I have found about the only cybercafe in Dhaka. The connection is fast and they have USB ports. I have posts written up for the last two days.
And I’ve forgotten to copy the file with them in onto my USB stick.
GAH!
No worries. I’ll update as and when (a couple of days from now, I think). But the important thing is I’m in Bangladesh, the trip was fine and there’s no rioting or anything daft! Exactly the opposite. The people here are bend-over-backwards helpful.
Catch you all soon!
TV is evil. TV made me stay up to watch The Simpsons until after 2am. As such, I wasn’t as well-rested as I’d hoped by 8am when we had to get up. A rapid wash and pack were done before we dropped our bags in reception to be looked after.
A work colleague of Mahmud’s arrived shortly after 9:00 to show us around the city on a whistle-stop tour. First stop, however, was for breakfast. My stomach was much better but still not 100% so I only pinched a quarter of Hans’ spicy chicken pizza to settle myself before we hopped onto a rickshaw and were pedalled towards the Sadarghat (port). You can get three adults on a rickshaw fairly easily. I would recommend, though, that one of them doesn’t have a digestive disorder at the time.
Rickshaws aren’t the most comfortable way to travel but they’re fairly swift, convenient and incredibly environmentally friendly. Their only by-product is carbon dioxide from the guy pedalling and the stench of fear from the passenger. Compared to the deafening honking in most of India where cars, buses and autorickshaws compete for space in a “who’s horn is the loudest” competition, Dakha in places sounds more like a minature campanologists’ convention. *dring dring* *tinkle* *crunch* Oh, yes. Rickshaws don’t stop gracefully. It’s standard procedure to just thump into the one in front to ensure you’re as closely packed as possible.
We also encountered a silly money problem when trying to pay the rickshaw driver. The fare was 20 Taka. The smallest note we had was 100 and, of course, he didn’t have change. This is a really common issue in many countries, so as a rule try and get a bunch of small change as soon as you can. I’ve added this to the tips page. Fortunately, Mahmud’s friend paid (we ran a tally for the day and paid him back later) and we walked down to the riverside.
A small flotilla of equally small boats awaited us. Each manned by a single sailor with a single oar, these boats are used to ferry people and goods from side to side, or from larger ships to the portside. We boarded our chosen vessel, panicked, wobbled, sat, prayed, wobbled some more and let the oarsman take us out into the water. We were taken a fair distance up and downstream on the Buriganga watching river life take place. Huge boats moved up and down virtually submerged in the weight of their cargo, vessels akin to paddle steamers without the paddles battled to get to the dockside, families and random businessmen passed by. Workers shaped things or sat and played cards, women on the riverside laid plastic bags out to dry (I assume for recycling) and so on.
Something I’ve not encountered before but which Hans has is to be the centre of attention in another country. Simply, nobody travels to Bangladesh as a tourist much as they didn’t to Vietnam seven years ago when Hans was there. As such, a white guy and a (historic) Korean sat on a small boat makes for something to gawp at for the locals. We had a lot of people waving at us and smiling for photos so it became a challenge to get any non-posed shots unless we snuck up on them from the side.
The time passed pleasantly enough as we talked to our guide about his family, Bangladesh, cricket and football. After an hour or so, we returned to the water’s edge and paid the ferryman. It was slightly less than two pieces of silver – only 110Tk.
We had been dropped off a little further downstream than where we’d boarded. Our guide walked us through a busy dockside warehouse to the Ahsan Manzil or Pink Palace. This is a late 19th century palace now partially open as a museum. Entrance is a ludicrously small 2Tk (There are 140Tk to the pound!) though there is not a huge amount to see inside. One thing to note with Bangladesh is that, unlike India, it seems that foreigners pay the same as locals for the tourist attractions. Let’s see how long this lasts if more people start visiting!
