On the Road: Bangladesh

Addiction

Travel is a kind of drug. When you have it you're blindly content with the world. Everything becomes wonderful. Near euphoric. But it's not always possible to travel when we want, and the lack there of soon becomes a nagging itch in that one place your fingers won't reach. Many a night in darkness and in bed you'll wonder how you can manage it again. Or worse, time'll pass until you think the wanting and needing is behind you. Then one evening while channel surfing you catch a glimpse of a travel program and the two second image of a tropical beach is cause enough for an internal switch to flip. Just like that the flood gates come crashing open.

There's no way around it. Travel really is a drug. Once you start you're screwed.

Another problem is that with time the craving cannot be satisfied by just any trip. Thinking back to your visit to Thailand, it was good fun, but you realize that arriving there and traveling around was almost too easy--the accommodations, the transport, the tours, the English speaking people always around to help. All these years later your tastes have shifted. Places without a challenge no longer appeal. You need something more exotic, perhaps like India. Or better yet, Iran. Who cares that their government loathes the country you come from? Am I right? Okay, it's not that simple. Poor diplomatic relations make for a troublesome visa process. But if there's a will there's a way and you're 100% determined to go.You really have no choice in the matter. The addiction inside has become a tempest of raging, unfulfilled desires, one you could never hope to stand against.

The funny thing about this is I've heard Iran is a great country to visit. In fact, most off-the-beaten-track places are. So why do we stay away? Are we intimidated? Is it too much of a hassle to deal with the logistics? Or is it because people prefer to relax on their holiday in a place where they needn't do anything extreme? (I really shouldn't say extreme. The word has become trite and overused. It's meaning also differs from person to person.) Sorry to say I don't have the answers. I only know what drives me forward. And looking for something different I turned my eyes to Bangladesh. The country is unique like no other. It's the size of Wisconsin with 170 million people, has more flowing water than the entire European continent, is predominantly Muslim, and best of all, has remained largely untouched by mass tourism.

The map

First contact

I'd meant to come to Bangladesh back in December 2013. I'd even bought the plane ticket. But due to political issues within the country it didn't work out. Last year I planned another visit, then realized the trip would fall in the middle of the monsoon season. Off to Nepal I went instead. That was where I met Gatienne, a French NGO worker. We were both couchsurfing at the same house (sadly, the recent quake destroyed it: http://shimostar.blogspot.com/2015/05/support-my-friend.html). Gatienne had come on a visa run, and when she told me about her work in northern Bangladesh, I expressed my longstanding desire to go myself. "Contact me if you come," she said. Not one to dismiss the goodwill of others I followed her up on the invitation.

Gati--as I like to call her--met me at the airport right north of Dhaka. We then took an auto-rickshaw to an area called Banani. Gati's boss Marie-Jeanne let me stay at her house for a few nights. This proved to be a good thing because Banani was home to the foreign embassies, which also made it the richest, cleanest part of town. After dropping off my stuff, Gati and I rode another rickshaw to the New Market. Vendors sold all manner of goods, most notably printed materials and clothes. Because Bangladesh is the world's second largest clothing manufacturer a shirt that goes for $40 in Europe can be bought off the street for $3 or less. Much of this clothes is production overrun from nearby factories, but some items might be defective, so I checked everything before making a purchase. I hope what I got will last. I've already gone through several t-shirts while traveling. Other clothing I've lost. My half dozen pairs of black socks are now all gone. One by one they disappeared in various hostel rooms across Southeast Asia.

As it turns out, I'd arrived in Dhaka on a Friday, the Muslim sabbath. Most men were off to midday prayer at the local mosques. Their absence created the impression that the city wasn't very crowded, but by late afternoon, the masses had again swept through the streets like an army of single-minded ants, filling in all the nooks, crannies and gaps. This was in fact the norm, and most astounding of all, the traffic had become outright chaotic. In Dhaka it was citywide gridlock from 9am to 9pm. Bicycle rickshaws were the choice mode of transport. They also served as a good alternative to buses and motor taxis which could take an hour to cover 10km. Still, in spite of the frenetic movement of vehicles and people, I found the look and feel of Dhaka enchanting. It was completely different than anything I'd yet seen on my trip. Walking along through the crowds, I took a deep breath and centered myself for the one month of travel ahead.

College couple

New Market

Rickshaw

Jamuna Future Mall

Shoe vendors

Clothes for sale

A Bit of History

It began 150 years ago. A huge revolt in India forced the British government to take direct control of their colony from the British East India Co. leading to the British Raj era. In the time that followed the British authorities favored Hindu's over Muslims, awarding them positions in business and administration. Due to India's capacity for cash crops and textile production, the colony was highly profitable, but after World War II the British were no longer in a position to maintain it. At this point they started planning an exit strategy. It was a turbulent time to live in the subcontinent. Gandhi and his supporters wanted a united India whereas the Muslims pushed for a separate Islamic state that would be free of Hindu influence. The British eventually partitioned the colony in 1947, creating Hindu dominant India and Muslim dominant Pakistan. As it so happened, the newly established country of Pakistan included modern day Bangladesh, the two halves split with India between them.

