Customer Reviews

To the Elephant Graveyard

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This is a great read. Like all good books, it is an amalgamation of many things: a memoir, a travelogue, a social & environmental critique, and a great adventure with a dash of mystery and lots of humor. The title is a bit stodgy, but the story is far from it. We really see India in a different light, a land both benign and disturbingly fatalistic. Tarquin manages to couple some very visceral descriptions of locales with a profound appreciation for India and the elephant that is rarely seen in literature. Tarquin is going to mature into a great travel writer someday soon. Meanwhile, somebody give this man a prize ($) so he can dash off on another adventure (so we can read about it in his next book).

This book argues strongly against mankind's misuse and overdevelopment of the land that once belonged to noble beasts such as the Asian elephant. I became captivated by the story and by the author's sympathetic stance towards the elephant. The book will make you mourn what is happening to wild animals, and it reaffirms that when mankind messes with animals, the animals are the ones who get destroyed. Mankind's ultimate destruction might take a bit longer .... This is a thoughtful book with an element of magic -- the myth of an elephant graveyard that grounds the more realistic, down-to-earth elements of Hall's adventure account. I would love to read more of this author's adventures, esp. if they involve magnificent animals. Hall has a journalist's eye, yet he creates moments in which you feel you are there, under the stars, hearing the sounds of the jungle with him, waiting in fear of the thunderous sound that will signal that the rogue elephant is near. It is a very fast read -- a bit like a suspense novel -- but what I appreciated most was its folkloric touch, Hall's hope to find the mythic elephant graveyard, and the sense that animals are mysterious and magical, and that our world is impoverished with each death of a spectacular animal like the elephant. Last but not least, this nonfiction book would make an amazing film.

As an Indian myself, I found this book really enjoyable and fascinating! The Northeast is a mysterious place even for most Indians. I think Tarquin Hall captures the character of the place with sensitivity and humor...without suffering from any 'politically correct' sense of guilt about being British or awe for 'the mysterious east' -- which is refreshing and honest. The hunt for the elephant is exciting, vexing and ultimately very sad. And I loved all the funny encounters. I especially loved Churchill! I hope Tarquin Hall writes on India again soon!

Let me say first of all that I'm really fond of elephants, India and travel writing, separately or together, and quite frankly this book is an affront to all three. It's one of the worst books I've read recently, both for style as well as content.

Mr. Hall's narrative suffers from "Dr. Watson Syndrome." No matter how trivial or well-known a piece of information is ("Yes, elephants can swim"), he responds with the stunned equivalent of "Holmes, you astound me!" Upon catching sight of the rogue elephant and seeing a broken chain still on one of its legs, he is absolutely stumped for any explanation at all until his companion tells him the animal obviously used to be captive. ("Holmes...!)

On the other hand, he swallows whole the most blatant bunk: "I can turn myself into a tiger (for 800 rupees)!" "Sure, there's an elephant graveyard! I'll take you there right now!" "Yes, I saw the elephant run away from my house carrying a whole case of my Scotch!" In one passage, Mr. Hall reports that the footprint of the rogue elephant, measured right in front of him, is over four feet in diameter! That would make the poor animal about the size of a Seismosaurus! (Perhaps he misunderstood his informant, who might have been referring to length of stride.) I got the distinct impression, though, that many of his companions on this journey were having some fun with him at his expense, as when a mahout encouraged him to come climb aboard a kneeling trained elephant. During the process, the elephant mysteriously stands up, leaving the author dangling from its side with both hands painfully snarled in the rope harness. I suspect the mahout -and possibly the elephant - worked that one out beforehand. And I don't blame them.

I say that because Mr. Hall's "gee whiz" style is not the only problem here. For the most part, he shows contempt for most of the Indians he meets. "Plump Punjabi aunties with flabby midriffs bulging from their polyester saris gobbled down ...chicken as their undisciplined children chased each other..." They're filthy, their food is disgusting. One of them, born with the wrong number of toes on one foot, is "hideously deformed." And one of the most egregious passages in the book: "I guessed that he was a Marawari, a term used to describe businessmen...who are said to own half of India. ...Indians despise them as a class for their ...materialism and legendary stinginess. They are...the Jews of India."

I did enjoy some examples of his prose style because they were unintentionally comical: "An old mahout...was preparing an herbal mixture for the wounded elephant in the pot over the fire." How do you suppose they got the elephant into that little pot?

