Among the Garjan Giants

Shilkhali's age-old garjan trees are unique in Cox's Bazar's coastal belt.

Transport through the forest.

In Shilkhali the setting Bay of Bengal sun sends golden light from beyond the beach and through the first fields to meet the towering trunks of the garjan trees. Hundreds are lit as candles by the orange glow. It’s quite a show.

The air is cooler, the day is done and locals haven’t passed up the chance to stroll among the leafy giants that tower over the scattering of nearby tin and thatch homes. Unique in the coastal belt for having stood the test of time, this age-old forest in Cox’s Bazar beneath Teknaf’s range holds a beauty that cannot be denied.

Fishermen with fry in the back of a jeep.

Trees rise before and after the Marine Drive; and what’s more interesting right in the middle of the road, as though the forest barely tolerates the line of pitch passing through its enchanted territory. In the several places where roadway is divided into narrow lanes squeezing either side of a resolute garjan trunk the shared CNGs and small trucks must weave courteous s-curves to get through. It’s as though the traffic tips its hat in honour of the trees.

Nearby a few tea shops are coming to life. Customers are ready to reacquaint themselves with neighbours after a day of labour. Nearby, on a shady field a football match is underway.

A CNG three-wheeler weaves, where the trees own the road.

Football under the garjan trees.

Such activities could characterise the life of many a village but in Shilkhali the forest grants an added degree of calmness to proceedings. In the tea shops it seems impossible to retain tension. Over the football ground the garjan canopy presides as silent, ever present referee.

Fading eastward into the shadow before the mountains, the garjan forest is a site that any passing tourist will want to see.

Tea shops come to life in the late afternoon.

To the north in Shilkhali Bazar proper there’s talk of a wild elephant group that sometimes arrives by 8 p.m., wandering down from the hills to trample paddy in search of food. The villagers are yet brave and ready to chase them off.

And besides, if the group doesn’t arrive there’s a lone individual, a regular elephant who can be relied upon to grace the hillside farmlands from 9 pm until dawn.

Shilkhali: looking inland from the beach.

A fishing trawler on wheels: a kind of hovercraft?

Local Abdul Karim, 18, who studies in class 9, leads the way with his friends along a country lane, a short walk to the east, to show a trampled fence and a large, recently broken jackfruit tree.

“Elephants eat coconut, banana and jackfruit,” he says, adding that the betel and areca palm gardens are spared. “You should see how an elephant headbutts a coconut palm to make the coconuts fall; how they open green coconuts with their feet.”

It's as though the garjan forest isn't quite comfortable to let the road go through.

Crab patterns on the beach.

Crab art.

Asked if the elephants worry him he shakes his head. “I wasn’t scared of them when I was little. Why would I be scared now?”

A short walk to the west meanwhile brings us to the beach with a minor lagoon to wade through before reaching the empty, stunning sand stretch. The red crabs by their hundreds scurrying into burrows were clearly not expecting visitors.

Trawlers by the shore.

Alone on the foreshore further down, fisherman Hasan is hoping for shrimp, busy with nets.

The Teknaf Range.

The jeep on the way there.

To the Bay of Bengal.

To the south of the forest meanwhile new plots are well-marked between road and beach, with signboard names of hotel this and hotel that. Accommodation has made a long term booking it would seem to stay in the area along Teknaf’s northern coast; and what will the garjan forest make of it should sun seeking crowds arrive in coming years?

Yet for the moment, the area is quiet.

The garjan forest: see it before the tourists get there.

Fisherman.

The crabs aren't expecting visitors.

This article is published in The Daily Star, here: Among Shilkhali's Garjan Giants

Me with Abdul Karim and his friends.

Harnessing the Strength of the Octopus

The view from Amtoli Para of Himchhari Beach and the Bay of Bengal.

Amtoli Para, Himchhari.

In the hilltop community of Amtoli Para in Himchhari of Cox’s Bazar, 20 women from the 70 households are gathered on a mat. With sweeping views down to the beach and across the Bay of Bengal the scene is idyllic, suitable for a picnic if it wasn’t quite as hot. Below, along the coast were once their permanent addresses, their homes, shops and gardens. Cows grazed foreshore grasses; goats roamed.

