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| The Kings Palace, Dhaka |
(More photos to come soon!)
Bangladesh is roughly twice the size, in area, of Tasmania.
The population of Bangladesh is well over 162 million, making it one of the most densely populated countries in the world. (It comes in 9th according to Wikipedia - behind tiny tiny countries like Monaco, Singapore and Hong Kong)
Well, here I am in Dhaka city, the capital of Bangladesh. I flew out of KL on a packed plane at 2.10pm, from the Low Cost Carrier Terminal (LCCT) of Kuala Lumpur International Airport (KLIA), arriving into Dhaka slightly behind schedule, at about 4.15 Dhaka time.
It was a fairly uneventful flight, taking just under 4 hours. After flying into and over Thai airspace, we broke west over Myanmar before entering Bangladeshi airspace. The view of Bangladesh from the plane was quite beautiful. Mountains with countless rivers carved into the landscape. No wonder Bangladesh suffers from flooding, there are literally hundreds of rivers visible from the air, working their way down through the hills into the sea. From the air I could quite easily identify the mouth of the Ganges leading into the Bay of Bengal. It looked just as it does on a map.
As we approached Dhaka city, I saw an increase in urban style dwellings, some farming areas as well. I then started to see a number of larger apartment buildings and we descended – that must be Dhaka city. I was wrong, because about 10 minutes later, the view from the plane suddenly changed from sporadic blocks of housing, to an immense, dense concentration of literally thousands of dilapidated, run down buildings, as far as the eye cold see. Probably between 4 and 8 storeys high, these apartment buildings completely filled the view, as far as the horizon. Geezuz. There are a lot of people here.Once on the tarmac, I waited for the eager Bangladeshi’s to disembark, taking my time to collect my bag and walk up the runway into the terminal. I made my way to the arrivals hall for baggage collection, stopping at the duty free for a look. Prices were in US dollars. I opted for a carton of ciggies, US$15. When I got to the counter, I offered a $100 bill – they didn’t have change for it. They asked what other currencies I had. Malaysian Ringgit I told them. No problem apparently.
Then came the price. 90RM. They were trying to stooge me. 90 Ringgit is about US$30 at the market rate – in an airport it's always going to be a slightly less favourable conversion.. Luckily I had done my homework, and wasn't going to be conned so easily. 50RM I told them.
No. So I walked. Then they came back with 70RM. Still too much. I said I’d take it for 60RM – otherwise no deal. They agreed. Really I should have been paying about 50RM for them. But 60RM was still slightly cheaper than Malaysia, and its was only about $3 more than the actual price, I could live with that. Who would have thought though, Duty Free where you have to haggle, or get ripped off. Never had that before.
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| A CNG |
Juel, the son of the owner of the guest house where I would stay was picking me up from the airport. Just as well, because no doubt the taxis would be equally dodgy. As I exited the baggage claim area, I saw my name and the guest house on a sign. My ride – great! Juel was a young man, probably mid 20's, and very nice indeed. He took me to his car and we got on the road bound for Green Guest House, which his mother owned, and ran, with his help. It was located in the Government district of Dhaka city, probably only 15 minutes from the airport, in good traffic. Which is extremely rare in Dhaka according to Juel. More often than not, a ride that should only take 30 minutes, can take 2 hours here.
There are somewhere somewhere in the region of 15-20 million people in Dhaka, and it shows. The sheer number of people is right in your face everywhere you turn, not to mention the density of housing, and then there's the traffic. Oh. My. God. I'll get to that shortly.
I take back everything I said about traffic in KL. Traffic here in Dhaka make the roads and drivers in KL seem orderly, studious and, well, sane. The roads here are utter mayhem. First you need to understand the types of vehicles found on the roads here. You have bicycles & rickshaws, CNG's (which are also know as Tuk-Tuk's in Thailand – 3 wheeled taxi's, open air, although here in Dhaka, you're locked in a cage essentially), then of course, cars, buses, trucks, carts and people.
On a 4 lane road, I counted 9 vehicles side-by-side. Drivers are constantly beeping their horns, not out of frustration, but usually to let people know they're coming through and to move out of their way.
We arrived at the house, and he guided my up to the 4th floor where I would be staying, before disappearing again to collect some Norwegians from the airport, who returning from a trek in the Sunderbans, in the west of Bangladesh, the area home to the Bengal Tiger.
I opened the door and was welcomed in by his mother, Maya. She handed me a fresh, ice cold pineapple juice and showed me to my room, as well as where the bathroom was, and other bits'n'pieces. A lovely lady too. Very welcoming. She was cooking up some dinner for myself, and a couple of other guests. I freshened up and and sat down at the table for dinner.
What fantastic food. Baked fish, some sort of prawn curry, yellow dal, and some mixed vegetables. It was all delicious, home made Bangla food. For dessert – chunks of some exquisite, juicy pineapple.
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| Lalbagh Fort, Dhaka |
There were a couple of others at the table, an ageing pom named Mike who was here on business frequently and had been staying at Maya's guest house on and off for years. He was involved in rural development here in Bangladesh. The other, a lady from the USA who had been living in Nepal for the last 4 years writing a book about the water infrastructure in India and Bangladesh.
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| Lalbagh Fort |
I had a fairly leisurely evening relaxing in my room. Later in the evening Juel returned and joined me on the balcony for a cigarette, before cracking open some scotch whiskey. It turned out Juel was 26, 5 years younger than me. It seemed as though her and his mother were very well off. The apartment they had was worth over 1 million Pounds Sterling. Maya seemed to have many friends who were diplomats and embassy officials, and nights out for Juel consisted of drinking dining with high-flying foreigners in Bangladesh, either on business, or again, with some sort of diplomatic status. The only places you can buy a drink in Dhaka are at the Westin Hotel, the Sheraton, and a couple of Private diplomatic clubs in the Gulshan area. Elsewhere, alcohol is not allowed, a rule that is strictly enforced. That said however, Juel went on to say that you can buy beer at some places, albeit at a fairly extravagant price (by Bangla standards), somewhere in the region of AUD$3 per can. Comparatively, a 500ml bottle of coke in Dhaka costs about 40 cents. And the locals rarely drink it because it's considered a luxury, and pricey.
I asked Juel some questions about costs to get into the centre of Dhaka, and safety as well as other details about what to expect. It turned out that while the day time is completely safe, except for being wary of pickpockets in crowded areas, which probably meant most places, one needed to be vigilant at night, particularly as a foreigner, and especially if using the ATM's, as muggings occur from time to time. I then bid him good night, and turned in.
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| Streets of old Dhaka |
I got up a little later than planned on Wednesday morning – around 9am. Had myself some breakfast which consisted of fresh fruit, toast, eggs, and plunger coffee.
I decided I would go for a walk around the area in which I was staying and then head into town, to Old Dhaka, the oldest part of the city. I set out down the quiet street where my guest house was situated. Down the end of the street I turned the corner, and wham, it was all on. Cars honking their horns, rickshaw dodging in and out of traffic, masses of people swarming the pavement. I just walked, not really knowing where I was going, as I had no map, and even if I did, all the street signage was in Bengali, so it wouldn't have helped much. I decided to take a rickshaw - “Old City” I told him – he nodded, I jumped aboard, and off we went. About 15 minutes later after taking a few quieter streets he stopped, and nodded at me. We were here. But where was here exactly. This wasn't Old Dhaka. Juel had said it would take 30 minutes by CNG, let alone rickshaw. I got out and gave him some money and decided that wherever I was, I'd just go for a wander again.
It was yet again a busy section of road. As I walked down the road I couldn't help but notice that many of the shops dotted along the street sold bumper bars. Custom, after-market bumpers.
As it turned out, I walked in a giant circle and by about 1pm, was almost back at the guest house, so I stopped in for a drink, and a quick rest. I asked Juel what I should tell the taxi driver to get to Old Dhaka, as Old Dhaka hadn't worked for me. He told me, 'Shakaria Bazar”. A famous bazar in the old part of of the city.
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| A typical bus in Dhaka |
At about 2.30 I decided I’d try old Dhaka again, bit CNG/Tuk tuk this time. I waved one down and tried my hand with “Shakaria Bazar”. The reply was “Bangla Bangla – inglis no”. I think he meant he only speaks Bangla. Bummer. As it turns out, few people do speak English, which was to make thing tougher for me. Finally one driver understood me, and could quote me a price in English too. 200 taka. Juel had said anywhere from 200-300 was the going rate, so I jumped in, and he locked me in my cage.
Well, I was totally unprepared for what turned out to be one of the scariest rides of my life. I don’t generally get overly frightened in vehicles, sometime a little nervous perhaps, but this was pretty damn close to terrifying in my mind. It was pedal to the metal whenever possible, navigating through traffic, cutting in front of trucks, buses hurtling down on the opposite side of the road towards us before a sudden cut across the traffic. Getting bumped from behind by other vehicles (ahhh, hence the bumper bar shops everywhere), squeezing through the gaps of buses converging from different lanes. These CNG's are best described a go-karts, with cages, that are driven more like dodgems. Everywhere you look, cars battered and bruised, broken tail lights, smashed bumpers, buses look like collages of scrap metal, replacing busted panels. It was fucking insane.
