We will be out of Internet contact for the next few days. Tomorrow morning we travel 3 hours by bus, then 4 by sea to St. Martin, a tiny flyspeck off the southern coast of Bangladesh.
Cox's Bazar is huge and astoundingly clean. I don't know how they do it, but the B'Deshis have done a great job preserving this stretch of coastline. It is just about at a midpoint of turning into a monstrous Las Vegas/Panama City Beach scene, but for me it is almost perfect. People are still everywhere. On the beach, we are almost always surrounded by troups of kids singing their hello-goodbye songs.... "Hello? Hello? Hello? Goodbye! Bye-bye!"
They say that this is the longest and widest stretch of Beach in the world. Sure - I'm not in the mood to measure. It is really fricking long. Unlike the beaches in Orissa, we saw no-one discharging onto the sand. Discharge is now M's favorite word. It really is astounding at the lack of public pissing in Bangladesh.
We've seen pleas from Bangladesh to the rest of the world: "Look at me! Look at me!" There is a noticeable air of neglect compared to it's neighbor, big-brother India, but things are booming here. Like we saw in Chittagong, there's and abundance of butt-ugly skyscraping hotels of glass and cement. It reminds me of Hotlanta in the early 90's with bamboo scaffolding and construction sites everywhere.
I am the king of speculation without actually knowing what I'm talking about, so take this with salt... This growth is immense, I doubt the governments ability to shape it, let alone, monitor it. With the development at such a clip, I guesstimate that the buildings are not quite earthquakeproof. We'll just have to wait and see what happens. NGO's are more common following social services, not building codes. Building codes and zoning in India are often seen as set-up lines to big jokes. I hope that they can get it right here.
Apparently, the ecotourism bug is doing quite nicely in St. Martin, so I'll give y'all updates. Until then, you will just have to explore the newly linked:
Billmon's Whisky Bar and Joanna Kirkpatrick's fucking incredible Ricksha Arts of Bangladesh Page.
Have yerselves a merry little christmas.
3/31/05
3/29/05
Get it on -- Chittagong!
Through our travel reading and bookstore browsing, we've stumbled onto a group of westerners who are obsessed with, you guessed it: rickshaws. Rickshaws are a subject that both M and myself hold dear. They are part of our daily existence (especially in Bangladesh). They are often a point of contention, and sometimes violence, but we love them still.
For the record, we'll call bicycle rickshaws "rickshaws" and autorickshaws "Autos." The human (without machine augmentation) pulled carts we'll just refer to as HPCs.
I finally got over my issues with letting a 60-year old man with no shoes, pull us and our big-ass bags around town on his three wheeler -- M hasn't.
Here, rickshaws are much, much more prevelent than in india. It must have something to do with the dearth of human capital. They jam every street and lane and dusty place with space. They carry everything. They are also adorned with the coolest shit ever.
Rickshaw pullers like to accessorize, and with limited resources, they are dependent on local artists to custom them and craft dope accoutrements. This is similar to airbrushing your custom van, or tricking out your 64 impala with hydrolics, but at a more realistic scale for Bangladeshis (and Indians, Pakistanis and prolly all southeast asian cultures with roads and bicycles).
Vinyl stiched siding, tin and acryic paintings, wood and scrap metal sculpture and frilly plastic. Some are beat, some are beautiful. When we sit in traffic, we drool at the pictures and patterns and colors. Abstract peacocks, little muslim boys praying, Bangla film stars all bloody and gun-toting. This stuff makes me want to personally scrape off all of the boring 2-color, politically correct slogan bumper sticker crap that we see in Berkeley (just kidding, Diane). That type of mobile-creative expression has nothing on RICKSHAW ART.
In Dhaka, we went overboard and bought a ton of stuff. We visited Bicycle street two days in a row and accosted rickshaw accessories dealers. We bitched and bargained and made a fuss over what most Bangladeshis consider to be the most inane shit. Imagine a crowd of speed idled, art crazed space aliens, purchasing all of the toothpaste tubes they could get their eyes on... no don't do that. But that is kinda how we come off.
