A day in my life

I awake under the grey haze of my mosquito net. It doesn't have the Snow White Princess feel of most, but it does keep out the backward Bangladeshi mosquitos who insist on thriving during the dry winter months. It's shamefully hard to crawl out of bed into the cool 18°C apartment. I throw on a fleece wondering how I ever survived winter in Montreal.

First things first: time to make coffee. A seemingly simple task, but here it has a 2 month history: 3 weeks spent tracking down real cofee beans (here 'coffee' is synonomous with 'Nescafe'), 2 weeks finding someone with a bean grinder willing to be my friend (not easy) and 3 weeks figuring out how to suspend my tiny italian espresso pot over the enormous opening in the gas burner. But frustration and perseverance seem to be secret ingredients because coffee has never tasted so good.

While the coffee brews I water the plants on my caged-in balcony. They are covered in a layer of black dirt that gets all over my face when I lean in to water my palm. Every leaf in Dhaka hides under the same blanket of dirt, now so thick that you can see it from a significant distance. I pray that the monsoons will come with enough force to restore pigmentary order to the world.

It is time to head for work. After greeting the guards in the car park downstairs with a "Salaam-Ale-Koum!" I walk into the street and shout "khali!" (empty) at the first free rickshaw I see. I am sure every Bangladeshi within earshot is giggling at the sound of it, but I am now accustomed to being a source of endless entertainment. Just yesterday I had 15 Bangladeshis watching me read. In fact, all I have to do is stop for more than a millisecond and it's as if I am standing on my head naked singing Broadway songs. I should start selling tickets, really. I wouldn't mind so much if a) it didn't make the observation of life in Bangladesh so difficult and b) it didn't occur within such close proximity - but then with a population of 150 million, personal space is not high on the list of priorities here.

With his scarf around his head, knotted under his chin, my rickshaw walla resembles an elderly grandmother. He agrees to take me to work for the usual 20 taka (35 cents) so I settle into the barely padded seat and prepare to absorb the sights of my daily journey.

People stare at me as I pass, but I must admit they have due reason: I am a fashion disaster. For starters, I shun the shalwar (“Aladdin Pants” is a more appropriate description) and wear black slacks. My kameezes (long tops) are all too short, not bright enough and have despicably modern necklines. And the biggest disaster of all is my orna, the scarf women wear to cover their breasts and often heads. I only have one, and its black, for practical, it-goes-with-everything reasons. Black does not even register on the Orna Colour Radar in Bangladesh. It is, however, the right length (2.5m), which means I find myself entangled in it on a regular basis. It also occasionally gets caught in things, like rickshaw wheels or doors, and I find myself being simultaneously strangled and yanked to the ground in a display that Bangladeshis seem to find hilarious. When I try to wear it draped over my front it falls off approximately every 1.8 seconds, so I look like I have some sort of nervous twitch as I continually readjust it. I am convinced that Bangladeshi women have different shoulders than I do, because their ornas never seem to fall off. And if they do, they readjust them so gracefully that you would never notice it had shifted.

Recently, I have taken to wearing a thicker pashmina instead of a light orna, because, well, it’s cold! But of course what I should be doing is continuing to wear an orna with another shawl over top of it to keep me warm. And my shawl should be patterned with plaid or paisley, not plain black.

The biggest of all my orna sins, however, is that I... take it off (gasp!). I have yet to understand how exactly Bangladeshi women can function with 2.5m of scarf wrapped around various parts of their torso all day, but they do. It never comes off. They cook in it, clean in it, shop in it, work in it, swim in it….

I haven't yet scratched the surface of the sharee (sari), but let me just say that the mystery as to how women manage to pass their lives wrapped up in one long piece of cloth is parallelled only by the beauty of watching them do it.

