Termites and a Dream of Prosperity

 

An old banyan tree at Bazar Para in Sabrang. Once this was the centre of town.

Who is it that would live in a house full of termites?

Termite mound under veranda roof.

Away from the beach in Sabrang south of Teknaf town, shady country laneways meander between household flower garden and heavenly stand of areca palm. Adding a meditative symmetry of vertical lines to the landscape, the areca plantations bring renowned to Teknaf, contributing to the district’s areca nut fame. A few hundred metres short of the Naf River, local conditions favour areca nut flavour and everybody knows.

Country laneway, Sabrang, Teknaf.

In the calm, subtropical greenery, that neighbourhood of rustic households built not only on areca but quite often on remittance from labour migration as well, it’s easy to imagine that nature’s quiet is humankind’s ultimate prosperity.

Areca palms.

Yet it’s a locality that’s undergone significant change, evidence of which can be found at the old pond in Bazar Para. Flanked by two banyan trees, reminiscent of the fig under which Gautama Buddha achieved enlightenment in India’s Bodh Gaya, Sabrang was once inhabited by Buddhist Rakhines and the pond during the British era was the centre of town. Nowadays its ghat is crumbled; the pond’s significance has faded into the rural landscape. With just a few groceries stores Bazar Para is a market in name only.

Areca palm plantation, Sabrang.

“There used to be a Buddhist temple,” says local Saifuddin Khaled, 41, “But when the Rakhines left for Myanmar the land was eventually sold.” Where once Sabrang was ruled by Rakhine landlords, today there are only two Rakhine families remaining.

The home of Mong Pru, 57, is of weathered timber, raised on stilts as in Rakhine tradition. Pru has four daughters, two married to jewellery technicians and his daughters sit upstairs on the old balcony that slopes from age, passing a relaxing afternoon with household tailoring work.

Pru says most of Sabrang’s Rakhines left for Myanmar in the 1990s. “We had no land there,” he explains of his decision to stay, “There was nothing to go to. We were very poor then.”

An old well in the yard of the termite house.

Yet it’s not his house but that of his neighbour, in a similar architectural style, which is unique in featuring a termite mound in the middle of its veranda. Its current owner is also a jewellery technician and his shy wife Lamia, who is originally from Royasanka in Myanmar, has been in Bangladesh with her husband for fifteen years but is not confident to speak Bangla.

The termite house, waiting for prosperity.

The termite house.

She does say that the termites don’t eat the wooden house.

“The house is about 50 years old,” recalls Pru, “And the termite mound was even taller when it was built.” They had to cut the mound slightly to fit it under the veranda roof.

The yard of the termite house.

At the time a Buddhist monk advised the family not to break the termite mound. “If you let it grow it will bring you prosperity,” the monk foretold. The termite mound is regarded as a blessing and a place to offer prayer.

A Rakhine alphabet chart.

“It’s always been there,” says one of Pru’s daughters. “Now it’s mainly for beauty.”

The termite mound in the veranda area.

And when it comes to prosperity it seems that Pru’s neighbour is still waiting, although it’s not certain that they weren’t poorer when the house was built. Or perhaps it’s a lesson that nature’s quiet more than money is humankind’s ultimate prosperity.

Mong Pru, 57, with his grandson Owen Twey.

Standing in the garden with his young grandson Owen Twey in his arms, Pru is pleased his family didn’t follow the other Rakhines across the Naf River. “In Myanmar there are too many problems,” he says, “Life is better here.” His family like that of his neighbour is counting on a peaceful and bright Bangladeshi future.

Two of Pru's daughters.

Bazar Para pond. In the British period it was the centre of town.

Bazar Para pond.

This article is published in The Daily Star, here: Sabrang's Termite House and a Dream of Prosperity

Carving a traditional weight, for exercise.

Jahangir's Elephants

A bridge at the start of the trail, Teknaf Wildlife Reserve.

The Teknaf Peninsula is ruggedly beautiful. With the rise of the rocky range that divides the land strip between the Naf River and the Bay of Bengal it’s impossible not to feel elated, to know that Teknaf is quite the destination.

