The Burly Unknown!

8:40am local time

Next Thursday, David time

Dhaka, Bangladesh

After a wonderful flight on Emirates, (save that it was overnight and my biological clock was engaged in a knife fight with my surroundings), I deboarded the plane into the Dhaka airport. In typical David fashion, I had lost all of my contact information somewhere along the way.

Keeping a level head, I immediately started to sweat profusely while rummaging through my carry-on. Remaining absolutely calm, I descended into fight or flight mode and began some tactical problem solving pacing. My survival instincts took over and I engaged in what I like to call “walk in a straight line until something happens.” This method has served me well in the past and historically has brought many would-be explorers to inglorious and untimely ends.

Alas, this was not to be my fate. As I descended from the stairs to the baggage claim, full of steely-eyed resolve and unflappable courage, I saw a sign. This one said “David Bayer” and was held by a bobbing and smiling old man. I seized the opportunity and walked boldly to the man and proclaimed loudly, “I’m David Bayer!” I’m not sure if it was my overwhelming confidence or the fact that some sweaty maniac was yelling at him, but he swiftly hustled me through customs and stuffed me into a car. I don’t who this David Bayer is, but he is still to this day stuck at the airport in Dhaka, waiting on a bobbing and smiling old man. I apologize David Bayer.

The car into which I was so tidily and unceremoniously bundled is where I met who was to be my best friend in Bangladesh: Shokrana Mohamed*. Miracles of all miracles, I had found my contact. We became fast friends as we plummetted wildly through the streets of Dhaka. During our plummet, he began educating me about Dhaka. His English wasn’t perfect**, but I didn’t want to embarrass him with my masterful grasp of Bengali. I learned that he was the proprietor of a chain of restaurants around Dhaka called “La Bamba.”

After our drive, we arrived at his private men’s club. It is called the Uttara Club. I can’t really think of a Western facsimile for comparison, so I’ll just try to describe it. It was a walled off compound in the Uttara district of Bangladesh with the following amenities:

• 2 restaurants (one smoking, one non-smoking)
• 2 bars (again, one smoking, one non-smoking)
• hotel style accomodations with around 15-20 rooms
• tennis courts
• two game rooms (one for cards, the other for other sorts of gambling)
• a swimming pool
• health club
• children’s center
• library

It has everything a stylish man could ever want. Add in some pool tables and laser tag and I’m applying for Bengali citizenship. After the tour of the club I enjoyed a private (and large and foreign) breakfast with Shokrana in my room. At this point, I was completely exhausted. Shokrana had some business to attend to about town, so I graciously took the opportunity to lapse into a coma.

Fast forward three hours. Someone is gently rapping at my chamber door. ‘Tis the wind, quoth I, and nothing more. In reality, it was Shokrana coming to collect me for lunch. We courageously braved the streets of Dhaka once again to travel to his home to enjoy the midday meal with his family at his house.

I was introduced to what is considered a typical lunch. It consisted of dal bhat, a fish dish, curry chicken, fried rice, and steamed vegetables. You can infer from this “typical” meal that your “typical” Bengali is nine feet tall and runs eighty miles a day to require all of that nourishment. Not being particularly large nor a freakishly active, I heroically attempted to do as much damage as possible. The food was delicious, but as you’ll remember, I had eaten a not insignificant breakfast just hours before.

During the course of the meal, I was introduced to Shokrana’s family. The household consisted of Shokrana’s father, wife, sister in law, and several house-staff. Shokrana’s family was fascinating. His father was a retired general who was forced to move to Bangladesh as a result of partition. He was also an author and biographer. His late wife was herself an author.

After lunch, I squelched myself back into the car and retired to the club. I slept for three more hours until I was summoned to the bar for beers and what I naively assumed was to be my evening meal (fish sticks). We were joined by an AP reporter with a charming Indian/ British accent. We spent the next several hours slowly getting sloshed on Foster’s beer and vodka lemons. Well, I was sloshed. My companions seemed unaffected. Shows what you get for drinking with giants. Afterward, we headed to one of Shokrana’s restaurants. I should have known that I wasn’t going to get off so easily with the fish sticks. I again gorged myself on the local cuisine (editor’s note: the food was all delicious, I only complain because I was fed eleventy times a day***) which was some sort of delicious barbecue served with naan (local, flat bread - Think pita, only deliciouser).

Stuffed to the gills and sufficiently buzzed. Shokrana and I headed to the airport to pick up my three companions: Joe, Ryan, and Dave (the “beta” David of the trip, as I was obviously the “alpha” David).

Thus ends my remarkably dull account of what was actually a pretty exciting time for me. Stay tuned for Part III of the Nepal blog, wherein I actually arrive in Nepal, of all places.

