12 February

As the days drew near for my travel out to Bangladesh, to join a photography tour, I tried to reassure myself that all would go well. A neighbour would take me to the train station, an hour was all it should take to get to London Euston, and another hour on the underground would take me to Terminal 4 at Heathrow. The airline had recommended two hours for dropping off my bag, as I’d checked in on-line, and that’s what I would have. What could possibly go wrong?

Neighbour and train worked well. I was a bit confused, when I caught the Piccadilly underground line, that Acton Town was listed as the final destination, not Heathrow. Nor did I see anyone else on the carriage with suitcases. There was a man who was shouting angrily at someone only he could see, and all of us kept a wary eye on him. As we drew near to Action Town, I asked another passenger why Heathrow wasn’t the final destination. He explained that the Piccadilly line wasn’t running to the airport for several days due to work on the line. Argh!

I changed at Action Town to travel to Ealing Broadway, where I caught the Elizabeth Line to the airport. A man also headed for the airport and I managed the trip together, and he very helpfully carried my suitcase up and down stairs for me.

There was a huge queue at the bag drop for my airline. Two flights were going around the same time, mine at 2.15pm and another at 2.55pm. I checked my watch and fretted. Finally I discovered that one airline assistant was starting to take people from the earlier flight to the priority check-in, if asked, and I managed to find him and do so. Bag was dropped off just seven minutes before the deadline (an hour before the flight).

I went straight to security and hurried through. Boarding had already begun and I was relieved when I arrived at my seat.

13 February

Just under seven hours later, after midnight local time, we arrived at Doha, Qatar. I only had an hour to catch the next flight. Dashing off the plane, I found a noticeboard and spotted a flight for 1.20am to Dhaka. The gate was only a few minutes’ walk away. I joined the boarding queue, intrigued that I appeared to be the only Westerner. 

Around twenty minutes later, as I came near the desk, a woman behind it attracted my attention. ‘You’re at the wrong gate!’ she informed me. When I showed her my boarding card, she continued, ‘This is a different flight!’

Disaster. It was now 12.50am, and gates normally shut twenty minutes before a flight departs. Could I really get to my plane in ten minutes? I managed to return to the main concourse, find the correct gate number, and noted a sign which predicted an eight minute walk to said gate. 

It was now just after 1am. The weight of my backpack (two cameras, four lenses, one laptop) meant that running was not possible. I walked as fast as I could. I passed the ticket counter for my airline, and wondered if I should speak to the people there about catching a later flight. But I decided to push on. 

To my relief, when I arrived at 1.10am, there was a long queue at the gate. Boarding had not yet finished. By this time rather hot and sweaty, I took a place in the line and was one of the last to enter the plane.

I tried and failed to sleep during the five hour trip. At Dhaka, I went to the ‘Visa on Arrival’ desk with the paperwork provided by the photography company. This was a ‘Letter of Invitation’, copies of the hotel bookings, a printout of my air travel (showing that I had a return ticket to the UK), and an application form. I paid the US$50.00 fee. The border control official asked how many days I was staying, and as I hadn’t counted them, I said just under three weeks. I was given a visa which extended two days beyond my return flight.

The queue for immigration was long and slow. By the time I reached the front, and was waved through upon sight of the visa, two hours had gone by since my flight had landed. My case was waiting forlornly at the luggage reclaim area. I changed some US$ for local currency, and headed out of the terminal.

A driver was waiting for me, my name carefully spelled out on a placard. We climbed into the minivan and headed into the chaotic and busy traffic of the city. Cars, motorcycles, tuktuks, and bicycles competed for space on the roads. At one point, the driver stopped, but the car behind him didn’t. Bang! The usual exchange of details (and a few cuss words) ensued. 

At 12.40pm we arrived at the hotel. I was checked in and told that lunch was at 1pm. Then at 2pm we’d head out for some photography. I decided to skip lunch and use the time instead to have a shower and sort myself out. 

At 2pm I duly arrived at reception. Twenty minutes later I was collected and taken to the minivan. There I met the two other people on the tour, Philip from San Francisco and Boris who was Russian but now lived in the country of Georgia. I also met Yousuf, the proprietor of the photography tour company.

We slowly made our way to Old Dhaka. There we climbed up on to a footbridge to take photos of the traffic below us. A homeless man was sleeping nearby. A puddle of urine added a sharp note to the air and we avoided the dog poo scattered across the area. In addition to the cars, tuktuks, and rickshaws, several horse drawn vehicles passed by. I felt the drivers were a bit too vigorous with their whips, bearing in mind the horses were as constrained by traffic as anything else. 

We walked back down and took photos of passersby from the ground level. Many stalls sold fruit. Our guide explained that the oranges came from China and Bhutan. 

We passed a bookstall and other shops as we walked to the riverside. Many people who work in the city live across on the other side of the river, and small ferry boats take people to and fro. 6pm is the rush hour, when most have finished work for the day and want to go home. Larger ships were docked nearby, people boarding those for overnight journeys. Although cabins can be hired, many choose to sleep on the deck. 

After spending some time in the area, we climbed into our minivan and headed back the hotel. Traffic remained thick and often stationery. Night had fallen by the time we returned. The two men and I agreed 7pm for dinner, which was in the hotel’s buffet restaurant. Beforehand, I handed over a large amount of US dollars to Yousuf. Although I’d paid the deposit by PayPal, he wanted to have the balance paid in cash on arrival. I felt very relieved to hand it over to him rather than continue to carry the dollars on my person. 

The hotel buffet offered many spicy dishes. Chillies had been chucked into everything, including the stir-fried rice and the salads. We found that the sushi was one of the few items which didn’t set our mouths on fire.

We asked about alcoholic drinks, and a waiter explained that these could be obtained either at the bar on the second floor, or the restaurant at the top, but not where we were eating. Bangladesh is a Muslim country, so alcohol is not that freely sold nor consumed. 

I returned to my room, downloaded and backed up photos, then went to bed at 8pm, exhausted. 

14 February

I slept well until the early hours of the morning, when my body wondered why I wasn’t getting up. At 5.30am I rose, made coffee (kettle in the room!), and worked on yesterday’s photos. The hotel had given me some fruit as a ‘welcome gift’ and I ate those instead of going to breakfast.

At 7.30am we left the hotel. Our guide today was Apu rather than Yousuf. Traffic was light and soon thereafter we arrived at the grounds for the Spring Festival. Despite the early hour, the seats by the stage were nearly full, and music performances had already begun. There were nearly as many photographers as performers, wandering around with large lenses. Video cameras from various TV stations were either trained on the stage or being carried around for filming. 

One of our guides presented me with a flowery headband, which I duly put on. Perhaps it was for this reason that no less than five reporters asked to interview me on camera. The sound system from the stage was almost overpowering, so I wonder how many of my answers were actually heard. The questions were all the same, namely where did I come from, what did I think of the Spring Festival, did we have anything like it in England? 

It was all very interesting, and for the first 90 minutes I was quite happy. When I found out that we were staying until 11am, I wandered away from the festival area into the nearby gardens. People were taking photos of each other near a pond and by a painted building, striking poses. A number of children came up to try out their English on me, and others asked to take a photo with me. I blame the flowery headband.

No meeting place had been agreed. Around 11am I wandered out of the grounds, and was found by our guide. The Festival had ended, and most people were departing. We boarded our minivan and headed out. Traffic had noticeably thickened.

