Before 8 on the morning of the 25th I walked to the Chittagong train station, in time for my train's 8:15 departure. However, I soon learned that the train was delayed until 10. The train actually arrived sometime between 10:30 and 11, and left at 11:30. I had a comfortable seat and enjoyed the trip north, though it was dusty and slow, with lots of stops. We passed steel mills and jute factories north of Chittagong. A train passed us loaded with containers on flat cars. The guy sitting next to me worked for the border patrol and he was interesting to talk to. He bought me lunch. For a long stretch we passed very close to the Indian border. I spotted a border post on a hill less than a mile away. There is lots of Bangladeshi immigration into India, which the Indians do not appreciate.
Darkness fell about 6:30, soon after we had passed the town of Aktama. The train reached Srimangal shortly after 8:30 and I got off there. I figured it wouldn't get to Sylhet until about 11:30. Tired, I found a hotel, had dinner, and went to bed after 11.
After a slow morning I rented a rickety old bike for the day for 300 taka, less than $4. I biked to the train station, crossed the tracks, and headed south and then east through a tea estate. The sky was cloudy, but the day was warm, warm enough for me to convert my trousers into shorts. Bangladesh is the world's tenth largest producer of tea, with the estates in the northeast of the country. Most of the workers are descendants of workers brought in by the British from Bihar, Odisha (formerly known as Orissa), and West Bengal.
I biked through the severely pruned tea bushes of the Finlay Tea Estate. I didn't see any tea plucking, but I did see Hindu shrines here and there and a long line of women with long bamboo poles. I was a little too early for tea plucking. The season runs from March to December. Women were pruning tea bushes with sickles, overseen by a male supervisor. A small guy carrying two big metal water containers on a yoke over his shoulders came along the road and up to the women pruning. One by one they came over for a drink of water out of a metal cup, and then he continued on his way. The workers were friendly, posing for photos. The area is flat (about 250 feet above sea level) and not particularly scenic, especially under cloudy skies.
I continued east through the village of Radhanagar to the Zareen Tea Estate, more scenic with much of the tea growing on little hills. I stopped at the office to ask permission to bike through the estate and was ushered in to see the manager. He had stacks of cash on his desk. Perhaps it was payday. From the office I biked past a tea factory and then biked and walked through the tea covered hills of the estate. It was afternoon now, with the sun coming out at times. I didn't see a lot of workers. One woman I did see was carrying a big bundle of grass on her head. She stopped and showed me her sickle. As I was leaving the estate I saw several pink-clad school girls, probably daughters of tea workers. A little later I came across some Muslim school girls, clad in white. A couple of them posed for a photo and then were embarrassed about it.
I found a little place for lunch about 2 or 2:30 and then biked further east to the village of Doluchara, a village of Tripura people. The Tripura are Hindus and speak their own language. There are several non-Bengali villages in the area. As soon as I parked my bike to walk through the village I met a short, pretty young woman, maybe 20 years old, who introduced herself and told me her name was Momota. She spoke very good English and told me was a NGO worker (partly funded by USAID) heading to a meeting in the village. She was early and suggested we stop for tea, and then insisted on paying for it. She told me her family came from Odisha, in India, but several generations ago, and that she speaks Odiya (the language of Odisha), Bengali, and Hindi. She is studying accounting and needs two more years for her degree.
She invited me to her meeting, on environmental matters, in a mud-walled building. About 15 or 20 Tripura women attended. Most were young, though a few were middle aged and at least one older. One carried an infant while another had a young child with her. They were all very friendly. We all sat in wooden chairs, me next to Momota and the others in a semi-circle around us. Some of the women were sharing the narrow chairs. Momota handled the half hour meeting superbly. She is a very take charge young woman. She introduced me and as the meeting continued explained to me what was going on. They discussed the need to open a bank account and the need to elect a president, among other matters. It was a very well run meeting.
The meeting over, Momota left and I walked through the village and into a lemon tree grove just beyond. The green lemons on the trees were not oval, but long. Some of the lemon trees had little white flowers. I crumpled some of the leaves to get a lemon smell. Nearby pineapples were growing in rows on little hills. I saw some more mud walled houses, with wooden doors and shutters. It was a very pretty area. I crossed a bamboo bridge over a dry watercourse and later followed the dry watercourse under the bamboo bridge. I came to a house with piles of green lemons in front of it. I wandered around the area and then the friendly village until about 5:30 and then biked back to town.
