118 - Chandu the Magnificent (Chitwan National Park, Nepal)
JUNGLE-JUNGLE TIME. Before disembarking, I had the privilege of meeting Chandu's grandfather… I think. (“Grandfather” could’ve been an honorific term, like “brother” or “cousin.”) If I understood, he was 101 years old, though there seemed to be ambiguity based on questionable birth records. Whatever the case, he was old as shit… respectfully. In his heyday, he was one of few intrepid souls courageous enough to ride wild rhinos. That’s not a typo. When he was a young, strapping lad, he’d sneak up on the fat unicorns while they bathed in a stream or lake—a floating rhino, crouching dumbass scenario. They’re lethargic in water, reaction times diminished. Mount a rhino on land? That’d be fucking stupid. Grandpa had been around, seen some shit. He was a portrait waiting to happen, so when I asked, he conceded enthusiastically.
The journey’s first leg required a canoe trip down the river forming a natural boundary to Chitwan National Park. We arrived riverside at 8 a.m. and attained the services of a local boatman. The morning mist that blankets the park and surrounding countryside has a mystical quality, the perfect prelude to an adventure inside a primordial forest full of strange and wonderful beasts.
So, Chandu (seasoned guide), Denis (personable assistant), and I (inept Caucasian) boarded a dugout canoe and shoved off. Patches of human activity soon faded behind us. Birdlife abounded. Denizens included Siberian ducks (a.k.a common eider… I think?). Chandu claimed these ducks inhabit the plains of the Terai to escape bitter Siberian winters. They mate for life and are often found in pairs… allegedly. He also said when a mate dies, the other commits suicide. Romeo and Juliet ain't got shit on these birds. I can confirm none of this and believe Chandu was pulling stories from his ass. By 9 a.m., he was drunk, so this wasn’t unthinkable. The question “how do ducks commit suicide” is right up there with “how much wood can a woodchuck chuck” on my list of compelling enigmas.
After a brief spell floating downstream, we beached on a sandbar island for a wee break. Rhinos also used the bar as a rest stop, showcased by large piles of dooey. They are territorial and enjoy poop place consistency. I guess when you find a spot you like… There was an analogy to my itinerant lifestyle at the time—a rhino who couldn’t find a suitable place to keep shitting.
Their piss has medicinal qualities (allegedly), collected for numerous ailments including asthma and flatulence. (The previous night’s meal made me a gaseous anomaly; I could’ve used a shot.) I was confused about collection, but believe it’s scooped up immediately after release. So, this means you follow until mother nature calls? Who gets that job?
The lower Terai, and the Chitwan Valley specifically, were first inhabited by the Tharu people. (Both Chandu and Denis are Tharu.) Tharu are immune to malaria, a genetic asset that prevented modern encroachment until the 1950s. Along came DDT and the World Health Organization's efforts to eradicate the disease. And with it came the migration (or invasion, one might say) of other ethnic groups, gobbling up fertile soil, making the Tharu second-class citizens in their own backyard and farmhands for rich landowners.
We continued downriver and I became acutely aware of Chandu’s intoxication. As he was behind me, I hadn’t realized he was sipping roksi (homemade brew) out of a glass bottle. I made the connection when we passed his friend coming upstream. Chandu hailed him to share the wealth. When the Chandster begins to glow, he becomes garrulous, to put it mildly. And although it was rather endearing, and I agreed with the overall sentiments, the more shitfaced he got, the more enigmatically philosophical he became, and, by default, all the more incomprehensible. His English was decent but degraded exponentially with each roksi injection.
One soliloquy went something like this:
"Riiiiichaaaard. Do you see the nature beauty and quiet jungle river both sides? I enjoy going into jungle to see the nature, listen birds, and get way from people. Birds are freedom. They don't care the problems have to do this or that. They just fly and no care about troubles. You see fisherman [pointing to riverbank]. He come sit in morning eat fish sleep very quiet enjoy like birds his canoe the quiet. I like this. I not just about business. I not like Raju (the “pirate” that bilked me for dinner and a small bottle of whiskey). I like the nature. I wild by the nature. Many years I come to jungle to fish, watch birds, enjoy the nature, see the fish, drink roksi in canoe with the moonlight, enjoy the nature, I wild by nature. I meet you and I want to come to jungle with you to show the wildlife, the birds, the nature, the quiet, far from the people ruin the nature go to doing this or that… Ahhhhhhhhh… This is the nature, jungle, quiet, I guide twenty-two years… Riiiiichaaaard… do you understanding with me the wild by nature?"
Luckily, I was in front, which allowed me to conceal my perma-grin and stifle laughter. Every once in a while, I would interject with a “Yep” or “Yeaaaaah. It sure is nice” or “Sure I do” or “I agree. People do suck.”
We reached the starting point of our jungle foray. The animals decided (as they often do) to play hide-and-seek. I’m endlessly entertained by a pattern common to wildlife guides the world over. We’re always told where we’re headed is a great venue for this or that creature, but discover the unthinkable upon arrival—no animals doing their animal thing in the place where they are always supposed to be. The best part is, as, on this occasion, the guide behaves as if this were true along. Oh, rhinos wouldn't be here now. That’s ridiculous. Too hot. They’re hiding in the forest. They come to drink and bathe in the morning and late afternoon, not at midday, you silly fucking tourist. During a quick side trip into the elephant grass to smoke out a rhino, Chandu sliced himself on the gargantuan weed. (The grass is sharp and unforgiving). I’m sure it had nothing to do with his blood alcohol level. Nothing at all.,
Although we saw very little on the first day, I wasn’t disappointed. Just being there is worth the effort and, notwithstanding Chandu's diatribes on human folly, the journey was time well spent. Day one was a smashing success. For lodging, we crossed the river again to a village on the park’s edge, Denis’s village. He’d built a modest hut with a few rooms to house tourists. His parents were a ten-minute walk along a meandering path. I was delighted to discover we’d be dining at his childhood home.
Denis went home to retrieve the room key. Chandu disappeared. I took a load off and read a book, Rubicon: The Last Years of The Roman Republic. Denis returned, and I entered my humble abode. Not long after, Chandu came to fetch me. Being the obedient fetchee, I followed him to a food stall where I discovered he’d been quaffing alcohol… again. He wanted me to join the party. Although I had little desire to imbibe, I didn’t want to be impolite, not only to him, but to the owners and locals who sat down to chat and check out the great white hype. Chandu was five sheets to the wind, making him nearly unintelligible. And after gin, red bull, roksi, and who-the-hell-knows-what-else, I was glowing as well. One thing I did catch from my intoxicated chaperone was his belief he was a popular fellow. As I watched the faces of those he interacted with, I wasn’t so sure they shared his enthusiasm. I would’ve been more worried about the upcoming days if not for my own intoxication.
An hour later, Denis arrived to take us on a short stroll along the riverbank before heading home for supper. Chandu was a puddle and lagged, teetering on collapse. At one point, he started screaming something about getting marijuana from some dude named Baba. We giggled and let him venture through his own little world. While Denis took me on a pleasant stroll through the village, Chandu went on ahead, more out of necessity than anything else.
Denis' village, though poor, was well-kept and tidy, I might even say quaint. Adults wore smiles, and the children were their playfully curious selves. I was glad to be there and appreciated having the opportunity to meet Denis' family and share a meal. It was a good day, a very good day.
