Discovering a new Cox's Bazar

We wanted to travel along the coast. We called it a coast feast and so the traditional Cox's Bazar became our first spot.

On a sunny warm morning, we arrived in Cox's Bazar. It was a long time since I last visited this place -- my reason to avoid it was the huge crowd that I always loathed. You have no privacy. Secondly, with the fall of dusk Cox's Bazar turns into the most boring sea resort I have ever visited. There are no clubs, no entertainment facilities. You just shut yourself up behind the hotel doors and brood over your gloomy years.

So I came here with much trepidation. But what struck me as our car coasted through the busy town is the amount of money that has gone into tourism here -- newer and newer hotels have shot up into the sky and funnily none of them are empty even on this supposedly off-season. Rickshaw fare is astronomically high to piss off any traveller. And tourists were visible even more now -- the middle-class is going out more and more, they are becoming holidaymakers. But still no signs of any clubs or entertainment spot. So, with the conservative Cox's Bazar, tourism stops there.

After we had checked into the forest guesthouse right on the beach (by the way, this is the only staying place closest to the sea), we took a stroll on the beach. We walked a long distance to a quieter place, a huge fishing boat had been beached for repair. It lay banked on one side. We took a dip in the sea to ward off the heat and then sat in the shade of the boat until we felt another need for a swim.

The temple at last

Ada Chai forest station looked forlorn in this deep forest -- an outstation with a pale existence. We walked down a long wooden pier that had developed gaping holes through its rotten wood planks. At the end of it was the wooden station its planks blacked by continuous rain, damp, musty smell hanging in the air. The lanterns could hardly beat the gloom of the gathering dusk as we entered the ramshackle station. The dampness enters your inside and you feel dizzy. I was taken aback by the unbelievably sorry living condition of the foresters.
What surprised me more was the backyard of the station. A long pier about ten feet above the ground had run to the toilets. And it was protected with tightly knit golpata partition all the way. The floor was also made with solid wood.

Naturally Narail

WE were supposed to visit Narail months ago. But then many moons moaned by and all our plans collapsed one after another for one reason or another. Finally when we found time, it began with a disaster.
On a perfectly nice winter morning, we parked our car at the Mawa police station for two nights and went over to the speedboat terminal. On the other side of the Padma would wait a microbus. This arrangement would have been the quickest to Narail. With a heavy backpack and the jacket wrapped round my hand, I first stepped on the front deck of the speedboat. As I was about to step inside the canopy, two more halfwit fellow travellers with no knowledge of a speedboat's behaviour jumped in.
It took a second for the boat to rock vigorously, like a bucking horse; and the next second I found myself floating on the Padma. My backpack felt like a tonne of brick and impossible to dislodge. My jackets were fitted tightly. Somehow I swam against a current that was trying to carry me out to the middle. Then I found the white hull of the speedboat above my head. I grabbed its edge and calmed myself.
Then I was laughing manically. All those birdbrains responsible for the mayhem and my watery state were also in water. All with their backpacks and one of them swimming like a rat thrown into the pond.
There were people stretching out their hands to me and I caught a few of them, or they rather caught me and pulled. Try to climb onto a speedboat from the river and find out how difficult it is. Almost when I was thinking the rest of my life would be spent on the Padma bobbing like the float of a fishing rod, they landed me on the deck. The rest were rescued as well.

Beautiful Bangladesh | visit here, before others do!

It was the time of the festival of Bon Bibi, the protecting goddess of the Sundarbans, and we were winding our way down into the forest aboard the M.V. Chuti. My mother had just passed along her copy of Amitav Ghosh’s The Hungry Tide to me to read. Coincidentally, I was also carrying the classic 17th century travelogue of Moghul India, Francois Bernier’s Travels in the Moghul Empire. Little did I realize how connected these two books were, or how closely they would parallel my own experience of the “beautiful forest”.

“…The most striking and peculiar beauty of Bengale is the innumerable islands filling the vast space between the two banks of the Ganges. These islands vary in size, but are all extremely fertile, surrounded with wood; a thousand water-channels run through them, stretching beyond the sight, and resembling long walks arched with trees…”

Little had changed in the three and a half centuries since Bernier coa

Little had changed in the three and a half centuries since Bernier coasted through these waters. Except that the Sundarbans had shrunk considerably, due to constant human encroachment.