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.

Those Were the Days

Busy Moulvibazar has all the hallmarks of a Bangladeshi regional centre.

The shrine of Hazrat Shah Mustafa.

There’s no shortage of vibrancy to Moulvibazar town. The bazaar area is a kaleidoscope of dusty, coloured political banners and business signs. Electric wires entangle the streetscape and hundreds of notices once important to someone have papered over the best part of every electricity pole. It’s that usual dollop of localised chaos that signifies a district hub.

It’s not easy to imagine: this is the town named for a resident Islamic preacher, a maulavi descended from Hazrat Shah Mustafa, a companion of the famous sufi saint of Sylhet, Hazrat Shah Jalal. Hazrat Shah Mustafa’s shrine is in Moulvibazar.

Shoppers and passersby crowd footpaths and in the hotel restaurants there’s barely a vacant table. As has become the regional centre hallmark across Bangladesh there’s been that invasion of whirring electric buggies with their synthetic lollipop sirens. No, aside from the buggies, Moulvibazar’s commercial centre feels like a few square blocks of suburban Dhaka.

Hazrat Shah Mustafa's shrine, Moulvibazar.

Abdur Rouf Torufder, 75

Yet just a few rickshaw-minutes from the small-time traffic jams of the centre, still very much in town, Abdur Rouf Torofder, 75, has found a moment’s peace. He’s sitting in a rather happening cane rocking chair at his shop, Fouzia Cane House, waiting for customers and brushing off flies. Torofder remembers an altogether simpler Moulvibazar.

“There was the hospital, the high school where I studied and the police station,” he says, “Those were the three brick buildings. There was nothing... open land with dirt roads. There were horse carts and ox carts and we used to walk barefoot – only outsiders wore shoes. There were hardly any shops that sold them. A tin shed building in Moulvibazar was luxurious when I was young.”

From a time when perhaps only two hundred people lived in the town, Torofder remembers the twice weekly market days, the only relatively busy days. “Hawkers sold peanuts and mori puffed rice snacks – much tastier than you can find now. Half a kilogram of peanuts cost fifty paisa. We could enjoy bakery biscuits but there was no ice cream.”

“The town has become very big since,” he says.

The high school was one of three brick buildings in the town, decades ago.

On her way home to her daughter’s house in one of the side streets at the start of the Sreemangal Road, Fatema Begum, 70, likewise remembers the food. Born in Sylhet, she arrived in Moulvibazar some forty-five years ago to stay with her daughter who currently works as a maid. There, she discovered wonderfully fresh milk and curd. “People used to eat really well,” she says, “Now everything is expensive.”

The paradox is that like the other districts of Sylhet Division, Moulvibazar has benefited from large scale migration over many decades, principally to the United Kingdom – the Londoni phenomenon. Foreign remittances brought greater prosperity to many. “There was lots of open land, ponds...” Begum says, “Rich people were few – but now they are available. Now, too many people are fraudulent. They used to be very kind.” And kindness is an attribute she demonstrates by stopping to chat – we are lucky. “I’ve had two strokes, you know,” she says.

Before she continues her walk home she pauses – she’s had another thought. “In 1971 I saw the Pakistani army catching brothers and sisters. I saw everything.”

Vegetable seller Faruk Miah, 60.

Meanwhile at the market in front of the court house, father of three Faruk Miah, 60, originally from Chamorkuna village, is selling vegetables – he started as a retailer when he was thirteen. “My father died when I was seven,” he says, “I was alone. I stayed on government khas land and eventually started business. At first I sold betel nut – and for the last thirty-five years, vegetables.”

The Moulvibazar court house complex.

He remembers a damp Moulvibazar of open fields. “Taro plants grew wild in the town. At that time vegetables were seasonal – now they run year-round. Moulvibazar used to supply rice to other districts but now we import. All the vegetables were local too.”

Faruk still trades in local vegetables but remarks that the town has since been “attacked” by wholesalers and it’s become harder for the local sellers. “It used to be good – and the court market is still better than other places,” he says, “But now I have no peace.”

“Before people didn’t have anything,” Faruk recalls, “They used to sell their house land for hand-to-mouth crisis. In 1980, 30 decimals of land cost about 200 taka. Now one decimal is five to seven lakhs taka. Yet in those days people didn’t bargain.”

The courthouse hill, Moulvibazar town.

He remembers the floods before the barrage was constructed on the Manu River. In 1984 the whole town was under water except the small hill where the court is situated.

“I was a member of a theatre group,” he says, “and we used to sing songs all night – then in the morning we’d cultivate land, with everyone joining in.” It’s hardly surprising he has no time for modern entertainment. “Now it’s all cinema-ninema,” he says, “It’s all circus... not like before.”