A couple of hours at the office gives me time to download emails, reply to a few, and browse the headlines of The Daily Star, but not much more. Note to self: never underestimate the importance of high speed internet for professional productivity. In an hour I have a meeting in another part of town. I must leave now because it can take anywhere from 20 minutes to 2 hours to get there, depending on traffic. It is for this reason that being half an hour late for a meeting in Dhaka does not require an apology.

I head out in search of a CNG (also called baby taxis). Eventually, after much insistence I find one who will take me for the best price going: meter plus ten taka. Unfortunately, traffic is bad. Having negotiated the price in Bangla, the driver seems to think I am fluent in it and yabbers at me as he points to the sick traffic jam we have come across. Not sure what to say, I yabber back "I go Asad Gate" and hope he understands the implied "I don't care how you do it, just get me there!" His solution is an off-road rally that takes us over sidewalks, between trees, among market stalls, within millimeters of other vehicles... We stop only when the traffic is truly jammed, and the driver buys a cigarette and a ‘pan’ (beetle nut filled leaf) off a young boy working the streets. As we wait he passes the time chewing and spitting blood-red saliva through the door of his driver's cage, with no regard for who might be in his line of fire. Occasionally he turns his head to examine me with a look that registers somewhere between scrutiny and bewilderment. I consider that it must amaze him to see how interested I appear in all the normal every day activity on the street.

The traffic starts up again and our rally continues. We have taken side streets and I am glad to have a chance to see the Dhaka that hides behind the main avenues I am used to. I have no idea where we are, and my instinct says that we are getting further from my destination rather than closer, but I have acquired a fair degree of patience since coming here and I decide now is a good time to put it to use.

Eventually, we pop back out onto a main road. We pass the Parliament Buildings and, while I always enjoy looking at them, I wonder (not for the first time) what all the fuss is about. Note to self: watch My Architect, the documentary that may shed light on this mystery.

Our detour has sent the meter into overtime and when I arrive the fare is twice what it usually is. I grumble, but before too long my sanity kicks in and I remember that the 45 minute journey has cost me just over $1. I stop grumbling.

I have come to Mohammadpur to help with a research project on Bihari refugees. When India and Pakistan divided along religious lines in 1947, many Urdu-speaking Muslims from Bihar migrated to what was then East Pakistan. Then, after the Liberation War in 1971 when East Pakistan became Bangladesh, the country was transformed linguistically and the Urdu-speaking Biharis, who had fought along side Pakistan in Bangladesh's Liberation War, were persecuted and fled to camps set up by the Red Cross. The idea was that all of the Biharis, or “Stranded Pakistanis” as they are often called, would eventually be sent to Pakistan. Thirty five years later, they live in the same camps.

Given that neither nation is taking responsibility for, or interest in, their situation, a research unit at Dhaka University has taken it upon themselves to understand how the Biharis identify themselves and what they actually want for their future, since many of them were born in Bangladesh and have no interest in returning to Pakistan. It's fascinating to speak to these people about their lives and about how they see themselves and their situation.

I meet Tarek and Hasan at a fast food place that has a menu 12 miles long and only 3 things available: chicken broast (?), chicken nuggets, chicken burger. We all go for the burger. Tarek is a University student helping out with the interviews, and Hasan is our Bihari contact who will help us arrange interviews.

We head to Town Hall Camp. For the last three days we have been conducting interviews in the neighbouring Geneva Camp, where there is a clinic with a private room at our disposal. Town Hall Camp has no clinic, so Hasan arranges for us to use a room in one family's house. Or, better said, to use one family's house, which is a room.

While it is us who should feel indebted to our hosts, their exemplary hospitality makes it seem otherwise. We are served food, and little cups of cha, sweet milky tea with saffron, are timidly placed before me with welcome regularity. With each sip or bite I consider the havoc this could be wreaking on my stomach, but I figure it can't be any worse than the street meat I ate for dinner the previous night, and somehow my bowels escaped torture for that.

