117 - To The Jungle, Bubba! (Sauraha, Nepal)
UPON MY RETURN TO KATHMANDU, I faced a choice: high or low. Head to the roof and begin my foray into the Everest region, or hug the floor and explore Nepal’s variation of The Jungle Book. As I’d just spent two months in low-lying Bangladesh, I figured I might as well continue the tropical trend before strapping on my mountain legs. So, off to Chitwan National Park.
The park, once a hunting ground to the elite, is now considered a shining example of nature conservation in Asia. Rhinos, and tigers, and bears, oh my! Leopards and elephants round out the all-star fauna lineup. Another chance to see a tiger? Slap my ass and call me Gideon. The consensus on spotting Stripy was marginally less pessimistic than Sumatra and Bangladesh. In Sumatra, sightings were rare, though searching for them didn’t inspire as much terror as in Bangladesh, where they had a penchant for human attacks.
My strident aim was to avoid the Disneyland package tour everyone and their mother was hell-bent on participating in, a three-day/two-night extravaganza with a cursory jungle walk and an elephant ride. I wasn’t against riding elephants in theory, assuming they’re cared for, but it would feel less asshole-ish if it was a necessity rather than a tourist dalliance. In Thailand, I gave Dumbo a spin. Admittedly, it was fun, but every time I rest on the memory, I have an uncontrollable desire to kick my own ass. I’d read the pachyderm express was ideal for circumnavigating the freakishly tall and surprisingly sharp elephant grass covering areas of Chitwan. When in Rome, eh? Well, as it turned out, there were plenty of avenues through the expanse. No pachyderms necessary.
Show up and wing it. That was my strategy for the duration of my sojourn. This required time and patience. I had a surfeit of both. The bus to Sauraha on the outskirts of Chitwan was less than auspicious. Traffic jammed at multiple choke points (i.e. overturned vehicles) on the narrow mountain roads. A six-hour journey turned to eight, diminishing my surplus of patience ever so. I wasn’t going in blind, a friend of a friend greeted me soon after arriving. Raju came highly recommended by my Kathmandu contact, who assured me he wasn’t looking to cash in on tourist dollars, only to meet and befriend new and interesting people.
“Raju” sent a shiver of foreboding up my spine. I’d heard the name inside the Sundarbans, the mangrove wonderland in southern Bangladesh. A pirate gang designated “Raju group” for its leader used the endless labyrinth of channels as a staging ground for raids. Though not rising to the level of sea brigand, I would discover Raju from Sauraha had some pirate in him as well.
Still, it was nice to have a ride waiting, so I graciously accepted a seat on his motorcycle. He took me to the Chitwan Safari Lodge at his own behest. Suspicions arose. The owner was Raju’s friend, and I was assured it was an excellent choice. A cursory glance said otherwise, but it was hard to argue with $4. One night couldn’t hurt… probably. The Lonely Planet described the owners as friendly, and since it’s never wrong…
After a welcome tea from Chandu (owner), we explored the prospects of a jungle adventure. Chandu The Gregarious boasted he'd been guiding tourists in Chitwan for twenty-two years and was ninety-nine percent sure we’d spot a tiger in the park if one was willing to trek within its boundaries for three days or more. I was ready, willing, and able. Ninety-nine percent? Nothing dubious there, right? I would learn soon enough this was nothing more than the twaddle of drunken braggadocio. The assertion was preposterous, but I was delighted by the optimism, even if it bordered, if not crossed over, into the domain of Don Quixote. This was a stark contrast to the “ain’t no-way-in-hell” pessimism I’d experienced in the Sundarbans.
Chandu had business to attend, so Raju and I got better acquainted. We had something peculiar in common. We’d both worked in Iraq as civilians—I in Baghdad, he in Balad. This didn’t surprise me. US military installations were a veritable United Nations labor force. I met folks from India, Bangladesh, the Philippines, Uganda, Sri Lanka, Ukraine, and Nepal. A Nepalese gentleman manned the coffee shop near my building. Many a conversation about his motherland kindled my Himalayan fantasy.
I explained to Raju that KBR, the main civilian contractor providing ancillary services on bases in Iraq and Afghanistan, hired abroad because it was much cheaper than hiring US citizens, especially in the realm of unskilled labor (cooking, laundry, fuel pumping, etc.). This was the military-industrial complex’s version of cheap immigrant manpower. Raju was paid a paltry $700 a month, though this was a considerable increase over anything he could hope to earn in Nepal. I’d discovered long ago salaries varied dramatically and were set by the in-country subcontractor. The US government contracted with KBR, who then subcontracted out certain facets of its responsibilities to other companies based abroad. In all likelihood, the Nepali company hiring Raju received $1500-$2000 per month for his services. Exploitation was rampant, but I never heard any of them complain, as the relative payoff was substantial. I doubt they had any idea they were getting such a small slice of the pie.
