14 NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC TRAVELLER INDIA | MAY 2018
VOICES WHERE’S MY PASSPORT?PER-ANDRE HOFFMANN / LOOK-FOTO/LOOK/GETTY IMAGEST
hese days, I laugh in the face
of adventure sports. Ask me to
skydive, and I just go, “Pshaw!
Call that scary?” I’ve been known to fall
asleep while bungee jumping. Offer me a
free ride in the space shuttle and I’ll reach
for books titled “New Theories on the
Dewey Decimal System,” because they’re
more exciting.
This is because of a baptism of fire,
having travelled with the most lethal,
frightening group of people on Earth.
No, not toddlers. Not nuclear-reactor
technicians or special-forces soldiers or
astronauts either.
I’m talking about photographers.
I’m talking about the real ones here, who
froth at the mouth in their world of angles
and frames, not your average IT person
with a DSLR. The ones who take bad
weather as a personal insult and reserve
the right to complain that the world was
not designed for the particular shot that
they wanted to take at the moment, and
could we just shift the Eiffel Tower three
feet to the left, please?
If you aren’t sure how to identify a real
photographer, there’s a simple test. Hand
one a ticking time bomb. A fake will run
away, a real one will say, “Could you hold
it up like that? Yup, just like that, and hold
it there. The sun will light up the explosion
so well! Thanks! And can you do it two or
three times, so I can capture it?”
So what makes me wary of this species?
Simple: it’s the fact that unless taking that
shot is lethal to you or them or at least
blatantly illegal, it isn’t worth taking. Take
the case of the photographer who is now
on the watch-list in California for flying a
drone over Union Square in San Francisco.CLICK AND
BAIT
Three times. After being warned by the po-
lice. Or, a photographer for this very mag-
azine who managed to electrocute herself.
While taking a photo of a cow. Through an
electric fence.
Not convinced? Try this. In snowy
Shimla, I was reviewing a BMW SUV, and
the photographer, Dhaval, asked me to
slide towards him, so he could get a shot of
the snow being kicked up.
“You want me to slide towards you.
On snow.”
“ Ye s .”
“Snow on which I have no grip.”
“ Ye s .”
“Towards the cliff.”
“ Ye s .”
“And where will you be?”
“Between you and the cliff.”
Later the same day, Dhaval, upset with
how his lovely, pristine snow had been
turned a coffee brown, spotted a virginal
patch and asked me if I could reverse onto
it. That virginal patch was a roof. Now do
you see why I believe photographers are a
threat to humanity?
Actually, I don’t believe they’re human
at all. I think they’re an ancient, secret
and rather inefficient doomsday cult,
dedicated to the extinction of the human
race, one human at a time. How else do
you explain the photographer who tried
to get me eaten by crocodiles because
he wanted to get the best GoPro shots
ever? Don’t ask me for details, but I still
scream a little every time I see a pineapple
(Yes, of course pineapples were involved.
Because, photographers).
Do you know why the world is so messed
up? It’s because when god said, “Let there
be light,” he was immediately interruptedby a clicking noise and a whiny “Tsk!
Could you turn that off? You’re ruining
my exposure.” And that little voice inside
you that says, “Hey, jump over that cliff!
Let’s see what it feels like!”—that’s your
genetic conditioning by these malevolent
beings.
To be fair, they’re willing to put
themselves through whatever they’re
willing to put you through as well. “Can
I run alongside this train as it goes at a
30-degree angle up Mount Washington?
No? Why not?” However, they will also
get annoyed at you because they over-
turned the canoe and now the camera is
in the water.
“Help! I can’t swim!”
“Thank god I got the SD card! What were
you saying?”
And that, my doomed friends, is why
I think adventure sports are for wimps.
You can keep your stunt planes and
cave-diving. If you want real fear and
thrills, and want to hear your grandchil-
dren squeal, “Oh please, please, tell us
again how you lost three limbs while
hanging upside down from a man-eating
skunk,” just befriend a photographer.
(This column is dedicated to the brave
men and women who have tried to kill
me so many times, especially Dhaval
Dhairyawan. You haven’t got me yet.)¾SOMETIMES IT IS YOUR TRAVEL
COMPANIONS THAT BRING
ADV ENTURE—OR DREAD—TO
YO U R T R AV E L SVardhan
Kondvikar
is a travel, car, and
humour writer and
editor, who is known for
road trips, generalised
exasperation and far too
many bathroom stops.