Our interviews go well. At least, our audience approves: in addition to having the residents of the house all sitting on the bed with us, there is a constant stream of neighbours passing through to catch a glimpse of the fair skinned foreigner. I'll say it again: I should sell tickets. The attention makes it difficult to focus, but I am enjoying the atmosphere much more than the barren clinic office with the window that invited in the smell of garbage and the power cuts that had our days end by candlelight.

I begin to realize that the people we interview are much less concerned with their identity or citizenship than they are with having a job. An ID card or the right to vote does not interest them unless it comes with employment, which will allow them to buy a house and send their children to school. It's hard to say just exactly how unlikely it is that the Government of Bangladesh would ever provide them with anything more than a meager acknowledgment of their status as citizens, but with 100 million other Bangladeshis living in poverty to worry about, I'd say it's pretty unlikely. A tough reality for me to accept. A tougher reality for them to accept.

After a final cup of cha and an endless number of farewells, it's time to go. Rush hour will start in half an hour (at 7pm), and if I don't get started now it could take 2 hours to get home. I hop in a CNG and manage to get 100m down the road before someone is at the open door trying to sell me something. At this particular moment it's popcorn. And now it's coming at me from both sides. The competing vendors are both young boys and they are waving their popcorn vigorously. I am in a good mood and manage to smile at them as I offer an emphatic "Na!". This doesn't convince them and the popcorn is waved more vigorously. I smile again, make some funny faces and shout "Na!" like a mad woman, and this makes us all laugh, including the driver, whose dark face and serious beard seem at odds with his hearty cackles. Not to be so easily discouraged, they give their best tactic a shot: just put the popcorn on the nice lady's lap and refuse to take it back. So I give my best tactic a shot: just put the popcorn on the cheeky boy's head and stick your tongue out. I win. Finally the light turns green and I leave asking myself: “should I have given them money?” I then wonder how many times I must have asked myself this same question and when the answer will become clear (or perhaps just easier to accept)?

At the next intersection it's a young girl selling flowers. Her ears stick out from behind the orna she has over her head and make her look particularly cute. I decline to buy her flowers over and over again, so she rips of one of the blossoms and presents it to me with an emphatic "Geeft! Geeft!" I smile but I don't buy her game, or her 15 cents bouquet of flowers. To my surprise, without a hint of disappointment she offers a cheerful smile, an excited wave, an "Ok, bye bye sister!" and leaves me in peace. I pick up the blossom she has left me: it smells heavenly.

At the next intersection six small boys selling flowers surround me on both sides. I play the same game of silly faces and sillier sounds and eventually they stop asking me about flowers and start asking me about my name. I then ask for their names and the older boys have great fun replacing the smaller boys' names with what could only be inappropriate words, which, much to their delight, I dutifully repeat. When the light finally turns green they shake my hand and bid me farewell with a cheerful "Khoda hafez!" (roughly: may God protect you). My spirits have been dashed and lifted all at once by these small street vendors.

The vibe changes as we near the diplomatic enclave, and before I know it I am in the relative peace and quiet of the Canadian Club sharing this same tale over a glass of red wine. In an instant and a matter of kilometres, the world has transformed.

It is late now, and all that is left for this day is to crawl into bed and dream about what tomorrow will bring.

War Stories

Warning: not for the faint of heart (that means you, Granny!)

Everyone needs a few good war stories, and frankly, for all the years I have spent living in crazy places I have far too few grizzly tales to show for it. Fortunately, however, a pair of fine Bangladeshi gentlemen were kind enough to help me rectify this situation last night...

I got mugged. Yeah, I know what you're saying "Everybody gets mugged, big deal Wheaton!" But I have to say, this one was pretty good.

So, I went to the Canadian Club last night for the last party before they move to a new location, where concrete and modernity will replace the hundred year old trees and run-down coziness of their current location. After I wore myself out on the dance floor I decided to head home - after all, I did have to get up at 6am the next morning to get a bus up north to visit a friend. I had tried 3 times now to get up to see him, but each time my plans had been foiled. And this was my last chance, since he will be leaving Bangladesh in a week.

