Bishwa Ijtema: five million Muslims, 108 weddings, one Australian female photographer
Poor bus driver...!!
On January 24 I attended the final day of Bishwa Ijtema, or “World Congregation.” If you’re not Muslim you may not have heard of it – it’s an annual Islamic congregation held by the banks of the Turag River in Tongi, which is about 20 kilometres from Dhaka. Devotees from 70 different countries spent three days in prayer and meditation and Islamic scholars delivered sermons. The organisers, Tablighi Jamaat, forbid political discussions taking place and the congregation is officially open to people from all faiths. As per tradition, mass dowry-free wedding ceremonies were held on the second day of Ijtema. According to The Daily Star, this year 108 couples were married in a single day. That’s a lot of love (or persuasion).
Bishwa Ijtema (pronounced biz-wah ist-emah) started very humbly in 1946, when an Indian scholar met with a few people at a local mosque. In 2010, local police estimated that the numbers of devotees reached five million.
A woman prays in a partially contructed building
I was really excited about witnessing such a huge event. I contacted a photographer called Jeremy Hunter, who was coming to Bangladesh for a week to take pictures for The Guardian. We met up in Coffee World a few days before to discuss our plans. Jeremy had maps and photos from previous years and suggested we do a warm-up lap of Tongi the following day. Such a level of preparedness was unknown to me – but I have learnt from it. We went with Jeremy’s 70-year-old fixer called “Tiger Uncle” who showed us the train station and we scanned for good vantage points. How we would ever reach those points in the midst of millions remained a mystery to me. We met a friendly member of the Special Branch Police who said he’d find out if I could take a photo of Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina (impossible).
Crossing this sandpipe was the alternative to wading through mud and water.
But the night before I suffered pre-ijtema jitters. Due to the incredible swell of traffic, Jeremy had arranged to travel to Tongi on the back of a motorcycle. Some of my colleagues told me that going alone would be difficult, and others said that devotees might not be receptive to a female western photographer. If I had a taka for every time I was told to cover my hair… At this stage it was too late to organise going with a reporter from The Daily Star. By midnight on Saturday I had decided to go, but to turn around and come back if I felt uncomfortable (or was making others uncomfortable).
However ijtema turned out to be one of the best experiences of my life. It was extraordinary to see so many people come together to celebrate their identity and faith. The last two ‘mass’ events I attended were the protests against the G20 summit in London, and before that, the protests on the fifth anniversary of the invasion of Iraq. The mood during those two occasions was (justifiably) one of anger, frustration and bitterness. Ijtema felt joyful, whilst also solemn and reflective.
And as for the mixed reports about whether devotees would be receptive to a western woman taking photographs – I found them positively encouraging. In fact there was so much waving, posing and posturing – even direct requests to take individual and group portraits – that my only difficulty was getting candid shots. I took nearly 700 photos, and only once did someone ask me not to take his picture (which was a bit silly, because he was one of hundreds on the banks below the bridge). However I didn’t try to enter the central prayer area as I felt that would be pushing my luck.
It's too crowded to wave but nevermind that...
It was also a physically demanding experience – my whole body ached the next day. After giving up on the CNG (auto-rickshaw) around 9am when traffic came to a standstill (after pumping myself up by listening to the very un-Islamic sounds of WHAM!) I walked with thousands of others for a couple of hours to reach the ijtema grounds, which are spread over 160 acres. We crossed soft sand, mud and waist-deep water. Moving around in the congregation was obviously difficult and at the beginning there was a massive crush that nearly scared me off the whole idea. But a man stretched his arms out around me to give me breathing room, and this act of kindness was repeated by many others throughout the day. After asking for directions to Tongi train station, a man in white robes and skullcap planted himself by my side and became my temporary fixer. He spent 45 minutes escorting me to the train station, telling officials I was a “sanbadik” (journalist) and I was allowed to pass through various hurdles – alas only to be turned back by police who had temporarily blocked off the station. When I went to a partially constructed multi-storey building to get a good vantage point while waiting for Akheri Munajat (the final prayer) to begin, he smiled and disappeared back into the crowd.
Tongi station
It was mostly women who had gathered on various levels of the building. A man made me a seat out of planks of wood and I read Shazia Omar’s “Like a Diamond in the Sky” while eating mandarins and enjoying the shade. It was a happy coincidence of art imitating life when I came to this passage:
“As they walked, Dean realised he was not surrounded by people, people, people but men, men, men. Men everywhere. The street was clogged with men. Men chanting Allah. Men dressed in robes inching forward with Qurans and religious zeal. White robes billowed in the wind like spectres. Even for Bangladesh, with 150 million people squeezed into 150 square miles of land, this congregation was an especially cramped mess.”
It compounded the feeling that ijtema is the biggest thing ever.
Me
However when I came home and did some research, I found that ijtema is dwarfed by the world’s largest peaceful gathering, which was held in Allahabad, India, in 2007. Between 60 and 70 million showed up for the month-long Kumbh Mela, which takes place every 12 years.
Wikipedia’s list of ‘largest peaceful gatherings in history’ does not claim to be comprehensive (and it omits ijtema altogether), but according to its contents, Bishwa Ijtema 2010 was the tenth largest peaceful gathering in history.
Because I’m talking about silly, almost incomprehensible numbers of humans, here are some examples of other mass events to put it into context:
- Around six million people welcomed Ayatollah Khomeini in Tehran, Iran when he returned from exile following the Islamic Revolution in 1979. Twice as many people attended his funeral a decade later.
- Around 1.8 million people attended the inauguration of Barack Obama in Washington in January 2009, but that was a million less than the parade in Boston celebrating the Red Sox’s baseball match victory in 2004. The win ended the team’s 86 year “Curse of the Bambino” of world series championship losses.
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In 2007, one million people attended the Love Parade in Essen, Germany.
