Motorhome Lifers get on with life in their motorhome and after our return from Bangladesh, that's what we had to do. We decided to leave Britain's brutish cold grey days and head south for Christmas and New Year. Somewhere lively where Mike could put the recent past behind him. Some people have asked why we haven't resumed our Bangladesh trip and there are two main reasons. The first, that our hearts weren't in it anymore, and the second that we would have to rebook two round trip flights and so we have decided to resume our adventures there another year. 
The ferries out of Britain, the week before Christmas suffered from a price hike. £133 for a flexi fare (Single!) from Dover to Calais where we are used to paying no more than fifty quid. We were booked for the evening of Saturday 20th December and the travel bulletins were alarming. Road chaos was predicted with Christmas shoppers and holidaymakers hitting the highways for their annual migration somewhere several miles drive away from where they live. We set off down the A1 early, the dreaded M25 was bound to be blocked at the Clearwater Shopping Centre exits, then there was the Dartford crossing to contend with. An 'incident' in Kent was reported that was affecting road travel and high winds in the Channel were causing delays to ferries. This news wasn't conducive for coffee stops, lunch breaks or even toiletting. We had to keep going, our road was clear. No queues at Clearwater, the new system at Dartford meant we hardly had to slow down. We followed the diversion signs to avoid the 'incident' and, whoa, hold your horses, we arrived in Dover five hours early! Mike smiled sweetly at the lady in the check-in booth, cajoling her with charming witticisms.  Having heard his patter before I grimaced inwardly, but after Mike drew her attention to the flexi fare, she didn't turn us away, but indicated where we could park until it was time for us to arrive. 

In the event we did get across on an earlier ferry - four hours ahead of our booked crossing,  filled up with fuel in Calais (€1.06 per litre at Carrefour) and arrived in Clere for a free Aire just north of Rouen for the night. 

Negotiating Rouen the next morning was easy peasy, (Sunday, no lorries) and we cruised south, arriving at an Aire near Soustons, just north of Biarritz at dusk. 

We usually avoid toll roads, "Time's what I've got" is one of Mike's favourite phrases, (Ad nauseam, in all honesty). But we do avoid tolls, and slow down using the national road network. However, we were on a mission to be settled for Christmas and so with Christmas Eve as our deadline we parted with the cash, and paid for the Autoroute from Tours to Poitiers. I was dismayed that the stretch south of Bordeaux had become a Peage. It always used to be free, because there's no decent alternative. Anyway, putting my penny pinching  grumbling to one side our location for the night was a few miles off  the A63, in a pinewood next to a lake. Although I've had to look up the name now, I've made a note for a future visit. I'm sure it would be hellish in high season, as it was next to a large holiday complex but as we're fortunately not tied in with dates that's not a problem for us. 

Our second full day took us through northern Spain on the free dual carriageways to Caceres where after filling up we spent the night with some trucks at a fuel station. It was incredibly peaceful but we woke up just after 5 and set off for our final day's drive to Portugal. As we counted down the miles to Seville we noticed a national road on the map that would take us 'cross country', leaving the dual carriageway at Zafra. This was a picturesque scenic route and slowed us up a bit, however it enabled us to avoid Seville at rush hour. 

In Portugal we used the A22 toll road for the first time since it became a paying route. In order to drive on it we had to register our credit card at a machine just over the border. Cameras apparently scanned our number plate at that time and again and again, and again,  as we crossed the Algarve. We've yet to see the final bill but suspect it will be in the region of €12.
 
So, we arrived in Albufeira for elevenses on the 23rd December, 24 hrs ahead of schedule. I've been posting irritating photos of Mike sitting in sunny locations on Facebook. Fingers crossed this settled warm and dry spell continues.  

We have remained at Parque de Palmeira, next to Albufeira football club since we arrived. The electric supply is patchy, the unlimited hot water we enjoyed in the showers last year has been limited to one tank full in the morning. The wifi is unreliable and many of our co-campers are moaning. The French contingent are aggressively vociferous with Charlie, the caretaker. The attitude of the management is that if people are unhappy they should leave. They locked the gate yesterday to prevent more new arrivals. The point being that they didn't want to make more people dissatisfied. Unlike the French, Mike and I take a 'C'est la vie' approach. The location is great for the town centre, we're staying for the fireworks and televised New Years Eve party on the beach. 

Much to my horror, I've realised I'm morphing into Mike. I was unsettled until we'd repacked and re-organised our cupboards. The anti malarial tablets were where the shampoo should have been, luckily arriving here has made all the difference to my mental well-being and I'm tidy again.

On Christmas Eve we found an excellent new bistro in the old town and have booked for a return visit tonight. All the football club need to do is lower the expectation of the motorhome owners, perhaps the website should read, 'Parking only'.Then the lack of wifi, intermittent 6 amp electricity, bracing cold showers 23 hrs a day, (your guess is as good as mine for the hot water hour)' would surprise and delight the guests and fit the bill nicely. I remain optimistic with the moaners. We're on a car park, located walking distance from the town centre, most of the inhabitants hate the over regulation  of northern Europe. And yes, indeed, if you don't like it you're in a motorhome, with wheels. You can head for freedom and 24hrs costs less than a few hours in a car park at home. However, to remain honest we're here for the location but it's certainly gone down hill and costs more than last year.
 