I bid farewell to everyone at the club, declined a couple of offers for rides home because I didn't want to bother anyone, and hopped on a rickshaw at 11:30pm. Not the brightest of ideas, admittedly, but what's the worst that could happen?

Well, for starters, I could be the victim of a drive-by purse-snatching. But that wouldn't be so bad, would it...?

Well, it wouldn't be so bad if they had simply grabbed the bag and driven off. But that wouldn't be any fun! What would be really fun is if my arm got caught up in my purse, I got pulled off the rickshaw and dragged along beside the car for what felt like miles.

Yes, last night at 11:30pm I was being dragged along Gulshan Ave, the Champs Elysee of Dhaka, emitting screams that I never thought myself capable of. I'm not sure why my arm remained attached to my bag for so long: most likely a combination of being determined not to let go and a genuine entanglement in the straps. Nor do I have any idea how long I was dragged along for, but it was long enough to register at least two thoughts:

1) "Hmmm. I'm being dragged along Gulshan Avenue by a moving vehicle. This is pretty scary."

2) "I can't believe these people are dragging me along the pavement all for 200 taka, a shitty mobile phone and a copy of Brick Lane. Bastards!"

Perhaps the latter is the most frightening thought of all. It's shocking to realize how little your life can mean to a stranger...

Eventually I either let go or became untangled. I felt the tire run over my fingers as it drove off, but they don't hurt that much today, so perhaps it was just the edge of it (or my imagination). I lay there crying for a brief moment as my stunned rickshaw walla came over to me, and then I hopped up and told him to take me to a friend's house. At that moment a police van passed going the other direction and he insisted on going over to flag them down.

I didn't have high hopes for the police, but even the meager hopes I had were not met. His first question? "Is there a problem?" I'm not exactly sure how I looked at that moment, but I would have thought the huge scrapes on my arm, the ripped shirt and the tears would have been a sufficient indicator. After the huge crowd of men that had gathered all relayed the sequence of events, with much excitement, he looked at me and said "Well, did you get the license plate number?" "Oh yes, of course, Officer! As I lay there being dragged along the pavement I pulled out a pen and paper so that when I was finally left lying in the road I could look up and write down the Bangla numbers on the license plate of a car driving 50km an hour." I told him not to worry about it, and he emphasized that "Unfortunately, without the license plate number, there's really not much we can do," and added "but if you HAD got the license plate number, then we could do something." I can't blame him for not being able to do anything, but I didn't appreciate his lack of sympathy or the ephasis on how this was somehow all my fault...

At the end of the day I was pretty damn lucky. Had there been other cars around I would have undoubtedly been run over. Had the scarf around my neck got caught in the wheel I could have been strangled. The possibilities are endless. As it is, I have only a few bad scrapes and bruises, a sprained wrist, and a little trauma to deal with.

But hey, I did give a lot of Bangladeshi hanging around Gulshan Ave last night a great story to tell. And I finally have a good war story of mine own. One for the memoirs, as they say.

Making up for a misspent youth...

Let's face it: as much as I hate to admit it, I was a pretty good kid. Good enough that my parents never set a curfew for me throughout my entire angst-free teenage existence. So either I was a pretty good kid or my parents were liberal, balanced human beings, and I highly doubt that. Regardless of the rationale, I never experienced a curfew during my youth, which is a good indicator that it was drastically misspent.

But now, at the age of 26 it seems that Bangladesh is keen to make up for my misspent youth and I am living under a curfew for the first time in my life. And an 11pm one at that! Had my parents ever decided that my shenanigans merited a curfew, even they wouldn't have dared demand I be home by 11pm. Thankfully, there's not much on offer in Dhaka at that hour.

Of course, perhaps it's unfair of me to believe that Bangladesh is doing this all just for me. I suppose the fact that the country is in a state of emergency might have something to do with it.

