There's an iceberg in my drink

I am dreaming of Antarctica these days. You heard me right - Antarctica. That fast shrinking but still the most desolate, coldest, windiest and emptiest place on Earth. But before you go green with envy, let me clarify that I am nowhere on my way to the white continent in the near future. I am just dreaming. Like last night, I dreamt that I was sunbathing with the Leopard Seals, the sound of crashing icebergs lulling me to a gentle sleep. The night before, I was sharing a picnic basket with a family of Emperor Penguins, drifting on a piece of iceberg. You get the drift?

"The Fantastic Antarctica by Aneu Martinez, courtesy of They Draw & Travel.
http://www.theydrawandtravel.com/maps/the-fantastic-antarctica-aneu-martinez

Anyway, as I was saying, I am dreaming of the big A these days. And since I believe in the adage, don’t dream, just do, or whatever it is that they say - I did it, too. Put an itinerary in place. Then did the budget. Then literally fell down from the chair.

The cheapest of the cruises to Antarctica, for a week, can set your savings back to a few months. Or years, depending on how much you save. You need to fly to Argentina or Chile (depending on which part of the world you are coming from) and then fly or hitchhike down to the tip of South America (depending on your budget), either to Punta Arenas in Chile or to Ushuaia in Argentina, to catch a cruise ship to Antarctica. Or fly and cruise, if you are related to the royals, somewhere, somehow. Well, all options considered, I have worked out an itinerary. And every time I look at it, especially wherever the $ sign appears, my heart sinks like the Titanic that was sunk by an iceberg.

But being a very positive girl, I am concentrating on the good parts. So far, I have managed to find one. You don’t need a visa. My latest quest has been to only visit countries where we, Indians, don't need a visa beforehand. Yes, I am getting old and am losing patience over the bureaucratic nightmare that is often called ‘obtaining a visa on Indian passport when you do not live in India’. Now though it limits my options of countries to visit, it opens up new vistas. Countries like Comoros, Togo, Turks and Caicos Islands, Palau or Tuvalu. I can come up with a few more exotic names, that I can bet all my savings on, you have never heard of; but I will be digressing. Anyway, Antarctica is not governed by any specific country, rather by the Antarctic Treaty, signed in 1959 by 12 countries, initially. Today, 45 countries or so come under the treaty, the main aim of which is to prohibit military activities and mineral mining, while supporting scientific research and protecting the continent's ecozone. And to cut a long story short, making holidays possible without a visa. Hurrah!

In the evening, over a cup of coffee, I show off my latest acquired knowledge to A.

That Antarctica is considered a desert, because it experiences even less rains than the Saharas (huh!?).
That the name ‘Antarctica’ comes from a Greek word meaning ‘opposite to the north’ (duh!).
That at least two active volcanoes exist in Antarctica (wah!).

As A is warming up to my trivia, I, very casually, sell him the adventure of conquering the final frontier. Is the raised eyebrows a sign of ‘tell-me-more’ or ‘I-don’t-like-the-way-this-conversation-is-headed’?

Be positive. Keep calm. Throw in a few more interesting facts.

That if you throw boiling water into the air in Antarctica, it will instantly vaporize. Most of the particles will turn into steam while others will instantly be converted to small pieces of ice.
That Antarctica is the only continent without a timezone.
That 30,000-40,000 summer tourists visit Antarctica every year.

Now he is asking questions. That is a good sign, right? What would be the temperature like in summer? I consider my options. Will an average of 2°C during summer months in Antarctica freak him out? Or should I avoid the temperature question altogether and instead, veer the conversation towards Global Warming and how the huge shelves of ice are melting away with every passing day and this is our now-or-never moment? I opt for the truth and to my relief, he has warmed up to winters these days and does not mind the chill, he says.

He is starting to feel like Captain Roald Amundsen now, so I slip in the budget.

