Joe, Hollie and me decided to leave Bangladesh through its northern catflap, heading towards Darjeeling for some much-needed brr. This involved two bleary overnight buses - with a final Dhaka day inbetween with Abi and Chris on a whistlestop sightseeing tour of the old town markets, sitting in taxis and raging at Indian beaurocracy as we prayed for our re-entry passes.
Once we'd climbed the hills in a jeep, we were in Darjeeling. It was ruddy freezing, to our delight, but also very steep and higgledy-piggledy so we collapsed in our hotel gasping before heading out to drink beer in Joey's Pub. It had been a long time! It was lovely, and a dog fell asleep in my lap. It turns out we hadn't really remembered the way up the hill back to our hotel though, and were left to navigate during a pitch-black powercut, a thunderstorm and some very spooky clanging noises (the gadanga man...). We made it, and huddled down in our dank rooms marvelling at how early everything closes in these parts.
We rode the fabled Darjeeling toy train, explored the markets and beauty parlours, ate cake and, of course, drank tea. Darjeeling feels, and looks, more like Nepal than India, as do the people. We discovered a nice homely little restaurant run by a friendly family including a spiky-haired Radiohead-obsessive with brilliant English, so ate a lot of tasty curry and momos to the sound of Creep on repeat. The weirdest moment was walking past a convent school and spying a hall full of Indian children dancing in sombre rows to Peter Andre's Mysterious Girl.
Anyway, that was enough fresh air - we plummeted back to Kolkata amid a thunderstorm. It was good to be back, but to damn hot to even contemplate doing anything except sitting in an air-conditioned cinema watching 3D animation, or reading Bollywood and cricket gossip in the papers over mango lassis. I was developing an obsession with Shah Rukh Khan, which meant it was high time to leave India.
Tuesday, 27 April 2010
Friday, 16 April 2010
Cox's bizzare
It was high time to get to the seaside. Hollie, Joe and me were reunited with Abi and Chris in the un-charming seaside resort of Cox's Bazaar, home to the longest natural beach in the world. Hotels are being thrown up on every spare centimetre of the place, and a stinking black stream runs parallel to the beach. But once you get to the beach, it all melts away.
It is a strange place indeed. The sun beats down, but the galeforce winds make it feel more like Norfolk than Bangladesh. People walk fully clothed into the warm, lolling ocean - Hollie and me wear our pyjamas. A man emerges from the waves brandishing a giant jellyfish. Two lifeguards lie together on a sun bed, stroking each other's faces. Huge dried fish hang on market stalls, the smell mingling with the putrid black stream which runs parallel to the sea to linger in our memories forever. Young men gallop past on ponies and, at one point, an elephant. We pay a boy of about 12 for sunbeds and umbrellas - whenever a small crowd gathers to stare at us, he beats them away with a stick. One girl fights back with a brick. On the third day we sit in someone else's patch by mistake, and our boy cries.
Like the rest of Bangladesh it's nigh-on impossible to buy alcohol anywhere. It just feels a bit more wrong by the sea. We do manage to find overpriced Gordon's gin and tonic in a hotel bar, served by a surly, judging barman and forced to listen to an Ace of Base album on loop as punishment for our wicked ways.
It is a strange place indeed. The sun beats down, but the galeforce winds make it feel more like Norfolk than Bangladesh. People walk fully clothed into the warm, lolling ocean - Hollie and me wear our pyjamas. A man emerges from the waves brandishing a giant jellyfish. Two lifeguards lie together on a sun bed, stroking each other's faces. Huge dried fish hang on market stalls, the smell mingling with the putrid black stream which runs parallel to the sea to linger in our memories forever. Young men gallop past on ponies and, at one point, an elephant. We pay a boy of about 12 for sunbeds and umbrellas - whenever a small crowd gathers to stare at us, he beats them away with a stick. One girl fights back with a brick. On the third day we sit in someone else's patch by mistake, and our boy cries.
Like the rest of Bangladesh it's nigh-on impossible to buy alcohol anywhere. It just feels a bit more wrong by the sea. We do manage to find overpriced Gordon's gin and tonic in a hotel bar, served by a surly, judging barman and forced to listen to an Ace of Base album on loop as punishment for our wicked ways.
Seven layers of sunshine and sweat
Srimongol sounded great - tea plantations, coolness and peace. It definitely wasn't cooler, but it was pretty. We were scooped up straight away by Khaled, a pint-sized, cowboy-hat-toting camp little fellow with an endearing stammer. Khaled runs a tour company which once owned a map, but lost it. We were allowed an afternoon on our own once we'd promised to spend the following day being shown around by him.
We went off on pedal bikes in search of the world-famous seven layer tea - I read about it in a tea magazine in Nottingham, no less - it's a top-secret family recipe only to be supped in Srimongol. It was delicious - each layer had a different taste, from ginger to lemon to extreme syrupy goo. Rejuvinated, we cycled through rice fields to be greeted by shy women and a mob of children, who shoved goats into our arms and chased us down the fields as we departed.
The next morning we set off with K-k-k-khaled in a rickshaw. Our first stop was a rainforest where pungent gibbons swung from trees and terrifying spiders the size of my hand strung webs across the path. We drove through lemon, pineapple and tea gardens and visited a picturesque lake full of l-l-l-lotus flowers. It was lovely but all too much for three weaklings from blustery grey isles - we were collapsed in our beds with chronic heat exhaustion by 4pm. Yikes.