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400,000 people attended Woodstock in New York state 1969, the largest rock concert of the decade. Here’s a quote from an online BBC report: “The festival’s chief medical officer, Dr William Abruzzi told Rolling Stone magazine: ‘These people are really beautiful. There has been no violence whatsoever which is really remarkable for a crowd of this size.’”
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Up to three million people attended the hajj in Mecca late last year. Itjema is frequently labelled as “the second largest congregation of Muslims after the hajj.” This is incorrect – it is number one. Of course it’s not a competition but I do find this interesting, because it is not compulsory for all able-bodied Muslims to take part in ijtema, whereas the hajj is compulsory at least once in a lifetime for those who can afford it.
Why ijtema receives so little coverage in the world press is a mystery. Happily for me though, after a four hour journey home which involved walking, more walking, a bullock cart and a taxi, I sold two pictures to AFP.
Bishwa Ijtema 2010
Ashura (a.k.a Muharram) – the bloody and the beautiful
Self-flagellation
Ashura in Dhaka was the most intense event I’ve ever photographed.
For the first half hour I couldn’t even look through the view finder because I was too overwhelmed – and also trying to make sure that I didn’t get flicked by a knife. There were large crowds, which heaved backwards (insofar as it was possible) at the last minute. Being at the front of the crowd was necessary but scary.
Boys, teenagers and men took part
Soaked
Ashura explained:
Ceremonies are held during the night and day to commemorate the martyrdom of Hazrat Imam Hossain, the grandson of the Prophet Muhammad, who was brutally murdered in Karbala, Iraq, 1300 years ago.
Ashura takes place on the day of his murder, which is the tenth day of one of the holiest months of the Islamic calendar.
You can see the scars from previous years on the back of the guy on the left
White pony and swordsmen
It wasn’t all about blood-spilling though.
There was a long procession in the morning that started from Hossaini Dalare in Dhaka - there were tens of thousands of people.
Here are some pictures:
Watching and waiting for the procession to begin
Wonderful outfit
Wonderful eyes
Smiling from the sidelines
Pretty Women of Iran
I made this music video clip with the help of my whizz-bang editor friend Karen Rodriguez and a generous musical donation from Tiny Spark.
Finding (and losing) Christmas in India, England, Turkey and Bangladesh
I’ve just had my fourth weird Christmas in a row. By “weird” I mean that my family was absent – or rather, I was absent from my family because I was overseas. That’s weird in a bad way, but what’s been weird in a good way is spending Christmas in countries that don’t have a commercial seizure over it. It becomes very simple, and that’s very pleasant.
Like anyone away from home, I improvised some sort of celebration, or went with the flow of whatever was going on. It wasn’t always a success, but I won’t forget any of them. And that must count for something…
India 2006
I was in a cutely-named hill station called Ooty. My Christmas companion was Mark, who I’d met on the road a month previously. We were to have a romantic Christmas.
Mark – Quick Stats
Home city: Manchester
Interests: tigers
Hobbies: collecting knives from the farthest-flung places of the Earth
We had a fireplace in the room which was exciting. For added atmosphere, I dragged in a dying eucalyptus tree from the side of the driveway and we decorated it with pink toilet paper. On top was the big red paper star Mark had bought me.
Mark and Jess by the Christmas tree in our matching Christmas outfits
As I recall we had a few too many whiskeys on Christmas Eve and I started an argument. Very un-cool timing.
We woke in the morning to men shouting angrily outside our room. The tone sounded nasty. Then a foot came crashing through the glass pane of our door. Mark roared like a lion and I cowered in the bathroom.
When we ventured outside we saw men hurtling plastic chairs, shoes and insults at one another. When one of them noticed us in our pyjamas he calmed down and explained in perfect English the reason for the scene. He owned the guesthouse and had just returned from Switzerland to discover that his ‘boys’ has been renting out rooms without his permission and pocketing the profits. He was so angry that he smashed his foot through our room, thinking it was empty.
He was very embarrassed, apologised profusely and promised we wouldn’t pay a single rupee to stay there. And with perfect Santa timing, he then promised us a special gift.
Thirty minutes later there was a knock at the door and outside was a man with three horses. He beckoned for me to hop on.
All my Christmas wishes came true in that single moment. Ever since I was a little girl, I had dreamt of finding a pony standing in the backyard on Christmas morning (eventually I did get a horse, but she didn’t arrive on Christmas Day). Sure, it was a decade too late, but that really wasn’t important.
Mark discovered that he was a natural Marlboro Man and we cantered through the forest whooping like kids.
England 2007
This was the Christmas that never was. I spent the day alone, having decided to opt out and let the inner Grinch inside me bloom.
I had been in London for less than six months, so I didn’t have the sort of friends that would drag me out of my flat to celebrate. I was living with four artists and they’d each gone back to their homes in Wales, northern England, and Slovakia – and one girl, Sarah, went to an Australian party on the other side of town. There are no trains or buses in London on Christmas Day so she had to stay there for two nights. Joining her was less appealing than the idea of having the flat to myself for two whole days and using the time to write.
I took this photo outside my front door about a month after Christmas
And in a way, it was also nice to exercise a choice about Christmas. I thought that by opting out for one year, I would perhaps appreciate the rest more fully.
It wasn’t snowing, but it was close to zero that morning. The house had no heating, so I turned on the oven, opened its doors and sat at the kitchen table with my laptop. It was so cosy that I peeled off the layers as I ate my gourmet snacks. My plan was to write a story about the scariest night I spent during my year travelling – the night I slept in a petrol station in Nepal after escaping from a scary, scary man.
I kept working on it over the next week but I wasn’t ever happy with it and never finished it.
Turkey 2008
This was my “sexy and stupid” Christmas.
It was stupid because I thought it would be hilarious to eat turkey in Turkey on Christmas Day. I thought my goal was realistic because I had seen restaurants in Istanbul advertising a Christmas lunch.