From the start things were bloody. There was religious overlap in the two new countries, and millions fled from one side to the other, facing persecution along the way. Moreover, the Muslims in Bangladesh (a region then known as East Pakistan) were not pleased with the outcome of the partition. They'd wanted a country of their own and saw little in common with West Pakistan apart from a shared religion. To make matters worse West Pakistan tried to exert cultural control over the Bangladeshi people. This included forcing them to speak Urdu in place of Bengali. Riots began in Dhaka as a result, students were massacred, and the seeds of rebellion were born. In the aftermath of the riots Pakistan shifted its government from a democracy to a military state.

Later, in 1970 a terrible cyclone struck killing half a million people in Bangladesh. The Pakistani government did little to help. Unwilling to stand for it any longer, a Bangladeshi politician named Sheikh Mujibur headed a push to give Bangladesh a stronger voice in Pakistan's governance. The West Pakistani controlled police saw Mujibur as a threat and eventually arrested him. Social unrest then broke out across the country. West Pakistan responded by sending in military force. They in large part blamed the Hindus for the situation, claiming them to be subversive intellectuals, and directed their anger towards the small population still left in the country. Human slaughter followed and in this chaos Bangladeshi people of every type fell victim. Facing a growing atmosphere of rebellion, the Pakistani government released Mujibur to appease the masses. The politician went on to rally voters, yet in spite of gains made through legitimate elections, his party was denied by the government. That was the final straw. General Zia, leader of the newly established Freedom Fighters, declared a full-fledged liberation movement. West Pakistan had no choice but to send in more soldiers. At the beginning Bangladesh's Freedom Fighters were no match for them. India then sided with Bangladesh providing weapons and training. This led to friction with West Pakistan, and open conflict erupted between the two countries. After a quick series of victories, India overwhelmed West Pakistan and following the latter's surrender, Bangladesh emerged as a new nation in1971.

So if anyone has wondered why there is so much hatred between India and Pakistan this is one of the reasons. It also didn't help that the British were not clear in their partitioning of certain regions, causing India and Pakistan to both claim them (the Kashmir being an example). As for Bangladesh, the decades that came after independence were not kind to the country. Widespread famine and natural disasters continued. Then in 1975 the liberator turned president, Sheikh Mujibur, was assassinated at his home. A series of corrupt military juntas followed. Then in 1978, General Zia took control and actually did some good for the country. He improved foreign relations, bringing in much needed aid, and also ended martial law. The country returned to something resembling a democracy. But a few years later he too was assassinated. Now two women--the surviving daughter of Mujibur and the still living wife of Zia--vie for control of the country. The first, Sheikh Hasina, is the current prime minister. In an attempt to change things, the pro-Zia opposition is prone to going on strike, causing so-called hartals that bring everything in the country to a standstill. The hartals are particularly common around election time, and they were what prevented me from first visiting the country.

It's a shame Bangladesh has suffered a difficult past marred by corruption and instability. This poor track record discourages foreign companies from investing in the country, because the last thing any business wants is for political problems to undermine its overseas profits. On the upside, the lack of Western influence has left Bangladesh in an interesting situation. Globalization has only slowly slipped into the country. For example, there aren't many of the supermarket and fast food/retail chains now popping up elsewhere in Asia. And aside from certain industries such as large-scale textile manufacturing and banking, the businesses in the Bangladesh mostly operate on a local level. So it's a lot of family run shops for now. But who knows what the future holds.

Statue of Sheik Mujibur

Mujibur's great speech

Prime Minister Sheik Hasina

President Zia's Tomb

Syfur

A Japanese friend of mine had been to Bangladesh years ago, and he later introduced me to Syfur, a man he'd met during the visit. Syfur was one of the upper class members of Dhaka society. His family operated a garment factory with 200 workers. They also had two cars, drivers, a personal cook and many other luxuries unknown to most Bangladeshis. Yet in spite of his status, Syfur was a kind, down to earth guy who treated others with respect regardless of their background. He also set aside time to show me and Gati around Dhaka. We first went to the Old Quarter in his car. The narrow streets were so congested it was better to get out and walk, and in the chaotic mess of the weekday afternoon the people were far too busy too heed us much attention. We continued on to the equally busy waterfront, seeing the Lalbagh Fort and Ahsan Manzil Palace along the way. Then Syfur treated us to biryani for a late lunch. The food was a type of fried rice mixed with spiced meat, and I washed it down with a strong ginger lassi, a drink that was supposedly good for digestion.

Dhaka was not always the capital of the region. Before the Mughal conquest of the 17th century, the previous Hindu kingdom maintained its seat of power in Sonargaon. For our second day together, Syfur took us some 20km southeast of Dhaka to tour the area. Bangladesh is a land without stone, and its buildings were traditionally constructed from brick and wood, materials that did not hold up well in the wet, humid climate. So most the remnants of Hindu rule have vanished. In Sonargaon the historical sites came from a more modern era, principally the palaces of the Mughals and several mansions abandoned by Hindu merchants during the British partitioning of India. The mansions were the most impressive to see. Their architecture followed the Victorian style with lavishly colonnaded facades standing three, four stories high. They had fallen into disrepair over the decades but still retained a certain charm, and local villagers came to the area to sell fruit or simply to relax in the shade on a hot day.