We drove out of the city to visit a leather tannery. Men were spraying colour onto goat skins, and others then spread them out to dry on rooftops. After the skins were dry, they were nailed down on planks. Children assisted in pulling out the nails from skins which were ready to be collected. Other children played a game of cricket. We wondered why some children played and others worked. Different social levels? Or those that worked perhaps did so voluntarily?

The chemical smell reminded me of wet paint, and I hoped it wasn’t damaging to the workers’ lungs. We visited the indoor workshop where men were stripping leather down. Two of our group took a turn at the cricket bat, to the delight of the children. The temperatures throughout the day had been warm but not uncomfortable, except in the area of the tannery. Perhaps the chemical scents made it feel hotter. 

Our next stop was a fast food cafeteria, at which we had lunch. We asked our guide to ensure that our food wasn’t too spicy, and the chicken and rice which emerged looked safe. Only as I dug through did I find green chillies lurking in the midst of the rice. Sneaky!

The last visit of the day was to a plastic recycling area. Women, and a few men, were busy using sharp knives to strip labels from bottles, throwing the latter into large bags. The labels seemed to just end up on the mud floor. Children ran around, a few helping their parents. Upon asking our guide, we discovered that the children don’t go to school. They stay with their parents, also working in the same factory once old enough. 

One small girl was very happy to pose for us. She was taken to a stack of bottles, which were piled up around her. Afterwards our guide gave her some money, around £3.00 equivalent, which delighted her.

Unfortunately my trousers picked up thick dirt from me squeezing past bags of bottles. Well, I hoped it was only dirt. If tar, it would be difficult to clean them. I had packed two spares, anticipating that our visits to workplaces might be bad for clothing. 

Our journey back to the hotel was 10 kilometres and took 90 minutes. Traffic was often at a standstill. At one point, as had many other drivers, ours took us on the other side of the double yellow line. A police officer emerged to direct traffic back on to the correct side of the road.

Boris, Philip, and I met in the hotel bar for a beer before dinner. There was no sign to said bar, and inside was very dark. We each had one of the local beers, called Hunter, which tasted like a regular lager. A cockroach crawled over the table and one managed to drop into Boris’s beer.

The buffet restaurant was decorated for Valentine’s Day. However, most of the tables had been set up for large groups of people. As we ate, very few couples came in. Large groups with children in arms swirled around the buffet, which tonight included prawns and crab legs. We stayed for two songs by a guitar-strumming musician before going to our rooms. 

15 February

At 8am we left, again traffic much lighter that time of day. At a bridge over the river we halted, our minivan simply pulling up to one side which forced traffic to duck around it. We took photos of the boats before climbing back inside.

On the other side of the bridge we dropped down to the river side. Men were washing clothes in the water, watched by ferry boat men. Several men worked on ferry boats, putting on new slats of wood which had been dried in nearby fires. We tread carefully over the mixture of mud, refuse, and plant life to take our photos. 

A group of men carried logs on their shoulders up the bank to the road above. The carriers were switched several times, presumably because of the steep slope. Children played in the area and dogs scurried past.

I visited a rather clean set of toilets at which I had to take off my boots and pull on rubber soled shoes instead. Bearing in mind the aforementioned mud, refuse, and plant life, this made lots of sense. 

We drove on to the shipyard. Large craft were being restored, men with hammers and sanders working away at the rust. The area around was filled with shops selling reclaimed parts. In other areas, new parts were made. Old metal was thrown into a container, heated in an underground furnace, and then the molten liquid was poured into sand moulds. We exercised due caution as we took photos of the process, doing our best to stand well back from the fumes and the flames. 

Goats wandered freely, eating various portions of refuse. Chickens joined them in one area. We came across a seafood market, the fish so fresh that some were still twitching. Women nearby sold vegetables. 

As usual, children seemed very intrigued by our visit. Many came up asking ‘Candy? Candy?’ only be to disappointed because we didn’t have any. We wandered into a school and caused pandemonium. The children shrieked, dashing out of their classrooms into the hallway to meet us. Their teachers looked distinctly unimpressed. We were told to leave!

Just outside all this industry were a set of streets with the sort of shops you might expect, selling food and other goods. I asked for a toilet, assuring Apu that I could cope with whatever state it might be in. We found a public facility, but there was no light. No problem, as I carry a small flashlight in my backpack. I decided it was best to use this to illuminate the walls rather than look down at floor. 

When I came out, a couple of ducks had made their way into the street. A woman called us over to show off the ducklings living in the alleyway of her home. One duck tried to bite Apu.

When we found the rest of the group, Philip had a bleeding arm. A rickshaw had gone past him and cut into his skin. Our guide took us to a small pharmacy, where he was given some tablets (we assume antibiotics) and the wound was bandaged.

We drove back to the city and had lunch at a Pizza Hut. The other two ordered the tandoori pizza. I decided on beef. The waiter assured me, ‘And there will be plenty of green chillies.’ I immediately begged him, ‘No chillies!’ 

As misunderstanding between Boris and Apu nearly led us to a shopping excursion. Boris had tried to ask whether, if he were to wear shorts, this would cause offence. His pronunciation of ‘shorts’ had sounded like ‘shirts’ to Apu, and our guide thought that Boris was stating that he needed shirts. So none of us, including Boris, could understand why Apu was planning to take Boris on a shopping trip. We managed to sort this out, and Boris did wear shorts for the rest of the trip. No one took any notice. 

Around 3.30pm we arrived at out hotel, having yet again crawled through traffic. I spent the afternoon processing photos before joining Philip for a beer before dinner. 

16 February

We packed bags and reported to reception at 8am for a long day’s drive north-east. The traffic through the city was slow as ever. ‘It should be easier once we’re in the countryside,’ I suggested. And I was wrong. Even outside the city we crawled, partially due to road works, partially due to the sheer volume of trucks, cars, and tuktuks. 

Our first destination was the area in which fabric is tie-dyed and then hung out to dry, also called batik. After several hours of driving, we started to see the colourful fabric drying on fields and hung up on plastic lines. We stopped at one building and climbed up to the roof to use the toilet facilities, set up as a small cubicle in one corner. The cubicle was locked, so I nipped behind the building. The men were able to use the separate urinal. 

We walked down into the area. Everywhere you looked, batik was drying. In the village, people worked on boiling up the colours, tying up the fabric, spreading dye over the cloths, soaking the fabric in pots, untying the cloths, and either spreading or hanging the finished articles out to dry. Patterns and colours varied widely, some mostly one colour, but most in intricate patterns.

At our first stop, several children wrapped themselves in the drying cloths, and I took photos. A few minutes later, Apu deliberately posed them, and I took fewer of these shots. An older man wrapped fabric around his head to mimic the children and laughed at us. 

As we walked further through the village, we gained a large group of children. The usual ‘Candy? Money? Chocolate?’ was asked of us, and we always answered in the negative. We came to an area of fields and washing lines, both women and men either laying out or gathering in the finished products. Goats wandered the area, as well as several ducks. Children splashed in the river nearby. 

We came to the river itself. Boys were playing in a boat, and people crossed a bridge made of just one bamboo pole. Boris and Philip, along with Apu, decided to wander down the path alongside the river. I stayed put, not trusting my balance on the steep slope. Several geese navigated the river, and the boys finally left the boat to swim through the rather dark and murky water to the shore.

The children continued to follow, and to ask for gifts, as we returned through the village. At my request, we visited several shops, where I bought some of the finished batik cloths for very little money, around £1.00 each. 

