Chitwan Safari, Nepal
03/17/10
I was almost positive that angrily staring at my arm covered in bed bug bites wouldn’t fix them, but I decided it was worth giving a try. As I furiously examined my body at breakfast, a German tourist gave me advice in broken English about my bites. I had no idea what he was saying. I tried to look impressed by his information, but I could tell it was not working. He may have been telling me how disgusting my armed looked, so giving him an impressed look may not have helped. I instead replied what I always do when I fail to understand someone for a third time: “Totally man!” I said, thinking the conversation was over.
“I used to have some great cream for that,” added a woman with a Dutch accent. I was going to say the same thing, but with more passion, to really rub it in how a magic cream used to be available. Then I remembered, I had packed my go-to hydrocortisone cream and polished my bites down before we headed out on the water.
Our long safari day started out in a small canoe, dug out of one whole tree, which was pushed down the two-foot deep river by a large bamboo stick. The water was calm and quiet. Small birds walked along the shoreline while locals washed their clothes in the murky water, showing no fear for the fact that crocodiles hunted in this river. Our group of five sat on small wooden chairs, sitting on the flattened bottom of the boat. It felt like floating in a giant bathtub with strangers without the awkwardness that can be caused by bubbles.
“We have two guides, one in the back and one in the front,” Kumar said, as we floated slowly, deeper into Chitwan Park. “One guide is for fighting the animals, while the other take you away,” he joked. He then told us that tigers are afraid of his hand-carved stick. He had no gun. Not even a knife. Our best bet would be to reason with the tiger. Come on now, tiger, let’s talk first, I joked in my mind, then laughed by myself. Kumar thought I was laughing at his joke. This made me laugh even more. The result was him looking at me for the rest of the day each time he attempted a funny. I knew I had to laugh at everything he thought was funny, even making the mistake at laughing at the wrong time, which seconds later, I realized he was not trying to make a joke.
The water became shallower, scraping our canoe along the river bottom and we occasionally got stuck. The morning sun reflected against the water as green vegetation and white bubbles floated by. As I reached for the plants, I examined my left hand covered in bumps. These continued up my arm. I suddenly realized only this section of my body was infected. I had slept with my left arm out of my sleeper bag, rested under my pillow. I was excited by newfound revelation.
“Pillow!” I exclaimed to Boxie-boo, pointing at my arm, thinking this would disclose what I was thinking about. She looked at me, peculiarly, while I slapped away some insects on my shoulders that I’m quite sure she could not see. Sometimes, she did not understand me the way you do, dear reader. Thankfully, Kumar began yelling about an important sight, distracting her from my apparent stupidity. I took the cue and laughed. He did too.
Pointing to holes that appeared drilled along the mudslide bank of the river, Kumar explained that sparrows dug these holes, which were up to one-and-a-half meters long, to protect themselves against the rat snake. Kumar looked at me, then smiled, seemingly to cue me to laugh. So I did. This was the first time my realization happened. His smiled was replaced by a confused look. Near their nest holes, hundreds of sparrows circled the air, their wings reflected in the sunlight, hundreds of them, moving like leaves brushed upwards by a burst of wind. When the monsoon begins and the river expands, the little, creek-wide river we floated on will flood the surrounding plains and the sparrows’ homes will be destroyed.
Further down the river, Kumar spotted two crocodiles. “We must always keep a few meters back and presume they will attack,” he said. One sat flattened, completely motionless in the rocks. The other floated amongst the green foliage, waiting for prey. There are few personalities in the animal kingdom and none with crocodiles. They are purely cold hearted killers.
“Anyone want to go for a private moment?” Kumar asked, as we began our safari walk a few meters away from the crocodiles. I laughed, genuinely, at the thought of what he asking. I was confident that nobody would relieve themselves here and even if they wanted to, I’m sure they would have felt more pissing their pants than near the river, especially for a squatting female, here in the jungle, surrounded by tall grasses that wild tigers can easily hide in. That would be a tough letter to write home: I’m sorry to tell you this, but your daughter was pissing in a bush looking at some crocodiles, when a tiger…
Walking through tall grasses, Kumar warned Liam about his bright red shirt. “Rhinos are attracted to bright colours and they are dangerous,” he said. Liam put on his grey jacked, covering the t-shirt. This might have be something Kumar should have told us before getting into a canoe headed towards the middle of the jungle without any weapons to protect ourselves. It was a good thing I didn’t dye my hair purple the night earlier. Kumar told us to stay close and be quiet, as we walked along the footprints of rhinos.
