On the Spur of the Moment

The last remaining weeks of our time here is South Asia could well have taken a number of different turns. Fran was adamant that we should spend at least a week in Ladakh, but that would have meant internal flights as the Manali-Leh Highway is still snowed-in. We thought about Darjeeling and Sikkim, but rejected this plan as the trek to view Kanchenjunga takes at least fifteen days. We also rejected a trip to Rishikesh and Gangotri as the bus journey would be intolerable. Terry recommended northern Pakistan, but it seems that it’s a bit dodgy there at the moment, and it could all kick off at any time. So Jon then had a blindingly inspired idea. Why not go north to plan a week of action adventures and bask in the glories of the Himalayas?
On our final day in Kolkata we walked past Macdonald’s and felt a sudden urge to sink our teeth into a juicy burger, so we did! But not just any hamburger; cows are sacred in India so the traditional hamburger, as we know it in the western world, was out of the question. Can you believe that in Macdonald’s Kolkata branch you can get a fantastically tasty “McChicken Maharaja”? No? Well neither could we! It is evidently possible that you can go to a Macdonald’s in another country and still get a taste of the local culture! As we ate, we discussed our next leg of the journey more thoroughly. Hmmm… Where to?

After further exploration of the city, which included a brief visit to the Queen Victoria Memorial where we were followed by a young lad and his two mischievous looking pet monkeys, we decided to head back to squeeze in a final lassi drinking session before catching our next train. After all, were we going to be getting lassi so good anytime soon? The staff at the Blue Sky café may not forget us for a little while as we were regulars and caused great amusement there. Like the time where Jon had his sunglasses resting on top of his head and forgot they were there. Dare I continue? Well, Jon leaned back on his chair during a huge stretch and the glasses slipped off the back of his head, but the big mystery remaining to everyone else in the juice bar is, “How did the glasses fly fifty-feet into the air and land with a clatter on the table in front of him?”
The Bagh Express from Howrah station was a free-for-all, but the journey over the mighty suspension bridge over the Hooghly River was superb. It was an epic journey as the train was overcrowded and what didn’t help was a man from Bihar taking up all the space in our coach with boxes and boxes of dresses. There was not even room for him to sleep on his own bunk in the sleeper coach until he moved all of the boxes down to the centre, taking everybody’s legroom in the process. Numpty! What’s more is that these boxes had now created a whole new bed for some other tramp who, once asleep, elbowed Jon as he rolled over.
When we woke up, the train was still going but there were completely new faces. There was a family of four (a young, beautiful woman in an elaborate sari, a husband and their boy and baby daughter) and they seemed much calmer and happier than our previous fellow passengers. At the next stop, we noticed a middle-aged woman boarding the train whilst heftily dragging the largest basket of runner beans we had ever seen. As she forcefully crammed this case under the seat for storage, one of the runner beans must have fallen out as the mother of the child sitting opposite reached down to the floor to pick it up. Whilst the child was peering longingly out of the window in his own little world, his mum had great fun in taking the beans out of the pod and playfully chucking them at his head, and each time she then looked away innocently like a cheeky schoolgirl.
The very helpful gentleman at Indian Railways had told us that getting to where we wanted to be from Muzaffarpur was a doddle. Well, was he right? Not quite… The autorickshaw ride to the distant bus station (whatever happened to the idea of a joined-up, integrated public transport network with a seamless flow between media?) was the bumpiest and dustiest thus far, whilst the local bus to Raxaul was overcrowded and moved at a snail’s pace along rural dirt tracks, covering around 60km in over five hours. The picturesque tiny round huts with thatched roofs in every village we passed caused us to speculate on their function. Kitchens; latrines; grain storage: who knows? But rural Bihar does have a form of picturesque beauty, difficult for us to appreciate as the temperature under the collar rose sky-high from the painfully slow progress. Had we been sold a pup?
Yes: Raxaul was revolting. The air pollution was quite unbelievable. We cheered up a little, though, when we saw a wonderful wedding celebration, complete with Himalayan trumpeters and funky drum beats: perhaps they celebrate here to make up for the drudgery of everyday existence on the plain. After a smooth passage through Indian customs/immigration, we had managed to do it again: exit India!
The elaborate, oriental-looking triumphal gateway heralded us into another country. Sadly this massive gate is shrouded in huge dust clouds, partly as a result of a legion of gaudily painted Tata trucks belching filthy fumes from their convoy, and partly as a result of the incredibly dusty, unsurfaced roadway. After paying thirty dollars, we were in. The border guard was very friendly and was interested to know where we are from, and following a pleasant chat he proudly said, “Welcome to Nepal”.
Our first impression of Nepal was shattered by dust clouds, not to mention the roaring vehicles, none of which would even be considered for an MOT test. It would be straight to the scrap yard! Especially this decaying bus-shaped box of rusty iron, which took us to Nepal’s capital, Kathmandu, in fifteen hours even though the journey should have been ten hours. We’d paid for the ticket on the Indian side, but a discrepancy arose as we tried to board on the Nepalese side. The bus representative demanded 100 Rupees more. Jon maintained a steady, calm and level-headed course throughout the negotiations: that it simply wasn’t fair moving the goal-posts just because we were tourists. Jon’s constancy also worked a few minutes previously with a greedy rickshaw wallah, who demanded 500 Rupees but only received 300 from us, going away with a flea in his ear. Simon, on the other hand adopted the tactic of shock and awe with the bus company official. Nepalese people are calm and polite, even when they are lying, swindling cheats out to pull a scam on some poor, unassuming foreign tourists. But our two travellers knew better! When Simon actually ‘lost it’, the bus swindler was genuinely surprised. So were we, for the verbal assault he received began in the style of Arthur Scargill, and moved via Adolph Hitler to a pit-bull on ecstasy. Needless to say, the 100 Rupee surcharge miraculously vanished into the ether.
Arrival in Kathmandu came as a relief after spectacular Himalayan scenery which, with our rickety, old bus haring around high mountain bends, was just like the closing scene from “The Italian Job”. Was Kathmandu the paradise of temples, scenery and glorious old shops and stalls selling wares from Tibet and Nepal? Oh yes! Did our intrepid pair find a fantastic little lassi bar? Oh, yes.

Saturday in the City

Well no, we didn’t exactly make it to pay homage to Mother Theresa. But we’ve had a great day nonetheless. The Blue Sky has become our local, and we are so regular (every few hours, infact) that the waiter always greets us like long-lost friends! Many, many sweet lassis have been consumed, closely followed by pineapple juice. When they ran out of that, we opted for papaya juice. But the pineapple juice rules. How do they get it so tasty and with a massive frothy head?
It’s hot here; exceptionally hot. Even sitting here in the Hotel Paramount, all the fan can achieve on full power is to circulate hot air around the room. And that’s even when Simon’s not talking… Leaving the paradise of air-conditioned shops and bars, you’re greeted with a wall of baking-hot air. In the evenings there might be a slight cooling breeze, but then it’s gone again and the stifling heat returns. But this doesn’t stop the city from pulsating to its sometimes stately, sometimes frenetic beat. If only we could spend a whole week here, but if we were ever to return, it wouldn’t be quite the same again. Nothing ever can quite recapture the special magic second time around, and these few days here are simply far too short!
Well it’s a shame that we didn’t get to see the Motherhouse, but actually they don’t really want tourists there gawping at the tomb: it detracts from the work of the order. And WHAT work that must be, for alongside the majestic colonial and commercial buildings of this elegant city is the constant presence of the outcast. It’s as if they have some kind of interdependent relationship and that they BELONG together. Beside a magnificent neo-Georgian bank sits a huddle of street boys cooking simple snacks over glowing hot coals; lying on his front on a mat outside the Indian Museum is another one-armed beggar, clearly in distress; covered by frayed tarpaulin shelters a young mother with three small girls, all asleep on the pavement in the heat of midday.
In a simple telephone booth at BBD Bagh we make calls amidst the reek of paraffin: it becomes obvious that this is their simple abode as well as business premises. The massive cockroach on the floor making a beeline for my flip-flopped foot causes the woman in a bright sari to laugh heartily! The antiquated sign writing on the door of the telephone booth, the rancid smell of fuel, the rickety staircase and massive wooden doors all with elaborate art-deco carvings, the almost-burnt-out electrical wiring and the filthy old typewriter. All this conjures up a sense of groaning nostalgia, but for what? And then it hits me. Surely London must have been just like this in the Blitz? Yes, that’s it. We’re almost in a time capsule, and the entire scene is just like England might have been around 1940. The only difference being the little Hindu shrine in the corner and the heated discussions all in Bengali. So maybe nothing has changed here since independence. Well apart from their space-programme, that is…
Well we HAVE achieved things today. Like the important admin for the next (and very demanding) leg of our journey. Plus some great taxi rides: one driver must have been around 80. I think that one day he will die at the wheel of his lovely classic car. With a horn that really did honk like a wheezing Canada goose.

