After realising that there was no case to be made for what they were surely setting up to be drug smuggling allegations, we were finally granted access to enter the minefield that was Dhaka airport and we spent the next couple of hours eating dubious chips and killing time until we were able to contact Mehraj via telephone.
As fate would have it, we were in the wrong part of the airport entirely. As we did not know where we were meant to be, where we were or what we were even doing and as we glanced up at the military guards staring down upon us with greedy eyes, it was agreed that Mehraj would come to seek us out as best he could with the vague, confused descriptions that we relayed over the phone. It seemed futile but luck was on our side for once and after a quick transfer, we soon arrived at the much smaller domestic terminal to find our comrade and partook in 5 c coffee while we made introductions and small talk between scooting outside to partake in cigarettes and discuss the political situation of the day. It was during one of these excursions outside the gates that car bombs began to detonate around the city and security was significantly beefed up around the airports. Being white and apparently superior, I was ushered quickly through the sliding doors whereas poor Mehraj had to bribe his way back into the departure lounge.
Less than 48 hours after arriving and with the tension palpable in the air, it would seem that this would be a very good time to get the hell out of Dhaka. Thusly, we collected our tickets and handed over our assortment of luggage to the check-in counter. Due to the fact that tickets for local carriers could only be purchased from inside the country, we had Mehraj organise our flights days earlier and as a result they were in the name of himself and his wife. It was at this point it became an accepted fact that I was now Mr Mehraj and Sarah, in turn, was now Mrs Islam. There was now no legitimate paper trail of us travelling from this point on. The sense of security and personal safety was questionably unshaken. It was then that we discovered that the groom’s sister and her husband were on the same flight as us and after bidding our new found friend Mehraj farewell, we met up in the departure lounge. Looking smelly and dishevelled, we sat for an awkward and stilted conversation, making small talk and partook in traditional sweet treats our horrified yet gracious companions offered us whilst Sarah hastily downed multiple valiums in preparation for our foretold quick trip across the country in what, for all intents and purposes, was a wine barrel with a lawn mower for an engine.
Our flight was called and we walked with trepidation and foreboding through the gate and across the tarmac to the awaiting tin foil death trap that awaited us. Upon closer inspection, I felt sure that this machine was none other than a converted B52 bomber from generations back, decked out with seats which with the mere pull of a lever would no doubt parachute our luggage to an awaiting airfield. Looking back towards Sarah, I could see that her fear of flying had indeed raised its beastly head with good reason and it would indeed require the high five sucker punch that multiple valiums would now have to contend with. We ascended the gantry and took our seats next to the propellers, where I was able to witness the whimsical display of side to side and sporadic vibrations of the engines of an aircraft that probably had not been serviced since the times when bombs were no doubt dropped from the cargo bay.
We flew at a rather low height across the Bangi landscape, with small towns and farms remaining visible as they were seemingly wedged between the smatterings of woodlands and mangroves that fleeted past the grimy window and the wobbling engine propeller for the next forty five minute until it was time to descend into the town of Jessore, where we were to meet up with Tanveer before travelling onwards to his home town in Khulna. As we taxied along the small, bumpy run way it became glaringly obvious that we had landed at a military base. A series of slogans depicting their readiness and preparation to wage war were plastered above the hangers and assortment of buildings that lined tarmac. The line of colourful spitfires also kind of gave it away.
Upon landing we walked some twenty meters away from the plane onto a small brick pathway lined with guards with menacing (but more than likely unloaded) guns and towards a large metal gate, which just like the previous airport, had been sufficiently swarmed with the local populace with the perceived intent of melting together. We waited for a spell and our bags were dropped off to us via a decrepit golf cart and we thusly departed through the gate and entered into the village of Jessore. Thankfully, Tanveer’s smiling face was also waiting at the gate to greet us and it was here after a hugging embrace that we were informed that the violence that had gripped the capital had indeed sufficiently spread throughout the rest of the country.
As it now stood, we could now not venture on our way back to his town as the roads were blocked with riots and fire, mischievous intents and assortments of violent acts of silly buggery, but we were assured that his people were onto it. As we once more became the focal point of local attention, Sarah and Tan’s sister retreated into the small terminal whilst Tan made hasty calls and I stood outside and chain smoked whilst observing the scene before me. In front of the large advertising signs scattered around the streetscape and crumbling stone walls, there was a precession of beggars with eyes wide and hands outstretched whilst they mingled aimlessly through the parked cars and rickshaws. I found Tanveer in a frantic state between talking on the phone and speaking with the military police and discussing the possibilities of them transporting us through town . . . for a small fee of course. This series of negotiations went back and forth for quite some time as the police themselves were under the impression that it was not even safe for them to travel through the towns we had planned and that it would be completely reckless for us to do the same.
