Sikkim: Finding Shangri-La (November 7-17, 2008)

Sikkim is in northeastern India, nestled between the Nepal and Tibet borders. The main language spoken here is Nepali and most of the population originates from either Tibet or Nepal. The state has a unique identity when compared to other parts of India that might be considered more quintessentially "Indian." One Sikkimese man I spoke to who worked in the government tourism office had an eye-opening experience when he studied tourism at a university in south India. When his classmates asked him where he was from and he replied "Sikkim," they accused him of being non-Indian. Many had not even heard of the state.

Indeed, I found Sikkim to be a Shangri-La compared to "India." The air was cool, crisp and clean, the mountain views awe-inspiring. Khangchendzonga (kanchenjunga; 8598 m), the world's third-highest mountain, straddles the Sikkim-Nepal border. The Sikkim Tourism Department markets the state as an eco-tourism destination with good reason. Plastic bags are banned (though this was true in several other Indian cities, and paper bags made of reused newspapers were common throughout the country), and I even saw anti-smoking signs. Best of all, the people were among the most welcoming and helpful I met during my entire trip.

Since Sikkim has such a unique history, I have herein transcribed the summary of its origins from my Lonely Planet guidebook: "Lepchas, the 'original' Sikkimese, migrated here from Assam or Myanmar (Burma) in the 13th century, followed by Bhutias (Khambas) who fled from religious strife in Tibet during the 15th century. The Nyingmapa form of Mahayana Buddhism arrived with three refugee Tibetan lamas who bumped into each other at the site of modern-day Yuksome. Here in 1641 they crowned Phuntsog Namgyal as first chogyal (king) of Sikkim. The capital later moved to Rabdentse (near Pelling), then to Tumlong (now hidden ruins behind Phodong) before finally settling in Gangtok. At their most powerful the chogyals' rule encompassed eastern Nepal, upper Bengal and Darjeeling. However, much territory was later lost during wars with Bhutan and Nepal, and throughout the 19th century large numbers of Hindu Nepali migrants arrived, eventually coming to form a majority of Sikkim's population. In 1835 the British bribed Sikkim's chogyal to cede Darjeeling to the East India Company. Tibet, which regarded Sikkim as a vassal state, raised strong objections. In 1849, amid rising tensions, the British annexed the entire area between the present Sikkim border and the Ganges plains, repulsing a counterinvasion by Tibet in 1886...Sikkim's last chogyal ruled from 1963 to 1975, when he was deposed by the Indian government after a revolt by Sikkim's Nepali population. China has never officially recognised India's claim to Sikkim, so to bolster pro-Delhi sentiment the Indian government has made Sikkim a tax-free zone, pouring crores of rupees into road building, electricity, water supplies and local industry--including liquor production. As a result Sikkim is surprisingly affluent by Himalayan standards--and rates of alcoholism are the highest in the country. Meanwhile the Sikkim Democratic Front (SDF) state government has earned a reputation as the most environmentally aware in India, banning plastic bag and fining people who pollute streams" (569-570).

North from Kolkata (November 1-7, 2008)

I take the bus, about a 10 hour ride, from Dhaka to Kolkata on November 1. I decide to rest for a few days in Kolkata and take advantage of the cheap accommodation, food and cheap, reliable Internet. Kolkata is probably the cheapest city I visit in India.

I again stay at Hotel Maria and I am elated to run into Christiaan and Magda and catch up. Raphaella has already moved on to Delhi to meet her boyfriend. It turns out Magda got an amoeba and had to wait in Dhaka for her test results and to get antibiotics. Luckily, she doesn't feel sick. Unfortunately, she was unable to get access into the ship breaking yards. Christiaan is taking a break in Kolkata before he purchases a bike and starts riding south to Sri Lanka.

In Kolkata I meet a French traveler, Pierrique. His English is only slightly better than my high school French, and so I try to revive my French for the next few days. As we are both heading North, we plan to take the train together.

After he has seen Kolkata, we take a day train from Kolkata to New Jalpaiguri on November 5. I have the lower side bunk, which is closest to the busy aisle. This train is the busiest train I have been on--the aisle is just like an Indian street, with sellers and beggars coming through all day. I hope I never forget the way the sellers yell out their product, repeating it as they walk down the aisle, so that the words blend ("samosa-samosas-samosas-amosas"). Their voices were projected from the depths of their chest, producing a solid advertisement that could be sustained all day, not unlike the projection of stage actors. The train is their theatre. And I a tired audience member, just wanting to sleep, but interrupted by the performance so close to my face and body. The chai wallahs' vocal projection is especially impressive. Something about the word "chai" seems to work better than "puri" or "samosa" or "veg biryani," though the projection of these words was also applaudable.