So we decided to explore another side of the civic psyche: cosmopolitan Calcutta! We went to the Forum shopping mall to hang out with the jet-set (with whom we dined in style last night, at THE happening joint: Pizza Hut…). There we found a concept food hall called “Burp!” where you charge up a swipe card and get feasting. The best taste of the day? A Rose lassi. Perhaps one of THE best tastes of the trip so far.

Well, then it was back to the Blue sky for more juices and lassi. Perhaps we will spend the morning there tomorrow. If we were feeling pious, perhaps we should spend our time at the cathedral of the Archdiocese of Kolkata (The Church of North India: Anglican by any other name…) but we won’t. The Blue Sky will be our cloud nine for the morning. And in the afternoon it will be time to bid Calcutta farewell, for we must travel again: this time to reach of our final destination before flying out of Delhi on the 8th May. Where are we going? Well, no clues now. You’ll find out in the next few days…

The Jewel of West Bengal

There are some cities of the world which immediately weave their magic spells upon us: Habana in Cuba, for example, with its crumbling old town, intriguing street life, amazing and varied public transport, but above all great and unusual things to drink. St. Petersburg in Russia, for example, with its once crumbling old buildings, fascinating street scenes, historic trams and trolley-buses, but above all the taste of its food and drink. And now, here in Kolkata (lets give it its new name: new for our new millennium, with a phonetic spelling which hardly disguises the fact that it’s exactly the same place it always was) the magnetic draw is to its majestic and crumbling old buildings, compelling street life in all its varied hues and full glory, the full repertoire of public transport, from rickshaws pulled along on foot by old, bearded men, to tuk-tuks; classic Ambassador taxis; luridly painted buses and graceful old trams. Just as we found in Mumbai, in some quarters, this city has a debonair feeling of London about it. Wide boulevards, elegant trees, parks and open spaces, vast and historic monuments and buildings. And it has a pulse. A pulse we haven’t quite found anywhere else in South Asia. The street life here is unique. Where else in the world could you possibly be crossing the road, when you swerve in order to avoid an antique bus bearing down upon you, only to be now in the pathway of an old man lying on a rickety cart supporting a greasy tractor engine and pulled by a wheezing donkey? He missed us only by inches. Where else in the world could you find people sleeping in the streets? Well, many, many places of course. But here it’s different for a certain sector of the homeless society. Do you remember back in Jharkhand, at Daltonganj, we remarked on countless people bedding down on the railway station concourse? We thought back then that it was all to do with the impending elections, and that perhaps these people had travelled into town for voting, and that they would soon be returning to their villages. But as we approached Dhaka just two days ago, at 5 am, we noticed something else at a small suburban station called Tungi. Here too were rows upon rows of sleeping bodies, neatly occupying their few square centimetres of station platform. But here there were groups of people perhaps not important or significant enough to be allowed to sleep on the station platform, and they were banished to sleeping along the railway tracks themselves, bedding down upon lengths of rusting iron rails. As our train waited at signals on the approach to Tungi station, its noise and lights must have awoken a man whom we watched silently for a few minutes. He did not belong in the group of parallel, sleeping bodies. He tried to lie at the end of the group, farthest from the platform. With no bedding or pillow he tried to make himself comfortable. All he wore was a pair of trousers. He tried to lie his head down on his left arm, but kept tossing and turning in an attempt to sleep. He was unable to do the same on the other side. He had no right arm at all. Such was our impression of Dhaka, and I digress to make a point. Now of course Kolkata must have identical cases, but we are unlikely to witness them. The homeless of Kolkatta have created an entirely different impression upon us. Around our small hotel there must be a colony of hundreds of men who are living without a roof. But they are smart. Most wear a white vest and the traditional Bengali cloth (usually blue) tied around the waste. Now they may sleep in the street but they have beds. Yes, beds. In the street. Perhaps they are rickshaw runners; perhaps they are low-caste workers. But they certainly have a sense of purpose about them. The temperature here in April during the day is baking-hot. At night, the temperature seems to stay the same. This seems to render the whole idea of a roof somewhat pointless, but soon the monsoon will be approaching. The picaresque (and, infact, picturesque) nature of this gamin-like life may not quite be so attractive during the rainy season. In Bangladesh, the oppressive dullness of a Muslim society seemed to create a hopeless feeling of meaningless poverty. But here, with the vibrancy of little Hindu temples on every street corner, wafting incense over the sugarcane grinders, would it be too fanciful to talk of a feeling of MEANINGFUL poverty? I’m not too sure, and perhaps we will feel differently after tomorrow morning’s visit. For tomorrow we are to visit the Motherhouse of Blessed Theresa of Calcutta.
And finally, some food. (Yes, did you think we had forgotten about the TASTE of the place?) We craved tastes which would banish the incessant monotony of Bangladeshi restaurant tucker. Supper was Chinese: lip-smackingly spicy chilli-chicken, then sweet&sour vegetables and some chow mein, all washed down with jasmine tea. Breakfast was great and unusual: mango porridge and Tibetan bread and honey. Throughout the day we made constant pit-stops for lassi and juices on Sudder St. Banana lassi gets a thumbs-up, as does mango lassi and sweet lime juice. But the winners are pineapple juice, coolly tying for first place with the simple sweet lassi. This sweet lassi at the Blue Sky Café is, without a doubt, THE best lassi we’ve had since leaving Jaisalmer. Yum!

Leaving Srimangal, but to where exactly?