It was at this point while simultaneously chain-smoking and waving away the poor and destitute that some of the military came up to me, gesturing in broken English and using all too enthusiastic hand gestures. At home, smoking generally anywhere in public is rather frowned upon and in some places illegal, so in the midst of my sleep deprivation I assumed this was something similar and I hastily extinguished my habit. After many apologies and them lighting me a supplement cigarettes, it turned out that they just wanted photographs . . .with me. This, in itself was completely baffling to me, but I nonetheless posed in various selfies with the military. In hindsight, wish I had turned the tables and had my own copies of photos with them. Subsequently, this act (and a substantial sum of cash) convinced them to agree to at least take us half way, to a small restaurant near the train station, as the intelligence coming in from the street was that the rail lines were, at least at this point, still unmolested. It was a reasonable compromise.
Tan rode alongside on a motor bike whilst Sarah and myself boarded a four wheel drive with machine guns in front. Half way to our destination, we turned around and were surprised to find a dozen or so men in military uniforms and huge rifles standing in the back tray, scanning the surrounds through scopes. Obviously, we were going for the option of not causing a scene whilst there was turmoil going on.
We drove slowly through the township of Jessore, passing dusty streets of poverty and livestock under yellowing cream structures. Locals stood around milling and chatting outside the buildings whilst children chased after the stray animals. It was something akin to what I would assume downtown Baghdad might look like. As we passed by, all chatter seemed to stop as attention was directed at the dozen armed soldiers transporting the two obviously out-of-place foreigners. This was a bewildering experience and we were told that we were the first duo of Caucasian gypsies that had passed through this way in a number of years. And by a number of years, I mean more than twenty. Allegedly.
Upon arrival at the restaurant, we were informed that the ruckus had now kicked off and there was disruptions along the rail lines, mainly involving the removal of sleepers and general silly buggery along the tracks, so we were bound where we were for the time being. Our hearts sank as we realised that we were indeed unwilling hostages to Jessore until a Plan B could be concocted. If there was even such
a thing as a Plan B in this land. There was nothing we could do at this point but sit on the couches, smoking our cheap cigarettes while staring at each other in a piercing silence. What had we done.
Whilst we waited, the staff as well as Tan and his friends feverishly contacted as many people as possible to arrange alternate transport and this would encompass the next five hours as we ate not-quite-Chinese and watched the debacle unfold on the news. As dusk leered down on us, it was announced that transport had finally been acquired . . . in the form of ambulance. And by ambulance, I mean a white van with a blood-stained stretcher bolted in the back. Nonetheless, this would no doubt be the safest form of transport as presumably the rioting masses would surely not be so reckless and amoral to bomb an ambulance.
Our ride to Khulna from here involved skirting the backwater villages through the thick, winding jungle in a feeble attempt to skip past the continual road blocks and protests. Every fifteen minutes or so, we would approach a group of people who had covered the road with the fiery debris of trees and tires or the occasional sacrificial livestock tied across the road. At each of these checkpoints, our driver and his right hand man riding shot gun beside him would become increasingly nervous and would bargain their way through, whilst Sarah and myself would pull up our hoods and cover our faces on command as the crowds would gather.
Six hours later, in the heat of the night, we made it through the high tension of the moon lit jungles and burst into the city of Khulna unscathed. This was a blessing as this ambulance was becoming in itself a serious health hazard in conjunction to its suspension and exhaust manifold which was ill-equipped for jungle travels and had induced a very pungent carbon monoxide poisoning atmosphere. We later found out that protesters around the country had for some inexplicable and completely irrational reason had been targeting ambulances with Molotov cocktails, so realistically; the carbon monoxide poisoning had been the least of our worries.
We arrived at our destination much later than anticipated . . . but alive and unscathed. If things had gone to the initial plans, we should have been here at mid-day, with enough time to attend the university where Tanveer teaches to give a small speech to his students about Australia. Basically a brief run down of its history, show some picture slides and talk about bushrangers, bunyips, drop bears and other made up mythical animals. But as according to Murphy’s Law, we arrived at our hotel just after midnight and were booked into one of the upper floors.
Upon entering the room, battered and bruised, we were immediately greeted with an old bullet hole that appeared to exit through the window from the inside out and had been lazily covered in duct tape. We laughed. Thankfully, even in this city, there appeared there was still cola in the bar fridge and to celebrate our first forty eight hours in these distant lands, we partook in cigars and liberal amounts of scotch, giggling with delirium from the chaos we had somehow just danced our way through before passing out from sleep deprivation and drunkenness in the stank of the clothes we had now been wearing for at least three days straight across multiple continents.
Chapter III: Wedding Programs and Novelties
So we awoke to our first day in Khulna at the reasonably sensible time of ten o'clock in the morning. Whilst we were under the impression that we still had a good few hours before we were required for wedding festivities, we decided we would make a small exercise of exploration of the surrounding area. Upon exiting the bowels of the hotel, we were greeted with the sight of a dozen military men standing in a line along the road with their truncheons and rifles. After a quick discussion about the situation of sporadic street violence, we were assured that all was well and there should be no problems . . . as long as we stayed in the general area. So with that we sat under a strange giant concrete giraffe statue next to the hotel, dazed and confused and smoked our breakfast cigarettes.