But what eventuated was the following conversation (if you could call it that) repeated about ten times:
Jessica to restaurant tout: “Do you have turkey?”
Restaurant tout: “Yes, yes, Turkey food.”
Jessica: “No – turkey” [flapping my arms like a chicken].
I gave up when I realised I was behaving like the village idiot.
On his way to do battle...
I had a kebab and walked along the beach front and watched the street cats fight on the rocks. At any rate I was more preoccupied with thoughts of my pending flight to Iran than with Christmas food.
In the evening I went to a Turkish bath house as a special treat. My clothes were deposited at the gate (just about) and a large, half-naked Turkish woman instructed me to enter the sauna. After I returned she tipped buckets of warm water over my head. This process was repeated several times and then I took my place on the circular marble table in the middle of a beautifully authentic-looking hamaam. There were seven other nymphs getting the same treatment – a massage and soapy exfoliation. We were turned this way and that. It was quite a sight, and reminded me of a master’s oil painting, or of the days when emperors were fanned with palm leaves and fed grapes…
Bangladesh 2009
Christmas began at work on the night of the 23rd. We gathered around two huge cream cakes with “Merry Christmas” and “Peace be with you” written in icing. Someone found a Christmas song on their computer. I was invited to cut the first slice while the others clapped. Then I handed the knife to a Christian, and he passed it to another. Everyone ate it and we went back to our keyboards with sticky fingers.
The first slice
On Christmas Eve I sub-edited the “Christmas today” story which was fun, and it took me back to the day when I stood next to Jesus’ manger in Bethlehem (true! Well the bit about me standing there, I can’t vouch for matters of the Bible…).
On Christmas morning I went to a special church service for the first time in my life. My friend’s sister sang in the leading choir band and it was all really colourful and happy. I recognised some of the carols and sang the English words quietly while the others naturally went for Bangla. But when ‘Come all Ye Faithful’ was performed, I could only remember the corrupted naughty-kid version of the original: “Why are we waiting, slowly dehydrating?…”
I found Christmas in AG Church, Moghbazar
As we left the church, a fresh-looking guy from MyTV asked to interview me about my Christmas in Bangladesh. I mumbled something really dumb about the shops being closed in Australia for The Big Day but here it was business as usual. On the second take he asked me to focus on my prayers. This made me a bit nervous, but I opted for “world peace, love and kindness for all.” I don’t know how priests do it…
After the TV guy left we sat on a parked Harley Davidson-esque motorbike and had our picture taken and then ran away.
Then we went to a church built by the Portuguese in the 17th century. I called my parents from the graveyard because I thought it would be a peaceful place, but seven little street urchins surrounded me, then parroted my words and asked for money. I was frustrated by the distraction and I shouted at them to leave me alone – 10 minutes after my message of peace and love…
We had Christmas lunch at my friend’s house which consisted of amazing Bangla dishes of beef, chicken, salad, sausages and rice. My friend’s mother heaped our plates as though it were our last supper. We went up on the roof to smoke and take stupid pictures after staring at the slums and the market below.
When my friends went to work I decided to see my first friend, Ali the rickshaw driver, who hangs out the front of Hotel Pacific in Mohtijheel. We had tea and talked about “the Belgium woman” who said she wants to stay in a hotel with him. So have other foreign women, apparently. He showed me his photo album which he keeps in storage under the rickshaw seat. At the last photo, he said, “This is a bad man. This man not like woman – he likes young boys.” This bad man left Bangladesh about five years ago.
Christmas motorbike
Then we talked about why he doesn’t like to get high anymore and some other street talk that isn’t appropriate for a blog.
Back in Ramna, I bumped into the photographer I’d previously interviewed, so I went to his place and he showed me his coral and fossil collection. I had yet more tea and I told him it was Christmas for me.
Then I came home and ate the Crunchie bar my sister had left me.
Melbourne 2010
Watch this space.
This is where I want to sit next year
Too many tigers, complains tourist group in Bangladesh
Jessica Mudditt
Sundarbans, Bangladesh
A group of tourists have lodged a complaint with the Ministry of Tourism after seeing “too many” tigers in the Sundarbans this week.
Tourists Hasan Reza from Bangladesh, Florian Sichling from Germany and Shampa Afroza Shumu from Bangladesh were disappointed by frequent tiger sightings
The 20 tourists, including nationals of overseas countries such as Turkey, England, Germany and Australia, spent around Tk 17,000 each on a three night cruise with Guide Tours.
Adventurous tourists often visit the mangrove forests of the Sundarbans, but with little or no expectation of seeing the ‘man-eating’ Royal Bengal Tiger.
In a joint letter addressed to the Ministry of Tourism, the tourists claimed that they hoped for “nothing more than a glimpse of a tiger, or perhaps tiger tracks and faeces.”
The tourists claim that spotting large numbers of tigers makes them an easy target for ridicule when they return to their workplaces.
Hasan Reza, a 39-year-old from Mymensingh, said, “My photos have been ruined by too many tigers.
“Even my closest friends will accuse me of faking them with PhotoShop.”
Guide Tours attributes the sightings to recent reports from tigers that they are lonely and need more human contact in their day-to-day lives.
Florian Sichling, a 34-year-old from Germany said, “I saw tigers at play, drinking at the water and killing wild pigs.
“Since going on this trip I no longer need to spend money on safari adventures such as these.
Florian Sichling from Germany said photographs such as this one look "ridiculous"
“I would like Guide Tours to tell me what I will do for a holiday next winter.”
A spokesperson from the Ministry of Tourism said, “The tourists have every right to be upset and we are treating the matter as a serious one.”
Rony Chowdhury of Guide Tours said, “Our tourists don’t usually see any tigers.
“In fact, the last time we spotted any was around three years ago.
“We have apologised to this group unreservedly.”
During the trip, which included forest walks and long-boat rides, otters, deer, wild pigs, lizards and snakes were also seen in the wild.
However the tourists stated that they saw an acceptable amount of these species.
