We do Not have an Exit Strategy

It was June 28, 1990 and Mandela had just been released. He was visiting the US on a goodwill tour of sorts that brought him to Tiger Stadium in downtown Detroit. I was lucky to have been invited to see him speak by my friend Barclay. He, his parents and I sat in the sun and listened to Stevie Wonder and Aretha Franklin perform while Mandela made his way through construction traffic on I-94 (by the way, I love google maps).

Just before the motorcade was due to hit Rosa Parks Boulevard, the main MC for the event taught the whole stadium two phrases... The first: "Asalam Walekum" and in response: "Walekum Asalam." The limosines and police escort rolled up, we all hit him with our new-found greeting, and Mr. Madiba was very happy. With a smile across his face, he discussed his appreciation of freedom and the music of "Motor-Town."

It wasn't until I learned more about world religions, that I recognized "Asalam Walekum" as the universal Muslim greeting. I did not know that Madiba had converted to Islam while in prison, but I remember being happy learning a phrase in another language, perhaps it was Zulu? The greeting and response bounced back and forth in my head. It had a brilliant rhythm, exotic and warm. For many days it rolled off of my tongue.

I think that we've lost the Slovenians. Our friends, Ales and Jernea were a pleasure to travel with, but even they admitted "Four is a difficult number." It is possible that we will run into them again. For all we know, they may be in a hotel next door, but it is not very likely. As pace-setters, they were perfect. They were hardcore budget travelers, riding on the roof of the jeep and staying in the cheapest nasty guest house on a "See Bangladesh in one month!" timeline, while we traveled on a more relaxed pace. Our travel plans did intersect for several days as we had similar destinations, but our differing methodologies drew us apart. They (At least Ales was) were obsessed with seeing Bengal Tigers in the Sunderbans, a UNESCO world heritage site of mangrove forest, delta-country and boatloads of biodiversity. We were more obsessed with meeting tribal peeps and being invited to their houses.

We sat out the rainstorm for at least last two hours in the Tribal Cultural Institute Museum until the din of the ceiling fans drowned the rush of water from the sky. M's lips are discharging pus at regular intervals and my legs are a minefield of last night's mosquito bites. I am dazed and hung over and happy not to be blind. We experimented with a home-brewed rice wine called "Mot" or alternatively "Ara." Ara has a subtle texture and boquet similar to jet fuel.

Last night, we drank with the Chakma and Marma peoples in their seedy subterranean dive beneath the main drag in Rangamati. We had to pose as Buddists to get them to let us in as their relations with Muslim Bangladeshis is strained. The Chittagong Hill Tracts (CHT) are alive with bucholic tribal villages and angry indigenous folks. They were chill and very kind to us, although I can't say the same for their firey cusine and libations.

Asalam Walekum comes to me everyday that we've been in Bangladesh. It is the first key phrase that is listed on the front cover of the Bangladesh Lonely Planet, but I've yet to use it. We've met hundreds if not thousands of Muslim people here in our short month, but I can't make it work. It feels too fake - like I'm trying too hard to be "down" with my Muslim brothers and sisters, so I let it lie.

It is not surprising that Phrase number five jumped ahead of phrase number one in the BLP key phrase listing. Beneath the phrase for I don't understand Banla sat "Amar dike takaben na" - Please stop staring at me. Now this is a phrase that we, being Fugly 'Mericuns, could really sink our teeth into. Michele knows it by heart, and we sing it to each other when we are bored and cranky on the bus.