Our final day in relatively peaceful Srimangal was spent having a small snack with our friend Russell, taking it easy at the internet café, and haggling for pineapples, mangos and lemons so that we could make a fruit salad. There seems to be little variety in Bangladeshi food and we were craving fruit, so we prepared a juicy salad mixture for our journey leaving Srimangal. The market from where we bought the fruit was situated on many dusty smaller roads and fly-infested alleyways away from the main town. We made sure to look very thoroughly at the fruit before buying it, as we did not want the pineapples into which creatures had bored holes.
On Thursday morning, just after midnight, we boarded our train to get to Dhaka; and, thankfully, this train looked far better than the Jalalabad Express that we took last time. Before getting onto the train we were trying to make sense of our tickets that were typed out in Bengali, but not having a lot of luck. Fortunately, a kind man called Shuhel Iqbal Chow, who is currently serving in the RAB (Rapid Action Bangladesh: the most honest and reliable police force in the country) came to our rescue and directed us to our coach, and ultimately to our seats. Bangladesh is legendary for the way its people show countless acts of kindness to visitors: this man was on his way to Dhaka not just to get back to his home and immediate family, but to meet his aunt and uncle, not to mention his cousin who was flying in from London that very morning. But something was more important to him: getting us onto our onward connection safely! So he joined us in the taxi to the bus company offices, sat with us chatting as we waited to depart, and finally joined us for a few miles on the bus.
Here he told us about the great tragedy in his life, the fact that his seven year old son was seriously ill with heart and lung problems. Whilst his time in the army had taken him to many fascinating locations, including Saudi Arabia, where he was able to complete his Haj pilgrimage, his son back at home had been very ill. Shuhel also asked about fitness and training, and what he should take to get himself into better shape. As a small way of repaying his diligence we gave him a month’s supply of multi-vitamin tablets, which clearly bemused both him and the bus steward as they were called ‘A-Z’. Is there a vitamin Z?
Our journey was to be another epic one, including crossing back over the border point at Benapole, and again into India. But this time, things did not quite go according to plan. Nobody at Shohagh Paribahan buses, nor in the Lonely Planet guidebook had mentioned ANYTHING about a departure tax at this land crossing. And we needed the money to change into Rupees on the other side. Oh dear…
“I do not think you are listening to me,” said the bearded boarder official.
“No, I’m not, and I don’t think you’re listening to me, either” said Simon. The might of Bangladesh officialdom was making it clear that nobody would be going anywhere until 600 Taka had been paid at the strange little window entitled ‘Departure Tax’. The determination of our fearless travellers was making it clear that there was NO cash to cough up. Stale mate? We were passed from uniformed official to uniformed official, and each time declined to splash the cash. But this time the insistence was more forceful and the official, more official-looking:
“Right then, we’ll just sit here for the rest of time” was Simon’s final trump card, at which point he folded his arms and plonked himself down upon the large desk with a dull thud. After a short but painful pause, ALL the boarder guards and official staff erupted into cackles of spontaneous laughter. “OK, you can go now…” sniggered the one with the most stripes, and our crafty pair legged it. Without paying the baksheesh due to the poor lads carrying their backpacks…
After nearly four more hours of bumpy and painfully slow bus journey, the daring duo arrived back somewhere which, hitherto, was only briefly hinted at, some weeks ago. Somewhere now to be tackled in much more depth. Perhaps the most captivating and fascinating city in the world, with its quaint yellow, antique taxi-cabs and its vivid and compelling street life. Somewhere which immediately conjures up false prejudices in the mind’s eye of those who have never been here, and somewhere which, once visited, has already formed an indelible image in the imagination: an image of nostalgia and dreams. Where are we now then? Oh, Calcutta!

Srimangal Crash-Course!

What kind of time is five in the morning to be waking up?! Well, today it was certainly worth it. Our guide, Russell, arrived at our hotel with three bikes for us all to ride directly through the tea plantations and to the Lowacherra Rainforest. Although we went through there yesterday, today was the big day of exploring deeper inside the jungle.
It was interesting to notice the orchestral harmony of the different forest-dwelling animals as they naturally called out to each other. What seemed to be a musical masterpiece, started with monkeys softly howling to one another as they swung through the elevated maze of branches and leaves; then as the monkeys became quieter, sounds of loudly humming insects echoed through the forest, and then came the multi-tonal birdsongs that put the icing on the cake.
We stood for ages, watching the monkeys in awe whilst they sprung themselves high through the air as they leapt from one tree to another. It was especially amusing to see baby monkeys hanging onto their mothers for dear life as they jumped around and balanced on the thinner branches of the trees. Infact, it was so intriguing that we didn’t realise that the sun had already risen by the time we had to leave to see a village that is home to the Kashia tribe.
On the way though, we came across the “Bash Bagaan”. Before the guide mentioned this place, these words only meant to us a small Indian restaurant, ran by Bangladeshi nationals, in the small town of Wadebridge, in Cornwall. Today, we learned that these words translate from Bengali to English as ‘Bamboo Garden’. The garden was packed full of an unordered arrangement of green, giant bamboos that grew to great heights and crossed over each other. Although it was unique and magical, we marched on to visit the Kashia tribe.
Their homely village, nestled in the deep jungle, had houses that were made of light-coloured mud with corrugated iron roofs. All Kashia tribal villages, including this one, are built on top of hills surrounded by betel nut trees. It was surprising to see how awake everybody was at eight in the morning. A man was already at work, sawing the largest bamboo we’d ever seen, and the women were starting their domestic chores. There were also young, happy children playing. One child was very content as he ran around, dragging an old cake box with a pair of flip-flops inside. It is wonderful to see that so many people here, who don’t have much, appreciate what they do have. Of course we made sure to say a hearty “Koblai!” as we met the different tribal people because this is ‘hello’ in their language.
On we went, through the forest towards a mixed fruit plantation where we saw pineapples, jackfruits and lemons being grown. The plantation was high up on a hill overlooking extensive fruit gardens and far out above the peaceful forest. It started to tip down with heavy rain and so we sheltered underneath the roof of the mixed garden inhabitants until it passed, discussing with Russell the difference between life here and back in England.

It was time to proceed to another tribal village, also belonging to the Kashia tribe, where we met friendly people who offered us chairs to sit down on and some washed fruit. We politely declined the fruit of course, because the consequences could have been severe. This village was quite similar to the first one we visited, only it was larger and it had a small, white church within. It was EXACTLY how you might want to picture an ideal, quaint tribal village: infact, almost TOO perfect: clean and tidy, complete with decorative shrubs with stunning red flowers.
We also went to a village inhabited by people of the Indian state of Tripura: these are the tea pickers. They were very shy, infact, too shy even to say hello. Some women were in the middle of putting together a simple hand-woven cloth, but they disappeared inside as they saw us approaching.
We cycled to the Zareen Tea Estate, which is probably the most beautiful of them all! It was much hillier, and many different shades of green greeted us from all sides. We were also greeted by the loud croaks of frogs that were hiding in the tea bushes. On the way out of the tea estate, we saw the tea pickers going out to work, wearing their unique straw hats and moving silently.

Meanwhile, back in town, booking tickets to get OUT of Srimangal proved to be quite demanding, if not amusing. At first, the booking-clerk at the railway station gave us completely the wrong train times. He recited the daily trains to Chittagong instead of Dhaka. The difference in sound between these two places is hardly rocket, is it? After this confusion was sorted out, we attempted to clarify on which day we wished to take the night train out of town. It departs at 00.12hrs, which of course is technically Thursday morning for us, and NOT Wednesday night.
All this investigation of pineapple plants earlier had caused a deep-seated craving to kick in: pineapples! Here in Srimangal they are cheap (only Tk 20) and locally grown. We found a huge supply on the station platform and snapped up two there and then! It only remained for us to buy a Tupperware container and a knife to allow the rest of the expedition to have a new, regular feature: fruit of the day. Today’s pineapples tasted especially good for the simple reason that they were only grown just down the road. Maybe tomorrow will see a fruit salad of pineapple, mango and lemons!
And finally, more food: Simon was very keen to have a complete break from curry today, especially Bhuna. Within thirty minutes of him relating this desire, the intrepid duo were seated in the salubrious Shah Restaurant eating, amongst other things, a very fiery and tasty chicken Bhuna.