“You know, the country was poor then,” he comments, “Many went to your country to make money.” He’d surely be right if I was born in the United Kingdom.

The Manu River, Moulvibazar town.

Md Salam Box with his son Noyon

Beside the Manu River weir is a tea shack called the Brother-Sister Variety Store. It’s the business of Md Salam Box, 51, from Matakarpon village. He’s somebody who believes in hard work. “In our family there are seven,” he says, “and I am the chairman. If I tell my family, ‘Today you will eat rice’ and they don’t eat it, who is at fault?”

From his sense of responsibility he wanted his children to study. But a few years ago circumstances changed. “My intestine busted,” he says, “It had a six by two inch hole in it, and after I became sick I couldn’t work like before. I opened this tea shop.” His thirteen-year-old son Noyon was unable to continue studying and took a job as a brickfield labourer.

“My son works very hard,” he says, “but these days so many young men like to stay in their houses and eat. Nor do they wish to study. These days the kids want a Honda to go to college, but if you give them an English newspaper they can’t read it.”

“Thirty years ago, I was very afraid of my father. It’s not like that now. There was no zom-zom then,” says Box, referring to noise and bustle.

He also fondly remembers yesteryear’s food. “There were many pineapple gardens. We had coconuts, palm syrup, mangoes, jam, jackfruit... There was room to grow vegetables everywhere – now it’s all buildings. The river was full of fish.”

Now Moulvibazar is all buildings. It's all zom-zom bustle.

“I miss bhubis and nashpati pears,” he says, referring to local fruits, the former called langsat or lanzones in English. “I miss latiall and kasalath rice.” These are traditional Sylhet-region rice species. Latiall is recalled as small grained with a nice aroma, while kasalath is an aus variety.

Yet he also considers that more development could have been achieved. “In other countries, how happy they are!” says Box. “Everything is already digital there.”

As we speak, Box’s dust-covered son Noyon appears, on a break from the nearby brickfield. He asks for a cold drink and before he leaves – he’s been taught responsibility – pays.

Meanwhile, back at Fousia Cane House, Torofder also attests to changed values. “People used to keep promises,” he says, “People didn’t lie. Even a murderer would say sorry back then.”

It was when he was twenty that Torofder finally got his first shoes, a parental gift that cost one taka – the same price as a large hilsa fish. “They were tyre-belt, wooden chappals,” he remembers, “I really liked them. At first it was strange to wear shoes but I got used to it. It was luxury and I felt like a king!” 

The Manu riverbank.

The Manu river from the weir.

The Manu River weir, Moulvibazar.

The weir sluice gates.

Behind the weir.

This article is published in Star Magazine, here: Those Were the Days

The Manu River.

Raw Hospitality

At Hotel Samrat the service is loud, very loud.

At five hours north it starts with dal bhajee – lentils. Poached eggs laze on tea cup saucer, fresh porota flat bread, piping, is ready to singe the fingers and tea from across the road will sweeten the throat. A little salty, a little savory, a little perfect: Bangladeshi breakfast arrives as an old friend tapping the shoulder saying, “Wakey, wakey. A new day is here.”

Breakfast underway... Hotel Samrat, Jamalpur.

At Hotel Samrat on Medical Road breakfast goes further, venturing beyond its usual habitat of delectable and delightful. A Samrat breakfast isn’t only a feast for the stomach but overwhelming for the ears. A Samrat breakfast is deafening.

 “What’ll you have?” he’s shouting. It’s morning. He’s shouting and it’s the morning.

Emon Hossain, 27, takes service seriously. Good service means nice behaviour, speaking politely, providing what the customer wants and bringing the dishes on time, he says. He doesn’t mention volume.

Customers are talking, filing in, mulling about – nothing in that. There’s the dish clash, the chair scrape, the bang of glasses of filter water hitting the table four at a time – all usual. Honestly, it couldn’t be Bangladesh without a bit of breakfast bustle but Samrat waiters engage voices that seem to rumble up like lava from somewhere deep underground.

“Do you need anything else?” somebody else’s waiter is saying to the table across the room. I can hear it as effectively as one of those mobile megaphone movie announcements that circle the town by CNG. The tone is serious. It’s like a courtroom scene where the victim is pointing and saying “That’s the guy who robbed me!”

Waiter Emon Hossain takes pride in providing good service.

Wait! Wait! Wait! The waiter, Emon, he’s got his hand on my dal. Think quickly! There’s nothing wrong with my dal! I don’t need a refill. “More?” No, really. No. “Slight?” Each word is a thunder clap. And the storm is never far off, not at all! Samrat is a breakfast epicentre.