And I exaggerate not, A has caught a cold almost instantly. He hasn't stopped sneezing since. So much for my Captain Roald. He has been so shocked after he heard the budget that he forgot to close the refrigerator door that night after grabbing his midnight snacks and we have had our very own incident of Global Warming in our kitchen the next day. So much for conquering the most desolate place on earth.

So I am left to dream alone again. I have figured out that if I can manage to save very diligently for the next 30 months, sacrificing my macchiatos and some holidays and on-sale-and-hence-justified purchases, then we can afford the excursion. But then again, after 2.5 years, the costs will have gone up and I'd be needed to save for another 24 months. Very much like the property rates in Bombay - no matter how much you earn, you never can afford one!

Plan B is to buy some lottery. But that's more like B for bad, because with my luck, I will never win anything. No sudden inheritance from either side of the families on the radar also - so Plan C for childless, rich uncle has to be scrapped as well.

As I seriously consider one plan after the other, my mother calls to inform me that one of my money back policies from LIC has decided it's time to pay the money back for all the premiums I have paid over the last 15 years or so. I feel elated. Surely our air tickets will be taken care of now. I recalculate the cost and my savings equation as my mother, like always, looks for her reading glass, answers the doorbell, shares home remedies for diarrhea with my sister on the other line, while putting me on hold on an international call. She finally comes around after 15 minutes and triumphantly informs that I have had a Rs. 40,000 windfall gain. That is around U$700. Thank you very much. You can keep the change.

So I have finally devised another plan. I share it with A as I am confident that he will agree. I plan to run away from home and join an expedition to the South Pole as the ship's tenth mate. Sweep the floor, empty the garbage - you know, do the works and see the world. But wait, wasn't that exactly the plan I had hatched while reading Moby-Dick many many years back. Things haven't changed much around here. Only now, I have a partner in crime.

Or so I think. A listens to my idea with that look in his eyes, the look that says the-poor-girl-has-finally-flipped and the look that he gives me often. And then very nonchalantly suggests that I’d better come down from the highest continent and concentrate on more pressing matters - like finalising our next holiday - the week long detox and fasting session in Ubud that we have promised ourselves next year. 

Now that is one holiday I am having nightmares about. That’s the last holiday I want to plan. So I go back to dreaming about the last holiday I’d ever want to take - an expedition to the white sheets of Antarctica, drifting along the icebergs, watching the giant Humpback and Sperm whales in action, walking with the Emperor Penguins and ducking the Albatross.

Tonight I plan to revert to Plan Z and dream of Aurora Australis. We are camping somewhere above the Antarctic Circle, watching the ethereal burst of colours thrown by the solar winds, in the still of the night, with a zillion of billions of Milky Ways to keep us company. Well, dreams come free, if not true and a dream about Antarctica is always priceless. And you heard me right, I am dreaming of Antarctica these days.

C'est l'été et Paris me manque

I am a self confessed francophile. I don’t care what people say (and especially A) - I am in love with France. Why, for a very brief period, I even had a crush on Sarkozy. Mid-life crisis, as A puts it. Perhaps. Otherwise, why would I spend two years, in my mid-thirties - trying to master the language. To no avail, because, the French speakers, without any fail, have always preferred speaking to me in English. I try and console myself by thinking that they need to brush up their English, too. I do take pride in the fact that I can understand French, if it is being spoken very slowly. Once in a while, I try and translate French movies for A. The fact that he prefers to watch French movies with the English subtitles on is a different story.

J'aime Paris. Cynics call it a city of cynics - I call it a city of no-nonsense people. If you are a Parisian, no tourner autour du pot for you. All my trips to Europe, I have tried to plan it such that we have at least a couple of days to spend in Paris. CDG is a nightmare, but I love the chaos. I love getting out of the plane, walking miles to take a bus to change terminals, going up and down and forward the long escalators and travelators, queuing up patiently for immigration clearance, fighting off fellow passengers to retrieve my luggage, reading the signs and finding the way to the RER B Line and proudly showing off my language skill while buying the tickets to Gare du Nord.