Future trips to the Sundarbans have been temporarily halted until the government is satisfied that no further tiger sightings will occur.
*** This article was inspired by The Onion, which is a website full of of spoof news articles.
Jessica’s third Bangladesh blog: Finding a flat-ah in Dhaka
This blog entry picks up right where the last one left off: after some wonderful adventures in Tea Land, I returned to Dhaka to get down to the business of becoming an expat.
Now that's what I call a real vegetable stall!
I was staying in a cheapish hotel in the commercial district of Motijheel, which is crazy-busy and full of roundabouts, banks and six lane roads. It also hosts most of the regular street demonstrations, which I watched with waning interest from my ninth floor window. Even though my room was a bit of a rat hole, I kept going back to Hotel Pacific because the guys on reception were unfailingly cool and I felt safe. And it’s not that I had a huge range of options – often the cheaper-end hotels won’t accept solo women unless they are sure they can handle the special cargo…
I chick-bombed the room with my scarves and then cranked the clunking fan to cancel out the heat… Then I cranked the TV volume to cancel out the fan. Usual routine. And then I stared at the ceiling and stopped denying the truth: I had absolutely no idea how I would ever find my own place. Until very recently, when anyone asked about my long-term living arrangements, the only answer I could muster was that I hoped to live in a building. But with my characteristic naivety I had cheerfully assured friends and family that the situation would somehow work itself out.
The sign for Al-Addin Hospital, Ramna
Privately, I was so clueless that I didn’t even know which mode of communication to use to get the ball rolling. Presuming, of course, that I could communicate in English rather than Bangla. Should I phone or email? Who exactly did I want to contact anyway? I considered walking the streets until I found a shop called “Real Estate 4 U” or whatever. And was there anything culturally specific about doing business that I needed to know – like, would I have to bargain for my rent?
I wanted to kick myself when I noticed the Yellow Pages on the table – I had forgotten about those. I rang “Century 21” and was sitting opposite a property representative within the hour.
But although he tried his best, in the end he couldn’t help me. After an afternoon of being chauffeured around in the AC company car, I was told that my needs were too unusual.
Firstly, I didn’t want an unfurnished four bedroom apartment, even if it was lemon yellow and beautiful.
The cables of Motijheel
Secondly, I didn’t want to live in Gulshan or its sidekick Banani.
At first this latter requirement was just a hunch I developed after reading a book written by a snobby British expat. He seemed to think it would be impossible for a foreigner to survive anywhere else in Dhaka.
But then when lots of other people started telling me to live there (my language teacher went so far as to say that I needed to live there), I knew I had to find a really good reason not to do so. I’m stubborn like that.
Fortunately (for my reasoning), Gulshan is expensive, a long way north of the newspaper office in Karwan Bazaar, and prone to muggings (of foreigners) at night. And the streets themselves look like “Bangladesh Lite” and thus are a big turn-off. You can buy Volkswagons, treadmills and Hush Puppy shoes, but it’s hard to find a quick and tasty hot meal – let alone a market.
Karwan Bazar has more romance than Venice...
My colleague at The Daily Star dislikes the area even more than I do. He said: “I feel like I’ve left my own country when I go to Gulshan.” Funnily enough, if my friend actually did want to leave Bangladesh, he would first have to pay a visit to one of Gulshan’s 22 (yes 22) embassies…
Day by day I was discovering the prevalence of the foreigner-in-Gulshan assumption. Strangers at the tea stall would say to me: “You live in Gulshan?” and CNG (auto-rickshaw) drivers would be so baffled when I asked for Karwan Bazaar that they would find an English speaking person on the street to double-check my instructions.
Time was running out. My bill at the hotel was racking up, I’d started working full-time and my sister and the Space Man were due to arrive in a fortnight. I had promised them a pad. Mr Century 21 was sending me text messages saying “Ma’am, I have an apartment in Gulshan that will meet your needs if you will pay a little more…” In other words, it didn’t meet my needs…
Until now I haven’t acknowledged the help from my colleagues at The Daily Star.
I had been shown several hotel suites in elegant Dhanmondi (all of which were too glamourous for my plastic wallet) and I had been offered lodgings in family homes. I declined this second offer because I am alternately obsessed with Al Jazeera News and silence, so I knew I would be a bad guest.
A tea break on the roof in Old Dhaka
And then, a week later, a colleague told me he knew of a two bedroom apartment in Ramna that was available until the middle of January.
I moved in.
This red brick apartment is completely fantastic and the whole complex, complete with swing-sets, is very peaceful. In the morning I wake to the sounds of birds crowing and women sweeping the path with long wispy brushes.
By my guestimation, it’s also ultra-secure (you’ve got that in writing, Dad). Apparently a government minister lives here, so it must be. There are always a handful of security men with old school rifles at the gate and I have to poke my head out of the CNG before the vehicle is allowed to pass through.
When I walk past the five-odd security men in the morning they each nod, half-salute and say “Slamalaykum.” I’m never sure whether to nod back at one or all or none of them and the effort mysteriously causes me to trip over my feet. I can’t seem to stop it and have decided that I would be a shit soldier.
Beautiful unknown vegetables
I also can’t stop checking whether there is a freshly chopped-off goat’s head at the open-air butchers on the corner. I have to find it amongst the hanging meat slabs and entrails to know whether it has been sold that day… Mostly it’s gone by the afternoon.
I also enjoy seeing the men on my road carrying 15 chickens on their heads in large wicker baskets. I think the chickens must be sedated or something because they don’t flap their wings even though they’re in a weird situation. There are three men who carry them as they walk about 10 metres apart, and at intervals they call out something long and low – to me it sounds like the rumblings of a tenor. I presume they must be saying “Chiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiicken” but I like to imagine what else they might be saying, like: “Huuuuuuuugggg meeeeeee.” Once a chicken seller offered me one of his sedated chickens and then laughed really hard at his own joke.