Just outside of town I stopped at a simple war memorial with a signpost saying "Slaughterhouse 1971." (There must be Kurt Vonnegut fans in Bangladesh.) The plaque on it read, "In Memoirs To Our Slaughtered Heroes in 1971."
In town, after dark, I came across a Hindu procession, all women except for a man with a small movie camera filming the procession and a band of musicians with red shirts with big white hearts on the back. I followed them as they went to several small temples, ululating at some of them. They were all very friendly, and happily posed for photos. The band was composed of two drummers, at least one guy with metal maracas, and a very good coronet player.
The next morning after breakfast I met Mark and Kirsty, whom I had met and traveled with in Ladakh, in India, in 2010 and a Portuguese guy named Fernando. They had arrived by train late the night before. The four of us hired a CNG to take us northeast and then south, maybe 20 miles in total, to Madhapur Lake, in a tea estate. A big group of picnickers were there. The lake wasn't much to see, but we walked through the tea estate on dirt paths and through some villages, first north and then west, heading back toward Srimangal. The day was sunnier than the day before, but the sky was hazy. We passed women carrying bundles of firewood on their heads and other carrying bundles of grass on their heads, and again there were women pruning the tea bushes. After maybe a ten mile trek we reached Doluchara village about 4. We walked a bit further to a restaurant where we could get something to drink and then caught a CNG back to town about 5. That night a Muslim ranted on a loudspeaker, making himself annoying till after midnight.
The next morning the four of us had breakfast and then Mark, Kirsty, and I walked to the train station and then beyond to Ramnagar village, a village of Monipuri people, mostly Hindu. We walked all around the friendly village for maybe two hours, taking lots of photographs. Both kids and adults were happy to be photographed, the little boys sometimes aggressive about it. A tall, thin old man with a beard was particularly friendly, as were several middle aged women, and the little girls were particularly nice. One little girl had short curly hair sprinkled with little bits of flowers.
The day was hot and humid and about 2 we walked to a tea shop beyond the village famous for its seven layer tea. We each ordered a glass and there were indeed seven distinct layers of different colored tea. Each layer is supposed to have a distinct flavor, but my palette isn't sophisticated enough to discern the differences. We spent the rest of the afternoon there, meeting some other tourists who showed up, including a British Bangladeshi couple and two Australians originally from Italy. We walked back to town at dusk, reaching a huge open air market near the train station, with fruit, vegetables, fish, and much more.
Darkness fell about 6:30, soon after we had passed the town of Aktama. The train reached Srimangal shortly after 8:30 and I got off there. I figured it wouldn't get to Sylhet until about 11:30. Tired, I found a hotel, had dinner, and went to bed after 11.
After a slow morning I rented a rickety old bike for the day for 300 taka, less than $4. I biked to the train station, crossed the tracks, and headed south and then east through a tea estate. The sky was cloudy, but the day was warm, warm enough for me to convert my trousers into shorts. Bangladesh is the world's tenth largest producer of tea, with the estates in the northeast of the country. Most of the workers are descendants of workers brought in by the British from Bihar, Odisha (formerly known as Orissa), and West Bengal.
I biked through the severely pruned tea bushes of the Finlay Tea Estate. I didn't see any tea plucking, but I did see Hindu shrines here and there and a long line of women with long bamboo poles. I was a little too early for tea plucking. The season runs from March to December. Women were pruning tea bushes with sickles, overseen by a male supervisor. A small guy carrying two big metal water containers on a yoke over his shoulders came along the road and up to the women pruning. One by one they came over for a drink of water out of a metal cup, and then he continued on his way. The workers were friendly, posing for photos. The area is flat (about 250 feet above sea level) and not particularly scenic, especially under cloudy skies.
I continued east through the village of Radhanagar to the Zareen Tea Estate, more scenic with much of the tea growing on little hills. I stopped at the office to ask permission to bike through the estate and was ushered in to see the manager. He had stacks of cash on his desk. Perhaps it was payday. From the office I biked past a tea factory and then biked and walked through the tea covered hills of the estate. It was afternoon now, with the sun coming out at times. I didn't see a lot of workers. One woman I did see was carrying a big bundle of grass on her head. She stopped and showed me her sickle. As I was leaving the estate I saw several pink-clad school girls, probably daughters of tea workers. A little later I came across some Muslim school girls, clad in white. A couple of them posed for a photo and then were embarrassed about it.
