Hurricane Sidr: The Phoenix people

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November 20
It was like the hump of a red whale. The morning sun shone brightly on Meher Ali Island. It looked almost like a tourist spot.

Hundreds of upended tree stumps–some as large in circumference as bulldozer tyres–make a curious sight of the landing beach. Blackened by years of sun, wind and water, the stumps look like markers for graves.

We land amidst dead fish and trod towards the bamboo houses, a little surprised how could these be still standing after the cyclone. The unmistakable smell of dried fish in the air. Fish hung from long bamboo lines. Dried fish piled on the ground and wooden platforms.

An old man in a white T-shirt with glasses approached us. An umbrella in his hand.

“You will not find what you are looking for,” the man smiled rows of teeth brown from chewing betel nut. “It was all gone, all flattened.”

We were amazed. All around two things tell us what had happened here on the night Sidr made its landfall here. Shredded trees, hays and dried fish strewn all around. But the thatched houses are all there. This only shows how simply these island people build their houses–just some bamboo poles for the pillars and reeds for the roof.

In the background, a long warehouse is being rebuilt. Workers are tying poles together, some are spreading the Hogla branches on the top.

“If you were hit that hard, how could there be any fish left?” we ask.

“Oh, what you see here is nothing,” the man said. He is the owner of this fish business–”Baharda Babu” as the workers call him. “I had 2,000 maunds of fish here. Now I have only 300. The rest has been washed away.”

And what is his loss? In his words, he had invested Tk 60 lakh on his trawlers, workers, boatmen and, of course, the infrastructure. And he must have lost at least half of his money. How will he manage it again? How will he keep the business going again? Where will he get the money?

“Debey. Onara debey [they will give us],” the Bahaddar said and again flashed his dull teeth. “If I can send the trawlers to the sea, fish will land here again.”

We were again amazed by his confidence. A man beginning from the scratches again and still had not lost his faith.

The “onaras” are businessmen from Khulna who bankroll the fishing business here. And they know the Bahaddar will live up to his words if he gets money. So, why worry?

The boatman strolled our way–a man as stout as a bull. He and five others were hired by the Bahaddar for Tk 1,00,000 each.

“I am waiting for the nets,” he said. “I want to go back to the sea as soon as we can find them.”

We see some people digging up the beach a little distance away. The nets brought by the waves are buried three to four feet beneath. The workers have already found the ropes and are tugging them.

A curious looking bamboo structure comes into view–a small house with a pointed roof in the middle of a courtyard. Crimson and cyan plastic flowers are placed in front of it. Somebody is tying up the fence. A temple. A place to worship the god for well-being.

When life begins anew, one must pray for his own soul.

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