In the morning we're breaking free and heading for a beachfront a few miles down the road. 
That's all for now folks, so let's raise a glass for a healthy and prosperous 2015.

HAPPY NEW YEAR. 

When the phone rings in the middle of the night, and all your loved ones know you're six hours time difference away, the news isn't going to be good. Sure, it was sad, and Mike soon realised after learning that his dad had become seriously ill, that he just wanted to get home.
 
The Lonely Planet Guidebook advised against bus travel in Bangladesh. We had taken this advice seriously, having travelled on buses in India, where they hadn't made such a fuss about it, and knowing how hair-raising those trips had been, made us think the Bangladeshi driving style must take us to new heights. However, in this instance we had no choice. There was a flight at 9 pm, 18 hours from the time Mike had decided he wanted to get back to his family. A train would be too slow and having experienced such shenanigans the day before trying to secure our ticket to Chittagong by train, we knew we had to get on with a journey by road.

There was a coach leaving at 6.30 am. It was scheduled to arrive in Dhaka at 10. We reckoned it would take longer than 5 hrs as we knew the roads would be congested. We couldn't afford to miss the early bus, as delays would be compounded throughout the day. I booked our flight and silently thanked our lucky stars that we had chosen Emirates and had an excellent data service from our Bangladesh sim card. I was able to re-book our return flights and pre-book our seats using the mobile website. There was no price hike on the flight cost, even though we wanted to fly the same day. 

The only member of staff Mike found at the hotel spoke no English and wandered sleepily into our room wearing just a piece of cloth wrapped around his waist. Mike rang Tapas, the tour guide and part owner of the hotel at 5.30, he was empathetic and reiterated the importance of getting the 6.30 coach. Hanif was the name of the company. We left cash in an envelope to settle our bill. Along with our hard earned and overpriced train ticket, purchased the day before and leaving for Chittagong at lunchtime.

The street outside the hotel was eerily quiet. No one was up yet and a thick fog had settled overnight. Mike hurried ahead, periodically looking back into the gloom to make sure I was still behind him. 

There was a black and gold painted coach parked on the left hand side of the street and a table on the nearside of it. There were a few young men standing around the desk and Mike asked the man sitting at it for two tickets to Dhaka. He wrote them out on a triplicate ticket, like airlines used to have. He grunted something at us impatiently and flicked his wrist dismissively in the direction of the bus. Deciding there was no time to lose we boarded with our back packs and were shown to our seats. As soon as we'd dumped the packs on the seat on the other side of the corridor, we set off. It was 6.23 am. 7 minutes early, we had so nearly missed the bus. And we were about to find out if Bangladeshi bus driving was as bad as we had been lead to believe. Worse! 

Imagine an animated film where the occupants of the bus are being driven to hell, Satan is at the wheel and he thrashes the bus mercilessly, horn blaring, gears crunching and the whole charabanc shakes and clatters over the pot-holed road. The passengers are reduced to skeleton figures by fear, as each manoeuvre is undertaken. The driver overtakes on blind bends, in the fog and spends most of his time on the wrong side of the road, facing the oncoming traffic. He forces other vehicles such as CNGs off the road and clips a couple of lorries, one as he overtakes, the other as it approaches. One lorry driver took exception. The windows were lowered and the drivers argued as both vehicles stopped, ours in the middle of the road. Our driver as aggressive in his arguing as his driving style. Mike asked me if this was the most dangerous road as described in the Lonely Planet. It wasn't, that was the Chittagong/Dhaka road. I couldn't help myself and kept looking forwards through the windscreen. "I think it's best not to know, Mike" I repeated regularly as my eyes were drawn forward to see what was coming up next. 

Soon after we left Srimangal the heavy industry, responsible for Bangladesh's booming economy, lined the roadside. Mile after mile, factory upon factory each one had a chimney that belched thick, acrid smoke. They mainly appeared to be brick factories and clearly the working conditions and adherence to any kind of clean air, pollution control or workers' rights were firmly entrenched in an equivalent time to our industrial revolution. No wonder the West ships it's work out here, of course the costs are less. But what about the toll on people,their health, or the environmental damage? We turn a blind eye to buy garments a few pence cheaper or hear that share holders continue to enjoy good returns as companies maintain healthy profit margins. 

