101 - Un-Christmasy Christmas (Dhaka to Khulna, Bangladesh)
CHRISTMAS IN BANGLADESH WASN’T THE TYPICAL FARE, the most un-Christmasy Christmas season I’ve ever had. That’s not to say it wasn’t memorable, just different.
Bangladesh’s prized asset? Its people. Friendliness toward foreigners seems baked into the national psyche. There were exceptions, of course, but my day-to-day interactions were uplifting, especially in rural areas. Most of the country is untouched by mass tourism, blunting the entrepreneurial avarice taken for granted in popular destinations. The potential for fraud or duplicity isn’t nil, but the intensity level is dialed down considerably. I was an anomaly, a curiosity worthy of investigation. A stranger was as likely to buy me a cup of tea as they were to beg for coins. It was remarkable and filled me with enough gratitude to last a lifetime.
That’s the context underscoring my quirky social encounters over the course of a two-month Bangladeshi sojourn. Case in point: I met Shaiful (an approximate transliteration) on Dhaka’s streets when he stopped me and introduced himself. I liked him at once. We had a pleasant exchange, though I understood no more than sixty percent of it. He mentioned an American friend named Mathias and a fondness for befriending foreigners. I expressed an interest in learning a few useful Bengali phrases, and he wished to practice English. Things took an awkward turn when he spoke of Dhaka’s (and by extension, his) dire employment situation. A recent prolonged bout of dengue fever compounded his troubles.
He wasn’t interested in a handout, only a job. This explains his offer to become my personal assistant. It was impossible not to like the guy, and though I was hesitant, we exchanged cell numbers. I told him I’d be leaving Dhaka for an extended trip, but that we might meet up after my return. He called and texted every day for the next three days. I’m ashamed to admit I dodged his correspondence, not so much because I didn’t want to speak to him or meet for a language lesson, but because I was preoccupied with sorting out the details of my Sundarbans extravaganza.
What has two thumbs and loves coincidences? A couple of nights before I left Nepal, I met an American woman who’d been volunteering in Kathmandu. I discovered she’d be in Bangladesh to renew her Nepal visa a week after I arrived, so I suggested we meet. Earlier on the day we reconnected, she’d been approached by a gentleman on the street and engaged in polite conversation. Upon discovering where she was from, he told her he had two American friends, including a tall American named Richard. She didn’t make too much of it until she asked to borrow his phone. Imagine her surprise when she saw the number I’d given her listed as 'Richard - USA'.
Yep, this was he. Here’s the thing—when she called, the number came up as 'Shaiful,’ so I didn’t answer… like an asshole. I didn’t have the bandwidth for explanations, clarifications, and prevarications. Two minutes later, she called me from a different phone (different stranger). Whoopsie. I shudder to think what Shaiful thought when I answered straight away. Like I said, asshole.
But, alas, it gets worse. Alex (my co-conspirator) and I brought her (yes, I’ve forgotten her name… like an asshole) to a restaurant we’d discovered two days earlier. En route, Shaiful called again. This time I answered, forced to explain my previous failure (i.e. I’d missed the call, cat ate my homework, etc.). He seemed content with my explanation but then asked to join the group. Without a job, he had plenty of free time. I sensed potential awkwardness, so I resorted to more evasiveness in the form of pressing travel preparations. I repeated my offer to meet upon return.
Minutes after sitting down, guess who happens to pop in? I suspect he was in the area and spotted us entering. More awkwardness. He said he was meeting a friend, but it was clear he was deflecting. He also said something about dropping off his resume somewhere to which I wished him luck in his job search. He asked for my e-mail and mentioned something about people helping people. After giving him my address, he then informed me he’d be forwarding his resume to me. I wasn’t sure what he thought I could do, but I guess you never know. I truly wanted to help but was at a loss to see a way to do so. To recap: He was meeting a friend (me) and dropping off his resume (to me). When I wished him luck on his job search, I was wishing him luck on getting hired with me. Looking back, I have to admire his tenacity (and cringe at his desperation). If I hadn’t been so caught up in my own shit, I could’ve concocted a way for him to assist me. Think outside the box, ya dumb dick. Hindsight can sometimes be a karmic kick in the jewels.
And then came the liquor expedition. As mentioned in the previous post, I had no interest in drugs, booze, or women in Muslim Bangladesh. At best, these indulgences were a shady proposition and felt a tad disrespectful to my most nation. At worst, they could lead to legal entanglements or violent disapproval from devout citizens. Why test fate? My attitude shifted when I learned booze has limited acceptance with regard to foreigners. Alex and I thought a whiskey dalliance during a New Year’s Eve in a mangrove wonderland was justified. We’d be isolated and far enough from polite society to avoid raising anyone’s hackles.
Wanting alcohol is one thing, finding it another. We had four options: Premium hotels, Costco-esque establishments catering to foreign passports, embassy clubs (British Club, American Club, etc.), or the black market. Hotels were prohibitively expensive, and it was unclear whether they’d sell whole bottles at any price. Alcoholic Costco was closed on Friday. It was Friday. Embassy clubs required a temporary membership or an inside connection. Alex had a potential contact at the British Embassy, but we were short on time. Our overnight train to Khulna left that night.
Foreigners can possess alcohol, but I’m guessing “by any means necessary” is outside the spirit of the law. Rickshaw drivers are the most convenient conduit to black-market essentials. Every time I mounted one, I was offered beer, whiskey, hashish, and a lady. So to a rickshaw driver we went... for the whiskey. I’d save the hash and lady for Valentine's Day. What started off as a simple endeavor degenerated into mind-numbing frustration that began at an aforementioned warehouse (closed) and ended with me exchanging cash with the friend of a guy who knew another guy, then retrieving the contraband from beneath the seat of yet another rickshaw driver. I was like an alcoholic James Bond.
So we, the infidels, dropped close to $60 US on a bottle of not-so-premium whiskey. Nothing says Christmas like a criminal conspiracy. All that so we could have a nip on New Year’s. I suppose it’s only fitting I be punished for my insolence. Somewhere along the way, I lost my cell phone. Oh, fate, you cruel, fickle bitch.
We capped off our caper with a ten-hour train ride from Dhaka to Khulna. Not exactly high comfort, but not too shabby by local standards. Valium helped. We arrived at 5 a.m., found a hotel, and passed out like filthy criminals. After nap time, I went in search of a new phone. I chose an official shop owned by one of the telecom providers. If expedience be thy metric for success, this was a mistake. (Better to find a second-hand model at a street kiosk.) If fun is your barometer, however, then this is the ticket. Buying a phone required hoop-jumping. I had to fill out a form (name, address, father's name, mother's name, etc.), hand over a copy of my passport, provide two photos, and leave my thumbprint in three separate places. Buying an assault rifle in the US requires less. Had I not been so intrigued by the process, I might’ve been annoyed. Hard to get upset when they (perpetually smiling employees) sealed the deal with two pieces of candy, a pen, and cotton candy on a stick. But wait, there’s more. I was afforded an opportunity to win fabulous prizes. Hit the center of a target with three foam balls, bask in thy riches. I came up short. In fact, my performance was downright pathetic. I buckled under the pressure. Also, the employee taking promotion photos threw off my concentration. Perhaps that was part of his diabolical plan all along.
