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How I stroked a tiger
Step 1. Pay cash.
Step 2. Get there.
Step 3. Be told things.
Step 4. Get the photography out of the way
Step 5. Enjoy some quality time with a huge beautiful animal.
Let's not mention Step 1. Step 2.
We flew to Brisbane. Nothing fell off.
On the morning of Thursday December 4 2008, Husband and I made our way to Brisbane Central train station. Having scouted the layout the afternoon before, I decided on the "helpless tourist" cover, and queued to buy paper tickets from an actual human, along with our Dreamworld entry tickets.
It was just before 8:00am, and we needed to be inside the park at 10:00am. The fact that it didn't open until 10am made this an interesting logistical problem, as did the unknown queue size, hence the early start and advance ticket purchase. We ended up catching a train a half-hour earlier than the one I'd picked online. It was even the right one, and after a less than scenic route, it duely tipped us out at Coomera station. I found the right bus, and even had the right ticket. Woohoo.
The bus delivered us to the terrifying Theme Park edifice of Dreamworld just after 9am, the time we'd beed advised to arrive to avoid delay. While there were a lot of bodies milling about, when we got closer we could see that these were mainly school groups, people queuing to buy tickets, and Water World people.
Anywho, we were the second group in the appropriate queue, and fortunately had shade and nicely swept cool concrete on which to wait. We declined the offer to pay $10 extra to get in an hour early to access some of the rides. By the time the gates opened at 9:50am, there can't have been more than a dozen or so people behind us, but I didn't regret getting there so early. At this point, every stage of the journey--including the walk from the train ticket office to the platform--had become critical.
Administrivia
Eventually we reported to the Bengal Bazzar (stuffed toy tiger made in China, anyone?), got ourselves signed in and lectured to, and settled in to wait another half-hour to be collected by the photographer.
The lecture was well-rehearsed and a little depressing. "The tiger is a wild animal..." Check. "Dreamworld will not be held responsible for injury, death, damage to or loss of property..." Naturally. "You may not touch the tiger on the head, the belly or the paws..." Bummer :-(
Nor would there be much room for improvisation for the photographs. I had hoped to request that we didn't do portraits per se, but that the photographer take a more journalistic fly-on-the-wall approach. No chance. We also had to decide in advance which ones would be enlarged and framed as part of the package. Um, the good ones?
They've done this before
When the time came we were led away by a Nice Man through a locked gate. And another one. And another one. And suddenly, poof, there was a platform surrounded by people, and on that platform was a tiger.
A sleepy, old, motheaten, white tiger.
I confess to a moment of disappointment, for although I knew that the rules stipulated that the handlers would have choice of which tiger to use, and that no correspondence would be entered into, I had in my heart asked nicely for an orange tiger-coloured tiger.
But still, 200kg of TIGER! 14-year-old patriarch and dominant male Mohan, originally from the US.
At this point I would like to request that any friends or family who feel the urge to express disappointment on my behalf, or indeed their own, not. ("Oh. It wasn't a proper tiger. Were you terribly disappointed? What was wrong with it?") Grrr.
Things snapped into action very quickly. We were escorted to Spot A in front of the platform, and run through the rules of contact. I could only pass around the back of the tiger. I could not approach or touch its head or paws. I could not reach over and touch its belly. I would obey all instructions from the handlers etc etc.
I paid close attention, but later couldn't identify which handlers I spoke to. In my defence several of them were hanging on to identical silly Movember facial hair.
At some point I shoved my stuff at Husband. The handlers settled at Mohan's head and tail, while a third gave him a treat and stepped back. The first couple of minutes were a bit of a blur, where first I, then Husband and I, and finally just Husband posed for our shots. No choice: stare down the lens, hand on tiger's back, but don't move or the hands would blur. How very Victorian. I misbehaved and couldn't keep my hand still, so in a couple of the shots I was in a non-regulation position.
For each pose we got into position, the handlers would step back just out of shot, and then they'd rapidly redeploy. I think Mohan and I both agreed that this was the most irritating part of the process. I completely failed to express my joy, and he put his ears back and swished his tail a bit.
We produced photos that looked a great deal like every other Dreamworld Photo Experience photo I'd found on the net. It was uncanny. Finally, we could all relax into some proper stroking time. The compression is a bit of a killer, but I look much happier in the videos.
Stroke! Stroke! Stroke!
Finally, the business end of the process. I hunkered down and concentrated on the lovely beast before me. Although the video shows I was talking to the nearest handler at top speed, my senses were all for the cat under my hands.