We had both read magazine and travel articles written in flowery prose in praise of Bangladesh. It seemed strange to me that authors could avoid mentioning this dark reality. The Brahmaputra River runs through the country and is made up of several tributaries. One of which is the Ganges, which flows through India. I understand that it is used as a sewer, toilet, for ablutions, and washing, dead bodies are thrown into it and factories pump untreated effluent into it. At Varanasi in India, it is a holy river and bodies are cremated and their funeral pyres float downstream. Travel writers had described the river using language of this type - not an exact quote: 'mighty, a majestic artery, the lifeblood of the city, and country'. When we took a little row boat across it during our Dhaka visit less than a fortnight previously, I was struck by the inky blackness and the pungent smell. Today, as our coach rattled over the bridge I looked down at it and the only word that came into my mind was 'sump'. I don't think a career as a travel writer is coming my way soon.
 
Anyway, of course we arrived safe and sound, a CNG got us to the airport 6 hours early and the news on TV told of a road accident where a lorry and coach had run each other off the road that day. There had been fatalities and I didn't need any reminding that it could so easily have been us. 

So, just 12 days after our arrival in Bangladesh our trip had been cut short. There was so much more to see, and we hope to return one day. I know my description of the pollution seems negative but my aim is to be realistic. It's the bits the brochures don't tell you that gives independent travel the edge. But the contrast between the tea plantations and jungle of Srimangal the day before couldn't have been more striking. 

Sadly, Mike's father, Ray passed away unexpectedly yesterday evening after a short illness. He will be missed by all who knew him, a truly great man who achieved so much. It's a time for family and we have cut short our trip to Bangladesh. Due to the miracles of modern technology we were able to rebook our flights.
I'll be updating the blog in due course.

I was too tired last night to finish my blog post about our day, so here's the rest of it, which wasn't just about posing with ridiculously large spiders.

(No spiders were injured during the writing of this blog.)

Our guide, Shekar, took us along various paths throughout the forest and we saw rhesus monkeys, more macaques, a variety of plant species, butterflies and birds. There wasn't the excitement that we experienced when we first arrived but it was picturesque and great to get away from the hassle and noise of the town.

Now for a few bits and pieces that we have gleaned so far and relevant to Sylhet, the region that we are currently in.
The population of Bangladesh is 90% Muslim, so the country has a proper day off on a Friday, (equivalent to our Sunday). A few shops are open and the roads are much quieter.

The rest of the population is made up of other religions including Christian and Hindu.

Bangladesh used to be a part of India -  Bengal and is surrounded on all sides by India apart from a narrow strip in the south east which borders Myanmar (Burma).

At the close of World War Two part of the North of India was used to create East and West Pakistan, both Muslim countries, whereas India remained predominantly Hindu. Terrible bloodshed occurred in 1971 when the Bangla people rose up against Pakistan, they wanted their own country. Bangladesh was finally born.

When the British ruled India they established the tea plantations in Sylhet and workers from the tea growing regions of India were brought in for their expertise. They were Hindus and this is why, in this part of the world the percentage of Hindus is approximately 60%.

There are tribal communities that remain in some nooks and crannies of the country and Sylhet, where we are at the moment is one of them. They had their own religious beliefs until missionaries converted them to Christianity.

Now you've got the background I can carry on with our walk in the rain forest. We were taken to a tribal village within the confines of the National Park. There were 23 families in total and their society has the women in charge. (Wise choice.) They make all the decisions for the running of the community and the family name runs through the female side. They're Christians for the reasons I explained above. There was no electricity but each house had a solar panel on the roof. Their income is provided by selling Betel nut leaves which they harvest from the surrounding forest. One woman asked through our guide if we were Protestant Christian. (There's a few Catholics in Srimongal.)

After lunch we clambered up a steep sided hill to see a pineapple 'garden.' The pineapples were much smaller than the ones we see in our supermarkets and grew close to the ground. There was a small shed next to the main growing hill and I commented on the size of the pile of pineapples. Shekar pulled a Swiss army knife out from his pocket, removed the skin and left the spiky leaves at the top for me to use as a handle to munch the freshly peeled fruit. It was much sweeter and juicier than the ones we're used to and didn't have that woody core.

After the pineapple stop we got back in the CNG and headed for the lake. This was along a well worn red brick road through the tea plantation.

Bangladesh is the tenth largest producer of tea in the world and the plantations are at the lowest height above sea level of all the tea growing areas. Most of the tea estates were originally British owned and managed but this is no longer the case.

Although it's the end of the season there were still women picking the leaves. Only the tender young leaves at the top of the plant are used. The women have to pick a minimum of 20kg a day, for which they're paid 72 Taka (about 70p). The family is also provided with somewhere to live, maybe some land and food vouchers. Shocking isn't it? I don't know how much tea is produced from that 20kg daily quota.

After approximately 15 minutes we arrived at a small lake. The shore was lined with lotus plants, the flowers a gorgeous purple. Afer a short walk around the lake it was time to head back to town. We bounced and rattled along when suddenly 'BANG'. The noise sounded like exploding glass. The driver switched off the engine, said sorry, and we all got out. The guide also apologised, it was hardly anyone's fault, we had a completely flat tyre. The driver retrieved another wheel from a little storage area under his seat. Mike got stuck in along with the guide and two boys that were walking past to tip the CNG on to one side so the driver could change the tyres over.
You may be wondering what I did to help? I took photos. Typical tourist!

