Hazards of Butterfly Collecting in Bangladesh

by Torben B. Larsen

Somebody tried to kill me the other morning. Well, that might be overstating the case a bit, but it is true in the sense that I might easily have been dead. We were driving through the tea gardens of northeastern Bangladesh on the way to one of the two areas with good fragments of oriental rainforest.

The tea gardens were lovingly planted a hundred or more years ago among gently undulating hills, in contrast to the completely flat floodplains that take up most of Bangladesh, 80% of which is flooded during two months of the year. So great is the contrast that it is hard to remember that the highest point in our working area is 56m above sea level. The hills and tea gardens start where the floodplain ends, and probably only 20,000 years ago, the plains were oceans. The silting-up process is so recent that a large part of Bangladesh differs in size and location every year as the monsoon rivers fight their way through the flooding to the sea, dislocating the topsoil.

This means that tea actually grows at sea level, which I have never seen before, since tea is usually grown at 700 to 1,800m. It is still fine tea, though not reaching the quality of Assam tea from higher altitudes in India.
The low altitude is presumably also responsible for a denser grid of shade trees, especially tall Cassia – this tree is the main host plant for three different bird species, which sometimes fly in unbelievable quantities under the canopy. The road was a beautiful avenue with mature trees on both sides and quite wide – two buses could pass without either being forced out on the narrow hard shoulder.

At this pleasant point, we were overtaken by one of these new ‘people-carriers’ that takes ten people or so (make that 25 in Bangladesh). We were going about 65 km/h but there were no obstructions or other cars ahead, so we were not worried that overtaking proceeded quite slowly. But suddenly, the vehicle turned in abruptly, well before having passed us fully. It hit the right front mudguard of our Toyota Corolla in a most audible manner.

To my mind, this is a truly dangerous situation. If you move left, you risk being forced into the bordering trees. If you over-correct to the right, you risk suddenly finding the other car pushed in front of you, broadside view. Anyway, my driver and butterfly assistant, Jamal, did the right thing. He turned just enough right to make us avoid going off the road and pushing the other car back on an even course. And then the other guy did not stop.

I told Jamal we needed to stop him, look at the two cars, and at the very least bawl him out, so off we went in a chase, my first car-chase ever. Within a few kilometers, we had stopped him. He got down from the car rather sheepishly, with another 24 people inside looking forward to observing the proceedings. On getting out of the car, we noticed that we were actually somewhat shaken. Jamal began berating the driver in choice and precise Bangla; he went on for some time, with the other driver emitting only the occasional squeak. We inspected the damage, which was no more than you might easily sustain while parked in Dhaka. The chances of getting any money out of the guy without hiring private goons ($10 to 15 a day depending on quality) were slim.

Jamal summarized his lecture for me, ending: “He says has been a driver for ten years.” Few people in Bangladesh actually have a driving license, and most of those who do have simply purchased it, so it is difficult to verify.

“You tell him that if he normally drives like this he must have killed at least ten people and that maybe he should be thinking in terms of finding another profession.” Jamal translated and the guy replied. When Jamal finally turned to me, I could see he was on the verge of bursting into laughter: “No boss, he says he has only killed two people!”

We had a good couple of days collecting butterflies in the small fragments of remaining forest. Friends and relatives with no experience of tropical forests usually assume that you are placing yourself in great danger – my mother was particularly good at this and hated every day I was away in the bush. They see marauding elephants, dangerous animals, poisonous snakes, cunning forest crocodiles, hordes of noxious biting insects, leeches, electric eels, and quicksand. To this the local population will add evil spirits, djinns, and magic, at least at night.

But our little story serves to point out that by far the greatest hazard of tropical butterfly collecting (or bird-watching or whatever) lies in getting to the increasingly remote remaining collecting spots. Bad roads, poorly trained drivers, a remarkable lack of anticipation, and overloaded vehicles in poor mechanical state – sometimes aided by hashish or country gin – combine to effect an incredible mayhem.

Death rates in traffic are usually at least fifteen times higher than in my native Denmark whether measured by number of vehicles, kilometres of road, or passenger kilometres traveled. The death toll per capita is usually at twice that of Denmark despite the fact that on any given day less than 10% of the population is inside a vehicle.

When on the road in Africa or southeastern Asia you are either captive in somebody else’s vehicle, and that is that; or you are driving very carefully in your own vehicle, but still never sure what is around the next corner. One firm step, though, can be taken to minimize danger: Never drive at night - Nancy and I have had a pact on this since 1988 and we have stuck to it.