Over the last 2 months I have become used to the fact that the political situation here changes status more often than most people change their underwear (that is to say daily, I hope). But I was still shocked last night when I received a call at 7:30pm to say that the caretaker President had stepped down, announced a state of emergency, deployed the army and imposed an 11pm-5am curfew. Along with this, the freedoms of movement, assembly, association, thought, conscience and speech are suspended.

At the time I was in the middle of packing my bags to go up north for the weekend - the fourth attempted flee of Dhaka to be foiled by yet another metamorphosis of pre-election Bangladesh. It seems someone is determined to keep me in Dhaka. Makes me wonder what they have to hide out there in the countryside...

By the tone of this entry, it should be clear I'm not too worried about this state of emergency we are in. In fact, it could be the first positive movement in an otherwise despondent stalemate of affairs. The date of the elections will now be renegotiated, which of course will involve more frustrating battles between political parties, but there is the small chance that they might actually manage to come to an agreement, making the new election a viable event. A new Chief Advisor to the interim 'care taker' government will also be chosen and hopefully some of the time all of this buys will be dedicated to improving the highly controversial voters list. So, if resolving these issues is what a state of emergency can offer, then I will happily put up with a curfew. For a while, anyway.

The other benefit if a state of emergency is that you get to play 'Emergency Tennis', which sounds even better than the more common 'Hartal Tennis'. Yes, expats in Dhaka find strange ways to amuse themselves...

It's not all fun and games for me today however. I do have to go get a key re-cut. It seems the first time they didn't get it quite right. Surprising, given the high technology used: a file. Perhaps there wasn't quite enough light coming from single bulb dangling in the tea stand next to the key-cutting 'shop' (read: man sitting on wooden platform on the side of the road) last night when I got it done...

From Himalayas to hartals…

I’m back. From an extended absence on my blog (profuse apologies), and from a 10-day trip to Nepal. I have returned to find that Bangladesh is in the middle of another 3-day blockade, which may be followed by a 10-day blockade leading up to the elections on the 22nd. That is, of course, if the elections go ahead despite the fact that the opposition has announced that they will be boycotting them. Seems no matter what happens over the coming weeks, none of it will be overly positive.

But, as the title of this entry suggests, I arrived into the land of hartals from the land of something much more magical: the Himalayas. My get-away (in the truest sense of the word) to Nepal was a bit of a last minute arrangement. Originally, I was planning on staying in Bangladesh over Eid Mubarak, a three-day holiday that depends on the moon and as such is announced only a week before it will take place. It seems the moon felt generous enough to give us three working days off, and although I was tempted to stay and observe the traditional Eid celebration of slaughtering cows and sharing the meat amongst friends, family and the poor, I somehow figured that seeing the streets of Dhaka awash with cow blood might not compare to a sojourn in the land of temples and trekking.

Where in the world is Carmen SanDiego?

I remember when I was a kid, back when computer screens were orange and black and floppy disks were actually floppy, I used to spend hours playing Where in the World is Carmen San Diego? And I remember that one of the many obscure places where Carmen used to flee to when evading capture was Kathmandu. At that age it was eternally a place that existed in the world of computer games, not a city that I would one day visit in real life. Visiting Kathmandu in person was, of course, much more exciting than tracking down Carmen in Kathmandu on a computer, although the computer did make much cooler noises than the KTM airport.

On the flight from Dhaka I was lucky enough to get a seat on the right-hand side of the plane, better known as the Everest-hand side of the plane. That’s right, I saw Everest from my window as I flew into Kathmandu. It definitely made up for the less than appetizing Bangladeshi plane food (let’s just say it made Air Canada seem like a five-star restaurant in the sky).