The wheel change only took five minutes and we were soon back on the road to Srimangal. We stopped at a tea stand by the side of the road, where 'seven layer tea' was invented. Of course I had to try it and there were indeed, seven distinct layers, each one a different flavour. The layers don't mix because the liquids have varying viscosity. After this I had a glass of ginger tea. Made with fresh ginger it was quite delicious and very different to a ginger tea from a bag.
When got up to pay the bill Shekar spied the inventor of the top secret recipe so we asked him to pose for a photograph. I guess we turned the tables on the locals -  we're asked to pose at least 20 times a day.

Finally, we headed back to the hotel, where we were offered a trip to the local bazaar but we were ready to get our tick infested clothes off and have a hot shower. We had arranged to meet another traveller, who we had met at breakfast, at the local curry house for a meal. He was travelling on his own, a Bangladeshi from a Sydney suburb.

We arrived at the restaurant, he was waiting and he'd been bitten by a monkey - an inhabitant at a small zoo, close to the forest and one of the few places we hadn't visited that day. The owner had reassured him at the time that all the animals had been vaccinated against rabies but none of us felt this information could be relied upon. He'd been to the hospital, the wound on the palm of his hand, had been thoroughly washed and covered in iodine solution. The victim had been advised what to do by the doctor at the hospital and he showed me the handwritten advice he'd been given. Doctors the world over are the same and although written in English it was impossible to decipher his handwriting. I researched rabies prevention and I decided it was time to blow the nursing cobwebs out of my mind and do the first injection that he needed. It would have been morally and ethically wrong to walk away and not help. We visited the local pharmacy and purchased, over the counter, the rabies vaccination and a tetanus booster as well. We were shown a small room at the end of the pharmacy which had a couch and desk in it. A number of onlookers crowded round the door and as our new friend would need to have two more injections before his return to Australia I talked him through how to prepare the injection which unfortunately wasn't pre-mixed like we have in the UK. I carefully checked all the seals were intact and the expiration dates were good. I also advised him to ring his family doctor the following morning in case he felt he ought to have a different type of therapy. When I spoke with him this morning his GP had told him we'd all done the right thing. Just out of interest the cost of the vaccine was £4.70, compared to £97.50 from the travel clinic at home but still completely unaffordable if you earn 70p a day.
Today has been spent getting organised for our departure tomorrow. We're off to the Chittagong, which is further south and borders Myanmar (Burma).
Apparently Chittagong city is more polluted than Dhaka, seems unfeasible that anywhere could be more polluted than Dhaka and so, if I don't choke on the fumes our onward adventures will be documented here tomorrow. Bye for now, Ali and Mike.

Another early start this morning because we did decide to go ahead and book the tour with Tapas. As we ate our breakfast the hotel manager gave us a note from Tapas to explain that he had a stomach upset from yesterday and he was sending another guide to take his place
He had a sick note! I must have iron guts after what I'd done to my poor long suffering digestive system yesterday.

Anyway, the new guide was lovely, and we headed off towards the Lowacherra National Park, a tropical semi-evergreen rainforest approximately 8km from Srimangal town. As our noisy little CNG powered along the main road towards the park, our guide was chatting to us, when he suddenly asked the driver to stop. We climbed out and he drove off, as soon as he did so we became aware of a commotion of animal noise in the canopy above our heads. Above the CNG and while talking to us, he'd heard the cries of the hoolock gibbon, an endangered species that we'd read we'd have no chance of spotting. The sounds were coming from our left, we peered up at the tree tops and Mike saw it. Sadly no, it wasn't our gibbon but the un-endangered Macaque monkey. Never mind! It's such a treat to see a creature in their natural habitat. There were still animal calls coming from the right hand side. Another group perhaps? Suddenly our boy left the road and strode into the jungle. He looked back briefly at Mike and me, his facial expression questioning if we were ok with what he was doing. We were, except he suddenly sped up, now we were crashing through the thick undergrowth, no path, then up a very steep incline, already overheating, I realised the futility of wearing clean clothes and showering before we left, and how ridiculous was I with a handbag? I was a bit stuck on the muddy hill but managed to keep scrabbling upwards. I could just make out Mike through the foliage to my right. Our chase continued for a couple more minutes when we heard another sound. Humans! Noisy ones. Inwardly cursing I was convinced their selfish noisiness would scare our gibbons away. We stopped and scrutinised the overhead canopy, then our guide spotted one. I peered and peered, straining my neck, but couldn't make it out. Then I did see him, we were told it was a him because they are black, a female is bigger and a lighter brown colour. We kept craning our necks and straining our eyes when finally we saw the female and she was carrying her baby. What a treat, and we'd only just arrived.

