The Tourists That We Are

29Mar07

We couldn’t pronounce her name in Nepali, so we just called her by her nickname, Lady Luck. We were introduced by one of the park naturalists at the safari tour office. She was enormous, an absolute giant with a sagging belly and thighs like tree-trunks. She had tiny, beady eyes that were sunk into her broad head. The pink that replaced the white gave her a tired look, but she was alert and quicker than one might expect. She understood not a word of English, and remained silent for the most part, something that made it easy to imagine that not much was going on underneath that mop of wiry hair. But you would be wrong.

Lady Luck was our guide for the morning trek through the jungles of Chitwan, and only by her grace did we remain safe from the many dangerous animals that prowled the dense forests. Her footfalls were almost silent, surprising for such large feet moving over piles of dry wood and bush. She brought with her an aura of calmness that allowed us to move right up to animals that otherwise would never have allowed it. We got within three meters of a mother and infant white rhino, who grazed in the safety of the thick bushes. We strolled past wild boar, busy rooting through the cool morning mud. We stood amid a herd of spotted deer, and got close enough to a larger stag that I could have reached out and touched his tall antlers. We paused to watch four meter long crocodiles warm themselves on the shore. All of these species of wild animals regularly attack humans in the park, injuring and even killing tourists every year. She certainly earned the name Lady Luck, most tourists see very little without spending a week doing safaris in the jungle and grasslands. We saw peacocks amid their mating dance, troupes of monkeys flinging themselves through the trees and many types of rare birds. We even saw a tiny gold bird (which couldn’t help but remind me of J.K. Rowling’s Golden Snitch) which we were told was very rare and is said to be a sign of being very lucky.

After lunch I had intended to go and hide in the shade of our bamboo cottage, and perhaps sip some cool water while reading a little of my book. One of the park agents had told us that Lady Luck would be down by the riverside cafe if we wanted to join her. I had declined the kind offer, but had only plonked myself down on one of the wicker chairs when I was hauled out of it again by my friends. I complained that the whole scene was way too touristy for me, the riverside crawling with rich, white westerners drawling in American accents. “We just had a look, the place is really quiet! There aren’t many tourists around. It will be fun, come on yeh git!”

Flip-flopping down to the water-front I frown at the image we paint. With white naked skin, baggy shorts and backpacks we looked like every tourist that we spent so much time and effort trying to be different to. “What are we doing?” I moaned loudly as we scrambled over the dunes to the water. They had lied to me, the place was crawling with tourists splashing about in the slow-moving river. It looked like the Africa Resort, Disneyland and I felt irritated just being there. But then we spotted Lady Luck lurching over towards us. Her boy was wildly gesturing for us to join them all of that left my mind. Even I couldn’t help grinning at the opportunity to become children again. Hurtling ourselves into the water we followed the boys lead and clambered atop Lady Luck, our trio squeeling and yelling with joy as she flung us about like insignificant toys. Hanging on rodeo-style, we did our best to withstand the earthquake shaking that she gave us, eventually sending us cartwheeling and flipping into the water. Being blasted with mud and frothy river, we fought a doomed water battle with her for ten minutes before conceding defeat. Finally exhausted from the adrenaline and exertion we searched for flat stones on the river bottom, using their rough surfaces to scrub the caked earth from her leathery skin and give her a thorough exfoliation. While she lay on her side, half submerged in the fast flowing current, her head was dunked fully in the cool water, only the tip of her nose protruded to allow the air to reach her mighty lungs.

Staggering back onto the sandy shore, we toweled ourselves down and through back on pants and shirts. Waving goodbye to Lady Luck we sprang up the dunes back to our hotel.

We spend so much thought and effort avoiding the thronging tourists that overwhelm so much of the South Asian countries. We plan routes less travelled, we eat in local restaurants surrounded by local people, we travel on the packed local trains and ride on the rooftops of the local buses sharing our snacks with our fellow passengers. I’ve had conversations with Hindus and Sikhs and Muslims and Buddhists and rich businessmen and poor traders and old women and young students and uneducated farmers and highly-educated teachers. The one type of person I actively avoid is the tourist. Expensive clothes and too many cameras and bags that don’t fit through doors. I avoid the tourists because they are so often ignorant, too often self involved and almost always too happy to hold a passport as a shield and a guidebook as a weapon. But most of all I avoid tourists because I hate that I blend right in with them. I hate being seen as a walking money belt by the touts. I hate being given practiced smiles by businessmen. I hate being treated like a better class of human by the locals, because I was born in a society that often seems to have more money than love.

But I look down at my one hundred and fifty euro boots, throw my one hundred litre rucksack over my shoulder and hand my friend his professional quality digital camera. Some things are worth admitting you’re a tourist for a couple hours. Some things are worth cheering with the rich Americans and pompous Brits and sharing sun-cream with the skinny Germans and chain-smoking French. Sometimes it’s worth asking the gung-ho Israelis to hold your bag and smile at the bespectacled Japanese while you roll up your trouser legs. Some things are worth even me admitting that I’m a self absorbed, over educated, under experienced, self inflated Irishman who’s got dollars in his pockets like all the others.

And washing a three tonne elephant in a lazy jungle river is definitely, definitely one of them.

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