I’m not sure what the neighbourhood thinks of this vastly inferior version of Nicole Kidman moving in. Most people probably couldn’t care less, but when I see some of them pointing and nudging, I do wonder a little bit. They might have their own theories, just as I have my chicken-calling theories…
Jessica’s second Bangladesh blog: it’s all about the tea (and spiders)
The fairest of them all...
I’ll begin this entry with a well-known travel fact: switched-on travellers don’t arrive in small towns after midnight. Only disorganised risk-takers do it; those who don’t mind bedding down for the night in, say, a petrol station. After meeting such a fate in Nepal, I’d said to myself, “Never again.”
But then, three years later, I found myself on a luckless mission to find the Tea Research Institute Guesthouse in the depths of Srimangal’s tea estates at 1am. The experience reminded of the beginning of Alice in Wonderland, when Alice is having trouble with keys and doors and potions that make her grow too tall…
When I arrived at what I thought was the Tea Research Institute Guesthouse I saw that it had no sign, and the men guarding the gates told me it wasn’t the place I was looking for (even though it was).
The Tea Resort had a sign, but the guys there said it was wrong and that it was in fact the Tea Research Institute Guesthouse (it wasn’t).
I went to another unnamed place that looked nothing like a guesthouse, and I spoke to a man with a big pot-belly and a frog jumped on my foot.
I returned to the first guesthouse and was told that even if it was the right place, I couldn’t stay there because the Prime Minister was coming.
For some reason I took this news as the most promising development yet, and somehow managed to convince them that I’d made a booking and that it would be bad form to make me sleep under a tea bush.
A tea plucker
Why did I persist? Because Lonely Planet describes the Tea Research Institute Guesthouse like this:
“What better place to stay than right here in the heart of the Bangladesh tea universe. This charming guesthouse is right opposite the research institute and has large, well-furnished rooms with thick carpets, regal green curtains, inviting bathtubs, and best of all, lovely verandas with tables and chairs where you can sit back with – what else – a cuppa and admire the beautifully maintained gardens.”
Of course I wanted a piece of that.
But sadly, once inside Room 3, I realised that time had not been kind to the Tea Research Institute Guesthouse.
The bathtub had no plug, the taps were rusted, and the water was cold. The shower lacked a water supply. The ‘thick’ carpets were thinner than thick and ants were crawling all over the stains. The toilet also had wet brown stains on the seat and it didn’t flush – the bathroom stank of stale septic gas. When I used the toilet, aggressive ants crawled out of an old electrical socket and onto the floor around my feet. The bath rail fell off. The mattress had frightening lumps. I used a chair as a bedside table, but after checking underneath the seat, decided against it. A thick storm cloud of spider webs had gathered.
'Heave'
But wait, there’s more…
In the morning I was told that I couldn’t have a key for my room because it’s shared with the adjoining room. Two rooms, one key – go figure.
So I cut my losses and checked into Hotel Tea Town.
The epilogue to that little is saga is that when I was back in Dhaka I whinged about the weird vibe at the Tea Research Institute Guesthouse to my Australian friends, Robyn and Mark. They said: “We tried to stay there but they wouldn’t let us.”
* * *
One evening I was looking for Cyber World on Srimangal’s main street and a guy walked past and said: “Tourist?” and I said: “No, journalist,” and he said: “Me too.” And I was like: “NO WAY!” And so the next morning this rather dashing Bangladeshi journalist came along with me to the Bangladesh Tea Research Institute (opposite the mucky hostel). I interviewed the director, and a scientist gave us a tour of the tea factory. I took photos but I’m not allowed to show you, lest you set up your own tea-making factory based on my photos… However I can tell you that Stage Two involves sifting the dust from the tea leaves using a big vibrating machine, and Stage Seven involves a bloody great furnace blasting heat onto the tea leaves at 93 degrees Celsius.
If you want to learn a little more about tea production in Bangladesh, make sure you pick up a copy of the January edition of Tea Talk Magazine.
For this same article, I was on a mission to find and consume the magic tea of Srimangal. It has seven different flavours and colours, and incredibly, they don’t mix. You can jiggle the cup and they still don’t mix. This beautiful brew was invented by a man called Roshem Ram Gour in 2006, and the only place in the world that you’ll find it is at the Nilkantha Tea Cabin. My new friend Russell came along and he made finding the tea cabin a whole lot easier than a guesthouse in the night.
21 layers of tea
Over the next three days I drank five cups of the stripey stuff. In one sitting I drank three cups because I thought it would be nice to line them all up and take pictures. So I am well placed to tell you that the tea tastes as good as it looks.
For someone who invented something so fun, Mr Ram Gour was a serious looking fellow who didn’t talk much. But he did confirm the rumours that he’s been offered thousands of dollars to divulge the recipe. However he refuses to spill the beans on his secret, so the seven-layered tea will not be coming to a Waitrose store near you.
I became friendly with a guy called Rashed and he and I rode bicycles to Lowacherra National Park. I wanted to see the freakily large orb spider (a.k.a. ‘banana spider’). They can grow to the size of a human head and their poison packs a punch – when Rashed’s mother was bitten by one her whole hand blew up. Although I saw plenty of them, my photos are rubbish because I didn’t adhere to Capa’s mantra: “If you’re pictures aren’t good enough, you’re not close enough.” (Anyway now we know he faked his best photo).
I’d also hoped to see a hoolock gibbon, but I assume they were too frightened to make an appearance.
My favourite bug of the day
Rashed insisted on blasting Shakira out of his phone as we pitter-pattered along the trail… It didn’t bother the butterflies though.
We also visited a Khashia tribal village. I know it’s a big claim, but one of the young girls had the loveliest face I’ve ever seen (please refer to photo). It was quite a surprise to discover the Khashias are Christians, though their ancestors are from the steppes of Mongolia. We bought some of their hand-made beaded jewellery and were generously let inside their spotless homes.