Our next mode of transport was a horse and carriage. We sat for ages as it seems these vehicles only set off when they’re fully laden. Eventually, we set off. Then stopped. Moved a few yards. And stopped again. The traffic in Dhaka isn’t the best in the world, even though most of it is quite small and maneuverable! The carriage only took us partway to where we wanted to go, so again we did the 3-men-in-a-rickshaw trick and set off towards the university campus.
Dhaka University is famed for it’s Business Administration course (our guide had recently passed this) and has some interesting statues on the grounds.
Round the back of the university is the National Museum with the inviting entrance fee of 5Tk. Our guide had o get back to the office, so left us there with instructions on how to return to our hotel. I will try to get his name before I post this, but we’re both hugely grateful for his time regardless.
The museum is smaller than the Indian equivalent we visited in Calcutta, but is conversely of a slightly better quality – or at least is less dusty! Exhibits include Bangladeshi weaponry, art, animals, agricultural products and a section devoted to the Liberation War of 1971. In fact, there’s a whole separate museum dedicated to this event, but sadly we didn’t have time to visit that as well. This exhibit was the highlight for me, with some very harrowing items on display – including the bloodstained shirt of one freedom fighter who died wearing it.
One thing that hits home about how young Bangladesh is as a country is that the first ever Bangladeshi flag – handmade – is on display in the museum. The country is only two years older than I am! The bad thing is the flag seems to have aged better than me.
Hans and I ended up being exhibits ourselves, or so it felt. I swear more people were staring at the foreigners than were looking at the displays. I should have had a shower and put on my Sunday best.
Stomachs were beginning to gurgle (well, mine continued to gurgle – I made full use of the facilities at the museum while we were there) so we located ourselves a rickshaw and were pedalled speedily back to the hotel. Our rickshaw-wallah was a very honest man. We gave him 100Tk and he handed us back a fifty. Then another ten, when he realised we weren’t going to let him away with it. He was reaching for more notes, when we decided to let him keep the rest. The fare should have been 20Tk, but some people deserve a break.
The hotel helped us sort lunch as the restaurant next door only had a menu in Bangla. I stuck with some simple rice and veg while Hans wolfed down pretty much everything else on the table. Oh, I can’t wait to get my appetite back.
Our last task of the afternoon was to locate a cybercafe. This proved to be a not insignificant quest, but with the help of the hotel management, a keen rickshaw-wallah, several members of the public who happened to speak English and some luck we found one about 15 minutes’ pedalling away. A good connection as well, and they had USB ports. A shame I forgot to copy my blog posts to my USB key before we left the hotel. Gah. Still, I got some money stuff done online and cleared some emails which was the whole point. All for 30Tk per hour. Bargain.
On the rickshaw ride back, we spotted our first riot police of our visit. They were busy reading newspapers and looking bored. I told you all it was fine here since the caretaker government took over!
Bags shouldered, we decided to get two rickshaws to the dock. Hans did try hailing a taxi, but he gave the univeral facial expression for “Hell, no” when we mentioned Sadarghat. Given the traffic we encountered on the way there was bad enough for a three-wheeler, I can’t say I blame him for turning the fare down.
Once we were dropped off, the fun began. The fare to Sadarghat should be 20Tk per rickshaw. Hans had a 50Tk note and was indicating it was for the two drivers to share. Heads were shaken. “Hundred, hundred” they indicated. One hundred each. It was our turn to go “Hell, no!”.
We gathered quite a crowd as the “discussion” progressed. One young boy who spoke English kept trying to raise the price, obviously hoping for a kickback from the drivers if he got them an inflated price. Another local in a blue shirt stood our ground and argued that the going rate was much less and that the foreigner was being generous with 25Tk each.
Eventually Hans shouted “You are bad Muslims! You want 50Tk? Or you want nothing?”
“Eighty!”
Bad move. Money back in wallet, back turned, Hans stormed off.
