Two Weeks
I was lying on my side, my head cradled in my arm. A small desk, concrete floor, and red curtains were the room’s most notable attributes faintly lit by the yellow candlelight flickering against the wall from a slight breeze blowing through the window. The sun having retreated 30 minutes earlier, left the sky in it’s last throws of grey. Faint music was tempered by the sound of a million crickets somewhere in the night. In the distance a woman was arguing with her daughter, their faint rambling voices complementing the moan of a cow across the street.
Like a moth approaching light, the night watchman entered the doorway. He was a short, quiet man with a limp in his mid 60’s whom made a rather ritual experience out of his profession. As he approached the doorway his face faintly light up with the candlelight. I acknowledged his presence and quietly placed my head back down on my arm. We both knew that we had already exhausted our common vocabulary. As he recessed back into the darkness, new and old experiences competed for my attention:
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
I had left Dhaka following an eventful beginning to the week. After Sunday’s nationwide strike, Monday’s torrential downpour, and Tuesday’s political opposition rally I become anxious to return to the villages. For some reason, I had always looked to the city and country fondly, as the extremes of commotion and relaxation. Dhaka, however, is like a Thelonious Monk solo, just as complex and difficult to fully appreciate.
A glass of port and a jazz record watching the stars move across the sky…
My exhaustion was really my own fault, with the trip to Cox’s Bazaar and the difficulties in Dhaka finally catching up to me. I aggravated this on Tuesday when I decided that covering the political rally would be more productive then Grameen Bank’s head office. It didn't occur to me at first, but after about an hour of relatively peaceful demonstration I noticed that most of the photojournalists were wearing motorcycle helmets. When the exchange ceased to be about ideas and became more about bricks, tear gas, clubs, and fires, I found out why.
The quiet California summer....
The next morning I made my way to the bus station: rather dingy scenes flush with lepers, cripples, and children beggars with the rare combination of all three. The children, being eerily accustomed to the lifestyle, were always the most difficult to see. From here, I hopped the early bus out of Dhaka, crossing over a large bridge 3 hours later. My destination was a rural town devoid of most Bengali maps.
A lesson that places are never as important as people…
After my arrival and a brief lunch, I rode off to a group training session in a rendition of a rickshaw fondly referred to as a van. As we walked on the high roads separating the rice paddy, we came to a village with children playing mud football under the shadows of a mobile phone tower that provided the only discernable landmark among the endless fields. Poverty was so prevalent here. But you wouldn’t know it from their faces.
The world through a child’s eyes…
Save the occasional close call with a bus and the crackling of a rickshaw chain in the distance, village highways are generally silent. We waited for a few moments till a man showed up with a small motorcycle to carry us back towards the main town. Using as much sense as possible, we managed to fit three grown men onto a 150cc bike and rode weaving in and out of the rickshaws as the headlight bounced of a sea of insects, forming a tangible beam pointing the way.
My last trip to the desert…
For the most part, my final village trip went well. I tried the whole thing without the interpreter. It was frustrating at times, but it really forced me to get down some basic Bengali. Furthermore, while it’s true I escaped Dhaka, the rain followed me. I guess that’s what you get for visiting during monsoon season though. Thankfully it let up my final afternoon, allowing one of the staff to bring me out to a Grameen fisheries project on a large lake.
Family and Friends...
Friday morning found me heading for Dhaka on a bus whose driver was braving another rainstorm along with his own ambition. I was only there for a quick turnaround on my way to the English tea estates in Sreemengal with Paul. After a quick lunch in the POSH section of Dhaka we made our way back north on what ended up being a beautiful afternoon. At a bus stop we made our way to the roof and braced along the luggage rack (clearly, the best way to see the Bangladesh countryside). We spent the better part of the next morning trying to rent a couple of motorcycles or a car so we could tour the countryside. After some difficulty, we finally succeeded in obtaining one small 2-stroke motorcycle that had seen better days.
Of all things, Colin’s scooter…
Sreemengal turned out to be one of the highlights on this experience. On that motorcycle, despite our confidence being shaken by the headlight falling off within the first hour, we decided that India was defiantly within reach. We careened down the sandy back roads and dodgy border towns toward East India stopping along the way to ask for directions in broken Bengali and English. I didn’t have my passport and I was pretty sure this border wasn’t equipped to admit foreigners, but we thought we’d at least see it. We were correct, and upon arriving at the border we were told that it was closed and we’d be shot if we tried to go any further. As blindly optimistic as I’ve become, I make no claims of being bullet proof. We did gaze upon a section of India not many foreigners see though, afterwards doing our best to limp the tired bike back through the tea estates in the dark by drafting a TATA truck and praying the bike didn’t die for the 200th time.
