We wanted to make an early start. The terrain ahead was alien to us and the extra time would certainly come in handy. We had checked and packed our gear the previous night.

Our boat was anchored inside a creek a few miles from the southernmost tip of the Ganges delta where the largest mangrove forest, the Sundarbans, meets the Bay of Bengal. The Sundarbans is famous for once having the highest concentration of the majestic royal bengal tiger. It also has a number of unique species of flora and fauna.

The beach, at Heron Point, was our destination. Had it been winter, we would have simply taken our motor-driven launch out to sea. But it was late spring. The seas were rough and the weather unpredictable. Our only choice was to get off here at Kotka and trek through 6 miles of dense jungle.

My friends Klaus and Pierre arranged this trip. Both were partners in a small investment boutique in Frankfurt. Klaus was 53, a former Swiss public official, while Pierre, 48, left Morgan Stanley’s Paris investment banking unit to join Klaus. The two met in Sri Lanka in 1991 and fell in love. I met them in 1995 in Bangladesh while working on a textile project.

I had been to the Sundarbans once before in 1984. It was winter then and we took our boat to the beach. The experience was beyond fantastic. It was the cleanest beach with the whitest sand I’d ever seen. My whole family was there and I enjoyed thoroughly.

I related this experience to my friends over drinks about a year ago. I may even have exaggerated a bit. Both became interested not only to visit the beach but also to see if we could put up a small resort of some kind. The tab at the bar was pretty substantial that night and I never thought that this topic would arise again.

I was wrong.

Two weeks ago I received email from Pierre that the couple were coming to Bangladesh specifically to make this trip to Heron Point. I was amazed and simply could not believe myself. I thought it was just a joke. A day later I received a courier package that contained a sizeable bank draft and a small note from Klaus instructing me to rent an appropriate boat.

I had lost a very close friend a week ago. I seized the opportunity to take my mind off the recent events. My boss was very compassionate and approved my leave readily. That same day I rented a boat from a local tour operator.

We started from Dhaka Friday evening. I picked Klaus and Pierre from the arrival hall and went straight to the domestic terminal. We flew down to Jessore. The 30-minute flight was uneventful. So was the drive to Khulna where we spent the night at a half decent hotel. We had breakfast in our rooms and took a couple of rickshaws to the riverside.

Our boat was moored at jetty number eight. It was 80 feet long and could accommodate 8 guests in 2 cabins and a crew of 5 in the galley. It also had a nice living room that had a sliding aluminum-framed door facing the bow. Its name, MV Jadur Tari, was written along the pointed bow in English. As we boarded the boat I could smell fresh paint. We quickly looked around. It seemed to me that my friends were rather impressed with the facilities.

The captain by now had detected our presence. Our unannounced intrusion into his domain annoyed him. He did nothing to hide this. Coldly he introduced us to his crew. I gave my friends the choice of cabins and they picked the portside room.

It took us roughly all day to get to Kotka. There wasn’t too much to see as soon as we went past Mongla. The mangrove forests on both sides of the river turned into a monotonous backdrop almost immediately. Most of the day we played bridge with the captain’s assistant and tour guide, Mowgli. Mowgli told us that he got his name from a Dutch wildlife photographer who had been his friend for the past decade and had made many trips to the Sundarbans together. The young man, in his early twenties, was playing bridge for the first time. He was quite good. He later told us that he played a local variation of the game called 29.

The rest of the crew included a cook, a waiter and an engine operator.

The cook Helal was around fifty, and for a Bangladeshi, was quite tall. He was a strange looking man and was always crouching. Too many years in the ship’s galley must have had its toll on his spinal structure. We later found that he was actually from Himachal Pradesh, a province in northern India. His family had settled in Bangladesh in 1947.

Helal was a talkative fellow. He kept interrupting our card game every half an hour. I was partly to blame. A couple of times I sparked conversations by hollering a few Urdu words. He was just too glad to find that someone else could speak a bit of his native language.

Mamun, the waiter cum cleaner, was in his mid teens. He had scruffy hair and a very lean physique. I figured that he probably came from a poor family. He was very quiet but had a constant smile on his face. At least until he stepped on my toe. It was really my fault. I was sitting at the edge of the cabin blocking the entrance while he was coming in to serve refreshments. The expression on his face was pathetic. I could clearly tell that he was distressed. I had to reassure him that it was okay.

The engine operator never appeared on the deck level and we did not get an opportunity to interact with him. The engines ran all day and we reached Kotka at dusk.

The evening was rather quiet. We had an early dinner and retreated to our cabins. I was a bit worried about how the Bangladeshi crew would react were they to discover my friends’ sexual orientation. I relaxed as Pierre stormed into my room with his pillow. He could not stand Klaus’ snoring. Both had come a long way and were very exhausted.

The next morning I was the first to get up. I was excited about this whole trip. I quickly went up to the bridge and blew the foghorn. This certainly had an effect on all the others on the boat. The first to come rushing out of his cabin was the boat’s captain. The poor fellow was quite startled. Annoyed too. I guess he wasn’t really used to this type of behavior from one of his guests.