Traffic had eased, so now we had a new experience. Our driver, in common with most other cars and minivans on the road, honked and flashed his headlights as we overtook vehicle after vehicle. Numerous times we dashed back into traffic on our side of the road (in Bangladesh, they drive on the left) just in time to avoid a car or bus coming in the other direction. This sped up our progress over the often uneven roads, but also had interesting affects on our blood pressure.

Lunch was in a cafe, where we struggled to find something which might not be too spicy. As per two days ago, we went for chicken biryani. This time, instead of whole chillies hiding in the rice, the items had been ground up and spread throughout the dish. I did my best, eating what I could of the chicken (also rather spicy for me) and the rice. Pomegranate juice did help cool down my gums. Afterwards I visited a shop inside, buying a waistcoat which I hope will fit my nephew. 

A shorter drive brought us to a rice factory. Men, women, and children worked outside, spreading the rice to dry on concrete. After drying, they brushed the rice into mounds, which were then covered by large hoods. Pigeons and chickens grazed on the rice, and presumably the hoods were to keep animals off the rice mounds. Children gathered around us as usual, a number of the young boys naked. Apu handed out candy, which did stop the requests but showed why the begging happens in the first place.

Apu encouraged the children to play with a bicycle tyre, which they rolled and chased past the covered rice mounds. There was a latrine at the far corner of the area, which I glanced into. I’d seen worse, but the guide suggested that he’d find me better facilities elsewhere. Which, about twenty minutes after we departed, he did. I have to say that the toilet at the factory was actually cleaner than the one at the service station.

We settled down into a long drive, three hours to our hotel in Sylhet. After two and a half hours, we stopped at a service station to use the toilets and have some water. I had a glass of grape juice. 

At 7.30pm we reached our hotel. At our guide’s suggestion, we ordered dinner before going to our rooms, so that our food could be ready for us around 8pm. I ordered the ‘sweet chilli lamb’ without chillies, and Chinese vegetables. When I reported for dinner, I was relieved to find that neither was very spicy. 

Our guide had announced that we’d be departing the hotel at 5am the next morning, so as soon as I’d finished eating I left the other two and returned to my room. By 9pm I had turned off the lights and was in bed, trying to ignore the rather loud rattling of the air conditioning. 

17 February

I need 90 minutes in the morning to get up and going. So I rose at 3.30am to have coffee and eat some fruit in my room. At 5am I reported to reception. The temperature was around 18C, rather comfortable for someone used to British weather, but the hotel guard was wearing a thick coat and gloves!

We set off in the pre-dawn dark. The roads were pretty clear, but increasingly bumpy. Our driver chose the side of the road which had fewer potholes. As we came to the river, the sky lightened, but was still rather grey. Upon asking Apu, this sort of high level mist is common in winter. 

After visiting the loos at a small Muslim prayer area, we walked down to the sandy banks of the river. Men were arriving in small boats, their vegetables piled across the wooden decks. No children came up to us as they were too busy helping to unload the produce. Cauliflowers, bulb fennel, aubergines, tomatoes, and green pumpkins were spread out in baskets. More vegetables were brought down the slope from the village above. By the time the market was ready, there were around five hundred people, and I was the only woman present. Some of the men did glance at me, but there was no undue attention. 

Buyers arrived, haggling over the price. Sold baskets were marked by twigs placed on top. Purchases were carried up to the road, presumably to be taken to stalls or sold on further. Apu flew a drone over the scene to take photos from above.

We returned to our minivan around two hours later. A short drive took us to a cafe where our guide had breakfast. We’d been given boxes containing food by the hotel, but Boris, Philip, and I were unimpressed. A small sandwich, a croissant, a muffin, cold vegetables, and a hard boiled egg had all been thrown together. No utensils. People in Bangladesh eat with the fingers of their right hands. 

The toilet was at the back of the building. We walked through the kitchens, where fires heated the food. The water channel near the food preparation area was full of refuse and smelled like urine. I was rather glad I had declined to order anything to eat. A small kitten, looking very worse for wear, huddled against one of the ovens. 

Our next stop was at a sand harvesting (for lack of a better term) area. Men dredged sand from the river, pouring it into their boats, before rowing to shore. The sand was placed into buckets, which men then carried on their heads to dump into a pile. The sand from the piles was shovelled on to trucks to be taken away.

We headed further along the river to see both sand and rocks being collected and taken ashore. Philip proved to be a great attraction to people from ‘The Quality Livestock Company’ who all wanted selfies with him.

We went on to a tea plantation, where women were pruning the bushes, giving us a change of scene and gender. We talked to the foreman, who had very good English and an impressive swagger stick.

After lunch, which was bland chicken and rice (whew! Apu picked up and ate raw onions and green chillies alongside), we made a brief visit to a rock crushing area. Men hammered rocks into smaller pieces, which were then carried up to a crusher. At the other end gravel emerged.

As we returned to the city, we paused at interesting sights along the river. Boys fished by hand in the mud, and men dragged a net through the water to catch larger prey. A herd of cattle, birds riding on their shoulders, wandered through fields. Their owner came up to talk to us and our guide gave him some money. Our last halt was for a herd of buffalo. ‘I feel like I’m on safari,’ Boris commented.

We arrived back at our hotel around 3pm. Apu confused us by giving two options for the morning. The hotel didn’t start serving breakfast until 7am. So we could go out at 6.30am to visit somewhere (destination not specified), and return afterwards for breakfast before checking out. Or check out at 7am, but then it would be a boxed breakfast again. We suggested the alternative of leaving at 7.15am, allowing us to grab some food quickly. ‘And if we take longer,’ we agreed amongst ourselves, ‘it’s not like he’s going to leave without us.’

I took a shower and began to catch up on processing photos from the last two days. We’d agreed to meet in the hotel bar for a beer at 7.30pm. However, once on the upper level at the appointed time, we discovered that the bar was shut. Nor, it appears, were we permitted to order alcoholic drinks at the restaurant. It was only possible to have alcohol at the bar, when it was open. The restaurant menu reminded people that it was illegal for Bangladeshi citizens to drink alcohol. I ate my dinner. I’d brought whisky over from England in my check in luggage, and I had some in my room.

18 February

The hotel actually put on the breakfast buffet at 6.45am, so we were able to have some decent food before reporting with our bags in the lobby. We loaded up and headed out into a very foggy day. 

Our first stop was at the local rubbish tip. The smell hit us the moment we exited the minivan, an acrid mixture of rotting food and smoke. Our guide put plastic bags over our shoes, tying them in place. 

We walked down the road to the edge of the tip. Dogs wrestled at the top of one hill. Birds flew through the gloom, including eagles. An excavator was moving mounds of trash. Women picked through the pile, looking for plastic which they stuffed into sacks. Apu explained that this would be sold on for recycling. One woman climbed down into the large hole, digging through the mixture. 

A woman walked past, her daughter excited by a doll which I assume had been rescued from the rubbish. The girl obviously treasured her toy, and it was also obvious that her mother treasured her daughter. I had so many questions. Where were the men? Where did these people live? How did they not become ill from this work, or perhaps they did?

After half an hour I walked away. Both the smell and the conditions in which the people were working were a bit too much. I felt that I’d looked into hell.

Our plastic bags were cut free from our shoes and simply left in the road. We climbed into the minivan and, once away from the area, opened windows to allow in clean air. 