Motorcycle diaries…
--------------------------------------------------------------------
All these memories swirled around as I slowly lifted my head back up to watch the bugs encircling my candle. Hours had passed and sleep would arrive soon. Through the window I watched the moon and stars compete with the clouds for earth's attention. Darkness always comes so quickly here.
Like a moth approaching light, the night watchman entered the doorway. He was a short, quiet man with a limp in his mid 60’s whom made a rather ritual experience out of his profession. As he approached the doorway his face faintly light up with the candlelight. I acknowledged his presence and quietly placed my head back down on my arm. We both knew that we had already exhausted our common vocabulary. As he recessed back into the darkness, new and old experiences competed for my attention:
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
I had left Dhaka following an eventful beginning to the week. After Sunday’s nationwide strike, Monday’s torrential downpour, and Tuesday’s political opposition rally I become anxious to return to the villages. For some reason, I had always looked to the city and country fondly, as the extremes of commotion and relaxation. Dhaka, however, is like a Thelonious Monk solo, just as complex and difficult to fully appreciate.
A glass of port and a jazz record watching the stars move across the sky…
My exhaustion was really my own fault, with the trip to Cox’s Bazaar and the difficulties in Dhaka finally catching up to me. I aggravated this on Tuesday when I decided that covering the political rally would be more productive then Grameen Bank’s head office. It didn't occur to me at first, but after about an hour of relatively peaceful demonstration I noticed that most of the photojournalists were wearing motorcycle helmets. When the exchange ceased to be about ideas and became more about bricks, tear gas, clubs, and fires, I found out why.
The quiet California summer....
The next morning I made my way to the bus station: rather dingy scenes flush with lepers, cripples, and children beggars with the rare combination of all three. The children, being eerily accustomed to the lifestyle, were always the most difficult to see. From here, I hopped the early bus out of Dhaka, crossing over a large bridge 3 hours later. My destination was a rural town devoid of most Bengali maps.
A lesson that places are never as important as people…
After my arrival and a brief lunch, I rode off to a group training session in a rendition of a rickshaw fondly referred to as a van. As we walked on the high roads separating the rice paddy, we came to a village with children playing mud football under the shadows of a mobile phone tower that provided the only discernable landmark among the endless fields. Poverty was so prevalent here. But you wouldn’t know it from their faces.
The world through a child’s eyes…
Save the occasional close call with a bus and the crackling of a rickshaw chain in the distance, village highways are generally silent. We waited for a few moments till a man showed up with a small motorcycle to carry us back towards the main town. Using as much sense as possible, we managed to fit three grown men onto a 150cc bike and rode weaving in and out of the rickshaws as the headlight bounced of a sea of insects, forming a tangible beam pointing the way.
My last trip to the desert…
For the most part, my final village trip went well. I tried the whole thing without the interpreter. It was frustrating at times, but it really forced me to get down some basic Bengali. Furthermore, while it’s true I escaped Dhaka, the rain followed me. I guess that’s what you get for visiting during monsoon season though. Thankfully it let up my final afternoon, allowing one of the staff to bring me out to a Grameen fisheries project on a large lake.
Family and Friends...
Friday morning found me heading for Dhaka on a bus whose driver was braving another rainstorm along with his own ambition. I was only there for a quick turnaround on my way to the English tea estates in Sreemengal with Paul. After a quick lunch in the POSH section of Dhaka we made our way back north on what ended up being a beautiful afternoon. At a bus stop we made our way to the roof and braced along the luggage rack (clearly, the best way to see the Bangladesh countryside). We spent the better part of the next morning trying to rent a couple of motorcycles or a car so we could tour the countryside. After some difficulty, we finally succeeded in obtaining one small 2-stroke motorcycle that had seen better days.
Of all things, Colin’s scooter…
Sreemengal turned out to be one of the highlights on this experience. On that motorcycle, despite our confidence being shaken by the headlight falling off within the first hour, we decided that India was defiantly within reach. We careened down the sandy back roads and dodgy border towns toward East India stopping along the way to ask for directions in broken Bengali and English. I didn’t have my passport and I was pretty sure this border wasn’t equipped to admit foreigners, but we thought we’d at least see it. We were correct, and upon arriving at the border we were told that it was closed and we’d be shot if we tried to go any further. As blindly optimistic as I’ve become, I make no claims of being bullet proof. We did gaze upon a section of India not many foreigners see though, afterwards doing our best to limp the tired bike back through the tea estates in the dark by drafting a TATA truck and praying the bike didn’t die for the 200th time.
Motorcycle diaries…
--------------------------------------------------------------------
All these memories swirled around as I slowly lifted my head back up to watch the bugs encircling my candle. Hours had passed and sleep would arrive soon. Through the window I watched the moon and stars compete with the clouds for earth's attention. Darkness always comes so quickly here.
posted by Keith Erickson at 6:04 AM
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