“Maybe you should take off your sweater,” I said to Boxie-boo, who was wearing an orange and green hoodie. She obliged.
“The socks too.”
“Why?”
“The smell will attract them as well.”
“Very funny,” she replied, sarcastically.
“Thank you,” I added proudly, then smiled at Kumar, hoping to cue his laughter. If only he would have returned the favor.
She placed her bright sweater in her backpack, as Kumar pointed at tiger droppings. We knew to take everything he said seriously. Had he told me to poop my pants for protection, I might have done it. The reason: We were walking along a path surrounded by giant elephant grass, a place where predators could easily hide unseen. The sound through the grass was of rain, the constant hum of dry leaves brushing. In my imagination, each sound could have easily been that of a crawling tiger, hiding in the brush in preparation for an attack. I did the only thing that made sense. I pulled a snack bar from the backpack we had bought in Kathmandu. I would have never known if the bar would have given me super powers to protect us unless I ate it.
Once passed the open field, we turned towards the jungle, walking under the dark-green canopy of trees. Sections of the ground were black. Locals burned the grass so new grass will grow, Kumar explained, which is better for the animals. Our feet continuously crunched on fallen leaves, shaded brown and orange, covering the jungle floor and all I could do was concentrate on whether I was also hearing the footsteps of predators. Had my life flashed before my eyes, I may have only relived a dream for a burrito-flavored type of booze. Hearing a louder sound, one of movement, I felt my butthole tighten and my sperm screaming. I armed myself with a rock from the ground and prepared for battle. It was time to test out my snack bar.
A rustle in the bush like a fox.
All our eyes scanned the shrubberies. I did not mean to be a party pooper, but I felt I might need to leave our safari party to relieve myself. Then we spotted the horrifying, 20-pound beast. It was exciting, even though small, and made me realize how much of an adventure our safari in Africa would soon be.
A jackal crunched down about 10 meters away, before shooting through the foliage, looking like a burst of grey light. Other animals began to appear, more birds, a small lizard, a group of humans, the craziest of all, who reacted by aimlessly firing off their cameras and singing high-pitched notes, as if this would attract the small predator to come closer to us for a photograph. Further down, an owl sat in a hollow, watching us as we neared a jungle village where locals breed elephants. I swear he whispered, “Your book will be awesome.” It was great to meet a fan.
Inside the breeding facility’s information center, a photo showed an elephant surrounded by fire. The caption read, “Trainee calf accustomed with fire.” This facility trained calves so they are able to work. With fire. Something was not right here. Usually at tourist centers, companies will stretch the truth on how animals are trained to ensure foreigners at not offended. But not in Chitwan.
The life each one of these elephants live is tough. Between two and four years of age, they are taken from their mothers and kept in isolation for a few days with “restricted food and water”. The calf is then tied up with cotton ropes on a “Khamari,” or wooden post. Both front legs and the neck are tied to the post with chains to protect the trainer, the information board explained.
During the day, the cotton rope is put on the neck and two long ropes are extended laterally, pulled by already trained adult elephants. The calf is then moved around an open meadow, learning to turn, go forward, sit down and get up by vocal commands.
In the evening, flames are shown close to the calf, which is followed by a massage with the fire to de-sensitize the skin. I repeat, a “massage with fire.” The calf may be slightly injured during the training as the animal “vigorously reacts to the training process,” the sign stated.
After this so-called “mild training” is completed, the calf is taken to villages and highways to make them familiar with the noises of automobiles and of other domesticated animals, like dogs. The training lasts 20-30 days. Once trained, the trainers perform a ritual of worshipping the god and goddesses (Puja), with sacrifices of goat, chicken and pigeon, another signed explained.
Outside of the information room, calves were chained to post near their parents, which our second guide, Posha, claimed to know them both quite well. A few months earlier, two twins here were celebrating their first birthday party with fire and dancing.
“They are chained because they are naughty,” Posha said. Confusion instantly took Boxie-boo’s face hostage.
“What makes …” I paused, almost questioning whether this question even made sense. I continued, “an elephant naughty?” I felt very strange asking this, especially when he paused long enough for me to think about what I had said. I felt it was important to try out my inquiry, leaving me to feel clever and ashamed, the way a teenager would feel using a fake prescription note from his doctor to buy a dirty magazine.