We arrive at the train station in New Jaipalguri and two of Pierrique's friends are waiting for us. We take a short auto-rickshaw ride to Siliguri where they already have reserved hotel rooms. We wander around town in the evening, and it seems there is nothing special here for travelers, except for the fact that it is the end of the train line and the starting point for traveling to Darjeeling and Sikkim, both of which we are heading to.

I feel I am getting sick and it worsens the next day. I am convinced I have strep throat and decide I will go to the doctor, telling Pierrique and his friends to go ahead without me so I can rest if need be. My doctor's visit costs around US$5.00 and the antibiotics he recommends are under US$5.00. For the first two or three minutes, he asked me to describe my symptoms. Then he asked me about Obama. "Did you vote for Obama? Why not McCain? Why did you vote for him? Do you really think he'll bring about change?" This conversation ensued for about 10 minutes. I thought maybe he was seeing if any of my symptoms changed, or revealed themselves. But really he was just interested in what was happening on the other side of the world. He was a good doctor, and not afraid to tell me this when I asked too many questions, making him think I was doubting his ability. But really I was just doing the same research I would have done with a US doctor.

I go to the Sikkim tourism office and get my free, 15-day permit to enter Sikkim. Permits are required because Sikkim borders Tibet and both India and China need to regulate illegal border-crossing.

I decide to stay one more night to recover from my fever and feel a bit better before heading to Gangtok, Sikkim, where it will be somewhat cooler.

Dhaka, one last time (October 27-31, 2008)

Mizan takes me to his parents' house in Khulna to spend the night. The next day we take a bus to Jhalakathi to pick up Shobnam and catch the launch back to Dhaka. It is nice to see Shobnam again, and she seems happy that she was able to spend so much time with her family. We catch the launch that night and arrive early morning.

I spend the next week resting at Mizan and Shobnam's apartment. Mizan is at work all day and Shobnam tends to cooking and cleaning for about half the day, so I entertain myself.

I am sick once again. I finish reading my book, The Three Mistakes of My Life by Chetan Bhagat, which was at the time a best-selling novel in India. It is about three young Gujarati men--one who is passionate about cricket, one who is passionate about religion, and one who is passionate about business--who open a cricket supply store together. The cricket aficionado starts coaching a young Muslim boy who shows much potential. When there is a train bombing and Hindus die, a conflict develops between the religious boy, who shows loyalty to his uncle's Hindu nationalist political organization, and the other boys. The business-oriented boy's devotion to business rather than people only increases the schism. What ensues is a showdown between the uncle and the boys as he tries to kill the young Muslim cricket prodigy...

I also indulge in lots of television viewing. I catch up on the election by watching the BBC or CNN. I also watch English movies and TV shows. Sometimes I switch to Hindi or Bangla music videos or programs. At these times, Shobnam takes a break from cooking and cleaning and sits by me, translating and explaining. I gather that Bangladeshis are extremely romantic people, for their singers' songs are always gushing with expressions of love. There is a show in which Tagore's rabindrasangit (Tagore song) are performed. I watch the Bangladesh national television channel and see commercials urging people to vote the Sundarbans and Cox's Bazaar as the new seven wonders of the world.

Shobnam cooks me wonderful food. In addition to the bhat (rice) and subji (vegetables), she often makes me a sweet--either Shemai or Payish. Shemai uses vermicelli, while Payish uses rice. Both involve boiled milk and sugar, sometimes infused with cardamom. Payish might have a few added raisins or cashews. It's my favorite, but both are great. It seems I have lost weight over the course of my month in Bangladesh, and Mizan and Shobnam have made it their goal to fatten me up again before I go. So Shobnam is always trying to get me to eat more.

At night when Mizan comes home, we have dinner and I watch Mizan and Shobnam feed each other with their hands, all the while arguing about how much Shobnam eats. They indulge in meat and fish, and don't understand why I only eat subji. After, we watch more television or talk about Bangladesh and America. Mizan is struggling to decide if he should work abroad again and support his parents, or stay in Bangladesh with Shobnam. Clearly, it's a hard decision between two different duties he has. It seems people criticized him the first time he came back to be with his wife. This is something most Americans don't have to think about because their family structure is different, as is their financial status.

On Mizan's day off, we venture across town to Gulshan and see his new office. He is working to establish a call center. His boss insists we celebrate the new office and takes us out to Pizza Hut. I am hesitant, but actually it turns out to be great. The ingredients and taste are just like in the US. The only difference is that in Bangladesh, Pizza Hut is marketed as a high-class restaurant rather than a dirty fast-food joint as in the states.

I finally feel better just as my visa is about to expire. It is time for me to go back to India. Mizan buys me a bus ticket across the border. Shobnam says, "If there is anything we did wrong, anything to upset you, please forgive us." This is Bangladeshi hospitality. I tell her, "no, everything was perfect. I did not get sick because of you. I am a farm chicken." She begs, "Please remember us." It's something I've heard Bangladeshis ask over and over again. I tell her, "of course. How could I forget?"

