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.
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