India – Which are more conspicuous: stripes or spots? This was the question I mulled over on the drive through southern Rajasthan towards Jawai.
A previous visit to India had taken me into Jungle Book territory at a critical time for the nation’s tiger population. A temporary ban would soon come into force, prohibiting tourism in tiger reserves. Although I’d been able to visit two of Madhya Pradesh’s finest – Pench and Kanha – I’d been warned not to expect to see the increasingly threatened big cats.
Incredibly, an adult female obliged – perhaps in some way a cry for help not to lock the gates and leave her at the mercy of poachers. The small population of leopards, however, remained elusive, preferring to hunt during the cool of night.
As I bumped over the scrubby, sun-baked tracks towards Jawai Leopard Camp, I decided this time to focus on the landscape rather than the wildlife.
The camp reopened last year for its second season at the lip of the Aravali Hills. It is owned by Sujan, the pioneering company that, with the Sher Bagh group, introduced the luxury safari camp concept in 2000 to the Ranthambore National Park – Rajasthan’s most popular park for tiger safaris.
Sujan’s owner, Jaisal Singh, grew up in a family of conservationists and saw a unique opportunity at Jawai. It is a region thought to have between 40 and 50 leopards, one of the biggest populations of the big cat in India.
Crucially though, this isn’t a national park – its name flows from a lake where flamingos decorate the water like lotus flowers.
I hopped into one of Jawai’s customised 4x4s to complete the final approach with South African naturalist guides Adam and Nicky.
The absence of gates or fences was notable.
“The land isn’t protected,” Adam would later explain.
Singh spent a considerable time surveying the landscape before choosing the 8 hectares for his latest luxury camp. He settled on a picturesque plot framed by two beehive-like hills.
Unlike the jungles of Ranthambore and the parks of Madhya Pradesh, the setting here is pastoral. Crops are sown in renegade fashion during the mercilessly brief fertile period after the monsoon. I’d arrived to see it in full flourish. Bundles of maize were being gathered up by farmers.
Nomadic Rabari herdsmen in alabaster-white tunics and dhotis (trousers) ushered sheep along the sandy tracks.
The dozen air-conditioned tents are tucked among tall grasses, their white canvas concealing supremely luxurious living quarters – power showers, king-size beds, double sinks and wi-fi, all as sleekly monochrome as the black-and-white canvases that hint at Singh’s skill for wildlife photography.
Colin, the Scottish geologist had arrived in India with Nicky, his girlfriend, the previous day – she from the Singita Game Reserve in South Africa, he from an expedition ship in Antarctica. And when it came to rocks, Colin was bordering on delirium. While Nicky tried to explain leopards’ natural rhythms and social structure, he spritzed our evening safari drive with cries of awe, explaining how the landscape here was far older than the Aravali hills that surrounded us.
We drove through the village of Sena and past the “oval” where a game of cricket was taking place.
At Devgiri rock, a priest was locking up his temple, created in a great fissure. “They’re seen as guardians,” Nicky explained.
After the sun had dipped below the horizon we got lucky. Stationed at the foot of Devgiri rock, we waited patiently, entertained by a troupe of dancing langurs while Nicky’s torch scanned the surface until two flashes of the reflective tapetum lucidum in leopard’s eyes revealed our target. A female leopard was emerging for the night.
These shy creatures retreat to the cool of caves during the day – and this female had more reason to do so, as two flashes by her side revealed. With the aid of binoculars, I could just make out the silhouette of her cub.
After a sublime supper of Rajasthani lamb laal maas curry and Indian cabernet sauvignon, savoured in the glow of candles, lanterns and moonlight, I felt I’d barely slept before my alarm went off for the dawn drive.
The sounds and smells were more intense in the dark.
This time, it was Colin who spotted it, melting into his beloved rocks as the sun gradually revealed its form close to where we’d left its mother the previous evening. Innocently looking out across the landscape, the big eyes signalled one of the cubs, waiting for its mother to return.
Having now seen two generations of leopard, it was easy to relax into the rhythms of the countryside, breathing in the sweet scent of the crops, listening to the birds, feeling the cool air as it gradually warmed with the dawn, waving to the children who rushed out to greet our 4x4 each time we drove through the village.
On our final evening, Varun, the camp’s field operations manager, took me out on another drive. “This time we’ll give the leopards a rest,” he said as we threaded through the fields up to a towering rock above Sena. On the demanding hike up, we passed shepherds and their flocks on the lower flanks.
A flag marked out a shrine at the crest, where I turned around to take in the view. The village, home to around 1 500 people spread out at the foot of the rock. Rising between the two was Devgiri rock, home to our family of leopards, closer to the village than I was now.
Varun explained that the leopards preyed mostly on peacocks, only occasionally taking a sheep or goat – and even then, this is considered auspicious; because the cats often seek out temples, they are regarded as holy custodians. This is resonant, given that in other parts of India, big cat attacks often result in revenge killings. It’s also where Jawai comes in – the camp now has the responsibility of helping to monitor and conserve the population.
On the way back to camp, we stopped at a small temple for the night-time prayer ritual.
It was an evocative end to the rarest of experiences, which could only have been enhanced had a leopard arrived to keep guard at the door.
The Independent