Exploring Srimangal

Sure enough, Russell was at our hotel room at half past eight in the morning with our bikes. Both of the bikes were very basic and only had one gear. Jon’s black, Chinese-style bike creaked as he pedalled but it was impressive how fast it went! Simon’s bike looked like a western mountain bike and gave a generally gave a smoother ride, except for when the chain kept coming off!
We went for a small breakfast in the sweetshop where we saw all of the cakes. Jon had a small yoghurt-like sweet that was made presumably from condensed milk mostly, but Simon went for the cake option and had two scrumptious looking spongy delights, which were injected with syrup and then all sprinkled with milk powder. This breakfast may seem like nothing but it gave us energy to take on the whole day!
We just couldn’t wait to get on the bikes and leave the town’s traffic and noise, so off we went in the direction of tranquillity. Within ten minutes or so, we were right out in among the tea plantations where a few lonely women, dressed in bright saris and pointed hats made from dry leaves, were carefully picking the tea leaves from the greenest bushes we’ve ever seen. Although there was the occasional humming of the CNG (an environmentally friendly three-wheeled auto-rickshaw), as well as the high pitched sound of bicycle bells on the cycle-rickshaws, there were beautiful moments where the only noise we could hear was that of the wind gently brushing past the tea leaves. Having spoken to Mr Suhel, the owner of a small grocery shop in Srimangal town and active in NGO (Non-government Organisation), we already have an idea that this unique green beauty of the tea plantations is clouded by a darker misery of labourers who earn a mere thirty taka (about thirty pence) per day, but also lack access to basic sanitation.
As we cycled further past tea bushes that seemed infinite, we eventually neared the Lowacherra Rainforest where the large and small trees reach up, forming canopies; and tiny winding pathways with deep carpets of dead foliage meander randomly through the vast vegetation.
We cycled on the twisting road through the forest until we reached a small village called Kamalganj. With the smoky, acrid odour of smouldering firewood, this tiny village had no electricity and an air of subsistence rather than enjoyment. We stopped for a ten-minute break, taking a few mouthfuls of the water that we took with us in our bags, before turning around and heading back.
As we went back through the forest we heard the peculiar sounds of gibbons that called out to each other in the trees, probably to warn one another that we were there. But today this colony of gibbons got something it wasn’t bargaining for: somebody was calling back. The gibbon calls are part shriek, part unruly school-class, and part beautiful music. When they are all shouting at once, it sounds like a massive cacophony, but two curious gibbons brachiated their way through the treetops towards us with their stunning three-note theme tune. “Eeeeeeeeee Oooo Aaaaah!”, they cried, even more incessantly in response to the cheeky monkey on the ground. Can you guess who this was?

It was an experience to see the black Hoolock gibbons looking out from between clusters of leaves with their distinct white eyebrows set on their sooty-black faces.
After a fascinating time hanging out with these creatures, we went for a cuppa. But no ordinary cuppa, for we went to Nilkantha. This small café, in the middle of a tea plantation, served us up the most colourful and unusual drink imaginable. This cup of tea was served in a transparent glass, as if to show off the beauty of how one layer of one type of tea sits on top of another, altogether forming six layers of different teas.

We stayed for another and chatted to Hasan, a second generation Bangladeshi immigrant from London, who told us the interesting story of his family’s relocation to England.
After another great day, we arrived back at the hotel where we negotiated some discount with the friendly hotel manager, and before Jon knew it he was on the phone speaking to a young lady from the Khashia tribe. The words he started with were “Koblai”, meaning ‘hello’, and “Wong”, which means ‘come here’. Jon then found that his Khashia language was very limited, so he switched to Bangla using phrases such as “Bomi-Bhab”, “Amar mirghi rog a-che” and then he counted to ten. Thank goodness for the Lonely Planet guide book, which helped him with these essential phrases.
We finally decided that it was time to eat so we tried a new delicacy called Moghlai, which is like a flaky pastry containing onions, chillies and eggs; all deep fried. Where have they been all my life?!

The Jalalabad Express

Just as in the name of the Macdonald’s ‘Big Tasty’, only one word of the title is actually accurate, so it was with our epic journey on a train calling itself the ‘Jalalabad Express’. Surely this one train journey was to be the most unusual journey of our lives?
At the reservation counter, the clerk seemed amazed that we were proposing a journey on the Jalalabad Express. He barked: “No first class”. We said that we didn’t travel first class, so he interrupted: “No a/c”. Fine, as we like the wind blustering in from the open windows. “No Sulob” (This means second class.) How about a bunk then? “No sleeper” Ahhhh, this wasn’t going very well really, was it? “No electricity”. Oh dear. But Jon and Simon aren’t going to be put off by minor details such as comfort and lighting are they? “Then you go counter number nine”. So we did. There was nobody there…
After a chat with the Station Master and his assistant, they were very anxious to put us on a more luxurious train the following day:
“No, this is no good train. This dirty train.” Oh dear. But it’s travel experiences our two intrepid explorers are after, and no amount of fobbing-off would work. Eventually they end up on the correct platform, where, to put the icing on the cake, the guard blurted out:
“This dangerous train”.
Our hearts sank as the train pulled into the ‘old station’, a short walk with our cumbersome backpacks from the modern concourse of the station for the intercity trains. This old station was strewn with sacks of produce, boxes of iced fish, weird old men eager to chat in Bangla and broken English, whilst the platform was awash with thick, black grease. Then the powercut kicked in.
We were, once again, left in the dark with all of our valuables, about to board a dark, dingy, dirty, dangerous local train. The train guard approached us and he kindly took us onto the train; into the carriage closest to where the train guards sit, in case we were to have any problems. This was reassuring, and to be on the safe side, we chained our huge backpacks to the overhead metal racks using chains that we bought in India.
Luckily for us, we boarded the train about half an hour before the train was due to depart so that we could get good seats. Well, “good” is certainly not the word, but what I want to say is that our seats were together and by the window. The seats were made entirely of stained and rusting metal. There was no cushioning and we weren’t relishing the idea of travelling for eleven hours like that. Thanks, Simon, for bringing inflatable pillows that we used as cushions.
Joining us on the train were armed security guards who were very interested to find out about us and what our country is like. The engine initiated our departure to Srimangal with a huge roaring sound, and upon moving we could feel ‘bump’ ‘bump’ ‘bump’ under our seats as the wheels of the train moved across the joints in the ancient rails. The engine also provided just enough power for a single, sorry-looking light bulb in the ceiling to glow slightly, barely illuminating the sea of dull faces surrounding us. Fortunately, as the train picked up a little speed, a dynamo gave the bulb much more power. Unfortunately, this allowed us to see our travelling companions in more detail…
We managed to doze occasionally on the train, but what sleep we did have was no compensation for a good night’s sleep in a decent bed. There is something very different about Bangladesh railways in comparison to India (or for that matter, everyday life). Here in Bangladesh we still have the chai-wallahs, pani salesmen, snack vendors and beggars, but it’s not done with anything like the same panache and vigour. There’s a deep dullness to the grind of scraping a living here, and the travelling musicians who make the Indian trains pulsate with vibrancy are entirely absent. All we hear is the mournful intonation of Islamic beggars. The fragrant smells of Hindu garlands and incense, of course, are also missing. The only compensation is the individual warmth of all the people: whilst milling around with blank looks on their faces, the moment they spot us, suddenly they smile.
Having left Chittagong city with a mental picture of hectic, noisy Bangladeshi life in our heads, it was extremely pleasant waking up after another small doze at dawn, only to be surrounded by tea, tea and more tea. A savannah-like lanscape of sparse tall green trees with a low covering of tea bushes surrounded us. It was a unique moment that made us feel so far away from it all!

