Philip Shaw

This is my story from my recent trip to Bangladesh to visit my friend and East West co-author Dr. A.K. Enamul Haque.  I hope you enjoy it.
After flying from Toronto to Dubai, I got on a plane January 14th and made the final 4 hours trip to Dhaka, Bangladesh.  As the plane ascended from Dubai, I could see how beautiful and dynamic that place really is.  The lights were fantastic with the “Palm development” among others clear through the night sky.  The plane was full, as Dubai is a regional hub and an especially popular place for Bangladeshi people to enter the Middle East.

It’s interesting Dubai.  Almost everybody I talked with except the customs agents were people who worked there but were from the outside.  Hotel staff were either from Africa, the Philippines or somewhere else in East Asia, or they were from India, Pakistan or Bangladesh.  Airport staff were the same way.  It just goes to show that Dubai and much of the “Saudi middle east” can’t run without imported labour.  Of course this labour provides a lot of money for people to transfer back to their home countries in South Asia.

The plane ride out of Dubai was rough, in fact about the roughest I’ve ever had it.  The big Emirates 777-300 was bobbing around and jerking fairly aggressively, so much so, that there was yelling and screaming on the plane.  I was in my plane ritual, eyes, closed, first class sleeper under neath me(it’s a cheap imitation I bought at a travel store in California which is inflatable), noise limiting headphones on, the whole nine yards.  However, even with that, it was getting to me a bit.  However, it soon evened out over Iran and the ride became smooth.  The Captain came on and apologized.  I found that a bit strange, like what could he do about it.  However, it was good things evened out.

Just before I boarded the plane in Dubai it was delayed.  I assumed because of fog in Dhaka.  That was true because as we descended there was nothing but cloud and fog.  However, we broke though and there was the runway, and everything was green.  I hadn’t seen that since last fall.  (Dubai was dark)

When you arrive in Dhaka Bangladesh, its a bit like Forrest Gump said, “you never know what you are going to get.”  The airport has a wild air to it, almost reckless.  However, my advantage is having been there three times before, I know it and expect it.  I meandered out of the plane and through the halls packed with Bangladeshis’ leaving for the Middle East.  I went down the stairs, rounded the corner and was greeted by an official with a tag on who said “I will take you to the front of the que.  I was a bit hesitant because I figured he was a bit of a cowboy, and in this airport you never know.  There were a mass of people in front of me so I followed him up past everybody and he plunked my passport in front of the customs agent.  I kept asking him, “who are you?”  He kept replying the airport authority had hired him to help foreigners get through the customs.  I kept asking him and asking him and I knew what was coming…….. As the customs agent handed me my passport, I took it and turned, my Bangladeshi cowboy government airport friend still with me.  Then he turned and said could he have something for his trouble.  That’s when I went off.  With my friend and colleague Dr. A.K. Enamul Haque in the background waving behind the glass, I told this guy in no uncertain terms no.  In fact, having been here before it was kind of easy.  I think he was totally surprised by my reaction.  However, in my opinion, he hadn’t done anything for me which I couldn’t do my self.  The moment I looked at him and said no, he was gone.  Maybe I’ll see him on my way back.

In Bangladesh you have to watch it.  There are crowds everywhere and the airport is your first taste of it.  As you walk out of the baggage claim and into the public area, the atmosphere gets even wilder.  For first time visitors its alarming.  However, for me, I’m very used to it.  So as Enamul and I greeted each other very warmly, we headed off toward his car in the parking garage.  That meant pulling luggage through a mass of humanity who were there just to be spectators.  And of course as I did, one beggar boy maybe 7 years old attached himself to me following me for what seemed like 400 yards until he finally gave up.  You have to toughen yourself up mentally to handle that.  Beggars are everywhere, so it is never ending.  Handling it mentally is key.  After that we got to our car which was completely jammed in because other planes were late too.  However, my friend Enamul started getting people to move (unheard of in Canada) and suddenly we were out onto the Dhaka streets with its assorted cacophony of sounds, smells and distractions.