The 1991 cyclone changed all that, proving that a permanent address isn’t always permanent. In one respect the villagers were lucky. Although the nearest cyclone shelter was 1.5 kilometres away nobody died; and the worst of the cyclone was destined to be met elsewhere. But crops were ruined; cattle and houses were swept away. With villages destroyed and land no longer inhabitable they turned from the sea.

There was no choice but to move into the sand-rock hills.

The track to Amtoli Para.

Nurul Haque, 23, outside his home.

Needing new livelihoods the villagers took advantage of the only available resource: the trees of Himchhari National Park. Still today they are primarily wood-cutter families and Nurul Haque, 23, originally of Croalia village, is typical. The father-of-two ventures into the forest four to five days per week, leaving at 9 a.m. to return by mid-afternoon. He walks four kilometres to find trees, hauling fuel wood back to sell in Himchhari that evening or on the following day. He earns a meagre 200 – 400 taka for one day’s efforts.

“Wood cutting is painful,” says Ismat Ara Sultana, 20, who, like most of the area’s women, pursues the same task as her husband for about half his income, given the smaller loads she can carry and her competing home duties.

It’s a livelihood that degrades the national park and has caused the forest to shy away from the coast over the years, exposing the area to even greater erosion risk.

But more recently the village women of Amtoli Para have turned attention back towards an oceanic theme, in the form of crocheting toy octopuses.

The women of Amtoli Para learning to crochet.

It is hoped the women won't need to sell firewood anymore.

From March 2015 the social enterprise Hathay Bunano and the Chittagong-based NGO Community Development Centre, in liaison with relevant government departments and under the auspices of the Climate Resilience Ecosystems and Livelihood project, have begun implementing a new project in the hope of finding sustainable livelihoods for the villagers while better protecting the forest.

Crochet training in Amtoli Para, Himchhari.

The project will teach 28 local women to crochet, with guaranteed buyers of their toy octopuses and other items arranged abroad. Their products will likely find homes in babies’ cots in the UK, USA, Australia and South Korea.

“There will be 28 fewer pairs of hands cutting wood,” says Livelihood Facilitator Ruma Majumder, “and that’s good news for the forest.” With two months’ training, it’s hoped each woman may earn up to 4,000 taka per month if she works full-time.

“I like it,” says Sultana, “Yes, there’ll be some difficulties in learning the new skill but it will be okay.”

Amtoli Para. After the 1991 cyclone there was no choice but to move into the hills of the Himchhari National Park.

The road from Amtoli Para to the beach.

Unfortunately nearby Rohingya households cannot be included for lack of residency rights. They will have no chance to move out of forest harvesting.

With only a non-formal NGO school to rely on, that currently teaches to class 5; in a place where few children study beyond that due to the 25-taka transport cost to the nearest government primary school proving prohibitive, basic entrepreneurial activities come with the hope of improved opportunities, even where the household income rise is modest.

Amtoli Para scenery.

Through crocheting, through harnessing the strength of the toy octopus, Amtoli Para’s women are set to better contribute to finally overcoming the multigenerational consequences of the cyclone, to the benefit of their families and the forest.

A house in Amtoli Para.

New construction in Amtoli Para, Himchhari, Cox's Bazar.

This article is published in The Daily Star, here: Harnessing the Strength of the Octopus in Himchhari

A lone tea shop in Amtoli Para.

Himchhari's Live Kitchen

Sun Dancer Cafe & Restaurant, Himchhari, Cox's Bazar.

 

S.H. Mahbub, entrepreneur.

For some people it’s the geography of the capital which appeals. They may wish to climb the corporate ladder or be near the centre of national decision-making. For others there’s nowhere better than a farm with clean air, simplicity and open space. Still others are enticed by the call of the sea.

When S.H. Mahbub of Kishoreganj arrived in Cox’s Bazar for a vacation in 1999, little could he imagine he’d stay there. “Cox’s Bazar has the atmosphere of a never ending fair,” he says, “People are always coming and going. I like this the best.” 

Marine Drive, Himchhari.

Instead of returning home he took a job at a guest house, later a hotel and finally at the renowned Mermaid Café. With fifteen years of hospitality experience behind him, two years ago Mahbub decided to branch out, to bring his own brand of dining to the beachside Himchhari restaurant strip.

The restaurant strip at Himchhari, between the beach and the hills.