We stop at Satgaon and two men get on, carrying two huge churns balanced across their shoulders, and for the rest of their short journey, they keep the churns slowly in motion. This is rural Bangladesh at its very best.
When we finally reached Srimangal, it was so easy to locate everything. This town, although dead at six in the morning when we arrived, livens up to be a small but happening town nestled in amongst the tea plantations.
We checked into our hotel and had a snooze before getting to know this quaint, little town and taking a rickshaw out to the Bangladesh Tea Research Institute (BTRI). Before we left, there was a knock at our door and it was a young man named Russell. This is a man who works for Classic Tours, a company who we may have spent a couple of hours trying to find. Isn’t it great that he so happened to find us first?!
At least we have our bicycle rental sorted out for tomorrow now, so we will meet him here, at the hotel where we are staying, before setting off into the rolling hills of tea. The final thing that HAD to be done was to seek out some cake!

Lunch at Michael's

The day started with gloomy skies and we figured that it was most probably going to pour it down with rain again. Well, Michael Fish would be very impressed at our weather forecasting abilities as we were spot on!
We had arranged to meet Michael for lunch at his house because it was to be our last full day in Cox’s Bazar. We began walking and reached about halfway between our hotel and the meeting point; and that’s when it started. A torrential downpour of rain that caused all the open sewers to overflow. We took cover in a small arcade in the town and waited for the rain to pass over. It didn’t completely pass over but conditions lifted so we could carry on and meet our friend at a lake in the backstreets of downtown Cox Bazar. We met up as planned and continued towards Michael’s house.

We got caught out because it began to tip down with rain again, but even harder this time. We sought cover once again in a small shop where a scruffy man with very dirty hands was fixing old radios and cassette players. We stopped for about ten minutes, watching rickshaw wallahs frantically pedalling by, as well as fruit sellers sitting in the street, some of whom had made small half-tents out of sticks and dustbin liners, and some whom were readily equipped with ponchos. Still there were rivers of dirty brown sludge flowing down towards the main street.
We dashed to Michael’s house after agreeing that the rain wasn’t going to stop anytime soon. We entered his house via a tiny, muddy path and up some steps made from slippery sandbags. His house is made mostly from wood, with concrete flooring, and large leaves making up the ceiling. From the outside, the roof was made of corrugated iron upon which the rain drummed out an urgent rhythm to the background of thunder and lightning. It was great being sheltered, looking out at streaming rain and towering, swaying palm trees as we ate our scrumptious lunch.
Lunch consisted of a spinach and green bean side dish, a bowl of smoky potatoes with the occasional prawn, and a watery lentil concoction, all accompanied with rice. We took to the traditional way of eating once again, and ate with our right hands without any cutlery. Since we arrived in Bangladesh we have been converted to eating solely with our hands. The big question is, will we be converted back to using knives and forks?
Our entire time in CB has been both fulfilling and fascinating. It was sad saying farewell to our new friend, and hopefully we will see him again: certainly we will be looking at raising funds for his projects, as humanitarian issues in Bangladesh seem to be absent from the consciousness of the bourgeois west. Michael presented us with some great gifts

Ali Baba's Rickshaw Ride

Meanwhile, back at the Nabanna we started the day with another big breakfast and then took some take-away shingaras for our lunch. What a treat they were!
Millions of rickshaw wallahs were waiting outside our hotel and as we walked onto the street, we became the centre of attention (yet again!). At this point we met Ali Baba; well, that’s what all the other rickshaw drivers call him. He was friendly and had no problem taking us down south in the direction of Inani beach.
The rickshaw ride turned out to be longer than we’d expected, and poor Ali Baba looked a little knackered towards the end. Finally we went just past Himachari, where we went before, and went to the beach again. We did not forget to leave Ali Baba a healthy looking tip for all his hard work. This actually made him so happy that he was waiting for us halfway up the beach to take us back again. However, we had very sore behinds from the one-and-a-half hour rickshaw ride outwards, and so we relished the opportunity to take a long walk back home.
As we walked up the beach the weather became very dramatic with clouds of doom and gloom. Up to a certain point we thought we were in the eye of the storm as not only could we see heavy rain and choppy waves out at sea, but also bucket loads of rain pelting into the sand ahead, creating an atmospheric mist. Just when we thought we had got away with it, the rainy weather turned in our direction and soaked we were, with several miles still to walk. The rain was a cooling relief from the hot and humid environment.
We later met some herdsmen with their cattle walking along the beach, which was marvellous. The old herdsman spoke to us in Bangla and we responded with our basic knowledge of this beautiful language.

As we carried on up the beach towards Cox’s Bazar we suddenly heard some fishermen shouting to us and miming things with their hands. It soon became clear that they needed help recovering their boat from the water’s edge so we made our way over to help. We noticed a modest catch of small, bright, shiny fish glistening on the deck of the boat. It didn’t seem like much, but it was enough to feed their community and make some extra money
As we gradually pushed the lumbering gondola up the beach we all sang to the command of the captain: he chanted poetic phrases and we all responded heartily with “Hey-ya”. They were grateful for our help, but alas, we trundled on towards the Angel Drop for a lassi. However, we did not drink lassi due to yet another power-cut in the region.
By the time it was time to eat again though, there was electricity all over Cox's Bazar.

Teknaf

Intending to get a bright and early start, we failed miserably and had our breakfast as usual at the Nabanna restaurant. We then headed to the main bus station in Cox’s Bazar by means of cycle rickshaw. As we approached the bus station there were loads of men shouting place names excitedly, hurrying people onto buses. All we had to say was “Teknaf” and we were onto our two-and-a-half hour journey immediately. The countryside was amazingly beautiful, but somebody needs to teach this bus company what legroom is! We motored through the everyday hustle and bustle of dusty market towns, alongside the Chittagong Hill Tracts, and before long, the mountains of Myanmar were clearly visible. The view of Myanmar was closer and more beautiful than we had hoped for.
When we got to Teknaf, we noticed that the bus stop was on the outskirts of the small town, but after such a long time sitting down we decided to turn down the rickshaw offers and walk it. Whilst the town nestles on the River Naf, which here forms the Myanmar/Bangladesh border, our aim was to get to the beach, although the beach was further than we thought. The beach here is the southern part of Inani beach: around 90km of sand, and the world’s longest and broadest beach. Would it be worth the trek? It took us ninety minutes to walk there but it was certainly worth it! On the way there we met countless boys carrying, balanced across their shoulders like a set of scales, two bucketfulls each of small fish, shaded from the scorching sun with small leaves.

There were scores of old, wooden gondola-shaped fishing boats lined up on the foreshore with waves brushing the ones still in the water. We didn’t have long there before turning back because we had to catch our bus.
The return journey gave a much greater insight into rural Bangladeshi poverty. There were small homes made from the most basic materials. I am convinced that many of them were solely made out of large leaves. Around the huts were strewn large heaps of rotting rubbish. But all this is to be found within a landscape which is incredibly beautiful; at each stop street children tried to sell us spicy snacks through the windows of the bus and they laughed and joked with us as if they did not have a care in the world. This truly is a country of smiley faces, and wherever you go the shout of “Brother” or “Bondu” greets you.
We stuffed ourselves again at the Nabbana restaurant before getting caught in some serious rain. The streets literally became rivers with bits of litter floating at the sides of the roads, and later, we realised that the rain had been a real wake-up call to the mozzies.
We also tried some traditional Bangladeshi sweets, most of which were quite nice except one that tasted exactly of cold soggy Weetabix! The favourite was a ball of sponge soaked in a thin syrup, a sweet that the Indians call Gulab Jamun.

Angel Drop

The best place to watch the sun go down over the Bay of Bengal is at Angel Drop Café! We have taken lots of great sunset pictures here throughout our stay at Cox’s Bazar as it is, after all, our lassi local!

