Moheshkhali through a foreigner's eyes
A stranger in a tea shop says I have a Bengali face. “How so,” I ask. “Foreigners usually have a fat face,” he says. “So, do I look sick then?” It didn't take long for Moheshkhali's locals to prove they're not shy.
A trip to the island readily accessible by speedboat from Cox's Bazar town won't leave the visitor feeling they're not a part of it.
It's advisable to walk in from the jetty to the start of the road before taking a rickshaw, for a better fare. Anywhere in Gorakghata town will be about twenty taka. I'm lucky. I find an honest driver. But as he rides others excitedly call out, “Hoto!” meaning “How much?” in their local Bangla. They're wondering how much overcharging has gone on, but when the driver calls back “one hundred taka!” they know he's criticising them.
“Ah, Bengalis!” says the honest driver, displeased. But he's Bengali too.
For anybody presumed to be without Bangla accommodations are made. “Good night!” one man calls out, remembering whatever English he can. It hardly matters that it's early afternoon.
Another man is busily buying roadside fish. He seems engrossed in the sale but the sight of an outsider is too tempting. “How is your country?” he asks. Should I take him literally? “Well, most of it is quite dry, desert in fact… Large parts are flat but in other areas there are mountains…” Or should I just say “Australia”, answering the “Which country are you from?” that he actually means?
At the Adinath Temple there's a fair going on and one college professor has been tasked with making loudspeaker announcements. I stop for a chat. As I walk away I hear a new announcement, “Thanks to our Australian friend who says he just ate jelabis!” It'd be difficult to feel more welcome!
In a local eatery I'm stunned. “Do you speak Bangla?” someone asked, a simple question but I'm lucky I caught it since it's uttered in what sounds like one long syllable! I'm not used to Chittagonian-style Bangla. “I speak a little Bangla,” I'm thinking, “But do you?”
To the outsider, Bangla in Moheshkhali sounds a bit like an electric saw unsure if it wants to cut a tree. It sounds choppy like the speedboat getting there that banged, wave to wave, across the channel. It sounds like chewing on gum. It sounds a bit Burmese.
“Chittagong dialect,” reads the District Gazetteer, “is almost unintelligible even to the people of neighbouring districts like Noakhali and Comilla. The most noticeable feature that strikes the stranger is the tendency of the people to slur over consonants, to clip syllables and to substitute aspirates for sibilants.” I think that's a more sophisticated way of saying the same as above.
By evening I find myself in Chandan's tea shop. He says he'll soon be married which is my queue to question him like a relative, though we've just met. “Is the girl from a good family? What's her qualification? What does her father do?” He returns from the counter with an invitation card in shiny gold. “This is the very first invitation I'm giving,” he says, and he's hoping for two hundred guests.
Meanwhile Jamal the betel seller over the road is concerned for my wellbeing. He gives his mobile number. “If you have any problem, you just call me!”
I ask if that also applies if I'm in Cox's Bazar and he says it does. “But what if I'm further away, like maybe in London or Tokyo? Should I call you then?” Bless him! He offers to shut up his betel shop and come to my rescue anywhere, worldwide, anytime!
In Moheshkhali, everybody's watching the foreigner, but I'm told I'm lucky. “A few years ago two foreign women came here,” I hear, “and a crowd of at least a hundred followed them as they walked along the road.”
About the jetty on the muddy shoreline are mudskippers basking, lounging and fighting for ground. Larger specimens are charging; forcing smaller ones back into the tide. As I'm boarding a speedboat to follow the tide to Cox's Bazar myself, I can only smile at the memories of friendliness and curiosity that the people of Moheshkhali have given me.
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