Rajshahi

First there was the weirdness. It all began when the van stopped in Rajshahi and I got out to find my new home. It really was a prison in every sense except no one was there to provide any food. First, there was no light, no electricity. When they got a few bare bulbs to work they revealed a dim, dirty cavernous concrete bunker. The paint was peeling off the walls and there were no mosquito nets over the windows. This would be ok except that there was no where for me to hang my bed mozzie net off so we had to rig up a make-shift one. The was no running water apart from a solitary tap in a filthy rusting sink in what, I was informed, constituted the kitchen. To be fair to my organisation they were very proactive in helping me find a new place. So I put all of my stuff on the Bangladeshi version of a removal lorry (see picture) and carted it to what is a vast improvement. My current house is very nice indeed thank you. It has not one but two verandas, two bathrooms and a dining room type thing big enough to play five a side football or cricket in depending on your preference.

The other day Patrick, my organisation’s project coordinator, very kindly took me on the motorbike to see his family. His family are indigenous Adivashi which I’ll tell you more about another day. We road along endless vivid green rice paddies and fish ponds into another Bangladesh. Just off the pristine road a beautiful other world of immaculate ‘mud huts’. I put this term in inverted commas because it evokes something dirty, disparaging. These couldn’t be further from such an idea. They were all freshly painted and plastered and were swept clean. A central courtyard for cooking rice and washing clothes. Around this the family rooms are situated. The mud makes an ideal building material because it’s so cool in the summer.

Patrick is alienated from his own family. They don’t even look like they come from the same planet let alone the same family. His parents are old, dishevelled, short and emaciated. Patrick is tall by Bangladeshi standards and powerfully built. When he was nine a friend offered to pay for him to train as an electrician but he would have to go to Dhaka. He took him up on the offer and wouldn’t see his family again for seven years. He left his world and could find no way to return. Quite literally; when he got the urge to return home he had no idea where his family lived, he’d forgotten the way home. When he got back he felt he couldn’t relate to his family any more and had ‘lost the ways’ as he put it to me. To see him in wondering around the village and talking to the villagers is to see and outsider. We came to the middle of the village to encounter and argument taking place amongst the elders. Some of the families in the village are deeply unhappy about the making of the local moonshine from sugar cane to sell at the local market. Not only is it dangerous to the health, apparently men from outside come to village to get drunk and sleep with the women. This has naturally caused a lot of tension in the village and this is what we walked into today. Patrick seemed to arbitrate, a power he has due to his education at Dhaka University and his eloquent if forceful style. There appeared to be no warmth between him and his mother, father and sister. No hugs or smiles, no actual physical contact. They said a few things to each other and he showed me round and we got on the bike and left.

Right, I think you’re about half way through. Now go and have a cup of tea because this blog’s a long one. Go on! I’ll still be here when you get back. Be sure to come back though because the next bit’s exciting. It’s got drug busts and police in it and everything.

I got lost yesterday and rang Tanvir (the organisation’s accountant) to help me get home. He met me at New Market and of course we didn’t go home. We stopped at his friend’s who works selling fabrics at the market. Then we went for the sweet milky tea that I can’t get enough of and some snacks at this hut behind the market. Inside were a bunch of blokes taking tea. They were really welcoming. Lulu bhai, the owner and father, his son making the tea. And then Rahbond bhai who was making the fried snacks. Everyone knows each other and love spending time chatting over tea and it’s been great spending time with them. They are so welcoming and I don’t see myself getting lonely too much. People don’t seem as full-on as I expected what with my being a Bideshi and all. I think it must have something to do with this place being so diverse with a really large Christian population and also many Hindus and obviously Muslims. Adivashis mix with the Muslim majority here and so next to the lighter skinned Muslims there are people that look almost Afro-Caribbean with very dark skin, broad noses and thick lips. I should also mention that Bangladeshis are themselves incredibly diverse from those who look Arabic to those who look South-Eat Asian.

And I love it. It’s total immersion. There is no tourism so there is nothing superficial. I mean, I’m just a PART of it all. I sit having tea with the fellas from the cloth stalls in the market. Then we go and have tea with some other friends who are all welcoming to the last man. Tonight I had tea at Tanvir bhai’s family’s house. There must have been at least 20 people in a flat about half the size of mine. And everyone was so welcoming. It wasn’t intimidating at all and there was no stand-offishness. His wife, his father and the in-laws and the big gaggle of kids were all great. As was the food although I have to admit my attempts to eat with my hands remain rather comedic. Even this welcoming family looked at me like I was a little bit special when I tried to tackle a particularly boney fish. Efforts must be doubled. I love that I’ve gained an acceptance here in just three days that wasn’t possible in a year in Spain. You basically have to marry in Spain to get access and even that isn’t a guarantee. Here people take you into their hearts and homes without a second thought. I like the way people just loiter around having tea, sitting at a friend’s stall. There may be no cinemas or bars or leisure culture but people seem to get along just fine without them.

There was a dead funny show on TV whilst I was Tanvir’s place. It was a crime show where a camera crew and macho presenter accompany some police on their delirious drug raids. I expected to see vast quantities of coke and guns but no, this is Bangladesh. So what were these crack cops pulling out of mattresses and secret holes in the wall of people’s apartments? Alcohol. Now, as a whisky fan I can see the crime in having a bottle of Teachers, it’s vile stuff to be sure but it hardly warrants a prison sentence. I had no idea alcohol was sooo illegal here. This swat team were pulling out crates of Heineken like it was a key of Columbian high grade blow worth hundreds of thousands. It would have made me laugh had it not been for the fact that the hapless people who were caught would do time in some of the worst prisons in the world. Still, if you will drink shit whisky...

Oh, one more thing. I forgot to mention Rajshahi is on the river Ganges so on my morning run I get to see the sun rise over its calm waters. If I sound smug it’s because I am. Check the picture out.