South Asia assaults you and you have to be ready for it.  It’s dirty, everything is foreign, its crowded, its different.  However, I’m no longer riding on public transport in these streets like I did earlier in my career.    Also too, most vehicles have been modified to natural gas, so the environment is cleaner. (relatively speaking)  Needless to say there are still people coming from all six sides.  Yes, that means north, south, east, west, from on top and from underneath!  I’m way past that now.  In fact, I hardly notice.  Needless to say, it takes time.  Enjoying the friends and experiences I have in this place is my true measurement of the experience.

Last night I gave a lecture to International Business Students at United International University in Dhaka.  To me, it was a real highlight as I got to speak in Asia, with my colleague present about international agricultural markets.  I was even more pleased because the students were very engaged and very appreciative of what I had to say.  In fact, I was a bit surprised because I’d was speaking in English to MBA students who’s second or third language is English.  Also too, its a different culture so I wasn’t quite sure how they’d take this big white guy from Ontario farm country.  However, they were very engaged and disciplined and they got up at the end and presented me with a gift and a plaque.  I was a bit taken aback.  There was a reception that followed.  It was a very memorable experience for me.

Today is Friday which is the holy day in the Islamic world, so there is not much going on today.  However, tomorrow we leave for the south of the country.  We go to Cox’s Bazaar, the longest beach in the world and then onto St. Martin’s Island which is the most southerly point in Bangladesh off the coast of Myanmar.  I think its really interesting because its the border between South Asia and South East Asia.  Seeing Burmese people in the streets is quite intriguing.

Of course the last time I was there, I floated across to the island on an old tub face down with water washing over top of me.  However, this time its going to be a lot better, in fact St .Martin’s is now a bit of a tourist haunt.  If you’ve ever seen the move Castaway with Tom Hanks, that’s what it reminds me of.

On January 17th, my colleagues (Dr. Haque, his son Riddho and two research colleagues) and I took the overnight bus to Cox’s Bazaar, which is one of the largest sea beaches in the world on the south east coast of Bangladesh.  Our forward destination was St. Martin’s Island, a spec of land just off the Myanmar coast, the most southerly point in Bangladesh.

In Canadian terms, that would mean a 2 hour drive.  However, an overnight bus is an overnight bus.  You take it because there is little traffic at night, the roads are poor at best and it just seems to be the thing to do.  So at 11:30 p.m. we gathered at the bus station in hope of a successful trip.  So with all my gear in hand I boarded the bus, quickly quaffing down a gravol pill to avoid the inevitable motion sickness.  It’s kind of mad chaos when you board a bus in Bangladesh and when you are the only “foreigner” on the street that just adds to your celebrity.  I don’t even notice the attention anymore, but when I first got here in 1993, the staring mass of humanity drove you crazy.

After considerable jerking and banging down the road with some serenading Bangladeshi music we arrived at our destination just as the sun was coming up.  Cox’s Bazaar is the Miami Beach of Bangladesh.  There are some thoughts in Bangladeshi government circles that they’d like to make it into a Indian Goa.  However, I think Islamic sensibilities would get in the way of that.  Simply speaking, domestic tourism facilities in Bangladesh right now are at capacity, in fact bursting at the seams.  So there really isn’t any room for international tourism and the higher standards it would demand.  For instance no large scale international tourism is going to put up with what I have to put up with to get there.  It just doesn’t happen in our western world.  However, if you have an open mind and our willing to put up with a few things, Cox’s Bazaar has a certain exotic flavour to it.

One of the tenets of life here is that nobody with any money does menial labour.  That’s why when you reach a bus station, hotel, ship, ferry or whatever, there are an army of enthusiastic, aggressive boys almost tackling you to carry your bags, or do some other menial task for you for a small fee.  When a foreigner arrives like me, its like that ten fold.  Luckily, I don’t speak Bangla, so Enamul takes over and he loves to “boost the economy” in these areas, so more than a few little guys carry our bags all over the place.  It’s not only that, but they watch your stuff on the beach, go get soft drinks and generally act as guides.  At the end of the day, they are rewarded with tips.  We make sure we reward them very well in Bangladeshi Taka.  It’s not a lot for us, but its a lot for them.