We're in Chittagong now and sadly, no, we're not taking orders. All of the stuff we get we are mainlining on our apartment walls. We are even thinking of getting a three bedroom, so that we can hang more rickshaw art. Don't even try to mess with our obsession -- we are riding high on this rickshaw art euphoria hog. NO SLEEP TILL WE HIT REHAB, YO!
... or untill M's parents take away the keys to the UPS account.
For the record, we'll call bicycle rickshaws "rickshaws" and autorickshaws "Autos." The human (without machine augmentation) pulled carts we'll just refer to as HPCs.
I finally got over my issues with letting a 60-year old man with no shoes, pull us and our big-ass bags around town on his three wheeler -- M hasn't.
Here, rickshaws are much, much more prevelent than in india. It must have something to do with the dearth of human capital. They jam every street and lane and dusty place with space. They carry everything. They are also adorned with the coolest shit ever.
Rickshaw pullers like to accessorize, and with limited resources, they are dependent on local artists to custom them and craft dope accoutrements. This is similar to airbrushing your custom van, or tricking out your 64 impala with hydrolics, but at a more realistic scale for Bangladeshis (and Indians, Pakistanis and prolly all southeast asian cultures with roads and bicycles).
Vinyl stiched siding, tin and acryic paintings, wood and scrap metal sculpture and frilly plastic. Some are beat, some are beautiful. When we sit in traffic, we drool at the pictures and patterns and colors. Abstract peacocks, little muslim boys praying, Bangla film stars all bloody and gun-toting. This stuff makes me want to personally scrape off all of the boring 2-color, politically correct slogan bumper sticker crap that we see in Berkeley (just kidding, Diane). That type of mobile-creative expression has nothing on RICKSHAW ART.
In Dhaka, we went overboard and bought a ton of stuff. We visited Bicycle street two days in a row and accosted rickshaw accessories dealers. We bitched and bargained and made a fuss over what most Bangladeshis consider to be the most inane shit. Imagine a crowd of speed idled, art crazed space aliens, purchasing all of the toothpaste tubes they could get their eyes on... no don't do that. But that is kinda how we come off.
We're in Chittagong now and sadly, no, we're not taking orders. All of the stuff we get we are mainlining on our apartment walls. We are even thinking of getting a three bedroom, so that we can hang more rickshaw art. Don't even try to mess with our obsession -- we are riding high on this rickshaw art euphoria hog. NO SLEEP TILL WE HIT REHAB, YO!
... or untill M's parents take away the keys to the UPS account.
3/27/05
More fun photo:
"The problem with these women is that they just want to be pampered. They're so used to handouts from people with a soft spot like me." -- From 2/14/05
The audience is greatly impressed by the author's angst filled hawaiian shirt with Boy Scouts of America Patch... And looky he is communicating in ASL!
3/25/05
Not Dead Yet
We're still in Bangladesh and we're still being fed by too many families to recall. There is an internet cafe strike so we've been out of touch. Today we managed to find a shop with a single machine (we are trying not to think of the politics and just type quickly... sorry Annabelle).
M -- we are in Syllet division, not far from the Indian border. We have been meandering around tribal villages, biking, and staring at tea plantations and watching B movies. The food is atrocious. I am dreaming of fresh vegetables while I stare at all the people staring at us.
More later when we arrive in Chittagong, a place rumored to have internet cafes...
Oh, here are our Bangladesh Visa Photos:
M -- we are in Syllet division, not far from the Indian border. We have been meandering around tribal villages, biking, and staring at tea plantations and watching B movies. The food is atrocious. I am dreaming of fresh vegetables while I stare at all the people staring at us.
More later when we arrive in Chittagong, a place rumored to have internet cafes...
Oh, here are our Bangladesh Visa Photos:
3/19/05
Astronomical!
Down the street, there is a crowd of raging political protesting types with a big sound system and multicolor banners and slogans. when they marched past us earlier this afternoon, they seemed carefree and in good humor. Teenage boys in the crowd waved and stared at us before they began to laugh and insult a traffic cop. Now the guy with the microphone is working it like a cross between an auctioneer and bootsy collins... astronomical! This is the Dhaka that we find ourselves in.