Syfur was very hospitable to both Gati and I during our time in Dhaka. Anything we wanted, he provided while refusing to let us pay for anything. For example, he knew a good bar. Bangladesh has few places that serve alcohol, but Syfur took us this high-end local joint with dim blue lighting. After we drank a few cans of Heineken, he again insisted on getting the bill. As If that weren't enough, he'd also given us each a dozen t-shirts fresh off his factory's production line. This really was overwhelming, but I'd later realize, it wasn't only Syfur who extended such kindness. It was the Bangladeshi people in general. No matter their social standing, the Bangladeshis wanted to give a favorable impression of their country, and the forwardness they displayed was both genuine and good-hearted. Granted, there were also a few locals trying to hustle for a bit cash, but I'd expected as much in the densely packed country. Otherwise, it was all smiles and friendliness wherever I went.

Old Dhaka 

On the river

Boat taxi

Ahsan Manzil Palace

Local girl

Sonargaon mansion street

Syfur, Gati and me

Garment Industry

The Bangladeshi people have a long history of textile production, so much so that it's now ingrained in their blood. The women in particular possess dexterous hands which are ideal for stitching and clothes making. Syfur told me this and other interesting facts during our time together. He said the skill of the locals gives garments from Bangladesh an advantage over those made elsewhere. It doesn't hurt either that labor costs are still very low. The situation used to be same in China, but as the country develops wages have increased. China is now unable to compete with Bangladesh and they are phasing out much of their clothing production. It is expected that Bangladesh will overtake them in volume in a few years to become the world's largest clothing producer.

As I've written before, Bangladesh is the land of rivers. Water flows wide and plentiful, and the resource is put to good use in the garment industry. It's not so much the quantity as the quality that makes the difference because some levels of purity are perfect for dying fabric. The country is also close to Singapore, a free trade port from which the garments make their way around the globe. Syfur often went to the city for business. Most of his buyers came from Europe and at the time of my visit demand had already exceeded the production capacity of his factory. Rather than invest in expanding his facility Syfur decided he would outsource his orders and conduct management consulting for his associates. This will reduce his overall work hours and allow him to spend more time with his family. He also plans to travel to Europe sometime next year to fulfill a longtime dream of backpacking the region.

Since Syfur was working in the industry, I asked if it would be possible to tour a garment factory in Dhaka. He thought it an unusual request from a tourist, but agreed all the same, and we went to a nearby site operated by his brother-in-law's family. The factory was five floors and had about 600 workers. We started the tour on the ground floor. One team of employees checked new fabric after it had been dyed, before passing the rolls on to the cut master. The cut master was the most important person in the production process. He cut the fabric into the pieces that would become each item. After that the pieces were taken upstairs where another group of employees sewed them together. The sewing was done in assembly line fashion. One person did one part then passed it not to the next person, and to the next, until a garment was complete. The clothes proceeded to quality control, where yet another team inspected them for defects. If they passed inspection, the clothes were ironed, folded and packaged. Outside the factory in an adjacent facility workers did the the dying and chemical treatment. There was also a warehouse for the cotton yarn that became the fabric, and another warehouse held completed orders waiting to be shipped out.

It took less than an hour to see everything. Once finished we went to the office and sat down with the factory owner. He was the father of the brother-in-law, a soft spoken man in his late forties. We talked about the industry and how it will grow in the future. The demand is there of course, but overseas buyers are putting pressure on producers to keep prices low while maintaining high quality output. At the same time the international community wants the facilities to improve workers' rights and safety standards. Only two years ago a terrible factory collapse claimed the lives of 1,100+ employees in Dhaka. The building owner had known the collapse was eminent but still forced the people to go to work. He was later tried and convicted of murder earlier this month. Another 41 people were charged for their involvement in the incident and the courts are now going after the building architect, local inspectors and legislators. This case has set a precedent to show the world that Bangladesh will not tolerate negligence that puts workers lives at risk.

I should make it clear that in spite of some issues in the industry, the factory I toured was no sweat shop. The facilities were clean, fire extinguishers and evacuation routes were everywhere, fans circulated air, and the top floor had a room for Muslim prayer time. The employees also received a break for lunch. But not all was perfect. The owner told me a problem the factory faces is the prevention of longterm illness among its employees. These illnesses come from how chemically treated fabrics release fibers and nanoparticles into the air. If inhaled over a long period they are detrimental to the body. To stop this, the facilities would to need improve ventilation systems and regularly supply employees with masks, which in turn would make production more costly. So they don't because increased prices would drive away buyers. Instead the factory management informs employees of the risks and advises them to buy their own masks, and moreover, to work in the industry for only a few years and then move on.