Maheskhali Island

Today is Bangla New Year and the streets of Cox’s Bazar have an extra festive feel to them. But we have something even more special in store: a boat trip out to the fascinating island of Mahaskhali. Leaving Cox’s Bazar, the small landing stage in the mud of the river is made from tiny rowing boats all tied together. Some of these wooden boats had several planks of wood missing and were sinking slightly into the silt of the riverbed as we stepped on them. We made it onto the boat and set sail for Mahaskhali.
On arrival we were literally swamped by rickshaw wallahs: the landing jetty is in the middle of a mangrove swamp. We decided to walk into town but we were hassled and hassled. Our friend Michael last visited his auntie and uncle who live on the Island six years ago, so we decided to pop in on them for the Bangladesh New Year. They were very welcoming and before we knew it we had a table full of Bangladeshi snacks in front of us. Most of the snacks were dried cereals, but there were also a few unusual tasting biscuits. Once introduced properly to this side of his family, we arranged to meet back for lunch, and headed out to explore the island. I must add that their house was amazing, although basic. The light brown walls were made of mud and there were a few other family members there, with their bedrooms divided up into what looked like another little house inside. The house came complete with a dog barking half-heartedly at us as we approached the yard.

As we explored the island, we first wandered to a Hindu temple, which was dedicated to the Hindu god Krishna. As we got closer, the fast banging of drums and gongs became much louder. Little did we know that we would be beating the latter in just a few moments time. A young boy beating the gong in a 1, 1-2, 1-2 rhythm passed Simon the gong first and it turned out that Simon was leading the whole ceremonial music with the same beat that the boy was making. He did very well and this was evident in the surrounding enthusiasm.

Soon after, the gong had been passed to Jon who also beat the same rhythm; he also did very well in having a jam with an old man playing a large drum that hung over his shoulder. The old man was busting out a very complicated rhythm around Jon’s basic one, and together they made awesome music for the ceremony. There were women dancing in the centre to the point of exhaustion: even though their dance was in time with the energetic music, they seemed to be in a trance, almost like zombies. Some women, clearly already past exhaustion, writhed on the floor. There was a large pole being worshipped with gifts of copious watermelons and in a small pit, fire burned fervently. The smell of incense pervaded the air.
We then left the Hindu ceremony and walked on to a quieter side of the island, where Adinath, a temple to Shiva, lies about a third of the way up a small hill. We had to wait for about ten minutes before we could really enter the temple due to people paying their respects to Shiva with prayers. Following the prayers we entered the temple, and again the wonderful aroma of incense surrounded us as we peered into a small shrine, which was decorated beautifully.
After taking a good look around we hiked the remaining distance to the top of the hill and it was pleasant to be in the shade of trees during the climb. The view from the top of the hill was fantastic and I was convinced that we saw the whole island from there. It was also a very magical experience to see a golden Buddhist monument on the peak, which had sculpted lions standing proudly on each corner. All of this, with the surrounding greenery and small descending paths to the real world below was real tranquillity.
Walking for miles deserves a really good treat, such as a huge lunch, the Bangladeshi way. So we made our way back to Michael’s uncle’s house, and tucked into some rice, curried lentils (dahl), and vegetable curry. The food was really amazing. Jon thought so, and for Simon, it was an experience so to put it. Just as we thought we’d finished our feast, Michael’s uncle brought out a crab dish. The water in which the crab was caught is brown and full of parasites due to the effluent from as far afield as India. It looked nice anyway…
Stuffed silly, we waddled out of the house and thanked the family for their hospitality before going to the Falgoon fair. This was packed full of people celebrating the New Year as well as the drummer, gong player and dancers that we encountered earlier. To sum up our trip to Maheskhali Island, it was a great experience and we are very lucky to have become involved with the locals, thanks to Michael. It was the best time to visit the island as there was so much festivity. But should YOU wish to follow in our footsteps and become intrepid explorers immersing in local cultures, DO remember three basic rules of travel advice: Never eat any cold produce; never take all your valuables to a crowded place; never board an over-laden speedboat without life-vests in a choppy sea...

Himachari

This quiet beach was paradise with its extending sands and surrounding forest. I would say that it was deserted, but I’d be wrong as we met many street children along the way, not to mention clusters of bright red sand crabs with their pokey eyes, that scurried sideways as they fled from us.


After waking up this morning we went directly to our favourite food joint and had our breakfast. We stuffed ourselves with four spicy “shobji shingaris” and three delicious parathas. It was then possible for us to face the long expedition ahead of us!
We tracked down an autorickshaw, or “tempo” in Bangla, and we took a ride down to another small beach village called Himachari. As the driver pulled over, we were immediately greeted by a young boy shouting, “I am tourist guide!”. We weren’t born yesterday! We sussed that he was just a lad wanting all the money he could scrounge.
We walked along the beach with this boy following us, accompanied by a younger lad of about six years old. Before we knew it, we had drawn so much attention, and it was like being the Pied Piper of Hamlyn! The children were singing songs for us as we were walking and we sang one back for them. Ours was good, but the children knew that theirs were so much better.
In total we walked for about six hours along the stunning beach and we reached our favourite café, the “Angel Drop”, come sunset. Just when we thought we had escaped the barking dogs of the Cornish country lanes, we bumped into some fierce dogs that came from underneath the restaurant. Luckily, the dogs were owned by the restaurant owner and he kept them under control. The last thing we want is a rabid dog biting us!
Talking of rabid, when we were taking a cycle rickshaw back to our hotel, there was an on and off noise that sounded like two pieces of sandpaper being ground together next to a microphone. We then noticed a mangy, old sheep running next to our rickshaw and into the oncoming traffic at great speed, which could only be described as rabidly insane.

Bangla Phrasebook (Part 1)

We are using our linguistic skills to the full, and we are learning more Bangla (Bengali, the language of the Nobel Prize winning poet, Rabindranath Tagore) every day. Here is OUR Bangla phrase-book:
Bishi bishi donobad (said with extreme gratitude, because it means “Many many thanks”)
Amar nam Jon/Simon (is “My name is Jon/Simon”)
Amar desh United Kingdom (this means “My country is the UK)
Jao! (This means “Go away”)
Mare mare vou! (This is a more extreme way of saying “Go away!” or “Stop hassling me!”)… Of course I enjoy being hassled here, just because I can say that!
Bishi gam! (Said as you wipe off your forehead, because it means “Very sweaty”)
The phrasebook will be continued, I’m sure!

Happy Easter!

What should we do on Easter Sunday morning here in Bangladesh? Well, go to church of course! What a stroke of luck that on our first day here we met a guy who was a Christian: two years ago he had been part of the local Hindu population, but he and all his family converted to Christianity. There are only two types of greeting that Simon and Jon hear around here, being the only westerners and therefore standing out like sore thumbs: from the beggars and people on the make, it goes: “Hello! Hello, hair-low… hair-low.” (With the verbal stress on the ‘hair’.) As they say this, they approach you with an outstretched hand and blank gaze. The second greeting, from almost everyone else on the streets is: “How are you?” spoken quickly, in an up-beat way, with the most massive grin possible. Quite frankly, the people of Bangladesh are warm, open and happy. They all have two follow-up remarks before the language barrier hits hard: “Which country?” and “What is your name?” We spend hours each day in this form of communication, but it’s great. Smiles all round! But Michael (his name at baptism: his original name being Suronjit) immediately came across as being more interesting, for his follow up question was: “what religion are you?” And so here we are, going to a small mission church with him and his family to celebrate Easter. Simon would have preferred a Catholic Mass somewhere, but here in a Muslim country, that might have been asking too much? And in any case, this guy actually found us, so let’s go with the flow. At 7.30am here he is at our hotel room to take us by rickshaw into his home part of town, a part of town that no intrepid traveller would ever find, and to the little church they have established there with about 30 worshippers. The area of Cox’s Bazar where they live is called Ghonar Para, and the small church family is called Bethany Baptist Church.
The service had lots of enthusiastic singing, the usual balance of non-conformist readings, prayers and long, enthusiastic preaching. And a Baptist version of the eucharist with small slivers of bread and some grape juice. Of course we took part, partly to be in communion with our fellow worshippers here in Bangladesh (where, incidentally, the funky young guys all call us ‘brother’) and partly to connect us to the global church throughout time and the risen Christ at Eastertide. And still no Delhi-Belly!
For us the best part of the lengthy service was the bit that featured us! Jon gave a presentation about the Cornish flag (which coincidentally resembled the banner at the front of the church) and talked about himself and his home life, to give the congregation a glimpse of life in the developed world.

