Upon
reaching the beach we encountered the battalion of men we’d seen
earlier enjoying a match of beach cricket. They were all employees of
a Bangladeshi clothing manufacturer on a company retreat. As
one might expect not long after our arrival we became the center of
attention.
While
Al was attempting to shoot a bit of footage on his video camera he
was inundated with requests for photos and handshakes. He was
surrounded for a good ten minutes. I too had a small entourage of
fans jostling to get a photo of the freakishly tall blanco with a
silly hat. It usually begins the same way: A member of the
group kind of shimmies (a bit surreptitiously) up beside me while a
co-conspirator snaps a photo on his camera phone. When it is clear
that I am amenable to the prospect of being photographed actual
verbal requests follow and before you know it there is a steady
stream of admirers vying for your attention. Ahhhhh, the burden of
stardom. Everyone has their cross to bear. I am certainly not
complaining. It beats getting your ass kicked. The experience was
very reminiscent of my time in Indonesia.
After
our Glamour shoot we continued along the coast. It is an
alluring stretch of beach made all the more resplendent by the fact
that we had it to ourselves. It had a bit of an
apocalyptic-end-of-the-world feel and a slightly tense atmosphere
owing to the possibility of a feline marauder lurking in the forest
behind us. Heeeeeere, kitty, kitty, kitty. Come out, come out
wherever you are!
It
was not all in my head as we soon discovered recent kitty tracks
intermixed in with all the deer and boar hoof prints. Heeeeere,
kitty, kitty, kitty. Nice kitty, kitty. I also spotted a giant otter
patrolling the waters near the shore but it retreated before I had a
chance to snap a photo. I’m getting used to disappointment. Besides
birds and the occasional boar sighting we once again came up empty
with El Tigre. Clearly, they had been there and it appears, in light
of the pug marks, that the beaches serve as sort of tiger highway. If
only I could manage a walk during rush hour.
We
did what many pay a psychiatrist hundreds of dollars to achieve:
childhood regression (five or six years of age in my estimation). It
has been a while since I’ve had that much fun behaving like a child
(it happens more than it probably should but it had been a while).
At one point my fellow mudskipper was completely blinded by the large
volume of mud covering his eyes (due in no small part to the fact
he’d just spent the last five minutes burying his head in the
slime). As a result I was forced to escort him, by the arm, to the
water’s edge. This would explain the rather suggestive photo of
Slappy and Slick walking hand in hand in the sludge. I think the
slight protrusion of asscrack really cements the image’s romantic
nature. What can I say?
After
a rather exhausting swim against the current back to the boat the
process of cleansing began. Although most of the mud was removed
before we reached the boat the fact is I had mud packed in places I
believed to be water tight. Not only that our skipper was a
fascist about boat cleanliness (not a bad thing) requiring us to be
extra thorough. One of the more awkward aspects of this trip was the
insistence by a member of the crew (the country boat owner) to
manually clean our feet and shoes when they became dirty. Having a
small Bengali man repeatedly scrub your feet as if you were a member
of the royal family was a bit uncomfortable. After a constant
string of, “No, no you don’t need to do that”, “That’s OK,
I’ve got it”, and “No really, not necessary”, I finally threw
in the towel and just let it happen. I was never quite sure if he was
being obscenely nice or insanely fastidious about two filthy yodels
mucking up the boat. Even after I was clean I still felt a little
dirty. If that wasn’t enough after we’d doffed are
mudskipping shorts he began scrubbing them as well. Superb.
Afterward
we returned to the island for another jaunt along the beach. The
Sundarbans is nothing if not dynamic with a constant shaping and
reshaping of the landscape through tidal action and sediment deposit.
The island we were patrolling was only around 35-40 years old (there
was a bit of confusion about its actual age) and the result of
sediment allivium. Although it has a name (Pokhkhir Char) I dubbed it
Tiger Island. Why? Well, if local gossip has any validity there are
supposedly at least five tigers dwelling on an island not more than
16 sq km, four of which are reputed to be a mother and three cubs.
Judging from the number of pug marks (tracks) we discovered, I am
inclined to believe the numbers. The abundance of prey (i.e. deer and
boar) would also support the claim.
So
on the afternoon of the third day we again found ourselves probing
the coastal sands and scanning the edge of the forest for Khan and
friends. And once again we came up short, but lucky for us just
wandering around is half the fun, especially in such a marvelous
place. I did see something darting through the forest and made chase
along the sand but whatever it was made haste and was gone in an
instant. Most likely it was a deer, although deer usually make
more noise when startled. This creature vanished without a sound. Was
that you Mr. Khan? As the sun began to set and the light faded we
made our way back to the ship. Another excellent day. We decided that
the watchtower deserved another go so we returned for another
wildlife midnight vigil.
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