Enter Mindfuck 101. Am I sweating? Yes, I’m sweating. Did my heart just skip a beat? Two beats? Would I win a Darwin Award for this? Am I dizzy or just hungry? Do I have an ulcer? Canker sore? Am I a moron? Yes, I’m a moron. No, no, I’m outstanding. Super cool… the coolest dead tourist in Bangladesh. Mama, I’m coming home.
Before then, I would’ve deemed swallowing snake venom suicidal. Expert reassurance and logic propelled me into the breach. There were children present. They wouldn’t slay Johnny Adventure in front of the kids, would they? I let myself believe the village elders wouldn’t invite the shitstorm that might result from a negligent tourist death… um, right…
I stood in the mire trying to digest this alternate reality. Any way you slice it, the scene was a constant tragedy unfolding. Children without a childhood? Men without a choice? A government without a conscience? No, that's too easy. Nothing is black and white. Nothing is ever that simple. Child labor is horrible, but what other options are there? Take away their jobs, and where does that leave them? Their families? Is dangerous work better than no work at all? Increase oversight. Increase safety standards. Lower profits. Lower wages. Choices. Terrible, terrible choices. You could blame the government, I suppose, but before pulling that trigger, delve into the history of this star-crossed nation…
At the river, I was speechless. Men and boys paraded frantically from small ships to weight scales with baskets of white grainy material atop their heads. I soon realized this was salt and that this patch of riverfront was where it was unloaded, weighed, and initially processed. Nobody was screwing around. It was like watching leaf-cutter ants moving with military speed, discipline, and precision. I had to watch my step to avoid being trampled.
There’s one surefire way to gum up the works—take out a camera and start firing away. Everyone wanted in, much to the dismay of those on a tight schedule. Men hauling salt. Men weighing salt. Men bathing in the filthiest water you could imagine…
We made a pit stop for food and potty at 3:30 a.m. What I saw in the bathroom left me awestruck—men at every sink primping like contestants on the Dating Game. Not a hair out of place. The efforts were almost surgical. Did I mention it was 3:30 a.m.? And me with my single pair of black pants, dusty hiking shoes, and generalized untidy disheveledness. People often sized me up and down as if I were wearing a spacesuit. I could never tell if it was curiosity, mild contempt, or both.
I loitered in the restaurant where a barefoot waiter offered to bring me something. I went with coffee. It soon followed with my receipt…
I had a better chance of seeing Pegasus than I did a tiger. Were they bored? Annoyed? Scared? All the above? A local I spoke with the day before speculated the threat of pirates might explain my permission difficulties, though nobody I dealt with said anything. After repeated entreaties to turn around, I relented.
On the way back, we stopped at a forest station, which boasted a nature trail into the mangrove. I assumed (emphasis on ass) a jungle walk would ensue. Nope. Too dangerous. A tiger was afoot. Tiger, you say? Too dangerous? According to the resident ranger…
I wandered inside only to be greeted with ‘what the hell do you want’ expressions by Forest Guy One and Forest Guy Two. Confusion reigned. Motorcycle Guy tried to help but fostered, albeit unintentionally, a comedy of errors. When they did grasp my intent, I was asked for a copy of my passport, which I did not have with me. Forest Guy One and Forest Guy Two were not amused. It appeared I’d have to return to the hotel to retrieve it. But then, as if to brush this aside, I was given a price quote—$17 for permit, camera fee, and some other vague tax. Super duper. But then, Forest Guy Two changed his mind. I would have to go to Khulna (two hours away) to get permission…
Still, there’s something about wandering a city or small town with my head up my confused ass while trying to navigate a foreign culture that adds spice and variety to the experience. I can’t deny the pros may well outweigh the cons, especially in a pinch, but I will mourn the loss of bemusing ambiguity.
So, guesthouse it was. First hurdle surmounted. After agreeing on a label, I had to discuss availability. More confusion. A man called a relevant somebody. I was led to believe (or was I?) a decision-maker would turn up, then invited to secure my pack in an office for safekeeping and provided a chair outside. I sat. I waited. I waited some more…
I inadvertently discovered an effective way of capturing Dhaka’s street chaos—sit in the front of a first-class bus. Seats are elevated above the driver and the windshield is enormous, providing a unique vantage point.