It’s funny how as soon as the possibility of losing all the cash you’ve already worked for raises its head that you think maybe taking the correct fare isn’t such a bad idea after all. In fairness, there was never any real vitriol. Anyone watching could see the smiles on faces as the haggling went on. Sorry to say, but the Bangladeshis just haven’t got the hang of ripping off tourists yet!
We were at the dock again to catch our mode of transport for the next 24 hours – the rocket boat “Ostrich”. This vessel is to take us all the way to Mangla and we have a first class cabin in which to while away the journey. As we were sat in our comfy little dorm waiting for departure, Mahmud barged in! He had wanted to make sure we were OK, had enjoyed our morning and even brought some delicious savoury biscuits for us to munch on until dinner. I think he made it off the boat before we set sail – he certainly ran fast enough when he realised the engine had started…
The Ostrich is nice enough and the staff are incredibly helpful. Dinner was an option of English or Bengali food – I went for the former and Hans the latter. Both were really good. The beds are comfy and there’s electricity in the room (if you unplug the fan!) so I can get on with laptop work while Hans does his amazing snoozing trick. I swear, he’d sleep twenty hours a day and eat for the other four if he could.
An exchange of text messages told us that Prashant had called Biman Bangladesh and that we’d have to go to their city office to change our tickets to the afternoon flight and cough up 200Rp each for the privilege. A small amount, in fairness, for a very last-minute flight change.
On arrival at Calcutta, I got right on the phone to them and confirmed this as well as the address. Dodging two non-prepay taxis (150Rp and 100Rp respectively), we booked a pre-pay to the city centre for 80Rp. It always pays to check out the options here!
A manic ride towards Park Street where we dived out and ran to the address we had. Only to find that it was now occupied by the Deutsche Bank. Fortunately, the guard knew the location of their newer office and gave us directions. Packs strapped to backs, off we marched.
Ten minutes later, we got there and the staff could not have been more understanding and helpful. Given that we’d effectively given them virtually no warning of our flight cancellation, the change was swift. The cherry on top was that they obviously saw how stressed we were (OK, how stressed I was – Hans really wasn’t bothered at all) and waived the administration fee. This saved us a trip to the ATM and was hugely appreciated.
Another manic taxi ride got us to the airport for 12:45 where we were greeted by a huge bamboo fence around which was a massive throng of Muslims in traditional white garb. Gazillions of them. It took us ten minutes to figure out how to get through the crowd and into the airport. Security was high as they were returning from the Hajj and a large gathering of any religious group is going to make for a target by some other one.
The security staff were really friendly, all things considered, and rushed us through. The guy who checked us after the metal detector even nattered to me for five minutes about our trip around India. Then we realised there was nothing to eat in the departure lounge and they let us back out to get some grub.
Our new flight was slightly delayed, but to nowhere near the extent of our train journey thankfully. We’d also texted Rafiq in Bangladesh to let him know about our change of arrival time, so thankfully he hadn’t wasted all day waiting for us. And Hans wonders why I carry my mobile!
The plane was a dinky 100-seater, so I was a little trepeditious. The last time I was on something that small it landed three times (bounce bounce bounce), but the weather and pilot were more in our favour on this trip and all was nice and smooth. The in-flight meal was two slices of lovely bread/cake, a can of Virgin Cola and the world’s blandest cheese sandwich. Still, we weren’t expecting anything on a 40-minute flight so we weren’t about to complain.
I think I got the World’s Grumpiest Immigration Official who wanted to see business cards and details of the hotel we were staying at and of the person meeting us at the airport. Of course, I didn’t have these. The guy Hans was dealing with simply stamped everything, wished him an enjoyable stay and gave him his passport back. I know how to pick ’em.
Thankfully, up to the time of writing, he’s the only miserable Bangladeshi we’ve encountered. The crowd in the luggage hall had quite a giggle as the belt started up and an aged Muslim sat cross-legged on it started to disappear towards the dangling strips of rubber in the wall with a surprised look on his face. Fortunately, one of his younger companions rescued him in the nick of time. Well, they do have signs telling you not to sit on the thing!