There was absolutely no sense of order here. The traffic was out of control. Driving down the opposite side of the roads at 40-50km/h swerving in between oncoming traffic was the norm. Turning right in front of buses, trucks, cars, rickshaw and the like, and watching slam on the breaks and screech to a halt in front of the wimpy little cage I was sitting in was intense. But normal it seemed. They have speed humps on main roads here too which is odd.
When stopped at traffic lights, swarms of homeless, disabled and deformed beggars surround the cars, almost like something out of a zombie movie. But it's devastating. One lady had one arm, and one leg, using a stick stuck under the stump of what would have been her upper arm to lean on. Another lady bared her teeth which almost made me sick, bloody dripping from her gums, half a set of teeth, another with a screaming baby in her arms. Another old woman with her two children kept yelling at me, asking for money no doubt, and then said something to her son, who proceeded to drop his pants and show me some sort of horrendous deformity, probably the size of a small rugby ball where his genitals were, or should have been. It was very confronting and disturbing. And they were relentlessly persistent. This really was the 3rd world. I'd seen poverty before, but not like this.
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| Colourfully decorated rickshaw |
At last, we reached our destination. Phew. It was quite a ride. I jumped out into massive crowds of people, which is where I discovered the next rather disconcerting aspect of Bangladesh. I'd noticed it a little bit when I went for my walk. But here amongst hoards of people is was quite uncomfortable. Everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at me. Some felt like harsh stares, others perhaps just curious. There were literally thousands and thousands of people around me, and I was the only caucasian to be seen. It was as if they'd never seen a foreigner before. Everywhere I walked, people stared. If I stopped to look around, they'd begin gathering around me and looking at me. Just standing there looking. As if I was an animal in a zoo. It took a bit of getting used to, but I kinda thought that this was going to be the norm for me here, and so I just had to deal with it. As I moved through the tiny, 4-ft wide streets of the old city, I came to realise that the oggling was mostly out of curiosity. And as I passed by shops and stalls, people who could speak English would call out to me to come and speak to them. And so I did. “What is your country” is the first question they all asked. “What you are Australia” was generally next in the line of questioning, which meant “What is your profession”. But it turned out that the Bengali were extremely friendly people. They were just curious and interested, little more. Nothing sinister. Sometime I'd walk past people and they'd laugh, no doubt at me, but probably out of the absurdity of a white man walking alone through the streets of Dhaka. Many kept looking at my shoes, which I later found out that they may have been surprised by me wearing shorts, since men here all wear long pants. Children seem to wear shorts though, and some men wear pants where they've cut off the bottom to make them ¾ pants.
I had my camera around my neck, and every stall that I stopped in at wanted their photo taken. And they were always absolutely chuffed that they'd had their photo taken.. It was quite odd, coming from a country where it wouldn't be unusual for someone to decline having their photo taken if asked. It was a mixture of feeling like and animal in a zoo, and being a celebrity. Nevertheless, it was definitely a little uncomfortable on my first outing, made worse by the sheer number of people gawking at me, but I got used to it, and if I just smiled, they'd nod and smile back.
You can't help but notice that it seems as though virtually no-one in Dhaka has ever had the pleasure of a decent meal. They are small, skinny wirey people for the most part, and many looked under-nourished, and as though it's been a hard life,which it probably has. I'm quite a giant comparably, which probably adds to the curiosity. Yet they are hard workers. Rickshaw riders carrying as many as 4 people on a heavy, steel framed bicycle and cart, punish their legs day in day out, for a wage of little more than AUD$90 per month – at best. Others pushing massive loads of sheet metal, or ceramics on wooden carts amongst the traffic, or carrying piles of fruit, or gas cylinders on their heads, and in 30+ degree heat. I wouldn't last a minute here. And I couldn't escape the thought that the camera dangling around my neck was worth more than most people here would make in a year, that 3 hours work for me was more than they made in a month. What the fuck?
It also made me more wary, the thought of my camera being worth their annual salary, and I became far more aware of what was happening around me, as a precaution more than anything else. But at no point did I feel in danger or threatened, as I said, the people were ever so friendly. And as hard as their lives might have been, many of them seemed happy. Not all of course, but most people were smiling and laughing with one another, and were ever so animated when I spoke to them, shaking my hand and saying thank-you in English, and some even rattling away in Bangla.
The beggars/homeless were saddening though. I genuinely felt bad when I had to tell them “no” when they asked for money. But the reality was, if I gave money to one of them, the chances are I'd be mobbed by the rest of them, expecting the same. The deformed and disabled were the hardest to turn down, and so I just had to put my head down and keep moving. It may sound mean of me, what's 30 cents to me? But if you saw how many there were, you'd understand. I later had a conversation about it with a local that spoke a bit more English than most, and he had told me the same. If you give to one, they'll expect you to give to them all, and he strongly recommended against being charitable, as hard as it may be.
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| Life by the river in Dhaka |
I continued my walk through the streets and alleys of the old city. Tiny, narrow paths between 4 storey buildings, lined with shops selling fruit, garments, mobile phones, ceramics, steel, furniture, all sorts of things. I eventually stumbled across a moderately sized, pink palace, surrounded by high fences. On a corner was a man smoking a cigarette, and as I approached he said hello, in fairly intelligible English, and so I stopped and chatted. “Where are you from? He had asked, instead of “What is your country”. His name was Muman, and he worked in a clothing shop, selling fitted pants, and in a good month would take home AUD$100. Neatly dressed in a polo shirt, and no doubt some of his own fitted pants, and speaking fairly good English, he explained he had learnt his English working as a construction worker in Singapore 10 years earlier. He took me to the gates of the palace we were standing outside, but as it was now 5pm, it was closing. Instead, he would take me to the top of a nearby building to take a good photo of it. Afterwards, we went to his shop, in the same building. I wondered if he was going to push for a sale with me, to buy some pants. But he didn't. He introduced me to his co-workers, and once again, other began crowding around to get a glimpse of me, standing a few feet away and yep, just staring. I suppose that if those that stared could speak English, they'd have approached me to have a chat. Instead they garbled away to Muman in Bangla to find out more about me. A few wanted their photos, and of course I obliged. Muman said he was about to finish work, so if I waited 20 minutes he would take me down to Shakaria Bazar – which I'd never actually found, because I couldn't read any of the signs. He also warned that it would be getting dark soon, and that the old city is not the place for a foreigner to be, alone after dark.
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| Overloaded boat?? |
After he'd finished up we wandered through the bazar – not hugely different to the stalls and shops I’d be walking through already. It was after 6pm now, and night time was upon us. As we walked, a few beggars tagged along, all the while asking for money. The further we walked, the more people joined us and followed. Initially Mamun and his friend had managed to fend off a small number of people, but as we reached the end of the packed bazar, my so-called entourage had grown considerably, all trying to crowd around me. It was at this point that Mamun turned to me and “You should go now”. I felt the same way, it was getting a bit much, so many people in tow, all shouting Bangla at me. It all seemed friendly enough, and with some many people I was growing concerned about my pockets, even though my wallet was chained to me, and my hands in my pockets.
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| Bangladesh Parliament House |
We spilled out onto a main road, and the crowd dispersed somewhat as we moved hastily through some rickshaws to find a CNG to take me back home. I was absolutely shattered, it was a gruelling afternoon, and I hadn't eaten much, largely because I didn’t know where was decent to eat. Some places looked awfully dodgy, and hygiene here is lacking, to say the least.
Mamun hailed me a CNG – but with it being peak hour, the price was 300 taka. That's about $4.
I jumped in and prepared myself for another hair raising ride. To my surprise, it wasn't so bad. This driver was a little less aggressive than my first ride, and I also knew what to expect this time.
The ride however, in peak hour, took nearly an hour and a half – on the way into town it had taken about 40 minutes. The roads were packed. Traffic jam city. The worst part was the fumes. Most cars on the road here in Dhaka would be canaried in Australia. All trucks and buses billowed smoke out the back. And sitting in my open-air cage there were moments when all I would breath in were fumes. It was suffocating, and it made me light headed at times. How the CNG drivers could put up with this every day was beyond me. And probably reflected in the fairly short life expectancy for people in Bangladesh, in addition to many other factors no doubt.
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| The Brickfields |
Back at the guest house I sat down to a delicious home cooked meal once again. It was to be another night in. I wasn't overly comfortable setting out on my own at night, nor would I be able to get a beer anywhere, which is what I’d liked to have done. I could have gone to one of the fancy hotels, but it wasn't really what I had in mind. Instead I read up on Dhaka, about places to go and see. Mamun had given me his mobile number and said he was free on Friday, if I wanted to meet up. An offer I would probably take-up, since having a local show me around in Dhaka would be very helpful, since I couldn’t read the signs or speak the lingo. I had tried my hand a couple of times at a few words in Bangla, but they still couldn’t understand what I was saying.