It’s an environment unique in coastal Bangladesh for hosting wild elephants. It’s really something to consider how the bulky beasts negotiate such uneven terrain. A significant section of the range has been declared a game reserve.

Jahangir Alam, 18, has been working as a guide for 10 years.

To search for the elephants, one could do worse than enlist the assistance of 18-year-old Jahangir Alam, a local and the youngest of eleven siblings, who works as a guide at the Teknaf Wildlife Sanctuary.

Although Jahangir has no training, the sanctuary is his backyard. He’s been guiding tourists since he was 8 years old. Along with income from a brother who went to Malaysia by trawler some years ago, income from guiding helps the family.

“People arrive nearly every day,” he says, “Many ask for me.”

View of the Teknaf Range.

Into the woods...

By Jahangir's estimate there are 30 elephants in the reserve and he commonly sees a family of ten, though pachyderms offer no guarantee of being cooperative for tourists. The best season to see them is winter when they are more active of a daytime.

I ask if the animals are dangerous and he mentions three villagers were trampled to death a few months earlier while defending their paddy. “Elephants are ‘heavy’ dangerous!” he says.

Yet Jahangir insists there’s no risk: elephants are by temperament gentle and he’s often been within five metres without incident. “They don’t harm us if we don’t disturb them.”

It’s quite a trek that follows, into scrubby parched forest initially following valley contours where small bridges ford thirsty streams.

The day is hot, the humidity burdensome and I’m wishing I’d brought water. Even before the climbing begins I’m ignoring discomfort and breathing heavily.

Visitor Centre, Teknaf Wildlife Sanctuary.

Hot. Humid. Sweaty.

Of course we’re hardly the first to set off in search of elephants. Just as nowadays in village and town government tenders, for bridge building, school outfitting or some other task are an appreciable element of local economies, once there were also tenders for elephant catching, in order to domesticate them.

Offering royalties of up to 750 rupees per elephant, according to the Chittagong District Gazetteer, the so-called “kheda” operations, named after the corral in which wild elephants were trapped, were commonly slated for the Hill Tracts and Teknaf in the months of winter.

“Elephants are not like cattle that they can be goaded down to a desired place,” states the Gazetteer, “No force can be applied; they move on their track at their own whims and pleasure.”

A kheda operation would involve up to 100 people, including 50 skilled labourers able to build a camouflaged stockade in the forest in 8 – 12 days. The best sites were at junctions of two or more established elephant tracks, even better if situated in a valley between two peaks. They might wait weeks for elephants to appear.

Boats, fishing nets, low tide on the Naf River... view to the mountains of Myanmar.

The Teknaf Range

Fire lines and loud sounds like gunshots were used to make the elephants “blindly and senselessly” proceed into the trap. Care had to be taken however, because “once scared no earthly force can control the herd.”

Once trapped the elephants would routinely turn on and kill their leader, blamed by the rest of the herd for their fate. However if the herd leader was strong others might die in the course of fighting back. In the panic of the trap baby elephants could be trampled to death.

The trapped elephants would then be starved and given no water for 24 hours to make them “weak, tired and calm.” Then, using mahouts on trained female elephants called “kunkis” one by one the wild elephants would be noosed, legs tied.

“The leader of the trained brigade is always a strong, healthy, powerful and skilled tusker,” reads the Gazetteer; and this male elephant would fight the captured individuals, eventually establishing his claim as the new group leader.

Elephant evidence on hilltop.

A kheda operation in 1965 in nearby Ukhia Upazila netted ten elephants; in the 19^th century up to 150 elephants were caught for domestication annually.

As we climb steps of rock and dirt and negotiate uncarved slopes slippery with leaf litter, from heat exhaustion I’m ready to collapse.

Perhaps with greater knowledge of the climate, Bangladeshis, according to Jahangir, rarely seek to reach the hilltops. “Bengalis can’t climb,” he says, “They walk a short distance. But when foreigners come they always go to the top. I take them.”

The lower hills of Teknaf Wildlife Sanctuary.

Yet our situation is reversed. Gasping for air, I’m struggling to look composed while Jahangir climbs the hills as readily as if he was on an escalator at a shopping mall in Dhaka. He is yet to raise a sweat. “We are forest people,” says Jahangir, “We live here.”