Thought wandering in: is it because the Samrat is a singular long room that voices are overly voluminous? Did they grow that way, nagged upwards on the audio scale by the need to traverse the distance to the little window slot before the kitchen? But they are also shouting when standing right in front of that window. I can hear it: “Two cups tea! Dal! Khashir paya!”

Wait! Wait! Wait! The waiter, Emon, has his hand on my porota! I’ve just picked it up. It’s hot, too hot. He’s tugging at the flatbread. I’m pulling it back. He’s offering to heat it up again. Only the hottest and freshest porota, is his thinking. He must be aiming for molten! His quest for good service is grand. In my food is his hand!

A world within the world: the Samrat, Jamalpur.

Thought circling: circular tables, aren’t they supposed to be egalitarian and soothing? They don’t suit the Samrat where jarring, square ones would well fit. Or do the round tables act as a kind of counterweight? The hotel’s service is raw, industrial, metallic... It’s so authentic it’s possibly post-authentic... maybe the round tables are the only thing preventing the whole restaurant collapsing into the abyss of some strange alternate dimension, some void devoid of calmness?

Couldn’t they use legs in order to speak at a room temperature volume? Oh, but they do: there’s movement, dishes coming, orders going and all the while, “Two cups tea! Dal! Khashir Paya!”

Thought approaching: was it some quirk of the architecture that gave the Samrat acoustics like the Sydney Opera House? Is it the tiled interior? Is there reverberation to account for, things sounding louder than they actually are?

Emon takes time out for his own lunch.

“When the customer is happy, I am also happy,” says Emon, and he means it. When a customer is rude he feels it. “Then service does not come from the heart.” And he feels poorly if anyone leaves dissatisfied. Perhaps in the volume is extra effort. Perhaps he works on the theory that things delivered loudly are delivered better?

If a customer makes a mess Emon doesn’t mind, he says. “It’s up to me to clean it.”

Emon really is putting his heart into it. He’s got the filter water from a recycled coke bottle in the fridge – chilled, but he’s put some ordinary filter water in the bottom of the glass first so it’s not too chilled. He’s tucking napkins into my diary so they don’t blow away. He’s bringing tea from across the road not at a walk but at a run. He’s dodging traffic. He’s nearly ready to reach into my wallet to take out the money I need when it’s time to pay. But he thinks twice about that.

Emon’s mother died when he was four – snake bite. His father passed on when he was fourteen – lung cancer. Since then he’s been on his own without siblings to rely on. There was no chance to continue study and the Samrat gives 180 taka per day plus tips plus food. It gives a kind of family.

“Every day is good,” he says, “Everything is good. The manager, the food, the customers...” Female customers always behave nicely with him. They leave bigger tips. “And after work with the other waiters I move about the town. It’s enjoyable.”

“That woman is asking if you speak Bangla,” Emon says. I know. I heard the waiter yelling an answer at her, a few tables up.

The bustling Samrat Hotel.

“How do you live here without A/C?” Emon asks. For a short while he worked in Karwan Bazar in Dhaka, at the Star Hotel, he says. He didn’t enjoy it much – Dhaka was too cluttered and there was no good accommodation. The city was too loud. With his hand he makes a water dripping gesture. “There was a problem with the water,” he says. It’s easy to imagine it dripping onto his bed. But while in Dhaka, after work, moving about town with his friends as is his custom, he once went to the airport. Zia he calls it. It was Zia then. “I saw the foreigners,” he says, “Coming in from Hong Kong, Bangkong... and taking a flash car to a fancy hotel.” Hence, there’s the curiosity of me turning up.

I’d recommend it to anyone. Samrat service is gritty, rough, abrasive, bold, existential, uninhibited, primal... but more than that it’s sincere – somehow more real than reality itself. And you can’t beat real. You could walk the length and breadth of cities like Paris or Tokyo and never find service quite like it. Emon has earned a decent tip, of course, of course. After all, he’s taken the trouble to put his hand in my food. Welcome to Jamalpur!

The Samrat Hotel, middle, on Medical Road.

Village Flute Behind the Scenes: Kurigram

Photos from Kurigram Town:

The Kurigram College Vice Principal and head of the English Department introduces me, to speak to a joint class of all the English students at the college.

What do people eat in Australia?

Why do you live in Bangladesh?

What do you think of Kurigram?

Are there any jobs going at the newspaper?

Notes: "Kuri" is an old-fashioned word in Bengali meaning "twenty" - though the word is still used in the Paschimbangan (Indian) version of Bangla. "Gram" means "village". Kurigram - twenty villages! Of course there are far more than twenty villages in the district.