I shared a taxi from the airport with four fellow Dhaka residents, and as we entered the tourist area of Thamel we all sat with our faces glued to the window and drool dripping down our cheeks at the sight of this Eden of delights we had stumbled upon. There were shops, with things you actually wanted to buy. There were restaurants, with food you actually wanted to eat. There were bars!! Real, live bars!! And shops selling alcohol, right out in the open! There was Illy coffee!! It was like being a kid arriving in Disneyland, but slightly smoggier.

I remained a Disneyland-awed child until I arrived at the hotel, at which point I transformed into a real adult. Real adults being defined, of course, as persons who stay in hotel rooms and not grungy backpacker hostels. I never imagined, when I was 18 and hopping from hostel to hostel in Europe, or 22 and hopping from cheap guesthouse to even cheaper guesthouse in SE Asia, that the day would come when I would ‘sell out’ (as I would have called it then) and stay in a hotel. Heaven forbid! Only boring, stuffy grown ups would want to do that! But the day came, and it was a fabulous day. A fabulous day with wooden floors, a down comforter and a hot bath, all for only $20. I only hope the Courtyard Hotel was around when Carmen lurked in these parts.

Canyoning: TYTMDOTO

After a morning visiting Thamel’s plethora of shops overflowing with cool clothes, even cooler jewellery, paintings, incense, all things hippy, and a long list of other material wonders unavailable in Dhaka, and an afternoon split between the ‘monkey temple’ perched 365 steps above the city and Patan’s majestic Durbar Square, my Aussie companions decided it was time for some real adventure. So we all signed up to go canyoning. As my hand penned my signature on the waiver, my mind placed 2 Days Rappelling Down Waterfalls Near the Border with Tibet in the mental category of Things You Tell Mom and Dad Once They’re Over (TYTMDOTO). I mean, why have them imagining you hanging on a rope half way down a 40m descent when you could send them a photo of you actually doing it once you’re safe and sound?

The best part of the excursion was that it took us out of the smog and noise of the city (okay, so Dhaka and Kathmandu do have one thing in common) into the beautiful countryside, which is basically a never ending chain of incredible terraced valleys. But yes, the canyoning was pretty cool too. The first day we descended some smaller waterfalls, at the bottom of which was a Nepali dance troupe filming a music video in traditional costumes. At different levels of our descent the rocks hid some members of the group, but we never lost sight of the director, who was always out in front showing the dancers which way to flail their arms and wiggle their hips.

The second day we descended much higher and more difficult falls, which of course meant it was much more fun! And each twist, turn, drop and overhang overlooked an incredible terraced valley with a madly rushing river below. Quite magical.

Nepali New Year

We arrived back in Kathmandu just in time to celebrate New Year’s Eve. With two more resident Dhakans who had traded hartals for Himalayas we headed out for dinner and then hit the street just before midnight. The whole area of Thamel was packed, with tourists and Nepalis alike, who I assumed were there to ring in the start of 2007. Little did I know…

As it turns out, December 31st in Nepal is the traditional ass-grabbing celebration. It took only a few moments on the street to figure this out, in which time my bottom was the object of much celebration. We quickly decided that abandoning the street for a local bar might give my and my female companion’s bottoms some time to rest, but unfortunately there was even more celebration going on inside than there was outside (although some of that could have been contributed to the fact that it was so crowded inside you needed to point your head upwards in order to breathe).

After being groped by about 72 different men, we decided that we just weren’t culturally mature enough to appreciate the Nepali version of New Year’s Eve, and we retired to our hotel where the staff where nice enough to open up the bar, let us pour our own drinks and have our own private party. All in all, a good way to ring in a new year.