Factory

Sewing floor

Samples for buyers

Owner

NGO Worker

In the northern town of Kurigram, not too far from the Indian border, Gati worked for an NGO called Terre des hommes. I went with her from Dhaka, and after arriving, I accompanied Gati into the field. It was during the early summer harvest. The villagers threshed rice by beating the stalks against tables, then placed the leftover hay on the road to dry. But where we went, many of the farmers had taken time from their duties to watch a presentation. A local manager was explaining how to maintain a keyhole garden. This was Gati's project at the time. She'd had school children build the gardens in their villages. The result was basically a circular pile of earth surrounded by a fence with another smaller fence in the middle for compost. As opposed to the fields that were outside the village, the garden provided a nearby source of food, and could be looked after easier. The children who had made it would also help tend it, and their involvement empowered them within their community which was one of the project objectives.

Another project Gati worked on was nutritional awareness. She organized presentations that taught mothers how to prepare better meals for their children. This tied into the keyhole garden project. With one in the village, the women could now grow some of the ingredients. Another matter was diagnosing children who suffered from malnutrition. Once they identified a case, a nearby clinic provided the needed treatment. Gati and I went in one afternoon to meet the lead doctor. He was a white bearded, affable gentleman who reminded me a bit of Sean Connery. For decades Dr. Hazam had worked across the Islamic world but was now content to save lives in the Kurigram community. I followed him as he made his rounds checking up on the wards. The children's mothers also stayed at the hospital and they were shy village types. As Muslims they were also unaccustomed to talking to strangers, especially men. But since Gati was a woman they received her warmly. Gati's Bengali skills made it possible for her to reciprocate as well.

Gati did most of her work at the office of her NGO guesthouse. I stayed at the same place, taking one of the available rooms for a few nights. Interestingly, Gati was the only foreign staff member on site. The others were locals, many of whom could not speak English. The manager Rafik did speak rather well though. He was the longest serving staff member and had been with the NGO for close to 40 years. Whatever the meal, Rafik saw to it that plenty of food was prepared for guests--curries, fried vegetables, lentil soup and other platters of sizable volume. I could have eaten with utensils but I preferred to use my right hand. When in Rome, I always say. Anyhow, It was quite a challenge. For example, tearing roti bread into pieces one handed was something I couldn't figure out at first. I had to watch others and copy them. Traditionally, the left hand was reserved for wiping one's ass after shitting. For this reason people in Bangladesh don't use it to handle food or pass items.

The NGO complex also had a school for kids. Since I'm a teacher I asked if I could do a class and the principal talked to the teachers on my behalf. I went in with my iPad. After a self-introduction I showed pictures of my travels. Bangladesh is hot and green, and I wanted introduce the students to places that differed greatly such as Japan in wintertime, or the expansive deserts of the US Southwest. The kids listened intently with smiles on their faces. I was unsure though of how much English they understood. Next, I had them practice speaking. On the chalkboard I wrote out a few simple lines that served as a self introduction. They listened and repeated, then practiced in pairs. Finally I had a few volunteers come present in front to of the class. They weren't shy about speaking, and by the end of class, I felt my impromptu lesson had gone rather well.

NGO beneficiaries

Local village

Guesthouse meal

Keyhole garden

Countryside scene

Picking roots 

Forever a teacher

Anonymity

It was clear from the start that Gati attracted attention. In Dhaka this wasn't too much of a problem because foreigners were not so rare a sight in the big city. In the countryside however, a white person drew crowds. The children were the most curious. They formed a group behind wherever Gati went and I could tell she felt awkward being followed and stared at. Not able to do a thing about it, she greeted the people and smiled kindly. I really admired her. As a white-skinned, blonde-haired European, Gati stuck out like a giraffe trotting alongside a herd of horses. Bideshi the locals called her (a word which meant "foreign person"). Being a woman also complicated matters for Gati. It meant men sometimes harassed her with offensive remarks. Yet Gati didn't complain much. She had a job to do in Bangladesh and she would not allow anything to discourage her from staying in the country. I often gave her praise in this regard. But she didn't care for that either. Gati possessed a good measure of modesty, determination, and kindness--fine qualities nicely bundled into human form.

As for me, I blended in rather well in Bangladesh. My Hispanic face, brown eyes, and travel darkened skin made look somewhat like a local. A few adjustments to my clothing helped as well. For example, Bangladeshi men did not wear shorts. They used a traditional type of waist skirt called a lungi, or they simply put on pants. Their accessories differed as well--no sunglasses or wrist bands or piercings. Another thing I never saw was anyone with a fancy DSLR camera. This gave me away most the time. The moment I removed my Nikon D600 from its bag, people around me took notice. They'd then come up and say something in Bengali, at which point I had to profess I didn't understand. And so the illusion of my localness vanished leaving me exposed to the curiosity of those around me. I felt quite awkward in this situation. But unlike Gati I couldn't talk to the locals in their language. This became a problem because clearly they wanted to know about me, like where I was from and what I was doing in Bangladesh. If I was lucky someone spoke English which made things easier. Moreover, I was able to pick up some essential Bengali phrases as time went on.