We headed back towards Dhaka. Traffic was lighter than the trip out, but we were bemused by seeing so many tuktuks lined up for refuelling. That wasn’t something we’d seen on the way out. Apu couldn’t explain why.

A halt by farmers working in a field and herding livestock gave us a break from the driving. We walked through the field and then up the bank to the village beyond. As ever, we gained an entourage of children. The villagers seemed quite happy to have us walk through, even offering us a seat outside a house at one point. Chickens wandered freely. A couple of people were washing clothes in a large pond. Despite the narrow walkways, motorbikes and a tuktuk went past. 

We stopped for lunch at a hotel. I ordered the chicken salad, relying on the photo which showed slices of cooked chicken lying in a bed of salad leaves and tomatoes. What arrived was crispy chicken pieces in an orange-pink sauce. I pointed out that this was not a salad. After much discussion between guide and waiter, it was taken away. What returned was the same chicken, but now with a few leaves of lettuce and strips of carrots. I couldn’t face another battle, so I ate what I could stomach. 

Flies buzzed through the restaurant. One waiter stationed himself beside our table, operating a device which looked like a tennis racket but turned out to be an electric fly swatter. He swung this regularly at the files which dared to visit our food.

We continued into the overcast day. A cattle market drew our attention and we stopped for a few minutes. At my request, we made another stop at the batik area so I could buy a few more samples of the finished product. The driver and Apu also bought several as gifts.

At 5pm, having crawled through the usual Dhaka traffic, we were back to the hotel we’d used at the start of the holiday. At 7.30pm Philip and I met in the dark bar. This time we were offered popcorn, which we consumed before the cockroaches could get wind of it. The buffet dinner offered enough non spicy choices to satisfy us before we turned in.

19 February

A civilised leaving time of 8am put me into a good mood. We headed out of the main part of the city to the riverside and the many brick factories there. Men, women, and children loaded bricks on to a small wooden platform on their heads, piling them high. A man handed them a token as they passed, the colour of the token indicating how many bricks they were carrying. At the end of the day, the workers exchanged the tokens for money. A worker could earn up to the equivalent of US$5.00 per day.

Other children were playing in the brick yards. As ever, people asked us for ‘chocolate’ and ‘candy.’ One brickyard played loud music, to which some people choreographed their brick piling. A man working on loading wheelbarrows with brick-making concrete danced to the music. 

We were invited by one woman to see where they lived. A series of huts had been erected just a few minutes’ walk from the brickyards. Each hut had a small oven, lit by burning wood. Outside one hut was a mynah bird in a cage, sitting in the sunshine with some food in one dish and dirty water in another. I had to fight the temptation to set the creature free.

A walk down to the river gave us views of the ships passing by. As ever, we picked up followers as we made our way through more brick yards. 

We returned to the city for lunch. The electricity in all of Dhaka was out until 5pm due, Apu said, to work being done on the system. I used my torch in the toilet, pleased once again that I always carry one. 

The first lunch menus offered to us gave me the usual difficult choices of spicy food or very spicy food. I reluctantly went for a ‘chicken BBQ’ option. Then another menu emerged, and I was pleased at the pizza options. I’m certain I communicated to Apu that I had changed my mind from BBQ to pizza. However, it appeared not, as it was the BBQ which eventually emerged. The sauce was spicy, there were bits of chillies throughout the rice, and the sauce with the vegetables was equally spicy. I was unable to eat much of it and resigned myself to snacking on the bag of cashew nuts which I had with me.

The restaurant had been decorated for Valentine’s Day, including red and white balloons taped to the windows. Balloons burst at regular intervals throughout lunch, no doubt reacting to the heat of the windows and adding a bit of excitement to our meal. The day itself was warm, reaching 30C by the afternoon.

We drove to the riverside, visiting the ferry port. A steady stream of people boarded a motorised ship to chug across the river. Others went on the smaller boats, which was the more expensive option. I asked Apu about the many posters we were seeing, featuring people’s faces with a different symbol for each person (a football, a pineapple, a bird, etc.). He explained that many in the boating community are illiterate. They will know a person by face, and may wish to vote for them, but wouldn’t be able to read the person’s name nor their political party on a ballot paper. So the symbol is printed on the paper alongside the person’s name, enabling those who cannot read to still be able to cast a vote. 

Again people came up and stood around us, though not many asked for anything. Philip was quite taken by a small girl. He photographed her with his iPhone and showed her the image on the phone. When we walked to the train station, she came with us, holding one of his fingers in her fist.

Our presence at the train station again drew lots of attention. Fortunately people exited the tracks as the train drew in. We took some time to photograph people who were on the train, most of us staying on the platform. Philip, however, climbed inside. A few minutes later, the train set off, and Apu called out Philip’s name in a near panic, trotting alongside the carriage. Philip managed to step off the moving train, much to everyone’s relief.

The usual traffic to return to the hotel, which took around an hour. The usual beer in the bar, with a sudden lack of cockroaches, before dinner and back to our rooms.

20 February

We spent the morning driving south. I used the time to catch up on photo processing, which was a good distraction from the usual kamikaze driving. By 1pm we reached our destination, Chittagong, at which we were spending only one night.

Yousuf had taken over as our guide, coming with us to Chittagong. I asked him about the lack of traffic lights. He explained that the government had budgeted to put up lights, however the traffic control people had protested. They prefer to use men to direct traffic. However, it’s a bit of a scam. The traffic men will pull a car over and demand to see ‘papers’. If the driver cannot satisfy him with whatever documents are required, an on the spot fine is demanded. Said fine goes into the pocket of the traffic control officer. 

After lunch, at which I carefully picked chillies out of my egg fried rice, we headed to the aluminium factories. Yousuf took us into the workshops, which were dimly lit with artificial lighting. As ever, people were intrigued by our presence, and children wanted candy. For the first time, we encountered a number of people who did not want their photos taken. 

We wandered through the area, watching people sort through aluminium blanks, creating cooking pots, and washing the finished product afterwards. I was rather pleased that one man challenged us for taking photos of the children. Yousuf explained that we were tourists and that satisfied the man.

After ninety minutes of exploring the area, we headed to our hotel. Not quite as nice as the previous two, but clean enough and there was a kettle in the room. The sockets were all British style, which surprised me. Other hotels have had international sockets, the multiple holes taking quite a wide range of plugs.

No bar. We went to the restaurant at 7.30pm to meet Yousuf. He showed us photos he’d taken on past trips, displaying them on his laptop. Stunning photography, but I would have liked (I did try to ask) to know the settings and how much he had processed them in Photoshop.

To our delight, there was a steak menu. I had a medium rare rib-eye along with blissfully normal vegetables, no chillies in sight. A glass of red wine would have been perfect, but we sipped at our water instead. I later had some whisky in my room.

21 February

We left at 7am to visit the local fish market. As soon as we stepped out of the minivan, we only needed to follow our nose. The smell of fish was wafting up from the seaside into the local streets.  We walked past people working with fish, putting them into ice and moving them between buckets. Many of the larger fish were still alive, writhing in containers of water. 

Yousuf led us to one of the roads alongside the sea, then we walked through the market. It was chaotic, filled with sellers, buyers, and trucks forcing their way past pedestrians. Trying to take any photos was difficult due to the crowd. 

We returned to the minivan and started through the grey day to Cox’s Bazar. The roads were clogged with buses. Yousuf explained that this was the first day of a three day national holiday, and so many people were heading for the beach for a short break. All work had stopped in Dhaka for the holiday, which is why he had planned for us to go to Cox’s Bazar for the period. Upon asking, he confirmed that this meant people like the brick carriers would not be able to earn any money during this time.

