Water Water Everywhere but not a drop to drink: Survival and Sanity in the Sundarbans.

‘ I just want water- nothing fancy!’ I wanted to yell as my stone faced producer yet again asked me to take a swig, swirl and put spit out the water back in the bottle.’ You never know when you’ll need it again- it’s only 11, and you have a long day ahead. You do not want to drink salt water!’

To be fair to him, he did realize he had seriously miscalculated big time and was trying to be helpful. We were going to the Sundarbans,one of the world’s largest mangrove forests, to shoot a film on how the local people live alongside the  Bengal tiger and also how they have to outsmart the animal in order to extract honey- their livelihood. ‘The script will evolve depending on what we find there.’ The  Producer had told me as we took a flight to Kolkata in the  middle of the muggiest, balmiest,  humid May weather, and then by road to Basanti. Little did I realize while his film was evolving, my own drama was finding a way to break lose.

Sundarbans has been declared a world heritage site by UNESCO because it houses a rich and distinct species of flora and fauna, as well as a dying tiger population.

We were accompanied by two men from the technical team, and there was the Producer and I.  Though I have subsequently needled him about why, for 5 days that we were there, they had only calculated 2 bottles of water per head per day and in his paranoia, refused to buy the local brands of mineral water, least we have the  something other than the Royal Bengal Tiger that was yellow and running!

The sweat pouring down our eyes , the sun blazed directly overhead as we meandered through the wet mangrove forests on the slowest motorboat in the world, hoping to catch a glimpse of the tiger. How I wished he would simply leap out at us and the torture would end.

We were staying in a ram -shackled West Bengal Tourism guesthouse that was undergoing an infrastructure crisis  so had no electricity or running water in the toilets- there were amphibians and creepy crawlies of every kind that kept us awake at nights.  I kept having visions of a creature  coming up to grab my behind as I sat on the Indian style cistern, saying a silent prayer to the lizard  perched overhead to please not fall on me.

All this mind you, with a gaslight in my hand , and an irritated producer outside the door trying to patiently talk me through it. The mosquitoes I felt were  slightly more merciful, as they whizzed and whirred outside the mosquito nets so we could finally fall asleep, exhausted.

The mornings were interesting as we trailed the bee hunters skillful masquerade. Bare and able bodied, this local tribe of Moulays are skilled in the art of navigating through the dense dark woods, armed with drums and a local battle cry, out on a mission of scaling the  trees to cut down beehives. Wearing a rather theatrical mask at the back of the head to confuse and ward off any errant tiger for whom the drums and war cry aren’t enough,  the Moulays are flexible, nimble, quick witted and intuitive. ‘The entire exercise of retrieving a hive full of honey is reward enough! ‘ I realized as we caught site of a sudden dart of black and yellow leaping away from somewhere in the grove to one side .

We participated in the evening song and dance of the local tribes who recounted tales of land acquisitions by the Mughals, then the British and feudal landlords and finally the Indian Government. This had lead to the declaration of this area as a protected site due to its diversity of flora, fauna, plant and animal life as well as indigenous tribes that lived harmoniously with nature, and still enjoyed the simple joys of life.

I remember wondering about the contrast between their lives and mine as I crushed my plastic bottle, wondering where to throw it.