119 - Wild by Nature (Chitwan National Park, Nepal)
I AROSE TO THE MISTY WONDERLAND such an enchanting feature of the early morning landscape. Chandu felt exactly as he looked, which is to say shitty. While Denis was at home preparing the day’s lunch, my expedition leader was supposed to take me for breakfast at the local food stall where he'd inebriated himself the previous afternoon. I had a sneaky suspicion his failure to do so was related to lack of funds and the debt he'd incurred. What he did do was ask for cash to cover my room and board. He said it would be better for him to pay as they might demand more from a tourist. Nothing out of the ordinary there. What I learned after our trip (assuming Denis was straight with me) was Chandouchebag pocketed the money and never paid Denis and his family. I was an unwitting pawn.
We set out for the riverbank to hop a dugout canoe to the other side. Chandu was as excited for another jungle run as I am when I buy deodorant. Sloshed Chandu is much more jovial than hungover Chandu. Once again, we entered the cloud forest in search of exotic fauna. Once again, we visited places of rhino frequency only to be flabbergasted at their absence. The fact local villagers were cleaning a small lake (as in removing floating debris to expedite fishing, I think) where the pachyderms like to frolic did nothing to aid our efforts. A stop at a wooden watchtower yielded the same result, but the misty backdrop was so spellbinding, I cared not.
We moved on. Since we (as in Chandu) decided to skip breakfast, we opted for a snack break near Chitwan’s gharial breeding center. Chandu was surprised by my curiosity. Maybe he thought I was jaded from the untold thousands we'd seen along the river. (By “untold thousands,” I mean zero.) Hungover Grumpy Pants had no interest in going inside. The center’s zoo-like nature diminishes the adventure factor, but it’s well worth a gander. Gharials, though harmless, have a menacing, prehistoric aura. Lack of animation might lead one to question their authenticity, but they are quite alive… I think. There’s plenty of information about the center’s broader conservation efforts as well.
After my crocodilian extravaganza, we began a jungle trek along a jeep track crossing the park's interior. A fat unicorn close encounter ensued. It started with rustling in the forest and culminated in the appearance of Horny the Rhino. At a crossroads, we spotted him/her/they standing by the road. Although unable to see us (they have terrible eyesight), their sense of hearing and smell, both impeccable, alerted Horny to our presence.
Chandu and Denis were on edge and became unsettled when it plodded in our direction. This denotes an aggressor, so Chandu suggested we climb to escape the beast’s wrath. He was the slowest of the three, so this was an act of self-preservation. It wasn’t long before Horny decided he had better things to do, so he/she/zee/zer disappeared into the elephant grass. I was fortunate enough to make the acquaintance of a mother and baby in a different area, but prudence and dense forest prevented photos.
We spent the second night at a Madi village, another farming community on the outskirts of Chitwan that, from what I've read, ekes out a living. The village, trapped between the national park to the north and India to the south, has limited access to necessities like health care. They also inhabit a flood plain, making monsoon season a dicey affair, and their crops are under constant assault from protected wildlife. (Hence, the watchtowers in photos.) And yet, there’s no dearth of smiles.
I watched transfixed as a village cross-section (men and women, young and old) fashioned roof tiles by hand from mud. In the dying light, I felt tremendous gratitude. To be there. Then. To be welcomed. A small vignette of village life. Blessed was I, but I couldn’t shake the all too familiar feeling when tourism almost feels like criminal complicity. Accident of birth. Nothing more. I was lucky. The little girl with the headscarf and million-dollar smile making tiles in the mud was not. Then again, maybe she was the lucky one.
I slept on wooden planks, but still felt refreshed the next morning. After a spot of tea, we engaged the mist. Not far outside the village, we found crisp tiger prints and a pile of tiger poopy, practically steaming. Khan was close. Real close. I had a feeling Mr. Orange Furball was mocking us. You'll see me when I’m goddamned good and ready… fools. You’d think with all the tiger paraphernalia nearby, we would've lingered a bit. Nuh-uh. Sober Chandu equals Boring “I would rather be drinking” Chandu. We pressed on.
