Even in mid-October, early mornings in Honnavar, on the Karnataka coast, are barely cool and the humidity is just about tolerable. Just outside town, as the boat silently pushes off and glides on the waters of the river Sharavathi, inland from the sea, a light breeze offers respite. It is bright even though the sun is just rising behind us. An occasional boat glides by.
On either side, the banks are lined with tall coconut trees, but the vegetation changes a few minutes in, as the riverscape makes way for mangroves. The greenery is thicker, wild and narrow channels cut through at regular intervals. As the boat turns into one of the narrow channels, the change is instant. The light dims substantially as it seeps through the canopy formed by mangrove species, while their stilted roots form a surreal and dramatic curtain on either side.
The boat’s motor also slows down to a slow mumble. Other sounds become louder: of water lapping against the roots, of a fruit or twig falling into water with a plop and of bird calls. As the boat moves further along, the trees close in on either side, the roots (pneumatophores) rising out of the slushy mud resembling ribs of some alien creature. It feels a bit eerie. But the silence and tranquillity are soothing.
While Bengal’s Sundarbans, Odisha’s Bhitarkanika, Andhra’s Krishna-Godavari basin and Tamil Nadu’s Pichavaram account for some of the country’s well-known and substantial mangroves, Karnataka’s don’t necessarily come to mind. In fact, even people in Karnataka are often unaware of the existence of mangroves in the state.
The main reason is that there is barely a sliver; India is estimated to have close to 5,000 sq. km of mangroves, of which the state accounts for a minuscule 0.1%, a third of which is at Honnavar, at the delta where Sharavathi meets the Arabian Sea.
But most people completely miss it because backwater cruises, dramatic sunset silhouettes and kitschy backdrops for beachside photoshoots are more popular and a slow, silent boat ride through the mangroves isn’t attractive enough. Which is why it feels like we have the whole area all to ourselves.
Though tiny compared to other mangrove destinations, Honnavar’s are vast enough to completely engulf us as the boat continues further and further into the labyrinth, with channels branching off and rejoining. Boatman Venkatesh, who also doubles as an amateur guide, explains the concept of mangroves, their intertidal location and ebb and flow of water. He talks barely above a whisper, not wanting to scare away creatures, both visible and camouflaged ones.
At first glance everything appears still. But as the eyes adjust to the gloom and begin to focus, there is an astonishing abundance of life. The tide is ebbing and slowly uncovering slushy banks inch by inch where the stars of the show are mudskippers.
These are surreal amphibious creatures that are part fish, part frog and feel like from another planet. They slither and flop through the liquid mud, their bulging eyes seeming like periscopes. They are also extremely combative and territorial standoffs are incredibly entertaining. They puff up their bodies and flare up their fins before going at each other, trying to defend a patch that looks identical to the next.
As much as the mudskippers seem playful, fiddler crabs, on the other hand, look like diligent workhorses. Their bright yellow/orange bodies are in constant motion, as they scuttle in and out of burrows, pecking at the slushy floor for food, shredding leaf litter and rolling mud balls that act like protection for the burrow when the tide rolls in.
Amidst these two creatures, hermit crabs move ever so slowly, as if carrying the whole weight of the world.
There are other creatures that pop in and out of our vision as we carry on through the maze. The sun is up and throws dappled patterns on the water. The bright blue of a kingfisher, the stark whiteness of an egret, a fleeting glimpse of a heron, a perfectly still monitor lizard beautifully camouflaged on a branch above, its eyes following our movement as we cross under.
Meanwhile, the dense latticework of mangrove species, their roots and branches twisted, feels solid and timeless. Unseen to us, it traps sediments and provides the perfect environment to nurture little fish and marine creatures till they are ready to swim out into the open sea.
Regenerating mangroves
Venkatesh says mangroves are excellent carbon sinks and I recall reading that mangroves are estimated to trap four times the amount of carbon compared to terrestrial forests, making their conservation not just important but imperative.
Honnavar seems to have understood this brief. Over the last few years, sustained efforts by the forest department and local administration have resulted in 300 hectares of intertidal land being reclaimed. It’s a rare mangrove regenerative story that has flown under the radar.
As we glide by the northernmost part of the mangroves, just before the river meets the sea, I witness the beginning of this regeneration. Venkatesh points to masses of short stubs with clumps of leaves rising above the water level, new trees taking root and thriving.
For a closer look at the mangroves, I head to the Sharavathi Kandla Mangrove Walkway, located towards the northern end of the mangroves. This is the administration’s effort to create awareness and educate visitors. It comprises a boardwalk that loops for more than a kilometre through thick growth and is built specifically so people can walk right through the mangrove. It serves as a contrast to drifting by at arm’s length that I had done earlier in the morning.
The boardwalk sits a few feet above ground, leaving the roots undisturbed and is narrow enough to feel intimate. Though it is not as dramatic as the boat ride, it makes up with an abundance (sadly scruffy) of information boards about mangroves, and the plant and animal species that can be found in them.
Though it is mid-morning, there are hardly any visitors, and walking the loop is done almost entirely in silence. The tide has gone out almost entirely from this area and there is not even sound of lapping water. The canopy is just out of reach, throwing dappled patterns.
At the end is a circular loop with visible mudflats. I linger, watch more mudskippers and hermit crabs, peer into the dense network of roots at the bottom and thick roof of leaves above.
As I make my way back, it becomes an incredibly sensory experience: the moving spots of light, the silence and stillness, the tingling smell of damp earth and trees, the vibration of the boardwalk underneath my feet, all of it punctuated by occasional bird calls. Honnavar is unlikely to figure on most people’s lists, but for me, it is this precise reason why it remains an unforgettable experience.
Anita Rao Kashi is an independent journalist based in Bengaluru.