I remind you of J. Peterman, admit it.

DAY 2: Dhaka

Take a good look at how this crazy fan was hung.

I slept warm for fear of fan death (not the Korean kind, the Indian Jones propeller to the face kind). Breakfast was charming; toast with butter, mango jelly, and a plantain, eggs over medium, Ispahani Mirzapore tea (not sure which one of those words is the brand and which is the leaf) with ~~lime!!~~

My hostel offered me a driver, Shumon, to show me the city. We first looked at Bashundhara, the largest mall in South Asia, which was disappointingly mostly closed due to some national holiday. I snapped some photos of the National Parliament House, a river, Zia park, and the mausoleum of the second president. I haggled over the won->dollar exchange rate, bought a $3 copy of Adobe CS4, and registered my stay with the American Embassy. I even enjoyed a brief rickshaw ride! Since being out on the street, I have seen more goats than white people (or any other foreigner for that matter). Current count: 4 whities, 2 Chinese, 30+ goats. Granted, the 2 were in a Chinese restaurant and 3 were dead in a wheelbarrow (I'll let you guess of what!), but the count still stands.

Shumon

There is an armed presence almost everywhere I've been, be it Parliamentary paramilitary, mall cops, or even flea market cops. Shumon says they aren't all national or even city security, but I still can't tell who's privatized, who's government, or who's affiliated with whom.

Things I can say in Bangladeshi:

Hello/Hello's response
How are you?/I'm fine.
I am going to ______.
1, 2, 4, 7, 8, 9, 10
o'clock
teacher

For several hours in the afternoon and early evening I enjoyed tea and conversation with the only other Westerner in the hostel building. Though ethnically Bengali, the man I know only as Mark or Brother Mark is a Canadian citizen who, after the loss of his family, has devoted his life to missionary work in Muslim countries (of which Bangladesh is one it would seem). We spoke extensively about English education (as that is the shape his work has taken here), the inter-ethnic group conflicts in the country (which strike me as remarkably similar to those in Israel), and religion.

Mark lives and works in the Chittagong Hill Tracts, and he enlightened me as to the government's intentions to discourage tourists from leaving the Muslim capital to spend money in the rural Hindu areas. He also told me of the wealth of beauty and culture which I could enjoy were I to venture outside of Dhaka. So, under his advisement, I commit to my second disobedience. I plan a trip outside the nation's capital.

I have also learned that the city is now at only about 20% capacitance on of account of this Muslim holiday. Almost everyone has returned to their parent's house for an annual bull slaughter and subsequent week of feasting. So, tomorrow I will leave Dhaka in search of her denizens.

Out in the open countryside awaits orange groves, coal mines, rain forests, plantations, and a plethora of "tribal" foods, or so I am assured. I have paid the hotel for its seat-of-the-pants tour package offer and I am now in possession of 70 Bangladeshi taka, 212 Honk Kong dollars, and 6,000 South Korean won (Do the math, it's only like 27 bucks). I will either see the wide open country or live like its people: starving and alone. At least now there is nothing that can be stolen from me!

(Still no loss of continence or onset of feverish hysteria. Steven 1, Jungle ailments 0!)

To be continued tomorrow.

The End of November Trip

PROLOGUE

You may recall that at the end of my trip to Hong Kong, I mentioned turning my sights toward a long trip at the end of November. Well, November came and went fast, so a week ago my trip was upon me. I had to do something impulsive or twiddle my thumbs for 9 days. So, I got online and found a country that filled 3 important criteria:

1. Lack of health/safety warnings from the DoD/CDC.
2. Lack of entry visa requirement.
3. Within my budget constraints.

With its weak currency, stable government, and visa on arrival system, Bangladesh was my match. Knowing nothing about the country as I imagine you do, I booked a ticket to leave Seoul the following day. I had time to do some limited research on Saturday morning, and I drafted a consensus of rules from various blogs and hostel sites.