I love the tiny chambre d'hôtes we stay in and the warm croissants and the dark chocolate I have for breakfast every morning when I am in Paris. I love sitting in the petit cafe’ by the roadside, watching the world go by and sipping my rose’. I love the boulangeries where you get the most amazingly decadent, sweet, beautifully constructed, magnificent little pâtisserie that can make your heart cry out in joy. I hate their baguettes though - the only thing I hate about Paris.

I love the aimless long walk we always take from Louvre to Arc de Triomphe, through Champs-Élysées. I love the window dressings of the designer stores in Champs-Élysées and the sense of dressing of an average Parisian. I love taking the Metro and saying aloud the names of the stations with the announcer to get my pronunciation right. I love their quirky roadside art and their smart cars and Segways.

I love the evenings spent by the Seine, when a band strikes up some ridiculously romantic tune just for the pleasure of the lovers walking hand in hand. I love the lovers, sitting on the river bank, oblivious to the world around them, weaving their dreams together. I love the strain of accordion drifting through the air, catching me unaware with a familiar tune, whose lyrics I could never master. I love watching the sky turn from blue to orange to red, turning the world golden with it as the sun sets in the Seine

I love discovering the weird museums of Paris - from Catacombes de Paris and Musée Edith Piaf and Cinémathèque Française to Le Musée des Égouts de Paris (Museum of Sewer, which I plan to invade the next time I am there).

I love exploring the marchés - and mostly marchés aux puces, or flea markets, where I can pick up an owl or a trinket and polish up my bargaining skill in French. Be it St-Ouen de Clignancourt or Rue de Bretagne, if you can laugh at a joke and be polite, you may come out with a good bargain. Yes, the French homme, be he 8 or 80, can always make a woman feel special.

I love getting lost in the city and figuring my way out from one arrondissement to the other. I love the quirky Metro stations - Arts et Metier which looks like a submarine or Louvre-Rivoli station, with its mini museum of artworks or Abbesses station, with its glass canopy which is so 1800’s art nouveau. I love walking up to Sacre Coeur and catching some breathtaking views of the city, atop Montmartre. I love the ugly Tour Eiffel and how beautiful it looks when it is all lit up at night.

I love coming back to our chambre d'hôtes after a long aimless, itinerary free day and planning the next day, while soaking our weary feet in the bathtub. And then forgetting all about the plans the next day and again aimlessly walking around the city, discovering it as we go, in the midst of foliage, steeples, blue skies and cobblestones. Something new, something funny, something weird, something amazing - Paris never fails to keep me in awe. I love being a Parisian - even if it's for a few days. And everytime I leave Paris, I say au revoir (see you again) and not adieu (goodbye) because I know that I will be back sous le ciel de Paris, someday soon.

The future is bright, the future is Ojek.

Destination: A’s office, 15 minutes away from our home.
Itinerary: An Indian dinner, followed by ZNMD.

When you have kali daal and succulent kebabs in mind, followed by Farhan Akhtar for dessert, you want to start right away.

Yet, here I am, stuck in the infamous Jakarta traffic, inside a narrow lane, for the last 40 minutes. There are cars everywhere and motorcycles. They come in droves and my driver, though he’s been trying his best to maneuver his way through this nightmare, is looking quite hapless. A has already called twice and is already talking about cancelling the evening plan.

When I say narrow, I mean, really narrow. Narrower than the ‘gali’s of Calcutta or Benaras and one wonders how can they allow traffic, that too, both ways, to pass this bi-lane. I ask the driver, yet again, if I can abandon the car and walk to A’s office and his answer has not been very encouraging. And even if I were to walk, I wouldn’t know where to go. I am in an unknown back road, in the middle of a colossal mess and no GPS can guide me through these lanes and bi-lanes of Jakarta anyway - that I am sure of.

