The ubiquitous rickshaw

Today Ali-bhai (-bhai is Bangla suffix meaning ‘brother’, more polite than just their name), M’s driver takes me on a trip to Old Dhaka. Just as we start off, the last two days of oppressive heat and humidity give way to a deluge from the heavens. Looking at the traffic and rising water levels on the road, I contemplate abandoning the trip, but am glad we continued – about an hour after setting off, we finally reach Old Dhaka (only a few miles away, but traffic makes it longer) and as if on cue, the rain stops. The downpour takes the heat out of the air and makes it all much more bearable.

Ali-bhai looking at mangoes

We stop at Hindu St, an old market street and wander through. Ali tries to explain the merits of Bangladeshi mangoes and how to tell which are Indian and which are Bangladeshi. We stop and drink strong and sweet tea from a street vendor. I smile sheepishly and watch as my tea takes shape. The cart is a filthy, ramshackle vehicle that wouldn’t look out of place collecting rubbish on a London street. A large, battered tin kettle sits boiling away and the vendor sieves my tea out into a small, but clean glass cup. A dollop of condensed milk from a tin and my scalding hot beverage is ready – 20 taka (less than 20p). I feel like Ali’s let me into a little club and catch a glimpse into his world as we sit with a group of other Bangladeshi men and Ali-bhai natters away.

Former glory of Ahsan Manzil

A few minutes of walking and we arrive at Ahsan Manzil – the former official residential palace and seat of the Dhaka Nawab Family. I gain a surprising sense of the former glory and the influence of this merchant family. The mediocre state of the building and the piles of litter in the garden are a sad reflection of the decline, but there is an unmistakable feeling of pride and a glimpse into Bangladeshi identity. There’s so much more I want to learn about this history and heritage. I bump into a random French guy – the first foreigner I’ve seen (outside of M’s friends). He’s a travel agent based in the Maldives, on holiday, seemingly by accident.

Sadarghat terminal

Frenetic activity at Sadarghat

A short stroll away is Sadarghat, Dhaka’s main terminal/port on the banks of the Buriganga. It’s a bustling, energetic place with people scurrying around and bags of good shuttling on and off ferries. I stand and stare, watching the ballet of movement and commerce in action. For some reason, I’m a little shy to draw my camera, so steal a few shots and hide my camera away lest I draw any more attention to myself. A couple of students engage me in a brief conversation – they’re on their way to visit a friend, 4 hours away by boat.

The last floods rose above this wall

We stop for some more tea, then hop in a rickshaw back to the car and fight our way through traffic to Lalbagh fort. On the way, we pass along the river road, I ask Ali about the floods and how they affect Dhaka – he points out a wall and explains that the last proper floods in Dhaka saw water levels rise above it. The wall stands a good 8 feet above sea level and is itself about 6 feet. He casually explains that we’re due for another flood and expects it in the next month or so.

Lalbagh Fort

Lalbagh Fort is an oasis of calm and tranquility amongst the hustle and bustle. It’s an incomplete Mughal fortress initiated by the Viceroy of Bengal, who was subsequently recalled. His successor never finished the fortress as his daughter, Bibi Pari, died here. I don’t really know much more about it, but again, is a glimpse of Bangladeshi heritage that I never really appreciated. The grounds are clean and well kept and offer a peaceful respite. Ali makes a comment to me as I head in that I don’t understand, but after wandering for a while, I realise that this seems to be a spot in Dhaka where couples hide out amongst the small trees. Nothing obscene by our standards, but I wonder whether this is seen as a secret lovers garden and chuckle quietly to myself.

On the way back to pick up M from work, I reflect on what a different experience this would be for her, a white woman on her own and how very different her relationship with Ali is. Both because she is his employer, but also that she is a woman. I feel strangely privileged to be able to hang out with Ali and to be able to sit and drink tea with him – it’s clearly a side of him and Dhaka that M will not get to see.

My day has been full of reflection and encounter. Old Dhaka is metaphorically and literally the heart of the city. The crazed flow of people and goods, the colourful rickshaws and crazy traffic, the smells, sights and sounds. I can see how it could be an overwhelming experience, a maelstrom of sensory overload, but I think you have to surrender to the chaos before you can finally sink in and enjoy it for the vibrant celebration of life that it truly is.

