LOST SEAS
I remember long walks along the beach at Cox's Bazar -- discovering the strange yields, sundried starfish, the hidden treasure of a half-buried horseshoe crab. And the shells, long ones with twirls that reminded of cone ice-creams, jagged oysters, little periwinkles scuttling around on the legs of soldier crabs. That was when Cox's Bazar was a sleepy sea-town, and only the local buses arrived from Chittagong to drop tourists off at Kolatoli. I remember craning my neck with anticipation when the first of the jhau trees would appear in the horizon, because any moment now the murky green sea would appear ahead of me, and I would see the white of waves breaking over the sand. I would start counting the minutes until I was running into the sea with a tire to serve as a buoy. And the day would be spent digging holes, making failed attempts at sandcastles, burying ourselves, until the other beach umbrellas would be folded up and we would leave behind footprints for the tide to wipe off.
Then one year, we would see the ugly face of a billboard overlooking the beach -- This or That Five Star Hotel. And the year after, pieces of our beach roped off for the hotel's private paradise. Soon the direct buses came rolling in, along with it rising plot prices, all kinds of resorts you could ever dream of staying at, with pink tiles, neon lights and swimming pools and more private beaches. Until one day at sunset you see that the beach you thought was your getaway is really a piece of ground, trampled on by feet in leather shoes, littered with Tiger bottles, crisp packets and soiled pampers. The cockle shells have disappeared to hang in faux-Burmese shops, the horseshoe crabs are being boiled in bleach so someone can carry home a piece of the ocean to rest on the showcase beside the souvenir Eiffel tower.
So we moved on, on to the quieter sands of Teknaf. On the chander gaari rides through the moonscape of the dirt track that led to Teknaf, one could see a thousand red hermit crabs set the beach alight under the afternoon sun. On rambles we saw giant, washed-up jellyfishes. Sometimes a dead turtle. Snakes, and once even a pair of vultures. Then Teknaf too lost its charms to day-tourists who drove along the new marine highway to sweep the beach away with coconut shells.
And today, I still find myself in search of a respite. I find myself elbowing others in great irony, to get into the steamer that waits to set off towards the port at St Martin's. I sit through three hours of blaring Hindi music, tourists gobbling up the view of seagulls gobbling up potato crackers, and land at the barnacled jetty that leads to the smelly, crowded bazaar where they hang giant dried fish dipped in DDT. I bear it all, just as I bore the 16 hours journey to Cox's Bazar as a child. Because right behind the ugliness of commercialised tourism there lays an untouched blue. Just another hour and I would be at the southern-most tip of the island.
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The far end of St Martin's island is the last stretch of beach that has yet to see the tourism that destroyed Cox's Bazar, due to its remoteness. Here, all is quiet and you can hear a soft wind rustling through the keya groves, and you can curl up with a book on the beach without anyone passing by all day. Through the clear water you can still see bright green corals, anemones and tiny fish. With luck, you may catch the last of the baby green turtles wriggling out to water at dawn. At night, the crowns of waves glow electric green with phosphorescence.
But yet as you lap up the last sunlight of the day, at the back of your mind nudge the signboards that you saw on your way -- Proposed Site for Hotel. Even with so many start-up hotels and resorts, the essence of St Martin's is its loneliness. Somewhere out in the vastness of the Bay of Bengal, lies an island wrapped in loneliness, slowly sinking in its own waste. The waste of the thousands of inhabitants and tourists that is forced down into the soil to mix with the groundwater, killing the island that is the last foothold for not just travellers, but a whole ecosystem.
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