As we drove, we passed people playing cricket in schools and bare pieces of ground. We also saw children and parents gathered in school grounds. Upon enquiry, Yousuf explained that today was ‘International Mother Tongue Day’. After Partition, when India and Pakistan split to become two separate countries, what is now Bangladesh was a region of Pakistan. In 1948, the Pakistani government decreed that all of the country would speak Urdu. Protests erupted in the Bengali speaking regions. The Pakistani government outlawed the protests, but these continued. On 21 February 1952, police fired upon protesters in Dhaka, and a number were killed. On this day, the deaths are commemorated and the national language of Bengali is celebrated.

Rain came and went, and then the sun broke through weakly. We passed national parks which have Indian elephants, and Yousuf said sometimes they cross the road. None did during our drive, which was just as well, as the traffic continued to be heavy. To our surprise, at one point our driver crossed over to the other side of the road and for a couple of miles we went against the flow of traffic. ‘Philip,’ Boris called out, ‘are you still happy to sit in the front?’ 

Just after 1.30pm we arrived in Cox’s Bazar and went to lunch at a curry restaurant. I ordered the chicken curry which the menu insisted was ‘not spicy’. Well, the burning in my lips and mouth said otherwise. Small bits of chilli were in the sauce. I did my best to remove meat from coating and to eat plain rice.

We checked into our hotel, dumped stuff in rooms, and were out again in thirty minutes to go to the fish drying factories. These were set up along the coast, and we watched people spread out small fish on wooden tables and hang up large fish on racks. Yousuf said that most of this fish would be fed to other animals, not humans. Most of the people didn’t mind us photographing them, but others shook their heads or, if a woman, threw their headscarves over their faces.

Our guide hired one boy to be our escort and model, posing between fish and later, at the sea side, jumping over puddles. As ever, we gained others along the way, only a couple asking for ‘candy’ and ‘money’. Sheep and goats wandered freely. It seems the animals find their own way home at sunset. 

The water I’d drunk at lunchtime caught up on me. The boy led me to the community’s facilities. This was a structure made of bamboo, three walls at chest height, no roof, and a large blue plastic bag as a curtain. I stood on bamboo poles to do the necessary, the hole leading straight down to the river bank. I decided not to take a photo from the inside as no one would wish to see the evidence of people’s dietary struggles. Let’s just say it was an interesting cultural experience.

We walked down to the sea side. Some boats were being repaired, but most were preparing to go out for a night’s fishing. A couple who were obviously tourists took photos as the sun set. They both spoke good English, and we had a chat. They’d been married almost three years, introduced to each other through their families. 

As the sunset was nothing special, we returned to the minivan and went back to the hotel. I met up with Philip in the ‘Pirate’s Den’, a nautically themed bar. We had a beer before going to the lobby for a drive out to a BBQ restaurant. The five of us enjoyed a grilled red snapper along with non-spicy salad and chicken. 

22 February

We set off at 8am, the sun more visible than the previous day. An hour’s drive brought us to the first good cluster of the distinctive moon boats, so called because of their crescent shape. The boats were on the beach, bright colours gleaming in the sunshine. We had a good wander, admiring the colourful banners tied to the masts which were flapping in the coastal wind. Men were resting in the boats or working on maintenance.

We drove on and stopped at another set of boats. The light was becoming harsh by this time, and there was much less activity. The usual group of children gathered around us, including one rather obnoxious boy who kept demanding ‘Five hundred! Five hundred!’ Philip asked ‘Five hundred what?’ I decided to sing The Proclaimers’ ‘But I would walk five hundred miles, and I would walk five hundred more.’ 

The demanding boy decided to mock the singing, and pulled faces at me before demanding again ‘Five hundred! Five hundred!’ Some of the other boys pushed and slapped his back, but he continued his mocking and demanding. Phillip finally turned to him and said, ‘You are a little turd.’

We left the beach and went on to a restaurant for lunch. Whilst we waited for our food, we were served some delicious french fries. Slightly spicy, but very crispy. For lunch, I had had prawn tempura with rice and salad. We stayed some time after finishing, as the light was harsh and the restaurant had wifi.

After leaving the establishment, we travelled along the coast. Cars decorated with flowers and ribbons passed us at regular intervals. Yousuf said these were for weddings. We found a section of beach in which men were hauling away to pull in fishing nets. Boris was happy to climb down the large sand bags to the beach. Phillip and I looked at the steep slope and decided we didn’t want to risk ending up in a Bangladeshi hospital with a broken leg. We found a better way down and trudged over the sand to the fishing area.

We removed shoes and socks and walked barefoot down to the wet sand. The water was warm, and we hiked up our trousers for wading into the surf for our photos. 

The men wrapped the rope around section of bamboo and then pulled, backing slowly up the beach. As one set reached the dry sand, they unhooked their pole and walked down to start again at the section nearest the sea. Boris volunteered and took a turn to assist. 

Finally the net came into view, the first portion red, the rest white. The men changed positions, no longer pulling, now grabbing the net and forming a circle to close in on their prey. As they looked into their haul, they broke into cheers and happy dancing. Along with the many small fish, there was a rather large one and a manta ray. 

The catch was brought up the shore and poured out onto plastic. A buyer glanced over the catch and offered money. The man who took it continued to hold his hand out for more. An agreement was reached, and men began to sort through the fish. The manta ray died slowly on one corner, and the large fish was whisked away. The jellyfish was thrown away on to the sand. 

I took time to admire the patterns by sand pellets cast out by small crabs. The pellets were more concentrated further down the beach. Did the crabs who lived nearer the water have the more desirable residences, and those higher up on cheaper rents? Or perhaps I had this the wrong way around, and the crabs who dug out their holes away from the sea owned more property and therefore could afford greater distance from each other?

We returned to the minivan and continued our journey, stopping at a salt drying facility. A calf was wandering across the road, and we watched, concerned, until she had made her way back to her utterly uncaring mother. Later on, a farmer drove them both across the road, and an approaching car nearly collided with the cow.

Meanwhile, below us, one man scooped salt into baskets, which another man carried away to pour out on a pile. Goats wandered along the area, and in the distance white egrets stood watch. Yousuf took off, walking quite a distance along the paths to take photos. Boris followed him, whilst Philip and I remained at the road side. 

The hope had been for a good sunset, which we would use whilst taking some last photos of the moon boats. But the day had greyed, and the sun dropped behind a thick set of clouds. We decided to head back to the hotel.

The trip took over two hours. Traffic was at a standstill, due to a narrow bridge which could only allow traffic one way. Of course, cars, buses, and tuktuks were spread across the road, so that no one could pass each other. Finally traffic police appeared, forcing vehicles back into their own sides. 

We were advised that our large bags were to be brought to the hotel lobby at 10pm, as these would be driven back to Dhaka. Although we’d been aware that we would be flying back to the city, we hadn’t realised that our main luggage was to be taken off us this evening. The driver would be setting off at 5am for the eight hour drive. I went back to my room and pondered how to survive overnight without the luxury of all my stuff, and planned accordingly. 

At the appointed time I reported to the lobby with my bag. To my amazement, a small bat flew around the area. Did it live in the hotel or was it confused and seeking a way out? After my case was taken, I returned to my room and went to bed. It’s fortunate that I’m a good sleeper. Loud music was pounding through the hotel grounds, and people were regularly yelling at each other in the corridors. 

