In the third episode
of her Bangladesh travelogue, Jennifer Nandi enters the sinuous spiderweb of
the Sundarbans, where the sluggish rivers are reluctant to lose their freedom to the sea
There are three main
rivers with their tributaries that make up the Sundarbans. The River
Jamuna (Brahmaputra, in India) joins the River Padma (Ganges, in
India); and further down its course, joins the River Meghna, whose
source is in the Sylhet hills. The western portion of this river
system lies in India. Though the Sundarbans have lost half of their
inland area over the last 200 years through human encroachment, over
10,000 km of continuous mangrove wilderness remain.
The myriad channels that
crisscross the Sundarbans like a spider’s web draw
visitors such as us. Innocent of human structure, this landscape
answers to a name that means ‘beautiful forest’. One-third of its
total area is permanently covered by water. Yet, it is the only
mangrove forest with tigers; it harbours one of the largest remaining
global population of this highly endangered species. Its coastal
waters are home to the world’s largest population of Irrawaddy
dolphins. It comes as no surprise that these mangrove forests are one
of the two Ramsar sites in Bangladesh. But the Sundarbans is not an
easy place to be in.
Twice a day, the
character of the water changes from fresh to salty. And twice a day
too, much of the mud is exposed to the air. Creatures that live in
these stressful environments tolerate the fluctuating changes of
fresh to salt water. Rewards for doing so are huge because of the
nutrition that is available in such waters. Food is delivered to the
estuary every day from both the sea and the land, so the creatures
that are able to survive here flourish.
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| Water hyacinth snagged on a tree after high tide |
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| Cleaning crabs after an early morning catch |
The sandbanks being
covered by water twice a day snag prodigious amounts of food that are
inviting to the daytime gleaning of birds. This is particularly vital
for the winter migrants that need to strengthen themselves for the
ordeal of their journey to the half-frozen nesting grounds farther
north. Small, short-billed
waders exploit surface-dwelling organisms of the tidal mudflats. Most
waders possess ear openings positioned much further forward than
those in other birds. In this way, they are better able to detect
vibrations in the mud.
The shifting sandbars of
the rivers part the braids of their wandering channels and on this
cold, damp and foggy morning, we witness life at the very edge of
existence. Pastels of dawn paint the early morning water and jungle a
strange hue. We are sitting on a mattress in a flat-bottomed ‘country
boat’. The boatman paddles into a small creek. There are other
boats like ours – though their compulsion to be out, so early, on
such a cold morning, is driven by sheer necessity. They are fishing
vessels – anchored with a bit of rope to a convenient snag. The men
lean forward, yielding beneath a burden of life, as they lower their
nets for fish; others catch crab.
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| Nypa palms |
The forest dawn is long.
The dark, impenetrable mangrove forest narrows the channels. We
paddle through these tortuously twisted creeks and the mangroves
press closer. The water is shallow and dark. On the harsh, sluggish
grey, steep banks that lead down to the water’s edge are clear
prints of tiger. If one had to emerge for a morning’s snack, I
don’t think we had much of a chance, armed guard notwithstanding.
Eerie sunlight sifts through curtains of fog. It’s still cold. As
we paddle into wider channels, flowerpeckers and sunbirds gather on
the blossoms of the flowering trees taking advantage of the cold
shafts of sun that part the fog.
The river beds of the
Jamuna, the Padma and the Meghna together with their tributaries are
full of sediment by the time they reach their estuaries. They become
sluggish in their reluctance to lose their freedom to the sea.
Mingling with the dissolved salts of sea-water, their sediments clump
together and drift to the bottom. These fine-grained, great, grey
banks of mud trap the gases produced by the decomposition of organic
debris. Earthworm-like creatures, called lugworms, ingest quantities
of this mud to extract this organic material. These fat-bodied worms
are in turn food for birds whose beaks are able to probe deeper into
the mud. We see Whimbrels with their long down-curved bills feeding
on the squelchy ooze at low tide. They also feed on fiddler crabs,
probing into their burrows with their superbly adapted bills. Curlews
with their even longer bills are fewer in number. But it’s still
too early for any serious birdwatching and two hours later we head
back to our luxury boat for some sustenance.
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| Sundari trees, after which the Sundarbans take their name |
Ken is particularly
pleased - I’d taught the cook to use the percolator, so Ken could
drink Italian coffee with his substantial breakfast. We are now
sailing towards Katka, a port 6 hours away at the very tip of the
Sundarbans where we meet the Bay of Bengal. We move onto the bridge.
It is flooded with a tide of light. We sit in its warmth and softness
with mugs of the hottest coffee, and our binoculars at the ready. It
is a delightful winter morning, and we waste it watching waders. We
spot the rare Finfoot and then had the vessel halt for a better look!
