Bogra Boogy

On Wednesday I decided it was time to leave the obscurity of Rangpur and head further south in search of some historical stimulation. Bangladeshi style I was promptly shunted onto a random bus as soon as I arrived at what passes for a bus station in these parts and had uttered the name of my destination: Bogra. This was actually a very comfortable coach with oceans of legroom; a concept that I thought had failed to reach the subcontinent. It turned out that the bus wasn’t actually going to Bogra, just passing by but I guess they figured an exorbitantly wealthy man like myself wouldn’t settle for a local bus. I had a good old chat with the bus conductor, he could only speak Hindi and Bengali, triple-checking that he would actually let me off in Bogra. Interestingly enough, on Bangladeshi busses unaccompanied women sit at the front and married ones sit on the inside of their husbands in the window seat – the first real sign of any kind of oppression of women that I’ve noticed – they have afterall a female prime minister and one of her main rivals is also a woman, albeit that they both come from corrupt dynasties – it seems to be a trend in South Asia, thinking of Indira Gandhi and Benazir Bhutto and whatsherface in Sri Lanka.

Anyhow, I was dropped off at the bus terminal on Bogra’s bypass and gracefully perched myself on a rickshaw to be taken into town. First impressions of Bogra were that it seemed a bit more fun than Rangpur but not exactly charming. Descending in the main square I ran the rickshaw gauntlet and made it to my abode of choice. The darling man with buckled teeth, stained blood red from chewing paan, beamed at me and despite not speaking any English quickly found me a room. I set off for the Nawab Bari, a kind of Bangladeshi stately home, which turned out to be the most random place I have been in a long time. The mansion was complete with eerie mannequins in period costume engaged in various day to day activities, and displays of various items including some rather good but unexplained contemporary art. I was of course accosted by various people as I wandered around, including a security guard who really would love a visa to ”my country” – not that he actually knew where my country was – I fobbed him off by giving him my (real) e-mail address. Then there was the group of young men and their father who were altogether very curious and tried their best but the conversation died due to my lack of any understanding of Bengali. A few allah-hu-akhbars later and we said goodbye. The gardens of the house were full of equally eclectic amusements, including some caged monkeys (what’s the point when wild ones roam the streets freely?). Next-door was the psychedelic zoo, where all exhibits were cast in concrete and many of the animals frozen in rather odd poses. I returned to the hostel and sat on the balcony watching the world go by with the three men who worked there. I’m really starting to feel the pressure to get married; I get so many sympathetic gazes when I say I am single.