I’ve been to Cox’s Bazaar twice before, so three times makes it better.   It’s been nine years since I was there and it has truly changed.  With Bangladesh having annual economic growth rates of 6%, it means incomes are rising.  That is reflected in all the new hotels and eateries along the strip.  They aren’t of western standard, but they are more than adequate for a guy like me.  Clearly, this place is exploding as Bangladeshi’s with rising incomes are taking advantage of the sea beach on the weekend.  We ate dinner that night on a beach front restaurant.   Total cost for the five of us was the equivalent of about $5 Canadian dollars.   With the Indian ocean lapping up on the beach, you couldn’t have a much better setting.

The next morning we had to be on the road by 7:00a.m. to travel the 92 km to Teknaf, which is the most southerly mainland town in Bangladesh, the jumping off point for St. Martin’s Island, the place where we catch the ferry.  I quaffed a half tablet of gravol and away we went in our Toyota van with two Bangladeshi drivers.  I always sit in the front because that’s the only place I’ll fit.  Anyway, we sped off banging over the narrow road horn blaring at every turn, at every person, every cow, ever rice paddy.  About 1.5 hours later, we reached the ferry terminal and sat down down waiting for the 9:30a.m. departure.  On que, the young Bangladeshi lads got up and wanted to take our bags.  We let them, as sometimes that is easier than saying no and starting a riot.  As we boarded our ferry to go over to St.Martin’s Island ( it takes 1.5 hours by ship) I was juggling a bag, two water bottles, some cameras and a ferry ticket.  As I got to the front of my que, I watched helplessly as out of my jumbled hands fell my ferry ticket down on the slippery gangplank and fluttered down in the water.  Not good, as no ticket no ride.  Before I knew it, the guy behind me said something in Bangla, a guy in a boat rowed over to the ticket and fetched it out of the water, at the same time one of the young luggage lads jumped into his boat retrieved the ticket from him and gave it back to me all in the space of about 20 seconds.  A minute late the ticket guy asked for the ticket.  It was a little wet, but it did just fine.  That little episode is how things happen here in Bangladesh.

Earlier you might remember me recounting my 2000 journey to St. Martin’s at the bottom of an old fishing boat eyes closed while the seas roared over top me.  You go over about 7 km of open ocean to get there and sometimes it can be rough.  This time around however, I was in a big ship.  The journey to St. Martin’s was pristine.  St. Martin’s came out of the distance, a true jewel of an island, something like out of a movie.

Last time I was in St. Martin’s I staggered out of the old boat with the chickens (they were supper back then) into the warm water and walked up on shore.  This time however, I walked the gangplank onto a modern pier, with two other passenger ferries.  There were lots of people, as it was pretty obvious St. Martin’s had benefited from the domestic tourist boom.  Once again, we were besieged by youngsters wanting to be helpful.  We soon attached ourselves to “Shazzi” a young lad to carry our bags and act as a local guide to the island.  It turned out, we were very fortunate to have Shazzi.

Simply put St. Martin’s is everything the Bangladeshi mainland isn’t.  There are no cars there so there are no horns.  The island has about 7500 people but it doesn’t feel crowded.  It is surrounded by lovely beach, with agriculture in the middle.  The atmosphere is light, idyllic, exotic and very, very , very remote.  The coast line of Myanmar lies directly to the East.

We spend the first half day there exploring the beach and walking.  I’ve quickly learned in Islamic countries that you don’t swim much.  Modesty is key.  So women go in the water but fully clothed sometimes with the veil still on.  Men do the same thing, but at times wear a bathing suit, but they are still in the minority.  So I had brought my bathing suit, but didn’t know if I should wear it as I knew nobody among my friends would be “going swimming.”  Anyway, the first night I declined to wear it but on the second day, I did and got along just fine.  However, my colleagues didn’t and I didn’t question why other than I’ve got an unwritten rule over here.  Simply put, you never question the culture.  You go with it.  So as Shazzi directed us to our “rental boat” for the day, everybody got on fully clothed except your loyal scribe sporting my bathing suit with a very large Pride Seeds VT Triple Golf Shirt.  I thought it worked.  We were off to the other end of the island to do some exploring.