I made the colossal blunder of sharing my salary with Raju, though I tried to counteract the implications by explaining the money was spent repaying my ludicrous school debt acquired after seven years of education. My inner reproach was scathing. You're an idiot. A big, fat, stupid idiot. Slap yourself. Slap yourself hard. How much did he understand? Who knows, but it’s safe to assume Raju thought I was King Midas. To reiterate, I’m a stupid face.
Another conversation ensued with Chandu, and we agreed on a three-day itinerary. I would pay for guide services and park entrance upfront, lodging and food along the way. Although the price was higher than the standard tour, I believed the extra expense would be worth it. Skeptical? Yes, yes I was. Was I in for a fleecing? Perpetual ignorance was my modus operandi, so I decided to chance it. I would have my regrets.
I spent a day in Sauraha before my jungle excursion. Chandu suggested I explore the Buffer Zone Community Forest, which lies across the river on the town’s outskirts. This area, administered by the local community, contains the same wildlife, to include el tigre. He included a half-day outing in the BZ and the services of his guide Denis with the Chitwan tour. This tour involved peddle power, so the next day we mounted bicycles and went for a glide.
Chandu was drunk by noon. I found this a tad unsettling since he was responsible for my well-being come the morrow. I asked Denis about this as we departed for the BZ. He said Chandu was celebrating something or other, implying this was not his natural condition. Turns out his “natural condition” varied wildly by cash flow. I paid him the day before. He was hammered by midday. Coincidence? No, no it wasn’t. And a harbinger of things to come.
We set off around 1:30 pm to an area known as 20,000 Lakes. I saw four, maybe five. I forgot to inquire about the other 19,995. The forest was exceedingly pleasant, biking its jeep trails a perfect way to experience it. We stopped at one of the small lakes (12, 567, I believe) and watched local fisherman gather their catch by dragging a large net along the lake bottom while locals waited nearby to purchase fresh fish.
Next, we moved to a larger lake (9,467?) where mugger crocodiles were sunning themselves. These crocs can cover enormous distances overland to find suitable habitat or prey. They eat just about anything that comes to drink and aren’t above attacking Johnny Villager, though you wouldn’t know it by the nonchalance of the fisherman. We pushed into horny pachyderm territory. Denis said we had to be on our guard, as rhinos can be ornery. It wasn’t until we were well down a side trail he informed me only jeeps were allowed. I smiled. I liked Denis. I liked Denis a lot.
Most of the usual haunts were rhino-free, but we spotted a horned behemoth wading and munching on hyacinth near a viewing tower overlooking a pond (3,112?). The sylvan setting, relative solitude, and low light made for a sublime experience, a “rhinos in the mist” sort of vibe.
We encountered many deer, some of them of the “barking” variety. I tried to communicate (i.e. barking like a dog), but my advances were rebuffed. We also discovered a pile of tiger poop, identifiable by large hairballs contained within. (They can't digest it.) Poop but no tiger. Such is my lot. Shit was mocking me.
We made our way back towards Sauraha, and it was then the intrigue began. My side trip was supposed to be gratis, but Denis asked for a tip and that I please not tell Chandu. “He be very mad with me,” as he put it. I had every intention of tipping the lad as I thoroughly enjoyed myself. This was no big thing but raised alarm bells about Chandu’s management skills. Let's call it foreshadowing, shall we?
Raju met me at the hotel after my trip. Denis worked at a restaurant in town and recommended I dine there. I invited Raju along more out of resignation than desire. He seemed intent on shadowing me. I was hooked on the feeling he was expecting a free meal. Picking up dinner wasn’t offensive to my delicate sensibilities, but ordering a small bottle of whiskey with said dinner was extravagant. I was under the impression he was paying his own way, which makes me a moron. I even had a drink with him (straight whiskey with a touch of water) out of politeness. Had I known I was drinking my own whiskey, I would have indulged. Denis told me the next day separate bills were presented, but my rapscallion of a pal instructed the waiter to combine the checks. Raju, you silly prick. Naughty.
When I realized I was expected to pay, I wasn’t amused. And he knew it. This is where the pirate analogy glowed in high relief, underscored in no small measure by the scar on his face from a motorcycle accident. This gave my “admirer” a hint of menace. Prick.
I should have told Sinbad to go “F himself in the A” and pay his own bill, but in the end, I relented. I knew little of Raju or what he was capable of, so I sucked it up to be on the safe side. Perhaps, I’m a pussy. Either way, it still chaps my ass a teensy bit.