The engine operator, Kuddus, finally appeared. He was a short bloke with a round chin and had scars all over his face left by small pox. He forgot his lungi in his hurry. At least that’s what I thought. Actually he was preparing for a swim. Without looking at anyone he walked to the end of the boat and dived straight into the murky waters. He disappeared for a few seconds and then surfaced about thirty feet from the stern. He swam away from the boat and it looked like he was heading out into the main river.

The ganges shark, known in these parts as the kamot, has a very fierce reputation in the Sundarbans and swimming is not a very good idea. The kamot is a variety of the bull shark, the most voracious of all sharks and also the only one to survive in both saline and fresh water.

I called out to Kuddus and asked him to return to the boat immediately. To be honest I was more concerned about how we would get back if the man turned into shark-feed. Kuddus ignored my call and kept swimming away.

I turned around. Right in my face was our captain. Still annoyed he asked me to get off his bridge and never to blow his horn again. I went down the ladder and entered the living room. The view was very nice. A chain of country boats was making its way through the creek to the main river. One of the boatmen was yelling at our Captain. Our boat very obviously was partly blocking the narrow entrance to the creek. Our Captain yelled back and told them that he would move the boat soon before the nip tide actually blocked the passage.

Klaus was reading yesterday’s newspaper. Pierre wasn’t up yet. I asked Mamun to go and wake the sahib. Pierre took only five minutes to get ready. Our continental breakfast was quite elaborate. Poached eggs, toast, jam and jellies, three types of fruit juice, roasted potatoes, etc. I advised the others to have a light breakfast. No one paid any attention. My hefty European guests had a good meal. Pierre went on to lecture me on how good eating habits included a large breakfast. Kuddus was now back on the boat and it was a relief for me to see him with his skin on.

I took my favorite rucksack with me. I bought this in Cox’s Bazaar, a beach resort in the southwest of Bangladesh near the Myanmar (Burma) border. The rucksack, a standard Burmese Army issue, was very rugged and had a rubber inner lining. I packed a set of khaki shorts, a couple of tee shirts and undergarments. I also took a medicine pack, another small packet containing various types of fishing hooks, my telescopic fishing poll and a small toolbox. The toolbox contained two battery operated torches, scissors, nylon cord, needles, tweezers, one Swiss Army knife, several kitchen knives, cellulose tape and a number of other handy items. I also took a number of cans of carbolic acid and insecticide spray and a few tubes of mosquito repelling ointment. My bag weighed about 6 kilos and compared to what the lovers were carrying was almost insignificant.

The monsoons had not come yet and there was no real need to be scared of poisonous snakes. I decided to wear khaki shorts and a khaki shirt. I put on my Yankees cap and wore a pair of cheap sunglasses. I had borrowed my boots from a friend in the army and found them rather uncomfortable. I attached a knife sachet to my belt. It contained a genuine hunting knife that had a seven-inch blade. I once read a book Congo Kitabu by the famous Belgian explorer Jean Pierre Hallet. Jean Pierre had slain a leopard with a knife when attacked. But then Jean Pierre had spent all his life in the wilderness. To be honest, the knife offered me the same feeling of safety as an unarmed guard provides a banker. I still opted on carrying it.

Pierre was carrying a large rucksack. From the looks it seemed that it weighed at least 15 kilos. I could not convince him to travel any lighter. The route, though not very long, was going to be through dense vegetation. Pierre carried almost every item I had in my bag and in addition took a Pentax R3 with zoom lens, a small home video camera, a tripod, more clothes, binoculars, and an extra pair of boots. Klaus was a little more sensible. He was missing the camera equipment but instead took a 2-kilo satellite transponder.

Mowgli was carrying a double barrel shotgun and a small bag containing a few extra rounds of ammunition and spare clothes. The weapon was an antique. I wondered if it had been used at all in recent memory. Mowgli kept reassuring me that it was just fine. He was the only one to possess a license to carry weapons into the Sundarbans, a publicly announced wildlife sanctuary. We had no choice but to trek through tiger-country with a twenty-year old guide carrying a forty-year old gun.

A narrow wooden plank was laid on the side of the boat. The plank had a number of small strips nailed to it to offer some grip. Mowgli led the way and darted down. The city slickers had a more difficult time. Pierre was already struggling with his backpack.

Outside it was slightly misty and cool. The skies were clear and there was a gentle breeze blowing in from the south. The wind carried a mushy smell. The water in the creek was stable and the boat swayed very little. The sun wasn’t out yet but it was quite bright. It was exactly six in the morning.

We managed to land on the soft muddy riverbank. The ground was sticky and our boots were half buried. There was a steep 10-foot climb to the edge of the jungle. We struggled and only managed by clinging on to roots and small shrubs. In the process our clothes got badly dirtied. The jungle only started a few feet ahead. There was what seemed like a narrow path winding through the dense vegetation. Mowgli led us through.

The experience was exhilarating. The jungle came alive almost as soon as we set foot. Simians got busy right away and the birds also announced our intrusion quite profoundly. I let my friends ahead of me. Out of plain courtesy. Nothing to do with the old Bengali adage that says the one in front gets eaten by the tiger.

According to statistics published by the government, the number of tigers in the Sundarbans was down to about 50 after the cyclone and tidal surge of 1994. That meant that there was only one tiger for every 100 square miles. Poaching was also quite prevalent thanks to the Chinese urge for aphrodisiacs and potency enhancing drugs that come out of a tiger’s body.