The floods come every year to Bangladesh. Roads are raised two or three meters above the surrounding paddy fields and yet often even this is not enough. On our journey through southern Bangladesh, Tanvir told me that the country road we were cycling on would be flooded come the monsoon. “It’s a normal part of life,” he shrugged, “it’s been happening for hundreds of years.”

Bangladesh is known – unfairly – for flooding: images of submerged houses, stranded families and sunk crops which splash across our TV screens. But do you know about its unique mangrove swamps in the south? Its emerald-green country side? Tea estates carpeting hillock after hillock, like some green golf ball? Men in hitched lungis throwing unfurling nets into shallow rivers? Surfing beaches?

All the same, Bangladesh is seen as a country on the front line of climate change, one of the first – and worst – to be affected by rising sea levels. So I was surprised that climate change didn’t seem to be a big topic in Bangladesh.

On my final day in Bangladesh, exploring the surrounds of Sylhet, a city in the north, we went to the Ratargul swamps with two young Bangladeshis studying at a local university. Both were ambitious and hoping to do further studies abroad in Germany and the USA. As we bumped along the muddy tracks through tea estates in a tuk-tuk I asked Rasha and Prosenjit about what Bangladeshis thought of the threat of climate change.

“Luke, you see, here in Bangladesh we get floods every year. It’s part of life. We’re used to it,” Prosenjit said. “So to be honest, people aren’t that concerned by flooding.”

Images that seem shocking to a Western audience are routine in Bangladesh, even if there are more extreme flooding events at times.

Kaye, a Brit and my cycling companion from Dhaka and water expert, asked if there were any climate protests like she had seen during her travels in India.

“People here, they get on with life, they’ve got enough to deal with. No, there aren’t any protests or much civil action,” Rasha told us.

We arrived at the Ratargul swamps. It was unimpressive at first sight: wet green grassland and trees beyond. A brown line of water with several black banana-like boats lay closest to us. We got into one of the boats and we were paddled by a wirey adolescent in a scarlet shirt into the trees.

Within a hundred metres we had entered a new world. It felt like something out of Lord of the Rings: we were floating through a jungle of wise-looking mangrove trees, that twisted and loomed over us. Their thin filament roots formed a thick bush and hung down and grazed the water; the trees truly had beards. We paddled on in silence, hearing bird calls and the occasional monkey cry. Our guide pointed to the spot where he claimed he had caught a tiger. We looked at him doubtfully.

“The water levels are super low right now,” Prosenjit said, “but after the monsoon they’ll be much higher.” Our guide pointed to a branch in a tree to indicate. Three metres higher. We were floating along at the base of the trunks, but after the monsoon, we’d be at the level of the leaves and branches, which we craned our necks to look at.

It was a special place, and a reminder of how variable the seasons and rainfall are in Bangladesh (and not to mention Bangladesh itself!).

“We have six seasons in Bangladesh,” Rasha said, “or at least, we used to”.

“Now we just have summer, rains and winter. Autumn has gone, Hemanta and Basanta have gone,” said Prosenjit.

“Climate change is definitely affecting our country – it’s getting hotter each yeah, and life is getting very difficult for the farmers as the monsoons are starting earlier,” said Rasha.

As if on cue, heavy raindrops started plopping down, mini-explosions on the wooden planks of the boat.

“The monsoon is only supposed to start in another two weeks!” Rasha called out, as the air turned solid with rain.

We paddled swiftly back, but the rain was inescapable. The floods would come once again.