Biodiversity Hotspot: Walking Through Kalakad-Mundanthurai Tiger Reserve

A Malabar whistling thrush calls enticingly as I set foot on One Mile Corridor, a relatively untrodden path leading from the streamside field station into the heart of the dense evergreen forest of Kalakad-Mundanthurai Tiger Reserve in Tamil Nadu. It has been five years since I heard its haunting tune. The forest rustles gently, and my boots squelch on the damp soil. The winding trail is peppered with leaf litter. I steady myself on sturdy tree trunks, swinging like the overgrown land ape I am, and letting my feet find the firmest ground. The cacophonous sounds of my classmates fade behind me as I ascend the slope, the gurgling of the Manimuthar River taking over my senses. The thrush sings again, a few echoing, ghostly notes, and I hear the call of a lion-tailed macaque, one of five primates found in these forests. It’s a shy creature, preferring to live deep in the wet, evergreen forest, far from human interaction. I crane my neck, searching desperately for this furry black primate, but it evades me. 

Journey into the wild

The forests of Kalakad-Mundanthurai Tiger Reserve (KMTR) are teeming with life, although most of it remains hidden from view. This reserve is part of the Agasthyamalai Biosphere Reserve, which straddles Kerala and Tamil Nadu.

KMTR is a veritable paradise at the southernmost end of the Western Ghats. “The reserve is one of five hotspots of biodiversity and endemism in India,” our guide informs us. This means that the species in this reserve are found nowhere else in the world, and some are only found in these pockets of ancient forest, even within India. We enter KMTR from Manimuthar town near the towering Manimuthar Dam, and immediately, the anticipation of reuniting with my beloved wildlife sends a thrill through my body. The dam is shut due to low water levels in the Manimuthar Reservoir, a vast waterbody fed by four rivers. The meandering Tamiraparani, lifeblood of Tirunelveli District and one of the state’s main rivers, originates in the core region of KMTR and flows a lengthy route to the seashore.

A giant signboard with a majestic Bengal tiger awaits us, the Tamil text warning tourists against littering and taking selfies with wildlife. Our private minibus winds through different vegetation on the precarious route into the park’s core. We first pass dry deciduous and mixed teak forests, which soon give way to tall grasses and Lantana shrubs. Waterfalls dot the greenery, some cascading and tumbling right by the road. Along our way, we meet a troop of Nilgiri langurs and stop to click photographs. I adore watching langurs; their wrinkled, wise faces have human-like expressions. The langurs leap from branch to branch like circus acrobats, their hooting cries alluring and seductive. 

We climb higher up the mountain, and the temperature drops. Science has shown that forests can reduce air temperatures and combat climate change, and sure enough, the air inside KMTR produces goosebumps on my arms. As I put on my sweater, marvelling at the chill against the dry heat of Kalladaikurichi town nearby, a coucal’s call booms impressively.

The forest is ever-changing. From scrublands and towering rocky outcrops, we plunge into a moist deciduous forest with chirping birds and sweet-smelling flowers. Sunbirds, paradise flycatchers, black-rumped flameback woodpeckers, and white-cheeked barbets flitter and flutter from branch to branch, giving us glimpses of green, cheery reds, whites, yellows, and purples. Adult bonnet macaques observe us curiously while their babies scamper up the nearest tree as our bus noisily approaches. The bus takes us into a semi-evergreen patch — a vast tea plantation. The Bombay Burmah Trading Corporation has 33.88 sq km of land in the centre of the reserve on a lease that expires in 2028. As we look around in confusion — a tea plantation doesn’t seem to belong amidst native forest — our professors speak at length about the unique ecosystem provided by tea gardens in a forest. They point out how human-wildlife interactions frequently occur in such patches as large-bodied mammals like elephants, gaur, tigers, and leopards use tea gardens as corridors between forests and hiding places (for leopards). Before starting a PhD at ATREE, I worked on human-wildlife interactions in tiger reserves in South India. Life in the forest is hard, not just for wildlife but also for the people exposed to the interaction every day.

From the tea gardens, we enter our final patch of forest — the dense, wet, evergreen jungles the reserve is famous for. We hop out of the bus, pulling on raincoats and securing our shoelaces. We hear creaking branches interspersed with the soft cooing of an Asian emerald dove, one of the more attractive members of the pigeon family. The forest is dark, and droplets of cool water drip steadily from leaves, plop-plop-plop; I shiver as drops trickle down the nape of my neck.

This is the home of the elusive Nilgiri marten, a curious little mammal with a larger-than-life personality. We hear its chittering and spot signs of Asian elephants. Gaur are also common in the tea plantations of this tiger reserve.

Treasures in the rainforest

Each time I return to a forest, I feel like I’m meeting old friends. As soon as I set foot on One Mile Corridor, I hear the rush of wind through wings and see a Malabar pied hornbill soar off between two towering trees. This large fruit-loving bird has a prominent yellow bill with a black casque. Males use these casques to show off their prowess and desirability to females. A grey langur breaks my focus on the retreating hornbill. Its long tail nimbly acts as an extra limb as it swings across the canopy. The cry of the Malabar trogon makes me spin around, searching for this elusive, beautiful bird. A trogon used to sing just around teatime each day when I was in Nagarhole and hearing it once more has me floating on a wave of nostalgia. 

One glance at my hiking boots tells me I have stood still for too long. Slender, wriggling leeches — the blight of the wet forests — squirm up my pants, trying to find their way to the skin below. Luckily, my pants are well tucked into my pink bunny-rabbit socks. I wonder if leeches feel disappointment. Regardless, they are persistent little creatures. Flicking them off is difficult, and I leave my fate to the forest gods.

A tiny pink and white flower catches my eye, hidden among the dense green undergrowth. With perfect petals and shading, this little flower speaks to Mother Nature’s attention to detail. I squat to look at it just as my classmates catch up with me. Our professor proclaims it to be Impatiens, a genus of flowering plant endemic to these forests. We crowd around the flower, and I am struck by the delicateness of life in these ancient forests. Tigers may roam in this landscape, but tiny buds and creepy crawlies reign supreme when it comes to diversity and abundance.

I see a flash of purple and beige, and a Malabar giant squirrel squeaks and scampers along a branch some three metres off the ground. It pauses and stares at me with beady black eyes. I smile. This little prankster is one of the reasons I fell in love with the Western Ghats and meeting him again brings me full circle back to the landscape where I belong.

Photo sources: feral buffalo, Nilgiri langur