If I didn't take pictures and kept my mouth shut, it was surprising how long I could pass for a local. My success depended on two factors--confidence and the ability to adapt. The second was the most difficult, so I closely observed the people around me and behaved accordingly. For example, when I wanted fruit (I arrived in time for lychee season and God were they amazing), I'd wait until someone else bought a bunch, then go up, point to another ripe bunch and hand over the same amount of cash. In this way no one suspected I was a foreigner. Of course it did not always work. Maybe the vendor would say something in Bengali, like "Do you want a bag?" Not understanding, I'd nod "yes," which was fine. But if the question was "Do you have smaller money?" then I'd stand there like an idiot, saying that I did, but not doing anything about it. Worse was on the bus when the ticket guy came down the isle. If I paid the wrong fare and couldn't figure it out, I had to resort to English. After I'd become exposed in this manner, I'd be stuck in my seat with the surrounding passengers now staring at me shocked that a bideshi had been hiding in their midst.

On one such occasion a young guy explained in broken English that he'd known of my bideshi-ness from the start based on certain tell-tale signs in my appearance. He was also very pleased to meet me. The man proceeded to ask tons of questions, and normally I'd have been fine with this, but in his excitement he started shouting which caused even more heads to turn. Later, when I got off the bus I wished it was more obvious that I was a foreigner. At least that way I wouldn't be deceiving anyone, nor would I have to deal with the reactions of others once they realized I wasn't one of their own. Perhaps most frustrating was how I'd become reluctant to use my camera. After all, it's one of my favorite things in life, capturing the beauty of a far off land, and in Bangladesh incredible things leapt into view at every turn.

Gati and company

World Heritage

Bangladesh has three UNESCO World Heritage sites. It had never been my intention to see them, but since the country was so small, I didn't have to go to much trouble. The first was in the north. After I left Kurigram I went to the city of Bogra and then to the town of Paharpur. In a village area off the main road an oddly colored red and green pyramid rose upward toward a cloudy sky. The red was from the brick used to build the long abandoned Buddhist monastery. As for the green, that came from the grass which had since covered certain parts. I took out my camera and circled around, snapping shots from every angle. I would have liked to also visit the nearby museum but it was closed. So I left, and following two stuffy bus rides, was back in Bogra.

The second World Heritage site was more than a single monument. It happened to be a collection of mosques in the once important town of Bagerhat. The biggest draw was the 77 domed mosque, Shat Gambooj, an outstanding example of pre-Mughal Muslim architecture. Unlike elsewhere in the subcontinent, the rulers of old didn't have stones to use in Bangladesh, so this mosque they'd made of brick. Because the building was on the back of the twenty taka currency note, I'd been looking forward to seeing it. My expectations set me up for disappointment. The mosque was under restoration when I arrived. Scaffolding and tarp covered most the building, and no matter the angle, the look was spoiled. Oh well, I thought. There were still two other mosques nearby. Slinging my camera bag over my shoulder, I moved on, following my map to an adjacent village. I arrived shortly at the first mosque. It was a single-domed block completely surrounded by thatched houses and banana trees. Some villagers took notice of my presence. "Hi," I said with a wave. We chatted as best we could and then I left for the other mosque. This one stood right smack in the middle of flooded rice fields. Some local boys posed beside it while I took pictures. Then it was back to the main road. From there I caught a bicycle rickshaw to a second religious complex. As I walked up to the first building, a local approached me and offered to become my guide. His name was Abdul Jalil. The old man immediately struck me as odd. He wore a NY Yankees cap and white robe, and though he didn't seem like a devout Muslim, he told me he'd taken an Islamic vow of poverty a few months prior. Before that, he'd once manned cargo boats in the port of Mongla to the south. That was how Abdul Jalil had learned English. After years of working alongside sailors from around the world he spoke it better than most. And the way he put it, he preferred the company of "no bullshit" foreigners to that of Bangladeshi people. This feeling however, did not extend to the Chinese. "They eat dogs," he later remarked, disgust clearly written across his bearded face.

Once Abdul Jalil had finished showing me around the area, we went to a restaurant where I ordered us plates of chicken curry with rice. I got a bottle of mineral water to go with the meal. Abdul Jalil had a bottle of his own. It was filled with yellow water from a nearby pond. He claimed to never get sick from drinking it. I had my doubts. Anyhow, after we ate the time came to say goodbye. I boarded a bus and returned to my hotel in Khulna. The next day, it was also from Khulna that I went to the most famed of Bangladesh's World Heritage Site--the Sundarbans. This last visit was without a doubt the oddest of the three. I first rode a bus to Mongla, and following Abdul Jalil's advice, hired a boatman from a local jetty. This time my destination was not some old building or ruins. Instead, we were traveling downriver to the largest littoral mangrove forest in the world. I could have paid to go through the labyrinthine rivers that carved up the national park but opted to visit only the Karamjal Forest Station at the mangrove's northern edge. Once we docked, my guide took me along a wooden walkway that penetrated the station's interior. It lead to a tower, and from the top, an endless stretch of lush, green vegetation swallowed up the southern horizon. When we later returned to the boat, I spotted some monkeys along the way. What I'd hoped to see was a Royal Bengal tiger. According to the station officials, the tigers still sometimes made an appearance in the area. But not for me unfortunately.