The trip to the other end of the island was ideal.  The boat we rented (from one of Shazzi’s friends) looked, smelt, worked, barked and smoked like the old tub that had brought me over here in 2000.  However, with thick black smoke belching out of its engine and the pump working over time bailing water out of its hold, we set off for the other side of the island.  I was face down on the deck, once again in deference to motion sickness.  However, we got there after about half an hour and waited patiently as “little boats” came  and got us, took us to shore, where we waded in on the rocks to dry land.(rocks)  From there we toured the island, at low tide and generally marveled at our collective remoteness.  As we were leaving, I stopped to talk with a Bangladeshi family who had greeted me.  Than I looked the other way and I was greeted by a professional film crew who were doing some independent film work on Bangladeshi tourism.  They had the camera in my face, so I just lit up with my CFCO radio commentary tag line.  When I did that there eyes lit up and they started calling me over.  Long story short we did a small documentary on foreign tourists in Bangladesh for this film crew on the spot.  Maybe, I’ll get to see it someday.  While that was happening Enamul and our friends had moved over to this lean-too where I knew they were frying fish fresh from the sea.  I knew he was sitting there eating it.  I knew my turn was next.  So after my academy award performance, I went over where my “fresh fish ” was being cooked.  So not wanting to be a poor sport, I sat down and ate the fish (minus the head which was still attached) to the delight of the many Bangladeshis who had gathered.  The fish was great eating.  I could have eaten two.  Needless to say, we left wading out into the “little boats” which took us back to our rental tub.

The rest of time in St. Martin’s we spent walking on the beach, through the agricultural lands, drinking fresh coconut juice and doing what Bangladeshi’s do.  That’s watch both sun up and sunset like clockwork.   I guess when everybody is too modest to swim, that’s the next best thing.   At night we’d typically have tea in a ramshackle tea stall where I’m sure I was the best entertainment they’ve had there in years.  The next day, we walked through the island some more to visit a turtle research station.  It was deserted.  So all of us took the rickshaw back to our hotel room to prepare to leave.  Shazzi was rewarded for all of this work.  He had his posse ready to transfer our bags to the ship.

We had befriended the captain while on St. Martin’s Island and he told us he expected a rough crossing back to the mainland.  He was right, as the seas really rolled.  I was fine, having taken half a gravol and with my eyes wide shut, I weather the rough seas.  After the rough part we went up to see the captain.  Riddho, Enamul’s son actually got into the control room.  Riddho is a smart young lad.  There he over heard on the mobile phones and radio that they were looking for fertilizer smuggling coming over from Myanmar.  It was a interesting observation from Riddho.  Little did the captain and his mates know Riddho was being so intrigued by this.

Bangladesh has its dark side just like a lot of places.  Little did we know we’d run into a bit of that on the way from Teknaf.  We got off the ship at Teknaf at 4:30p.m. and we were suppose to board our over night bus to Dhaka at 6:00p.m.  When we landed in Teknaf, Enamul’s research associate told him the security guard had told her that there was a blockade ahead and the road was blocked.  In Bangladesh it was election day as regional elections were being held across the country.  Sometimes groups block the roads when they want to make a political statement.  Unbeknownst to me Enamul phoned the bus company and asked them if that was true “were they coming” to take us to Dhaka?  They told him yes, as they didn’t expect any problems.  So at 6:00p.m. we boarded the overnight bus to Dhaka.

I quickly fell asleep (yes another gravol for motion sickness).  However, I was awakened a few hours later by the bus stopping and voices a flutter.  Clearly there was something going on, but I didn’t know what.  I can’t understand the language so I am never quite in the loop.  I got up and followed Enamul out of the bus.  On getting out, he was looking at me so I said “what’s going on?”  He looked at me and said the road is blockaded 7km ahead, there is a traffic jam that long back to here.  There has been political violence there and two people are dead and several are injured.  Um………..I see……………………..He then said he had to find a washroom.  So we trundled down the road toward the local mosque because we knew there was a washroom there.  Meanwhile in the bus they were deciding what to do.  Some people wanted to go back to Teknaf.  Some wanted to eat.  Some wanted to go to the bathroom.  And unbeknownst to me the bus had already turned around, went back to the BDR (Bangladesh Rifles, an army unit base) for safety, but then left turning up here.  I had slept through the whole thing.  After we got the washroom thing settled everybody gathered back in the bus.  I quickly went back to sleep.  The bus driver used his cell phone to call 7 km ahead to this ticket agent.  His ticket agent told him the blockade was ending at 11:00p.m. So we were to proceed.  So unbeknownst to me we did.  I woke up later, not really sure where we were, but it looked to me we were in Chittagong, a larger city north of Cox’s Bazaar to the north.