It’s a shy and secretive bird – we are lucky to see it riding
high in the water. We see more Whimbrels and Curlews. The steep banks
provide little space for them to stand. Brown-headed gulls tail us
for a long while. Brahminy Kites circle overhead, and those great
white birds, the Large Egrets, with their fierce fiery eyes and
spear-like bills, fly from tree to tree in their effort to get away.
And now the true
splendour of the mangrove forest reveals itself in a study in
halftones. The trees are of different species that have all found
ways of adapting to their very particular environment. Of the 50
mangrove species in the world the Sundarbans harbour 20. The
Crab-apple mangrove is the most common species we find this morning.
Each tree has its share of Fire-breasted Flowerpeckers and Sunbirds
that suck nectar from the few flowers remaining. The Mangrove Apple
is taller but deer are able to reach its leaves. Rhesus Macaques
gather its fruit. The villagers also relish the Mangrove Apple fruit
and grind it into a chutney. Local fishermen use Nypa Palm that line
the water’s edge, to thatch their country boats for shelter. The
Blinding Mangrove has sap, as its name suggests, that blinds. Its
wood was used to manufacture safety matches and newspaper. Not
anymore. It’s a tall tree which we keep a look out for perching
birds. Irrawaddy freshwater dolphins show themselves as
fast-disappearing dark shapes.
We settle into lazy
inaction. Like light, that great zeitgeber of biological clocks, the
stable rhythm of the boat’s engine lulls my body rhythms to a state
so peaceful and warm that I close my eyes and hold the moment, as
even the wind holds its breath, making it last till the afternoon sun
yawns over the water and another sumptuous meal is served.
In the late afternoon we
board the country-boat and paddle into the broader channels. We
return before the falling river dusk and board our luxury boat to
cruise down to Kotka in the Bay of Bengal. Ours is the only boat
apart from a few crab fishermen. Here the tidal range is very large
and much of the land is flooded. At Kotka we find three other large
boats packed with local holiday makers. Tonight again we have an
excellent view of the star stippled sky. Another good day passes.
Missed the first two episodes of Jennifer's Bangladesh travelogue?
Read them here:
Copyright: Text and photographs by Jennifer Nandi. All rights reserved.
Bird life is limited to the commoners – Bank Mynas, Rock Pigeons, Black Kites, Rose-ringed Parakeets (both free and caged), Common Crows, Sparrows, an occasional Pond Heron, White-thoated Kingfishers (and sometimes it’s Pied cousin), Wagtails (a few Grey Wagtails in the winters) and an occasional Magpie Robin. The river front is over built and the entire 6 km long curve of the Ganga is choked with ghats, steps, temples, teashops and people. Successive generations of preachers and princes have all strived to leave behind a legacy and ghats are the scene of round-the-clock outpouring of humanity and its rituals. The entire spectrum of life’s chores, from deep meditation to sewage disposal, are carried out with the same fervour. 
Soon enough, as the day warms and visibility improves the cries of “aaaao – aaaao” are heard from the ghat steps and the boats. The gulls recognize it, in fact are waiting for it. They mob the source of the sound - boats in midriver, bathers on the banks and regular bird feeders – all are distributing food and a feeding orgy ensues. Residents love the birds for they break the monotony of the riverscape which has few waterbirds if any at all. The tourists are pleasantly surprised at this unexpected bounty from nature in a city where their purpose is mostly religious. Those who feed birds regularly at dawn and dusk relish this novel punya and for once the pigeons, monkeys and the sparrows take a backseat.
The food offered to the birds is mostly fried savouries (namkeen), which are by no means suitable but the gulls seem to relish and fall over each other to get to the salty morsels. They are fed all through the day, every boat with tourists wants to experience this thrill and the fish and the turtles (introduced to help clean this stretch of Ganga, which carries a more than normal share of bio-waste) are the lucky beneficiaries of this largesse. The demand for gull feed has led to a seasonal occupation – a few boats in the river are there for the sole purpose of selling “bird namkeen” to the boaters and the enterprising boatmen advertise their wares by calling out “aaaao – aaaao”, getting the birds to fly in but hold back the food.
The Brown-headed Gull breeds in the marshes and bogs of the Central Asian plateau and high-altitude lakes of Ladakh in India (among them Pangong Tso). It nests on the ground (usually a mound of grass on marshy terrain) in large colonies and is a gregarious species.