My driver, the enterprising guy that is, realises my frustration and calls his friend, a courier guy from A’s office, and explains the situation to him. A’s office is 5 minutes away from where we are stranded and his friend, who has a motorcycle, is asked to come down and escort us through this mess.

In another 5 minutes, our saviour is here, in his motorcycle. My driver assures me that we will now be able to make it to A’s office in another 30 minutes, perhaps (being the key word), with the help of our beacon.

But I have had enough sitting pretty in the AC, away from the dust and heat , watching the cars and counting the bikes and looking at my watch. Time for some action now. I ask my driver if it is possible to hitch a ride with his friend, instead of waiting. Even as I put forth the suggestion, I realise how crazy I sound. You see, the two wheelers, locally known as the Ojek, serve as the lifeline of Jakarta and by the look of it, seem quite dangerous. They dive and maneuver through the standstill traffic in what looks like a very menacing stunt. But between Farhan Akhtar and my limb, I would definitely go for the former. So yes, I am desperate.

Even before my driver can answer, I hop onto the bike, wave my driver goodbye and say my prayers. I can see, from the corner of my eyes, the bewildered look on my driver’s face - yes, he certainly did not expect this from me! But I am beyond care now - my patience has bid adieu to me a long while back.

So the ride starts. We zig and zag and make our way through the honking cars. We hit the main road and catch up with the rest of the traffic that is, at least, moving. We see a few inches of free space between a bus and the pavement and scrape through it. We honk our way through, threaten to run over a man trying to jaywalk through this crazy traffic and zip past the cars. All this while, with a grin plastered on my face. Yes, I am loving it. I am loving the wind that’s caressing my hair, I am loving the missed heartbeat as we make leeway between two vehicles, I am loving the thrill of the ride. But what I am loving most is the memories this ride is bringing back. Back in Calcutta, back when I was young, back when a bike was my preferred mode of transportation, back when I was foolhardy enough to throw all cautions to the wind and ride recklessly.

In 3 minutes flat, we approach A’s office. I can see A and our friends waiting impatiently at the car park, probably, cancelling the evening plans at that precise moment. I feel like asking my saviour to make a grand entry in his tiny two wheeler, screeching the brake right in front of them. But I am yet to pick up the local language and all I can manage is a Terima Kasi. My friends have spotted me by now, though from the look of it, they don’t believe that it’s actually me who’s getting off the two wheeler. A is amused and the other two friends are horrified. And me, I am ecstatic. My adventure for the day is done, I don’t need a Farhan Akhtar to make me feel alive.

Like a friend said, I have rode pillion on an Ojek, I have lived the true Betawi life. Jakarta, you can’t bring me down. Now I know how not to get intimidated by your traffic, now I know where there’s a pair of wheels, there’s a way.

Jiving in Jakarta

There are little things in life you take for granted. Like, having an uninterrupted Internet connection - 24x7. Or being able to ask basic questions like ‘Do you have beer?’ in a supermarket. Or letting the maintenance guy know that the drains in the bathroom are clogged and you need a plumber.

20 days in Jakarta and I am appreciating all these. The Internet here has its own mind - comes and goes as it pleases. As does my domestic help. English is a foreign language and could very well have been Greek. All my dumb charade skills, so far, have proved to be insufficient to get my queries across.

A word of advice given to me by a friend, who’s been here long enough to know what he was talking about, was that every expat in Jakarta goes through their highs and lows. You like it a minute, love it by the hour and then become so frustrated that loathing is all that you feel for weeks. I took a bet with him that I will not let that happen to me. He said, we’ll talk in 6 months’ time. Over a bottle of Vodka, paid by the loser.

When we decided to come here, I had made up my mind to embrace this crazy city and this chaotic country with all its negatives and spin it out into a positive experience. Sure, the infrastructure sucks. So, I come from India. Okay, things don’t work. Yeah, I have seen enough of that in India.