George Clinton and Mr. Wiggles, the rollerstaking worm, never acheived the funkentelechy of our AC-bus driver from the Bangladesh/India border. We giggled and squirmed through rolling highways, broken bridges and crowded one street villages. The china-made bus resembled an elephant more than a worm on a rollerskate. Fancy race NASCAR graphics with images of "Bus Stop" and speeding cars across the sides, we did little dodging. We owned the road. We were the biggest and swiftest player so the bicycle rickshaws, smaller cars and motorcycles scattere to the sides when our driver hit the horn and we rolled through. The only swerving was when we occasionally approached oncoming busses of equal mass and velocity. M and I had front row seats to the action. It was reassuring to know that if we did hit anything, or had to stop fast, we would be the first through the windscreen... Better to go quickly.
Our last day in Kolkatta was filled with excursions in the muslim sections. I bought new glasses, and some new lenses for my old frames, as the old lenses were fractured and kept popping out. There was some worry as the glasses-wallah didn't have everything for us at the time we planned. We sat in the midst of teaming Rabindra Sarani and bargained with bangla speaking dry fruit vendors over the price of cashews , almonds and mango chunks. I served as an advertisement for the pomagranite juice guy, who gave me a chair and kept feeding me seeds after we enjoyed a glass of juice with garamsala. M didn't like, but it was like a sweet bloody mary. If only we had vodka...
George Clinton and Mr. Wiggles, the rollerstaking worm, never acheived the funkentelechy of our AC-bus driver from the Bangladesh/India border. We giggled and squirmed through rolling highways, broken bridges and crowded one street villages. The china-made bus resembled an elephant more than a worm on a rollerskate. Fancy race NASCAR graphics with images of "Bus Stop" and speeding cars across the sides, we did little dodging. We owned the road. We were the biggest and swiftest player so the bicycle rickshaws, smaller cars and motorcycles scattere to the sides when our driver hit the horn and we rolled through. The only swerving was when we occasionally approached oncoming busses of equal mass and velocity. M and I had front row seats to the action. It was reassuring to know that if we did hit anything, or had to stop fast, we would be the first through the windscreen... Better to go quickly.
Our last day in Kolkatta was filled with excursions in the muslim sections. I bought new glasses, and some new lenses for my old frames, as the old lenses were fractured and kept popping out. There was some worry as the glasses-wallah didn't have everything for us at the time we planned. We sat in the midst of teaming Rabindra Sarani and bargained with bangla speaking dry fruit vendors over the price of cashews , almonds and mango chunks. I served as an advertisement for the pomagranite juice guy, who gave me a chair and kept feeding me seeds after we enjoyed a glass of juice with garamsala. M didn't like, but it was like a sweet bloody mary. If only we had vodka...
3/16/05
Bring on the Rocket!
Our schedule is getting tweaked in a positive direction. We got up early and made it to the Bangladeshi Embassy by 9:00AM. We found the correct line to stand in, had all the necessary documents and copies and conquered the bureaucracy (hopefully). We'll find out at 5:30 tonight if we are fully visified to visitate there fine country. Until then, we'll stay in the shade and blog or browse bookstores or sweet shops.
Newsflash: I'm pissed about this. Why don't we appreciate the importance of mass transit in our bass-ackwards country? From atrios:
While waiting at the Bangladeshi embassy, I was struck by the importance of paperweights (secondary to the importance of ceiling fans) in indian society.
Jumpin' jeebus! It has been sooo long since I used one. Maybe in the summer of 1986, in the office of the Osborne Transformer Corporation before I skipped out in the afternoon to go windsurfing (I was a teddible employee). Paperweights make the world go round in every office we've found ourselves. Paperweights! Without them, the ceiling fans would send a cyclone of documents and scribbled notes out the windows and into the crowded streets. I could'nt begin to imagine a paperless office, and at this point stickynotes seem a waste of good glue.
Tomorrow morning at 5:00AM we will travel by bus to Dhaka. I wish that we could go by train, but alas a route does not exist. Once there, we'll hit the rivers on highspeed paddlewheel boats carrying thousands of passengers. Don't worry, we'll have lifebouys, and the boats called "Rockets!" Our train schedule cum india travel bible will have to stay at the bottom of the bag for a few weeks.
