PART 1 (BANGLADESH)

At first I thought of "only" visiting the Subcontinent farther, with an incursion in Bangladesh and South India. However, as the mountains in the North were calling, I came across Bhutan, a small kingdom sandwiched between two countries with the biggest population in the world, China and India. What had initially started as mere curiosity slowly evolved into trip planning. A two aircraft airline, only being granted the visa based on an all inclusive package for the full duration of the stay, as well as bordered by over 7000 m. peaks of the Himalayas to the North, respectively featuring a very interesting history, this was the country at the first glance; it would be far more in reality.

Finding an airline that would fly both to Dhaka in Bangladesh and to Trivandrum in South India was easier than buying a train ticket in India, but for a good fare one had to struggle just like on a Indian bus: two changes. So we left on a rather cool and wet mid December night towards Damascus on a plane full of Syrian families going home for New Year's. Walking through the old town during the early Friday morning, with almost nobody around, brought back dear memories. The bazaar looked almost surreal, with its silence and closed shops, while the odd person crossing had a ghostly touch. The white stone walls and minarets of the Ummayad Mosque shone in the early morning sun and it almost felt like being inside, facing the impressive mosaics and watching the crowds of pilgrims as I had done some years back. Some chai and oranges for breakfast and the time to go back to the airport had come, this time destination Abu Dhabi, mostly with Syrians working in the United Arab Emirates, respectively elegantly dressed ladies going for the shops. Eventually, some 24 hours after leaving home, we boarded the plane destination Dhaka.

When we should have started descending towards the airport, the captain announced that, due to the thick fog at Dhaka, we could not land and that we should wait for a while. About 20 minutes later, after going in circles above the cloud level, the plane eventually descended through the dense clouds; we could see the ground just a very short while before touching the runway. Plots of land alternated with green patches dotted with houses. Everything was overwhelmed by an omnipresent fog that made the rather rich vegetation surrounding the airport look enchanting. If immigration was rather quick (about half an hour), finding one's luggage was a bit of a challenge, as many of the local people had huge parcels, boxes, sacks and other pieces of luggage that were piled near the conveyor belt, with more and more coming for some score minutes, and all that for a single flight; this made Delhi's airport look rather small and quiet. As a pro, the airport was large and it had big halls, quite different from the undersized (and weirdly developing) airport in Abu Dhabi. Only with part of our luggage (as some of it was supposedly lost and was to be returned only partially after some negotiating with the lady in charge), we went to the city, which appeared to be as bustling and crowded as a 12 million people community can be.

Rickshaws, motorickshaws, cars, colourful trucks, hand-pulled carts and battered, old buses were flowing along the otherwise wide streets that were almost incessantly bordered by various businesses, ranging from outlets selling stationery products, to travel agents or iron workers' stalls. Thousands of people virtually flowed along the main streets; shiny car drivers would horn buses and trucks to be given priority; the latter, at their turn, would horn motorickshaws, which would horn rickshaws and cart owners. In the end, it would all go towards pedestrians that would find their way sneaking among them all, finding the right moment to run across the street, respectively stop all of a sudden 5 cm. before being hit by a motorbike unexpectedly dashing out of a side alley.

Getting off our motorickshaw, we soon found our hotel, the entrance to which lay between a restaurant and a stall selling oranges covered in a thick layer of dust coming from the street's pollution. Before going inside, it was next to impossible not to notice that half a dozen people were almost always looking at us, smiling, come to us with the so common by now "hello, where are you from?" or simply staring. The old city was like a maze of narrow streets, small shops, bicycles, rickshaws, motorbikes and people, as many and as colourful as possible: men wearing white kamises or dark suits, women dressed in bright coloured saris (as well as the odd black burqa) or children pushing huge fruit-loaded carts. Curiosity walked hand in hand with kindness in Dhaka. It was enough for one to stop for 5 minutes and he / she would next to immediately get surrounded by score people: smiling or simply looking at the stranger, they sometimes dared ask where one had come from and what his / her impression of Bangladesh was. Similarly, sitting down at a local restaurant or place selling those sugar juice drained cakes almost guaranteed a conversation with those at the next table; if nobody was around, the stranger's presence was to drag people in for sure.