Jakarta reminds me of Bombay - crazy traffic, lazy infrastructure, chaos, pollution, poverty and all that dirt and grime. And like Bombay, it has that vibe that you experience the moment you arrive - the resilience, the never-give-up attitude, the life that you witness in every nook and cranny. Yes, it is beautiful, if you know where and how to look.

In a way, I was missing all this in Kuala Lumpur over the last few years. What’s life without a little chaos, right? Or so I thought. What I had not taken into account is that I had left India almost 7 years back. Got spoilt in Kuala Lumpur. Got used to smooth roads and clean air. Grown older and acquired a bit of impatience.

So yes, I have had my moments of exhilaration here in Jakarta, when instead of feeling bogged down by the traffic, I have concentrated on the stories being played out on the busy streets. Or when I have found the perfect home and discovered a ‘duck place’, that also serves siew yok.

And I have also had my share of frustration when my domestic help has turned up only 5 out of 20 days so far and I can’t get to make people understand that I am looking for a new one. Or when the cabbie has shortchanged me and all I can do is give him a ‘I-know-what-you-are-doing-but-I-don’t-know-how-to-confront-you’ look.

Friends back in India, I again empathize with all your ‘maid-bunked-yet-again’, ‘cabbies-are-devil-reincarnated’ and ‘traffic-not-moving-an-inch’ FB status woes.

But I am not giving up. There’s always a solution to any problem, if you want to solve it. Be smart & get a smart phone. Pick up the local language asap. Do your own house work and make the hubby do some too. And practice meditation to regain that patience.

The South America journals have taken a back seat now - all those who have been complaining need to do some meditation as well. I promise as soon as I am calm enough to recompose my thoughts, I will write something. Having an access to Internet will help, of course, to upload my blog. Not to forget solving the mystery of the clogged drains. And learning Bahasa. Google Translate is obviously not helping me here. 

So wish me luck. I do need that bottle of Vodka! (yet another thing in life we had taken for granted - a well stocked bar at home).

More From Mara Slideshow: Sasha’s trip from Kuala Lumpur, Wilayah Persekutuan, Malaysia to Masai Mara National Reserve, Kenya was created by TripAdvisor. See another Masai Mara National Reserve slideshow. Create your own stunning free slideshow from your travel photos.

Shark Tale

No late night for us, even though we are on a holiday. The sea food and red wine session at V&A waterfront had to be wrapped up early, so that we could be in bed by 9, sober enough to wake up at 4 am. Skip the morning shower as it is freezing cold. Have a couple of biscuits for breakfast and huddle ourselves inside the pick up van at around 4.30 am, all set for our trip to see the Great White Sharks in action at the "Shark Alley", near the fishing village of Gansbaai, off Dyer Island. It is around 160 km from Cape Town and the journey takes about 2 hours. I cannot tell you much about the journey though; as I promptly went off to sleep the moment I made myself comfortable inside the minivan. As and when I would wake up – mostly to pinch A, if he started snoring, I passed by some pretty scenery and picture perfect villages. I drift in and out of sleep, watching the sun breaking out in the horizon and admiring the freshly washed morning sky.

Cage diving with Great White Sharks is a popular tourist attraction off the coasts of Australia, South Africa, and Guadalupe Island in Baja California. A common practice is to chum the water with pieces of fish to attract sharks, while the divers are lowered in the water inside a steel cage, through which they can watch the action. Not sure if that is a good way to lure the sharks, but since I am in South Africa, and this is my only chance to see the Great Whites up, close and personal, I just had to do it.

We reach Gansbaai at around 7 – all charged up for the adventure. We are taken to a cottage – which serves as the office of the Tour Operator we have booked for the Shark Diving. There are plenty of operators running diving cruises and plenty of takers as well. We are about 20 in our group that range from a 10 year old kid to a 50 year old woman. We are served breakfast and briefed about the journey ahead. We are also given bright orange hoods to save ourselves from the Rain God, as the weatherman predicted some heavy showers during the day.