I had imagined the feeling would have something of a cat's relaxation, with the harsher fur of a dog, in the bulk and power of a horse. What I felt was the musculature of an athlete in repose. While everyone had commented that this tiger must have been well-fed, he was certainly fit and lean, and his fur, skin, fat, muscle and bone all felt right. I'm not doing this justice, but my hands told me so much more than mere words can express. It was different; it was wonderful.
I told the keeper that I had hoped to scritch my tiger between the ears, and along the jaw and other places cats liked. He confirmed that tigers have the same reflex points, but said that it took 12-18 months before a tiger would allow a particular handler such liberties. He didn't blink an eye when I told him of my plan to rub my hands in the armpit of a handler to get their scent, but said it wouldn't have made a difference. Still, points for effort.
I was allowed to handle the tail, but it was heavy and stiff and of no great interest to me. I did, however, pick up some tiger pee from the process, from constant territory marking. We have video of that too, much to Husband's boyish amusement.
As well as tiger pee and various forms of dirt, I collected the cat souvenir with which I am most familiar: fur.
An observation: being thicker and shorter than domestic cat fur, it doesn't stick as well to t-shirt material. I managed to salvage some of the fur in a hand wipe and plastic bag, and hopefully will be able to mount it in some suitable fashion. I can't wait until I show it to the housecats :-)
Certainly couldn't have done that if I'd been to the tiger sanctuary in Thailand. I'd have gone insane in the airport crush long before I got to quarrantine.
And one set of boofy paws deserves another:
I did ask the handler what happened to stray claws and whiskers, and he said they just go down the drain :-( . I was talking to another handler later (the one who was standing in front) and she said "I've got some whiskers," and reached for a pocket. Unfortunately she then remembered she'd left them in the office. I had a nice long chat with her over the cubs, and she said she was really happy to see someone so deeply involved in the experience as I was. She used to be in finance, then made a somewhat dramatic career shift.
And finally, although I couldn't do it myself, I asked the handler to stroke Mohan along the jaw for me. I could tell he (Mohan) enjoyed it, and that was almost as good as doing it myself.
I would have loved to have shared this with BB, as the other recipient of my stroking services, but I know that he was happy for me to be happy.
Other tiger stuff
Another post!
Step 2. Get there.
Step 3. Be told things.
Step 4. Get the photography out of the way
Step 5. Enjoy some quality time with a huge beautiful animal.
Let's not mention Step 1. Step 2.
We flew to Brisbane. Nothing fell off.
On the morning of Thursday December 4 2008, Husband and I made our way to Brisbane Central train station. Having scouted the layout the afternoon before, I decided on the "helpless tourist" cover, and queued to buy paper tickets from an actual human, along with our Dreamworld entry tickets.
It was just before 8:00am, and we needed to be inside the park at 10:00am. The fact that it didn't open until 10am made this an interesting logistical problem, as did the unknown queue size, hence the early start and advance ticket purchase. We ended up catching a train a half-hour earlier than the one I'd picked online. It was even the right one, and after a less than scenic route, it duely tipped us out at Coomera station. I found the right bus, and even had the right ticket. Woohoo.
The bus delivered us to the terrifying Theme Park edifice of Dreamworld just after 9am, the time we'd beed advised to arrive to avoid delay. While there were a lot of bodies milling about, when we got closer we could see that these were mainly school groups, people queuing to buy tickets, and Water World people.
Anywho, we were the second group in the appropriate queue, and fortunately had shade and nicely swept cool concrete on which to wait. We declined the offer to pay $10 extra to get in an hour early to access some of the rides. By the time the gates opened at 9:50am, there can't have been more than a dozen or so people behind us, but I didn't regret getting there so early. At this point, every stage of the journey--including the walk from the train ticket office to the platform--had become critical.
Administrivia
Eventually we reported to the Bengal Bazzar (stuffed toy tiger made in China, anyone?), got ourselves signed in and lectured to, and settled in to wait another half-hour to be collected by the photographer.
The lecture was well-rehearsed and a little depressing. "The tiger is a wild animal..." Check. "Dreamworld will not be held responsible for injury, death, damage to or loss of property..." Naturally. "You may not touch the tiger on the head, the belly or the paws..." Bummer :-(
Nor would there be much room for improvisation for the photographs. I had hoped to request that we didn't do portraits per se, but that the photographer take a more journalistic fly-on-the-wall approach. No chance. We also had to decide in advance which ones would be enlarged and framed as part of the package. Um, the good ones?