It is migratory, wintering on the coasts, tidal creeks and large inland lakes of tropical southern Asia. In India it is found along the coasts, large lakes and river systems of northern India. I have seen it on the Ganga-Yamuna river system at several locations including the confluence (Sangam) at Allahabad. While wintering they often flock with other gulls and terns and we have seen them in large flocks with Caspian (Hydroprogne caspia, formerly Sterna caspia) , Greater Crested (Sterna bergii) and Lesser Crested terns (Sterna bengalensis), on a coastal sand bar near Marakkanam in Tamil Nadu (November 2010).
It is a bold and opportunistic feeder. It scavenges and also eats small invertebrates and winged quarry.
The dark brown hood is seen only in breeding plumage. In winter plumage, the head is white with a prominent dark spot behind the eye. The bill is dark red with a black tip. The legs are red and the eyes are white. It has a grey upper wing and broad white primary base, creating white half-moon against black wing-tip with prominent white mirrors (a diagnostic help). The tail is white and quite prominent in flight. 
The residents love the birds and it is with a sense of pride that they tell the Indian tourists about this “safed kaowa” from Siberia (literally white crows) which is a regular visitor to the holy city. Bizarre as it may seem, this appellation is not such a farfetched one – for the gulls are numerous, mob the feeders like crows do, and for once they outnumber the crows ten to one. This is the only urban landscape where there are fewer crows than gulls or for that matter any other species of birds (mynas included).
Text and photographs by Sahastrarashmi 
We drove upriver for many kilometers. Past Rishikesh the Shivaliks rose up from the plains. The roads were built as ledges along the mountains, in whose gorges the Ganga flowed, keeping us company all the way. Signs screaming to beware of landslide/rockfall were everywhere along the road. But so captivated were my eyes that the fact that landslides could hold us up, delay us, or even doom our trip didn’t register in my brain. 
The mists seemed to rise upwards like an inverted curtain from the surface of the river. The skies were overcast and saturated, and a downpour seemed imminent. It seemed as if Mahadev had spread his locks a tad to allow more water to gush towards the Earth, perhaps to cleanse many more souls! 
The higher we went the river became more turbulent. At Devprayag, the Ganga splits into Bhagirathi and Alaknanda -- rather, the Alaknanda and Bhagirathi merge at Devprayag. 
From here, we followed the Alaknanda. Landslides littered our way, which was being cleared by bulldozers as we watched. The mud that the mountains shook up was pushed over the ledge, into the hungry river, which looked as if it could swallow entire roads, if not the mountains themselves. A few hours of driving upriver took us to Rudraprayag, where the Mandakini meets the Alaknanda. The waters were still turbid, but looked much more menacing. In the planes the flow was smoother but here the rivers dashed against rocks, around curves, churning and frothing. Here she resembled a young woman, hasty and headstrong, hissing and winding like an angry snake. Part of her vehement aspect, before she entered Mahadev's locks, seemed to have resurfaced.We followed Mandakini, which originates near Kedarnath, towards the Kedarnath/Ukhimath route. However next morning we parted company and met one of it’s most beautiful tributaries – the Madhyamaheshwar Ganga, which originates in the galciers of the massive Chakhamba. Past Ukhimath, Uniana and Ransi villages our drive ended, and we moved upriver of Madhyamaheshwar Ganga, a lovely jade green river, on foot, climbing the steep hills towards Madmaheshwar. Alaknanda never left our side, always flowing with a distinct rushing noise. On days that it didn’t rain, she sounded more like a girlfriend who doesn’t stop chattering, and on the days when it rained cats and dogs, she was a nagging wife. 
When we would return, the rains would let up in patches, and from the color of the water at the various confluences of streams, we saw where it had rained and where it hadn’t. The water in the streams flowing from areas of higher rainfall (and soil erosion) were a murky brown while others were a rich marble green! 
And soon we saw where all the water came from. There were numerous waterfalls streaking the landscape, and this in addition to the snowmelt from the extensive glaciers from the Chaukhamba massif. Like a few runaway streams caressing the temples of Mahadev, these streams slid down the ridges of the mountains... 
We drank from waterfalls far from habitation during our treks to Madmaheshwar and back, crossed rivulets flowing over the road (letting water and an occasional leech into our shoes), and lost count of the waterfalls which joined Madhyamaheshwar ganga. Some gushed, some giggled and some roared as we walked past them. Maybe due to the therapeutic powers of the waters, not once did any of us fall ill or face a bout of indigestion. The sun, when it chose to make an appearance, presented us with amazing spectacles -- causing rainbows in the spray that rose from the rocks, pounded by the the streams that would later join the Madhyamaheshwar ganga and then Mandakini, Alaknanda and finally the Ganga itself. And here, she looked like an innocent girl with rainbows and stars in her eyes. 
By the end of the trip, I could see why Lord Shiva supposedly made Ganga his wife. It was hard not to fall in love with her.