We are out in the sea by 8 and the rain starts pouring down on us by 8.15. Hallelujah. As I sit there, trying to save myself from the downpour, while balancing myself, along with my paraphernalia, in a very choppy sea, I ponder over my relationship with the Weather Gods. How they hate me! When I went whale watching last year, it rained so hard that the trip almost got cancelled. But we went ahead anyway in the rain, braving the cold. Then the balloon ride over Masai Mara – no one could save that from the wraths of the Wind God, who decided to blow a little more intensely that very morning. And today the Rain God had to strike again.

The already cold temperature drops further. The catamaran tosses and turns in the lashing waves like a paper boat. People start throwing up. I hold on to my pride for a while but soon, my breakfast and all the sea food I had consumed over the last 2 days come pouring out. I decide to spend some time in the toilet, getting sick and feeling miserable. The boat is now anchored near the seal island and the stink from a colony of hundreds of seals only makes the matter worse.

I manage to empty my stomach and make my way gingerly towards the deck. The first batch of divers is already in their wet suits and inside the cage in the water. The chum is in the water, a pound of tuna, soaked in blood, living a trail to attract the predator. No sign of the Great White, though. The poor divers sit in the rain and cold for almost half an hour. It seems like the sharks have also called in sick because of the downpour.

We are all getting restless when suddenly the captain shouts “Go under” – a call for the divers to get their heads under the water as a shark makes it way to the bait. I am expecting a “Jaws” like scenario – a triangle shaped fin zigzagging towards us, with the background score et al – but it’s nothing like that. Just the tip is visible in the distance and before we know it, we see it swimming near the cage. It seems harmless enough – more like the fish you catch sight of while diving or snorkeling. To prove us wrong, however, it suddenly brings its head out of the water, showing its ferocity, while it tears off the fish from the bait. It is the Great White Shark all right – you see it with its jaws open and you know it’s not wise to mess with it.

The first batch of divers is privy to another round of shark antiques, while the second batch gets ready. We, as in A and me, hold on to our patience and our innards and let the second batch have their buzz under the water. To say I am feeling miserable would be an understatement. I am so cold and nauseous that all I can think of is a warm shower and a cozy bed.

But, since I am here, I might as well do it, right. No point feeling sick and then regretting it later. We force ourselves to get out of the comforts of our heavy jackets and get into the wetsuits. I visit the toilet once more, so that I don’t make a fool of myself in the water. Heavy weights are wrapped around our waist, we put on our snorkeling masks and brave the cold and get into the cage. As we are lowered down into the freezing cold water, I can almost hear my heart beat. We position ourselves – holding on to the top of the cage and awaiting our turn to see the Great White in action.

We hear the captain shouting “Go under” and we follow his instructions promptly. As my eyes try to adjust to the water, I see a Great White coming towards us. My brain freezes, my adrenalin kicks its strongest and millions of sensations pass through my neurons. I watch with my jaws dropped – a scene from Nat Geo – but in HD and 4D. The most feared predator of all the seas has arrived. Everything else blurs as the Great White makes its way towards the cage, hovers around it for a few seconds, as if trying to decide whether to go for the bait or the 6 human bodies inside the cage. It decides on the former – the tried and tasted fish, which, any day, tastes better than human flesh. It rushes up, and in one single shrug, unhooks the fish, showing the inside of its mouth to us. The banks of razor edged teeth are but centimeters away - the huge gaping jaws revealing the true danger of the imminent encounter. My blood freezes – I am not sure if it is from the cold or seeing a shark in action so close to me that I can almost touch its nose with my outstretched hands.

The moment is over too soon. We get our heads out of water and catch up on our breaths. We look at each other – 6 strangers bound by a common experience that will be etched in our minds forever. We implore with the captain to give us another show. We wait patiently in the cold and rain – of course, all that does not matter now - looking for some more action.

