

  Our lunch stop is at Naabi Hill, an elevated rocky mound in the heart of Serengeti. It offers unhindered 360-degree views of the horizon. I trudge up to the top to take in the views, dodging dozens of agama lizards. Standing here, it is easy to believe that the earth is one flat burlap-coloured expanse. The black dots we spot yonder are wildebeest.

  Serengeti is a money-spinner for Tanzania. Ecotourism employs 6,00,000 local people and brings in $1 billion annually. Yet, Serengeti also cleaves Tanzania and makes the northern half of the country inaccessible. Arusha, the second largest town in Tanzania, nestles at the foot of Mt Kilimanjaro, in the far north of the country. In recent years, a newly discovered gem called tanzanite, similar to blue sapphire, is being mined in Arusha. More expensive than diamond, and marketed aggressively, the tanzanite trade has lent some urgency to the project to connect the north and the south. The soda ash found in Lake Victoria, oil from Uganda, and cotton also have to travel to markets in Dar es Salaam and beyond.

  Currently, access to Arusha and Lake Victoria is only possible by air unless you are willing to take a very cumbersome detour. For many years, the Tanzanian government toyed with the idea of building a road through the savannah to link Arusha to the coastal towns in the south. The Serengeti Highway would have run for hundreds of kilometres south to north, but crucially, 53 km of the proposed highway would have cut through the annual migration route. There was much debate within the country and internationally, and eventually, when the government decided to go ahead with the construction of the highway, which should have been completed in 2014, the African Network for Animal Welfare, a non-profit organization, moved the courts and obtained an order against the construction.

  We halt at Seronera Camp for the night. There are about a dozen tents. A zinc-sheet-roof cookhouse is a beehive of activity, with a dozen cooks rustling up fresh food for their respective clients. A huge tank provides fresh water, which is brought in daily. Suvale knows how to serve a meal in style, even in this wilderness. He has everything one might think of—fresh fruit, dessert, coffee. After dinner, we gaze at the zillions of stars hanging on a moonless sky. It is an indescribably beautiful night.

  And then begins our ordeal. In the middle of the night, we are woken up by the blood-curdling howl of hyenas. There must be dozens of them. We can hear them scampering around our tents, wailing and howling in chorus and at times thrusting their snouts through the thin tent cloth.

  Suddenly I feel a tug in my lower abdomen. No, not a hyena, but my own recalcitrant bladder which develops spontaneous incontinence for some reason. The toilet block is some 300 yards away, lit by a single solar lamp. For the rest, there is only starlight. Not only must I brave the howling horde of hyenas, but also skip over dozens of tent ropes to reach my destination. If I trip, the hyenas will have a feast.

  Father and son join my hunt for the torch somewhere on the floor of the tent. Finally, we locate it. I unfasten the flap of the tent and gingerly open it. There are more than a dozen pair of glowing eyes watching me, perhaps hoping I am going to throw them some morsels of meat. I panic and shut the flap at once. A few minutes later, they are still there, now silently staring at the tent. By now, my bladder is in no mood to brook any delay. I flash the torch into their eyes and let out a piercing shriek. One backs off a little as I can make out by the two glows moving back. After watching so many programmes on National Geographic and Discovery, I know the trick lies in establishing who is the alpha male in the group. I think I managed it the first time with my scream. I follow it up with another and yet another shriek and steadily advance, flashing the torch all the while.

  Gradually, I see several pairs of glowing coals receding farther and farther. Emboldened, I step out of the tent with a pole for additional protection, and make my way to the toilet. It takes all my nerve to cross the 300 yards in full view of the glowing eyes. Eventually, I manage to reach my destination and finish my job. When I return, I find the hyenas have disappeared into the night.

  Skydiving at Sixty-Six

  As the first rays of the rising sun caress its smooth flanks, Uluru glows red-hot against the surrounding flat scrubland. From this height, it seems every bit as iconic and seductive as the posters make it out to be. But I am unable to appreciate the spectacular views from my uncomfortable position. The body of the plane is just a tiny tin cylinder and I am seated on the floor with my legs stretched out in front of me. There is absolutely no room for manoeuvre. The pilot’s cabin is partitioned away just where my foot ends. The roof is inches away from my head and both my palms are resting on the sides of the plane. On the right, the entire side of the tin box makes up the door that had slid up smoothly along the roof to let us—Alois and me—board the plane.

  Alois is my tandem guide today. We will be skydiving together. He is sitting uncomfortably close behind me, and his legs are stretched out just outside mine. My head is resting on his chest and I can feel his breath on my cheek. Now you get the drift. Yes, we are literally stacked like two spoons. Alois is busy tethering himself to my life jacket. I can feel the tug of belts going around my belly and back. We boarded as two individuals, but now our destiny is inextricably (I hope) bound together by clasps and straps.

  It has been just a few minutes since takeoff and we are already cruising at 15,000 feet and it is time to jump off. Alois slides open the flimsy door to let in a savage gush of wind that almost knocks me out. The roar of the wind makes it impossible for me to even communicate my terror to Alois whom I cannot see.

  Alois has recently relocated to Uluru, all the way from his native France. He claims to have successfully completed more than 3000 tandem dives so far, most of them in France. I have my doubts though, considering his youthful face and impish smile.

