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Struggling to Adapt in Bangladesh The Salty Taste of Global Warming

Part 2: 'Come to the Sundarbans While it Still Exists'

But the shrimp farmer is satisfied. He is eager to show us his cultivation ponds. With a flick of the wrist, he pulls the only garment that he wears, a piece of blue cloth, up to his hips, and wades into the mire. Working in the sludge leaves him with countless infected sores all over his wiry body. He leans over and skillfully runs his hands through the murky water. After a few moments, he seizes a large shrimp. The gray scaly creature measures 15 centimeters and writhes wildly. He says that a truck will arrive soon to pick up his 5,000 harvested crustaceans. In return, he will receive 30,000 taka, roughly €300 -- a small fortune that will even allow him to afford a house made of concrete.

Although this may appear to be a successful adaptation to the changing climate, not everyone is happy. "The shrimp grow all by themselves. Now I don't need a single hired hand," says the shrimp baron with a grin. Local farmers used to hire around 200 workers for every hectare. Now they only need three laborers for the same acreage, estimates activist Mondal. He says, "for the rest of the population, this region has nothing more to offer. Unemployed laborers hang around or venture into the swamps, illegally scavenge wood or poach tigers. Only very few have benefited from the shrimp boom."

A small minority reaps the profits of change

Salinization could have enormous consequences for Bangladesh's food supply. Whereas Bangladesh's southwest was once the country's breadbasket helping to feed the nation, now the region's bounties are all exported in the form of shrimp. And the money earned ends up in the pockets of only a few people who now have to pay fewer workers. Many observers see this as a dangerous development. "Climate change means that the poor get poorer and food supplies become more limited," says climate researcher Atiq Rahman from the capital Dhaka.

South of the stinking shrimp farms, every additional millimeter of rising sea levels has the potential to wreak havoc on the environment. Only centimeters above mean sea level lies the world's largest mangrove forest, the Sundarbans, with its extensive network of tidal waterways. This vast and impenetrable woodland covers an estimated 17,000 square kilometers. Depending on the phase of the moon and the rainy season, the forest is either slightly submerged or transformed into a sea of mud, where small mangrove roots protrude from the soil. Here, deep in the jungle, live the last 200 Bengali tigers -- the pride of the nation.

For many years, this fragile environment between the mainland and the sea has been a World Heritage Site and protected as a unique habitat for a large number of species. Now it is seriously threatened. Salt from the sea has severely stressed the mangroves, which, in contrast to normal trees, breathe with their roots. Due to a lack of funds, researchers are unable to ascertain the exact source of the problem, but they have described a mysterious dying of trees, which starts when the canopies of the huge mangroves rot away. This is widely attributed to the higher salt content in the water. In addition, the trees have simply stopped growing, says an employee of the forestry department.

"The Sundarbans' days are numbered"

Our guide on a boat trip through the jungle is Bapi, a beefy man who has already accepted the inevitable: "The Sundarbans' days are numbered." He goes on to say that even if the rising sea level could be stopped, sediments from the rivers will bury the Sundarbans. Ever since the 1970s, when the government began building levees to protect some riverside areas against flooding, the waters have deposited increasing amounts of material in the mangrove forests. These sediments prevent the trees from breathing through their roots, says Bapi. As a result, he predicts that the forest will disappear in 10 years.

Our boat ride through the mangroves is an amazing experience. Huge flocks of birds fly over the forest and monkeys scream in the canopy overhead. However, the boat makes too much noise for a glimpse of the world-famous tiger. People in Munshiganj often tell strangers that nearly 100 victims a year fall prey to the great beasts, but authorities on the subject flatly dismiss such claims: The big cats don't like human flesh. Only very weak or old tigers are liable to attack people, mostly locals gathering honey in the forest. Healthy tigers prefer small monkeys for dinner. "The tiger can take whatever he wants," says our guide with a certain amount of pride.

Bapi sits pensively at the bow of his wooden boat. In his lap is a loaded rifle, just in case. Time and again, he points to the mangroves that are already slowly dying. "It's a crying shame because this forest is unique in the world. People eventually ruin everything," he says. He used to have an advertising slogan for his exclusive clients: "Come to the Sundarbans before the tourists come." But Bapi is changing his slogan to reflect the realities of today. His slogan for the future is "Come to the Sundarbans while it still exists."

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