Leaving Srimongol was pretty funny. We sat on the train platform with our bags to wait, and were soon surrounded by a circle of gawping faces, a crowd three deep. They just didn't know what to make of us. It would have been fine if the crowd hadn't been slowly increasing the temperature to about 50 degrees, but thankfully the station manager rescued us. He plonked us in his office behind his board of nonsensical flashing lights, sneered at our third-class tickets then made sure we were upgraded to a nice private carriage on the train. That barely stemmed the stares - cheeky little faces kept peeping through the millimetre of gap in the door, while some sneaksters just hauled it back to take pictures of us. There are a lot of sweaty mobile phone photos of us floating around Bangladesh now, that's for sure. So this is what it's like to be famous...
We went off on pedal bikes in search of the world-famous seven layer tea - I read about it in a tea magazine in Nottingham, no less - it's a top-secret family recipe only to be supped in Srimongol. It was delicious - each layer had a different taste, from ginger to lemon to extreme syrupy goo. Rejuvinated, we cycled through rice fields to be greeted by shy women and a mob of children, who shoved goats into our arms and chased us down the fields as we departed.
The next morning we set off with K-k-k-khaled in a rickshaw. Our first stop was a rainforest where pungent gibbons swung from trees and terrifying spiders the size of my hand strung webs across the path. We drove through lemon, pineapple and tea gardens and visited a picturesque lake full of l-l-l-lotus flowers. It was lovely but all too much for three weaklings from blustery grey isles - we were collapsed in our beds with chronic heat exhaustion by 4pm. Yikes.
Leaving Srimongol was pretty funny. We sat on the train platform with our bags to wait, and were soon surrounded by a circle of gawping faces, a crowd three deep. They just didn't know what to make of us. It would have been fine if the crowd hadn't been slowly increasing the temperature to about 50 degrees, but thankfully the station manager rescued us. He plonked us in his office behind his board of nonsensical flashing lights, sneered at our third-class tickets then made sure we were upgraded to a nice private carriage on the train. That barely stemmed the stares - cheeky little faces kept peeping through the millimetre of gap in the door, while some sneaksters just hauled it back to take pictures of us. There are a lot of sweaty mobile phone photos of us floating around Bangladesh now, that's for sure. So this is what it's like to be famous...
Bangles
Kolkata turned out to be my favourite big Indian city. It's green and higgledy-piggledy, full of beautiful buildings and smiling people. We spent an afternoon walking up the Hooghly, gobbling ice cream cones before they melted then wandering around the botanical gardens. The gardens are shady and free of traffic, and the world's biggest banyan tree is there: it's so big that all its wiggly trunks have separated to become its own little forest.
Sweaty and starving, we stumbled upon the mouldering staff canteen, begging for sustenance. The kind staff obliged: the four of us managed to eat lunch for a grand total of 32 rupees (50p) - egg, curry, bread and tea. Fit for a king.
Leaving India on the Maitree Express was a lovely experience. The Maitree is a shiny new train with private cabins, padded bed-seats and a constant supply of food (Indian or Bangla, depending which side of the border you happen to be on). We had to get off and wait around for a couple of hours on both sides of the border, which was long but entertaining.
Once we got moving through Bangladesh the scenery was stunning, all juicy green fields and glassy rivers with tiny brown heads popping out.
The peace ended at Dhaka, another big smelly city. Here, we were completely engulfed in the love of the Bangladeshis; the concrete chaos didn't seem too much of a drag when the people were so wonderful. Everywhere we walked there was a little ripple of smiles, squeaks of "How are you!" and people rushing over for a chat. Banglas are so sweet and friendly and silly that the constant stares and questions aren't annoying. They also seem to love having their picture taken, which is fine by me.
The best bits of Dhaka were in the little lanes of the old town, all fragrant markets, grand mosques, decorated rickshaws and colourful bazaars. We walked down to the bustling riverside ghat to see the boats and the Pink Palace, and found ourselves in a frantic melon market. Ruddy enormous melons!
The food in Bangladesh is a bit tricky for a non-meat eater; the restaurants we go to don't have menus or much English so we mainly have to pick mutton, chicken or fish and see what arrives.
After a few days we were more than ready to leave the city. Abi and Chris left for Chittagong to visit Abi's childhood lands, while we met up with Hollie and got on a train to Srimongol.
Sweaty and starving, we stumbled upon the mouldering staff canteen, begging for sustenance. The kind staff obliged: the four of us managed to eat lunch for a grand total of 32 rupees (50p) - egg, curry, bread and tea. Fit for a king.
Leaving India on the Maitree Express was a lovely experience. The Maitree is a shiny new train with private cabins, padded bed-seats and a constant supply of food (Indian or Bangla, depending which side of the border you happen to be on). We had to get off and wait around for a couple of hours on both sides of the border, which was long but entertaining.
Once we got moving through Bangladesh the scenery was stunning, all juicy green fields and glassy rivers with tiny brown heads popping out.
The peace ended at Dhaka, another big smelly city. Here, we were completely engulfed in the love of the Bangladeshis; the concrete chaos didn't seem too much of a drag when the people were so wonderful. Everywhere we walked there was a little ripple of smiles, squeaks of "How are you!" and people rushing over for a chat. Banglas are so sweet and friendly and silly that the constant stares and questions aren't annoying. They also seem to love having their picture taken, which is fine by me.
The best bits of Dhaka were in the little lanes of the old town, all fragrant markets, grand mosques, decorated rickshaws and colourful bazaars. We walked down to the bustling riverside ghat to see the boats and the Pink Palace, and found ourselves in a frantic melon market. Ruddy enormous melons!
The food in Bangladesh is a bit tricky for a non-meat eater; the restaurants we go to don't have menus or much English so we mainly have to pick mutton, chicken or fish and see what arrives.
After a few days we were more than ready to leave the city. Abi and Chris left for Chittagong to visit Abi's childhood lands, while we met up with Hollie and got on a train to Srimongol.
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