None of what had happened in the Sundarbans was remarkably interesting. The real excitement took place on the return trip. Along the western bank of the river sat the occasional village and one in particular occupied an island. The boatman asked if I wanted to stop for a closer look. "Sure," I said, readying my camera for some shots of the thatched huts and fisherman in the water. We got off and the boatman introduced me to a man he said was his brother. They took me to one hut that doubled as a shop. I had a soda and talked with some of the locals. The place seemed innocent enough, at least until we went to the next hut. Inside, a young woman soon offered me sex in a very forward way. She was of course a prostitute, and after I declined, she sat beside me and reached for my manly parts. What she grabbed instead was the money belt concealed beneath my shorts. A bit taken back by all this, I asked why there was a prostitute on the island. The boatman said the island had many such prostitutes, and they were there for the tourists who visited the Sundarbans. Out of curiosity I next asked how much for their services. 500 taka the boatman's brother replied (about $6.50). That was most certainly the bideshi price but still cheap compared to elsewhere. Not that I would know for sure. Prostitution is a sad affair. But these women are people all the same and in that sense deserving of a bit of dignity. So I made my small talk, got them to laugh with my random Bengali phrases, then asked to go back to Mongla. As the boatman started up the engine I eyed the island one last time. Naked children played on the riverbank while dark-skinned fishermen cast blue nets into the shallows. An island of whores, I thought. But by the look of it, how was I to know?

Buddhist monastery

Store proprietor

Scaffolding

Inside the mosque

In the village

Mangrove forest

Weary monkey

Island of whores

Flat Land

If there is one thing to describe Bangladesh, it's the land. Never had I been to a place where the way of life was so intrinsically tied to it. Where do I even begin? Well, Bangladesh has the highest population density of any country which is not a city (Singapore, Luxembourg, etc.). 90% flat and with ample sources of water at every stretch, the place is perfect for cultivating food. I took buses to most corners of the country during my stay, and on the major roadways that branched out from the big cities, the buses would pass a town about every 10km. Between these towns was an endless network of dirt roads feeding into villages separated by farmland. I don't think I've seen so many rice fields in my life (which is saying something because I've spent the last ten years in Asia). What's more, I saw no tractors. And only rarely did I spot a threshing machine. So the farmers of Bangladesh had to bust their asses the hard way, toiling season after season beneath a sweltering sun. Then following harvest time, they took their surplus crops to the market, and that income was what they lived off.

The flatness of the land also made Bangladesh very susceptible to flooding. Every year in June the monsoon season hit, the rivers swelled, and if a dike broke, tens of thousands drowned. This was more common in the south where the the countries two main rivers, the Jamuna and Padma, formed the largest delta on Earth. In recent decades the government has expanded the dike system to better control the flow of water, but at the same time the country is dependent on the seasonal flooding. It brings in silt which becomes fertile soil for farming. Moreover, the silt forms islands called chars. Many appear and disappear in different places, and impoverished river gypsies occupy the islands until the floods wash them away. The chars are also a source of the fine quality of sand needed to mix cement. When I took a boat ride on the Jamuna River near Kurigram, I saw that men on a nearby char had gathered the sand into hundreds of sacks which they were transporting one by one to a waiting boat. Without the cement, the people of Bangladesh would be forced to build with only bricks. That said, there are still plenty of brick factories dotting the countryside. Each factory is a tall smokestack with an oven inside. Laborers make mud bricks with wooden lattices, then let them dry in the sun before putting them into the oven to be fired up. While most the finished bricks are used for construction, some end up on the side of the road where men hammer them to pieces. The small red rocks are then used as aggregate for paving roads. This may seem like a lot of trouble to obtain some rock chunks, but it's the only way in a country with little natural stone.

Now, for one more tidbit about Bangladesh. Because it has few hills the roads run level and are perfect for bicycle rickshaws. In Dhaka alone there are over half a million of them. The drivers adorn them with tin ornaments, streamers, and other colorful decorations. From what I'd heard, most were rentals that the drivers paid to use, and depending on the company, the seats and coverings followed a different design. Once outside of Dhaka though, while still ubiquitous, the rickshaws lost a bit of their elaborate stylings. I rode a few here and there, but I preferred auto-rickshaws. The choice I had was to either pay 20 cents or 80 cents, so why not pay the extra to get somewhere faster? This is what was so great about Bangladesh. Everything cost so damned little. A meal at a sit in restaurant went for between $1.00 to 1.50. Or at a cheap hotel, a single room with a private bathroom cost only $2.50 to 4.00 (If I wanted to splurge a bit I paid $7). With prices like these, I found I couldn't burn through my projected travel budget no matter how hard I tried.