In short, if you love elephants and books about elephants, please do not choose this one. Mr. Hall's motivation may have been of the very best (his Author's Note, on the last two pages, is the only worthwhile part of the book), but it's poorly written and fairly offensive, plus it insults your intelligence. There are many beautifully written, informative books, such as "When Elephants Weep," by Masson and McCarthy, and "Elephant Memories" by Cynthia Moss. Please enjoy them!

As you can tell from my moniker, I am a lover of elephants. So it was with some trepidation that I bought this book (against my wife's advice) to read about a modern version of George Orwell's short story "Shooting an Elephant." Here, it seems that a rogue elephant has gone berserk in India and is killing a number of Indians for no apparent reason.

The narrator, an AP reporter, catches up with the hunter who has been retained by the local government to kill the elephant. The hunter, Mr. Chowdhury, is, strangely, a lover of animals, especially elephants. There is some nice discussion of why he nevertheless takes tasks like this one.

The book takes Hall (the narrator), Chowdhury, and others (mostly elephant riders) on a hunt for the rogue throughout northeastern India. They have a number of interludes, some of which are funny, others tragic, until the final confrontation. Along the way, we learn a bit about why the elephant was going berserk.

Hall has a nice, unobtrusive writing style. It's not flashy, and he knows enough to let the narrative momentum carry the book, although he throws in occasional travel- or history-related discussions of the local Indian culture. For example, he recounts the myth of why the Indian god Ganesh has the head of an elephant. (The gods had to replace his head after an accident, and an elephant was the first creature they saw.)

I was afraid that I would find this book incredibly sad and painful (see Barbara Gowdy's "The White Bone"), but instead, it was very saistfying. It's still sad about the rogue elephant, but maybe because it's not as senseless as poaching, the story, while sad, is understandable.

'To the Elephant Graveyard' is a truly brilliant travel book. It's unlike anything in the genre I have read before. It fuses the hunt for a rogue elephant with touching and vivid travel writing, taking the reader on a gripping journey through North East India, a part of the country in turmoil. Hall's unassuming insight and his powerful narrative voice makes this a real page turned. I cannot recommend this book enough.

This is a great read. Like all good books, it is an amalgamation of many things: a memoir, a travelogue, a social & environmental critique, and a great adventure with a dash of mystery and lots of humor. The title is a bit stodgy, but the story is far from it. We really see India in a different light, a land both benign and disturbingly fatalistic. Tarquin manages to couple some very visceral descriptions of locales with a profound appreciation for India and the elephant that is rarely seen in literature. Tarquin is going to mature into a great travel writer someday soon. Meanwhile, somebody give this man a prize ($) so he can dash off on another adventure (so we can read about it in his next book).

It is a great travel book that, as one review says, 'wonderfully hits on all cylinders'; and I, being from the sate of Assam, can vouch for that. Mr Hall ventured into Assam, the remote North-East corner of India, and accompanied Mr Chaudhury, the Assamese Elephant Hunter in his wild journey across the roads and paddy fields of Assam. In the process, Mr. Hall not only gave a gripping portrayal of his close encounter with elephant hunting in Assam, a state famous for elephants from ancient days, but he also described about Assamese life and culture. He narrates his meeting with Mr Gaela, the greatest elephant catcher (bor-phendi) of Assam, in whose house he ate authentic Assamese dish, 'patot-diya-mas'(fish cooked in banana leaf). He also described his brief encounter with the some ULFA insurgents of Assam in its reality. Mr Hall did not forget to capture the scinic beauty of Assam. I liked his following narative which seem to capture Assam in its totality:

"Despite the staggering beauty and rich folklore, India's North-East is a part of the world avoided by even the most intrepid backpackers. As such there was little in my guidebook about Assam: it has been off-limits to tourists for many years. However it did say thay that the word Assam is derived from the Sanskrit word 'asama' meaning 'peerless'. or 'unequalled'. It was so named by the Thai or Shan invaders called the Ahoms who conquered the valley in the thirteenth century and loved it so much that they never left. I was beginning to appreciate why. Whenever I looked, the landscape was lush and green. Rickety wooden bridges spanned streams and brooks whose surfaces were covered with sweet smelling water lilly blossoms. Peepul trees, their branches straining under flocks of white birds that suddenly lifted intothe air at the sound of our approach, lined the road. In the distance, hills bristling with jungle rose up above the fields, mist crawling across the foliage and pouring down into the valley like amoke brimming off a witch's cauldron,"