While the human experience was great (and overwhelming through its being spontaneous, genuine), the old town lacked an exhaustive list of monuments or buildings to see. The rather few pieces of Mughal and British era architecture either were falling apart or faded if compared with their counterparts in India or Pakistan (yes, I am subject to making comparisons, it is all about being human, I guess). However the very contrasts at their once monumental gates (such as the bustling, noisy quay facing the Pink Palace) granted them a particular appeal. And then there was the River. Even more than in Varanasi, the River was buzzing with life. Water lilies, plastic bottles, wooden rowing boats, ferries loaded with sand, bricks or people, women washing pieces of cloth, litter, dirt and mud, as well as the odd duck and swimmer, they all found their place in the Buriganga. Its water was black because of the sewage and heaps of garbage flowing into it. Ghats provided a host where people slept, looked for ferry tickets, drank chai, sold fruits, wandered or looked for rickshaw spare parts. Taking a boat along the river was more than going from A to B faster than in a rickshaw along Dhaka's congested streets; it was a means of approaching this so vivid city, host of its vast population. It was a means of seeing, of experiencing the city with its so vibrant, so stirring life beat. And then, there was hardly any better experience than having an ad-hoc discussion with a local in the narrow lanes through the old town while going back to the hotel located on the buzzing North-South Road.

Taking the train to Srimangal provided a good (even though brief) introduction to the countryside, with those countless plots of rice and small mud house villages located on island-like green patches a foot above the surrounding area - measure meant to protect them from floods during the wet season. Trains were generally poorer than in India and, going East, they also used a narrow gauge if compared to the one elsewhere in the former Raj. The same, omnipresent vendors were passing through the train selling pakoras, dates, peanuts, oranges, chai, as well as various snacks to the passengers while the train would stir clouds of dust that got into the wagons, a good reminder of a journey to Jaisalmer a couple of years before. Srimangal was supposed to be only a town that would provide a base for exploring tea plantations and a couple of nature reserves nearby. However it proved to be far more than that. The town was host to an endless number of simply fascinating spots, from the cattle market to the sweets-selling outlets along the main street, or to the narrow alleys in the far North-Eastern corner of the town, sneaking among swamps and pools, respectively quasi-residential blocks. And then, there was the main market: huge, noisy, selling it all, from cabbage and pumpkin, to tea or reed baskets. Even the people there were keen to communicate with the stranger, asking to be taken the picture together with their merchandise they were very proud of, or insisting that one tastes their fruit or cheese. Last, but not least, the market place hosted, as always, the best places to eat open both early in the morning and late at night, before and after a day of exploring the area.

It was great to go among the tea plantations on a (close to) British era bicycle I could hardly keep from falling apart before getting back to town in the evening. The farther one got (especially when leaving behind the main road), the less vehicles there were and the quieter. Tea bushes would stretch on forever, either on flat areas or on low hills and meadows. Every now and then this dark green vastness was dotted with women dressed in bright colours, picking tea leaves. And then everything was overwhelmed by a layer of light fog which made it all look mysterious and almost surreal. Beyond the tea plantations there was the welcome contrast brought around by Lowachera Park, a rainforest reserve which completed the quiet break in densely populated Bangladesh. This was, of the few places I visited in the country, the site where one could feel tourism was given (any sort of) attention, even though even here it was in an early, stage of development, still of the scouting type. However guides were doing their best to show the place to guests and people were not pushy like in similar places in other countries (including neighbouring India); this all happened despite an obvious lack of know-how and next to no investment, not to mention removing that railway from crossing the heart of the reserve. The Khashia village inside the reserve was yet another interesting experience, even though chewing betel, just like the qat in Yemen, will never become something I enjoy doing. Even though the area was one of the main attractions of the country and it certainly lay in a cul-de-sac, we hardly noticed (either eye witnessed or through the hotel's records) some other foreigners there. Maybe it was not the "right" season (even though I fail to believe that the wet season is better), but fact is that, after a couple of days of talking to people in the streets, it was pretty clear to everyone, from the Hotel United staff to the manager at the confectionery shop nearby, the boys serving at the restaurant by the market or various other locals, that the two Romanians that had rented those rusty bikes were leaving the following day on the 9.45 AM train to Dhaka. And by the time we left, everyone knew that we preferred chai joined by plain paratha in the morning, without dosa or hot pickles, while the evening was dedicated to several pieces of gulab jamun (not just one like everyone else). This showed the extent to which Bangladesh was alive, curious, human and - in the end of the day - natural, a feature many of us have long lost while seeking comfort at all costs.

Old bicycle, dusty train, motorickshaw, respectively walking across the capital during the evening rush hour, the time to leave the country had arrived. Bangladesh will remain for me the professor of physics that was so eager to talk to the strangers in Srimangal during the others' joining a pro-Zia's BNP meeting, the student in political science that wanted to share with us his reformist views at a cafeteria in Kalampur Station. Last, but not least, Bangladesh will always be that old man which came out of the blue in the small Srimangal confectionery shop we were in, sat down, wished us happiness and then, without any other word or without even having a glass of water, stood up and walked away into the night.

At 6 AM the alarm clock rang and a motorickshaw to the airport was... (click here for the sequel)

THE BANGLADESHI SECTION (you are here)

THE BHUTANESE SECTION

THE INDIAN SECTION