Kurigram is one of the poorest districts in Bangladesh, potentially the poorest of all. Perhaps the main reason for this is that it is crossed by numerous rivers including the enormous Brahmaputra which has always hampered communication and development. It is also far from Dhaka. 

Also, the rivers cause extensive erosion so that people living anywhere near a river (basically everyone) is at risk of losing their homes and land. Most of Kurigram town was swallowed by the Brahmaputra and has been relocated. The new town is leafy, spread out and quiet.

Like some other northern districts in Bangladesh, Kurigram has traditionally suffered from "monga" which is an annual, seasonal famine that lasts for a few months. In those months there is no food to be had from farming - although it was suggested to me that the actual problem is the number of landless people, that ownership of Kurigram's land resources is too much concentrated in the hands of a few. The landless normally rely on day wage labour but this is unavailable during the monga season when agriculture has no need of it. NGOs and successive Bangladeshi governments have been working to overcome monga throughout the north, with some success.

The government has also paid special attention to training for young people in practical skills like better farming techniques and different crops. It has helped.

Nonetheless, Kurigramers often migrate in search of employment and it was said that every Kurigram family, just about, has at least one daughter or son (mostly daughters) working in the garments sector in or around Dhaka. Garments workers' salaries are not usually very high but to an extent the industry keeps Kurigram afloat.

In Dhaka, the majority of rickshaw drivers come from North Bengal, including Kurigram. Rickshaw riding is hard work but the profession employs about one million people. 

Street scene in Dhaka. Most rickshaw drivers are from North Bengal.

As with other northern districts, the people of Kurigram are famous for being forthright, sincere and honest. It is common when dealing with a rickshaw driver from the north for them to respond to a "how much" before you start out or after arriving at the destination with a shrug and a "give!" which means, give as you wish to. It is traditional Bengali manners!

One major crop that alters the Kurigram scenery somewhat is the golden fibre: jute. Bangladesh is the world's largest producer of jute and Bangladeshi scientists in recent years have decoded the genome for jute, with hopes to bring benefit to the industry.

Anecdotal evidence for the relative poverty in Kurigram is a lack of mid-range restaurants in the town - for example, there are no kebab houses. It would seem that there is not much disposable income around for "luxuries". Another noticeable difference is the lack of a decent internet service - speeds are very slow - unusual in tech-savvy Bangladesh.

Foreigners being rare in Kurigram it was an easy matter to be invited to speak to the English students at Kurigram College. They were very polite and enthusiastic, and seemingly pleased with my answers. In particular I remember explaining to them that one significant difference between Australia / the west and Bangladesh was the strength of human relations - in particular because western culture is built on the individual while in Bangladesh its relations with others that traditionally defined people. Bangladeshis from birth are usually surrounded and supported by an extended family network that is very close - and each particular relationship from maternal older uncle to paternal younger aunt has cultural meaning. Some relationships are 'serious', for mentoring or support, while others are 'joking' relationships with a larger element of fun in them. 

The difference is even there in the language. In Bangla, as in other South Asian languages, the question is not "How many brothers and sisters do you have?" but "How many brothers and sisters are you?" And the answer is not "I have 2 brothers and a sister" for example, but "We are 3 brothers and a sister." It is something an English speaker needs to get used to. Yet it is rather nice that the emphasis is not on the possessing, the "having" but on the being, "we are" - and that the sum, the "we", is the total not excluding the person being asked, rather than in English where the centre of the answer is the "I". 

Families and communities are tight in Bangladesh.

The interesting thing for me was in explaining this, the college students understood it very easily - in part they were intrigued to think of the different emphasis in the English language they were learning; but more than that, it reminded me of a hugely pleasing developing consciousness in Bangladesh that things previously taken for granted are actually both unique and very special. Twenty years ago I had trouble making Bangladeshis really appreciate the above point - because their strong relationships they took for granted. Now they know - things are different elsewhere. And the college students were very much happy and a little proud when I mentioned that point - although each system has its advantages and disadvantages.

Kurigram is also rich in traditional Bengali culture - I was lucky enough to witness this at a concert at the local Shilpakala Academy where young students of singing and music were able to perform... on again, off again through a few electricity cuts... Their skills were impressive. There is a local form of folk music in the north called bhawaiya - famous from nearby Rangpur and also to be found across the border in places like Jalpaiguri, India; but the Kurigramers assured me that bhawaiya from Kurigram was "the best in the world."

Students from Shilpakala Academy in Burungamari perform in Kurigram Town.

With the skills shown that evening, it was easy to imagine a few future stars were among us!