 

Sunset over the Bay of Bengal.

“In most Cox’s Bazar restaurants you can view either the sea or the sunset but not both,” he says while sitting in the relaxed wooden-built restaurant he established. “Here you can sit and watch the sun dance, which is why I called it the Sun Dancer.”

Along with a few neighbouring restaurants, Sun Dancer pursues the modern culinary philosophy of a ‘live’ kitchen. Mahbub explains that it’s something like a live cricket match where the action occurs right before the customers’ eyes.

The beach at Himchhari, part of the longest sea beach in the world.

There’s an open menu that takes into account each customer’s wishes: one can basically order anything. Mahbub says available cooking styles include fried, curried, bhuna masala, grilled, baked and steamed; in international, local and traditional food categories. “But we only serve fresh sea fish, not project fish,” he says.

Wherever possible, dishes are prepared from scratch with fresh ingredients, in the kitchen that’s in full view of diners. “Guests can even go in and cook for themselves if they want,” he says, noting that the restaurant sometimes features celebrity chefs.

S.H. Mahbub is hopeful the live kitchen and relaxed atmosphere will attract customers to the Sun Dancer.

 

The Sun Dancer, Himchhari, Cox's Bazar.

He hopes Sun Dancer can welcome customers in formal attire as easily as those who’ve just stepped off the beach, aiming to create an information and entertainment hub that showcases the district through tour options and visiting musicians performing rural, philosophical and life-related songs. Fire spinners regularly display their skills.

But the road hasn’t been smooth with political turmoil leading a tourism nosedive in Cox’s Bazar earlier this year and a regular nine-month low season to contend with. In an attempt to extend tourism potential the town hosts full moon parties in June and July when the waves are high. At Sun Dancer this brings in some Bangladeshi and Indian customers during the traditional off-season.

Despite such business difficulties Mahbub is pleased with his life choice. “Every day is new here,” he says, “I came to Cox’s Bazar today. It always feels like that, even now.”

Marine Drive. Himchhari is a popular spot for beach-side dining.

The restaurants at Himchhari.

Hibiscus welcomes early spring to Himchhari Beach.

Himchhari Beach with sandbags to prevent erosion.

Himchhari, a part of the world's longest sea beach.

This article is published in The Daily Star, here: Redefining Hospitality and Cuisine at Himchhari

Relaxing at the Sun Dancer.

The Lives and Loves of Moheshkhali's Betel Vines

Beyond the paddy, a paan barouj. Moheshkhali's paan is famous for its sweet flavour.

“Man's dearest possession is life. It is given to him but once, and he must live it so as to feel no torturing regrets for wasted years, never know the burning shame of a mean and petty past; so live that, dying he might say: all my life, all my strength was given to the finest cause in all the world—the fight for the Liberation of Mankind.”

Paddy and paan on the Shaplapur Road.

Life: one could spend time contemplating the above clunky quote of early twentieth century Soviet socialist realist writer Nikolai Alexeevich Ostrovsky, doubtless finding in it some worthwhile intent. Alternatively, one could let go and chew on a Moheshkhali betel leaf, a Moheshkhali paan.

Hear the harmonium start to turn its churning phrase? Is that the dotara that’s plucking out the first beats of rhythm? Don’t worry: the folk song voice of the late Shefali Ghosh isn’t far off; on the subject of Moheshkhali’s paan she’s got something to say…

But before we hand over to Shefali’s recording, let’s meet Jamal Hossein, 25, the betel seller at the front of his family’s tea shop in Gorakghata. Watch him set to work! Clearly he could go elaborate on us: cardamom, anise, cloves, shredded coconut, chewing tobacco, a mukhwa digestive mouth-freshening mix and sugar coated fennel seeds; but as well he keeps it simple.

Tending paddy below, paan barouj above.

A few shreds of areca nut, fresh or dried, and a dollop of builder’s lime, chun, on the side. Be sure the areca in either form is from Teknaf, that the leaf is Moheshkhali’s own… though with Jamal the expert for five taka there’s nothing to worry about, so don’t give it a second’s thought.

