january-2012

e had been standing on a rocky promontory
watching the bloody spectacle of two bears
tearing at a whale carcass for over an hour.
Th en with no apparent provocation, one
suddenly wheeled round and charged. A 400kg
polar bear, crimson in tooth and claw, was bearing down on us,
full tilt. Th ere was a collective gasp. ‘Don’t panic,’ said Andy, our
guide, quietly. ‘Stay together and stand still.’ Andy yelled at the
beast and, at some 25 metres’ distance, he stopped. With a low
growl he turned tail and returned to his meal.
It was over before I could even feel scared. But it could
have been very diff erent story. Earlier that same week, a British
schoolboy had been killed by a polar bear in Norway and
several of his companions mauled, an event that had made
headlines and reached even this remote corner of Manitoba in
north-eastern Canada. With the ease of travel and increased
demand for exotic destinations and adventure holidays, animal
attacks on tourists are on the rise: shark fatalities; frequent,
unreported near-misses with elephants on walking safaris;
riding safaris, in which gung-ho participants claim to be
experienced horsemen, and prove to be nothing of the sort
when confronted by a lion. Every year, we put our lives in the
hands of strangers whom we trust to protect us, so we can
experience the thrill of getting close to wildlife in its own
Above: intrepid nature-lovers on the
trail of Ursus maritimus.
Right: playful moments are few and
far between in the ferocious and solitary
life of the polar bear
PRIVATESCAPE
Sixty-Six
habitat. But when something goes wrong, questions are
invariably raised about the responsibility of organisers, risk
awareness of travellers and even the ethics of wildlife tourism.
Can we justify trespassing on the territory of an animal for our
pleasure, if it then kills in self-defence?
It was with these thoughts in mind that I arrived at Seal
River Heritage Lodge on the shores of the Hudson Bay, a
lonely place inaccessible by road or rail. Th e journey from
London required four planes of diminishing size, and my last
stopover en route, Churchill in Canada’s barren north, proved
sobering preparation. ‘Don’t wander out alone at night,’ I was
warned. ‘And on no account go near the rocks on the beach.’
Th is sleepy little one-horse town, which consists of little more
than one desultory Main Street, is known as the ‘polar bear
capital of the world’. Th e previous day, Rose, who met me at
the airport, encountered a bear in her back yard, while a few
days earlier, Gloria, the receptionist at my hotel, had fended
one off with a shopping bag while delivering her children to
nursery school. It sounded surreal. Do Churchillians live in
permanent fear during the months when the ice melts in
Hudson Bay and the bears come ashore? ‘Well, you certainly
have to be aware,’ said Rose. ‘We take precautions. And no
one here locks their houses or their vehicles in case someone
has to make a dash for cover.’
‘No one here locks
their houses or their
vehicles in case
someone has to make
a dash for cover’