Lago Dulce

I have a friend who lives in Rangamati, a place he fondly refers to as Lago Dulce, or Sweet Lake. And I, always looking for a good excuse to leave Dhaka, spent last weekend there contemplating its sweetness.

Rangamati is a town in the Chittagong Hill Tracts. As the name implies, the CHT is a hilly area of Bangladesh. The only one, in fact. The stretch of rolling hills represents the natural topographical division between the Gangeatic delta that is Bangladesh and the more rugged terrain of Burma and the rest of South East Asia. Like many natural divisions, however, topography was not considered when drawing national borders and history has seen this section of hills, as well as the indigenous peoples that have long inhabited them, incorporated into Bangladesh. Not surprisingly, this led to an unhappy state of affairs.

It's difficult to get a neutral perspective on the history of conflict in the area. According to most sources, the Government began a settlement program in the CHT in 1979, offering indigenous land to Bengali settlers. From that point forward the story is one of violence, armed force and guerrilla resistance until 1997, when a peace accord was signed.

Its cultural and topographical distinctions make the CHT one of Bangladesh’s most popular tourist destinations. Its turbulent history also makes it one of Bangladesh’s most challenging tourist destinations. Visiting Rangamati requires a police permit, which is obtained by sending a fax to the District Commissioner and crossing your fingers that when you show up at the checkpoint they have received it. Luckily, friends in high places come in handy. Not only was I met at the Chittagong Airport by a party of three – driver, security escort and token English speaker – complete with a sign with my name on it, but when I arrived at the check point my mystery fax had miraculously found its way to the top of the small stack of papers on the desk of the military guard. I say finally, because what was meant to be a 2 hour journey ended up being a 3.5 hour drive through the city of Chittagong, along the Bay of Bengal and up the winding road into the hills. It was a surprisingly strange sensation to travel uphill…

At the beginning of the drive, while still in Chittagong, Bangladesh’s second largest city of 4 million, all three men in the car pointed in the same direction and turned towards me to say “Look at that!” I peered out at the traffic jam around us trying to figure out what was so interesting until finally I spotted the car with the woman in the driver’s seat. She was perhaps the fifth or sixth Bangladeshi woman I have seen driving in my 16 months here. I then told my companions that most women in Canada drive, to which they responded with an incredulous look, asking “Madam, you also driving??”

So where does this sweet lake come in, you ask? Well, in Rangamati, everywhere. Kaptai Lake, which was artificially created in 1963 by the construction of an electrical dam (generating power while simultaneously submerging vital agricultural land and displacing thousands of people), surrounds the town of Rangamati on all sides. I was impressed by the size of the lake when I first set eyes on it from the streets of Rangamati, but it wasn’t until I got out onto the lake in a boat that I fully grasped its expanse.

As with the taxi from Chittagong to Rangamati, the boat trip was quite the show. When foreigners are involved, Bangladeshis will go to inconceivable extremes to make things perfect(ly complicated). In this case, inconceivable extremes involved showing up at the dock to find eight people waiting: driver/chief organizer, colleague/assistant organizer, token English speaker from the previous day (who, it turns out, is the driver’s cousin), tour guide, three police escorts and a boat driver. We got on the boat with the latter five, settled onto benches that had been borrowed (permanently, I imagine) from various minivans and headed off into the lake.

It was a gorgeous day with an honest blue sky, not the false grey-brown-blue of Dhaka. After a couple of hours of putting across the wide stretch of lake, admiring the disappearing view of Rangamati town and the comings and goings of boats of various shapes, sizes and functions, we stopped at the lake’s most important tourist destination: a waterfall that, as luck would have it, only has water in the rainy season. Even dry, however, it was an interesting place to visit, if only to people watch. Domestic tourism in Bangladesh is a curious phenomenon. It usually involves very large groups decked out in their finest saris and suits having numerous cheesy photos taken. I’m always curious to observe how they enjoy themselves on these occasions and, of course, they are always curious to observe me. I can only guess what they thought when they saw me scrambling very unladylike up the hill behind my poor guide, also wearing a suit, who felt obliged to lead the way. I could have made it up twice as fast without him, but I appreciated his effort and respected the fact that social norms can be pushed only to a certain point.

After having a number of photos taken with random groups of tourists, we headed further down the lake to Shublong Bazaar, a small market town. In this case ‘town’ is an inflated word for a finger of land with stilted houses lining a few small lanes where the usual market wares are bargained over: vegetables, medicines, dried fish, textiles and endless unknowns. The fascinating market labyrinth occasionally broke open upon incredible lake views and was populated with the unique faces and colours of the Chakma people. Chakmas have a different demeanor than Bengalis, not to mention visibly different gender norms: not only were there women at the market buying and selling things (markets in Bangladesh are dominated entirely by men) but I also saw one lady smoking! Gasp!













After touring the market we stopped to see a few random caged animals that were housed outside a military area. Miniature ‘zoos’ are another staple of tourist destinations in Bangladesh. Granted, I imagine not many caged animals are too pleased with their state of affairs, but this Himalayan ‘Bear’ seemed particularly depressed…

We headed back towards Rangamati stopping at a small island village to visit some of the local families who were making and selling textiles. Then it was time for lunch at a hilltop restaurant with our guide and police escorts. They seemed very uncomfortable with the fact that we had invited them to eat with us, but managed to warm up to the idea after much insisting. Over rice and assorted accompaniments we had half Bangla, half English conversations about Bangladesh, our families and my celebrated appearance on TV last October. The youngest of the policemen, Rezaul, had incredible green eyes. A Bangladeshi with clear eyes is a sight that always takes my breath away. Like finding treasure. Rare, luminescent, beautiful.

On our way back to Rangamati we passed a small island whose every inch was covered in houses, and decided to check it out. We landed on its small patch of exposed shore and stepped out towards timid, skeptical faces. Eventually one woman came forward and invited us to see their village. We spent some time visiting its central lane of houses and discussing how their community of Hindu fishermen had been affected by the flooding last August. The children who had gathered to look at us were delightful, but some of them were obviously suffering from disease. We asked about basic facilities: education, water and sanitation. They had a small BRAC school that all the children attested to attending, a tube well with supposedly safe water, but no latrine. When we asked where they went the bathroom the woman simply smiled. Behind her sparkled the lake that was clearly their toilet. The Sweet Lake.

The sun began to set and we were forced to leave the island village we had befriended. As we boarded our boat, every single person on the island came out to say goodbye, and this time there were no timid faces, only smiles and vigorously waving hands. As we headed off into the sunset I looked back at the ridiculously small patch of land overflowing with houses, failing to comprehend the world.

Before reaching home we stopped one last time to visit a small Buddhist monastery where a recently deceased monk with moth balls up his nose was on display. A somewhat strange way to end the day, but that’s Bangladesh for you.

The next day I toured Rangamati by land, stopping to buy some gorgeous textiles and chat with friendly saleswomen. At one point I was laughing and having so much fun with two Chakma girls in one shop that I almost forgot where I was. Sadly, most of my encounters with women in Bangladesh are overshadowed with a repressive social and religious correctness that extinguishes the freedom I saw in those two girls.

The afternoon ended in a small shop with a box of juice, a 12-year-old boy who could not go to school because his father had died and, of course, stunning views of the Lago Dulce.


I’m now at home in Dhaka, watching the sunset over the lake in front of my apartment. A slum lines the shore on the far side and its residents travel back and forth on floats made out of garbage. Every morning and every evening I watch their big lives unfold in tiny little shacks that sit on a tiny little patch of land. As with the Lago Dulce of Rangamati, it is a view that is both beautiful and tragic. Bittersweet Lakes.