Hans gave Rafiq a call to make sure he was outside and then had a bit of fun with the man at the telephone counter who tried to convince him that the 20Tk note he was trying to spend was a 10Tk. The Bangla “squiggle” for a “2” does look like a wiggly “1”, but the western-style “20” in the corner foiled his dastardly plan to rip Hans off to the tune of 7 pence.
Rafiq met us by the exit and we managed to spot him simply as he wasn’t wearing traditional white Muslim garb or a military outfit. Hans “met” Rafiq via the Lonely Planet bulletin board and he very kindly offered to meet us and get us into the city. He stuck to this promise, refused to let us pay for the taxi, and gave us tea on the rooftop verandah of his house overlooking the city.
It turns out that as well as working in the textile industry, Rafiq’s also part of a group called Dhaka Basecamp. They organise treks, trips, dives, races and so forth. And in his spare time, he picks up random foreigners from the airport and makes them feel welcome! Thank you, Rafiq – hopefully we’ll catch you again before our week is out.
As night fell, we hopped in a taxi to our hotel where we were to meet Mahmud. Another person Hans had met online, Mahmud is another proud Bangladeshi who wants to show his country off to visitors. To this end, not only had he given us some advice on where to go, he’d booked tickets, rooms, trips and guides. And paid for them. Then invited us over to dinner to meet his family.
The details and itinerary Mahmud provided were superb. I’ve dealt with actual tour companies in the past who haven’t been so exacting. We gladly refunded the outlay he’d made and accompanied him and his family out to a restaurant to celebrate his brother-in-law’s wedding anniversary. Again, our offers of payment were refused. Mahmud and family – thank you. If this is a typical Bangladeshi welcome, more people should come here.
The only downside was – again – my tummy being a little dicky, so I couldn’t enjoy the dinner as much as I’d have liked. My apologies to anyone if I seemed a little pre-occupied and not my usual bouncy self!
We’re currently safely ensconced in the Hotel Ramna where I’ve downed my anti-malarials and some anti-poop pills. Touch wood I’m better by morning.
Oh, what a day… After the last update, we dashed back to the hotel where I dashed to the nearest lavatory. My stomach’s still not completely happy with the world.
We were in good time to grab our bags and get our pre-paid lift back to the train station for the 16:25 train to Calcutta, from where we had a 11:20 flight to Dhaka. We couldn’t spot the train on the departures board, so we asked one of the guards which platform it was from. “None yet – delayed. One hour.”
Great.
I needed the loo again and for some reason the train station had decided to target a narrow group. Only male westerners had to pay to go wee-wee. There was no custodian at the female toilet, and Indians walked quite happily in and out of the gents while white men had to fork out some number of rupees.
Well, I only had a 25 Pais coin on me (quarter of a rupee), and I certainly wasn’t going to hand over paper money. Especially as I knew there wouldn’t be any paper awaiting me inside for me to use. Besides, part of my lavatorial trips recently had been purely risk-based. To make an old rhyme more relevant:
Here I sit all broken hearted,
Paid ten Rupees and only farted.
So I strode back to our waiting area, slightly uncomfortable but not prepared to gamble 10Rp on my dodgy tummy. Mind, if I gambled the other way the dry cleaning bill would have been significantly higher. It was only an hour to wait for the train, so not to worry.
17:10 arrived and we walked to platform 6 where we’d been told the train would be arriving. Only it didn’t. We met two German tourists there who informed us there had been another hour-long delay.
Off we trudged back to the entrance hall as it was more spacious, where we watched the tourist chap literally kick a small child up the backside to stop him begging off the tourists.
18:10 arrived… and our train, which was on the board by now, swiftly became the 19:10 express. And then the 19:40.
By now, assuming the train still took 14 hours, there was no way on earth we would catch our flight. Argh. And the Biman Bangladesh offices were, by now, shut.