Newsflash: I'm pissed about this. Why don't we appreciate the importance of mass transit in our bass-ackwards country? From atrios:
An effort in the Senate to increase federal subsidies for the beleaguered Amtrak system failed to pass Wednesday... The amendment, offered by Sen. Robert Byrd, D-W.Va., would have added $1.04 billion to government financial assistance for the system. It failed on a 52-46 vote
While waiting at the Bangladeshi embassy, I was struck by the importance of paperweights (secondary to the importance of ceiling fans) in indian society.
Jumpin' jeebus! It has been sooo long since I used one. Maybe in the summer of 1986, in the office of the Osborne Transformer Corporation before I skipped out in the afternoon to go windsurfing (I was a teddible employee). Paperweights make the world go round in every office we've found ourselves. Paperweights! Without them, the ceiling fans would send a cyclone of documents and scribbled notes out the windows and into the crowded streets. I could'nt begin to imagine a paperless office, and at this point stickynotes seem a waste of good glue.
Tomorrow morning at 5:00AM we will travel by bus to Dhaka. I wish that we could go by train, but alas a route does not exist. Once there, we'll hit the rivers on highspeed paddlewheel boats carrying thousands of passengers. Don't worry, we'll have lifebouys, and the boats called "Rockets!" Our train schedule cum india travel bible will have to stay at the bottom of the bag for a few weeks.
3/15/05
Easy rider for dorks
We are both tired and sunburned. M blames it on the Malaria meds, while I think that we don't sleep enough in the middle of the day. In an hour we hop on a Kolkatta bound train and try to hit the lights right and avoid bribing anyone to get our sorry butts into Bangladesh. Wish us luck with the folks at the embassy. From what we've heard, we'll have to pay a collosal $100 to get a Bangladeshi visa for 2 weeks. Even the Scottish couple we met a few days back thinks that we are nuts, but something about Dhaka is calling.
My hands are glossy and swollen, my toes are raw and bright red, but it was like Easy Rider (for dorks) with the Scooter today. We rode an hour up to the beaches near Konarack and then made our way back to Puri and bounced almost to Bubaneswar to visit Pipli. We were on the road all day. It was amazing, we became one with the traffic flow. Using the tiny horn to broadcast our location to Big Assed goods carriers and toddling little girls alike.
Although, I wanted to take the 100cc yamaha motorcycle, my lack of motorcycle driving skills prohibited it. On the scooter, we moved slowly at first, but made our way up to pretty damn fast. On the way out of town we were passed by a young woman on a bike. We were not passed by any cows. We wore helmets. I was spit on once.
It made me want to buy a motorcycle (again). There is nothing more envigorating than the rush of hot air as a goods carrier comes within 5 feet of you moving in the opposite direction. On scooty (the model of our scooter) we just had to hit the horn and follow the edge of the pavement.
We both wore helmets... We were outcastes on the Orissan highway. Spacemen with inflated heads that everyone stared at. My helmet was three sizes to large, so it probably wouldn't do to much for my brain after the inital impact, but it made for good indian head-nodding action*. Whenever I got a stare, I just stared back and gave a slight wiggle. Perfect.
If you can imagine two bobbleheads going down the highway on a beat-up dusty black ride, dodging bicycles, ox-driven carts, herds of things and the occasional monkey, that was us. Our life is better now. If we can survive Orissan roads on scooty, we can do anything. Dear reader, think of a better way to spend 300 RS for a day's entertainment (no hash, pot or opium even!) and I'll give you a kiss... How much are Playstations anyway?
* We often talk about the head-nod. It is a south indian(?), subconscious body movement type of thing that as farners, we get a big kick out of. It is similar to a nod of acknowledgement, but it is a side to side wiggle. It is not cool to head-nod in Kolkatta, but in Mumbai it is essential. We'll see about Bangladesh.
My hands are glossy and swollen, my toes are raw and bright red, but it was like Easy Rider (for dorks) with the Scooter today. We rode an hour up to the beaches near Konarack and then made our way back to Puri and bounced almost to Bubaneswar to visit Pipli. We were on the road all day. It was amazing, we became one with the traffic flow. Using the tiny horn to broadcast our location to Big Assed goods carriers and toddling little girls alike.