It was here that the local populace began to notice the two white devils huddled in the corner next to concrete tigers and with an unabandoned show of social decorum, engaged us with conversation whilst using their turn of the century phones to take photographs of us. There was much talk of universities and cricket, as was to become the custom, but alas not having attended university nor having any interest in cricket, I resorted to an age old fashion of smiling and nodding while remaining unusually agreeable, if not redundant, and so we quickly excused ourselves at the first opportunity. It was time to walk. To the left we go.
We passed the hotels and by the crude markets, skipping pot holes and assorted rubbish strewn through out the street and made small talk with the inquisitive rickshaw drivers who stopped to gawk whilst we passed out our key chains to the hoards of street children. Once we passed the markets and entered the district of slums that were bordered by the skeletons of businesses, it became apparent that we were becoming quite disorientated. And so it was decided we should turn around and walk back the way we came, albeit on the opposite side of the road. We farewelled our procession of admirers as we crossed traffic but not before Sarah had willingly given my phone number to some guy on a bike and we were soon surrounded with a new brigade of companions, laden with stories of heavy-duty study and futile attempts to gain entry into university. We found ourselves barricaded on the footpath encircled by five or so locals and as the large guy with glasses had engaged Sarah in conversation of the merits of education, with the two others nodded in agreement, a short male in a leather jacket quizzed me on my knowledge of cricket whilst unnervingly and continuously hitting his own hand with his fist whilst staring off into the distance with a shaking head that reminded me of nothing else than an old Stevie Wonder video clip.
With our anxiety rising, we bid them goodbye and waved at various strangers as we shuffled our way back to the hotel. In hindsight and with increased knowledge about the events that transpired that day, our ill-fated exploration culminating in our hasty retreat was actually a blessing in disguise. For if we had continued with our oblivious adventure for another ten minutes, we would have wandered into the fray of civilian versus military hostilities.
Regardless, that didn’t happen, so we sauntered back to the hotel just in time to be picked up by members of Tanveer's family for the short rickshaw journey to his home. It was time to begin the wedding festivities. Operation Bangi was in full swing. Being a traditional Bangi wedding, the course of events would naturally encompass the next four days, whereupon various traditional rituals would be preformed. When we arrived at the front gates, we were greeted by various members of the family before we were ushered towards the house, up the stairs and into the main living room where the rest of the family had gathered in preparation of “Program One” and to partake in some pre activity lunch.
We all retreated to Tanveer’s bedroom, where we learnt that the word on the street was that many of the family members travelling to Khulna from distant lands could not make the journey as the blockade-come-riots had disrupted much of the transport links throughout the country. Nor did they seem to have had our kind of luck in securing transportation via civilian emergency vehicles under the cover of darkness. Our hearts sank for Tanveer for this surely must have been devastating news, however, we secretly relished in the fact that our perseverance had paid off and we had at least successfully made the journey from Australia to this foreign land and foreign weddings. So needless to say, we were greeted warmly by all and were fed a selection of rice dishes as Tan dressed for the rising occasion. Two missed calls and an incoherent message from the man on the bike.
The elderly ladies took a shine to Sarah, questioning her on all manner of things whilst the small children hid behind doorways and peaked at us through corners with curiosity before retreating into hiding once we spied them. The ladies delivered a banquet of sweet treats and pastries as Tan entered the room in a regal white tunic and took his place at center stage. One by one the family members would come up and make their offering - by feeding Tanveer a selection of treats from the table and liberally smearing a paste on the forehead and cheeks. My trave
lling companion and I were invited to partake in this activity and we both knew the novelty of it. So here I was wiping foodstuffs onto his face, in a similar manner to that of when we first met, when I was the one wiping it off.
You see, years beforehand, Tan and I had both had signed up for a group tour of Europe, camping of all things. Tanveer had just finished his university courses and had planned on seeing and photographing the cultural sights of old age Europe before he headed back home to Khulna. Then there was me. I had finished my apprenticeship and was sliding head-on toward the beginning of a four month backpacking adventure of various European music festivals, with a loose plan of drinking my way around Europe and being generally debaucherous. Tan was well dressed and spoken. I was unwashed, with mutton chops to rival wolverine. Luckily for him, we were assigned two to a tent and became room mates for the first leg of our trip. That is, until one night in the south of France where too much wine and beer concoctions was consumed on the banks of a river and I found Tanveer sitting, poised like Buddha in the middle of the tent, covered in his own vomit. He then proceeded to vomit all over my inflatable mattress and throughout the tent as I dragged my backpack out. In between the process of feeding him water and taking photos of myself straddling his unconscious form a firm friendship was born.
Journeys Beyond the Front Door Page 2