Afterwards Rashed and I paid £1.50 for a luscious swim at the Tea Resort and I lost 40 takka playing ping-pong badly. But I couldn’t sulk over it because Srimangal had been so good to me.
I’m going to end this blog entry with the worst joke in the world. I made it up on the bus back to Dhaka, when my brain went moudly.
Q: What’s Srimangal like?
A: Tea-rrific
Not the biggest specimen; just the only one I got close to
- Going against the grain
Rashed with a baby in a Khashia home
- Rickshaw art
Rashed, bikes and sunbeams
Beautiful Srimangal
A tailorLivin' la di vida loca at the Tea Resort
Holiday in Afghanistan
The following interview appeared on The Comment Factory’s website in September 2009.
‘Holiday in Afghanistan’
By Jessica Mudditt
In the winter of 2009 an Australian primary school teacher dared to visit Afghanistan as a tourist. In this interview, Nick Buckley, 29, provides a glimpse of the other side of Afghanistan – a country still celebrating lavish weddings, and where men get drunk and watch Chuck Norris films.
This is not to say it’s a picture of calm or frivolity Nick presents – some of his experiences were downright terrifying, as he is the first to admit. Yet in speaking about his visit as an ordinary punter, Nick allows us to gain a fuller picture of a country that is almost always discussed in military terms.
I interviewed Nick before he left and shortly after he returned.
INTERVIEW ONE: PRIOR TO DEPARTURE
Jessica: When did you first have the idea of going to Afghanistan?
Nick: It was about eight years ago, when I started reading books on the region. I had been reading a book about India and there was something in it about the Pashtuns, Afghanistan’s major ethnic group. And so I started reading books about them.
Jessica: How are you going to stay safe?
Nick: I’ll have to keep a fairly low profile and try to blend in. But you never really can blend in, can you? I’ll wear the shalwar kameez [traditional dress] I bought in Pakistan on a previous trip. I’m also growing a beard but it’s taking longer than I hoped. I’ve never had facial hair beyond a day and a half so I had no idea of the amount of time it takes to grow.
Jessica: Safely assuming there’s no backpacker scene, where will you stay?
Nick: I have a contact in Melbourne who worked for an NGO in Afghanistan – she put me in touch with a couple of New Zealanders she worked with. They now have their own security company and I’ll stay with them in an apartment in Kabul.
Jessica: How safe – or rather, unsafe – is Afghanistan at the moment?
Nick: My contact brought over her laptop to show me a ‘safety map’ she made when working there in 2007. Red means really bad, orange is getting bad, and green is relatively safe. In 2007, the bottom half was red and the top half was green with some orange patches. Now it’s basically red everywhere with orange in some places.
My contact told me that if I’m recognised as a Westerner by the wrong person, I’ll be taken to the nearest kidnapper and sold to the highest bidder.
Jessica: Is your girlfriend really worried about you?
Nick: No, she’s been supportive. I’m pretty lucky to have her. She’s fairly well travelled herself – she just came back from a four month trip through West Africa – from Morocco, all the way to Nigeria, through some fairly hairy countries. She’s not scared of going to Afghanistan – she’d be up to it. But the idea of travelling as a woman in that part of the world doesn’t appeal to her.
Jessica: Are there any particular dangers during winter?
Nick: During winter the Taliban put down their arms and sort of… have a holiday. [Muted laughter] So the risk of bombings is relatively low. But winter is still a dangerous time to visit. There’s a lot of banditry because there’s not a lot of food around. So the risk of being kidnapped is very high.
Jessica: What are the costs of this trip like?
Nick: They’re fairly high. Accommodation is very expensive, for that part of the world anyway. It’s $10 minimum per night and for anything decent, $30 upwards. But I’ll be staying with the Kiwis and I’ll pay my share of the board.
However street food and public transport is really cheap – though public transport is a quite risky. I’ve heard stories of bus drivers driving ‘desirable people’ to the closest kidnapper, who then sells them to the highest bidder.
Jessica: Are you scared?
Nick: No, I’m not actually. It’s a funny thing – I was watching one of those foreign correspondent shows last week. It was about Guatemala – which is in a similar situation to Afghanistan in terms of the banditry. I was sitting there watching it and I found myself getting nervous. But that was because I know nothing about Guatemala and so I felt totally vulnerable.
The reason I’m not nervous about going to Afghanistan is because I feel like I know that part of that world from previous trips and I have done loads of reading.
I feel as ready as I can be and I’m excited.
Jessica: Have fun Nick.
INTERVIEW 2: AFTER AFGHANISTAN
Jessica: So, what was it like?
Nick: It’s a fucking crazy country so it was a pretty action-packed trip. Usually when I’m writing travel emails I have to think hard of stuff to say. In Afghanistan I’d be on the internet for two hours because so many things happened in one day.
Jessica: Let’s start at the beginning.
Nick: The Afghan guys who picked me up from the airport told me we were going straight to a wedding. They also told me straight-off that it was really important for me not to talk in public. They said they had guns but would prefer to avoid a shoot-out if there was an attempted kidnapping. Now I know this sounds pretty grim, so I hasten to add that I met a lot of foreigners there who communicate with locals on a daily basis. These guys just didn’t want me to take any chances.
Jessica: What’s an Afghan wedding like?
Nick: The room was the size of a huge basketball court – I think there were around 1000 guests. It was a real mixture of people – some were wearing jeans, others were in traditional dress. It was segregated – a wooden screen divided the room. The young kids were peeping through at the women.
Jessica: What sort of entertainment was provided?
Nick: There was a cool Afghan band with a keyboard player and a singer. The singer was really good. After a set he said: “Here is my SMS – vote for me on Afghan Idol!” It was hilarious.
Jessica: Would it be correct to assume there wasn’t any alcohol?