Although, I wanted to take the 100cc yamaha motorcycle, my lack of motorcycle driving skills prohibited it. On the scooter, we moved slowly at first, but made our way up to pretty damn fast. On the way out of town we were passed by a young woman on a bike. We were not passed by any cows. We wore helmets. I was spit on once.
It made me want to buy a motorcycle (again). There is nothing more envigorating than the rush of hot air as a goods carrier comes within 5 feet of you moving in the opposite direction. On scooty (the model of our scooter) we just had to hit the horn and follow the edge of the pavement.
We both wore helmets... We were outcastes on the Orissan highway. Spacemen with inflated heads that everyone stared at. My helmet was three sizes to large, so it probably wouldn't do to much for my brain after the inital impact, but it made for good indian head-nodding action*. Whenever I got a stare, I just stared back and gave a slight wiggle. Perfect.
If you can imagine two bobbleheads going down the highway on a beat-up dusty black ride, dodging bicycles, ox-driven carts, herds of things and the occasional monkey, that was us. Our life is better now. If we can survive Orissan roads on scooty, we can do anything. Dear reader, think of a better way to spend 300 RS for a day's entertainment (no hash, pot or opium even!) and I'll give you a kiss... How much are Playstations anyway?
* We often talk about the head-nod. It is a south indian(?), subconscious body movement type of thing that as farners, we get a big kick out of. It is similar to a nod of acknowledgement, but it is a side to side wiggle. It is not cool to head-nod in Kolkatta, but in Mumbai it is essential. We'll see about Bangladesh.
3/7/05
Most Rotten Hindi
Kolkatta is still my most favoritist city in all of india. It has hardcore leftist political leanings and a great "network" of mass transit systems. It is the most western and least hindu of the cities that we've visited. Occasionally I'll miss seeing ferdinard the bull blocking my way on a sidewalk, but for the most part, the cow-free streets are a big boost for pedestrian management. For the last two days we've been walking everywhere. Today we made it to the Milenium Park, BBD Bagh and the Writer's Building.
At Millenium Park, we ran into boatloads of young indian lovers. It was nice to see, as this country does not have any tolerance for PDAs. Most people here live with their large families with little if any private space of their own. There are not a lot of private cars that young lovers can use to get away from it all, so it is in little nooks and crannies in Public parks is where the few that aren't engaged in arranged marriages get it on. In public life everything is usually segregated by sex, so it was nice to see couples hanging out (Not that we actually caught folks in the act of anything particulary nasty). Millenium Park has a nice view overlooking the river Hooghly (pronounced like ooogly). So alongside hundreds of couples and many dragonflies, we watched the sun melt into the haze of humidity and polution of the western bank.
On the train from Varanasi, I met a German woman named Saucho. We talked a little bit and it turns out that we shared a hindi instructor, Mr. Binit Mithra. Binit is 21 and speaks Russian, Japanese, Hindi, English and probably a handful of other tongues (just for fun). He is on fire when he teaches a lesson. It is very exhausting to try to keep the pace he sets, but his teaching style is palatable in small doses. He taught me my favorite Hindi phrase: "Mai sabse kharab hindi boletaa huu." -- I speak the most rotten hindi.
Maybe I am self-effacing to a fault, but I like to drop it on most people we meet.
Most conversations go:
Indian: Hi from what country are you from?
Me: USA... United States of America (I'm anal, but I hate it when people just say Amurica.)
Indian: That is a great country!
Me: I like it, but India is a great country, too.
Indian: How do you find this country?
Me: I love india! I am very happy here.
Indian: So, what do you think about this thing that Bush has done in Iraq?
Me: Um, I think that it is bad. I don't like Saddam Hussein, but I don't think that my country has acted in the best way.
Indian: Mr. George Bush, Junior has hurt the reputation of America in the eyes of the world. Many people think that your country has abused your status as a Super Power...
You can see the direction that this is going. I've well documented previous conversations with random indians and their opinions and experience with US/World politics.
