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Bangla-love: How I Fell in Love with Bangladesh.
The following is an except from a journal I kept while traveling through Bangladesh in February of 2014. This particular writing took place during a several hour car from Dhaka to Chittagong. My best friend, love & travel partnet, Eric, and I had only been in the country for a day and the culture shock was off the charts. Here is the cast:
Eric & Kim:
Tanvir (our driver extraoridaire) & Roni (our distinguished fixer ):
Allow me to set the mood: Roni is in the passenger seat. He and Tanvir are carrying on with casual conversation while phone calls are constantly coming in. Tanvir is of course taking them as he's alternating between gradually flooring it, cautiously swerving and gently slamming on the breaks (yes, all of the hyperbole is intentional and actually makes sense in the moment). Eric is beside me sporting a comically large camera considering our surroundings and the contented look of a starving photographer who has finally rediscovered his passion. I am feeling like a poster child for 'Murca with my rock-star-wannabe-sunnies and can of Coca-f'ing-Cola all the while being loaded to the gills with questions like "So there really are no McDonald's in the whole country?!" (Yep- I consider it a new point of pride... I've made it to my first country before McDonalds.) Oh, it's almost sunset and we're battling our way through rickshaws, CNGs, cars, vans and humans through a "short cut" to beat traffic out of Dhaka.
Rickshaws and busses leaving Dhaka.
Judging by the number of traffic jams we hit I'd guess our plan was flawed, but that's beside the point and what do I know of Bangla-traffic anyhow?. After nightfall came the 'cha' (tea) pit stop. With that came the blasting of Bangla music (sounds like a Bollywood soundtrack) and a rejuvenated driver, so the "high speed on coming traffic overtaking game" was back on- now is the time where I think I should admit I played Gem Slider on my iPhone in Banglasesh. I'm not proud of the fact but let me explain. Typically when I am TERRIFIED I have the oh so logical natural response of falling asleep. Unfortunately high speed maneuvering, necessary constant horn blowing from all directions and the occasional hard stomp on the breaks put a damper on those plans. So, to relieve the tension headache I'd earned by intensely clenching my teeth and tensing all of my muscles for the first two hours on the "highway," I lost myself in Gem Slider. I can now attest to its addictive powers and calming abilities.
The running theme in my head for the duration of our stay in Bangladesh was "I'm sure it's fine." Passing a bus in on coming traffic with a few millimeters margin? I'm sure it's fine.
Traffic outside of Dhaka city center.
Riding around on an archaic rickshaw with a somehow even older looking bus barreling down the road directly toward us at top speed (25 mph) with horn blaring? I'm sure it's fine. Watching cars be checked for bombs every time they pulled up to our hotel? I'm sure it's fine. Forgetting and accidentally brushing my teeth with tap water? I'm sure it's fine. Eating Bangal chicken curry in a restaurant with my hands and roti for utensils? I'm sure it's fine. Taking the worlds tippiest boat out for a quick tour of the Dhaka ship building yards in a shockingly green and very sludgy river? I'm sure it's fine.
Water taxi in Dhaka, Bangladesh.
Is this rust ridden, pothole riddled bridge going to be able to support the weight of our car plus several busses and textile trucks at once? I'm sure it's fine. Am I going to puke at the smell of this damned truck full of goats (oh God is that the goats? Please say it's the goats- my stomach's been awfully rumbly after polishing off all those cokes.) if we can't pass it soon? I'm sure it's fine. Not being able to walk anywhere, EVER, without 99% of eyes on me (hey, that 1%'s gotta tie their shoe sometime, right?). I'm sure it's fine. A family haulting work on their new home and sending their nimblest child 15 feet up a palm to get us coconuts to drink? I'm sure it's fine.
(As a rule Bangladeshi people are, hands down, the most hospitable I've met.)
And it was- it all was just fine. I found serenity in the simple way our driver would beep his horn and signal showing that yes, he was passing and yes, we would survive. The car horns, in fact, disappeared into the background after the first hour of our seven hour road trip to Chittagong (190 or so kilometers away). The graceful fluidity of my rick shaw drivers body as he worked incredibly hard to cart Eric and I's unnaturally sized selves (in terms of Bangladeshi sizing) back to our hotel became a sight I craved. The way in which each riskshaw driver was able to make such a difficult task look beautiful was awe inspiring.
Down. Up. Down. Up.
Fluidity of our rickshaw driver.
So memorable to me is the shame I felt when I looked at someone with pity in my eyes and in return received the purest and happiest grin I've ever seen on someone in my 28 years. Even more memorable to me is the pride that grew within me when I lost my sense of pity and fear and replaced it with care, concern and friendliness in return. I stopped looking at my feet to avoid the intense stares and began smiling, waving and saying hello. This is when I began forming unforgettable, though fleeting, bonds with the Bangla people.
Making new friends at a school in Chittagong.
Sating goodbye.
When Bangalis spoke English to us, they would say "what is your name?" or "what is your country?" A favorite way to end your quick exchange was with the question "Bangladesh, you like it?" or my favorite "Bangladesh, it's beautiful?" And truly that was my favorite because I grew to see the beauty of Bangladesh and of its people. There was beauty simply in the pride of Bangla people. There was beauty in the character of Bengalis... Their struggle is real, don't get me wrong, but the grace and strength with which they persevere is unmatched by any other culture I have encountered.
The things you recognize when you're traveling are astonishing. Often times I wonder "Why does it take visiting a small, pastoral village between Chittagong and Bandarban to recognize the delightful way a nose wrinkles when a young boy tries to conceal his smile?"
Young boy in a farming community on the road between Chittagong and Bandarban.
This ends the excerpt from my travel journal. There are many more entries I will be sharing in the coming days with more insite and lessons I learned on my journey through Bangladesh. I will leave you with a few photos of E and I and a couple of other charachters we met along the way.
E and I on our water taxi tour of a port in Dhaka.
Posing on the bow of a passenger ferry in Dhaka.
Tanvir (our driver and friend) on top of the world. He was youthful and free spirited while still being fiercely protective of both Eric and myself.
Farmer and family man on the road between Chittagong and Bandarban. Kind, quiet and hardworking. There is an entire post on this community coming.
Women in a Dhaka slum along the railroad tracks.
Ganjababa in the same slum. Very intense and unfriendly looking and yet accepting of the camera and having his photograph captured.
Photo credit is given to my life and travel partner, Eric at Sweet Light Studio.