23 February

A 7am start to go to the local fish market. ‘Maybe we’ll go by tuktuk,’ Boris said, meaning this in jest. As we walked out of the hotel car park, looking in vain for a vehicle which might be meant for us, we saw Yousuf talking to a tuktuk driver. And, indeed, this was to be our mode of travel.

The fifteen minute journey was far different to sitting in an air-conditioned minivan. Sounds, smells, and every bump in the road were more keenly felt. You were part of the landscape rather than just travelling through it.

We arrived in time to see one ship unloading her catch of fish. The men sang as they hauled barrels of fish out of the bowels of the vessel. The catch was shovelled into baskets, and two men used poles to carry baskets across their shoulders up to the nearby market. 

After watching the unloading for a while, we headed up to the market. Sun was breaking through the clouds, casting warm light across the faces of buyers and sellers. Fish had been separated into their various types and spread out across the concrete. Fresh ice was chopped up by machines nearby and tossed on to the piles of seafood. The market was smaller and less frenetic than the one we’d visited previously, and we agreed it was a much more interesting and pleasant experience. 

Around an hour later, we returned to the hotel by tuktuk. The breakfast buffet was heaving, and we ended up eating at separate tables. Much to my joy, there was a decent coffee bar in the lobby, and I enjoyed an excellent latte.

At noon we caught a tuktuk to a Pizza Hut for lunch. Another tuktuk delivered us to the airport, which allowed full water bottles through security and never asked for any photo ID. Yousuf told us to leave the economy lounge and go upstairs to the air conditioned business lounge. The toilets were in a bad condition, so I shudder to contemplate what the economy lounge ones were like.

At 3.15pm we walked out to the small propeller airplane. During the hour long flight, we were given a snack box which held half a sandwich, a small cake, a mango bar, and a bottle of water. I enjoyed the latter two items. 

We arrived at Dhaka at 4.30pm. The first part of our drive, along the expressway, was quick. But we hit the usual traffic once we were back on the city streets. Our driver tried to take a short cut, which led us down a narrow back street. A car had come the other way, and negotiating a way for the vehicles to pass without scraping off paint took quite a few minutes.

After a stop at a shopping mall for Boris to buy a wireless charger for his phone, we headed to our hotel, arriving around 6pm. Phillip and I had decided that the hotel’s bar should be called ‘The Cockroach’ (‘the snacks are crunchy and come to you’) and agreed to meet there at 7.30pm. However, the bar was shut on Fridays, to our great disappointment. 

24 February

A sunny morning as we set off. Apu was once again our guide, and we were pleased to see him. 

Our first stop was meant to be at the coal unloading area at the river. However, no coal carrying ship had docked. As we headed out, we passed a livestock market, and we asked Apu to stop the minivan there. We had a good wander, the men very happy to be photographed with their animals. Goats of various sizes were tied up outside. One was very large, and I told him, ‘You’re the goatiest goat that’s ever goated.’ He seemed quite pleased with the compliment. 

Within the stable area, a man washed goats and cattle rested on the ground. My companions found the slaughter area and watched a cow go under the knife. 

Upon our return to the minivan, I realised I’d not been as careful as I should have been on where I placed my feet. I did my best to rid my boots of muck. Not only for the sake of the minivan floor, but also my backpack which had to rest next to my feet. 

We drove for several hours before stopping at a restaurant for lunch. I ordered what was advertised as ‘sweet and sour chicken’ with plain rice. What emerged had the orange-red colour of such a dish, but if I shut my eyes whilst I chewed I would have said I was eating a chicken curry. Definitely did not taste like any version I’d ever had of that Chinese dish before. 

Our next photographic stop was in a rice factory. Here men used their feet to kick the mounds of rice across the concrete floors for drying. Chickens, ducks, and pigeons took their share. We attracted the usual crowd, some willing to be photographed, others not. I used the toilets, which were up a set of steps created from sandbags. 

We drove on to a village in which yogurt is produced. Before going to the first factory, Boris discovered a ruined Buddhist temple which had been taken over by a large tree. We climbed up the steps, and from an opening witnessed the village ferry boat. It rested on the river and was pulled across by a rope. Any villager can use it at any time. We watched two men bringing goats across and, later on, a woman with shopping go over to the other side.

The yogurt was heated up in large metal tubs over wood fires. The atmosphere inside the building was hot and smoky. Men stirred the liquid, added sugar, and scooped out the mixture into buckets. Smaller pitchers were used to take yogurt from buckets to pour into clay pots. After the pots were filled, a large wicker cover was dropped into place whilst the yogurt cooled. The lighting conditions were both tricky and interesting, natural light falling in from windows and coming from the steam and yogurt mixture. 

We walked up to a second factory. They weren’t quite as far in their preparations, so we waited outside. A large crowd built up, all very interested in our visit. it was rather a relief to finally go back into the factory area, as the attention was a bit much in such a small space.

The same process was followed, albeit this time with some smaller pots. Apu encouraged us to take shots from above, focussing on the men and the pots. 

We left around 5.30pm and arrived at our hotel an hour later. This hotel was part of a large leisure complex, offering shops as well as two restaurants. I had a shower, which had me frowning at the bathroom’s design. The floor was flat from shower to entrance. The drain for the shower was halfway up the room, opposite the sink. This meant that the water spread halfway up the bathroom before draining away. The room was also a bit odd, as there was a great empty space beyond the foot of the bed to the wall. As Philip commented, ‘It’s as if gravity had pulled everything to one end.’

Philip and I agreed to meet in the bar, but we bumped into each other in the handicraft shop and  spent some time there before going to the bar’s entrance. There were several men with shirts stating ‘Bouncer’ outside. One escorted us up the stairs and presented our order for two beers at the bar. We took a seat. 

I can only describe the place as ‘seedy’. It felt a bit like an illicit drugs den. The large screen TV offered rather interesting videos. One was soft porn, featuring two men giving each other a passionate kiss, then women licking the thighs of other women. Another video had a woman thrusting her backside and then her breasts at the camera, dancing and singing in what looked like a field. 

The bouncer stayed near us for our entire time, making us wonder if he expected us to do something worse than what we were seeing on screen. The beers were cheap, though, half the price of what the Cockroach Bar charges in Dhaka. 

Boris had talked at various times during the trip about his desire to see a tiger. The handicraft shop had some sweet-looking tiger toys, so I bought one for him. I presented him the stuffed tiger at dinner, and he seemed quite touched by the gift. He’ll probably give it to his five week old daughter. 

25 February

At one point in the night, I woke to the flashes of lightning and the rumble of thunder. At breakfast. I stared glumly at the light rain. As I complained to my fellow travellers, ‘I can get this weather at home.’

We were also discovering that our driver seemed to have only one album (on a memory stick) to play through the minivan’s sound system. This consisted of love ballads by Adele and Whitney Houston. After hearing ‘I will always love you’ for the fifth time, we began to explore whether we could link one of our smartphones to the system just to provide some variety. Philip, as the front passenger, was tasked with sorting this out. There was a screen on the dashboard, offering what we assumed were operating instructions. However the only two languages on offer were Chinese and Bengali, neither of which Boris, Philip, or I understood. The attempts did at least give us a break from over-performed love songs. 

We arrived at a local vegetable market. This was outdoors, and understandably sellers and buyers were a bit sparse. Boris went back to the minivan, deciding to sit this one out. Philip, Apu, and I continued on. Several people posed for portraits, and we attracted attention from a man who kept saying ‘England’, ‘Manchester United’, and ‘London’. 

