Exploring Bangaliyana: A week with Dad in Bangladesh (1 of 2)
He almost cried stepping off the plane. A week later, he almost cried stepping back on the plane. Burning incense, stinking rubbish, seductive desserts, maddening car horns, the haunting sound of a flute on the street at midnight, untouched mountains covered in mist, winding roads into colourful villages where people put snakes into trances with handmade flutes. The land of Bangla.
We did see the jarring — flooded fields, horribly disfigured beggars and a rickshaw driver get run over right in front of our car. Dad was much more awed by what he hadn’t been expecting though — the gentle sunlight filtering through the tall trees of forgotten forests, centuries old undocumented forts and the mansions made of clay covered from floor to ceiling with paintings.
This is a little story about introducing my Dad to the country I love so much:
Day 1 — A Sufi jam
Dad was interested in learning more about Islam, so we started the trip with an introduction to Sufism, the earliest form of Islam in Bangladesh. Sufi masters are credited with being the single most important factor in South Asian conversions to Islam, particularly in current-day Bangladesh. Most Bangladeshi Muslims are influenced by Sufism, and perceive Sufis as a major source of spiritual guidance and wisdom, even if it is not talked about often.
We started off with dinner at a local restaurant, which I thought would be a huge success but wasn’t — I found out that Dad didn’t like bhortas/mashed vegetable balls (“They’re cold, all look the same and have the consistency of already having been eaten by someone else!”).
By 11pm we had definitely found a jam, but a world away from the one we were looking for. We had been in a traffic jam for two hours. Dad was not at all impressed (“Maaaaate. This is rough”), been shaken up in an electric CNG (“What is this — a goddamn washing machine?!”).
When we finally reached Shah Ali Mazar, a shrine to the revered Sufi Islam preacher Shah Ali, there was no music. The local authorities had restricted it. Two foreigners wandering around quickly turned into the main act of the night. We ducked into a nearby tea stall, which turned out to be just as much of a party as the mazhar usually is. Dad’s bare legs (he doesn’t like full-length pants in any country) were the key attraction. The music from the cracked speakers was turned up, a crowd gathered, and a steady stream of characters came in to the stall to look closer at Dad. A man with not much hair but more of a smile than most in the world combined coerced him into smoking apple-flavoured cigarettes. We sat snugly inside. Dad was disgusted by the malai in the malai cha. No sieves in sight. I decided not to offer paan. It was past midnight and there were more women on the street than I’d ever seen in the middle of the day anywhere else in Bangladesh. The stall was run by a woman who was happily telling everyone that they could leave unless they were purchasing. A fortune teller arrived. Dad has good luck, has had a lot of mental strain, will marry twice and has gotten through three big obstacles. “Khushi hoiso, amar bokshish koi?” She literally had business cards tucked underneath her beads. She wanted extra money for making us laugh. We happily obliged.
We spotted a big wad of new notes, cue that there was a performance somewhere (new notes will often be handed around before a performance for people to give to performers, in an attempt to encourage others to give). We tripped and weaved through the darkest network of tiny muddy streets (“Is there where you should be taking your father on his first trip out of Australia in 35 years? Am I going to get out of here with my organs?”), tip-toed across rickety bamboo bridges perched precariously over open sewerage drains and found ourselves in a concert in the middle of a slum. Drums, guitar, lines of blue plastic chairs for seating. A sound engineer, rather than two moody teenagers with overly smooth haircuts, would definitely have helped, but the music was great. A tiny young woman with a huge voice singing spiritual songs with all her heart, supported by two young boys in a furious trance on the drums. Everyone was so completely into the performance.
We stopped by Karwan Bazar, Dhaka’s biggest vegetable market, on the way home to see mountains of winter vegetables being unloaded at midnight.
Day 2 — Old Dhaka, with 10 favourite stops.
The day started where 40% of the residents of Dhaka live — in a slum. We had breakfast in (1) Korail slum, home to anything from 40,000 (Population Census 2011) to 350,000 people. It has no sealed roads, regularly floods and hundreds of houses are regularly razed in fires. Residents pay more per square foot than most of the people living in the surrounding diplomatic zones and do not get water, gas or sanitation. Dad said he liked it more than where I live (in the diplomatic zone), saying it was friendlier, quieter, shadier, had less cars and cleaner air.
We went on to the madness of Dhaka’s biggest market, (2) Newmarket, where Dad got lost in rugs and carpets and fruit and colours. Everyone has something to do, somewhere to go and something to sell or yell about. In (3) Nilkhet he watched shop sellers climb up ladders and into mezzanine roofs and pop out from shelves and hang out of the ceilings to find books in the quirkiest maze of the tiniest shops which seemed to hold every book in the world. He paused in the labrinth of printing presses, asking whether they knew that their occupation actually didn’t exist in many countries anymore. I paused in the smell of all the old books. All the stories they held!
Our first stop in Old Dhaka was unexpected — we were pulled into a wedding. We had just started looking around when BOOM — a firecracker went off right next to Dad. We jumped around and BOOM even closer — and BOOM, we had sparks on our shoes. That’s Old Dhaka — you never know what’s around the corner. We fled into the tiny hidden garden oasis of hotel/restaurant (4) Beauty Boarding, the historically infamous writer rendezvous. Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, Nazrul and Shamsur Rahman had left long ago, but the humble, delicious lunch hadn’t changed, the gardens were still full of groups chit-chatting — and we cameo’d in a film just by walking around. It has such a beautiful feel — of tradition, of nostalgia, of intellect, of comraderie. A place that, on any other trip, is best enjoyed through a whole day in the garden with a book.
(5) Sadarghat, Dhaka’s biggest port. Dad (who lives on a boat) was floored.
