Bardia National Park

He awoke from his rather short sleep and looked up. The fan was still working, which meant about another hour of electricity before the buzzing of the generators started invading Thakurdwara. It was 5:30 and he had to prepare for yet another day in the jungle. Tigers, he thought, they all wanted to see the tigers. And all had been fortunate enough to see them every day for the past month. He’d taken tourists into the jungle for 31 days straight and all came back satisfied.

Pardip was young but he was good at his job. He knew it. He’d been tramping around Bardia National Park for as long as he could remember and he could find his way anywhere with his eyes closed. Becoming a guide was only the rational thing to do. His mother had been so proud when he first told her he passed the exam; and he’d learned English too; and Hindi. If only he could have time to visit her more often…

He got up and nudged Krishna, who was sleeping next to him. They had shared the bed since the fire devoured his little bungalow. It had been two weeks before and, when he came back from the jungle, the lodge was filled with army people and villagers, watching helplessly how the flames consumed most of his belongings: the books, the binoculars and all the lodge’s documents were now ashes and dust. The Boss hadn’t been happy. The old copper wires and the heat had been too much for the mud-thatched little hut. But his guitar was still in one piece and most of his clothes. Ah, the clothes… he’d have to wash them as soon as possible but he never really had the time. Krishna had offered to wash them for him but Krishna was also busy in the kitchen.

He’d have to get up and see to the breakfast for the tourist. The cook might have forgotten about it and it was almost time to wake the tourist up. Then they’d head for the jungle.

…

The jungle: the sounds of countless birds, the familiar smell of leaves and elephant dung combined, the lush green trees, and the deer. He hoped to see his lucky deer that morning. It meant that they’d also see the tigers. But the deer were not in their usual spot. He didn’t worry much. He knew the rhino would probably be at its usual waterhole and that’d be a good start for the day. And, sure enough, he was there. It had only been an hour and the tourist was sweaty and slightly panting. And so was his new assistant. The Boss made him take the new guy and he was already complaining. He had to explain everything to him twice and he still couldn’t tell the birds apart by their chirrups, but his English was improving, which meant that soon enough Pardip wouldn’t have to translate everything to him.

He tried to get closer to the rhino but the rhino was quicker and disappeared into the forest. So they headed for the Supermarket: the best wildlife spotting place in the whole National Park, where any tourist, young or old, could get to without getting a heat stroke on the way. Spotted deer ran in front of them and monkeys jumped spitefully from tree to tree. But not his lucky deer. At the Supermarket others were already waiting but no tigers had crossed the river yet. They could wait for an hour or so and then move on.

It was easier than the day before: this tourist didn’t complain like the Israeli couple from the days before. They had been quite adamant about his language. He still wasn’t polite enough. He’d tried to be more tactful and delicate, and they hadn’t appreciated it. But they had sent him that great video with the tiger crossing the river, so all his efforts had paid off.

The tourist agreed to go all the way to the python’s lair and that meant walking through the thorny bushes and the arid riverbeds where those horribly loud treepies seemed to ridicule each human movement. Of course, the tourist had trouble with crossing the river: always getting the shoes off and back on, right under the sizzling sun. But Pardip was patient and he’d learned long ago that tourists wouldn’t be able to cross the river faster, even if he gave them his bamboo stick, even with all the rocks carefully placed so that every step would be easy. The sun was burning hotter now and all clothes were sticking to the skin like glue. But the big river was soon staring them in the face, its waters an invitingly grey sight. The water wasn’t big, just enough to cover a laid down body, but the cooling effect was all Pardip wished for. He’d surely keep a watch out for any wild animals but this part of the river was too exposed for any big animals. They were safe.

Pardip crossed the river in no time but the tourist took a long time negotiating the slippery rocks underfoot. On the other side, he walked barefooted to the trees by the riverbank and carefully crouched in front of the small lair. Yes, the python was inside, like always, and the tourist was gasping with surprise at the sight of a couple of coils buried in the dirt. Pardip had never had the courage to touch it; he’d always been afraid of snakes and he cheerfully admitted that, but he’d always hoped to find a strong, spirited tourist who could get the python out. Still, when beckoned to touch it, Pardip’s skin would prickle with disgust and anguish.

It’s always about the photos, he thought when the tourist flashed the camera deep into the burrow. All tourists snap shots to prove they’ve been places. And some get such nice photographs… The Indian photographer he’d guided through the park just some weeks before didn’t want to send him the pictures. They had been really good, Pardip was sure, but he also knew that to see them was to buy them.

He took the tourist back the same way he came and was as patient as before with all the tourist’s stops at the river crossings. He’d tried to help but the tourist was exactly like any other: stubborn, obstinate, self-absorbed, everything that was deemed abnormal in Pardip’s culture. He stopped for lunch under the protective shade of the big fig trees. He’d got a nice lunch today: vegetable rice and potato curry, a good nutritious meal. The cook had taken a liking to him and always had something put aside for him, especially if any tourists ordered meat and he had enough left over. He also suspected Krishna’s influence on the cook but he’d always made sure he’d show all of them the proper respect and regularly bought them whiskey and cigarettes. But only when the Boss wasn’t around; the Boss was a chain smoker but he didn’t approve of the boys’ smoking. They always had to hide for a quick puff from a cigarette that passed from hand to hand and was finished in seconds.

When lunch was done, Pardip showed the tourist back to the Supermarket and hoped against hope that a tiger would appear. They spent there some hours, the tourist reading and, eventually, falling asleep, and him talking away the minutes until they eventually made their way back to the lodge. But his day was far from over.

He went straight to the Boss and gave a complete update: the rhino, the deer, the python… no tigers. But the tourist seemed happy. Sure, tourists always seem happy, and never seemed to worry about tomorrow. Ah, tomorrow: it could be his day off. But right after the short shower, Krishna came in and told him about the Nepali people who’d come that day and wanted a jeep Safari the next one. There would be no day off again.

And then there was the tourist’s dinner and the evening’s preparations. The Boss always made him do it, even when he told guests he was a sort of manager; he’d still have to bring salt and pepper to the tables and fix all unpredictable problems. He was still the handy man. But today was easy: there was just this one tourist and the Nepalese people, whom were taken care of by the Boss. The Boss always discussed with the rich Nepali, and these were young doctors from Kathmandu, so he wasn’t needed.

His friends had invited him out for beers and, after everything was dealt with at the lodge, he went to the bar. Of course he’d have his cell phone close by, in case anything was needed of him. The night was quiet and dark, fireflies hovering around everywhere, competing with the myriad of stars in the sky. But then, the tourist came. He’d thought that the tourist would go straight to sleep, like most of them do after a whole day of walking in the jungle. But this tourist had something else in mind and, after some beers and some shared cigarettes, the tourist asked him if he’d be available the next day; it seemed that the tourist had changed his mind and wasn’t leaving Bardia yet. It suited Pardip just fine: he’d go with the tourist and the Boss would guide the Nepalese doctors. It meant a little more business, even now, when fewer tourists were showing up so far from the classic Kathmandu – Pokhara route. He’d just have to make some phone calls and explain matters to the Boss.

It turned out to be a good day, thought Pardip. He would share another beer and go get some sleep soon. Of course, he would have to get up early again and prepare everything for the next day: breakfast for the tourist, chores for the staff… But maybe he would see his lucky deer tomorrow.