M’s place is lovely, big, bright and airy – certainly not representative of a typical Dhaka residence. We spend our first day wandering around Gulshan – visiting the Commissariat, where diplomatic staff can buy Cadbury’s chocolate, Haribo and pretty much anything you can get from home. Pop to the BAGHA (British Aid Guest House Association) club, the alternative to the British High Commission – pleasant, but slightly colonial feel to it.
After Japan, the heat and humidity and exhausting – plus I discover later that this is the hottest day they’ve had for a while!
Surprised by nice coffee shops and restaurants popping up in Gulshan – certainly not what I expected. Atmosphere is quite a contrast to the quiet order of Japan – you definitely feel a novelty as every pair of eyes follows your every move, M had warned me about the staring, but it really is something else to experience and definitely 10 times worse when I’m with her.
Regular approaches by professional beggars (they pay a local mafia for their pitch) are dismissed with a ‘ma coren’ or ‘lakbhe na’ – I forget which means which, but one means ‘sorry’, the other means ‘I don’t need it’. Quite hard to resist the temptation, but I have to try to think of the behaviour it reinforces and the structural changes that are needed to tackle poverty – but the human dimension is hard to ignore.

Fresh bread - is there anything better?

It was my friend Ai’s birthday (お誕生日 – o-tanjoubi) today. I had an early morning start cos I didn’t have any money for a present, so baked some bread instead! Then headed over to Ai’s for a slap-up pancake breakfast – all quite spontaneous, but ended up making some yummy banana pancakes (American style fat ones with bananas mushed into the batter!) and splurging out on chocolate sauce and raspberry compote.

Then it was off for a spot of sansai collecting around Niseko Higashiyama. Hokkaido is well known for its wild vegetables and the Japanese love to spend sunny days gathering them.

Yatta!

On the way, Shiori abruptly veered off the road and headed down a dusty track before stopping in front of a beautiful cherry tree in the middle of a field. We were a little too early so it wasn’t in full bloom yet, but perfectly placed with Mt Yotei providing a bit of background balance. Spring throughout Japan is sakura season, where everyone celebrates the fleeting nature of cherry blossoms and the analogy with life… by getting horrendously drunk at hanami (花見 – flower viewing) parties. Just another example of how Japanese culture isn’t always as Zen as people would have you believe

Udo

We moved on to Niseko Village itself, which is one of the 3 main ski areas here in the winter. Last time I saw it, there was a good 3m of snow covering everything, so the verdant, agricultural landscape was quite a surprise. Shiori led us off into what turned out to be the golf course and we were soon ferreting around in the sassa grass (a type of bamboo). I had no idea what I was looking for but kept pointing at things that looked like they might be tasty – we mostly found takenoko (bamboo shoots), but also taranome (an asparagus like thing on a spiky plant – great as tempura) and udo (bitter tasting, wasn’t that keen on it – not to be confused with udon noodles. Now that would be great sansai!).

Back at Ai’s place, I discovered just how much effort it takes to prepare bamboo shoots. First we trimmed it, then boiled it and finally peeled back the fibrous layers to uncover the light green and yellow shoots (it no longer surprises me that pandas are nearly extinct). Well worth it though as they were delightfully tender and tasty with a trace of bitterness. Quite a contrast to the chewy, yellow stuff that I’m used to finding in tins! Delicious alongside taranome tempura and yakiniku (meat and veg communally fried on a teppan - hotplate) with a nice bottle of wine and the company of friends – おいしいそう！！！

Takenoko - Pick them...

...boil them...

...peel them...

...ready to eat!

.

View from Helena's

A leisurely final day together – breakfast at the dizzying heights of Helena’s, some shopping and late lunch/dinner at Pilgrim’s feed n read. M leaves early the next day and I’m left on my own.

Thamel streets

The next day, I start with a tasty low-cholesterol breakfast at Pilgrim’s. I write and read a little, happy to have been recognised by the staff. Invited to music later. I wander Thamel and buy a bansuri, spend some time in the store playing guitar and thwacking drums. Wander off feeling blissfully happy and carefree.

Try to get an electric Safa Tempo, but get conned onto a normal tempo to Boudnath. 15 rupees later, having been squeezed into the low roof Suzuki, I spill out in front of Boudnath stupa. I pay 100 rupees for entry and get given a leaflet, before realising it’s free. It’s pretty, but no real connection, I spy a roof top cafe and seek it out.

Watchful eyes

The Saturday Cafe fills a spot and I sit, read and write, eavesdropping on conversations high about the stupa. Hours float by, soup and chiya. I wander off to find a gompa – the oldest in Boudnath.

Butter lamps

Wandering through narrow side streets, I sheepishly poke my head in and ask if it’s ok to look around. The monks speak great english, I slip my flip-flops off and slide through the curtain.

15 pairs of eyes swivel in my direction, still chanting.

I feel very out of place. Nervously namaste-ing, I creep in. A monk motions for me to sit just as a huge cacophony starts. The tantric drums pound through my body. I sit transfixed and gradually settle into the experience. I scatter rice as the monks perform full body prostrations. Then comes a point in the puja where something is poured into the monks’ hands, they sip it then wipe it on their shorn heads. A monk approaches and pours some of the bright yellow liquid into my hand. I follow suit and wonder what I’ve just consumed. Later they offer me bread (that is familiar to me as yau char kway) and some sort of hot drink – maybe involving yak butter. It’s sweet and warm, but looks like dish water. Unsure whether it’s right for me to take part, I decide to accept as an acknowledgement of our interconnectedness. Puja finishes and I’m swept into a sea of locals circumambulating the stupa. Dazzled and intrigued, I finally head back to Kathmandu.