What do you do when you’re rapidly starting to panic about your flights in India? You call Prashant and he digs out all the phone numbers you need and promises to call on your behalf in the morning while you’re still stuck on the train.
Star.
The journey itself was one of the more comfortable as we were in AC2, so somewhat less cramped. Company was good with a middle-aged Indian chap, a girl from the UK called Jen and a French guy called – stereotypically – Pierre.
We got dinner, chatted and the Indian guy curled up in bed. And we still hadn’t left the station. I think we’d moved about 50 yards by this point. Unbelievable. The whole trip was stop/start – seemingly more time stationary than in motion – but we somehow made it to Calcutta station by 11:00 precisely the next morning.
Image from WikipediaWell today I get lumbered with a crappy computer with more security restrictions than the Pentagon, 10 keys permanently stuck down, more annoying popups than party time at a cemetery full of zombies, too slow to allow me to upload files and a desktop picture displaying something you’d kill yourself before imagining your parents doing.
And still I provide you all with an update. I’m just too kind.
Yesterday evening we went for our boat trip along the river. It was fairly entertaining, and cheap at 80Rp. The “captain” (the guy with the big sticks that moved us around) told us a handful of facts about some of the buildings (“big building there – mental hospital”) and we parked up near a huge dance and music show taking place on one of the ghats.
It was quite grand, all bell ringing, incense burning and so on. Seven male dancers with a small stage each doing some ritual all in step with each other. I have no idea what it was about, but by the time they’d done the same thing three times it was about time to head back.
The main thing I’ve not mentioned yet is the main reason people come to Varanasi. Cremation. Being a major tributary sat on the Ganges, Varanasi is seen as a holy place and families pay a sizeable sum – around 3000 Rupees – to have relatives cremated on pyres by the side of the river in full public view. The bodies are wrapped in white cloth, often with a more decorative shroud on top, placed on carefully stacked wood and then more timber piled on top of them. The pyres are lit from one fire which is kept burning permanently. It takes 2 1/2 to 3 hours for cremation to complete and the cost of the funeral does depend on the type of wood used. Apparently it’s a rather exact science as wood is costly, so you need to know exactly how much you need to efficiently cremate a person of a given size and weight.
Of course, it also means that the dust falling from the sky while you’re eating your banana pancake on the rooftop cafe used to be Mrs Patel from round the corner.
In other news, I forgot to mention yesterday about the girl who came into the manager’s office while we were checking in. She was asking for a doctor for her boyfriend who had a problem with his belly. No, not sickness. A cow had gored him. It didn’t sound too bad from what she was saying, but he was worried that a rib may be cracked.
We were warned by the manager to watch out for the cows and bulls in the city. It’s hardly Pamplona, but many of the streets are narrow and bulls do get territorial. Besides, would you pick an argument with a creature maybe eight times your body weight that wanted to get somewhere with you standing in its way? I know I’d give it right of way. Or just run like hell.
My stomach’s been a little ropey the last couple of days, but nowhere near as bad as I’ve heard it can get. I’ve been getting a bit of a headache as well, so I’m putting it down more to either exhaustion/lack of sleep or a minor virus rather than the infamous Delhi Belly. Feeling better today, though.
I do have some updates planned for the blog, mainly streamlining the calendar/timeline down the side. The work’s all done on my laptop but I can’t find anywhere to upload the fruits of my labour at the moment.
On a final point, I’m overjoyed to welcome a new addition to the family back home – Taffy, the Schitzu. I knew it would only be a matter of time before my folks got another dog, and I’m sure they’ve not done it purely to convince me to fly back!
Well, we’re off for lunch now, and then to the train station for the trip back to Calcutta. It’s a “2AC” rather than a “sleeper” this time, so it should be slightly more comfy. We go straight to the airport from the train station, which will be the next possible place for an update. After that… Bangladesh!