We stayed taking photos for another ten minutes or so, and became aware of our itchy skin. We were warned not to scratch but just to have a hot shower when we got back and to thoroughly wash our clothes. Apparently the itching was caused by ticks that we had picked up during our high speed chase. We then set off back towards the road and every few steps seemed to provide another evil looking spider. I had to be reassured several times that they really aren't poisonous, nor biting. But having just run through several webs I wasn't sure. And then the biggie, the giant wood spider (I think that's what it's called.) Giant????? Cripes, this was a monster and had a web that spiderman could have lived in.

I'm going to leave it at that for now, it's been a long day and it's now way past my bedtime. Come back tomorrow!

I finished yesterday's blog post by mentioning that we were due to meet a tour guide. I remember his name by thinking of running to get the snacks in Spain.  His name is Tapas Dash.

When we met him last night Mike asked if it would be himself that took us on a tour of Srimangal and the surrounding area. He apologised and said he wouldn't be free the next day because it was the 'coming home' day for his sister's wedding. His family is Hindu and he explained that one week after a woman gets married she returns to her parents' house for one last time before she moves in to her new home with her husband.

Well, you may have guessed already, it wasn't too long until Tapas asked if we would like to join his family.  We readily agreed but were a little surprised that he should be inviting us before we'd even heard about one of his tours, he didn't know us from Adam.

He introduced us to a young lad who was with him, his name was Shah Jalal (roughly translates to The King). He was about 13 years old and had lived on the street. Tapas said he has set up a foundation to look after street children, give them an education and a better life. So far he has helped 30 children, all very impressive as he must only be in his late twenties.

It was arranged for Shah Jalal to collect us at 1.30pm the following day, a Friday, equivalent to our Sunday in the UK.  We couldn't dress smartly as we don't have anything smart to wear.

When we arrived we were shown into a living room with a three seater sofa, two armchairs, a double bed and a television on a chest of drawers. Tapas bought us a saucer of snacks each. There was a ball of rice crispies bonded together with sugar, one of those coconut turnovers, similar to the one I had yesterday, and another pastry with an indeterminable filling. Mike has had a dodgy tum and in order not to offend, I took it for the team and ate all the snacks. Tapas returned with a glass of lemonade each and more snacks! I was a bit dismayed and explained to Mike that he should at least try. There were two golf ball sized snacks on each saucer, one was brown, the other, creamy white.  I tried a bit of each, one tasted like sweetened condensed milk and the other had a fudgy caramel taste. They weren't too bad, but incredibly sweet. In for a penny, in for a pound, I got through Mike's as well as my own and felt nauseated afterwards, as though I'd eaten a whole box of chocolates.

As we sat in the room numerous aunties, uncles, sisters, brothers and in laws came through and introduced themselves. After about half an hour we were invited upstairs and onto the roof. The newly weds were sitting side by side with a cloth over their heads. Firstly, grains of rice were placed on their heads, then shoots of grass, then a few sprinkles of water. The groom got quite a heavy sprinkling of water and got his own back afterwards by tipping the water container over his sister.

We were invited back downstairs to the first room for more meeting and greeting. Finally, we were taken back up to the roof and four tables had been set out underneath a plastic canopy. Each of the tables had 8 plastic garden chairs and the table had been set with a polystyrene plate, glasses and a plastic jug of water.

Mike and I were invited to sit at the top table with the groom, brother in laws and the bride's father. There were no knives and forks or napkins so we thought we'd just watch what everyone else did. Tapas came round with rice and dhal, he dolloped healthy portions on our plates, then someone else came round with a bowl of something red, I asked what it was, they said it was a spicy paste made from dried fish. I decided to try some, but we played Mike's vegetarian card at this point. The men were shocked, I think they feared for his survival without meat or fish, but were also worried that they hadn't been good hosts as they hadn't provided vegetarian food. Tapas took it all in his stride, reassured our table mates telling them he'd be fine with dhal and rice. Another lad came round with some dice sized spicy fried potatoes and as Dad had started to eat I took a sideways glance to see how it was done. He was mixing the rice and dhal together with his fingers, squidgeing it into a ball before eating it. I didn't spill any, but Mike's lap was getting quite a rice shower so Tapas bought him a big cloth. The dishes came thick and fast after this and I had a fish curry and mutton curry, both were delicious. Pudding was a sweetened creamy yoghurt, no mean feat for a pair of first timers, served on a plate and eaten without cutlery. We didn't dare drink the water.

After we finished eating we were taken to the section of roof where the water tank was and one of the girls poured water over our hands and gave us soap to wash them. She then continued pouring the water for rinsing. I could have done with hand washing before we ate.

Then a tray was offered with a pile of leaves on it and a couple of tins. I asked what it was and was told it was betel nut leaves and betel nuts. You know the stuff, it stains the teeth a red/black colour and leads to lots of spitting, I think it's vaguely narcotic. Having assaulted my stomach with so much over the course of the afternoon I decided to give it a go. Our hosts laughed and looked surprised when I accepted, so I asked Tapas if it was ok for me to have some. He smiled gently and said. "Of course". Pieces of betel nut were placed on the leaf and it was sealed with some white paste and made into a little parcel. It was explained that I should just pop the whole lot into my mouth and chew. The first three lots of saliva to be spat over the edge of the roof and the rest to be munched, savoured and enjoyed.