Anyway I was very tired, Dhaka drains you, and I was happy enough to lie down in my room and read before having an early night, since I surely had another full-on day ahead.
Up early on Thursday – I wanted to get out and about, since the sun went down at just after 5pm. It was winter here after all, and a balmy 32 degrees outside.
I would head towards a place called Rangla Park. Not far from Dhaka University.
150 taka for the ride.
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| National Martyr Monument |
Rangla Park was very nice indeed. A world away from the hustle & bustle of the streets. Serene even. It was quiet, lush and green. I wandered through the park, to an adjoining park, which would lead me through to the university. I was headed there because there were a few sights to see around the University, one of which was the National Museum, which had been recommended to me.
Once again, as I strolled, passers-by would look and stare – but I felt more used to it, and it wasn't so bothersome. I passed a sort of lake, where locals were washing their clothes, and themselves. I continued on through the park over the road, before me I could see a road, set behind which were some gates. Dhaka University. I also wanted to find Curzon Hall – I'd read about it in the guide book. Apparently a rather beautiful building. I exited the park and crossed the street, and begun following the fence around the perimeter of the uni. It was massive. Not unlike La Trobe Uni in Bundoora back home. Posted up all over the fence were some posters in English! It was an ad for a play being performed by the School of Arts, about the Bangladeshi underworld.
I decided to have a look around the uni itself – thinking I might find some students studying English with whom I could have a chat. No luck. Just ogglers. I ended up getting lost in the grounds, it was a bit of a maze, before eventually finding my way back out onto the road outside, and just down the road was the National Museum. Perfect.
Or not. It was closed on Thursdays! Guess I should have checked that. So I kept on walking, stopping now & then to talk with eager locals wanting to know what my country is. I had been walking for ages, and hadn't even made it half way around the university perimeter. I'd had enough, and set my sights on Lalbagh Fort. An old Murghal fort from the 1600's. I asked one the shop attendants whether it was far – he suggested a rickshaw, and pointed to the nearest one. They're everywhere after all. He told the rider where I wanted to go, and off we went. It was about a 20 minute ride. As I went to pay the bloke, I noticed I only had 500 taka notes. He took note as well. Poor form on my part. Handing a rickshaw rider a 500 taka note is like giving a bus driver a $100 note in Australia. So I had to get change by buying a drink. But the cheeky rickshaw rider knew I had a bit of money on me, and when I handed him the money, he started yelling and waving his hands, gesturing for more money. Doh! So I gave him $1, and he was much happier, and rode off.
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| Scaffolding used in building in Bangladesh |
There was an entry fee to see the fort. 100 taka … about $1.20. It was great, built in the early 1600's, it was still in pretty good condition (compared to buildings in Dhaka), and still had all the rooms in tact, as well as weapons, crockery and the like used throughout the ages. I met another local, Rakiv, who spoke some English, and explained in more detail about the history of the Murghals, the forts and the surrounds. After we had seen the fort, he introduced me to his cousins, and sister who were also there, relaxing in the grounds. Many locals come here, and it's not surprising. Beautiful gardens, quiet and rather majestic. A lovely place to spend a sunny afternoon.
I said goodbye to Rakiv, and continued exploring the streets in search of a nearby masjid (Mosque), which I found, but wasn't particularly impressed. Disappointed with this mosque, I set off on foot once again to a different mosque, the Star Mosque ...or as it is called in Bangladesh, Sitara Masjid. I had stopped in to talk to a couple of boys who waved me into their shop just before getting to the Fort – they had a mobile phone business, which was perfect, since I'd been trying to locate a prepaid sim card so that I could make calls if I needed to, and also because it would mean I could use my gps. So armed with my gps, I brought up my location, and set course for the Sitara Masjid. The gps didn't really help though – again,it was the whole problem with English maps, and Bangla signage. But at least I new which direction to head in. I made my way through Chowk Bazar, another people infested market, in a particularly narrow street, which took some time to get through due to the masses of rickshaws and carts trundling up and down.I asked a few people where the Mosque was about every 15 minutes. Each time they told it was 10 minutes away. I eventually made it back to an area which seemed familiar – it was where I had arrived from my ride of terror one day earlier. Low & behold, the Star Mosque was nearby! Certainly more impressive than the last mosque, but I suppose I was expecting something a little more grand. After all, this is a predominantly Muslim country, I thought they'd at least have some semi-impressive mosques – and while it was nice, it wasn't spectacular. Oh well. I was glad I'd found it.
Once again, my exploration of Dhaka had left me exhausted, and so I headed for home. By the time I arrived back to Gulshan I was starving, and stopped in at a place called FFC. A sort of KFC rip off. In fact, in Bangladesh, I'd seen KFC, FFC, MFC and CFC – all fried chicken fast food chains. Needless to say, my meal at FFC was pretty darn good, much better than KFC back home, and cost me about $2.50. On the way back home one of the local rickshaw riders, a young boy, skinny, and well dressed for a rickshaw rider, struck up conversation. He was a bit difficult to understand at first, but I soon got what he was talking about. He was claiming he knew Dhaka better than most. Anything I want, he can get. “You want girls? I get nice girls for you”. “You like marjiwana? I get this for you.” “You like cocaine? No problem, I can get anything you want, no problem. I'm your friend”. I wasn't up for any other the above, but thanked him for the offer, and told him it was good to know, to try and appease him. He wanted to keep chatting, and told me to come and see him later, he could help me, no problem. And off I went.
I rested upon returning to the guest house, uploaded some photo's from Malaysia, and added them to the previous blog post. Juel came home, and asked me if I wanted a haircut, adding it was super cheap. As a matter of fact, I did – my hair was getting a bit long for this warm weather.
At around 7.15 the hair dresser/barber went to work, and my was he a fastidious cutter. No electric shavers here – it was all done by scissor. Since I wanted the back and sides short, he manicured my hair until it was perfect, shoving my head in various positions to achieve the desired result. After about 50 minutes, he was done. But it wasn't over yet. Next was a massage – Juel had requested it.
He started by punching my in the head! Well sort over. It was more like a hot potato dance move. He placed a semi fist on my head, and then proceeded to hot-potato it with the other hand, somehow making a crunching sound, as if his knuckles were being cracked on my noggin. It was pretty weird. Then he moved onto a head massage which was great, then the temples, and then an eyeball massage, which was a bit full on, and lastly, a high-speed head scratch performed by vibrating the tips of his fingers really quickly, it felt great. He repeated this sequence about 3 times, and then moved onto my back, which was fine, until he began clenching the flab around my front, basically squeezing it as hard as he could in his fists ..it was quite painful. His next move was giant, heavy duty indian burns, all the way down each arm. No shit, this dude had super strong hands – he was stocky man, with big shoulders and big arms for a Bangladeshi, and he twisted the hell out of the lengths of my arms. It was slightly amusing, and quite bizarre, and I couldn't help but laugh. Then a hand massage, and cracked all my knuckles, before starting from the top again with some hot potato moves on my head again. He then repeated this new, extended sequence about 4 times, and by the time he got to the flab squeezes for the forth time, I'd had enough, cos it was getting more painful each time. Then came the grand finale – a rapid fire sequence hot potato knuckles crunches on my head, then he punched me in the back a good 20-30 times in quick succession, and his finishing move, the good ole head twist, but without any warning. And it was over. And actually, I felt super relaxed to be honest, so he'd done a good job, albeit in a somewhat unusual and painful manner. This was how it was done in Bangladesh Juel had chirped. All up, it had been a 50 minute haircut, and probably a 50 minute pounding ...err, massage. I thought that the price would surely have hiked with the massage as well. It was a ridiculous $7. Awesome!
So it wasn't until about 9pm that I got to sit down and have dinner. After which I was tired once again, and called it a night. In the morning I would be meeting Mamun, who was going to take me out for the day.
Friday morning, Gulshan District, Dhaka.
I got up late-ish again, and took my time having breakfast, before setting out with my backpack. I had just spoken to Mamun, who had suggested we meet at Dhaka University.
As I wandered out onto the street, my friendly rickshaw rider from the night before, whose name was Mitu by the way, rolled up and greeted me with “Hey Boss”. He had overheard my conversation with Mamun, and said he could take me to Dhaka University, no problem. He knew Dhaka so well. No problem. It was quite a ride though – it was 30 minutes by CNG if the traffic wasn't terrible. So by rickshaw it was surely a good hour. “40 minutes – no problem” he exclaimed. Unlikely, I thought to myself. But he was a friendly chap, and I wasn't meeting Mamun for an hour, so I went along with it.
Surely enough, we were approaching the uni around the 50 minute mark. Not bad at all.
We eventually found Mamum and one of his friends, waiting near the entrance to one of the surrounding gardens.