The seemingly endless row of huge launches lining the river like a second layer of high-rise apartment blocks and all of the colourful boats of every size imaginable in the water in front of them carrying every item imaginable. The black water filled with swirling, bubbling rubbish, the absolute chaos that seemed to make perfect sense to everyone in it. He swore that he would arrange to post me a portable life jacket as soon as he reached Australia and concentrated on holding tight to the tiny wooden boat we took a ride on. I think he secretly loved the madness.
We got off the boat at (6) Ahsan Manzil, the Pink Palace, and took a historical tour told through the perspectives of those who benefited from the British occupation.
From there, Dad’s journey into religion in Bangladesh continued in (7) Hussaini Dalan, the house of the Imam (religious leader) of the Shia community. Although heavily manned by security, the 17th century building (which has a prominent space for women) and lake provided a tranquil glimpse into the faith. Then (8) Dhakashewari Temple, the most important Hindu place of worship for many in Bangladesh. No matter what day it is, Dhakashewari always feels like a festival. As soon as I step in I am always smiling at the colours and lights and gold jewellery. I took some sondesh (a milky fudge-like dessert made with date palm jaggery) to keep a little piece of the fun with us.
We bought some bakorkhani, the many-layered baked biscuits that Old Dhaka is famous for, weaved through the huge old trees overhanging the roads in Dhaka University to wander through the British raj-era (9) Curzon Hall (home to the Faculty of Science), had a tea at the many stalls surrounding the (10) TSC and ended the evening with a homecooked dinner with a beautiful old friend.
Day 3 — The city of gold
I wanted to give Dad an idea of what Bangladesh’s capital used to look like, so we headed to Narayanganj. The river port thrived as a centre of trade, was the location of the most lavish events, and is now on the 2008 Watch List of the 100 Most Endangered Sites by the World Monuments Fund.
We started in Jamdani Polli, to see the creation of the muslin cotton sarees that UNESCO has unanimously declared an Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity. Characterised by rich geometric and often floral motifs, every single thread in a jamdani saree is woven by hand. The colour, the variety in designs and the beauty in the simplicity of the weave is indescribable. Dad was particularly amused by who was meticulously bringing to life this intricate art — mostly teenage boys wearing branded American t-shirts. We stopped by a factory on the way out to fully appreciate the work.
The next stop was the Folk Art and Craft Museum established by Joynul Abedin, housed in a majestic home with one entrance embellished with blue and white mosaics and the other with life-sized stucco horsemen. It was a public holiday and the museum inside was bursting with families. Dad was lost in a festival of colour.
Onto Sonargaon, the golden city that explorers flocked to for muslin as far back as the 14th century. The legendary cotton cloth fit for kings and queens was grown and weaved here, and it produced the finest quality in the world for generations.
We went straight to Panam Nagar, where over 50 elaborate two and three floor buildings line a single main street.
Every one of the buildings is different, but all slowly being reclaimed by the jungle surrounding them.
We were torn between awe — of golden days past, of houses with 200 rooms, of embellished windows and patterned lacework,
and of sadness — of the overgrown halls and now-hidden central open courtyards, of the enclosed gardens and huge balconies covered in vines, and the arched doorways covered in moss.
I wondered how the people living there felt, cooking on the now-dirt floor in grand hallways made for all-night dance parties.
We hopped on a boat at the port, took a night ride down the mighty, misty Meghna River and headed back to the current capital. We wandered throughthe gardens and sculptures of the Charukola Fine Arts Institute, then ended the night in Bailey Road with biryani at Fakhruddin, steamed coconut cakes at Pitha Ghor and local blackberry juice at Thanda Garam.
Day 4 — Island temples and 1400-year old trees
We are a family of sailors who grew up on boats and on islands, and my Dad still lives on a boat — so we quickly found ourselves in the Bay of Bengal, at the beautiful Mermaid Eco Resort.
We headed to the dock to catch a boat to Moheshkhali Island. The dock was wild. A structure dipping in and out of the water, made of a combination of every material in the world and a thin bamboo rail to hold on to, with thick oozing mud on both sides. There was barely enough room for one line of people and yet somehow there were two going in opposite directions. Tourists in flowery hats competed for space with business people travelling to the mainland, and in the middle older women in burqas clung to children and backpacks and sacks and mysterious boxes. Somehow nothing ended up in the mud. At one point the structure turned into actual boats, and we clambered over three boats to finally get to ours. It was a local boat, meant to carry probably 50 people, with about 200 onboard. It would take two hours.
We slowly climbed the hills on the island, stopping to watch boats being built, fish being dried and monks in orange robes wandering through quiet temple gardens.
As we reached higher up, we were cooled by splashes of holy water in Adinath Temple, stocked up on sandalwood in the Burmese Markets and Dad almost got knocked over by a cow when climbing up to a hillside temple (Did I just get overtaken by a cow climbing a bloody mountain?!). To go back we caught a speedboat, opting to get off at the much less crowded — and much more fragrant — Fishery dock.
Exploring Ramu took the rest of the day. We admired the 100-feet golden-coloured reclining statue of Gautama Buddha, breathed deeply in the lush gardens of a gorgeous wooden temple and watched women dressed in silk with sandalwood painted on their faces carry silver cups of holy water in between huge trees wrapped in yellow cloth, frangipanis and candles.
The feeling of absolute serenity, kindness and tolerance was the same in all of the temples.
We ended the day in the company of 1400 year old banyan tree and a small museum containing holy relics from the 6th-16th century. Neither of us wanted to leave.
Continue on to Pt 2 (Day 5–8) for the rest …
Words: Sarah-Jane Saltmarsh / Photos: © Kamrul Hasan, Sarah-Jane Saltmarsh, Hamida Hafiz and the many characters we met along the way.
