110 - “F” for Futility (Munshigonj, Bangladesh)
I AROSE IN THE A.M. FOR A BREAKFAST EXHIBITION, eating under the close supervision of my benefactor(s). Stare straight ahead. Masticate in awkward silence. Weird? Sure, but I was adjusting. And then shit got a tad more weirder. I adjourned to the communal bathroom for teeth brushing and bowels vacating. I have a habit of talking to myself, especially on the porcelain throne. This day was no different. Imagine my surprise when I exited the stall to find one of my caretakers standing in silence and staring in my direction. He seemed to be waiting patiently… for what? There were other stalls. Um, ‘kay. I bid him good morning and moved on. What was going through his mind as I sat mumbling and vacating?
Time for a second attempt at hiring a boat. Back to the alleged “office” from the previous day. There were obstacles in my path, obstacles in the form of civilians hell-bent on tea time. Such effulgent hospitality was impossible to refuse, nor did I want to. If it wasn’t tea, it was pictures—me taking pictures of them, they taking pictures of me. Many a camera phone snapped in my honor. I walked, phones elevated. I often posed to ease any apprehensions, satisfying their curiosity and my rapacious ego. George Clooney, eat your heart out.
At the river, I skipped the middlemen and went straight for the docks where locals milled about waiting for transport, some of which I assumed to be boat owners. I approached and made inquires, which is to say I pointed and made sounds with my mouth. Folks smiled and grunted assent. I got nowhere. Finally, an older gentleman came outside and somehow managed to convey I would need permission for boat hire from the Forest Department… seven kilometers away. Super. A man with a motorcycle offered me a ride. I accepted. To the Ranger Station.
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. This didn’t include boat rental, but I was told I could hire one nearby. Super duper. But then, Forest Guy Two changed his mind. I would have to go to Khulna (two hours away) to get permission. Come again? So, let’s review: I need a copy of my passport. I don’t need a copy of my passport. I have to pay $17 to cover all necessary fees. Hire a boat nearby. Permission denied. Why not just punch me in the beanbag while you’re at it?
Motorcycle Guy tried to assuage my disappointment with a visit to the deer pen behind the office. I was a bit pissy-pants, and though less than riveting, it was hard not to smile at the gesture. Back to Munshigonj. He detoured through the bucolic countryside, a sort of peace and serenity tour. It did the trick and put me at ease, making the exorbitant ‘tour’ fee well worth the price.
Pack it in or forge ahead? That was the dilemma. An idea bloomed. I called the owner of Guide Tours, the catalyst for my nine-day sojourn into the eastern Sundarbans. Mr. Mansur said he’d contact the Khulna Forest Office, obtain the required permission, and have someone drop it off the next day. By a stroke of luck, his daughter-in-law (a Swiss woman named Elizabeth involved in both tourism and local research) was bringing a group on a cultural tour the following day. Excellent. It’s good to know people who know people.
But not so fast. About an hour later, I received a text from Mr. Mansur saying the Khulna office had refused me permission on the grounds I had no knowledgeable guide to accompany me and the usual crap about safety. Damn it. He suggested I call Elizabeth, as I might be able to tag along with the group... into the swamp? This I did. She was stupefied by the fact the Munshigonj office didn’t grant permission, certain they possessed the power to do so. Joining her group wasn’t an option as they were visiting local villages that had recently celebrated the Bonbibi Festival. No Sundarbans for them.
And then a ray of hope. Coincidentally, the head of the Forest Department happened to be with her. She told me she’d make inquiries and get back to me in an hour. I thought about just saying f*ck it and hitting eject, but I figured I might as well wait and see. So, I went for another river stroll west of the village. My progress was “impeded” by yet another tea interval. I sat conversing in broken semi-unintelligible English, participated in a short Bengali 101 lesson, and snapped photos as locals took turns trying on my hat. All this while sipping tea under the curious gaze of twenty or so villagers.
I noticed, almost out of nowhere, a white woman standing in the village center. I thought this rather queer (as in odd or strange). I’d seen only one other whitey since my arrival. Curiosity piqued, I walked over to have a chat. She was French and had just arrived in the area two days earlier, working for an NGO trying to establish a waste management and sanitation program. She was there with her Bengali escort to put up posters seeking local support.
When asked why I was there, I recounted my unsuccessful attempt at entering the mangrove. The guide, a man whose name sounded something like “Ooopoo,” theorized my denial could be related to pirates. I hadn’t considered this, but the idea intrigued me. Alex and I spent a fair amount of time inquiring about pirates on our excursion in the east. He was surprised I knew the name Raju (leader of the dominant group at the time) and concerned I spoke it aloud. He said locals were afraid, informants were everywhere.
The people we spoke with back east painted a favorable, if not borderline heroic, portrait of Raju Group. Folks were afraid, yes, but Raju had a somewhat honorable reputation (at least as far as that’s possible). Never too greedy. Never too outrageous. He supposedly helped a desperate fisherman retrieve his new boat from a competing band of pirates. According to Ooopoo, the local brigands were of the nefarious variety. (It wasn’t clear as to who these pirates were affiliated, Raju or another group. The romantic in me hoped it wasn’t the former.) These degenerates had a penchant for ransom a la child abduction.
Ransom? Who has money for ransom? I inquired, but he misunderstood, thinking I was confused about the focus on children, not adults. His answer: No point in stealing women because no one would care. Ouch. Not quite what I was getting at, but thanks for a troubling take on the worth of an average village female. He also suspected, given the opportunity, a tourist might be included in their target package. A disturbing social commentary and a not-so-subtle warning? The day was looking up.
He said if I wanted a boat for an illegal foray into the forest I should go “over there” (reference previous post insert link). Apparently, folks are willing to do it as long as it is on the down-low. I realized that was the place I was looking for all along and must be the “over there” the Nepali tourist spoke of the day before. My concern was with the “down-low” component of the mission as I spent a day and a half not only asking everyone and their mother about recruiting a chauffeur, but also had gone to the Forest Station to announce my presence. Way to go, douchebag.
Reason, logic, and prudence notwithstanding, I went in search of my illicit tour. “Over there” again turned out to be just on the other side of nowhere. Luckily, the walk itself was worth my time as it led me to a path sandwiched between the river on one side and rice fields and fish farms on the other. Along the way, I was shadowed by the customary entourage. Mud huts, women dressed in colorful scarves and saris, children playing cricket, old men out for a stroll, chickens, goats, and ducks conducting their endless search for sustenance, men in small wooden boats screaming for a picture, constant requests for personal information from the masses, the sun casting its dying glow across the water-soaked fields, boats stranded in the mud, men and woman carrying all sorts of myriad items on their heads, aerial-mangrove roots protruding from the riverbank, so on and so forth. I felt like I was walking through the real Bangladesh, the one everyone should see.
I received the call from Elizabeth during my constitutional. People had spoken with people, and I was good to go. Permission granted. She advised me to make haste to the Forest Office to work out the details, but it was too late to make the journey. I thanked her profusely and crossed my fingers, toes, eyes, ears, and testicles.