Cox’s Bazar at the crossroads of beauty without design

The sea and the sand have no qualms against humans. Waves crash in, staining the dunes in their own rhythm, like an artist engrossed in its own creativity. The longest unbroken natural beach of Cox’s Bazar and its deep blue water offers beauty to the beholders, just like it does for any other littoral country with a similar shoreline. As someone who has travelled across the waters, Cox’s Bazar makes me reflect on nature’s ambivalence. During a recent visit, it also made me pause to reflect on the opportunities glimpsed but not quite taken.

Anyone who has visited coastal belts in Thailand and Indonesia will dial up a mental analogue and rue the absence of services and activities that could have made Cox’s Bazar even more attractive, particularly for foreign tourists. Think of places like Krabi or Bali, where similar topographies are carefully curated to maintain their local character but structured to welcome the world. The layering is well-designed with designated tourist zones, cultural districts, managed beachfronts, and planned activities. The infrastructure and layout in any popular tourist destination consider visitors’ expectations and are designed accordingly.

In contrast, Cox’s Bazar seems uncomposed. To be fair, there is a vibrant ecosystem comprising mostly local tourists. They travel in big numbers to clasp the setting sun in one camera shot, ride the beach motorcycle, opt for horse-riding or even paragliding, enjoy local food, and buy souvenirs to sponsor informal economies or small businesses. Corporate houses sponsor events that promote local tourism. This democratic access to leisure is no small feat. But the absence of zoning is telling. There have been attempts to do so without much success. The prying eyes, intrusion of privacy, and safety concerns have systematically discouraged international tourism. There is no promenade or night market that visitors can go to without risking personal safety. The cutthroat rates of public transport, the unstructured growth of tong shops, dirty pavements, incidents of attacks and muggings, and lack of public hygiene make you wonder if there is a reason why the sea is so indifferent about the people on the seashore.

The Marine Drive is arguably one of the most scenic coastal roads in South Asia. Thanks to our uniformed outfits, we have a road that has protected the shoreline. You see the future project signs and realise how some of these jobs have become personal. The signs will announce many welfare associations of groups or individuals connected to those who built the roads (according to the driver who took us from Inani Beach to Teknaf). Then there are the political goons or business tycoons who have taken over most of the beachfront property. To access the Marine Drive from the city, you have to negotiate a narrow stretch that remains underdeveloped, reportedly stalled by local political contestations, which has led to significant delays in improving transportation and access to the coastal areas. In the city, you see a five-star hotel just where the beach should be. These are symbolic of a broader infrastructural fault. Personal or group interests preceded the greater interest of people, leading to decisions that prioritise profit over community needs and environmental sustainability. The lack of imagination and sincerity has literally bottlenecked the growth of the location as a world-class tourist destination.

The place also remains filled with the silences that we carry within ourselves. On our way to Teknaf, we saw the site associated with the killing of a retired army officer. It is a sharp reminder of the fragility of law on the road. It is not simply a “spot” but an index of how quickly a destination’s narrative can shift from promise to caution. The red sign is a reminder of the informal economy of smuggling and the godfathers and their organised crime. The hills remain equally ambivalent. They have witnessed the troubles and pains of migrant communities who have relocated from the neighbouring country. The trail of the displaced Rohingya has scarred the hills. The deforestation linked to the Rohingya crisis has altered the ecological balance of the region in ways that are both immediate and long-term. Hills are stripped bare, and fragile slopes are exposed. These are not just environmental concerns but also tourism liabilities. For some time, donors arrived to share in our collective sighs. But as funding dried up or was diverted to other conflict zones, these people were left to their own devices to put pressure on our prized land. Many international visitors remain acutely sensitive to such signs of distress, which affects our tourism industry.

And yet, what strikes me most is not what is present, but what is absent. The place seems more about a visit to the sand and trying out local food. Where are the curated cultural spaces that tell the story of the coast and the shared heritage of maritime histories? Where are the thoughtfully designed activity zones: water sports with safety protocols, eco-trails, and guided cultural walks? Where are the upscale eateries that could showcase coastal cuisine with both authenticity and refinement? Yes, there are some attempts, but they are not good enough. Also, there seems to be an absence of tourists of different price ranges. Most South Asian countries benefit from backpackers. Somehow our modestly priced hotels do not match the services of similar types of hotels or hostels in Thailand or Indonesia.

Countries that earn most of their revenues from tourism have created an ecosystem: air, rail and road transport, local transport, nightlife, craftsmanship, promenades and marine drives, trekking, and activities like scuba diving, underwater swimming and turtle hatcheries. We plan these elements. Bali’s beach clubs coexist with temple rituals. Phuket’s night markets translate local culture into experience without entirely diluting it, showcasing traditional crafts, local cuisine, and cultural performances that reflect the region’s heritage. In both places, there is a conscious effort to maintain a narrative of place, of identity, even while scaling tourism.

There were previous attempts to brand Bangladesh and pitch Cox’s Bazar. But somehow we have relapsed. We are neither fully preserving local culture nor effectively packaging it for a global audience. The result is a kind of cultural thinning, where values are eroded informally without being meaningfully rearticulated, leading to a loss of identity and connection to heritage among the local population.

Nobody questions the potential of Cox’s Bazar. Clearly, it can compete with any of the top-class beaches elsewhere. For that, the administrators need to think beyond immediate, narrow interests. They need to plan access roads despite local pressures. They need to designate zones for overseas tourists and local tourists. Instead of the current practice of thinking of tourism as a seasonal surge, there should be infrastructural and ecological investment to make Cox’s Bazar a long-term national project.

The sea can maintain its rhyme and rhythm. But we, too, can create our own to benefit from it by developing sustainable tourism practices that respect the natural environment and promote year-round visitation.

Dr Shamsad Mortuza is vice-chancellor at the University of Liberal Arts Bangladesh (ULAB).

Views expressed in this article are the author's own. 

Follow The Daily Star Opinion on Facebook for the latest opinions, commentaries, and analyses by experts and professionals. To contribute your article or letter to The Daily Star Opinion, see our guidelines for submission.