Holy Jackfruit Loaded Rickshaws, Batman!
A Canadian with a Missing Sham Wife Hits Bangladeshi Tea Country

In Dhaka last week, just before I hopped a train for Srimangal (Bangladesh's tea region), I realized that I had never before felt like I was literally at war with my environment.

It started the moment I arrived in the capital, teary eyed from the Compressed Natural Gas rickshaw ride from the airport (travelling down the same road Rumsfeld--peace be with his rotten heart--would travel two weeks later in his war fodder recruitment tour of South and SE Asia). I was crying because of the air pollution (not because of any fanaticism over my nation's defense secretary, though the beauty of natural gas rickshaws is almost worth shedding a tear over).

Then, still the first day, it was the insect powder that was my enemy. Crawling behind the computers in the dust at my new home, I reacted with fear for my own safety and sympathy for the crawling things, insisting we stop dusting the powder all over the flat, especially near the food. That same night, a dying cockroach attacked me. (Or was it trying to play?) Covered in dust, as if to taunt me in its death throes, it lurched at me again and again until finally I threw it out the window. As time passed, I began to throw many cockroaches out the window. (Peace be with their simple hearts). (Do insects have hearts?)

If only I could as throw out the insects that cause the mysterious red marks on my ankles, or the whatever that causes my feet to itch, the allergen that's causing mysterious hives to pop up like wack-a-moles all over my body, or the compounded effect of all those variables giving me dreams that make me think worms are coming out of my head. (They were earthworms to be exact--could be worse).

At least the leeches coming out of the tap have been taken care of. One of my housemates tied ripped bedsheets around all of the faucets. After a day, they turned brown and started spurting water all over. We didn't replace them. Why bother?

I have yet to wear a bandana over my face outside, mostly because I'm afraid the British colonial looking traffic cops in their high-waisted pants with knee-high boots and whacking sticks will think I'm some sort of bandit. Not to mention that, even though Dhaka has the worst pollution in the world, no one but no one wears a pollution mask.

So I bolted. Had to. Took my friend's advice to visit Srimongal, about five hours outside of Dhaka by slow train. I became Canadian and told everyone I was married. Little did they know that my wife was a sham and our marriage was but a gathering of friends followed by gleeful rolling about on the kitchen floor.

Srimongal, Tea Country, pretending to be Canadian

As expected, the minions of the town's best tour guide--Rashed Husan, who's due to appear in the next edition of the Lonely Planet--got to me during my rickshaw ride from the train station to the fabulous Taj Mahaal Hotel. At 60 cents per night on a record high dollar, the best boarding house for the money...ever. Despite the building shaking when busses rolled by outside on the unpaved main road, I slept comfortably).

After my afternoon nap, I supported the local economy by paying too much for a couple of saris. A man from the crowd yanked down the shorts of a boy whom I assumed was his own three year old child to reveal elephantized testicles the size of tennis balls. I retired back to the Taj Mahaal to finish Tom Robin's "Half Asleep in Frog Pajamas"--a must read, sez someone you shouldn't trust.

Biking Through Tea Country--And a Hindu Festival

The good thing about Sashed Husan (rasha-tg@hotmail.com, enjoylife-45@yahoo.com) was that he was dependable and he didn't want to rip me off. He got me a bike for $2.50/day and left me alone. He didn't warn about how I'd get mugged if I didn't hire his services, as did another fellow who wanted me to pry open my wallet. Sashed even congratulated me when I told him I got to visit the Bangladesh Tea Research Institute's factory. That day happened to be their "Internet Connecting Ceremony" day as well, when all the IT guys where there to marvel at the 5km DSL line. Oh the smell of tea was amazing as was the whole culture of the British empire's old tea country.

The curious thing about this tea area is that the British decided to import coolies from India instead of training the locals, so I men with lots of friendly Hindus along the way. It even happened to be the Hindu festival of Rathyatra, where Lord Jagannath (believed to be an avatar of Lord Vishnu) and his two siblings go on vacation. Devotees of the dieties throw fruit in the air and parade religious figures around in chariots. I was invited to a village ceremony to start the procession, but my tour guide's English was terrible.

I went back to the Taj Mahaal. Boy was the place shaking when that bunch went by. I thought of throwing my apples at the crowd, but an apple from the fourth floor ain't pretty. Neither were the half eaten bananas that landed on my balcony.

A Highly Reliable Guide

That night, the guy who worked for Sashed came up to my room to hang out with the other two tourist hustlers in the town. He invited me down to the street and then to his Hindu temple and then out for tea. In the narrow streets of Srimongal, I heard Hindu prayers coming up like whisping wind through blades of grass. Much more eerie than Muslim prayers, which are projected from huge speakers in the mosque towers for all to hear, Hindu prayer time springs up organically from all sides.

If you're going to Srimongal, (Srimangal) I highly recommend you contact:

Liton Kumar
litonkumar@yahoo.com
0176138081

Liton was a lovely boy who would have gladly served as my tour guide. Instead, he became my friend. With his more than decent English, he deserves to show someone around his town. He was a being with a beautiful heart. Whatever you could give him would be charitable. I didn't give him anything. He wouldn't even let me pay for tea. Still, his 12 hour work days in a Srimongal mobile phone shop earn him 50 taka per day. 85 cents.