Dusk at Boudnath

I visit Pilgrims’, intent on chilling to sitar music, but something doesn’t feel right. I reject the linen clad bearded hippies and head for Japanese food, contemplating the sudden influx of Japanese-ness into my life,

Dinner at O Fukuru No Aji is… spiritual and nourishing. I sit cross-legged, enjoying the calm, reading and writing – a happy closing memory of a great country to which we’re sure to return.

Goat on the roof of a passing bus

We probably didn’t do Lumbini justice, but we’re pleased to leave. The early morning mist and sunrise warm our hearts. We arrive early in Bhairawa and dodge bus drivers to contemplate our mode of transport. After waiting for it to arrive, we pay 750 rupees each for an A/C bus. Glorious luxury! Comfy seats, air conditioning, clean water, fantastic break stops. Overpriced, but worth it. Our bags were even in the boot!

We’re dropped rather unceremoniously on the outskirts of Kathmandu and after wandering around in the dust, pollution and noise, we find a tempo to Ratna Park for a mere 15 rupees. We find the Horizon Hotel and breathe a sigh of relief. O fukura no aji for dinner as we can’t see to find Koto.

Sal tree

Turtles peeking out

We start with a pleasant, if protracted breakfast. A hippy guy nearby is playing the bansuri and all is peaceful. I silently vow to learn it and wander Kung Fu style finding nice spots to play.

Monks in Lumbini

Beautiful morning spent at the Mayadevi temple where Siddharta was born. We find the Sal tree that has become a shrine.

Several monks sit guard, prayer flags fluttering and butterflies drifting past. Propping ourselves on a meditation platform, we watch the world go by. I peek at the turtles in the pond and they peek back. Playful chipmunks race around chasing each other before pausing to namaste.

Even the chipmunks are at it

Unfortunately the serenity soon fades as noisy school groups and loutish kids come through. We both search for sanctuary, but fail to find the promised peace that we’d hoped for. Late lunch back at the 3 Foxes and we’re ready to leave Lumbini – our room begins to feel like a prison and we long for Kathmandu.

Crowds at Lumbini

What had looked like a straightforward solution of a bus from Lumbini dissolves into bus strikes. Our mood makes this feel like a major barrier, but the reality is that an overpriced taxi to Bhairawa connects us to a bus out East.

We contemplate the Crane Sanctuary and Japanese food, but it feels like too much of an effort and we’re fed up of being ripped off. Sweetcorn soup suffices and we sleep.

Machapuchare in the morning

Early start, Mustang bus station, conned into sitting at a nice cafe by a guy whose daughter is a Gurkha. Masala chiya and random pastry in the morning sun. Indian video coach showing Hindi films.

More random roadside curry – mixed with rice, potato, onion, some sort of round yellow bean (chickpea? mung?), chilli powder, coconut powder and possibly lemon, all served in a newspaper cone with a piece of card as a scoop. Yum! First time I had it was on the way back from Beni – 5 rupees and your life in your hands. A wiry Indian-looking guy with a tray balanced on a cushion on his head and a stand weaving in and out of buses, setting up before whizzing everything up in a dirty plastic beaker!

EDIT: I’ve since discovered that it’s called chat and is a mix of soya beans, radish, chilli, salt and lemon

Our chariot

Dodgy roadside stops, meet Prince and friends – helps me buy some yummy clementines – 30 rupees for a big bag. He gives me his card and invites me to look him up in India.

Our trip comes to an abrupt halt as we are almost ejected at the edge of Bhairawa, which turns out to make life easier getting to Lumbini – decision made then!

Staggering through the dust and noise we somehow find a bus just leaving for Lumbini and jump on the roof – M loses a shoe and a Nepali-style rescue mission sees a random guy on a bike throw it up, just as we move off.

Dusty roads lined with mango trees – terrifyingly narrow, but refreshing in the heat. Feels much more Indian – the people, the heat, the food. 60 rupees gets the 2 of us to Lumbini. We hop off onto a dusty crossroads and stagger into Lumbini Bazaar and the Lumbini Village Lodge. Too tired to decide otherwise, we go for it. 2 cold showers later, we feel almost human and wander out for food. It’s a pleasant and quiet village and feels very homely. The 3 Foxes restaurant entices us in and lots of food emerges, including banana custard! Fearsome number of mozzies even though I’m coated in Deet. Pleasantly full and satisfied with our day, we drift off to sleep under the safety of my mozzie net.