Nick: None was served, but one of the Afghan guys I was with was absolutely smashed. He was talking loudly and inappropriately and people were turning their heads to stare. My friend Habib told him to pull himself together. After that he disappeared, but before he did, he walked into a curtain – thinking it was a door – and fell over. At 3am Habib got a call from the drunk guy saying he’d gone out the back and fallen asleep in the kitchen. He wanted to be picked up!
Jessica: What else did you do?
Nick: I visited the infamous Kabul Zoo. I managed to slide through for the Afghan admission price that was less than a tenth of the foreigner price! The animals are kept in tiny concrete cages but I was told they are a vast improvement on what was in place during the civil war and Taliban days.
There was a classic sign on the bear cage depicting a caged human being taunted by animals. The meaning clearly went over the head of three young men who were hurling pieces of ice at the sleeping lions. Afghanis are somehow the most caring and most ruthless people on earth… at the same time.
Jessica: Was it hard to maintain your energy with danger all around?
Nick: Yes and no. I was lucky to have a really secure place in Kabul, in a good suburb. I could relax when I was inside. It was actually the suburb where the house in ‘The Kite Runner’ was set and the house was absolutely enormous. There were cleaners, cooks, a gym and 24 hour electricity. There were military checkpoints on every street corner, and two police boom gates on the tiny 100m street.
Jessica: What’s the story of the guy you stayed with?
Nick: He’s a tough guy and he’s been in the military for 20 years. The job he has is incredibly dangerous. He owns a company which transports important people around Afghanistan, usually in an armoured vehicle with at least three people. The important person sits in the middle of the backseat, with two shooters on either side. There is usually an Afghan driver, because they know the roads best, and someone monitoring the radio.
Jessica: What were the ex-pats like?
Nick: Everybody I met was there for work and few showed any interest in the culture or language. Some spoke about the people and the situation in a derogatory way. They seemed bitter and burnt out.
Jessica: Was there any nightlife?
Nick: I went to an ex-pat bar – now that was an experience. The security was unbelievable. The unmarked bar was tucked away down a quiet street with boom-gates, and to enter you had to show ID to Kalashnikov-clad guards who unlocked an armoured door. The door led to another security checkpoint and eventually into a six metre walled bar. This place would be an absolute goldmine for any would-be kidnappers, so it’s no surprise that security is so tight.
I also spent an evening in a charming rural mud-brick house with a friend of Habib’s. We ate, drank vodka and watched a bad Chuck Norris action film – you know the type – when America saves the world from the bad guys. Watching it inevitably turned into a discussion about why the ‘war on terror’ has gone wrong. Mohamed, who owned the house, said that he feels like a slave in his own country. He complained of American soldiers barging into peoples’ homes without respecting the customs, demanding all vehicles stop and wait by the side of the road when a convoy passes, and the fact that they are generally trigger-happy. And of course there are the careless air-strikes that result in the deaths of civilians – what the west calls “collateral damage.”
Jessica: Were there any annoyances?
Nick: I’m going to go out on a limb and say that Kabul has the worst traffic in the world. It’s not so much the volume – though there is plenty of that – but rather the aggressive, reckless way that Afghans drive. When talking about the dangers of Afghanistan, people tend to think of suicide bombs, robbery and kidnappings, but I believe the number one danger is the traffic.
Jessica: Did you have any scrapes?
Nick: We had an accident while trying to dodge knee-deep potholes in heavy snow. When Habib jumped out and began shouting in the middle of a roundabout, I suddenly remembered my contact’s parting words – a common kidnapping tactic is to crash into the target car. As it turned out it was a legitimate accident, but it gave me the shivers.
Jessica: What was your scariest experience?
Nick: Landing in Kabul. I honestly thought I was going to die. The plane was a 1972, ex-Air India 727 relic that was probably better placed in a museum than the tarmac. The plane came down on one wheel, bounced, and started to spin around. The pilot eventually regained control but it took a kilometre to slow down. We had to take off again to land properly and I thought we were going to run out of runway.
Jessica: Sounds pretty horrible…
Nick: Oh and there was also two earthquakes in two days. The first had a magnitude of 5.8 and the next one was 6. The epicentre was about 300km north of Kabul, in the Hindu Kush mountains, but they still packed enough punch to shake the house violently and many Kabulis ran onto the streets. Considering the construction standards (or lack of) it’s hardly surprising. When the first one happened I thought a bomb had gone off.
Jessica: Did you manage to get out of Kabul?
Nick: I went on a stunning overnight trip to the decidedly dodgy city of Jalalabad, which is near the Pakistan border. The region is extremely dangerous but as it is the ‘real Afghanistan’ I was so desperate to see, I couldn’t pass up the offer.
The mountain road to Jalalabad passes just 5km from Tora Bora, which is Osama’s last known hideout. It is known Taliban country so I was keeping a low profile. Before we even made it half-way we’d passed three incinerated trucks. They had been rocketed by the Taliban.
Jessica: Sounds scary.
What were your impressions of the Afghan people?
Nick: They are amazing people, with amazing hospitality, and they put their life on the line for you. I was welcomed with open arms.
But Afghans take an ‘inshallah’ [‘God willing’] attitude to life. They believe it is God’s will if they die. It is as though they are immune to danger.
Jessica: Did you blend in alright?
Nick: I walked around the bazaar buying souvenirs and nobody seemed to notice.
Jessica: How did you buy things without talking and giving yourself away?
Nick: I went with one of my Afghan friends and I let him do the talking. I would catch his eye when I saw something I liked. He would then nod at me, duck into the shop, barter, and come out, mumbling the amount under his breath. If I was happy with the price, my friend would go back inside and buy it.
Jessica: Would you return to Afghanistan?
Nick: Yes. I’d really like to see the north and visit the areas bordering Tajikistan and Pakistan. But at the moment there’s not a lot of point to travelling because everything is so restricted.
Jessica: Would you consider a holiday in Iraq?
Nick: No. I met an American guy who works in Iraq and was looking to extend his company in Afghanistan. He said being in Afghanistan was like being on holiday.