Simon taught them all to respond to “Alleluia, Christ is risen!” with “He is risen indeed, alleluia.” The shouts of ‘Halleluia” were very enthusiastic. After the service, we were given a snack called Shingara. This was possibly the most awesome food we’ve tried since the early morning chilli pakora back in Deshnok, which seems like years away now! We had another Shingara, just to make sure that the standards were uniform! They indeed were! We had no luck in getting a third one though.
Michael then took us for some exploring around Cox’s Bazar. There is a belt of five-star hotel development, which distorts the balance of this third-world community. But away from this fairy-tale world is another reality. At once grim and shocking, but also homely and proud: the REAL Cox’s Bazar is a reminder of what life is really like in this country. The open sewers and mass of rotting garbage seems far worse than in any Indian settlement. But the narrow maze of winding streets is also captivating and sometimes hopelessly beautiful, particularly the night-time market stalls lit by candles and oil lamps. Couple this with the openness and warmth of the people, and you just can’t help loving Bangladesh!
We returned to the church for lunch: a massive feast prepared communally for all the church members, with us being honoured guests. We ate in traditional Bangladeshi style, with the fingers of our right hand, of course! There was bhat (rice) with dahl (lentils) and shobji bhajee (mixed vegetables), whilst the highlight was a goat bhuna. We were tremendously impressed with the powerful tastes and wonderful textures, and had seconds. And thirds. Did Jon have fourths? The whole experience was really fantastic: to have immersed into a real Bangladeshi community in a favela. The pastor here is interested in some sort of financial aid for the children. Perhaps when we return to the UK we can arrange some form of link with Mevagissey. But this needs to be done with care: it’s important to make sure that any funds raised actually DO make it to the children we met. Misappropriation of funds is rife in South Asia. Still wouldn’t it be nice to do at least something for them?

Another Great Day in CB

We left the fleapit hotel and moved to the one that we are in now, which is fantastic! We had to make the move by cycle rickshaw as it was quite far to walk. It was impossible to get us both into one rickshaw with all of our luggage, so we took two cycle rickshaws. We told the rickshaw drivers the name of the hotel that we wanted to go to and, due to a language barrier, he took us in completely the wrong direction. The ride was fun though.
When we got to the SeaView Hotel, we managed to bargain a room for 350taka per night, which is half the price that the hotel manager first mentioned. 350taka is more or less £3.50. After checking in, we did our first set of laundry!!! We were able to hang the clothes outside to dry too, and they were dry in just a few hours.
We spent the day walking the beach again and walking through the forest. Just outside of the forest, on the sand, was a small stall with the green coconuts and we just had to have one! Out came the stall owner’s machete and he sliced the top of each coconut clean off! The coconut water inside was refreshing and is apparently very good for health.
We stopped later in the Angel Drop restaurant again for our lunch (and more laccy!) and we had parathas, chicken pakoras, rice, chicken tandoori, dopiaza and vegetable curry. This really hit the spot and it boosted our energy levels, enabling us to explore more of the beach. We came across a small area of the beach where there was a shrimp farm, and we saw spectacular boats lined up on the sand, like mini-gondolas. From out of nowhere came a few young children playing football and before he knew it, Jon was getting stuck in and passing the ball to them skilfully. The children were enjoying themselves and were pleased to have Jon on the team! The atmosphere on this little stretch of Marine Drive was perhaps EXACTLY what we were hoping to find at Cox’s Bazar: small, picturesque favelas, amazing, tiny roadside stalls and lush vegetation.
As the sun went down once again, we stopped for more laccy before our 1 hour walk back to the hotel. On nearing our hotel, we saw a small kitchen on the side of the street with a couple of young lads inside making naan breads. Neither of us had seen how it’s done before so we stopped and watched for a while. One boy took handfuls of dough and rolled them up into little balls. He then rolled each one out with a rolling pin before putting them into a tandoor oven. The tandoor oven had burning coals in the centre of it, and we watched as the boy stuck the rolled naan bread dough to the sides and roof of the furnace. Each naan needed less than one minute to cook and we had to get one! For freshness, they were the best naans we have had on this trip!

Cox's Bazar

Well, did they make it to Cox’s Bazar on the night bus? Yes, of course they did, but only just catching the last bus out by a whisker. Luckily, the bus made plenty of stops in service stations, which look nothing like ours, where we could get food. Our first taste of Bangladeshi food was a pizza, which was microwaved to the point of perfection. It did us fine, but we couldn’t wait to see what real Bangladeshi food was like.
When we arrived in Cox’s Bazar, we got off the bus and located a hotel that is mentioned in the guidebook we have. We checked into the place but it was not all what the guidebook said it would be. In fact it was a bit of a fleapit! But today we are in a much nicer hotel for just one pound more per night. We have moved up from fleas… We are onto ants now.
The beach here is the longest stretch in the entire world and it has a unique beauty to it. It has nice sand and behind it there are many fir trees, which make up a small forest. We walked and walked along this beach until we came to a restaurant called Angel Drop, which is raised and supported by wooden stilts. This restaurant is painted bright yellow so it is kind of hard to miss. We sat down and tried laccy, which is the Bangla version of the Indian “lassi”. It was great! Smoother and very sweet, but I think that we have been rather spoilt in Rajasthan with those makhania lassis!
We have already mixed quite well with the locals. Simon made a friend called Michael who sat down with us to watch the sunset. He was awesome and he accompanied us to the Poussee Restaurant where we filled three of our hungry stomachs for £2! Walking back to the fleapit, there was a bright full moon shining, which complemented the tiny glows from the rickshaw drivers’ oil lamps.