And then we were 3. I wanted to see the river, and so my new buddies climbed aboard the rickshaw, and off Mitu went with the 3 of us on board. It was a good 15 minutes to get to the river, and the best view was on top of the bridge, which meant a hill climb for the perspiring rickshaw rider. From the bridge there was a good view of life along the river, boats cruising up and down, people washing, little shacks, possibly dwellings for some.
The next stop was the Parliament building. Not something I had planned visiting, but Mamun suggested we take a look. It was another gruelling 30-40 minute journey, and by the end of it my ass was getting sore. Rickshaws are a pretty rigid ride, and the roads in Dhaka aren't exactly in great condition, as you might imagine.
The Parliament was an interesting looking building, but once again, I was not allowed inside the grounds for a closer look. We were to leave Mitu and his rickshaw behind at this point, our next destination required the services of a CNG. It was a good half an hour out of the city.
We took the CNG for about 15 minutes, before having to transfer to another tuk-tuk, who took us the rest of the way.
We had escaped the mayhem of the streets of Dhaka city, and were not heading out through more of an agricultural area, farms, lakes, and amongst the wetlands, sticking out like thorns, massive chimneys. They were brick works. Where they made bricks. Loads of them scattered across the land, some puffing out smoke, others sitting dormant. We stopped for a couple of photos en route, before arriving at a small restaurant looking out over the brick fields. We stopped here to rest a while and have some lunch.
Last stop for the day, which was slowly disappearing was a place called Savar, where the Bangladesh National Martyr Monument stood. It was another good 30 ass-shattering minutes along many unsurfaced dirt roads in the tiny little CNG. As we arrived there was, once again, crowds of people. It was clearly a popular place to visit on their day off.
Thankfully, inside the grounds, there was a sign written in English telling the story behind the monument. It was erected in memory of those who had fought for Bangladesh's independence, for those who had lost their lives in the battle for freedom.
The excursion had come to an end. It was to be an actual taxi back to Dhaka, we had a good hours drive back to Gulshan, and this suited me just fine since I don’t think I could have handled another ride in a CNG.
Mamun and his pal dropped me off near the guest house, and said farewell. It was dark now, and nearly dinner time.
8am Saturday morning, I was up and ready to rumble.
Breakfast – check. Luggage – check. Ticket – check. It was time to roll …
Traffic stopped that plan pretty quickly. It was approaching 9.30, and weren’t at the station yet.
Finally we arrived, just as a train was on approach. The driver jumped out and told me to run with him – upon reaching the platform, and finding the station master, we were told that it wasn't my train. My train was late. Phew. The station mastered offered me to sit in the waiting room, and led me there. As per usual, peoples eyes were on me again.
In the waiting a room a young boy was selling the local newspaper. Such a cute little boy too, not more than 6 years old, probably less. He rattled away in Bangla at me, shoving the newspaper at me. Of course, the paper wasn’t in English, so I declined. But he had decided he want to play a little, so we exchanged some Hi-5's a while, which he found most amusing and cackled more with each turn.
Each time a train arrived a went out to the platform, each time I was told it wasn’t my train.
I'd had enough of the waiting room, and went out to stand on the platform instead. As expected, people stopped and stared, and before long I had an audience of about 12 or so people standing around me looking. I had struck up a rather broken conversation with an elderly lady, who was helping me work out which was my train, and also a younger boy who spoke some English. So I tried to ignore the crowd before me, and speak to them. A number of beggars came and went as well. And then the little boy from the waiting room was back again, and once again he wanted to play, grabbing my fingers and trying to bend them back, while I poked his miniature hands. Soon enough, an officer came to see what the crowds was about, and upon seeing me screamed at them all in the local lingo – and with that the crowds disappeared, people turned away, and continued on. The officers gestures when he was yelling, to me, seemed like he was asking them what were they all looking at? And probably to leave me alone. The next gesture was a raised hand at the little boy playing with my hand, and the little boy took off. I was then escorted back to the waiting room, where I was ordered to sit down and wait for my train. He seemed irritated that he'd had to intervene.
It was past 11am now ..the train was nearly two hours late! I would arriving in Chittagong in the dark.
 |
| Remnants of a decontructed ship |
At long last, at about 11.30am,”Chattala” ..the name of my train, pulled into the station, the open-air carriages were filled with people. More were sitting on the roof of the train. A scrawny man who had helped me earlier came running over and motioned me to follow him to my carriage. The door was locked though from the inside, and he proceeded to bang on the door and scream, waiting for someone to open it. He kept at it, sounded more and more fierce each time, until a young man swung the door open, and screamed back at him. Another bloke jumped down from the train and proceeded the chase the scrawny man down the platform. The well dressed door-opener looked at me and said, in English, “that stupid mother fucker, I told him I was to open the door, and he just kept fucking yelling. Stupid mother fucker.” - which made me laugh, it was the finest English I'd heard since I'd arrived.
I climbed up into the carriage, and walked down the hall of the carriage in search of my cabin. Luckily, and young boy offered to help me, he too spoke good English, and led me to my cabin.
 |
| The ship-breaking yard |
Sohel returned a while later, and we continued our conversation. He asked if it would be ok if his mate with whom he was travelling could come and join us. Of course.
 |
| Ship broken... |
These two were great value, and I was extremely happy to have them in my cabin to chat. They were nicely dressed, spoke impressive English, and enjoyed a bit of a laugh. They played me some of the music they were into, including local Bangla music. We talked about girls – obviously things are rather different in Australia, and they were most intrigued. Then we got to religion. Sohel had asked what religion I was. I had remembered reading in the Lonely Planet guide that it's best not to say you aren't religious (if in fact, you aren't) – and much wiser to just say Christianity, or whatever suits. But it wasn't at the forefront of my mind, and I forgot, and just said “I'm no religion”. Sohel nearly fell off his seat, he looked confused. Rakib just nodded and rolled with it. Sohel suggested that I should have a religion. So I went on to try and explain to them why I didn't. But these young guys were open minded, and it didn't change anything at all, and we carried on recounting stories from our lives, and finding out more about one another. I showed them some photos of my friends back home, they told me how they had got the cane at school for being naughty, we swapped details about our siblings and families. It was a jolly good time.
Little did I know then, that these guys would be two of the best coolest dudes I've had the pleasure of meeting on my trip so far, two younger boys who I can now definitively call great friends.
Eventually though, the train guard poked his head into my cabin, and them to get out and go back to their assigned seats, and told me to lock the door. Before they left we exchanged mobile numbers – they both lived in Chittagong, and had offered to help me and show me around.
 |
| This groups of kids dropped what they were doing and ran out to me to pose for a photo |
A few hours passed, a few stops later, and there was a knock on the door – it was Sohel.
Rakib was resting, so he'd come to join me once again. Rakib showed his face an hour or so later.
The train finally pulled into Chittagong station some time after 8pm. There was a hotel not far away, a few hundred metres in fact, and it was on a list I’d derived from Lonely Planet.
They lead me down the road, and booked me into my room, before shaking hands and saying farewell. I would call them on Sunday I told them – we could catch up and do something. They were in agreement, and left me to head up to my room on the 4th floor. The room by the way, was $12 per night, with air-con. Nice.
The room was small, pretty crummy though, but I’d kind of expected it. But it was clean. The bathroom was clean,too, save for a few cobwebs, and a couple of mozzies buzzing around, whose lives I soon terminated.
I hadn't eaten much all day, and was absolutely ravenous. They had room service though, so I ordered a chicken curry, some dal, and rice. It was brought up only minutes later, which I was a little sceptical about. Rightly so – it was all cold. Well, the chicken and the rice was. I wasn't keen on eaten the cold chicken for fear of it making me ill – and called the attendant back to ask if it could be made hot. He claimed in broken English that it was fresh – that maybe the aircon had made it cold. I tried to explain that food sitting in an aircon room for no more than two minutes, doesn't get THAT cold. He nodded and set off to fulfil my request. I didn't care too much about cold rice, and the dal was warm enough, so I gulped it down while I waited for my chicken to return. It did. Luke warm – and that's being generous. I was too tired to complain any more, and it had cost me all of about $3 – but I still wasn't going to eat it, and left it aside, and finished munching the rice and dal. Semi satisfied I got myself ready for bed, and switched off the lights.When I awoke it was Sunday morning, roughly 9.30am.
I got myself ready and made my downstairs to get some breakfast. 4 slices of toast and a cup of coffee later, and I was ready to take the the streets of Chittagong. But first I gave Sohel a buzz to see what he was doing. Nothing – he'd be at the hotel in 30 minutes.
Once he arrived we got going right away, first off, down past one of the local bazars, then to check out his school which was just around the corner. Next stop - a shopping centre. I'd not yet been to a shopping centre in Bangladesh so i was up for it. Vastly different to the shopping centres of KL. All open air, the building looked more like a multi-level car park. We exited the shopping centre, and I got a glimpse of some tourists – Japanese I think ..so I wasn't the only one here it seemed.
