3 months in India and Nepal followed by 6 months from Hong Kong to Glasgow along the Silk Road and route of the Orient Express. Passing through China, Kyrgyzstan, Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, Iran, Syria, Turkey, Bulgaria, Romania, Hungary, Austria, Germany, France and the United Kingdom.

We arrive into Rajshahi after an uncomfortable 6 and a half hour bus journey. We booked seats which was better than standing but the following points should be noted: 1, a steel pole, for the use of standing passengers to hold onto, was right next to my impossibly small seat so that some part of me was constantly pressing into this bar. 2, the right hand side of my seat was higher than the left and felt like it was made from concrete, in this way my right buttock became increasingly numb at the same rate my back became sore from sitting at an angle. 3, next to the aisle and near the front meant the joy of two different kinds of physical contact, of, I am unsure which I prefer. On balance, getting elbowed or punched in the head during the general scrum for the exit at one of many stops was probably preferable to the firm and continuous grinding of ass or groin against my shoulder during the rest of the journey.

Checking into the Dalas International Hotel promises a lot as it has the much coveted ‘our pick’ in the Lonely Planet for Rajshahi. Indeed, it is also the location of a very successful mosquito breeding centre and the large gaps at the bottom of the room doors ensure these make it into our room with ease. Mosquito nets are provided but are hidden in a drawer. The benefits of a boy scout mentality help enormously, the cord I have packed with our own ‘travel sized’ mosquito net mean we can actually put these up. To our rescue comes the bell boy who proceeds to empty the entire contents of one large anti mosquito aerosol spray into every corner of our room. As my tongue goes numb and my head starts to spin I am pretty sure I know where Saddam was hiding those WMD’s. We bail and head out for some food.

At Chili’s kebab and fast food joint the food is distinctly unimpressive in every way apart from the quantity of oil used in the preparation. Finding a waiter to raise our concerns with would not have been a problem, they were sat around us in a tight circle watching us eat. I am becoming increasingly adept at completely ignoring those in close proximity around me, a useful mental self preservation technique but even this doesn’t stop me from feeling like the star attraction at a zoo, “oh look daddy, the panda is eating some bamboo”.

On the way back to the hotel I am again engaged in a string of four question conversations that inevitably go like this.

“Your country?”

“England”


“Your profession?”

“Teacher?”

“Your name?”

“Rich"

“Who is that?” nodding at Jude

“My wife”

“Thankyou, goodbye.”

We have a slightly longer conversation with a chap called Jon. I tell him my brother is also called Jon, he tells me he is a poet and, a little disarmed by his charm, I answer honestly his question about which hotel we are staying at. Mistake!

At 5:30am the neighbourhood Imam switches on his Glastonbury sized speaker system and blasts out his tuneless muezzin (call to prayer). The romance of this exotic sound is lost on me at this volume and at this time in the morning. By the time he finishes he has woken up every dog in the vicinity who are so annoyed at being woken up so early they express their distaste by barking at each other for the following hour.

For breakfast we head for a cafe rumoured to serve proper coffee, a sure fire way to put a smile back on my face. Unfortunately it takes 30 minutes for the coffee to arrive at our table and when it does we discover it has been cut with chickory extract. Picture, if you will, the Tarantino styled drug dealer discovering his pure cocaine has been cut with cornflower and you’d have some idea of the internal response going on inside my head, only the lack of automatic weapons prevented a barista bloodbath.

If friendliness is the same thing as hassle then Bangladesh is definitely the friendliest country I have ever been to. Leaving the hotel is an exercise in endurance. If I am not feeling like a “freak” at a Ripley’s Believe It Or Not then I am invariably feeling like a Hollywood star being hounded by attention seekers and paparazzi. Tempers thin, my ability to keep a false smile on my face and to maintain interest in dull conversation is rapidly waining, we return to the hotel and vow to watch movies and read for a while until we recover.

Next morning 5:30am muezzin, 5:45am dogs, 7:00am hotel shutters open and incessant horns from the street and shouts from the hotel corridors throughout this time mean sweet sleep is snatched. I become convinced there is a nationwide conspiracy to prevent silence, perhaps tranquility is considered bad luck and to be avoided at all costs? I drift back to sleep…

9:30am. I become aware of a soft knocking at the door. I keep my eyes closed safe in the knowledge that after a few moments they will give up and go away, they don’t. The knocking gets louder and louder and more continuous.

“Hello British.”

Snap goes my patience.

“Go away” I call from my pit.

More knocking

“Go away!” Louder now and more annoyed.