From Dhaka to Khulna by Rocket (October 22-26, 2008)

The next day, Christiaan, Magda, Raphaella and I meet at Christiaan's hotel in the Old City. We take a "van" (a bicycle pulling a flat wooden surface used for transporting goods or people) to Shadarghat port and find the Rocket that will take us to Khulna. We share two second-class cabins, I with Magda and Christiaan with Raphaella. It is a restful trip, and I go to sleep early. We are still on the boat for most of the next day and I simply sit, gazing out at the calm water, watching green leaves and twigs float by and photographing the occasional fishing boat. At one point, a man from deck class comes into the second-class area to talk with us. He is so excited to be talking with us. He is the man who presents us with the acronym for BANGLADESH I mentioned in my introduction. He shows us his wife and Raphaella plays with his baby. The staff try to tell him to go back to his class, but we insist that it is okay. At night, a little girl from a lower class seat comes and tries to teach me some Bangla words. "Brishty," she keeps saying. I later realize this means rain. At other times I wander around the boat aimlessly, seeing what I can find. I spend a short time at the front answering questions of Bangladeshis: "My name is Jenni. As in Jennifer. Yes, like Jennifer Lopez. I am from America. My job is in the NGO sector. Well, really non-profit. But that's like NGO." Magda can't handle all the questions, but I am more patient and show no signs of perturbation. But I can't take it for long and return to my cabin area.

We arrive in Khulna the next night and find a hotel listed in our guidebook, Society Hotel. It is cheap: about 70 taka per night. Magda is impressed with the cleanliness and the mosquito nets. I'm a little bit harder to please. Magda points out a cockroach and I get scared. But she likes the little creatures. She tells me that as a kid, she had a pet cockroach ordered from Madagascar, and when it died she preserved it in picture frame like a biologist's specimen. From this point on, whenever I see a cockroach this is what I recall: the pleasure such a horrid creature was able to bring my friend Magda.

We realize quickly that a day trip to the Sundarbans is not possible. Raphaella's Bangladeshi visa is already expired so she needs to cross into India the next day, paying a bribe to get past immigration. The Sundarbans tour is, furthermore, not in our price range. Christiaan decides to go with Raphaella back to Kolkata. I am once again not feeling well, so I decide to take rest for the day. Magda heads out on a day trip to Bagerhat to see Shait Gumbad Mosque.

The next day, Magda leaves, determined to see other parts of Bangladesh, and heads east, back to Dhaka and then to Chittagong Division. As with most destinations in Bangladesh, it is necessary to first go through hectic Dhaka rather than directly to the destination, because of the obstacles of waterways and lack of transportation routes. She wants to go to Chittagong to see the ship-breaking yards along its north shore. A controversial industry, ship-breaking threatens public health, the environment and the rights and lives of workers. Earlier, I had met a Belgian photojournalist at the Indian Embassy in Dhaka documenting this human rights issue. His other assignment was acid-burning, in which women are usually the victims and men the perpetrators, attacking because of the woman's refusal of an affair or sexual advance.

The day Magda leaves, I am feeling a little better and decide to see the Shait Gumbad Mosque in nearby Bagerhat. According to my Lonely Planet guidebook, the mosque was built in 1459, the same year Khan Jahan died. It is "the largest and most magnificent traditional mosque in the country. Shait Gumbad means 'the Temple with 60 Domes'-a misnomer given that there are actually 77." Based on the description, I am eager to visit. But upon arriving, I am disappointed, and my impression of Bangladesh as a country devoid of spectacular architecture and artifacts is again confirmed. The mosque is nice, but after having traveled in the Middle East and India, it simply doesn't compare to other sites. Still, I am glad I came. I take a picture of the photogenic old man who runs the toilets and washing area. He is overjoyed to see his photo on my digital camera.

Mizan calls my mobile and suggests I come back to Dhaka. This way I will be able to take rest and feel better before heading to India. Also, I will be able to see his wife Shobnam again and wish her a proper goodbye, as she has been at her parents' in Jhalakathi. Initially I do not want to take the boat all the way back to Dhaka when I am so close to crossing back into Kolkata. But he insists and picks me up the next night.

Village Visit, near Faridpur District (October 21, 2008)

The next day, Mizan takes me to his grandfather's village because we have been invited to an important meeting of the local cooperative society. We get there by taking a bus, a ferry and another bus.

The cooperative society is a group of men from the village who pool funds and ideas to improve village life. Mizan's older brother, a physician's assistant, is active in the cooperative society. Their biggest outcome has been a fishery. The day of our visit is the inauguration of a new structure to be used as a meeting place and office. They have also invited a political representative of the district.