Photos from Char Parbhotipur:

Setting out: from the boat to Char Parbhotipur

Abdul Wahed, our local correspondent who looked after me in Kurigram.

On the Char Parbhotipur boat.

With Md Abu Taleb and his family in Char Parbhotipur.

Notes: There are many "chars" or sand shoals in the Brahmaputra River - maybe one hundred? Living conditions are very basic on the shoals. We visited the nearest (and presumably most developed) one, Char Parbhotipur. 

It was interesting for me because my Bengali village is in Hatiya, Noakhali in the south of the country but ultimately Hatiya is also a "char", albeit a much larger island that has been around for a few hundred years. Nonetheless around Hatiya too are newer chars, some of which are inhabited / newly settled.

But Char Parbhotipur was significantly poorer than is usual these days in Hatiya - more like how Hatiyan families used to live twenty years ago. As Hatiya has not had a major cyclone since 1991 and has the benefit of sea as well as river fishing it has become significantly richer and more developed.

The family we visited in Char Parbhotipur, meanwhile, could not even offer tea - which is basically unthinkable in Hatiya, even if visiting the poorest families.

It was incredibly hot with sun glare such that you had to squint on the day we visited - it only took a few hours but I was tired soon enough. Nonetheless, I wished I'd had more time, had gone their alone and stayed the night - or even on a more remote shoal. The local people would easily look after you with somewhere to sleep, and safety is a non-issue - one would only need to bring food supplies as there was no shop there. Maybe next time...


Photos from Ulipur:

Hanging out at the Ulipur fire station.

Trying kheer mahan at one of the competitors to Pabna Sweets, with Makbel.

Pithas of a local variety made by Makbel's wife.

Discussing Kurigram's food with Md Shohidur Rahman at the Al Shad Hotel. It was the start of the shutkani adventure!

Notes: I've already written much about Ulipur! One thing I did not mention is I had a friend, Hari Pada there - I know him from Dhaka. He works as a police sub-inspector and has worked his way up from constable, which isn't easy. He was posted in Ulipur and helped me a great deal even though his duty seemed to run almost 24 /7. 

Although he is also from North Bengal he is not from Kurigram. As he was not an Ulipurian he could not help directly with my quest to find Kurigram food in a village; nor could he call upon local friends for the task since he has only been newly posted to Ulipur. Indeed, just quietly he reckons the Kurigram food is to salty for his palate - though I suspect he hasn't tried the genuine traditional shidal and shutkani fare such as I managed to - his is possibly more of a reaction to the canteen arrangements at the police station. "I keep telling the cook to put less salt in," he said, "but no result..."

We did, however, go just about everywhere on his Honda... a great help, transport was easy!

And in the words of his boss, the Officer in Charge at Ulipur: "There is basically no crime in Ulipur apart from domestic and land disputes."

Proof that I did help with the cooking (slightly).

Crushing jute leaves... like an expert?

With Shohidur Bhai and Bipul Bhai in their house yard.

Notes: I am laughing at the Kurigram photographs of me for two features: first is the "Honda hair" and second, for the really observant, is a slight redness to the lips! It is from chewing betel leaf - a habit I have grown to enjoy now and then (while... ahem... Hari Pada barely stops chewing betel!) The photograph below is a typical "betel photo" in that you want to keep your lips closed a little tightly to prevent the "red lip" phenomenon in the photo. Cameras are yet to be designed with a red lip reduction feature...

With my friend from Dhaka Hari Pada, at a tea shop in Hatia Union.

Sub-inspector Hari Pada buys betel from Rana Bhai!

Betel leaf and nut (paan and shupari).

Photos from Chilmari:

The Chilmari ghat, where boats leave for the other side of the Brahmaputra.

Captain's chair!

Motorbikes and roof-riding!

The other passengers in the boat, before the remaining twenty of them arrived.

Notes: To the south of Ulipur is Chilmari. It is possible to take ferry boats from the constantly eroding basic ghat there, across the Brahmaputra River to the two isolated Upazilas of Kurigram that lay on the far side... Raumari and Char Rajibpur. 

These Upazilas are sandwiched between the Brahmaputra, which takes over an hour to cross by boat, and the black fenced border with the Indian state of Meghalaya. The scenery is beautiful because nearby Meghalaya offers a hilly addition to the horizon, while nearer Bangladesh is flat. 

To travel this way is an alternative route back to Dhaka, since buses head south to Jamalpur District where the main northern highway runs south through Mymensingh and Gazipur to the capital. The road from Kurigram to Dhaka is a much longer route in distance (not time) due to the need to use the Banghabandu Bridge far to the south - the only bridge across the Brahmaputra (which is called the Jamuna River further south).