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.

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.

Freedom

Sunset makes the Dhepa River in Dinajpur, shine.

Tell the river not to flow? I don’t think so. In Majadanga beyond Dinajpur Town evening is on its way. The sunset sky makes the river sparkle. She’s dazzling! Shall we be blinded by nature’s collaboration and call it improper? Shall we tell the river not to shine?

Or does it make sense to simply cross the bridge?

Through fields on the far bank tin houses with shared walls are lined up like soldiers. Trees are planted to beautify the all-too-logically arranged housing. Vegetables are growing, and guava. Something new is being tried.

“We lived as transients,” says 44-year-old Bokul, a Hindu. “Three years ago the government gave this land.” Together with Laili, 30, and Miss Maya, 24, she’s joined us in the shared yard. A small crowd has gathered.

The project is Manab Palli – the Human Village. It has 125 houses, 60 of which are home to hijras – members of the third gender – the remainder house formerly landless families.

“We’d stay randomly in somebody’s house for a few days,” says outspoken Miss Maya, a Muslim. “Before moving on…”

“Or on the street,” adds Laili.

Bokul, Laili and Miss Maya, at home in Majadanga.

In recent years the Social Welfare Department has been coordinating job skills training for hijras. Individuals can choose what they’d like to do: some hope to work in garments; others are learning to drive CNGs.

“We have no worries here,” says Bokul. “We have good relations. Everybody is nice to us.”

 “But it’s loud when the rain hits the tin roof,” says Miss Maya. “I can’t sleep!”

I mention that I like that sound. Everybody laughs. I don’t think people often disagree with Miss Maya. “Then what about when water comes inside?” she says adamantly, “Do you enjoy that too?”

I ask their full names but they’ve already been given. “It says Laili – just Laili – on my national identity card. You want to see it?” It was just a question but her answer says she’s had to defend her name. It must be strange to defend one’s name.

Oranges and reds, the radiant whites of their saris, the jewellery and painstakingly arranged hairdos – they take pride in their appearance – and they’re certainly not sparing with make-up. I imagine all the lipsticks and rouges packed carefully on shelves in sixty of those one-room homes. I wonder how they managed before.

“Things are okay,” says Miss Maya, “but we worry what happens when we grow old.” She applied unsuccessfully for a job at the medical college. “Sewing or office work,” she says, “I don’t mind.” Ambition they have. She’s completed agriculture training.

Houses at Manab Palli, the Human Village.

But for now they’re reduced to begging. Local administrators have asked them not to harass the public, and when they speak of it, it’s clear they’d like to follow the instruction. It’s not yet possible. “If there’s no food in our stomachs?” says Bokul.

Nonetheless Dinajpur locals say hijras in their district are less pushy. I’m beginning to understand: Dinajpur is a little tolerant. More than elsewhere, that society seems to be willing to try crossing the bridge.

The sky darkens; the river’s shine has left her. I ask if I can ask personal questions. I feel guilty. It’d be much better to live in a world where hijras were so accepted that there was nothing to learn from it. Personal lives are nobody’s business.

“You want us to talk in front of this crowd?” says Bokul. She has a point. After asking the onlookers to leave they open up. I’m impressed by their candidness.

“While growing up,” says Miss Maya, “I found that I liked to wear women’s clothes. I enjoyed male company. I wasn’t attracted to women.”

“At first I felt really badly about it. Then, as I started to express my feelings my mother started misbehaving.” Miss Maya’s home life deteriorated. There was anger. There was torture. It became intolerable and she left.

Life at Manab Palli, shared by formerly landless families and hijras.

It’s a common history. Bokul has no connection with her parents. They told her to get out – they never wanted to see her face again. “Nobody asks about us,” she says.

Only Miss Maya still visits her mother. She’s never invited to stay. I imagine the torturous thoughts that must plague her as she travels home. How could she not relive the rejection, not notice neighbours staring? There must be all the “what ifs” to haunt her. Visiting home… how much courage it must take!

“Parents spend too much on their children,” says Miss Maya, “For weddings they spend lacs. We don’t want that. We’re happy with a little, but we can’t even stay. They drive us away.”

Not knowing how to respond I feebly suggest their hijra community is a family. They’re absolutely unconvinced.

“We’re always surrounded by people,” Miss Maya continues, “but we’re alone. In this world we have nobody.”

“You’re never alone!” I want to say. But the words are cheap. So I say nothing and her statement just hangs there.

Nor is being alone a temporary state: “Suppose I had a good friend,” Miss Maya explains, “who loved me more than his parents. What would I do? People would tease him. People would say he was a hijra’s husband. If I really loved him I’d have to withdraw.”

Miss Maya has been to India. She stayed for two months, singing and dancing to collect money. “Nobody stops us at the border,” she says. She especially liked how Indians called her mashi, aunty, rather than hijra. “But Bangladesh is my homeland.”

Bokul, Laili and Miss Maya!

Thinking of the traditions of hijras attending weddings and the blessings they are thought to bring to the birth of a child, especially a son, I ask if they have any special culture. The answer is a resounding “No.” 

Miss Maya says young hijras need no advice. “One day they’ll see us and join us.”

I ask what’s best about being a hijra. “Freedom,” Miss Maya says. “We can talk to anybody, eat anywhere. What others think, I don’t care.”

Let's cross the bridge!

Family expectations, society’s expectations – as I leave I think how everybody faces such dilemmas, albeit less starkly. The freedom to be true to oneself, they have that, at enormous cost.

I wonder about another type of freedom: acceptance. They should have that too because hijras are a beacon. They’re frontrunners, canaries in the coalmine – their experience is an indicator of how free society really is. Life is hard at the top of freedom. But ultimately, their freedom is ours too.

The regimented housing: it fits. From somewhere hijras need to summon a soldier’s bravery. Night time on the river: it’s telling. Nature is a promise to keep. It’s never an improper collaboration. 



This article published in Star Magazine, here: Freedom