So, to lighten things up I add in a flourish of Indian sounding ahs and ums (Achche - Good! and Tikhai - Okay. Of course, nobody is impressed. It is like taking on a spanish accent and continuing to speak English. But what really gets them is towards the end of the conversation, I throw in a "Dhenyavad, Dhenyavad... Mai sabse kharab hindi boletaa huu!." This usually knocks them out of their seats. They laugh and disagree and pat me on the back. Sometimes, I get a blank stare.
Michele and I spent an hour at an really nice AC bookstore this afternoon. I got an Architecture Book, a Hunter S. Thompson collection and the second book in the "No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency Series." We drank coffee and decided that we are going to go to Bangladesh. We bought the Bangladesh lonely planet guide (a hefty $25 for a slim book) so we have to go now. So we are soliciting any advice for traveling in Bangladesh. We may fly ($120ish roundtrip from Kolkatta) or we may go by bus (12hour ride, $40).
We have a hook up for a decent pizza place this evening, so dear reader, I'll leave you to your own devices. I hope that this note finds your environment's temperature adequately controlled.
At Millenium Park, we ran into boatloads of young indian lovers. It was nice to see, as this country does not have any tolerance for PDAs. Most people here live with their large families with little if any private space of their own. There are not a lot of private cars that young lovers can use to get away from it all, so it is in little nooks and crannies in Public parks is where the few that aren't engaged in arranged marriages get it on. In public life everything is usually segregated by sex, so it was nice to see couples hanging out (Not that we actually caught folks in the act of anything particulary nasty). Millenium Park has a nice view overlooking the river Hooghly (pronounced like ooogly). So alongside hundreds of couples and many dragonflies, we watched the sun melt into the haze of humidity and polution of the western bank.
On the train from Varanasi, I met a German woman named Saucho. We talked a little bit and it turns out that we shared a hindi instructor, Mr. Binit Mithra. Binit is 21 and speaks Russian, Japanese, Hindi, English and probably a handful of other tongues (just for fun). He is on fire when he teaches a lesson. It is very exhausting to try to keep the pace he sets, but his teaching style is palatable in small doses. He taught me my favorite Hindi phrase: "Mai sabse kharab hindi boletaa huu." -- I speak the most rotten hindi.
Maybe I am self-effacing to a fault, but I like to drop it on most people we meet.
Most conversations go:
Indian: Hi from what country are you from?
Me: USA... United States of America (I'm anal, but I hate it when people just say Amurica.)
Indian: That is a great country!
Me: I like it, but India is a great country, too.
Indian: How do you find this country?
Me: I love india! I am very happy here.
Indian: So, what do you think about this thing that Bush has done in Iraq?
Me: Um, I think that it is bad. I don't like Saddam Hussein, but I don't think that my country has acted in the best way.
Indian: Mr. George Bush, Junior has hurt the reputation of America in the eyes of the world. Many people think that your country has abused your status as a Super Power...
You can see the direction that this is going. I've well documented previous conversations with random indians and their opinions and experience with US/World politics.
So, to lighten things up I add in a flourish of Indian sounding ahs and ums (Achche - Good! and Tikhai - Okay. Of course, nobody is impressed. It is like taking on a spanish accent and continuing to speak English. But what really gets them is towards the end of the conversation, I throw in a "Dhenyavad, Dhenyavad... Mai sabse kharab hindi boletaa huu!." This usually knocks them out of their seats. They laugh and disagree and pat me on the back. Sometimes, I get a blank stare.
Michele and I spent an hour at an really nice AC bookstore this afternoon. I got an Architecture Book, a Hunter S. Thompson collection and the second book in the "No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency Series." We drank coffee and decided that we are going to go to Bangladesh. We bought the Bangladesh lonely planet guide (a hefty $25 for a slim book) so we have to go now. So we are soliciting any advice for traveling in Bangladesh. We may fly ($120ish roundtrip from Kolkatta) or we may go by bus (12hour ride, $40).
We have a hook up for a decent pizza place this evening, so dear reader, I'll leave you to your own devices. I hope that this note finds your environment's temperature adequately controlled.
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