  He nudges me towards the open door where I am supposed to dangle my feet outside the plane, preparatory to the jump. This is the moment of reckoning, the Rubicon I am about to cross. But having signed away my life in an elaborate waiver, indemnifying Uluru Skydiving against any claims by my progeny or by myself if I survive this, I have little choice but to comply. I mutter a silent prayer and fervently hope Alois had not been doing drugs the previous night or nursing a hangover after a heavy boozing session.

  I figure it is too late to chick
en out now. I heave my legs out of the aircraft, tugging Alois behind me; at once I feel giddy and disoriented. ‘Banana, banana!’ Alois screams in my ear, hoping to be heard above the din of the merciless wind. Just before we had boarded the plane, Alois had given me a five-minute—mind you, just five-minute—instruction on how to skydive, bending my body like a ripe banana. ‘You cross your arms over your chest, arch your back, tilt your head backwards mimicking the shape of a bent banana,’ he had told me before we boarded. I had to fill up a form where I had to declare my age as well. ‘You’re sixty-six? Well, my grandma is younger. I can now persuade her to skydive with me,’ he says with a chuckle. And then sagely declares that skydiving has nothing to with one’s age, but with one’s mental make-up, with all the solemnity that only a twenty-something can muster.

  I contort my body into a banana as best I can, considering Alois is strapped to me all the while. The decision to let go—of control over life and limb—is not a conscious one any more. It just happens.

  In the next few seconds, I am spinning through the air, hostage to the elements that whirl us round and round rather speedily, like a top. I lose my bearings completely. There is a rush of adrenaline and a sensory overload, a sensation like no other. I have crossed the Rubicon and lost all control over what would happen next. The feeling is more freedom than fear. Nothing matters any more. I feel totally at peace with myself, cobalt-blue skies above seeing me off wistfully, brown earth below rushing towards me like a long-lost lover, the wind caressing my face affectionately and keeping me afloat (apart from the clasp entrusting my destiny to Alois, of course)—the feeling is one of liberation!

  At some point, we must have slowed down, whirling around. I catch a fleeting glimpse of the underside of the plane that seems to have shrunk in size and moved away. It is then I realize I have already fallen quite a distance from the moment we dived. I had not felt it because I was whirling away merrily like a top. As I begin to make sense of my bearings, I find myself horizontal, with Alois floating somewhere above me. Alois taps me on my shoulder, asking me to stretch my arms—Kate Winslet style in Titanic. Although the earth is speeding towards me at 140 km/hr, I feel I am floating in eternity—an unbearable lightness of being.

  Alois taps me again on my shoulder and asks me to look into the GoPro camera strapped to his right hand. My puffer jacket has ballooned to block my face, but he smooths it down for the selfie. How he manages to do this when both of us are hurtling down in free fall still astonishes me. I turn to face the camera and try to smile, but all I can manage is a wan grimace.

  Now I begin to notice my surroundings. Yonder, Uluru beckons seductively. Directly below me, the earth seems to be rushing towards us like a spaceship spinning out of control. I can even make out the mounds and shadows and the endless scrubland stretching to the horizon. After about thirty seconds of free fall, Alois yanks the parachute open and suddenly both of us turn vertical with a jerk. From now on, the descent is gradual, allowing me enough time to savour the delights of the outback from this vantage position.

  Once taller than the Andes, now reduced to a stub just 348 metres in height, Uluru is nevertheless stunning, whichever angle you view it from. From the sky, it stands out from the rest of the landscape on account of its sheer ochre sheen and shape. From the ground, the chiaroscuro light and shade tantalizes from afar. When you get up close, the mound changes hues dramatically from moment to moment. The striations wrought by elements over millennia on its otherwise smooth surface stand out in stark relief, scored and pitted by dark shadows. These patterns as well as the rest of the outback have inspired thousands of generations of Aboriginal art.

  In the twinkling of an eye, we are near the landing point, a brown square of clearing amidst the endless scrubland. A jeep is waiting some distance away. Alois tugs the cord and tells me to get into landing position, which is to lift both my legs up, parallel to the earth. He lands on his feet and pulls down the parachute which is bloated and heavy with the wind. I go careening on my backside and land on Alois’s toes. He winces, unstraps himself from me, folds down the recalcitrant parachute and packs it into the jeep. Although I am physically back on Mother Earth, I still feel afloat, light and heady. I wonder why fear was not one of the emotions I felt when jumping out of the aircraft.

  Back home, my family refuses to believe I actually skydived at age sixty-six. Thankfully, Alois remembered to send me the GoPro pics. I have even blown up one of these into a poster and stuck it prominently above the dining table to shut them up. But I know I will not skydive again. It is just not thrilling enough.

  The author dangling precariously at 12,000 feet manages to feign exhilaration, well almost

  1 At the time of writing in 2018, Astana had become the second largest city in Kazakhstan, with over a million residents.

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  This collection published 2019

  Copyright © Sudha Mahalingam 2019

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  Jacket images © Akangksha Sarmah

  ISBN: 978-0-143-44654-5

  This digital edition published in 2019.

  e-ISBN: 978-9-353-05513-4

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