1. Don't eat street food,
2. Don't leave the capital,
   
3. Don't wear shorts,
4. Drink only bottled water,
   
5. Don't ride...

• ferries,
• buses,
• taxis,
• or motorized rickshaws,

Hereafter follows the day to day chronicle of my survival in a dusty and tropical unknown land.

DAY 1: Arrival

Mortifying. The airport may not have been much worse than Detroit, unless you consider smaller to be worse. The people I nervously spoke to in the airport were friendly enough, if not a little surprised at my presence. I secured my visa, grabbed my luggage off the 4th of 4 carousels. Everything is going to be fine, I repeated. Deep Breaths.

Beside carousel 4 of 4 was a sea of unclaimed "baggage."

I stepped outside the terminal, however, and I began to fear the worst. The sidewalk outside the doors was littered with people offering me a taxi, but there are no taxis (at least not in the conventional sense of the word...) to be seen. Beyond the sidewalk was two lanes of pick-up road. Then, the whole area was fenced in with the street entrances guarded by some level of the armed forces or local authorities. People were clamouring at the gates, though for what purpose I was unsure. It was then 10 pm.

I was expressly warned against the use of taxis, but I didn't know what else to do. There were no buses in sight, no friends in the country, not even a rickshaw. So, not 60 seconds into the open, steamy air of Dhaka and I disobey my first rule: I acquiesce to an insistent "taxi" driver.

Though it was somewhat reassuring that his dispatch has a booth inside the actual airport building, it was disheartening to slide past the guards and see the state of the jalopy which I was requested to get into. It was a burgundy Toyota hatchback from sometime before I was born. The front windshield was badly cracked. My suitcase was locked into the back with what appeared to be a 50 gallon tank of propane. The car was missing at least one rear-view mirror that I cared to notice. It was not labeled as a taxi in any way. If I had thought the mosquitoes were bad in the airport, I soon learned that that was because this man (whose name was 4 syllables I could not decipher and then ~romel) had parked their hive just beyond the gates.

After an argument with a very unofficial-looking person at the exit from the airport, we were driving. There is clearly no established system of road rules which I could discern. Part of me thought we would die on the street which functioned exactly like a New York sidewalk. The other part of me believed I would survive the drive only to be brutally murdered by the taxi driver in some alleyway for the 300 dollars worth of Korean monopoly money which I possess. A small, persistent, sliver of a liberal voice inside kept assuring me that I have faith in humanity and that I'm not afraid of brown people.

Foursyllableromel continued to stop, ask for directions, and then turn around (all in the middle of the street while honking incessantly). I tried to occupy my mind by observing my surroundings. Rickshaw drivers are ubiquitous. The apparatus is like a bicycle meeting a baby carriage. They appeared very colorful, though it was dark and very uncomfortable. The city at night is lit by street lights so dim the best they do is cast an eerie orange glow over things.

Finally we tracked down the correct address, although the name of the hostel is technically different than that on my paper. I didn't care, just get me outta that car and into a bed. I was so mosquito bitten from the drive that I can already feel the effects of such a high dosage of malaria.

One angle of my hostel room.

The hostel doesn't look like much but it does come off better than anything I saw in Hong Kong. I am treated astoundingly well by the young men at the desk. I spoke with a man on the phone who I presume is the owner. He said we will go sight-seeing in the morning. The boys offered me dinner, but I'm too nervous and excited to eat anything. Then they asked me what time I would like breakfast. One of the two carried my suitcase to the elevator, pressed the button, jumped out, and ran up the stairs to meet me and carry the bag again.

This will surely prove to be catastrophic.

My room smells heavily of some pineapple-mango-unknowable fruit spray. It is now 11 pm. Thus ends my first hour, and I'm beginning to feel optimistic about my prospects. Assuming, that is, that the Korean pharmacy gave me diarrhea medicine and not laxative, and that I don't in fact have malaria. Crossed fingers.

To be continued tomorrow.