Watch how with adept fingers he folds the paan khili into its usual conical package shape; watch how… Hey presto! It’s ready…

A tea shop in Gorakghata

But wait… Abu Taher’s beaten us to it. At the first tea shop bench in from the street he’s already chewing. The 40-year-old truck driver from Chittagong carts cement to Moheshkhali, six-hours each way, up and down every day. When work is done, he knows to savour an island paan before climbing back into his rig.

A map of Moheshkhali Island.

“You can’t get paan like this elsewhere,” he says, “The soil is honey; Moheshkhali’s paan is sweet.”

I’m not sure Taher’s face as it chews is beautiful in any usual sense though his wife probably likes it. Yet for Moheshkhali his face is new, even if it’s a new face that re-arrives daily. Jodi shondor akkhan mukh paitam, Jodi notun akkhan mukh paitam… Shefali’s begun: “If I come across a beautiful face; if I come across a new face…”

Moheshkailla paaner khili tare bhanai khaoaitam! “I’ll make for him a Moheshkhali paan-khili, for him to chew,” sings the queen of Chittagonian folk music, who started her music career at age seven and was famed for the dramatic on-stage presentation of her songs.

Yet if for Shefali our island paan means love, let’s not forget 28-year-old Rokshana Aktar. She’s not with us at the tea shop right now. She’s at home in Choto Moheshkhali Union, and if not sewing with the eldest of her three daughters then she might be mixing fertilizer or organising accounts, her contribution to the family’s paan garden business, the tasks she can complete without leaving the house.

Paan / Betel leaf, ready for sale.

For Aktar, Moheshkhali paan is less about love and more about livelihood. Her family have taken up the task of the barui, the paan cultivator. “Harvest begins after one month,” she knows; after two it’s even better.

First the stick and straw barouj, the paan’s shade house is constructed, often in tight valleys or on slopes of Moheshkhali’s otherwise-difficult-to-farm hills. Twenty days after cuttings are planted fertilizer is applied, cow dung, potassium, magnesium… Two weeks later stakes are affixed to hold the burgeoning vines.

“Insects are the biggest risk,” Aktar says, “If they attack the whole plant dies.”

Betel vines growing in a barouj.

Ek dinelai rakhi tare, Housher pirit shikhaitam… sings Shefali. “I will keep him for a day. I will teach him sweet love.” And for Shefali’s one day of Moheshkhali paan fostered love, Aktar’s husband and one of her two sons attend to the barouj daily. They only hire outside help at peak times.

Rokshana Aktar.

As vines lengthen they are pulled down with the low stem portions curled and covered in soil to promote further growth. Leaves are harvested from the top of the vine and, insects aside, a betel vine produces for several years.

“Poush to Falgun are the most profitable months,” says Aktar the accountant, referring to the December – March days of winter to early spring. During this period the supply of betel leaf is less and prices rise. During the monsoon months the opposite applies. Yet in all twelve months there is paan to be harvested.

Noya mukher noya kotha, Sunite shondor…

Mazemaze paan cibaito, Hashiro bhitor.

“A new face’s new words sound beautiful,

Sometimes he will chew paan while laughing inside.”

“We used to grow tomatoes, brinjal and chilli on rented land,” says Aktar, “My husband did carpentry or any odd job.” But for the last three years it’s paan’s words that have them laughing. “The income is good,” she says, “To invest 1 lakh taka is to get 2 lakhs in sales.”

Paddy and paan, leading up a valley.

As for its taste, Aktar says, “If you try it, you’ll like it. Other betel is tart.”

Four leaves make one gonta and 80 gontas make one birra; and one birra sells for between 150 – 300 taka depending on quality: the sums one needs to know in the betel game. Every Tuesday and Friday the largest betel market on the island is held at Boro Moheshkhali’s Notun Bazar. Aktar’s husband goes fortnightly, returning with about 20,000 taka.

Paan for sale in Notun Bazar, Big Moheshkhali.

And while he’s at the market he might meet Mohammed Zakaria, 35, just as easily as we’ve met him on the second bench from the street, back in Jamal’s tea shop. He’s chewing paan while Shefali takes rest for a short instrumental break.

It's a busy scene at Notun Bazar paan market on Tues, Fri.

Zakaria has a barouj of his own. He’s a Notun Bazar regular. “My garden is the size of this shop,” he explains.