Jessica: Well I’m glad that you had a nice holiday in Afghanistan.
Bangladesh – the first bit
- Hello from Bangladesh
I’ve started this blog so that I can tell you the best (and worst) bits about my extended stay in Bangladesh. After two weeks of travelling and a spot of freelancing, I’ll start a six month internship at The Daily Star, an English language daily national newspaper based in Dhaka.
Let’s get started then…
October 19: arrive Dhaka from London
Total journey time: 35 hours
Sleepy time: 3 hours
When I landed at the airport, bleary-eyed and sweating, an official pointed something at my head that looked remarkably like a gun. It had a trigger, and he pulled it with a click. I saw a small red light flash underneath its shaft, which meant that I didn’t have a swine flu fever and I was free to pass go. I was the only person to have a passport stamped at the foreign counter, and I was one of two females on the flight (excluding hostesses).
I made my first venture out into chaotic Dhaka in the cloistered backseat of an auto-rickshaw. I could peer out just enough to see, but not to be seen (pretty much). I wasn’t ready for that just yet. The first thing that struck me was the enterprise at intersections. The following is a (non-comprehensive) list of items I could have purchased at a (loooooong) red light:
• Popcorn
• Sticker books
• Barack Obama’s “Audacity of Hope”
• Safety pins
• Bananas
• My conscience
The last item refers to how I might have felt if I’d given in to the dozens of requests from beggars, whose outstretched hands crept into the rickshaw to tap at my arm. Many are maimed and disfigured; often they are children, or the sun-worn aged. The old women struck me the most. Their saris are gaping rags and their hair is so matted that a bird looking for a nest would need not make any alterations. A couple of them had exposed breasts. To commit such a taboo in this conservative society and not care a jot (so I assumed) made me wonder what their past had done to them.
A boy hanging out in the college at Puthia
I did give a few takka to one man who looked about forty. I made the split decision after he swung his shoulder towards me in order to show me an arm that was long enough, but not wide enough. A sapling may have been thicker than what he had to work with. But on the other occasions I just sat there, my gaze averted, wondering what the driver thought of someone who could very easily give but didn’t.
A few days later I took a train to Rajshahi in western Bangladesh. I love trains and I was excited about my first trip. I also knew from past experiences as a solo female traveller that if there was any harrassment to be had, it would be had on the train (or bus – what is it about these ‘romantic’ settings?)
And sure enough, a Don Juan behind me struck up a conversation that almost immediately involved discerning the whereabouts of my boyfriend (he is, er, called, um David… which in the past has been mimicked back as “Um-David”). He moved to sit beside me.
I remembered the advice of my Bible, a.k.a. Lonely Planet: “A woman who is politely assertive can ask for space and usually gets it.”
So I asked for it, and I got it. He moved back to his seat. A couple of women who were watching giggled.
About an hour later, he broke the reverie of my iPod miming by pushing this note through the seats:
“Dear Sister,
We are the man that is true. We should not hate each other. I have three sisters. When I saw you first, I was surprised that I got another sister.
Actually, I treat you as my sister. As up to now I did not mind, because you don’t know who am I. But I can tell you I am honest and would like to help people.
My father is a Deputy Director. I am MSC holder person.
So I know how to honour people.
Kajim”
I felt like a bit of a hard-arse.
It was a six hour journey, so, being me, I was starving half-way through it. Food wallahs had kept shoving fried chicken literally onto my elbow, so naturally that was what I went for.
That evil chicken was my unravelling. And of course it was – it was a hot day and meat goes off in the sun. I had all that night and the following day to writhe around in bed, cursing my stupidity for biting off more than I should have chewed. I also watched a lot of Al Jazeera reports, the Muppets Christmas Special, a documentary on the great white shark, and ‘Lil Champs’, an Indian young talent contest (awe-inspiring singing by kids who are probably too young to tie a shoelace).
Four days later, and I’ve had my first full meal. It was mouth-wateringly good, and I was pleased with myself for abandoning the spoon in favour of my right hand, as per custom. I had dhal, a vegetable dish , a chicken dish, steamed rice, milky tea and a two litre bottle of water. Guess how much? Lower. Lower. 80 pence.
The highlight of my day, though it was hard to choose...
I took the public bus to visit the villages of Puthia and Natore from Rajshahi. I was over the moon to photograph the stunning Hindu temples, crumbling Raj-era palaces, and the friendly and interesting faces. There were no tourists and no ticket booths – in Puthia, someone found the caretaker and he unlocked the gates, temple by temple. I signed the guestbook on his bed, in a tiny room that also contained a stove and hanging clothes. Earlier in the day, a local boy led me to his village and a pretty older woman with betel-stained teeth lent me her daughter’s sari so that I could swim with her in a bright orange pond. She scrubbed the sweat off me with a bar of soap and a stick of loofah. Afterwards she brushed my hair and her daughter painted the soles of my feet a deep claret red.
So far I’ve encountered nothing but kindness and hyper-courtesy from Bangladeshis. At first I found the staring a bit unnerving, particularly when large groups gathered to watch with fascination as I drank a cup of tea. But I’ve realised that it’s a novelty for me to be a novelty, and that I should try to enjoy the attention while it lasts. I feel sorry for the likes of Angelina Jolie, cos she’ll never be able to do a low-key cuppa again…
And here’s a few more pictures…
Big catch - New Market, Rajshahi
Govinda Temple, Puthia
This little boy patted all the animals that he stopped to show me
She told me this shrine honoured her father's memory
A warm reception in Puthia - that palace behind them is their college!
- Hello from the Holy Man – Natore
This guy was cool - he showed me around Natore and posed obligingly for photos
There's no escaping the Ani-meister...
Having my feet painted in Puthia
Global day of support for Iranians
Here is a link to my photos on Demotix of the protest at the Iranian embassy in London on July 25 2009.