"Soon, you'll feel like you're in heaven", Tapas assured me.

What was it like? Imagine chewing a matchstick, woody in texture and taste. The leaf was bitter. I've cleaned my teeth very carefully this evening and fortunately there's no residual stain.

What a brilliant day! We felt honoured to have been asked to join them. I still can't believe Tapas took such a risk by inviting us, after all, not all Brits would give all those new experiences a try with such a 'can do' approach.

One of the relatives was a bank manager and he explained that it was a great honour for them to have foreigners, so the honours were being felt all round.

You won't be surprised to learn that I now have indigestion.

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We haven't heard a dog since we arrived, nothing to note about dogs, (apart from the doleful eyes of that puppy staring up at me the other day) there haven't been many at all, but the first one with a voice barked for what seemed like an eternity in the early hours. We think it may have been in the police compound next door to the hotel, then the Mosque kicked off, and with all this hullabaloo we were awake well before the alarm.

After breakfast we said goodbye to our new friends at the Surma Valley Rest House, Helena arranged a CNG to take us to the railway station and also insisted that one of her staff members, Ali accompany us to the station and stay with us to ensure that we joined the correct train. She also warned us not to accept food or drinks from strangers, as reprobates are reputed to lace their offerings with drugs to make the traveller sleepy and give them the opportunity to make off with their stuff. We reassured her that we wouldn't be accepting any freebies.

There is a bridge, on the way to the railway station, over the Surma river that is quite difficult to cross, for cycle rickshaws, because it is steep. 'Pushers' who are on foot, assist by,(as the name suggests), pushing the rickshaws up the difficult bit. However, as it was early there weren't many people about and we were soon at the station.

The train pulled in and we walked across two sets of tracks to get to the platform. Ali had clearly done this before as he knew exactly where a small boulder was placed to step down from the platform and another on the other side to step up from. He also helped us find the correct carriage and seats. He had been to the station the day before and purchased tickets. Instead of a compartment we were in First Class Chairs. (Shuvon.)
The chairs were airline style, covered in red velvet and pretty comfortable.

Soon after boarding the train a gentleman introduced himself and his family. His name was Joy and he welcomed us to Bangladesh and offered us snacks that his wife had made that morning. Me being me, I couldn't refuse an opportunity to try something new. The first was a kind of sweet, spicy patty, still warm from the oven. The second looked like a mini apple turnover, covered in sugar, but the pastry had been lightly fried and the stuffing was fresh, sweetened coconut. As I happily munched away I remembered Helena's advice about snacks and strangers but decided they didn't look or act like ne'er do wells and if the worst came to the worst Mike had refused to eat anything so he would make sure I wasn't robbed.

As the train sped through the countryside it was non-stop action inside the carriage. A near continual stream of individuals came through, selling something. This included books, crisps, popcorn, tamarind sweets, fruit, cucumbers, water, soft drinks, hot food, bombay mix and tea. The stewards bought the tea, one had a plastic caddy full of hot water and his colleague had a tray stacked high with bone china cups and saucers and a tin of condensed milk. He managed to serve the tea with the tray balanced on his forearm with great skill, I would have spilled it all over the passengers.

A man, blind in one eye, played his violin and sang traditional Bangladeshi music. Joy told us that he would have been completely self taught.

Every now and again a beggar came through and we always gave 10 Taka. The saddest for me was a young boy, who can't have been more than 5 or 6. He lead an elderly blind man by the hand. His face looked so serious as he concentrated on his role and I was instantly struck by how sad this was. In the west we moan about minor events and children squabble over their toys. This poor lad had no choice in his destiny and as he lead the old man he assumed the type of responsibility more suited to a far older person. From nowhere a lump arose in my throat and as the expression on his face fixed into my mind, I had to turn away and look out of the window. This is when it's appropriate to say life is unfair.

While we were on the train, Joy, who was staying at a different hotel to us arranged to give us a lift in the 7 seater that was collecting him. We readily accepted his kind offer. 

When we arrived at the hotel it didn't look too great. I think we'd been spoilt by Helena's scrupulously high standards. We had booked for three nights but were told that we would have to change rooms after two. Mike went up to look at the room and agreed to take it. We got ready to go out and while Mike was locking the door I had a quick look inside a couple of the other rooms. They were huge, airy and spacious. Mike wandered in after me, and agreed that they looked nicer than our room. He asked me to double check the rates on the hotel website, and lo and behold, we were paying for a suite, had been given a normal double room, but were being charged the higher rate - what a cheek! Mike went downstairs and did battle with reception. The best English speaker could only manage a few fragmented words and so it was hard going for Mike. Eventually he made himself understood and we moved to the better room. The one that we had paid for in the first place.