* Sadly, Shokrana passed away only a few weeks after our visit. I wish I could have gotten to know him better.
** Actually, his English was perfect, I just have horrible ears and hearing.

***During this fifth meal of the day, Shokrana fixed me with a flat stare and said, “You Americans sure don’t each much,” and then did a wind sprint to Malaysia and back.

Sigh…

I’ve been putting off writing about this for some time. In part because it is going to be a pretty long story to recount, but also because (as corny as this sounds) the trip actually meant a lot to me, and I’m afraid I won’t be able to unselfconsciously capture the experience without being cheesy. At the same time, I don’t want to be trite and demean the experience. So I’m going to attempt to find a happy medium and tell the story in a humorous and lighthearted fashion without taking away from the deeper meaning of my favorite vacation.

Submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society, I present to you: Nepal - Part I: Getting There

October 8th, 2007 found me at Gate E8, in Hartsfield Jackson International Airport in Atlanta, GA. It was 8:20 pm and I had a daunting 24 hour journey ahead of me. My flight was delayed.  This only meant that I would be spending an extra three hours in Atlanta rather than on layover in Gatwick (London). This was fine with me as I was set up in the Atlanta terminal with plenty of space and McDonald’s, and Gatwick was an unknown quantity of cramped quarters, bad teeth, and meat pies.

My most pressing thoughts were of the flights ahead. I was imagining endless hours of disorienting claustrophobia, where night and day have no meaning, during which I would periodically wake in exotic and unfamiliar places. This proved for the most part to be true. I don’t really recall much of the flight time honestly, but it is during that time where my journal writings become a little unhinged:

I’ve heard that writing is supposed to be therapeutic and/ or cathartic, but so far, it has only heightened my anxiety about the trip. The catharsis must come after the fact.

And here’s where the paranoia and melodrama take on an almost humorous flurry. I must have really worked myself into some sort of tizzy…

I’ve been incredibly busy preparing my company for a two week absence. I haven’t had enough time to think about the trip or allow it become a reality for me. The good money is on the hypothesis that, after 24 hours of traveling, this trip will either seem very real, or take on the delusional blur of a madman’s nightmare.

…

…

What?!

Holy melodrama batman. I then proceed to rant on and on about forgetting my pocket knife and then wrote down what I thought was an awesome idea for a science fiction novel (it wasn’t).

This was all on the flight from Atlanta to Gatwick…

I arrived in Dubai via Gatwick at 12:44 am. At this point I’ve endured boredom in gigantic swaths with interludes of frenzied activity at the airports. I walk about 4 miles through the Dubai airport to get to my terminal. I have plenty of time to take in the sights and smells. The Dubai airport is set up in one looong strip, and like everything else in Dubai, it’s incredibly over the top. Every quarter mile or so, the causeway is punctuated by these little “smoking islands,” which are basically little glass cubes that people pack into shoulder to shoulder to smoke their cigarettes. The idea of personal space is very different in this part of the world than it is in western countries. People are stacked on top of each other crotch to ass to get their smoke in, and for all I could tell, are completely oblivious that someone’s junk is resting on their bum. The issue of personal space is sprinkled liberally throughout my trip. (side note: I wanted so badly to go bum a cigarette and wait for someone to nestle up. Then I would say (in Arabic), “Excuse me sir, but your gun is poking into my hip.” To which the reply would (ideally) be, “Yes. Yes, I know, and good afternoon to you as well.” People from Dubai are so hilarious in my head.)

I finally arrived at my terminal to catch my flight to Dhaka. I was the only Westerner there in a crowd of about 200 folks. I would like to say that I was a shining beacon of international brotherhood and engaged everyone around me in a rousing rendition of the UAE’s national anthem, but I was tired, so instead I hunkered down into my book. As departure approached, things started getting pretty crowded at the terminal, and I found myself with a snuggle buddy to each side of me on the bench. Seizing the opportunity to truly adapt to and embrace a foreign culture, I snuggled right back, and before long, our happy trio was snoring peacefully on one another’s shoulders. It was like a Bengali Oreo.

The flight from Dubai, UAE, to Dhaka, Bangladesh, on Emirates Airline was easily one of the most enjoyable I’ve ever had. The seats were large and plush, the food was incredible (not just in terms of airline food), and each seat had its own little multimedia center with hundreds of movies, games, and TV shows. However, the best part of Emirates: the flight attendants. I’m sure more poetry about beauty has been inspired on those flights since the inception of flight than anywhere else in the world. The flight attendants were either striking asian princesses or beautiful nordic queens. This picture honestly does not do them an iota of justice.

At 8:40am the next morning I arrived in Dhaka, Bangladesh. That, however, is a story for another day. Stay tuned!!