When I hear the word British High Commission I think of a massive gate with lions either side, secure, but not in the American crass way with razor wire and guard dogs, instead with a bit of English elegance, as if the grandeur of the place would embarrass any would-be intruders into a hasty retreat. I’d go in and, with a flash of the British passport, would immediately be greeted by a discreet, polite aging man in a suit who would show me up a marble staircase into a cool ante-chamber where I would be served tea and perhaps a scone whilst I waited for the ambassador to come and greet me with a firm hand shake and a ‘How are you sir, a pleasure to meet you...’ You can imagine my disappointment then when I went to the British High Commission in Dhaka yesterday to find a rather modest redbrick building that looked like an anonymous middle-class detached house. The kind that populates all our medium-sized commuter towns or suburban areas. All it was missing was a freshly washed and waxed Ford Mondeo parked outside. I went inside and perused an issue of OK magazine from June, a Farmers Weekly and a Marie Claire. I then had a quick talk with a nurse about how damaging Bangladesh would be to my health and then signed a couple of forms and handed them in at a counter and that was it. No tea, only a plastic cup of water from a drinks dispenser.

On an unrelated matter but I’ve just thought about it. Its Ramadan at the moment which means people don’t eat or sleep very much. Under the circumstances the general public seems to be coping with it rather well. If the English as a nation had to go through such an ordeal revolution would quickly ensue. Asking them to go without their cereal in the morning, the deli-sandwich at lunch and dinner served strictly between the hours of six and seven would be difficult enough. Then getting them out of their beds at three o’clock in the morning by shouting at them through a loudspeaker to go to church would probably lead to running street battles and burning cars. Or at least a stern letter to the local MP and an angry letter in the Guardian.

There are also nightly power cuts here. I’m slowly getting used to it. Initially I was incredulous that it interrupted my watching films on my laptop. You see, we in England have to go through a power cut probably once a year, for about three or four hours tops. But my God, what a time. People wandering out into the street, lost, like car crash victims. Frantic pleas to local friends and neighbours requesting, ‘Can we come to yours for tea because you’ve got a gas cooker and ours is electric’. Break-downs as the Walls ice-cream you only bought yesterday turns into slop in the freezer. ‘No I won’t calm down, I mean, I just can’t eat it all.’ Talking to our Kenyan and Ugandan friends in the candle light they explained that power cuts can last for days in Uganda whilst around 60% of the population in Kenya is without power. Perhaps we should stop taking our power for granted and learn to cut down a bit more. And, I can tell you, you learn far more about those around you chatting at a table in the candle light than you’d ever know.

We were at a party last night where we met all of the other volunteers. It was plagued with power cuts as the music went off, we were plunged into darkness and, crucially, the fans stopped working. I have never known heat like it. A room full of people talking away as if nothing was wrong, slowly melting with sweat like the candles that had been positioned around the room to provide some meagre light. We helped ourselves to rice wine, a brutal spirit from the hill tracts that burns as it intoxicates. Needless to say that after a few glasses almost everyone had taken a turn for the blurred. I was cornered by an impassioned sweating Kenyan who explained how much he admired the queen of England and insisted I hear his argument “proving” that Princess Diana was killed by Prince Charles. Something about her being pregnant. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I’m a republican. I apologise for the lack of pictures, I promise that the next post will be full of National Geographic-quality masterpieces.