At last, we could set off on our walk. After about 800m we came to a sign advertising 'Green Leaf Guest House and Eco Resort'.
It was a lovely place. The rooms were bright and airy, clean, with hot water and priced fairly. They had rooms available and Mike decided to take on our hotel and leave without staying. After all, we'd only arrived a couple of hours previously and hadn't even unpacked - both of us were unhappy that they'd tried to scam us with the room.

Mike went down to reception and they wanted us to pay for a night. It was all getting quite heated, so while they went to find someone who spoke some English Mike came back to our room and asked me to get Helena on the line. It was time to phone a friend. When he went back to reception and they saw him with a telephone their attitude changed straight away. No problem, we were free to go.

So, now we've been out for our evening meal, and on our return the owner had arrived at our new hotel and explained that he could arrange a tour of the area with a local guide and that he would be arriving in a few minutes. Did we want to meet him? We couldn't see any harm in it, and so that's all for now, our story will further unfold in due course. Below is a photo of the violin player. It's a bit blurred, I'm afraid inter-city train lines here aren't as smooth as ours.

A quiet day today, had a short walk into town, to a family museum. This was a small collection of items belonging to an individual who had loved music. His descendants had decided to keep them in his honour.  I guess that a museum will be an oddity in a country like this where every item has a value and is broken down and reused.  Why would anyone keep memorabilia?
From there we walked to the Shrine of Hazrat Shah Jalal, a saint from the 16th century. A highly revered religious figure, of huge importance to the Bangladeshi people. We couldn't find the shrine itself, only a sizeable graveyard and a marble tank that contained some holy catfish. According to legend these are metamorphosed black magicians. Both of us would have liked to have seen these fish, but the water was a murky green, didn't smell too good and no matter how hard we peered, nothing, not a whisker or even a bubble at the surface.

We walked back to the hotel and as we negotiated a road crossing Mike asked me if I'd mentioned the 'incident' yesterday and no I didn't.

As we drove out to the village yesterday, we encountered the usual mayhem on the street. There are no rules when it comes to using a road, and this includes when to overtake and what side of the road to drive on. Each to their own, whether cycle rickshaw, motorised rickshaw, car, bus, motorcyclist or pedestrian. You simply head for the next space in the direction that you're travelling.

As we drove out to the village yesterday morning a car pulled out from the side of the road and just touched a cycle rickhaw's front wheel. The wheel rose right up into the air and the rickshaw flipped onto it's side, but it seemed to happen in slow motion. Mike jumped out of our CNG and went to help pick up the rickshaw as it was only a few feet from us. Luckily it appeared that no one was seriously injured (the rickshaw driver was rubbing his foot), the passengers seemed unharmed and so we continued on our way.

We have spent the afternoon at the hotel researching our onward explorations. Tomorrow we're catching the train to Srimangal, where the tea plantations are. The hotel is booked and so is the train, so let's hope it all goes to plan. Our first two choices were fully booked and one of the staff here has reassured us that where we are going is a good one, he's from Srimangal so we're trusting his judgement.

We have said our farewells to the owner of the guest house, she wrote her contact details on the reverse of a business card, along with her name - HELENA, in capitals. Oops, I did apologise straight away as I've  been calling her Helen all along. Below is a photo of the two way street in front of our hotel.

Abdul did arrive on time, and we got to our train, and he insisted on taking us, even though we now had an additional 25kg, the combined weight of our two backpacks. His whole body strained and the rickshaw shuddered slightly each time he set off from a standing start. Mike tipped him generously, before we said our good byes and headed for the station.

There wasn't a single sign in any language, let alone English, to help us find our train. A young student helped us, and when we reached the train a guard took us to a sleeper compartment in the first class carriage.

On our India trip we always travelled second class but one of the 'advisors' in the queue the day we booked the ticket said that 1st class A/C was an absolute necessity on this train.

There were four seats each side of the ancient compartment with a pull down sleeper above. The upholstery was worn, red faded velvet, but it was clean. The windows were so dusty that we couldn't really see out at all. A distinct disadvantage for an eight hour trip, especially as we had been looking forward to enjoying the scenery.

I was just about to take a picture when another smartly dressed passenger joined us. We learned through the course of the journey that he was on his way to a Muslim  shrine in Sylhet. 

Soon after our arrival in Bangladesh we realised that the offer of tea is a welcoming gesture. Abdul had bought a couple of rounds, as well as the onion wholesaler I mentioned in a previous post and Iqbal was no different. The stewards periodically tapped on the door proffering snacks or drinks. We didn't take the food but accepted the tea. Iqbal refused to let us buy any, he just planted his palm over his heart and remonstrated, 

"You are my guest!"

"But we're on a train, Iqbal."

"While you are on this train, with me, you are my guest."

Case closed. We accepted the tea.

After a few hours Iqbal asked which hotel we were staying at, he hadn't visited Sylhet before and didn't know of any places. We showed him our choice from the guidebook and he decided to join us, venturing that we could share a three bedroomed room. This took the notion of new friends and guests a touch too far for both of us and while I visited the toilet Mike dealt with his suggestion. A brief note on the toilet: now, obviously, one doesn't routinely take a camera to the facilities and in this instance, it's a darned shame I didn't, because words cannot describe this toilet adequately. I'm simply not qualified. Suffice to say it didn't look up to third class standards, so I shudder to think what theirs was like. Let's hope we come across another one for me to wow you with a picture and I'll always take a camera with me to the lav in the future.