In buildings nearby we found women sorting potatoes, and disrupted them at their work, to the annoyance of their supervisor. Further along, men were washing potatoes, one using a basket, another simply splashing water over the spuds. 

We made our way back to the minivan and drove on. At our request, we stopped at a brickyard. Mist was rising from the ground near a group of people, making for an interesting atmosphere for photos. We wandered around the area for a while.

Our next stop was in the chillies processing area. At a pier near the river, we spent some time taking photos of the chillies spread out to dry. I concentrated on the birds nibbling their way through the spicy vegetables. I give Tilly, my parrot, fresh chillies at home. She always devours the seeds and usually will also eat some of the flesh.

There was very little human activity, although the rain had stopped. We walked into the village. As at the pier, the attention was rather overwhelming. People gathered around and walked with us. Just when one group dropped off, as if reaching some invisible boundary, another would join us. One set of children walked backwards in front of us, a lad videoing us on his smart phone. 

Afterwards, we drove on to a chillies processing factory. Due to the rain, work had been called off for the day. A woman chased birds away and later on did some chillies spreading. On a work day, dozens of people would have been spreading and collecting chillies. 

As the day wore on, people started working in the rice paddies. We stopped to photograph a few. The sun did finally emerge. Our lunch was very late, at 3.30pm. Chicken biryani for all. Apu insisted ‘It’s not spicy’ but to our palate it was. Even the rice had spice. I was brought plain rice, and by mixing the chicken into this I was able to eat enough to satisfy myself. 

We drove back through ever increasing traffic. At one pit stop, I was amused to see cattle in a truck pulled up for refuelling. Finally at 7pm we arrived at our usual hotel in Dhaka. The bar was shut (again!) but there was beer (honesty bar) in the room fridges.

26 February

Our first stop this morning was at a chicken market. Other live birds were also for sale, such as ducks, geese, and pigeons. We walked through the area, taking photos of the circular, netted containers which held the birds for sale. Men all but stepped inside to add food, remove or add birds, or to show off their wares. Nearby, other men were stripping slaughtered birds, cutting them up into parts. Although dust and feathers drifted through the air, there was no smell, unlike the animal markets.

I did have to harden my heart before stepping inside. When I ceased to be a vegetarian, many years ago, I decided that 1) I would only buy organic, free-range to eat at home and 2) that I would always face straight on the fact that a creature died in order for me to eat. Therefore I don’t flinch at images of slaughter houses, although one vegetarian once tried to shame me into feeling guilty about ‘murdering animals for your own pleasure’ and sent me many images taken in slaughterhouses.

On the whole, the birds looked healthy. I would surmise that none of them came from factory farms, as they looked fully mobile. The sight of pigeons tied together by their feet and the group hung upside down did make me wince. But what nearly broke me was two chickens who were all but bare, either from plucking themselves or being plucked by others. One chicken kept trying to put her head under the nearly featherless wing of another in her cage. This reminded me that chicks will seek shelter under their mother’s wings. My own parrots love to dive under visitor’s long hair, perhaps because this reminds them of their younger life. I couldn’t help but see this as a bird seeking that sort of comfort and it was hard to witness.

We walked down the street to find sheep and goats tied up outside of butcher’s shops. Goat heads hung outside the premises. 

Afterwards we settled into our drive to Barisal. Lunch was in a Chinese restaurant, in which I ordered a grilled chicken sandwich. This was presented as advertised, plain chicken with salad on toasted bread. Finally a meal which didn’t leave my mouth burning.

We dropped our bags off at our hotel and then drove to visit the Manta community. These people live all their lives on their small boats. The first hour we spent walking through the small fishing village nearby, watching men auctioning off their catches and visiting a boatyard. 

Apu hired a boat for us, and we chugged up and down the river, taking photographs of the Manta families. In reward for their tolerance, Apu threw over small bags of chocolate to their children. Two girls boarded our boat, and although the men seemed charmed by them, I found the two children a nuisance. They kept asking me for money, then tried to offer me items in return for the same. 

After an hour of this, we returned to the shore and returned to our minivan. An hour’s drive brought us back to our hotel. No bar, and although our rooms had balconies, the doors were locked, a note stating that visitors were not allowed to access balconies for their own safety. ‘Balcony views,’ Philip grumbled later. ‘Views of the balcony, not views from the balcony.’ 

Dinner was the best of the holiday. I had a Greek salad to start, and a delicious rib-eye steak with vegetables, french fries, and garlic bread as my main course. All it needed was a glass of red wine… but no alcohol was for sale in the hotel.

27 February

An early morning start. We left before dawn at 5.30am, bouncing our way down roads for an hour as the sky slowly lightened. An hour later, we stopped in a town, taking photos in the dull light of men working at the lumber yards along the river. 

Apu hired a boat for us and we clambered aboard around 7am. The diesel engine chugged us along the river, giving us views of the houses and people who lived there. The sun came and went, low level cloud cover keeping the rays at bay. 

An hour later we arrived at the floating vegetable market. Men with various goods for sale were pulled up alongside each other. Abu explained that numbers were low as there was a large Muslim congress occurring and so the boats had gone there for hoping for business. 

We went ashore (I accepted help from the men to climb up the rickety ramp) and took photos from one of the buildings. The usual crowd formed, and one of the boys kept trying to grab my lens. I realised that my patience with inquisitive children was beginning to wear thin, particularly those who keep wanting something from us. 

Returning to the boat, we headed back to our starting point. Another section of the river featured a number of men selling rice from sacks, also on their boats. We came across a boat yard, which had the small craft lined up on the riverbank for sale. One family passed over some small apples for us to eat, and later on the owner of our boat gave us each a tomato and a cucumber. 

I was pleased to see some water buffalo. We left the boat in the town, and walked over the bridge to our minivan.

The drive to our next hotel took around five hours, including stops. We had lunch at the same restaurant as the day before and I opted for the same sandwich. Philip and Boris regretted their choices of Tandoori and BBQ chicken, finding the meat dry and the coating more spicy than advertised.

At 4pm we arrived at our accommodation. Each of us had a chalet at the river’s edge, high up on the bank and with balconies giving river views. The vegetation floating past made it feel as if the room were moving. The rooms were more basic than previous hotels, but it was lovely to sit outside, listening to cattle lowing and birds calling to one another. None of us felt inspired to use the spa bath in our rooms, as it looked like even a deep scrub wouldn’t remove the accumulated stains. ‘Vomit coloured’ was Philip’s verdict. 

Dinner at the outdoors restaurant had limited options for those who cannot tolerate spicy Bangladeshi food. I ordered the ‘creamy pasta’ which was mild, inoffensive, and just about edible. After dinner I returned to my room and managed to kill the resident mosquito before it could feed on me.

28 February

The prayers from the local mosque blasted out at 5am, waking me an hour before my alarm. Otherwise it had been a quiet night, fulfilling the resort’s strapline of ‘The sound of silence.’

Although we weren’t leaving until 8am, breakfast wouldn’t be served until 9am. We were promised a boxed breakfast, and rather than eat this in the minivan we asked if these could be delivered to our chalets at 7.30am. This occurred. We had a piece of fruit, some dry bread, a bottle of water, a cake, and a boiled egg. 