I found a little place for lunch about 2 or 2:30 and then biked further east to the village of Doluchara, a village of Tripura people. The Tripura are Hindus and speak their own language. There are several non-Bengali villages in the area. As soon as I parked my bike to walk through the village I met a short, pretty young woman, maybe 20 years old, who introduced herself and told me her name was Momota. She spoke very good English and told me was a NGO worker (partly funded by USAID) heading to a meeting in the village. She was early and suggested we stop for tea, and then insisted on paying for it. She told me her family came from Odisha, in India, but several generations ago, and that she speaks Odiya (the language of Odisha), Bengali, and Hindi. She is studying accounting and needs two more years for her degree.
She invited me to her meeting, on environmental matters, in a mud-walled building. About 15 or 20 Tripura women attended. Most were young, though a few were middle aged and at least one older. One carried an infant while another had a young child with her. They were all very friendly. We all sat in wooden chairs, me next to Momota and the others in a semi-circle around us. Some of the women were sharing the narrow chairs. Momota handled the half hour meeting superbly. She is a very take charge young woman. She introduced me and as the meeting continued explained to me what was going on. They discussed the need to open a bank account and the need to elect a president, among other matters. It was a very well run meeting.
The meeting over, Momota left and I walked through the village and into a lemon tree grove just beyond. The green lemons on the trees were not oval, but long. Some of the lemon trees had little white flowers. I crumpled some of the leaves to get a lemon smell. Nearby pineapples were growing in rows on little hills. I saw some more mud walled houses, with wooden doors and shutters. It was a very pretty area. I crossed a bamboo bridge over a dry watercourse and later followed the dry watercourse under the bamboo bridge. I came to a house with piles of green lemons in front of it. I wandered around the area and then the friendly village until about 5:30 and then biked back to town.
Just outside of town I stopped at a simple war memorial with a signpost saying "Slaughterhouse 1971." (There must be Kurt Vonnegut fans in Bangladesh.) The plaque on it read, "In Memoirs To Our Slaughtered Heroes in 1971."
In town, after dark, I came across a Hindu procession, all women except for a man with a small movie camera filming the procession and a band of musicians with red shirts with big white hearts on the back. I followed them as they went to several small temples, ululating at some of them. They were all very friendly, and happily posed for photos. The band was composed of two drummers, at least one guy with metal maracas, and a very good coronet player.
The next morning after breakfast I met Mark and Kirsty, whom I had met and traveled with in Ladakh, in India, in 2010 and a Portuguese guy named Fernando. They had arrived by train late the night before. The four of us hired a CNG to take us northeast and then south, maybe 20 miles in total, to Madhapur Lake, in a tea estate. A big group of picnickers were there. The lake wasn't much to see, but we walked through the tea estate on dirt paths and through some villages, first north and then west, heading back toward Srimangal. The day was sunnier than the day before, but the sky was hazy. We passed women carrying bundles of firewood on their heads and other carrying bundles of grass on their heads, and again there were women pruning the tea bushes. After maybe a ten mile trek we reached Doluchara village about 4. We walked a bit further to a restaurant where we could get something to drink and then caught a CNG back to town about 5. That night a Muslim ranted on a loudspeaker, making himself annoying till after midnight.
The next morning the four of us had breakfast and then Mark, Kirsty, and I walked to the train station and then beyond to Ramnagar village, a village of Monipuri people, mostly Hindu. We walked all around the friendly village for maybe two hours, taking lots of photographs. Both kids and adults were happy to be photographed, the little boys sometimes aggressive about it. A tall, thin old man with a beard was particularly friendly, as were several middle aged women, and the little girls were particularly nice. One little girl had short curly hair sprinkled with little bits of flowers.
The day was hot and humid and about 2 we walked to a tea shop beyond the village famous for its seven layer tea. We each ordered a glass and there were indeed seven distinct layers of different colored tea. Each layer is supposed to have a distinct flavor, but my palette isn't sophisticated enough to discern the differences. We spent the rest of the afternoon there, meeting some other tourists who showed up, including a British Bangladeshi couple and two Australians originally from Italy. We walked back to town at dusk, reaching a huge open air market near the train station, with fruit, vegetables, fish, and much more.
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