They've done this before
When the time came we were led away by a Nice Man through a locked gate. And another one. And another one. And suddenly, poof, there was a platform surrounded by people, and on that platform was a tiger.
A sleepy, old, motheaten, white tiger.
I confess to a moment of disappointment, for although I knew that the rules stipulated that the handlers would have choice of which tiger to use, and that no correspondence would be entered into, I had in my heart asked nicely for an orange tiger-coloured tiger.
But still, 200kg of TIGER! 14-year-old patriarch and dominant male Mohan, originally from the US.
At this point I would like to request that any friends or family who feel the urge to express disappointment on my behalf, or indeed their own, not. ("Oh. It wasn't a proper tiger. Were you terribly disappointed? What was wrong with it?") Grrr.
Things snapped into action very quickly. We were escorted to Spot A in front of the platform, and run through the rules of contact. I could only pass around the back of the tiger. I could not approach or touch its head or paws. I could not reach over and touch its belly. I would obey all instructions from the handlers etc etc.
I paid close attention, but later couldn't identify which handlers I spoke to. In my defence several of them were hanging on to identical silly Movember facial hair.
At some point I shoved my stuff at Husband. The handlers settled at Mohan's head and tail, while a third gave him a treat and stepped back. The first couple of minutes were a bit of a blur, where first I, then Husband and I, and finally just Husband posed for our shots. No choice: stare down the lens, hand on tiger's back, but don't move or the hands would blur. How very Victorian. I misbehaved and couldn't keep my hand still, so in a couple of the shots I was in a non-regulation position.
For each pose we got into position, the handlers would step back just out of shot, and then they'd rapidly redeploy. I think Mohan and I both agreed that this was the most irritating part of the process. I completely failed to express my joy, and he put his ears back and swished his tail a bit.
We produced photos that looked a great deal like every other Dreamworld Photo Experience photo I'd found on the net. It was uncanny. Finally, we could all relax into some proper stroking time. The compression is a bit of a killer, but I look much happier in the videos.
Stroke! Stroke! Stroke!
Finally, the business end of the process. I hunkered down and concentrated on the lovely beast before me. Although the video shows I was talking to the nearest handler at top speed, my senses were all for the cat under my hands.
I had imagined the feeling would have something of a cat's relaxation, with the harsher fur of a dog, in the bulk and power of a horse. What I felt was the musculature of an athlete in repose. While everyone had commented that this tiger must have been well-fed, he was certainly fit and lean, and his fur, skin, fat, muscle and bone all felt right. I'm not doing this justice, but my hands told me so much more than mere words can express. It was different; it was wonderful.
I told the keeper that I had hoped to scritch my tiger between the ears, and along the jaw and other places cats liked. He confirmed that tigers have the same reflex points, but said that it took 12-18 months before a tiger would allow a particular handler such liberties. He didn't blink an eye when I told him of my plan to rub my hands in the armpit of a handler to get their scent, but said it wouldn't have made a difference. Still, points for effort.
I was allowed to handle the tail, but it was heavy and stiff and of no great interest to me. I did, however, pick up some tiger pee from the process, from constant territory marking. We have video of that too, much to Husband's boyish amusement.
As well as tiger pee and various forms of dirt, I collected the cat souvenir with which I am most familiar: fur.
An observation: being thicker and shorter than domestic cat fur, it doesn't stick as well to t-shirt material. I managed to salvage some of the fur in a hand wipe and plastic bag, and hopefully will be able to mount it in some suitable fashion. I can't wait until I show it to the housecats :-)
Certainly couldn't have done that if I'd been to the tiger sanctuary in Thailand. I'd have gone insane in the airport crush long before I got to quarrantine.
And one set of boofy paws deserves another:
I did ask the handler what happened to stray claws and whiskers, and he said they just go down the drain :-( . I was talking to another handler later (the one who was standing in front) and she said "I've got some whiskers," and reached for a pocket. Unfortunately she then remembered she'd left them in the office. I had a nice long chat with her over the cubs, and she said she was really happy to see someone so deeply involved in the experience as I was. She used to be in finance, then made a somewhat dramatic career shift.
And finally, although I couldn't do it myself, I asked the handler to stroke Mohan along the jaw for me. I could tell he (Mohan) enjoyed it, and that was almost as good as doing it myself.
I would have loved to have shared this with BB, as the other recipient of my stroking services, but I know that he was happy for me to be happy.
Other tiger stuff
Another post!