Before I climbed up into the jeep, the man in charge of our small party stepped forward, shook my hand and introduced himself as a ‘professional naturalist’. ‘Bloody hell,’ I said, thoroughly impressed. I’d expected a guide or a park ranger, not a full-blown naturalist.
I was the last to board the open-sided jeep and introduced myself to my fellow passengers. Beside me was a couple from south London, Jerry and Kelly, and behind us a middle-class Indian family: a shy man, his voluble wife and between them a portly son about 12 years old. They were up from Mumbai for a few days tiger-spotting and bird-watching.
At the entrance to the national park we filled in forms waiving our right to compensation should we be mauled to death by a tiger, while importunate hat-sellers shoved baseball caps and floppy bush hats under our noses.

Get Britain's best politics newsletters
Register to get The Spectator's insight and opinion straight to your inbox. You can then read two free articles each week.
Already a subscriber? Log in
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in