Mr Hall is also keen to catch a lively conversation with Rudra, the betel nut chewing driver as noted in the following excerpt:

"Rudra, the driver of the Hindusthan Ambassador, had been chewing paan all night. He kept his stash in a stainless steel dabha, an Indian lunch box, in his glove compartment and periodically would ask me to take it out and open it for him. Keeping an eye on the road, he would first extract a lump of lime paste with index finger and smear it into the space between his teeeth and his bottom lip. He would then pop one or two choice chunksof betel nut into his mouth. Finally, uttering a satisfied grunt, he would start to chew.....By Indian stadrds, Rudra was a good driver - that is to say, we only came close to death once during more than six hours on the road....

By now, I was in no mood for conversation. All I wanted to do was sleep. I tried conveying this to Rudra, but even when I closed my eyes and pretended to snore, he kept up his one sided, tedius conversation. His main interest in life, apart from betel nut and playing chicken with oncoming heavt vehicles, was the vital statistics of Bombay's Hindi film actresses. The latest goddess to grace the Indian screen, Karishma Kapoor, had won a special place in his heart - and, no doubt in his fantacies.

"She is the most beautiful pearl of our continent!" he boasted, pushing the Ambassador into fourth gear around a tight bend.

He slapped me hard on the thigh and guffawed, grunting and breathing through his nose and mouth simultaneously, a feat that would have been remarkable had it not been so revolting.

"You should see her dance! Her legs go all the way up! And for her breasts - they are big! As big as mangoes!"

I reccommend this book to anyone who wants to know about Assam or wants to travel to Assam.

Rajen Barua, Houston, Texas

I'm a little surprised by the person who thought this book condescending towards the Assamese; I found it anything but. I think Hall did an excellent job of melding what is essentially an action tale - the hunting of a rogue-elephant in Assam in northeast India - with an awareness of the tragic consequences of overpopulation and the Indian government's lack of a coherent conservation program for the elephants. The portraits of the people of this area were spot-on, I've lived there and can vouch for that. I also enjoyed very much Hall's depiction of the mixture of religion and superstition in the area. If you want a Disney-channel tale of cute animals, don't read this book. If you want an engaging travelogue/adventure story played out against the background of the elephants struggling to hold on to what little natural environment they have left, and the ongoing tragedy of their loss of habitat, plus the extraordinary efforts of the local game wardens and elephant mahouts to protect these animals, then by all means read this book!

Tarquin Hall was a British journalist covering Indian politics in New Delhi when he saw a newspaper story about a bounty being paid to kill a "rogue" Asian elephant in the state of Assam. The elephant was accused of deliberately murdering 38 humans. Intrigued but taken aback by the call to kill an endangered species, Hall travels to the city of Guwahati to see what he can find out about the odd story. He is put in touch with the man hired to hunt down the elephant, Mr. Dinesh Choudhury, an experienced marksman who grew up around elephants and knows them well. Mr. Choudhury consents to Hall tagging along on the trip into countryside with a warning that conditions may be uncomfortable. Anxious for a respite from his desk job, Hall happily accepts.

"To the Elephant Graveyard" is a story that Western elephant-lovers don't usually hear: That of a cunning rogue male tusker who raids human farms and villages with intent to kill, the dilemma he presents to Indians who would rather protect elephants than hunt them, and the precarious state of elephants in India, where humans revere elephants and interact with them on a daily basis, all while depriving elephants of their habitat and migratory routes. I'm accustomed to reading about elephants in Africa, where humans typically feared them and kept their distance. But the elephants in Assam wander in and out of the forest to steal their human neighbors' crops and liquor on a regular basis. And the culture has a long history of domesticating elephants for labor.

The people whom Tarquin Hall meets live alongside elephants, but it is becoming increasingly difficult for the elephants to live alongside the humans. Their forest is much diminished. Hall introduces us to mahouts (elephant drivers), monks, the dedicated guards of Kaziranga National Park, the last British tea planter in Assam, and, of course, Mr. Choudhury, a thoughtful man who love elephants and wishes there were an alternative to killing the rogue. But a truly hostile elephant cannot be contained. Hall writes like a travel journalist. He gives us a physical picture of the place relates his own experiences along the journey. The chase builds suspense as we learn more about the rogue and observe the problematic relationship that has developed between elephant and human in North-East India.