My first day in 2007 was spent visiting one of the largest Buddhist stuphas in the world as well as the most holy Hindu sites in Nepal. The latter was particularly interesting for a number of reasons. Firstly, the holiness of Pashupatinath stems partly from it’s location on a very sacred stretch of river. River, in this case, meaning terribly polluted dribble of murky water. Having grown up in a land of pristine rivers, it was incredible to stand before it and try to understand how it could be conceived as holy; It made me realize how little I understand about the foundations of a religion like Hinduism, and how little I comprehend faith in general. The second interesting thing about Pashupatinath is that it is an important cremation site. A public cremation site, which meant that while we were there we watched two pyres being built, two bodies wrapped in white cloths and draped in marigold chains being carried around the pyre a number of times before they were lay to rest upon it, and two fires lit that were then smothered in grass dampened in the holy river. When the towers of smoke had died down, the remains were pushed over the edge of the stone pier into the river. A somewhat somber, somewhat uplifting, and totally unforgettable sight. Finally, Pashupatinath is home to a number of sadhus, the dreadlocked, face painted, yoga practicing, pot smoking Hindus who are meant to have left behind all material and sexual attachments in their pursuit of liberation. Quite a sight they are - an interesting contrast to the stoic beauty of the temples the wander between.

1 drunken guide + 4 days + 3200 metres = 1 amazing time!!

After visiting Pashupatinath I headed to the airport to catch a flight to Pokhara. Splurging on a flight instead of slogging in on the bus was another thing that I never thought my budget traveler soul would ever give into, but then I don’t think my budget traveler soul could ever conceive of a day when I might be able to afford such luxuries. On this flight we had even better views of the Himalayas, as well as the country below. It was refreshing to watch the brick sea of Kathmandu fade into rolling terraced hills and valleys.

I caught up with the Adventurous Aussies who had organized a four-day trek in the foothills of the Annapurna stretch of the Himalayas, and together with German fellow we eagerly met our guide the next morning and headed off to Nayapul where our trek would begin.

After a few hours of fairly light trekking and rice and dhal lunch, we continued on what we had been told would be a long way to our first destination. We followed our trusty guide, knowing that he would set the necessary pace and not lead us astray. Unfortunately, however, our guide was having trouble setting one foot in front of the other, let alone setting a pace that would get us around the bend before dark. It wasn’t long before he sat down for a rest and, in our frustration, we offered a half-hearted “So you'll catch up with us, yeah?” and trudged on. That was the last we saw of Lale the Super Guide.

In the end, we arrived at the village of New Bridge with head lamps lit and map in hand after an enjoyable 7 hours of hiking through beautiful villages nestled in terraced valleys that occasionally gave way to views of one of the striking mountains towering in the distance. A hot bucket bath, a cold beer and some warm noodle soup made it a pretty darn good day, drunken guide and all.

I awoke on day 2 and wandered down to the breakfast table to find that my porridge had been served with fabulous mountain views. When you arrive somewhere after dark, you never know what you will find when daylight arrives! Our trek began with a steep ascent, but we were later rewarded with a dip in some gorgeous, slate-lined hot spring baths that oozed steam out over an icy turquoise river. Unfortunately, that was followed by another, more gruesome ascent, but again we were rewarded, this time with stunning views of three frosty peaks. Our day ended cuddled in a guesthouse that lay among the terraced fields and brick houses of another beautiful village, and we celebrated a tough but wonderful day with pizza, that only took 2 hours to make.

Day 3 was grueling and involved a number of steep ascents that sucked more life out of me with every step. Fortunately, after 2 months in Dhaka, the simple sound of silence was enough to keep me going. The highlight was reaching the watch tower at Deruali, which looked out over 12 peaks. The German and I had stupidly climbed (read: crawled) up there with our packs, which we later realized had been unnecessary, but we managed to recover with a short nap beneath the rippling prayer flags that framed the blue sky and the gleaming white peaks perfectly. The food and masala tea that followed in the village below didn’t hurt either.

The views continued to be spectacular as we continued on our way to Ghorepani, and it was all I could do to take five steps in a row without stopping to take the same picture I had taken five steps earlier. When we arrived in Ghorepani, the sun was setting as we settled into a cozy $1.20 room that looked right out over two peaks that transformed from white, to pink, to moonlit blue.

