111 - Delusional Adventure-Seeking Jackass (Munshigonj, Bangladesh)
ONE MORE TRY FOR THE BIG GUY. A new dawn. A new day. Back to the local branch of the Forest Department where I presumed a permit granting access to the Sundarbans awaited. I presumed this after my conversation with a preeminent Sundarbans researcher the evening prior. With her connections to the top brass, she assured me all was copasetic come the morrow.
Nobody knew nothing. No call. No telegram. No surprise. Time for a do-over. What was my purpose? To enter the mangrove, kind sir. Forest Guy Three (I met One and Two the previous morning) seemed amenable to the prospect. I cringed when Forest Guy One (yesterday’s antagonist) resurfaced, but he offered no protest. So, even though absolutely nothing had changed, I was given permission. Chalk one up for blind persistence.
After paying the requisite fees, they issued me two armed “guards,” a boatman, and three hours of party time. To the river where we boarded and set off. I’d like to say all that time and energy paid dividends. I’d like to say that. The crew was not a picture of motivation. We barely entered the swamp, skirting the edge and keeping to a wide channel. 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, a fisherman was attacked and killed nearby the day before. Wow. I suppose I should’ve been scared, but what does a man-eater have on some skinny asshole from America and two terrified forestry guards with weapons that may or may not function, may or may not be loaded, and which they may or may not know how to operate? We were fucking invincible.
I peered down that forbidden trail leading to intrigue, adventure, and possibly, though improbably, one of the most magnificent creatures on Earth. If that furry bastard really did have a taste for Mr. Homo Sapiens, then perhaps he’d be drawn by our appetizing fragrance. I felt like sashaying into the woods while ringing a triangle and screaming, “Come and get it!”
Boundless curiosity and irrepressible naïveté prevented objectivity… or did it? A lone fisherman attacked while preoccupied with his duties is not the same as three individuals with two rifles and a pulsating sense of hyper-awareness. Everyone in the area was so frightened by tigers, they’d turned this kitty cat into an insidious Grendel-type figure. (Does that make me Beowulf? No, no it doesn’t.) The danger was real, but it’s not like we’d be walking through a tiger cage with deer meat tied around our necks. Then again, I could be a delusional adventure-seeking jackass. Also, it’s hard to envision any scenario where seeing Tony would not lead to cacophonous panic and immediate retreat by both parties.
Resistance was futile. I was tempted to resort to bribery, but that would’ve put me in a class of obnoxious western douche nozzles whose ranks I wasn’t quite ready to join. Besides, how would I have felt if injuries or death occurred because I had to satisfy my “Look, Daddy! A Tiger!’ curiosity. Someone else can have the Tourist Dipshit Award.
Decision time. I didn’t want to leave. Though my overall Munshigonj experience was fruitful in a life-enrichment sort of way, my tiger dreams were unfulfilled. I wanted more. Much more. But reality bites… hard. Finding someone, anyone, to guide me into Tiger Land seemed implausible at best. Residents were afraid—afraid of tigers, pirates, tiger pirates, and pirate tigers. Asking to find a tiger was like asking a chicken if it would enjoy a tour of a fox den. And then there was the cooperative nature of the Forest Department. How would the congenial bunch at the local office react if I’d asked for round two? Illicit incursions offered the only real hope of results, but that brings us back to the fear factor. Still, dogged persistence, limitless patience, and financial irresponsibility might have led to the promised land. I have to believe someone familiar with the region knew when and where to maximize the chances of an encounter. Hindsight being the asshole it is, I clearly should’ve tried harder… ☹️
Just a short, painless seventeen hours on three different buses, and I was back in Dhaka. I had a midnight connection in Jessore with a two-hour layover. A small waiting area at the bus company’s (Greenline) office was full. This would’ve been unremarkable had it not been for the fact few of them were waiting for a bus. This, I surmised, was Bangladesh’s version of an American barbershop, a meeting place for local gents to discuss whatever happens to be on their minds. And that was me as soon as I walked in.
They were a friendly bunch, though I did notice one outlier whose intensity was overpowering, holding a stare I thought might cause my spontaneous combustion. Friend or foe? It was a tad uncomfortable, but I assumed safety in numbers. I pegged him at around 60 years old, chalking it up to crotchety old man syndrome. Turns out, he wasn’t crotchety, just curious. I think my camera led him to believe I was a journalist of some sort. He had a tale to tell, and he wanted me to hear it. I know this only because of the rough translation provided by a man sitting to his right. He was a former member of the Mukti Bahini (Bangladesh Freedom Fighters) formed during the Bangladesh Liberation War.
After Great Britain partitioned the subcontinent, Bangladesh was initially part of Pakistan, known as East Pakistan, a non-contiguous union with India in betwixt. About the only thing East and West had in common was Islam. It all started to collapse when the main political party in the East, the Awami League, won elections but was barred from taking power. Instead, the opening of the National Assembly was postponed and the Awami League’s leader and the father of Bangladesh (the prime minister-elect), Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, was imprisoned. Pakistan sent troops to quell dissent. Things got ugly. (See 1971 Bangladesh genocide.)
With India’s help, the rebels defeated the Pakistani Army and won independence for what was to become Bangladesh. This man was on the front lines, and I can’t fathom what he might have shared. Hard man. Hard life. His eyes were a story unto themselves. We were both eager for an exchange, but the language barrier was too high to surmount.
With time to kill, I went in search of reading material. A few days before, while riding a bus, I remembered feeling a little like Gulliver stranded on the island of Lilliput considering the near impossibility of sitting upright in the seats. Well, when I entered a small bookshop stocked almost entirely with books written in Bengali and asked if he had anything in English, you can imagine my delight when he rescued a dusty copy of Gulliver’s Travels from a high shelf. Obviously, the universe demanded I read it.
My six-hour bus ride to Dhaka, when adjusted for inflation, actually took twelve. Smoke on the water (i.e. fog on the river) delayed the ferry. Valium to the rescue. When we did finally arrive, I was pleased to discover the last stop was a good hour away from my hotel in Banani. Muchas gracias.
A man offered to share a CNG (autorickshaw) with me, which I gladly accepted, though it would’ve been nice to know his destination was nowhere close to mine. It would also have been nice to know he was using the CNG to make business deliveries. At one point, he disembarked and his associate hopped in to finish the route. I’d been sitting on buses for over 17 hours. This was exactly how I wanted to ease back into the chaos that is Dhaka. I’ve mentioned in a previous post cruising around in a cramped, caged-in CNG is like stuffing yourself in a motorized birdcage and having a bumper car rally in an asphyxiating dust cloud.
Welcome back.