By then, it was impossible to distinguish Chandu's (a.k.a Mr. “Wild by Nature”) true abilities from a steaming pile of tiger shit. At one point, he smelled a rhino and, when we’d found those fresh tiger prints, he smelled the kitty. I could smell something all right. Later that day, we heard two male rhinos battling in the jungle. I wanted to have a look. Chandu wanted to run in the other direction. I followed Chandu.
We also passed employees from a lodge inside the park (Tiger Tops) who showed us the damage an angry male elephant had done to the stable where they keep the domesticated elephants. They believed “Dumbo the Belligerent” had gone in the direction we were headed and advised us to be careful. This elephant had a reputation for being an asshole. We moved forward, and I was told if the shit hits the fan we should head for the hills, a perfect plan until we reached the fields of ten-foot elephant grass… gulp.
Dumbo was a no-show. We did, however, meet some wild bison (gaur). Weighing in at around 2,500 lbs, they’re not to be trifled with. The two we saw were angry, but not with us. Mating issue? Territorial dispute? Both? There was a moment of tension when, as we passed the area where they'd entered the tall grass, we heard a sudden crash and scream (a cross between a pissed-off wookie and a cow in heat) of a fast-moving beast. Not knowing their destination, we hauled ass toward a nearby hill. I nearly soiled myself but had to laugh when I spotted Denis halfway up a tree. They proceeded in the opposite direction and were content with kicking each other’s asses. Chandu told me his friend was in the hospital for two weeks after being attacked. He was sober at this point, so I’m reasonably sure the story was accurate.
Our last night was at a tented camp near the river bordering the park. It was a peaceful place and a relaxing way to end the journey, especially the sunset walk along the riverbank.
Chandu's cousin and alleged grandfather showed up with a jeep for our return to Sauraha. Although not in the mood, Chandu invited me to have a drink (rum this time) and sit for a chitty chat. I acquiesced in the spirit of politeness. For Chandu and his cousin, alcoholic bliss was insufficient, so Mary Jane entered the fray. Keep in mind Shiva (Nepal's most sacred Hindu god) is fond of the ganja, so it’s not as a sordid an enterprise as in other cultures. Moderation is key. They seemed to have misplaced theirs.
In the morning, I found Chandu verbally incomprehensible. He and his compadre had forfeited a night's sleep in favor of debauchery. They were a mess. I gave him money for lodging. Instead of settling up, he doled it out to the employees as a tip. I was to learn the duo ran up a tab somewhere in the neighborhood of $220. That’s no easy feat, but I suppose when you buy drinks and food for the entire village, it’s not unexpected. After breakfast, I was presented with a bill. It included the three glasses of rum I thought had been provided as part of an invitation to sit and enjoy local camaraderie. Time to draw the line. Denis, disgusted with our leader's behavior, came to my aid.
Chandu was friends with the owner and believed all the accoutrements of their bender would be gratis. Ingesting enough alcohol to send an elephant to the infirmary didn’t temper his irrationality. The owner showed little concern, so I believe it had been decided that “Chandu the Magnificent” would compensate him at a later date.
The apogee of my morning came when I discovered Chandu's partner in depravity would be chauffeuring us back to Sauraha. I found the prospect frightening, to say the least, but as I had little choice, I climbed abroad and crossed everything on my body that could be crossed for luck. The roads were unpaved and uneven, so speed wasn’t an issue. I also monitored his movements. His driving was remarkably steady and deliberate. Years of practice could account for this anomaly. Still, the situation was not ideal.
No one seemed to know the way back. I will admit it’s a confusing patchwork of dirt roads stretching through villages and farmland, but one has to wonder how the fuck they got there in the first place. We stopped for an inquiry (one of many) and Chandu's “cousin” did something that blew my mind. He purchased a beer, which he then placed in the pocket of the driver-side door for sipping as he drove. The time? 8:45 am. At that point, I was ready to drink.
The drive across the flat farmland of the Terai, dotted with villages and folks milling about, was beautiful in the morning light. I didn’t mind the few stops we made, as it allowed an opportunity to get a few shots of the bucolic landscape. Even with all the nonsense, I was thankful to be there and appreciated the experience.
I made it to Sauraha and then Kathmandu in one piece. Despite the high-drama soap opera (As The Jungle Turns), I did manage to enjoy myself, but Chandu is off my Christmas card list. If not for the kindness and patience of his capable assistant, the trip could’ve been a total disaster.