“Hello, it is Jon, the poet, I have brought my professor."

“Go away, we are sleeping”

“But I want to meet with you.”

“Well, we don’t want to meet with you.”

Muffles conversation fades away down the corridor and bliss returns… briefly.

11:00am, I am reading the Lonely Planet guide book in bed with my headlight and the knocking starts again, it builds quickly into a constant banging that only ends with me shouting “Go away!!!” Changing tack the crew outside make a play for the window, it isn’t locked so they open it and manage to flick the curtains apart despite the bars. Now face to face with one of the protagonists I have an opportunity to create deeper cross cultural understanding.

“Go away.”

“But I have a poet here who wants to meet with you.

”Do you work for the hotel?”

“He wants to meet with you.”

“Do you work for the hotel?”

“Yes.”

“Good, we don’t want to be disturbed, do you understand?”

“Yes but...”

“Now go away.”

“At what O’clock will you be coming downstairs.”

“We will come down stairs when we decide to come downstairs.”

“But what time?”

“Thankyou, goodbye.”

“But…”

“THANKYOU. GOODBYE!!!”

We cross our fingers hoping that the message got through this time and linger in undisturbed bliss. We decide to see if we can leave for Nepal a week earlier than planned.

When we finally do emerge we bolt straight for the bus station, which unfortunately doubles as the largest open toilet in town and gathering point for swarms of beggars whose tactics for obtaining money rely less on sympathy than on them being so annoying that people pay them to go away. Dodging the pools of frothy, steaming, choking urine and the outstretched arms from wandering collections of tattered rags we jump onto our escape. This rusty bucket of bolts seems to be more weld than bus and our feet almost push through the wafer thin floor. Miraculously however it moves and takes us mercifully away from Rajshahi.

Our destination for the afternoon is Puthia, a small village, home to a treasure trove of Hindu Temples and Palaces.

On the edge of town is the glorious Shiva temple. Damaged still to this day by the anti-hindu violence and vandalism of 1971 that came hand in hand with Pakistans and her supporters attempts to prevent Bangladesh’s independence, it none the less retains its beauty and commanding stature over the area.

We wander through the market and out onto the large grassy area in front of the Rajbari (Palace), This magnificent building, similar in many respects to an English country mansion, now sits in tired dilapidation. It is still a working college by all accounts but the only ones home today are a small colony of bats.

We are soon joined by Mr Bushawashi, a local employee of the archaeology department and self styled guide and historian, critically he is the key holder to many of the buildings we have come to visit. He reminds us repeatedly that he is personally mentioned in the guide book but most of what he said is lost in his thick accent and million mile an hour delivery.

He is currently attending to a Bangladeshi group tour and leaves us in the hands of his assistant, a retired major of the Bangladeshi army who possesses the hairiest ears I have ever seen in my life. This chap is even more dull than Mr Bushawashi but rather than bore us to death with repeating snippets of history about the buildings he opts to bore us to death with the repeating his own family history, brothers, uncles, daughters, his career etc etc. At one point, when his daughter rang him on his mobile, he held it to Jude’s ear and got her to answer instead. I had to walk away I was in so much pain, I couldn’t cringe more if I’d tried.

And so the day went on. In amongst the faded beauty of Hindu religious opulence and the potential peace and tranquility of the quiet Puthia village we were treated to the machine gun staccato of non stop drivel from the dreary duo. This pair are fully paid up members of the BSPPQ, the Bangladeshi Society for the Prevention of Peace and Quiet. At the end of our tour we pay them and bid them farewell. They offer us obvious advice for finding a bus and we reply by saying we are going to have a cup of chai before we go. Before we know it we are being accompanied to a Chaiwalla where they buy us a cup of chai and continue their inane, intrusive and non-stop conversation. I find myself zoning out, as a stress induced headache from being unable to find the peace I need in order to be able to appreciate my surroundings boils beneath the surface.

“Problem sir?”

I should politely explain my issue with his relentless verbal torrent of uneccessary chat. Instead I fantasise about wrapping duct tape round his head and simply tell him with a smile “I am tired”.

As we finally head for the bus we are both utterly spent. Shouts of “What country?” fall on deaf ears and thousand yard stares warn those who approach not to get too close. During dinner in the evening I have a bout of diarrhea which is repeated twice during the night. I have no desire to return to Rajshahi, ever.

In Dhaka we check into a hotel outside of our usual budget. It has spotlessly clean sheets, double glazed windows and the shiniest bathroom I have seen in almost two months. I must be getting soft.