Unfortunately, that night I lay shivering in bed under three blankets wearing everything I owned. But fortunately, it wasn’t because it was that cold, I just had a fever. After stripping me down and wrapping me up like a hotdog in one of those silver blankets, which just roasted my outside and left my insides freezing, I took a panadol, borrowed some good thermal underwear and managed to get to sleep.

We began our last day trekking uphill at an ungodly hour that demanded headlamps. But, when we reached our destination, the 3200m top of Poon Hill, I felt less disgruntled about having dragged myself out of bed in the dark. On one side of the horizon, the moon was setting into a sea of pale pink and blue that wrapped the range’s highest peak in a blanket of baby-coloured softness. On the other side were peaks silhouetted in the deep red and orange of sunrise. And in between were peaks that shone brighter with each inch that the sun crept higher, and a sky that became bluer at the same rate. I couldn’t feel my toes or fingers, but it didn’t matter. It was beautiful enough to warrant the loss of such menial appendages.

It was all down hill from there, figuratively and literally. Going down made me long to be going up again and I cursed myself for having complained about the steep climbing we had done for the previous two days. When we reached a section of continuous stone steps (as in lopsided rows of oddly shaped rocks) winding down 500 vertical metres of steep valley, every step felt like someone was jabbing hot knives into every inch of the lower half of my legs. Fortunately there were only 3000 of them. This time, shame kept me going as I was passed by porter after porter doing the same descent with sandals on their feet and multiple packs, cages of chickens, or wooden tables balanced on their backs by thick bands across their foreheads. As with all the Nepalis we had encountered throughout the trek, they all had a cheery Namaste! to offer, despite their enormous loads.

As with all goodbyes, reaching the end of the trek was bitter sweet. My legs were happy, my ears and eyes were sad, and my heart was a little bit of both. But they all managed to agree it was time to head back to civilization in a minute taxi that would get a flat tire halfway there.

I was tempted to splurge on another flight back to Kathmandu, but I opted for the tourist bus (Nepali for “no one has to sit on the roof”), which turned out to be a great way to rest my weary legs for 7 hours while I watched Nepal pass by my window.

Some things are better understood at a distance

It was interesting to see how much I learned about Bangladesh from being in Nepal. Sometimes when you are immersed in a place you fail to notice certain things. Being in Nepal revealed to me a number of things about Bangladesh that I had started to take for granted. Perhaps most noticeable was how inconspicuous I felt in Nepal, where I suppose they have become used to foreigners and therefore don’t tend to stand in large groups and stare at fairer creatures like myself. The lack of rickshaws and abundance of motorcycles was another of the most evident differences. I was pleased at the thought of a rickshaw-free vacation at first, but after being run down by a few motorcycles I realized that perhaps lowly rickshaws aren't so bad after all.

Of all the differences, the most interesting for me was the surprising number of women out and about in Nepal. You do see women on the street in Bangladesh, but what I hadn’t realized is how few of them you see, comparatively speaking. There were also a lot more women wearing ‘western’ clothes or engaging in ‘modern’ behaviour (like working in a shop). Perhaps a difference in culture, perhaps in religion, perhaps in economic development. Perhaps a combination. That much I didn’t learn, but I at least began to see things that have faded into every day life over the last couple of months in the 'desh.

Home sweet Hartal

After watching violent clashes in Dhaka on the BBC news at the KTM airport, it was even more sad to watch the twinkling lights of Kathmandu dwindle as the plane popped up to bid goodnight to Everest and Company before moving on to Bangladesh. Although, despite the never ending turmoil here, it did feel strangely like home as we drove into the not-so-mundane-as-I-like-to-make-it-out-to-be diplomatic enclave that I have unknowingly begun to enjoy…

PS - sorry for the lack of photos, but between a geriatric PC and a 20th century internet connection, it just isn't feasible. I'll try and find a way to put some online soon.