We stepped over the road, cos i was hungry again, and Sohel knew a good place for a snack. I had a chicken burger ...which is really more like a chicken sandwich, just in a small burger bun. And damn it was tasty!
Feeling re-energised, we ambled back onto the streets – what next?
I had told Sohel & Rakib on the train that I wanted to see the ship breaking, which is a fairly notorious industry in Bangladesh. It's their main source of steel Mike had told me back in Dhaka.
They basically take massive ships, oil tankers, cargo ships and the like, run them aground, and pull them apart. It sounded like an interesting sight – and Sohel asked if I wanted to go – I did.
We jumped in a CNG – it was a 30 minute ride.
We pulled off the main road, down a small dirt track that led to the beach. We jumped out where the track came to an end – and there they were, massive, old ships lying on the beach. It was like a graveyard ..for ships.The entrance onto the beach was guarded though. Unfortunately, thanks the western media, and the likes of Greenpeace kicking up a fuss about the ship-breaking practice, there was no way they were going to let me anywhere near the place, especially with a camera. Lucky I had my local friends with me though, because otherwise I probably wouldn't have been able to take any photos at all. Sohel managed to work it so that I could take photo's from from where we were, and up a small piece of dirt track leading alongside the beach. That was enough for me – it would have been nice to get closer, but we needed to know someone on the inside for that. It was a impressive sight nonetheless. All these giants tankers, some still completely in tact and awaiting the disassembly, whilst others were nothing more than the ships bridge discarded on the sand. Further down the beach there was a parking lot of other tankers waiting to be destroyed.
Ship-breaking was ticked off my list for Chittagong. And as I’d left the Lonely Planet guide book in Dhaka, I didn’t know what else there was to see. The hills – Sohel suggested. We'd go into the hills – it was beautiful there he told me. And it was – after another 30 minutes in a CNG, we were up in the hills away from town. His friend who we'd picked up on the way had some land there. We spent about half an hour wandering around, and visited the family who were living on the property. A small wooden hut, straw roof was their abode. A few cows, chickens, and a well for water nearby. This was a hard life. They had next to nothing. The children were running around naked, while the adults sat and watched, waiting for their husbands to bring home the bacon. At least they were self sufficient to an extent. Chickens for eggs, cows for milk, and a vegetable garden were surely extremely valuable to them.Last stop before Sohel had to leave to tutor some students, was his friend music studio. He played in a band, and had a tiny room above a shop on the main road, fitted out with some Peavey speaker towers, and mulit-channel mixing desk and a drum kit.
The three of us then jumped aboard a rickshaw, to get a late lunch, before heading back to Sohel's house – he wanted to show me, and his younger sister as ever so eager to meet me apparently.
We had some chicken biriyani for lunch – very nice. Although I couldn't really join them in the whole eating with the hand gig. For two reasons. My hands were filthy, as they get here in Bangladesh from of the dust and grit in the air, and even after washing them, I wasn't too keen to shove my fingers in my mouth. But the main reason, is that I’m left handed. And eating with your left hand here is very offensive – the right hand is considered the clean hand. So I stuck with a spoon and fork, but I did give the right hand a a go, but it felt too unco and so I reverted to what i'm used to.
Sohel friends left us after lunch, and we made our way on foot to Sohel's house. A nice house indeed I thought. Not particularly big, but pleasant and comfortable. His sister was not long home from school. Sohel went of to get her while I took a seat and drained the orange juice I'd been given. Bianca (not sure if that's spelt right – but thats how it sounds) was Sohel's sister. 15 years old, she too spoke impressive english.
(*** - turns out its spelt Prinka) She seemed awfully excited to be meeting me – grinning from ear to ear. She sat down next to me and introduced herself and that it was nice to meet me. She was a very beautiful young lady indeed – she'll be a heart-breaker when she gets older.
(*** - turns out its spelt Prinka) She seemed awfully excited to be meeting me – grinning from ear to ear. She sat down next to me and introduced herself and that it was nice to meet me. She was a very beautiful young lady indeed – she'll be a heart-breaker when she gets older.
Bianca wanted a photo taken with me – so we stepped out into the courtyard out front, and fired of a few shots. I didn’t have a chance to meet their parents, as they weren't home from work – but if Sohel and Bianca were anything to go by, i'm sure they were lovely too.
And with that, it was time for us all to leave. Sohel to head off to tutor some student who had their exams soon. Bianca to go and be tutored for her own exams coming up. And me, back to my hotel room. Sohel said something to Bianca in Bangla, and she put out her hand with a big smile – to shake hands, as we do. It's not the done thing at all here, for a lady to shake a man's hand, so it felt almost like a privilege.
Back at the hotel I did sweet FA. I watched some tele, and mucked around on the computer a while, before Sohel called – asking if I wanted to go to the fair in the evening, after he'd finished. Sure – why not?
Sohel and Rakib knocked on the door just as I was getting ready.
We took the elevator down the lobby and begun the short walk to the nearby fair. I was expecting ride and the like – that's a fair where I come from. But it was more like a market – selling goods from other countries, mostly Asia & the middle east. Rakib explained that they came here to check out some girls – tease the girl as he put it. But it was the last night of the fair and it was closing in an hour, and to their dismay, there weren't may ladies around at all. I asked them what they do – do they go and talk to the girls? Or just look from afar. Rakib told me that they weren't allowed to go up to a girl and talk to her, all they could do was make eye contact from a distance and perhaps give them a cheeky smirk. “Window shopping” I told them ..that's what I’d call it, which they found most amusing.We stopped for a cup of tea, made with condensed milk so it was super sweet – not my cup of tea (pun intended). The “fair” was closing soon – the boys went in search of a present for their sisters, while I joked that the women's shoes they were checking out would look good on them.
Gifts procured, and it was closing time. We headed back towards my hotel and made plans for the next morning - Monday. I would go to see Rakib's university and meet some of his friends. But it was not to be. I wanted to go to Cox's Bazar on Tuesday – but I'd read in the (English) newspaper that the Hartal was on Tuesday. Hartal is essentially what we call a strike. But it's country-wide. The whole country goes on strike and everything shuts down. So it was either go on Monday – or on Wednesday. Wednesday was too late, it would give me only two full days in Cox's Bazar, and I wanted 3 if at all possible. Sohel seemed to think their was a bus on Monday night which would mean I could still hang out with Rakib – but it turned out the only AC (1st Class) bus was leaving at 08:45 the next morning – and all the non-AC buses were full. They helped me book my ticket and walked me back to the hotel. The two of them were sad that I had to leave so soon – they felt like I was a new best friend – as they did to me. They had wanted to buy me something at the market, as a token of my visit and our friendship, but the market had only girls apparel and jewellery, apart from the odd toy, and cookware. Rakib took off his wooden beaded bracelet and handed it to me – a good-bye gift, to remember him by. Sohel followed suit – a silver ring on his finger – he took it off and asked me to have it. I searched my person hoping I'd have something to return the gesture – but I had nothing. They said not to worry, I was their guest this time, and when they come to Australia, it can be my turn.
To top the night off, they would be at the hotel at 8am to take me to the bus departure point they told me before setting off. How awesome are these guys?!Up'n'at 'em...Atom Ant!
As promised, at 8am Sohel & Rakib appeared in the hotel lobby and we were off to the bus station. A 10 minute ride in a baby taxi (CNG).
We arrived at the bus stop to learn that the bus would now depart from where we had come from. But rather than head back by CNG, the bus company had a minibus on it's way.
The minibus arrived a few minutes before 9am. I was a crummy, beaten up little bus. I said goodbye to my new pals, and boarded. Cripes. The bus was as rough on the inside as it looked from the outside. As people sat down on the seats, clouds of dust shot into the air. I took my seat up the back. I could barely fit my knees in behind the seat in front, it was so cramped. Not only were the seats dirty and tattered, there was a host of mosquitoes hovering around the bus, loads of the under the seats as well, where my legs were. Lucky for me I had applied repellent, and it worked a treat!
Traffic was horrendous on the way to meet the main bus – it took nearly 90 minutes to crawl back. Late again. At the new departure point, I bought myself the newspaper – in English of course. Sohel had beat me back to the other bus station – he lived just around the corner, and waved goodbye again. The Greenline bus was far superior to the minibus we'd arrived in. A coach rather than a bus. Fully air conditioned, and reclining seats, it wasn't bad at all – apart from the half smashed front windscreen, which didn't exactly inspire confidence. Sohel reckoned it would take 4 hours to hit Cox's Bazar with the traffic. And it did. A fairly uneventful bus ride, the only annoyance was the chubby businessman seated next to me, who was on his phone every couple of minutes yelling into his microphone in Bangla, and he was an armrest hog too. Oh, now that I think about it, the most annoying thing about the ride was the driver cranking his heavy duty horn every few seconds. The whole way to Cox's Bazar. VERY annoying.
