I am your mother's father

Apparently "nana" in Bangla refers to your maternal grandfather hence my new role in life as your mother's father. Maybe now I'll get a little more respect. Maybe I'll benefit from a little cultural gerentocracy. But for now I'll have to make due with the fact that I was almost denied entry to a virtually uninhabited hill in Southeast Bangladesh because the army officer thought I had a fake passport. Why did he think I had a fake passport? Well, because the extreme age on my current passport is apparently not congruent with my childlike appearance. Little do they know that je viens de treinte ans shortly.

But that's beside the point. I was eventually allowed to enter this nether region of Bangladesh . . . with three police escorts. Apparently the natives, read Bangladesh's indigenous people, are not to be trusted. A few years back a few Danish tourists, perhaps a diplomat, and a fruity tour guide named Bablu, were kidnapped in the hills. This was an act to draw attention to the systematic marginalisation of indigenous people in Bangladesh. Since then, foreign tourists need government, read military, permission to enter the area. And, in the last couple of years, foreign tourists also must have a police escort for any foray outside of their hotel.


I managed to subvert the police by making forays into the hills at the crack of dawn. I should mention that the police are a bit lazy, well actually very lazy. It was a hiking trip and the police made it clear that they abhored walking, they found the heat unbearable, and they tired after half an hour. God help me if there was any serious threat to my safety because these oafs wouldn't be able to do a thing. In fact the only thing they were capable of is intimidating the tribes people.

Back to my forays into the hills . . . The locals were lovely: peaceful, warm and welcoming. I befriended a Tripura family who own a shop and tea house at the top of the hill close to my hotel. Then I befriended the extended family when they made a visit to the tea house and then the entire village of 15 families when I climbed down into the valley where they live. My point man for the Tripura was Thomas Tripura, a young guy with a young family. He invited me down to the village and talked to me about the Tripura people.


That's me donning a traditional Tripura cloth that was handwoven by one of the village women, whom I met. Sorry, no pics of the locals. I don't post recognizable faces without permission!

My tour guide, Lal Baum, is from, you guessed it, the Baum tribe. I visited several Baum villages, including Lal's village and Lal's home where I met mama Lal and Lal's little sister. The Baum people are known for their handwoven blankets of which I indulged. My favourite is the one made by mama Lal.



One of the points of contention between the Bangladeshi establishment and the tribal people is religion: Bangladeshi's are muslim and the tribal people are predominantly Christian or Buddhist. Another is land: the Chittagong Hill Tracts are sparsely populated with tribal people while the rest of Bangladesh is bursting at the seams. Let's not forget culture as a universally contentious issue: the tribal people have cultural ties to Myanmar, India and even Korea and the customs, dress and food are considerably different then Bengali culture.


A view from a Chakma Buddhist temple. Sadly I couldn't visit the Chakma people because I couldn't get permission to enter the area where they live. I was able to visit a Murong village where I was given a gift of fruit, the texture of papaya, the smell of guava and the taste somewhere in between. How amazing for people with so little to be so generous and for a people who are so marginalised and intimidated to be so welcoming to visitors.