When we arrive, Mizan and I are instructed to sit at the front of the new structure, in front of growing crowd of what comes to be about 50 men--or 100 eager eyes. I sit between Mizan and the politician who has been invited, and in front of a sign upon which our names have been printed. We are all asked to speak--again, an impromptu speech! This one is, however, less intimidating than yesterday's, as I'm sure the standard of English is lower among this audience of village men, and no one has been given the impression that I am any sort of expert on development. My speech was short but sincere: I congratulated the men on their new structure, told them how welcomed I felt in Bangladesh and how happy I was to experience beautiful village life as an escape from Dhaka. Mizan and the politician also speak, but I cannot recall the content. Something was said about not letting divisions destroy the productivity of the cooperative society.

After the ceremony, we have a locally-cooked lunch (again, only bhat and subji for me). We then visit the fishery. I am offered a local sweet, which tastes like a mixture of milk, butter and sugar. We also visit Mizan's family, including his uncle who is very sick and confined to bed.

Mizan and I take another boat ride. He says he feels different in the village than he does in the city. The air is clean and quiet, and the pace is slower. Nonetheless, this is only the second or third time he has been to his grandfather's village. He works six days a week, long hours. And getting to the village requires two bus rides with a ferry ride in between.

On the way back to Dhaka, we stop at Mizan's aunt's house in Faridpur. It was she who nursed him when he was young, as his mother was preoccupied with his sick brother. She is very emotional and scolds Mizan for not having visited earlier. They haven't seen each other in years. She serves us dinner, filling our plates to make sure we have enough to eat. After we leave, we receive a call from her. She is upset because she forgot to offer Mizan a sweet (which he was too full to eat anyway). This is Bangladeshi family life; this is Bangladeshi love.

Meeting Shilpi in Brahmanbaria (October 20, 2008)

As was previously mentioned, one of my objectives in traveling to Bangladesh was to meet my uncle Mike's sponsor daughter, Shilpi. He is currently giving her financial support so that she can get a good high school education at a boarding school in Brahmanbaria (Chittagong Division), a small district in east-central Bangladesh. Mizan and I take a day trip from Dhaka to visit her at the school. Her father, a village doctor, has also come for the day from his village.

We meet with the principal, who is effusively enthusiastic about the effectiveness of his institution. He takes me on a tour of the classroom facilities and dormitories. Each time he sees a student, he poses questions to them in English, "How do you like it here? What is your favorite part of the education?" I feel bad for the students, who are obviously afraid of him and nervous about speaking English. Often, they reply that their favorite of the school's values is "discipline." Then, he makes them ask questions of me: "What is your name? Where are you from? How old are you?" they ask, quietly and with trepidation.

Shilpi is just as shy, if not more than the other students. She is a special case at the school, as they made an exception for her and allowed her to enter later, in class 9, rather than starting with the rest of the students in middle school. She seems to be adjusting well and making friends, though it must be difficult for her to come from her small village and fit in here. She is so quiet and barely articulates a conversation with me about my family and Mike. Yet, I can tell that if she weren't so shy, she would show me that she has learned a sufficient amount of English in a very short time. Despite our limited conversation, I can tell from her smile, bright eyes and soft presence that Shilpi is a sweet, sweet child. I am so happy to have met her.

After the school tour, the principal makes me speak to a group of about 20 teachers at the school. Mike has told him that I taught English in Hong Kong (in actuality I was only an English tutor), so he is under the incorrect impression that I am a teacher. The teachers each introduce themselves and their subject, standing when they speak to me. I insist that they do not need to stand. Then the principal asks me to give a lecture on my teaching philosophy. I make something up about the importance of creating opportunities for critical thinking and questioning. In language instruction, I note the importance of conversation practice as well as written practice for students who may be too shy. I cannot think of anything else to say. Then the principal asks me to sing a song for the teachers, as I have a background in music (instrumental music, however). Mizan has been asking me to sing for him all along, and I have refused. The children at the orphanage and Shobnam's sister have also asked me to sing. This is Bangladeshi culture. For some reason, I cannot remember the words to any songs beyond maybe the introductory verse. I squeak out the beginning of Cat Steven's "The Wind." Then, the principal introduces a young female student who sings two songs beautifully. The audience is moved, and I am told the songs are about the freedom fighters who fought in the liberation war.

After this ordeal and a lunch of bhat (rice) and subji (vegetables), Mizan and I take Shilpi and her father to a nearby Hindu temple, as they are Hindu. Then it is time to part. Shilpi's father tells me, "You are family. Mike is my brother and you are my daughter."

Mizan and I walk to the nearby lake and search out a canoe to rent. He bargains with some local boys and we relax on the water for some time before catching a bus back to hectic Dhaka.