Sometime after 2.30 we arrived in Cox's Bazar. As we had driven down from Chittagong, the scenery had changed somewhat, and on approach into Cox's Bazar the trees and shrubs looked different, and there was sand by the sides of the road.
I jumped off the bus and into a gentle, cool sea breeze. I wasn't sure where I would stay yet, I had jotted down a few hotel names. The bus stopped nearby one off the – the Sea Palace.
So I collected my backpack, and walked back about 600m to the hotel. Inside the lobby, I saw the first white-boy I’d see in what felt like quite a long time. A fat American was checking out the hotel as well. As I approached the counter I heard him ask “Any discounts?”. The response was no, and wit that he turned and began walking away, just as the rate card was handed to me. It was prettty pricey. AUD$30 for a room in the lower standard building, and around $40 for the nice room.The clerk called out to the American just as he reached the door, offering a 30% discount. VAT (Value Added Tax) in Bangladesh is 15% - so you need to add that onto the prices shown. Most places also charge a 10% service fee. So the discount is pretty much gobbled up by extra charges. I asked the Yankee if he'd checked out a room – he hadn't. So we asked to see the room.
We saw the nicer room first – and it was pretty rubbish to be honest, so we were outta there.
We walked and talked on our way to the next hotel – also on my list. Hotel Coral Reef.
1500taka ..or AUD$21 or so for a room here. Upon inspection, the room was as good, if not better than the previous hotel. Good. But the American and I both wanted to see a hotel called the Seagull – it was one of only 2 hotels in Cox's Bazar that had a bar. En route we stopped in at a place called the Sea Park. 1000Taka here ...about $13-14!! And bam – this room was far bigger, clean as a whistle, and on par, if not marginally better than the Hotel Coral Reef. This place had my vote. And my room had a balcony facing out towards the ocean. The American liked it too – but we were both keen to suss out the Seagull. A 5taka rickshaw ride got us there. Pricey. Approaching $50 ..with a 20% discount, and 25% in additional charges once again. No thanks.
So the Sea Park it was.
I checked into my room, and relaxed a while before going for a walk, and bumping into the yank again. I needed to eat, he suggested a place called Mermaid cafe – not cheap he said, but good food. Suited me fine after my accommodation bargain. I'd actually read about the Mermaid Cafe in Lonely Planet – highly recommended. And it lived up to its reputation. A beautiful setting, some cool beats playing in the background, lovely lighting as the sun went down. And the food was very tasty indeed! An ice-cold banana milkshake, and hot chilly chicken curry and some garlic naan did the trick for me.
Cox's Bazar really is Bangladesh's slice of sea-side paradise! I walked down to the beach – claimed to be the longest coastal beach in the world, and possibly the widest ass well. And it was splendid. You need to keep in mind, that Bangladesh is a fairly dirty place, at least, the places I’d seen so far. And while the main drag in Cox's Bazar was pretty filthy too, the beach was surprisingly clean. Cleaner than a lot of the beaches i've seen in thailand. Sure, a bit of rubbish here and there, but I was quite impressed. And boy is the beach wide. At least a 100 metres in width, and probably as much as 200m in places. It's a massive beach! It was getting dark, and I’d read that the beach can be dangerous at night and since I was sporting a bit of cash on me, and my camera, I thought it best to head back to the hotel, and did.
I was getting hungry again when I got back, my meal at Mermaid Cafe was all I’d eaten for the day, so I wandered back outside and a young boy in a rickshaw was waiting. “Nili Piri” I aid to him, a restaurant that had been recommended. He didn’t speak English, other than “boss” and “hallo”, but he nodded as if he knew what I was talking about. He didn't. And stopped outside a restaurant called the Meridian. I didn’t really care though, it looked pretty nice. He said gestured that he'd wait for me while I ate. The restaurant was pretty much empty, but the food was delicious. Beef Do-Piaza curry, Bangan Bartha, rice and a coke. About $3 all up. Satisfied, I returned outside to my rickshaw driver. I wanted an internet cafe – and tried to relate my destination to the boy. I even threw in some charades type actions, typing on a computer ..and used the word computer too – surely he would get it. He nodded and off we went. In the opposite direction to where I'd been told there was an internet cafe. Oh well, I got to see the town a bit, and I optimistically thought he might know of another cyber cafe elsewhere. I was wrong. We ended up outside some place with the word “cafe” in it's name. I re-iterated where I wanted to go. “Internet. Computer. Cyber cafe??” I stated, again using my charade skills. “Ahhh...cyber cafe. Ok” he said. And we cycled off in the right direction this time. It was a 10 minute ride. And he was going to ride right past it, until I tapped him on the shoulder and said “Stop” and pointed. He stopped, I jumped out and into the cyber cafe, while he waited for me again. The internet was down – 5-10 minutes wait.
I was done in a few minutes and walked back out to re-board the tricycle. Sea Park Hotel was where I wanted to go, and this he knew and understood, and repeated it back to me.
The cheeky bugger took the scenic route though. Rather than go back the way we came, he decided to make a detour, pointing out all the other hotels as we went, surely to earn a better fare, even though I didn’t give a shit now because I had a place to stay. I'd had the rider for about 2 hours all up including dinner and internet time. Probably only about 30 minutes of actual riding. He said 4000 taka. That's more than $50!! I said no way. But I also knew he meant 400taka..which was still way too much.
The way they count in Bangla is a little strange. I'm not clear on 100's, and thousands, but assume it works in a similar way to 100,000's and millions.100,000 is 1 lahk.
1 million is 10 lahk.
10 million is 1 cruore.
They don’t have a word for a million as such. It's either 10 lahk. Or 1/10 cruore.
I offered the sneaky rickshaw boy 200 taka. He started shaking his head. 400 he demanded.I told him no way. But he kept babbling away in Bangla, which didn’t help. Note to self. Make sure you take a rickshaw rider who speaks at least SOME English, to avoid this hassle.
I gave him 250. That was all I was going to give him. A couple of other youngster had gathered around him, and were all yelling at me in Bangla. Fucken hell.
He was now pointing at his rickshaw – as if to ask me if I wanted to ride it? Maybe to see how hard work it was? Well I knew it was – but fair is fair. In Dhaka Mitu had ridden me around, and then 2 other for nearly 5 hours. And that was pretty much non-stop riding, and that was 600 taka. And I gave him an extra 100 cos he was a nice guy. This youngster had clocked up about 30 minutes riding time, maybe 40 if he was lucky. But 400 was definitely a rip off. Then came the whole “i'm arguing over $2” line of thought. But no, I wasn’t going to give him 400. I slapped an extra 20 taka into his hand, turned and walked off. Something landed just a few feet from me, a bottle – I wonder if he, or one of the other boys had piffed it at me. I just kept walking, and went inside the hotel.
Back in my room, I could see him from my balcony. Counting the money over and over again. From where I stood – it looked as if Christmas had come early. Either way, I was a bit annoyed by the hassle. I would be more wary next time.
Bed.
It was Tuesday. I woke up late-ish, around 9.30, feeling well rested. It was the hartal today, which meant most places would be closed. A day on the beach is what I had in mind. But not before a walk around town in daylight so I could see what was what.
Wouldn't you know, but that pesky rickshaw rider was waiting for me out front. The moment I stepped outside, he said “Hallo boss, rickshaw?”. I just looked at him, shook my head and “Naiy” (no). I began my slow meander down the street, he was following me. “Boss” he kept on at me. “ Boss. Boss.” I kept repeating “Naiy rickshaw” and shaking my head. Not more than a few metres down the road, another younger on a rickshaw pulled up, and started the same line of harassment. Except this one through some emotional blackmail, gesturing he needed some food. He and Mr. Sneaky started babbling to one another as they rode slowly behind me, continually nagging me for my business. The new fella started whinging at me, at what I think was him explaining that his mother had only one leg. I remained adamant I didn't want their services. Then, the new boy, I'll call him Mr. Hungry, began carrying on more about his mother, and began to sook, whimpering and beginning to cry, or at least that was what he made it sound like, going on about his mother. I didn’t budge. Not a chance. And what do you know, he stopped his whimpering and began laughing with his mate, Mr. Sneaky - he had tried it on just to see if I gave in. Cheeky bugger!
These fuckers both followed me for about 40 minutes, before Mr. Hungry gave up and pulled up at the side of the road. One down, one to go I thought to myself. But it wasn’t my day. A hundred metres down the road, another rickshaw pulled out as I walked past. This bloke really did have one leg. But at least he didn’t play on it. He just kept saying “me. Surfer yeh” I thought that's got to be hard with one leg, but if you can pull it off, well hats off to you then. Thankfully he didn’t stick around too long, after my repeated “naiy rickshaw”. That left just me and Mr. Sneaky. And he was starting to piss me off. I had walked full circle and was approaching my hotel. I was starving, and thought fuck it, I would pull into the cafe inside the so-called 5 start hotel across the road, and have some lunch. He wouldn't be allowed pull into their driveway to wait for me there.