The drive to the riverside only took twenty minutes. A flat bedded boat came towards shore, two plastic chairs on board. We joked that this was our boat, and looked in vain for something larger and, my preference, with gunwales. However, this was indeed our transport. I took the chair at the front, hoping that the boat would prove to be stable. I wasn’t worried for myself, as the water looked to be shallow and I’m a good swimmer. I didn’t want to lose my camera equipment over the side.

The boat operator rowed us up the river. Shortly thereafter we arrived at the boats of the fishermen. Their otters were tied up in the water, waiting for us. We followed them out into the river, and the fisherman displayed the otters’ abilities to drive fish into nets. Real fishing takes place at night, so this was a demonstration for our sakes. 

The otters were charming. There were three, a mated pair and their son. The mother’s name was Knish, the father Kalu, and their child was Dholu. The adults were in harnesses, but the youngster swam freely. I assume that the offspring learn from their parents how to work with the fishermen.

The experience was wonderful. The otters called to each other and seemed very enthusiastic in their fishing efforts. In return, they were tossed bits of fish. They looked to be quite healthy. 

After an hour or so, we felt quite happy with the otter action we’d seen and we returned to our start point. One of the fishermen and two children came with us. Our guide paid him for the display and gave chocolate to the boys. 

We drove back to the village near the hotel and got out. This was a Hindu settlement, and the feel was quite different. We walked into a temple area, where the children and adults were excited to see us. Afterwards, we entered the local school, and caused havoc there. Again, both adults as well as children were pleased to interact with us.

Quite a crowd built up as we walked back outside. We acceded to many requests to be photographed next to villagers, to the point which made us wonder if they’d taken more photos of us than we had of them.

They insisted that we must visit their homes. We walked down a path to their settlement and were shown inside several dwellings. Although they took off their shoes, they insisted that we could keep ours on. One woman’s house held many wood carvings, created by her late husband. We were offered fruit and vegetables, along with spicy crackers. The entire community was just one family, consisting of grandmother, adult children, grandchildren, and various relations. Many smartphones were in evidence. Not a single child asked for candy or chocolate. One woman did ask me for money, but that was it.

It was a bit difficult to share ourselves loose, but we managed somehow and walked back to our minivan. We were waved off. Apu said this was the first time he’d taken visitors to the village, so no wonder they were so excited.

We started the drive back to Dhaka, stopping for lunch halfway. I ordered ‘chicken on toast’, hoping this once again be a sandwich. What eventually arrived was some form of chicken patties. Perhaps what the menu had meant was ‘chicken in breadcrumbs’. I managed to eat enough to stave off hunger. 

Once in Dhaka, we headed for the Hindu area in Old Dhaka. This proved to be a very busy area, full of pedestrians and vehicles. We admired the clothing and gold shops, as well as those selling dresses and headdresses. At the far end, we ended up at the Pink Palace. Sadly, as it was now 4.30pm, no one was permitted to enter the grounds, as these shut at 5pm. We took photos from outside the gates. 

Sellers outside were selling fruit and vegetables. It was obvious that damaged and/or unsold items were simply thrown on to the streets, as the area featured and smelled of rotting fruit. 

We walked back to our minivan and made our way through the usual traffic to our hotel. I was in desperate need of shower. At 7.30pm the three of us met in the Cockroach bar. This was Boris’s last night, as he was due to fly back home the next day. We had a couple of beers, and talked when the live band wasn’t playing. After our buffet dinner, Philip and I hugged Boris goodbye before returning to our rooms. 

29 February

At 8am we headed out. Our first stop was at the coal unloading area, as two ships carrying coal had docked that morning. We took photos of the people, the women wearing colourful clothing, carrying coal in baskets on their heads. They walked up and down on very rickety looking platforms. Each person was given a token for each load of coal taken up to a large pile on shore.

Around thirty minutes later, Philip suddenly felt unwell. We returned to the minivan, and took him back to the hotel. I escorted him to his room before rejoining the driver and Apu to continue our day. Suddenly I was on my own with the two men, and I found myself missing Boris and Philip. 

We drove on through heavy traffic to the car parts market. Many small stalls sold all sorts of scrap parts, from nuts and bolts to lights and gears. Apu talked at length to one man, who offered us tea and biscuits. 

People were very pleased to be photographed, in fact a number insisted on it. The street outside was incredibly busy with rickshaws and pedestrians. The smell of motor oil filled the air. I looked for shots which showed the context, namely the items for sale by each man. 

Lunch was at Pizza Hut, at my request. At home I avoid fast food places, but I knew I’d find something I’d be able to eat at such an establishment. I had the impression that my Bangladeshi men found it all a bit too mild for them.

Our last visit was to the Geneva Camp Bangladesh. Nearly 400,000 people originally from India live in this area, who moved here in 1947, after Partition, as they wanted to live in Pakistan (as Bangladesh then was). They speak Urdu, not Bengali. Rubbish was piled high, giving a rank tinge to the atmosphere. In addition to the usual small shops selling fruit, vegetable, and household goods, small butchers had various meat portions hung up for sale. Chicken feet were available, and animals waiting their turn for slaughter rested at the back of the shop. Goats, chickens, and dogs wandered the area. People mostly ignored us, and none of the children asked for anything.

Apu took me down the narrow alleyways between buildings. The entrances to people’s homes were off these corridors. The stairwells, rather than being inside the building, extended into the alleyways. Even I had at duck to avoid them. 

We returned to the minivan and the near stationary traffic. The last mile to the hotel took nearly an hour. Had I known how close we were, I would have got out and walked. I was amused to watch men climb into the buses, carrying various refreshments which they sold to the passengers stuck inside.

When we finally got back, Apu and I called on Philip. He was feeling better. We agreed to meet in the Cockroach at 7pm. I had a beer, but Philip decided to play it safe and had a Coke. Yousuf joined us, mainly to once again tell us about other photographic options (festivals we could return for) and to urge us to give ‘good tips’ to Apu and our driver. Philip and I carefully did not commit to either. 

We said our goodbyes after dinner and I did some packing for the return home the next day.

01 March

At 7.10am the driver and, to my surprise, Apu as well, collected me for the drive to the airport. This only took twenty minutes, helped by the expressway which leads from city to airport. At 7.30am I said goodbye to them both, and by 8am I had checked in and gone through immigration to the departure area.

There was little to do for the next few hours. I had a passable but overpriced ‘continental breakfast’ at a restaurant, and used up my Bangladeshi currency on buying tea. Although I had gone through security before entering the airport, each gate had its own scanner, so I went through the process again. I timed this carefully, as there were no toilets once one went through security.

Once on the plane, the man in the seat next to mine seemed very excited. I think it might have been his first flight. He videoed our takeoff, took numerous selfies of himself in his seat, as well as photographing our meal. I had a beer from the trolley, and he asked to have the same. ‘Nice juice,’ he told me in broken English. ‘Never had this juice before.’

‘Are you Muslim?’ I asked. Discovering that he was, I tried to explain that he was drinking alcohol, which Muslims are not supposed to do. But as I don’t speak any Bengali and his English was minimal, this warning did not work. I consulted one of the air hostesses, asking if we should tell him what beer was. She thought this over for a moment, then recommended that we just let the man enjoy his beer. I did feel some guilt at corrupting a Muslim. 

Several hours change of planes in Doha made for a far less stressful experience. By 11.30pm British time, I had landed at Heathrow, gone through immigration and collected my bag, and was checked into one of the hotels at Terminal 4. The next day I took the Piccadilly line and caught my train back home. Trip over!