“They will chase you and grab your camera and break it,” he answered in a matter-of-fact voice. That is naughty.
It was time to move on.
We followed our guides along a low-level bridge across a river; the bridge leaned with each step. We walked along bags of sand rested on two bamboo logs. Buffalo crossed the water in front of us, led by farmers, while I held my camera above my head in case I fell in. Behind the animals, village women bathed in public groups. I looked away, to show respect (they were clothed), took no photo and carefully placed my feet on the sand bags.
Watching our heads, we boarded the back of a truck under the roll bar and went slowly through small villages. Elephants, horse-drawn carriages and naked village children moved along the truck. Our driver at times slowed down, to wave hello to his friends. I thought back about the poor elephants training, but then saw how fun it looked to ride an elephant, which we were set to do the next day, already paid for. I weighed everything in my head – the fire, the rope pulled training, etc. – and shamefully, I decided I did not really mind.
We stopped farther up the river where large elephants were bathing with local men doing tricks on their backs, like front flips into the water, before pulling themselves up by the elephant’s ears and climbing back along the strong trunks. The elephants gathered water with their trunks and sprayed it across their backs, following the trainer’s instructions. Having this bath with an elephant was selling for 100 Rupees (less than $1.50 Canadian/US). Sections of the water were shallow and some tourists fell off. I decided not to risk it. They say (not sure who ‘they’ are, give me a break) elephants remember everything and after reading of their training, I felt they could turn violent, rather rightfully, at any time.
Near Boxie-boo, a local woman with rope wrapped around her forehead walked forward, which was used to hold a basket against her back while she fed the animals bananas. The massive elephants came up to us, lowering their giant heads offering for us to board, but we respectfully declined. Kumar warned that some tourists have been hurt and even trainers have been killed here.
Lunch was the vegetarian burger again, this time without the bun. Still horrible. Following lunch, we crossed the river by canoe to enter the jungle, our off-road truck waiting.
Along the darkened off-road track, my legs quickly collected dust from the dry, unpaved roads, turning them completely grey. With each moved of leaves, we hoped for a rhino or a tiger. I started our journey sitting on the truckbed’s bench, but after my bootae went numb, I decided to hang off the back bumper with Liam. The seat was as soft as a wet t-shirt is on rock and the roads were extremely bumpy.
A couple hours in, my stomach swayed with the truck, which moved more like it was out to sea than on a road, fighting currents, bouncing up and down through massive potholes, over fallen trees and bashing its way through bushes. When the dizziness kicked in, I moved to the front passenger seat and joined the driver. I had packed Pepto-Bismol chewable tablets in my pocket, but was hesitant to take them. I wanted to save them for Boxie-boo as she was having stomach problems in Nepal. When my face began to turn colours at the crocodile farm we visited in the middle of the jungle, she told me to take them. Twenty minutes later, I was fine.
In total, we saw many spotted deer, monkeys, rhinos, crocodiles, wild boars, peacocks and one Komodo dragon. It was a day of standing on a roof to see animals for five hours in the jungle, between long periods of trying not to knock our heads against the vehicle. Most of us failed at this at one point, as the driver often slammed his brakes, sliding each person in the bench into the unfortunate soul nearest the cab, who was slammed into the back window. By night fall, we left the jungle, to conclude our long day in town watching a local dance show. It was a mix of martial arts, walking in a circle while choreographed fighting with large sticks.
Before bed, Boxie-boo put me under quarantine for petting a local dog I felt sorry for. His hair was falling off from some sort of skin disease. However, the pup and I had bonded. I wished this dog could have made human facial expressions because he obviously sniffed my junk and I kind of wanted to know his opinion. To negotiate the situation, to fight on behalf of the dog to crash in our room while he assisted by whining against the door, I made a skeptical face for one second, then immediately gave up. Although we had bonded, quite frankly, she did not understand. Instead, she continued her quarantine of me.
Boxie-boo made me wash my hands twice before bed and told me I wasn’t funny when I said he should join us in our room to eat the bed bugs. Boxie-boo never got bed bugs as she did not have the problem I had with flailing my arms out of the sleeper bags once passed out. Thankfully we packed and used our sleeper sheets or we both would have been covered in bites.
That’s all for now.
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