5 stars here is more like 4 stars really. But the place was nice all the same. Westernised food too – which I was ok with, it had been a while. A burger and chips, a coke, and a cafe latte.
The burger was pretty good, though a bit on the small side. Fries – fine. Cafe latte ...hmmm.... smouldering hot. I thought about asking them if they wanted a lesson in how to make a decent coffee, because they had a proper cafe style coffee machine, and clearly didn't know how to use it. But I didn't. I sat and sipped at my molten latte, and had had a bit of look outside. No way. I could see Mr. Sneaky kicking back in his rickshaw, just a few metres away outside on the road. Bloody hell, he was waiting for me.
I exited the cafe after fixing up the bill, which was about $7 – rather expensive, but I had expected as much.
I marched back to my hotel I wasn't up for this charade any more. I went up to my room and changed into my swim shorts, grabbed my book, sunnies and my golf hat, and returned to the street – and of course, Mr Sneaky. I just walked past, I didn’t acknowledge, I just ignored him, and hiked towards the beach, where he couldn't follow me.
Yay! I was free of my tail. I sat and chilled on the beach for a while, before deciding to go for a wander. But that was a bit of a hassle too. Young boys coming at me from all sides, trying to sell me a deck chair for an hour. Others on horseback asking me if I wanted to ride. No and no. Eventually I broke free of the crowds and found some peace along the beach. I met some nice boys who were playing in the surf and stopped to chat a while with them. I walked as far as I could be bothered,and turned back. I wanted to get back to the hotel to get my camera in time for sunset.I made it back to the hotel without spotting either Mr. Sneaky, or Mr. Hungry. Thank fuck for that. It was 4.15 – I needed to be at the beach before 5.
I grabbed the camera and hurried back towards the beach.
The flag of Bangladesh really does the country justice. The red/orange sun is what I’m talking about.
The sun, as it sets in Bangladesh has this awesome deep reddish-orange glow. It looks fantastic, and so I managed to fire off a few good snaps. The other aspect of everywhere I’ve been so far, is a constant haze in the sky – which I had initially assumed, in Dhaka, was due to pollution. But I noticed it on the train on the way to Chittagong, and the evening before, when I arrived in Cox's Bazar. And because of this haze, there isn't really any sunset. Rather than watching the sun descend to the horizon, which should set off a spectacular sunset, it just sort of disappears into the haze, probably around 7-10 degrees above the horizon. It's a shame, because with the unusual coloured glow, it'd make a fantastic sunset.
I stopped back in at the Mermaid cafe for a bite after the sun had gone down. Tasty once again.
But also pricey at again, around the $6 mark.
I spent most of the night relaxing on my balcony before stepping out yet again to have a proper dinner. I'd actually found the Nili Piri restaurant on my walk earlier – it was about 50 metres down the road from me! So I headed there. Chicken curry and rice – and very tasty too! And some water and a pepsi. Think it came about $2.50.
And my night was done – I headed back to my room, put on some music and wrote some of this.
Wednesday, Dec 1! My time in Bangladesh was nearing an end. I was due to fly out of Dhaka on Dec 4. I had looked at changing my flights at the cyber cafe a couple of nights earlier – but it was going to be costly, primarily because I’d gotten a super cheap fare for the return leg to KL, and they'd all gone, which meant the price was pretty much double and I’d have to pay the difference – plus the fee for the flight change, so I decided against it. Plus I'd only been granted a 15 day visa – so I could only extend it by two days – which wasn't going to be enough anyway. So I’d decided I would go back to Chittagong on Thursday afternoon. I wanted to catch up with Sohel and Rakib before I left – they were too cool, and I also wanted to see a little more of Chittagong before leaving.
So the plan was to take a proper tour of Cox's Bazar, from a local boy I’d met the night before who had helped to add some credit to my Bangladesh prepaid mobile.
My ride arrived, Rubel, my tour guide, had himself and electric powered CNG-style vehicle.
I went downstairs, greeted Rubel, and jumped in, and off we went. Rubel was a nice guy, and spoke some English, and did his best to explain some of the places we were passing.
He took me to the old Hindu temple,where I was granted access to a few rooms that were locked, and specially unlocked for me as a “special” guest. The temple was a gift from Myanmar (formerly Burma), back in the 1700's.
Next stop was a small inlet, where fishing boats were moored. It was also the location of a bridge that Australia had give to Bangladesh to join other towns to Cox's Bazar. We went past the morning fish market, before moving onto a lookout point some kilometres outside town. It had a giant dolphin outside, which reminded me of the like of the tacky big Pineapple in Queensland back in Australia. After the lookout, we took a good 15-20 ride in this electric powered buggy, which seemed to max out at about 25km/h, so it took a while. We ended up at Inani beach. A beautiful, relatively uncrowded part of the coastline, where we stopped for some time to take in the view, and some photos. It had been a good tour – and a fairly long one. We stopped in at the bus ticket office on the way back through town, where Rubel assisted in arranging my ticket back to Chittagong. I'd been driven around for nearly 6 hours by the time we made it back to Cox's Bazar. I gave Rubel $20 (1500tk) for it – which he seemed quite chuffed about.
In the evening I went for a stroll, and had some dinner. Nothing special.
The rest of the evening was a non-event.
And then it was Thursday morning, and I was due to check-out. But not until midday.
So, first things first, if I were to spend all of Friday in Chittagong, I would need a quick way of getting back to Dhaka on Saturday morning before my flight to KL. Plane was the only option.
There were a few regional airlines to choose from, GMG, United Airways (as opposed to the American United Airlines), Regent, and the main carrier, Biman. Biman were the most expensive, but had the best schedule. However when I had landed in Dhaka nearly 2 weeks ago, the first thing that struck me as, odd, perhaps concerning, was that Biman still had the ancient McDonnell Douglas DC-10 in service. Now, I'm pretty sure, if memory serves me, that the DC-10 was taken out of service by most major airlines, due to a critical design fault that was discovered many years after their introduction. No other airlines that I know of still used the 3 engined craft, for this very reason, presumably. Whether or not the design problem was fixed, I don't know. I certainly hope so. Anyway, with that in mind, and the higher fares, I ruled out Biman, and focussed on GMG and United. The GMG flight schedule for flights from Chittagong to Dhaka wouldn't work for me though. The only flight still available was in the afternoon. So it was United airways who won my business. It wasn't that cheap, but it would have to do, since I was running out of time.
Depart Chittagong at 0840, arrive into Dhaka at 0930. I decided, after all my rickshaw evasion over the last few days, that I would take a rickshaw to the United Airways office. I found a rider who knew where I wanted to go, about 1km from my hotel. I climbed onto the cramped vinyl covered seat, and off we went. As we cruised down the road, and number of rickshaws started shouting at my chauffeur, as if to congratulate him on getting me on his rickshaw, since I'd been turning them all down.
Ticket paid and confirmed, I followed up with some breakfast next door at the Meridian restaurant. Very nice too – and spicy. Breakfast, lunch and dinner here in Bangladesh seems to involve chilli. Heaven (although to be honest, having your mouth of fire first thing in the morning took me a while to stomach). And at 85tk – roughly $1.20, it was a pretty good deal.I decided to proceed on foot back to my hotel however which turned out to be a dubious choice, since my pal, Mr Sneaky happened to ride past and see me, and decide to follow me, again pleading for my business. “mama mama, rickshaw” (I later discovered that “mama” translates to uncle, but was used similar to the way I might call a friend “brother” or “bro”)
I picked up the pace walking back, ignoring Mr Hungry the whole way back. I checked out at roughly 11.30, but stored by backpack at the hotel. My bus wasn't leaving until 4pm.
I strolled across the road to the so-called 5 start hotel, for a proper coffee, albeit, an average one. Really, my main reason for going there was to hijack their free Wi-Fi in the hotel. The one thing about their cafe, was it was full of mozzies. Loads of them. Most annoying, and certainly not what you'd expect in a 5-star establishment.
Having satisfied my internet requirements, I wandered down to the beach, and then to the Mermaid Cafe for some lunch. I ordered what was titles, Eggplant Permezana, which I took to be Eggplant Parmigiana. And it was, although it wasn't that great. I killed time at the cafe though, relaxing and sipping drinks until 3pm came around, at which point I walked slowly back to the Long Beach Hotel, for another coffee before my bus ride out of Cox’s Bazar. Once again, I piggy-backed onto their Wi-Fi signal, to find a hotel in Chittagong to stay at. The Grand Park had been recommended to me by the American I'd met a few days earlier, and called them to check they had room available, which they did. 2500Tk ...about $35. Splurge!
I drained the scalding hot cafe latte, popped over the road to collect my bag, and went to wait for my bus.
Everyone you ask will tell you the bus ride from Cox's Bazar to Chittagong takes 3 hours. When I took it from Chittagong, it had taken more than 5 hours. Yet they remained adamant that the return journey would be 3 hours.
It took 5 and a half ..again.