Rice fields

River at sunset

Threshing rice

Tending a field

On the char

Brick factory

Rickshaws lined up

South and East

With the World Heritage sites of Bangladesh now out of the way, I drifted further south to Kuakata, a town with a long strip of sandy beach on the Indian Ocean. Walking to the shore, I was surprised to see there were large breaks in the water. So I went in and did some body surfing. The locals opted to ride the waves on rented inner tubes. From what I observed guys could go in bare chested, but the women had on the same clothing they'd used to walk over from the street. Wearing anything less would have offend Muslim sensibilities. Anyhow, in Kuakata I met a German and his Czech girlfriend. I was very excited because Alex and Daniella were the first other foreign tourists I'd talked to since arriving in Dhaka. The couple had been traveling for a year and said Bangladesh was what they had expected to experience the month before in India. "This is what India must have been like 20-30 years ago," added Alex. In a way he was right. Once mass tourism sets in, it changes a place, and India fell victim long ago. But not Bangladesh, not yet at least. Several locals approached us while we sat talking on the beach. They wanted a picture together. We stood out that much.

I left Kuakata for the hub city of Barisal a day ahead of the couple, and since I stayed a few nights we were able to meet a second time. We went to the loading docks and took a small boat opposite the water to a village. I lead Alex and Daniela onward, greeting the villagers, and in no time we had a group of about 50 people following us. We passed through to where the houses gave way to fields. For Alex and Daniella it was their first time to walk around the countryside. They smiled and took photos. Like elsewhere in the country, the locals were eager to pose for shots, and they gestured to our cameras before we even had a chance to turn them on. By now I also knew more of the Bengali language so I could better communicate. I told the villagers that photography was my hobby, and that I'd be in Bangladesh for a month. As the day drew to an end we found an old railway bridge and stopped to capture photos of the sun over the water. A few local boys jumped into the river from the bridge's metal struts. They wanted me to take pictures while some women kept asking questions I only half understood. Then a random guy walked up with a nugget of marijuana and offered to smoke it  with me. The whole time I was still trying to get the perfect photo of the sunset. Had Alex and Daniella not been there to distract most the group, I'd likely have been too swamped to take any pictures at all.

The following day Alex and Daniella went west to Khulna and I left by boat in the opposite direction. My ride on the river was a long one, and there was not much to see apart from the muddy flowing water and green farmland beyond. In time the river widened and on either side the shore became too distant to spot. On an on we went, bobbing over gentle waves, until the boat reached its final stop at a small port town. I then switched over to a bus that headed straight to Chittagong. A few days before I'd arranged to couchsurf with a local student named Shazzad. He lived with his family not too far from the city center. After arriving in Chittagong, one thing became very evident. The heat in the city was unbearably hot. Later, I'd read on the Internet that a heatwave had swept across South Asia (in neighboring India temperatures reached 48°C). It made sightseeing difficult. But we went to a few places near the waterfront. Unable to walk long distances we rode around mostly on auto-rickshaws. As Bangladesh's second largest city, Chittagong was a bit congested, though nothing compared to Dhaka. 

Not everything went well for me. First, I got a prickly heat rash on my chest, arms and thighs. It'd begun a few nights before in Barisal but grew much worse while I was in Chittagong. Some pills from a local pharmacy helped. I also showered 4 or 5 times a day. This cleared up most of the irritating bumps. Then, just as things were getting better, I came down with a bout of diarrhea. In Bangladesh it was an inevitability. When I told Shazzad's family, they gave me coconut water to drink, a local remedy for an upset stomach. I needed to take some diarrhea pills as well. But the problem persisted and I didn't have the energy to do much sightseeing. So I spent most my last day in Chittagong recovering in Shazzad's aunt's home. She was very kind and prepared me plenty of food. I could not eat much, but tried out of politeness. After all, Shazzad and his family had been very hospitable and I didn't want them to feel I was unappreciative. If only I hadn't become sick. The stay would have been a perfect one.

Kuakata beach

Barisal river crossing

Daniella

Over the railway bridge

Hindu neighborhood

Getting a shave

Chittagong

Mosque and pond

Shazzad and family

Tea Country

Bangladesh, as a country, is divided into five divisions. I now had only one more to visit. I said goodbye to Shazzad and took a night bus north to the city of Sylhet. Dark clouds dumped heavy rain onto the streets as we pulled into the bus stop. The refreshing weather was a welcome change but the downpour did not let up anytime soon. Undeterred, I checked into a hotel and then stepped outside to explore the city. According to my guidebook there was the tomb of the Muslim saint Hazrat Shah Jalal. Devout pilgrims had gathered at the site to pray, and the adjacent mosque was equally packed. However, no women were present. Very few mosques in Bangladesh allowed them inside because--as a local had once put it--a woman's place was at home. Afterwards, there wasn't much else to see to see in Sylhet, so the next day I left for Srimangal, one of the country's more touristed towns. Mind you, when I say touristed, I'm referring to domestic tourists.