Round 2 begins in about another 15 minutes that seems like eternity. We duck our heads inside the water and now that my brain is working again, I curse myself for not having an under water camera. The shark, for this show, is a smaller one and I remember the misadventures I have read about smaller sharks getting into the cage and spoiling the show. This one may be smaller but is as ferocious as the last one. Even with its mouth closed, it looks vicious. It gives us an equally thrilling performance – teasing us with a thump on the cage with its tail, as it leaves with the bait.

The show is over too soon again and we are hauled off the water. As we animatedly compare notes and see the pictures taken by some under water, our boat makes its way back to the shore. The rain has stopped by now, but the wind is still playing hard and cold with us. But I am way beyond feeling anything, but buzzed, and I chatter away with the fellow brave hearts. A not-so-warm shower and fresh dry clothes later, we sit down for some warm soup and are handed our certificates. Yes, we are certified “Great White Shark Divers” now – so what it was from inside a cage. The thrill that this experience has, is worth the entire chill that I endured through the morning.

The other day, I came across this list - http://www.lonelyplanet.com/australia/travel-tips-and-articles/76049?affil=fb-fan – that I have decided to put away in my travel folder for future reference.

Though I am not sure if I will ever visit Las Vegas – even if it is to get a high from the 110^th storey, I think the rest of the list is achievable. I have already ticked off one in the list and have only 8 more to go. My friends think I am crazy to dream of a holiday that entails running with the bulls and I tell them: 'Now you know why I took up running in the first place'.

The King and I

Hallo ladies. Look at your man. Now back to me. Now back at your man. Now back to me. Sadly he isn’t me. Look down, back up. Now look again.

Oh yes, the ladies look again and again. So do their men. I look at my man and find him swooning with admiration and delight - a look quite similar to that I am sporting. Can't blame him. Because you see, when the king of jungle sits in his regal throne some 6 feet away from you and gives you that royal look and imperial growl, you can’t help but feel mesmerized.

He is not the first lion we have sighted. In the last 6 days, every time we have gone out on a game drive – be it in Amboseli National Park, Nakuru National Park or Masai Mara Game Reserve, we have spotted a pride – sometimes more than one. But most of the time, we have seen the lionesses in action and the lions – the big lazy cats that they are – lolling in the sun or catching up on their post lunch siesta. One king did strut across us once - but he was about 50 meters away from us and we were not satisfied.

Yes, you do get greedy when you are in Masai Mara in August. Two million wildebeests migrate from the Serengeti National Park in Tanzania to the greener pastures of the Masai Mara National Reserve in Kenya during July through to October. The plains of Mara are abound with food aplenty for both the wildebeests and the predators that have a field day during this time.  So catching a pride hunting down an unlucky wildebeest or enjoying a hearty meal is a very common sight here, if you happen to be around during that period. And the more you see, the more you yearn for.

The King has already garnered an audience. There are 5 safari vans – all lined up with eager humans, lapping up this incredible scene, clicking away his every move. Our guide cum driver, Simon has managed to place our van strategically in front of the King and we have the best view. I feel as if I am in a Nat Geo documentary. Watching the King in action from such close quarters is, otherwise, unimaginable.

Action, however, is a wrong word to use, since our King is not really doing much. He just sits there and looks to his left and right, obliging us with the perfect profile to be clicked. He rests under a croton bush, tactically guarding himself from the morning sun. His mane is ruffled, giving him an air of sophistication and he looks at us with disdain – the lowly humans, who have gathered around to disturb his mid morning siesta. He is so close to us that two leaps and he can get right beside us. But instead of feeling afraid, we stand there (inside our jeeps of course) – hypnotized and awed by his regal presence.

Something rustles behind the bush and we see the Queen. She cat walks up to her man, surveys the situation and does not seem to be too pleased with it. The lazy slob is at it again! Making a show of himself while she is out there, shopping for their lunch. Disgusting! She grunts in contempt and settles down under a branch.