But he doesn’t only go to Notun Bazar to sell; he also speculates. “I feel the weight,” he says of how he chooses betel to buy that he thinks he can resell minutes later at a higher rate. “One birra can weigh as much as a kilogram, though it’s usually only 300 to 400 grams.”

Shefali’s accompanying him now… Premer mala dono hate, Tare golai poraitam… “With two hands I place love’s lei onto his neck.” It’s probably how Zakaria feels when he’s gambled well and re-sold paan at a healthy profit.

Negotiations underway at Notun Bazar.

“Moheshkhali paan tastes good because of the soils,” the connoisseur says.

Meanwhile at the third bench in from the street is 37-year-old Sultan Mohammed Khan. A more local than this local would be hard to find. His family has been in Moheshkhali for generations; an ancestor was chairman of half the island in the eighteenth century, according to Khan, when Hiram Cox was the running governor.

His grandfather once exported salt by sampan to Kolkata. His father established shrimp farms while Khan is a landholder who leases out family land on a fifty-fifty share basis to both salt producers and shrimp farmers. And Khan enjoys his paan. “Moheshkhali’s paan has heavy taste!”

Rosher kotha, Rosher pirit, Jodi na jane… Duyan ekhan kotam tare, Premer karoner, Shefali continues.

Areca nut / Shupari. The best comes from Teknaf.

“Romantic talk, romantic love, if he doesn’t know… A little sweet talk to him, for the sake of love…” Ah, the little tea shop talk of Moheshkhali’s paan might not be romantic, but it’s likewise sweet!

Khan’s lifestyle allows him to travel. He’s been to all but 17 districts of Bangladesh, he claims, and in 1994 ventured as far as a Kolkata book fair in search of a tome by one of his favourite authors: Nikolai Ostrovsky. Yes, he’s a landlord who appreciates a staunchly communist writer; apparently he can contemplate Ostrovsky’s heavy phrases and chew heavy-tasty paan at the same time.

Paan growing at the foot of Adinath Hill in Little Moheshkhali.

Paan is one of the main crops on Moheshkhali.

“Nutrition and taste are different things,” Khan opines, “The paan here is both more nutritious and tastier than in other districts, where paan tastes bitter.” A mention of Bhola’s betel leaf provokes him to screw his face with displeasure. No words are needed.

As for Indian betel he’s still less impressed. “It looks nice,” he recalls, “and it’s grown with more scientific methods; but the taste isn’t so good.”

Noronarir housher pirit, Ki moza tare bujaitam… she sings. “Sweet human love, how nice it is he will know.”

Let the final spoken words be from Jamal the betel seller. He’s explaining that not all Moheshkhali paan is the same. “The paan from older, hillside gardens is the best,” he says, “Paan from newer gardens is a little less tasty and softer.” And it can’t be certain even Shefali knew that.

Paan, sold by the birra.

It really does taste sweeter. I tried one before I'd even heard of Moheshkhali paan and I thought "Wow! That was a tasty paan."

Moheshkhali paan. Immortalised in folk song.

Moheshkailla paaner khili tare bhanai khaoaitam! “I’ll make for him a Moheshkhali paan-khili, for him to chew!” Shefali’s fading now, her song’s almost done. But of course the singer who died before her time, of a brain haemorrhage in 2006, always lives on in her music.

So whether it’s for livelihood or speculation, as a truck stop treat or while considering the wisdom of a Soviet writer, whether its hillside or new garden variety, while chewing Moheshkhali’s paan and imbibing its distinctively sweet, easy recognisable flavour, you might just find thrown into the bargain a hint of Shefali’s immortal tones, of love’s serenade.

Had he known of it, even Ostrovsky could not have objected to that. 

A paan barouj in Moheshkhali will often be located in a valley or on a hillside.

An abridged version is published in The Daily Star, here: Lovers of Moheshkhali Betel

An aside: after visiting the paan market one hot morning in Big Moheshkhali, it was time for breakfast. I found a local hotel and before long two local paan traders joined me at the table. Of course we got to talking and they said they'd just sold - their pockets were full of cash. Partly from feeling flush and partly from general hospitality, when I finished (before them) they insisted on paying for my breakfast too. Knowing there was no way to get around that I agreed and walked to the front counter where, talking to the manager, I secretly paid theirs instead! The manager was so impressed he gave a discount. Meanwhile those two just understood what I'd done as I left... too late to stop me!