The bus ride was boring, and fairly uneventful,e except that the annoying bloke I'd sat next to on my way to Cox's Bazar was, once again, on my bus, but thankfully not sitting next to me this time.
Like last time though the bus horn was relentless. I counted how many times he beeped the horn in 10 minutes. 49 times, 7 of which were prolonged beeps, greater than 3 seconds. And this continued the entire way back. By the time we got to Chittagong, I felt as though if I heard another horn, I would punch somebody.About 9.30 I alighted, and thankfully my hotel was about 400 metres from the bus stop.
I checked in to the Grand Park, and very nice it was too. The room was HUGE!
I hadn't eaten much all day, so I went downstairs to their fancy restaurant and had some dinner … about $7. And it was excellent. Thai chicken curry, Thai fish cake and fried rice.
Next door to the Grand Park was the Peninsula hotel – the top hotel in town, and it had a bar. Since I’d not had a beer since I'd arrived in Bangladesh (alcohol is prohibited, except in a select number of international hotels who hold a special license) I thought I’d reward myself, and get a beer. Damn, it wasn't cheap. It cost me about $6 for a small can of Heineken. And then $10 for a large one. In the bar, there were crowds of rowdy, pissed Bangladeshi's who had money to burn. Yelling at each other in a drunken stupor across the bar, an amusing sight indeed, but the bar was filled with smoke, and pretty filthy, and after my large beer, I headed to my room in the hotel next door to sleep.
Friday morning. My last proper day in Bangladesh.
My friend Rakib would be stopping by at 11.30am.
I got up and had my complementary breakfast in the fancy restaurant downstairs, and then went for a stroll around the local area. Not for long though, I had no idea where I was going. I found my way back to the hotel and waited for Rakib.
Rakib arrived, with some his friends – introductions all round, we stepped out to check out the local mall, and for “Tungki” - which was their word for checking out girls. The shops began closing for prayer time, and so they dropped me off back at my hotel, and would return at 4pm for another outing. Suited me fine, I was knackered, and needed a siesta.
I awoke hungry. One of Rakib's friends had told me the top restaurant in town was, of all places, Pizza Hut!! Since it was across the road, I thought I would check it out, to see if there was any difference to the Pizza Hut back home. And, well, not really. Probably marginally better than pizza back home, it was expensive by Bangladeshi standards, and probably so popular, because pizza is so unlike anything other foods they eat here. A novelty. And a real treat eat at. But for me, it was pretty average – compared to the pizza we get back home. I explained to them later that in Australia, Pizza Hut is considered one of the worst pizza places. Which made me think, and good, proper Italian pizza restaurant business would probably do rather well in Bangladesh – since they seem to love it, it's just too expensive for them to eat regularly.
In the afternoon I met up with my new group of friends, we went to visit a special cemetery, where solider from WWII were buried. Followed by a few games of pool at a local pool hall. Imran, one of the Rakib friends had explained that pool was relatively new to them.
After pool we went by rickshaw to an eatery called Royal Hut. Famous for kebabs. And I can see why. The kebabs were sensational. The place was packed, and clearly for good reason.
About 8.30 pm, after wandering about, and through another shopping centre, my friends Sohel and Rakib had to depart. They had to go to tutor some students for their up-coming exams.
We farewelled one another, and they set off, leaving me with their friends. As time went by, a couple more dropped off, having to head home, or elsewhere, and by 9.30 there was three of us remaining. I arrived back at the hotel at around 10.30 – and organised to checkout the following morning, as well as a ride to the airport. I'd been told the drive to the airport would take about an hour! Ouch! I had to be their an hour before my plane left, which meant leaving the hotel at around 6.45am.
The alarm woke me at a few minutes after 6am on Saturday morning. Dazed and confused, I struggled to get out of bed. I'd not gotten to sleep until about 1am.
I did my pre-departure checks. Bags packed? Check. Locked? Check. Ticket? Yep.
I was ready to leave. My driver was ready to go too. But wouldn’t you know it, the trip for the airport took half an hour!! What is with the timing estimations here in Bangladesh.
A 3 hour bus ride takes 5 and a half hours. A 1 hour drive takes 30 minutes?! To be fair though, in traffic, it probably would take an hour.
So I arrived at the airport just around 7.20. The security guard on duty exclaimed “You're the first to arrive”. Which also meant I had to wait a good 30 minutes for check-in to open.
/at least I was checked in nice and quickly though, after which, I proceeded to the cafe to get a drink and something to nibble on. They had Red Bull! Wow! 1 please. I was still sleep, and so the Red Bull gave me the kick I needed.
I proceeded through the security check to my departure gate (which seemed to be the ONLY departure gate for regional flights).
On the board, contrary to what was printed on my ticket, the plane was due to leave at 8.50am. I could handle ten minutes extra. But at around 9.15, still waiting at the gate, an airport official came around, advising all of us that the place would now be departing at 10am. Oooof. But it didn’t really matter to me, and in fact, I had somewhat anticipated the delay. I'd read that Bangladesh flights rarely leave on time. And anyway, my flight out of Dhaka wasn't until 16:45. So it was either wait it out here in Chittagong, or in Dhaka.
We boarded out twin-propeller Dehaviland plane at a few minutes after 10am.
The plane, like most vehicles in Bangladesh, was a little run down. And while it was clean inside, I did spot a couple of cockroaches crawling around the cabin which a little off-putting.
50 minutes later I was in Dhaka. By the time I had collected my bags and set of towards the international terminal, it was about 11.15am. I had a good 5 hours wait ahead of me. Not much fun, made worse by the fact that there was literally no-where to eat in the departure hall – all the cafes and shops, of which there weren’t many anyway, were all available only once you'd passed through immigration. And since my flight wasn't until 4.45pm, and therefore check-in would not open until about 2.30, I would have to sit and starve patiently until check-in opened. I hadn't eaten anything except the crappy muffin and biscuit served on the plane, so I was feeling extremely hungry, and the best I could find was a packet of chips of a chocolate bar.
Fortunately, check-in opened just after 2pm, and so I grabbed my bags and proceeded to the check-in counter. I wanted to get through immigration so that I could relieve myself from starvation.
Once through immigration, the choices were pretty limited. An awfully pricey airport cafe, or a few marginally cheaper takeaway type stores, selling chicken burger, samosas,and other small snacks. Two chicken burger, a coffee, and a coke later I felt better, and waited out the rest of my time until I was to board.
At long last, 4.05pm rolled around – boarding time. I saw our plane pulled up to the gate, and the passenger from KL disembark. Shortly after they'd had time to clean the plane, the announcement came over the PA system that we could being boarding. Yay! I was tired, and couldn’t' wait to settle into my seat for the 4 hour journey back to Malaysia.
Unfortunately, seated next to me, behind me, and in front of me, were mothers with babies. I have nothing against this of course, and appreciate the difficulties of flying with children – I was one of them once, and it brought back memories of having an asthma attack on a plane once, which must have been most annoying for the surrounding passengers. But I was really hoping for some peace and quiet so that I could rest. Alas it was not to be. If one child was ok, another would be screaming. And at one point, they all chimed in together, as if they were a baby-shop quartet. Just bad luck I suppose. Most annoying of all however, was a man sitting across the aisle for me, who looked just like my brother-in-law, and clearly was unwell, and proceeded to cough, sniffle and sneeze the whole flight back. But what really pissed me off, was the fact that not once did he cover his mouth or nose. Not a single time. He would look around cough and splutter all over the cabin every few minutes. I kept thinking to myself, that if I get sick because of him, I'd punch him. I think I managed about 20 minutes of shut-eye by the time we got back to KL. I was, by this time, tired, grumpy, and starving. A bad combination.
Disembarkation and customs was, thankfully, a swift affair. My plan was to head to the airport hotel so that I could get a decent sleep. Upon exiting the terminal I boarded the hotel shuttle bus. But didn't last long. The driver asked if I'd had a reservation, to which I replied no. The hotel was fully booked. Arrrrrgggggghhh!
This meant a 1 hour bus journey into KL city to find somewhere to stay. It was 11.45 when I got on the bus to the city. And it was just after 1am when I got off at KL Sentral, the main airport transit bus & train terminal. I was wrecked. I took a 5 minute taxi ride to the only hotel I knew nearby. It was full. So was the next one I tried. I was getting shitty by this stage, all I wanted to do was sleep. I found a hotel around the corner, Hotel Mexico. And by chance, the manager on duty had told me he had one room available, the last in the hotel, due to a no-show. By this time I didn’t care how much the room was, I just took it. Turned out it was only about $30 which suited me perfectly. I went up to my room, dropped by bags, and after an extremely long and arduous day, made it to bed.
that's just the problem with those 'deshis innit? they need to get jobs. lazy bums...just lazin around all day...
ReplyDeleteanyways...i reckon bali is better than bangladesh anyday. 5 star resorts, pool bar, nice beaches...!!! who wants to put up with all that poverty??? why dont they just work harder???
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