There’s a downside. Had we stopped abruptly or, god forbid, collided with another vehicle, I would’ve done a Superman impression through the windshield. No seatbelts assured this outcome. Just watching events unfold up close was stress-inducing. Much safer (psychologically) to let your mind wander through a window in the rear. It might have been the most exhilarating bus ride I’ve ever had…
Don’t forget. Remember, remember, and remember. I lamented often my failure to keep a diary on the road to adulthood. (Not sure I ever arrived, but that’s a rabbit for another hole.) What a treasure trove that would’ve yielded years later, much like this blog has done. And it’s not just about nostalgia. A record would contain wisdom only your former self can impart. What have I missed? What have I forgotten? What lessons have I had to learn and relearn? What’s the point of a journey if there’s no documentation, no after-action review? It pains me to consider all the lost memories from trips abroad before this ultimate fandango. I was determined not to make that mistake again…
The boatman's oar lapping at the water was the only constant. Heeeeere, kitty, kitty, kitty. Nice kitty, kitty. We ducked beneath protruding vegetation. The channel narrowed. The tension accrued. Animal tracks decorated the mud banks, especially those of spotted deer and wild boar. Game trails crisscrossed the swamp, weaving between trees and through the underbrush. Every time we rounded a bend, the brush cleared, or the grass parted, I held my breath.
Heeeeere, kitty, kitty, kitty. Nice kitty, kitty. Five tigers were reputed to live on the small island, including a mother and three cubs. Yes, we wanted to see the family, but how close…
For the second night in a row, we slept on the top platform of the watchtower near the Katka forest station. The results were much the same, though we saw an unidentifiable shape move through the full-moon twilight. Tiger? Maybe. It could’ve been a unicorn for all we knew (probably easier to find one). Had it shown itself again, we would’ve illuminated the area. One more night all along the watchtower with only a blissful night’s sleep in our favor. There are worse tragedies.
We awoke to discover yet another large group of Bengali men making their way along the trail…
The Bangladesh Forest Department has neither the will nor the ability to thwart operations. As they are understaffed, underpaid, and ill-equipped, they find themselves at the mercy of Raju and his band of misfits. The group is too big to nail, and if Mr. Forid was correct, members sought refuge at ranger stations throughout the park. If you can’t beat ‘em or join ‘em, accept the “supplemental” salary.
He spoke of a tacit agreement between pirates and government. Keep it reasonable, don’t get greedy, and avoid extreme behavior…
I arrived in Dhaka a week before meeting my safari pal, Alex. I had but one mission: find a boat and book passage to and throughout the Sundarbans with an emphasis on tiger tracking. There were obstacles. The first was a lack of robust tourist infrastructure. I mentioned previously a poster in the embassy in Kathmandu that read, “Come to Bangladesh before the tourists do.” Well, I beat them there. Now what?
The archetypical outing for tourists and ex-pats alike was a 12-40 person/4-day boat excursion with a set itinerary…
i had a run at Sundarbans
that mangrove treasure trove
watched a croc a slithering
swam where dolphins dove
i walked among the halophytes
whose misguided roots abound
froze amidst the fertile calm
absorbing every sound
i stood beside the fishermen…
Yep, this was he. Here’s the thing—when she called, the number came up as 'Shaiful,’ so I didn’t answer… like an asshole. I didn’t have the bandwidth for explanations, clarifications, and prevarications. Two minutes later, she called me from a different phone (different stranger). Whoopsie. I shudder to think what Shaiful thought when I answered straight away. Like I said, asshole.
But, alas, it gets worse. Alex (my co-conspirator) and I brought her (yes, I’ve forgotten her name…
Buses, cars, motorcycles, rickshaws, and baby taxis swerve every which way while jockeying for position. Negative space is anathema. Fill it all. Gratuitous horn use is mandatory. Buses resemble recent contestants in a demolition derby—dents, chips, scratches, and missing parts provide ornamentation. I’ve read the accident rate is the statistical equivalent of “not if, but when.”
The taxi dropped me off at the Swiss Park Hotel, which would’ve been perfect if that was my intended destination. A friend recommended the Sky Park Guesthouse. I considered the possibility of a clerical error, so I went inside to investigate, only to discover…
1947 - British colonial rule over India ends. A largely Muslim state comprising East and West Pakistan is established, either side of India. The two provinces are separated from each other by more than 1,500 km of Indian territory.
1949 - The Awami League is established to campaign for East Pakistan's autonomy from West Pakistan.
1970 - The Awami League wins an overwhelming election victory in East Pakistan. The government in West Pakistan refuses to recognise the results, leading to rioting.
Cyclone hits East Pakistan - up to 500,000 people are killed…
I discovered a second GMG office in the terminal. Trust but verify, no? I inquired within and was told the decision was made the night before. Of course, it had. I asked if it were possible to check-in, so I could enter the gate area and enjoy the luxury of internet. They agreed. I then paid to access the executive lounge (I'm worth it) where I watched television and surfed the web with impunity. You haven’t lived until you’ve spent eight hours in the executive lounge at Dhaka International Airport.
A final punch in the balls came when the flight was delayed an additional half-hour, which in Bengali translates as two hours. This time it was a VIP departure. All runways were shut down until liftoff…