When I finally did wake up for good, it was light outside and we were almost to Comilla a city in between Dhaka and Chittagong.  At that point the bus pulled over for breakfast.  We had missed supper.  However at the time Enamul recounted everything that had happened.  We were at least four hours behind schedule, still 3 hours from Dhaka.  And of course we were wondering if this had been all true, or had rumour simply swept through the countryside because that in itself can cause blockades.

When we reached Enamul’s home in Dhaka, we read the morning papers.  In fact, it was not rumour.  In fact there had been political violence between the army and the politicians in that town who burned the ballot boxes that day.  Two people had died and many were injured.  It just so happened it was on our route.  Bangladesh at election times can be chaotic.  Thankfully this time, we dodged the bullet.

A few days later we were off again to Sylhet, Enamul’s home town which I had visited twice before taking a route detouring off into Srimangal, the top tea growing region in Bangladesh.  We arrived in Srimangal at night amid the fog.  In fact the drive from Dhaka, was a bit dodgy because of the Bangladeshi drivers, the fog and everybody was a bit tired. Combine a foggy night with vehicles with no lights and it makes for an eventful ride for your loyal scribe.  However, Enamul is an expert safe Bangladeshi driver.  He took the fog in stride along with the dark vehicles meandering on the roads and we arrived at the Zareen Tea Garden near Srimangal late at night.

The Zareen Tea Garden was wonderful.  We stayed at the Director’s residence.  Don’t ask me how because I dunno.  It is a fact of life in South Asia that sometimes who you are matters.  The morning before we got to Srimangal Enamul was leafing through the latest Lonely Planet guide for Bangladesh.  We left for a school charity meeting where a friend of his found out he was going to Srimangal.  She said a few words in Bangla and shazzam, we’re staying at the Director’s residence at the Zareen Tea Garden in Sirmangal.

It was a wonderful place, basically out of the British Raj.  I had a huge private room, plus a bathroom with a big hot shower, a luxury in this part of the world.  Needless to say, I slept well.  The next day, we had breakfast, served up by Tea Garden staff and they we met with the Tea Garden manager.  I tested my agricultural economic acumen against his and we both came up with the same price for Roundup.(a common agricultural herbicide)  After that we wandered through the tea garden, marveling at the serenity of the place.  It was very beautiful.

In the afternoon we visited the Nilkantha Tea Cabin near Srimangal, famous for its six layered teas.  I do a lot of following around in Bangladesh and this was surely one of those times.  However, after ordering, it finally arrived, the six layers of tea in one glass, all with a different flavour.  If I could market that back in Canada to Tim Horton’s we’d all be rich!

At night we drove to Sylhet, a city in the northeast of the country which is Enamul’s home town.  There his family is and I was looking forward to once again visiting with these people.  It was my third visit to Sylhet.  Sylhet is a sister city with London England and has a huge British presence.  Also too, its pretty obvious Sylhet is a richer place than much of the rest of Bangladesh, mainly because of the ex-pat community sending back money which is invested in the Sylhet economy.  The Haque family were all doing well.  We celebrated by having Chinese food at the Hotel Supreme that night.

Bangladesh will probably never be a tourist haunt.  In fact when you come here you have to mentally adjust and physically get ready before you can have a good time.  It’s just too much of an adjustment for a westerner to arrive here and expect everything to be smooth.  Bangladesh is a very hospitable country but it is the land of the slippery gangplank.  It’s pretty obvious incomes are rising and the economy is improving, but international tourism is not even on the radar map.  However, even that is changing a bit.  I’ve ran into more than one international tourist this trip.

You won’t hear much about this place going forward.  Sure when a cyclone comes along the western media will focus.  However, hearing nothing sometimes is a good thing.  It means this country is working and despite its many challenges a new day is ahead.  Bangladesh is surely well positioned to catch the side effects of what will be an economic beneficial tsunami coming from China and India.  When you are here, you can feel it.  It’s a long way from home.

Will I go back someday?  I hope so.  However, as life’s journey continues you must remember what Forrest Gump said, “Life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you are going to get.”