The King, in a second, turns into a cat. The regal air is gone. He seems nervous. Gives a look that I have seen A give me every time I take an upperhand. Yes, the King starts behaving like any husband would do in such a situation. He tries his best to satisfy the miffed wife. He looks at her, sniffs her, even sings a love song in their language. The Queen acts pricey, ignoring the man. She looks away and sulks.

The King gives one last try and looks seductively into her eyes – a look that will put all the romantic heroes from Bollywood to shame. And it works. After all, which woman can resist such a charmer? The Queen seems to cool down a bit, happy with the attention she is getting. She gets up and goes round the bush. The King, slightly embarrassed to be caught in such a situation in front of a live audience, lowers his head and follows her. As the old jungle saying goes – even the King is scared of his wife.

The two of them go around the bush a couple of times and then, as we look at them with our dropped jaws, snuggle up to each other. Oh yes, my kingdom for just that moment. They stay like that for a few minutes, as if giving us lowly humans a few more moments to cherish. Peace returns to the household and the two settle down under two branches and look out at the horizon where a herd of buffaloes, unaware of their presence, are happily grazing around.

I am still trying to process what I just saw, when I hear a rustle from behind. I look back and I see another lioness walking up. She is just in front of our vehicle, and her face is all red – not from seeing her man necking another woman but from a recent kill she’s had. She slowly crosses us, ignores the other lioness that is resting under the branch and goes up to the King. Rubs her nose against him, as if to inform him that she is back from the hunt and places herself beside him. The King acknowledges her return by snuggling up to her – while the other lioness looks away. She has had her time with her man and does not care about the other woman, as long as she’s got a wildebeest or two tucked away in some bush. The new Queen sits with the lover boy, nuzzling up to him, as he licks her lovingly. Enough love exchanged, she gets up after a couple of minutes and finds her own space under another branch.

You can imagine our delight. All we can do is squeal like little kids. We are spell bound by what just happened in front of us.

The buffaloes, meanwhile, have grazed quite close to the trio and the greedy us ask Simon if we will be privy to a kill now. Yes, yeh dil maange more (the heart wants more). Simon answers in negative since it seems that the second lioness is just back from a kill. So they have enough food for the time being and would not mess with the buffaloes, which are, anyway, a challenge for the lions to hunt down because of their size. A buffalo spots the trio and runs to warn the rest of the gang. The trio, however, seem least bothered with the humans or the buffaloes surrounding them and they look into the horizon, admiring the golden plains of Mara.

There are more than 5 jeeps in the spot now and Simon says we must move since as a rule, only 5 jeeps can congregate at any point of time. Also we have been here for almost 30 minutes now and it is only fair that we give the other viewers a chance. Simon promises to bring us back to the pride later and we reluctantly agree.

We spot two more prides, and the usual flocks of zebras, wildebeests, gazelles, water bucks, antelopes, hippos and elephants. We also witness a river crossing by the wildebeests and continue our hunt to track down the elusive leopard, albeit unsuccessfully. On our way back, Simon drives us to catch a last glimpse of the King, with his royal consorts. We spot one of the Queens first, sleeping under the bush. The other one is a few feet away, dreaming about wildebeests and zebras. The buffaloes have cleared out of the scene – hopefully the herd intact. 

And then, there he is - the King of the jungle, the most revered and respected. On his back, with his belly up and paws facing the sky, snoring away to glory. Gone are the regal air and awe inspiring, blood chilling looks. The man of the pride, after sharing a hearty lunch with his Queens, has shed all his pride and retired for the day. He does not care how silly and vulnerable he looks – as long as he is left alone to sleep. He needs his rest – and he needs it badly. After all, he has to take care of the emotional needs of two wives and ask any man worth his wildebeest and he will tell you how tough a job that is. Court dismissed.