Jahangir's one regret is that when foreigners come he has difficulty communicating. “I want to speak more to them but I can’t.” He only had the opportunity to complete study to class 2.

From the first summit the view is impressive. In front the Teknaf range continues with higher, more artistically shaped rocky peaks. There’s little evidence the Bay of Bengal is just beyond them. On the Naf side are sweeping views across the salt fields of the plains to Myanmar’s mountains on the horizon.

Mangroves on the Naf. View to Myanmar.

Along the ridgeline the path is narrow. I wonder if I actually want to meet an elephant up there; and I’m set to ask Jahangir if the animals climb so high when we sight elephant droppings.

But being a hot day the elephants are not so foolish to climb the hills. “They’ll be at the waterfall,” says Jahangir, who’s ready to continue some distance beyond the next hill. Yet without drinking water I decide it’s best to be satisfied with the views for now. We head back.

When I ask Jahangir how much he wants for his guiding, he suggests a rather paltry sum. Greed is certainly not among his faults.

“It’s fun to see the elephants,” he says, describing how when they take dust baths and are lying on the ground it’s sometimes hard to imagine the elephant is even there.

Teknaf Wildlife Sanctuary scenery.

Teknaf Range.

This article is published in The Daily Star, here: In Search of Teknaf's Elephants

Naf River.

Many Words for Water

Across the Naf River is Myanmar.

Bank of the Naf.

North of Teknaf town, afternoon has reached sleepy Hnila’s Old Bazar, a few hundred metres west of the Naf River. There’s not much activity: most people are probably taking a rest after completing lunch.

Sitting at the temple.

We’re sitting in a perennial building site that’s half-flooded. It has planks of wood to balance across to venture inside. It’s here the local Hindu community worship and a good number of them are gathered in the front of the building just beyond the gate. They’ve arranged plastic stools from somewhere to sit on. A fruit platter is being passed around.

“This is the southernmost Kali temple in Bangladesh,” says community leader Bipul Pal. “It’s the only Kali temple south of Cox’s Bazar.”

Hnila countryside.

The Naf River is narrower in Hnila. On its far bank the periodic watchtowers of Myanmar are clearly visible, about the only evidence of habitation along an otherwise wild bank. The common view of Myanmar to be heard in Teknaf’s tea shops seems to ring true here: “Myanmar has lots of land,” people say, “but little development.”

The southernmost Kali Temple in Bangladesh, Hnila, Teknaf.

Touring Hnila with local Hindu leaders.

The river wasn’t always the border it is today. In the British period then Burma was like Bengal under British administration; and the Teknaf Peninsula was primarily inhabited by Buddhist Rakhines. Bengalis by all accounts were rare. Hindus were rarer.

Canal. Looking towards the Teknaf Range.

“We are fifteen families,” concludes Pal after a moment’s mental count. “Hindu families in Hnila run simple businesses like dairies and tailoring shops.” At least one fulfils an administrative role with an NGO. “None of us is rich.”

The Kali protima in Hnila Old Bazar.

The financial condition of the small community means that completing the refurbishment of the temple, in brick and on a grander scale than the original structure founded in 1833, will take time. Progress is slow.

Altar at the Radha-Krishna Temple.

Proud of their town, before evening there will be a tour of  a handful of other temples, tin shed and dilapidated village constructions dedicated to other incarnations of God. At the Krishna temple there lives a solitary monk who teaches meditation and yoga. The temple keeps a cow and he offers fresh milk to visitors.

Hindu monk. 'There are many words for water.'

“What is important is what is in the heart,” he says, “Islam says ‘don’t steal,’ Buddhism says ‘don’t steal’ and Hinduism says the same. If there is love for mankind in the heart it doesn’t matter if you go to a temple, a church or a mosque. Some say paani, some say jol… There are many words for water.”

As can be anticipated Hnila’s Hindus revere all of the local temples but the historic Kali Temple is the community’s focal point. “We don’t know when we’ll be able to finish its reconstruction,” says Pal.

Members of the small Hnila Hindu community at the forever ongoing reconstruction site of the historic Kali Temple.