The Journey to Bangladesh

From Jharkhand to Bangladesh

The long journey from Jharkhand to Cox’s Bazar, Bangladesh, was
possibly the longest continuous journey that either of us have done at 38 hours of travelling, not including stops! We did 14 hours by train from Jharkhand to Calcutta, followed by a 3 hour train to Bangaon (on the India – Bangladesh border), and then 11 more hours to Dhaka, with our final leg to Cox’s Bazar taking 10 hours.
Before getting on the train in Jharkhand, the hotel escort said that he would drop us at Barwadih Station as opposed to Daltonganj, as we had previously planned, due to current elections and the possibility that they could turn violent. We heard that the state of Jharkhand was “lawless” so we agreed that this was the best idea. We arrived at the station and caught our train to Calcutta safe and sound.
Before boarding the train, it was mission critical that we stocked up on food supplies to get us through the night. We had to resort to a healthy diet of biscuits and one of the spiciest Bombay mixes we’d ever tried!
A few hours after we caught this train, we stopped at Dhanbad to collect more passengers, and shortly after the train had departed once more, we heard a cry from a lady sat just two bays behind us on the train. It was hard to understand, but apparently, according to a young Indian chap sitting across from us, the woman was being mugged for her mobile phone. I guess you can’t be too careful in Jharkhand! We had been playing our travel scrabble and chess, and we even acquired a small audience! After packing the games up, we went to sleep until our 4:15am arrival in Calcutta.
We had to take a taxi from the station to another train station across the city because we needed to take a local train to Bangaon. The taxi driver was a little crazy on the roads at this early hour. My guess is that he’d certainly had his coffee! We were weaving in and out of small gaps in between cars and people. It was early but it wasn’t the quietest place. People were already beginning their day of hard work. We saw an uncountable amount of coconuts ready for sale, infact some streets were full of them!
On arrival at the station, we went to get our tickets to get to Bangaon and the queue was already growing. We joined the queue in order but we noticed that people were occasionally trying to push in at the front. None of them succeeded. Finally we reached the ticket booth and an Indian man tried pushing in front of us from the side but Jon put his arm over onto the counter to stop him getting through. That’ll teach him! Our ticket was easy to get and very cheap for a 3 hour train ride! As Jon handed over the money an old woman standing next to him put out her hand and began wailing “Hari Krishna, Hari Krishna”. Instead of getting money, what she actually got was Simon wailing back at her “Harry Potter, Harry Potter”. Whilst we were waiting to catch our train we met a professor of Environmental Sciences, who was very interesting and was one of the first people we met who had a good command of English.
The journey outside of Calcutta was very scenic. There were houses made from bamboo and long leaves, such as palm tree leaves, as well as wood. These little houses had just enough space in them to hold a small family and a few necessities. Nothing more. They were nestled among palm trees and nearby fields with small brown paths running between the houses, where little children were playing happily.
As we pulled up into Bangaon a rickshaw driver met us conveniently from the train to take us to the border crossing. The journey was slightly cheaper because we had to share with 3 others. We were 6 people, plus all our luggage, in a rickshaw that is designed to take about three people and half the luggage that we stowed.
The border crossing all went smoothly, although our passports were checked several times by different people. We had to go through Indian customs to leave India and then through Bangladeshi immigration to enter Bangladesh. A member of staff in customs was collecting coins from all over the world so we left him a few examples of his first English money.
As soon as we had crossed the border into Benapole, a small town in the east of Bangladesh, we took a cycle rickshaw to the bus stop, where we caught the bus to Dhaka just in time! On the way to Dhaka we had to cross an arm of the River Ganges on a small ferry. There were tiny markets on the ferry, just like in typical streets in India and Bangladesh, and the surrounding scenery was stunning! The moon was bright and red until darkness fell, before turning white and gleaming. It was great seeing other boats passing us on the river as silhouettes in front of the moonshine.
As we reached the other side of the river, and journeyed closer to Bangladesh’s capital, Dhaka, we noticed road traffic increasing tremendously. On the way to the bus station in Dhaka, our bus was trying to overtake everything possible, from large trucks to cycle rickshaws. Would Simon and Jon make it to take the bus to Cox’s Bazar that night? Or would they have to spend the night in Dhaka?

Palamau National Park and the Fort

Palamau National Park, Jharkhand

Our morning safari into the forest started at 6.00am. It really WAS just like the Jungle Book, and the sound of the dawn chorus emerging from the misty undergrowth was superb. We spotted a decent array of wildlife: many species of birds, a grey fox, groups of deer, a family of bison in search of water, and hundreds of monkeys. The elusive tiger is now in great danger across the whole of India. We later discovered that here in Palamau there are now only 17 tigers left according to an ecological survey in 2007.
We later went to the Betla Fort, which was probably the most amazing fort out of the four others we have seen so far. The ruined fort contained many features of its Muslim past, such as intricate decoration and arches in which the two sides met at a sharp tip. We went inside the redbrick bastion, which was surrounded by loose bricks on the ground that had been lost over time, not to mention a vast array of vegetation, most of which seemed quite dry as a result of the current arid climate.
As we explored, we found a small archway tucked into one of the interior walls and we saw some very irregular steps, so we decided to try our luck climbing onto the ramparts. On reaching the top, the view around was fantastic, as we could see other areas of the fort lying within the greenery. We wanted to follow this wall-less path around the top to reach the distant remains, but after a little walking time we found ourselves having to turn back due to the collapse of the fortifications. We showed no fear of falling over the sides!
Next to be explored were the grounds of the fort and we noticed a couple of large cylindrical pits that descended many metres below. One was probably used as a dungeon as it had no escape route; whereas the other looked like it had an underground tunnel that was linked to other areas of the fort. Surrounding all this was the magnificent scenery of Jharkhand: what a tragedy that the internal political unrest here has stifled the massive potential of development. We are staying in a bizarre complex, complete with possibly the world’s most creepy manager, together with hourly power-cuts or flickering lights and women up on the roof completing the tiling.
On our return we walked around the village of Betla. Some schoolboys tagged along for a short while, one with a scowl and two with smiles! The old village houses provided shelter for both man and beast, and beneath the roofs were large shelves for the storage of firewood. In a courtyard on a table lay the body of an old man, surrounded by his family and being attended to by either a doctor or cleric. Perhaps it was already too late? In the next yard goats grazed, children played, and across the street women gathered by the well to perform the ritual of washing. Here nobody asked ‘What country are you?’ but instead they just stared blankly.
Our final jeep expedition was to be to the confluence of two majestic rivers in an area of outstanding beauty. As we approached the rivers, it became obvious that only sand was to be found now in the riverbed: for 9 months of the year, there is no water at all. Thinking back to our time last week on the Sam sand dunes, there was nothing else to be done but take an action shot and return to our base. Tomorrow is going to be another early start, and an exciting prospect: we are to delve deep into the jungle on the back of an elephant!



Juhi the Elephant

After rising early at 5:40am we intrepidly explored the dense undergrowth of Palamau National Park the Indian way. We clambered onto Juhi the elephant and onto a rickety wooden platform ready for take off. The mahoot (elephant driver) closed the door of the fence that bordered the base on which we were sitting, not that it made us feel any safer! As the elephant marched forward we were being swayed due to an imbalance of weight and we are surprised we didn’t fall off!
It was much better to explore on elephant back because we went through small tracks and low-lying canopies of vegetation, where we met another bison, and deer seemed fairly abundant. The tranquillity here was outstanding and when the elephant stopped, the only sounds we could hear were birds twittering, and creatures of mystery scurrying through dense dry vegetation. Oh! And the occasional monkey call!
We saw many more of the langurs today and some rhesus monkeys, but also kingfishers were spotted in a clearing. The kingfishers were beautiful in colour. I would describe most of the ones we saw as a fluorescent grass green colour, but we also spotted one that was electric blue.
Prior to ending our elephant trek, we went to a small waterhole where the elephant could take in some much needed water. The elephant walked into the small lake slightly and we both fell to the front of our wooden cage because the elephant’s front feet had sunk more than its hind ones.
It was quite uncomfortable riding on top of the elephant because our legs were rubbing on the side of the elephant and the wooden base. Not only this but as the elephant walked past a tree deep inside the forest, Simon’s foot got caught between the side of the elephant and the tree, leaving Simon very confused and Jon as well. I mean, are ankles supposed to twist that much?!
As the elephant made it through parts of the jungle where there were almost no more paths, it would create accessibility by grasping the vegetation with its trunk and forcefully pushing it all to the side. More often than not though, this was not necessary as the elephant could just barge his way through. Never mind any high-reaching thorny stalks that caught onto our clothes and skin! It would have been nice for you to clear that for us Mr Juhi!
The morning on the elephant was absolutely amazing and to top that off we had 2 onion and potato filled parathas each with ketchup, plus masala chai and water. They don’t do lassi in the place we are staying so we are waiting to find a lassi bar as soon as possible! Mind you, if this place did do lassi, the consequences would probably be very severe following consumption!
Today we are heading towards Calcutta and we are due to arrive there at around the 4:00am mark, but the trains always seem to arrive later than scheduled.