Srimangal was famous for its tea estates. It began with the British. When they set up plantations across their many colonies, Bangladesh was not overlooked. The cool and wet region around Srimangal proved productive for growing, and though the low altitude of its terrain didn't produce high quality tea, the plantations endured into modern times. Alex and Daniella were also visiting the town at the same time. So we met yet again and rented three bicycles to see the area. From the main crossroads we rode into the countryside, much of which was carpeted in rolling green terraces. The tea was not yet ready to be picked and the plants had fresh leaves shooting up from their branch ends. These 'flushes' were best for tea making, and because the plants were pruned regularly they never grew past waist height (they can reach up to 16m otherwise). Then, along the way we encountered a fourth tourist named William. He was visiting from Taiwan and was happy to join us for the day, so onward we went through back roads. At one point we stopped at a small village to buy water. An older guy came to the shop and motioned for us to follow him. He lead us to his house where his wife gave us mango to eat. While there, we tried to fix a problem with one of the bikes. The handle bar column had come loose, but none of the villagers had the L-key tool to secure it back into place. In its poor state the bike was a pain in the ass to steer though still rideable, so we continued on to a lake, then returned to Srimangal, passing through rice fields along the way.

The following day Alex and Daniella headed north to India. William stayed until that evening and in the meantime we decided to visit nearby Lowacherra National Forest. The place was known for its tropical vegetation and wildlife. It cost us each $5 to enter, 20 times the entry fee for a local. With my face I probably would have gotten in for the cheap price had William not been there. They also wanted us to hire a guide on top of the entry fee, but we refused. As a result we became lost. After passing through a small tribal village with people who were Asiatic in appearance, we dropped down into a forest of rubber trees. Then we had to cut through a tea estate and circle around back into the park. Some of the villagers in the area had lemon orchards. I ate several and began to feel sick from the acidity. But I still trekked onward until we were again walking beneath thick green foliage. Whatever animals lived in the forest remained hidden, including the hoolock gibbon, the only ape in South Asia. I didn't care so much that we didn't see one. The hike was pleasant regardless.

Feeding pages

Tomb entry

Srimangal market street

Bananas for sale 

Tea estate

Eating mangos

Into the jungle

Final Observations

The Sylhet Division leg of my tour finished my visit of Bangladesh. After that I returned to the capital to take a flight to my next destination in India. So it was time to say goodbye, and I must admit, after backpacking through Southeast Asia for several months it was refreshing to travel a country with few foreign tourists. In this regard Bangladesh also managed to challenge me. For the first time I needed to rely on a Lonely Planet guide book, and even then I still asked several locals for help. The biggest problem was that nothing was written in English, not the street names, or prices, or many hotel signs. And in the case of transportation, there were transfers and multiple stops. I didn't always know where to go or when to get off. Yet the people assisted me as best they could. Often they could see it in my face that I was unsure of something and came to me without my saying a word. It was very unusual the level of their forwardness. In most places around the world a tourist really must make an effort to talk to locals. But in Bangladesh it was the opposite. I had to go out of my way to avoid them, because once it became clear I was a tourist, random strangers said hello and made an attempt at some kind of conversation.

At any rate, what I'm getting at here is the difficulty of traveling in a place where there aren't likeminded foreigners. Say it were Australia or another Western country, that would be okay. I could relate easily to the locals. But Bangladesh is different. As kind as the people were, it often became tiresome to converse with so many of them (Syfur, Shazzad and a few others being exceptions). One problem was the language barrier. Another was the wide gap in culture and thought. I shouldn't complain though. I was only visiting for a month and at the beginning I had Gati to talk with. I also met the European couple and William. And most importantly, I was finally getting to experience the wonderful country. I'd sound arrogant if I failed to point out how fortunate I'd been in this regard, because by contrast, Bangladeshi people don't have the money to travel. The facts speak for themselves. The average adult earns under $2,000 a year and a fourth of the population suffers from malnutrition. Then there's the corrupt government to deal with. It isn't an easy life for the majority.

From what I saw though, the people did not look miserable and destitute. To the contrary they seemed quite happy. In the city or the countryside there was a sense of community that is fading fast in the developed world. Sure it's been years since I lived in America, but people  had a tendency to stay indoors, jacked into the Internet and surrounded by their modern comforts.The same went for Japan. In Bangladesh people preferred to be outside where they could chat with neighbors. Everyone knew each other, and if a stranger came along they extend their hospitality freely. I also felt a certain gentleness and warmth that defined the Bangladeshi people. But I shouldn't draw too many conclusions based on my observations. Looks are sometimes deceiving. I also heard from more than one local that though Bangladeshis present themselves in a cheerful way, often there is sadness in their hearts, a product of the difficult path their society has laid before them.

Hmmm...I just don't know anything for sure. I mean, I've always felt happiness is the freedom to do what we want when we want. But not everyone really knows what they want let alone how to get it. And if life were that easy, it would probably lead us all down a spiral of excess and hedonism. Besides, the question at hand was never about individuals. I'm trying to make sense of a country as a whole. So in the case of Bangladesh is it truly possible to gauge how happy the people are? Again, I don't know. I only have a feeling to go by. But based on my feelings and a month's time spent in the country, I'd say yes, they are happy. And now I'm left wondering if there's not some important lesson to be learnt from this. In the past I've visited countries where people have so much and I didn't see the same smiles. I didn't hear the ever-present din of lively voices. I didn't sense the warmth. Why was that?

Smile on