When we arrived in Sylhet, Iqbal negotiated a CNG for us, (refused to take any money) and we soon arrived at the Surma Valley Guest House. The owner, a British Bangladeshi from Bedford greeted us enthusiastically and introduced herself as Helen.

In contrast to our accommodation in Dhaka, the guest house was scrupulously clean, not an insect, or dust particle in sight.

We went and showered while a delicious curry was prepared for us by her chef. The shower head was no ordinary shower head and I'm hoping I can upload a photo at the end of this post. It reminds me of a many headed mythogical creature. I affectionately refer to it as 'Hydra'. If you don't see it at the end of this post, have a look at it on our Facebook page. Motorhome Life. You can click on any of the Facebook symbols on this website to take you there.

We both slept well and the following day decided to take it easy and not do too much. We wandered around Sylhet which was a bustling, prosperous looking and lively place where we could enjoy taking in the sights and sounds.

We returned to the hotel at lunchtime, said goodbye to Iqbal, promising him that we would be in touch when we went back to Dhaka.

Helen offered to take us to her village for a visit the following day and we readily agreed. What a great opportunity! 

In the evening, after supper at the best restaurant in town (not as good as the hotel food the night before) we presented ourselves at the Sylhet Station Club. The only place that serves alcohol, has been in existence since 1886, in the days of the Raj.

We were unprepared for the formality of joining (and paying to be members) of this exclusive joint. It did have an air of peaceful respectability about it and it was nice to be served by a smartly dressed bar tender in black waistcoat, bow tie and white shirt. The trousers even matched his waistcoat! Only one drink though, even though our hotel was only falling distance from the club.

The next morning, (today, so that's why my tenses are a bit muddled, if you notice that sort of thing), Helen arranged for a CNG to take us to see her village.

We crossed a small bridge into the village about forty minutes after we left Sylhet and Helen pointed to a small mosque. She explained that her husband had paid to have it built. (Later in the day Helen shyly admitted that she has set up and funds an orphanage for 250 children. We also found out from others that her husband is also ivolved in other philanthropic projects as well as being a councillor).
a few hundred metres after crossing the village threshold,  we pulled up outside an enormous house. Helen jumped out of the CNG first and after opening the gate, welcomed us in, telling us to take a seat and make ourselves at home while she put the kettle on.
I don't want to sound gushy but we really have had the most wonderful day. Helen introduced us to her immediate family who lived behind the house. Their dwelling was in the traditional Bangladesh style and consisted of a long wooden building with a corrugated iron roof. It was divided into several dwellings, and each front room had a bed and table in it. No luxuries, purely functional. The women were working in front, sorting wheat. There was a communal seating area with plastic garden chairs, where we sat and drank glasses of Coca-Cola. Towards the front of the settlement was a large pond which Helen explained was used for washing (clothes and body), and swimming.
After Helen's tour she arranged for one of her extended family, a charming young man called Burhan, to take us on walkabout around the whole village. His English, learned from watching James Bond movies on television,  was good enough to be able to explain various sights to us and give insight into village life.

The highlight for me, had to be the primary school. The children were out playing when we arrived as it was their lunch break. They all stopped doing whatever they had been doing as soon as they saw us. As we crossed their dusty playground they followed, Pied Piper style and when Mike got the camera out their excited giggles got louder, and they formed a group pose ready to have their picture taken. Hearing the commotion outside a teacher came out to join us and she too, wanted to be in the photographs. After the first bout we asked to look at the classroom and all the children rushed to their desks, and posed again.

We were invited into the staff room and the teacher explained that they had over 450 pupils and six members of staff.
We left the children to get on with playtime and continued with our tour.

All the farmers were working using traditional methods and the fields were mainly rice, although we saw lots of wheat laid out in the sun to harden.
The rice was being harvested and it looked like backbreaking work. The rice looked like long dried grass and the farmer grabbed a bunch of stalks at the base, cut them with a scythe and placed each bundle into a large woven pannier. The men carried two at a time, one on each end of a long pole across the shoulders. Backbreaking, as I said and many were able to continue using their mobile phones as they strode along with the load.
We were also shown the playing fields (football and cricket), the secondary school, another mosque and also met numerous members of Bhuran's extended family. His father had died when he was two and so he had been raised by his uncles.

They all welcomed us and we took lots of great photos. Unfortunately as I said earlier the photos will come later as I'm unable to upload them at the moment.

So that, my friends is that. I hope you're enjoying the blog.  I'm aware that the posts are long but as we're not going to be coming this away again, and as the way of life and culture is so different to our own I want to write about it. Thanks for reading,
Ali and Mike
Ps. more photos on Facebook