I must admit to being a little afraid of Kolkatta, a city that is famous for its slums and its poverty. Thank you very much Mother Theresa. The famed social worker misguided by her venomous catholic beliefs. Kolkatta is not chaotic, not specially dirty and not at all fearsome. Admittedly I’ve been hanging aroundvast third world cities a bit too much of late to be entirely objective but I find Kolkatta to be tamed and cultured. Idly strolling through the streets I have a constant feeling to be simultaneously in London and Havana – not that I have actually visited those two particular cities. Yellow taxis zoom by direct from the fifties and the decaying imperial architecture discreetly lines the wide avenues. People are playing cricket on the huge swathe of park that eats into the city’s heart. The Victoria memorial rises precociously into the sky – a reminder of colonialism but somehow a fitting tribute to modern India’s own imperial ambitions. The tempo is relaxed and an aura of calm envelops the streetscape. I might have fallen in love…even if it’s not ‘authentic India…

That was Old Dhaka. A world and several centuries away from New Dhaka. It may as well be New York or London, there are prim international schools everywhere, soulless shopping malls lining the wide avenues and streams of young people who reek of western superficiality. I wade through these familiar turbulent streets, I could be on any continent and still I enjoy the faint remnants of Bangladeshi culture in this area. It’s still civilised despite the modernity. Eventually the nameless  generic avenue leads me to the parliament – a monster of a building. An ode to seventies architecture with it’s bold lines and imposing concrete structures, it could be an overgrown arts faculty at any Irish university. Maybe that’s why it appeals to me.

Dhaka is another vast grey expanse, one of the largest cities in the world, in one of the poorest countries in the world – although it’s surprisingly navigable. The railway station empties into the urban jungle where bankers are stealthily taking control, there are high-rise banks everywhere in this district. People here aren’t quite as friendly as those I met in the countryside but still genuinely amicable people – there’s something terribly civilised about Bangladesh, I’m not sure what it is. Maybe it’s because it’s less westernised than Nepal or India, maybe it’s because of its muslim culture that people actually see a merit in treating each other with dignity. My theory is that it’s the absence of the caste system. India is crippled by its caste system and federal system that divides the peoples into classes, ethnicities and tribes – disdain for other people is always festering beneath the surface. Nepal is much less ruled by its caste system – the maoists are trying to get rid of it altogether to give them their dues, but there are still undercurrents that bubble to the surface sometimes. Bangladesh is just poor. Poor and muslim, the only things I knew about the country before going there, and it does exactly what it says on the tin. People are so tolerant, despite the poverty, despite the scars of the British colonial times, despite the wounds of the partition from India, despite the terrifying inhumanity of the Liberation war from Pakistan.

India is a very wealthy country compared to Nepal or Bangladesh, some of the world’s poorest people live there, but also some of the wealthiest and the heaving middle-class that rival the west for fickleness and superficiality. There aren’t really wealthy Npalis or Bangladeshis in the same way. Everyone is poor in their own way, and yet there is less inequality, still a frightening inequality but less all the same. Maybe that’s why people are nicer, friendlier and happier than their tormented Indian cousins – maybe I’m just fallin into favourite habits of making sweeping generalisations

This time the historic monument was in a convenient location in a village called Puthia, half an hour from Rajshahi, allowing me ample time to stop and play badminton with some teenagers as I waded through the overgrown pathway on the way to the village from the main road. And when the village finally did reveal itself the decadence of the old Bengal royalty in all its decaying splendour came to light. There seemed to be two of everything: two palaces, two Shiva temples, two Govinda temples and anything else you can imagine, all intricately decorated from floor to ceiling in terracotta depicting Hindu mythology. Compared to the other sites I’ve visited these were in excellent condition, even though they’d been ravished by the Pakistani army during Bangladesh’s Liberation war. History was everywhere in this village, interwoven with the daily lives of the people: herding their goats through once palatial grounds, scrubbing their clothes on the tiles of the queen’s swimming pool, sipping tea under the arches of an octagonal temple. The main Rajbari (palace) was now being used as a college, and a blood-red Che Guevara curtain was draped across one of the front doors. Encroaching jungle, columns pockmarked by shrapnel, an energetic youth and revolutionary symbols – a throbbing atmosphere soaked in history and a sense of consequence.

Rajshashi is a university town on the east bank of the Padma River, that’s the mighty Ganges to you and me, and Ganga to the Indians. It’s verging on cosmopolitan by Bangladeshi standards, what with all them students and their likes, but I’m still painfully exotic. I spent the afternoon strolling along the banks of the Ganges, which is normally about 2.5 km wide at this point but now it’s the dry season most of the riverbed is exposed and it’s reduced to a few gently flowing streams. The nut hawkers were busy roasting their nuts over sand, young couples were mischievously holding hands and most of us were enjoying the gentle breeze as the sun was starting to set over the Indian plains. Entertainment was provided in the form of a domestic dispute involving a man in his underpants wildly flailing his arms and his wife giving him a good thrashing with her shawl, the assembled crowd only to eager to give their devious input.

At the train station (a truly wonderful modern building by the way) I fumbled my way through buying a ticket to Dhaka and as usual made several acquaintances in the process, one of whom turned out to be a rather kind detective called Rokon (there’s an alarming trend here with the security forces) – a good chat and several cups of tea later I was on a rickshaw heading back to his place to meet his wife and child and eat a delicious supper – as one does after dark with random strangers you meet at the train station. It was indeed a true privilege to be invited to a Bangladeshi home and to spend some time with genuinely nice people.

The museum and ruins at Paharpur isn’t the easiest place in the world to reach but it’s well worth the visit. Two buses and a rickshaw from Bogra I found myself on a narrow road surrounded by banana trees when a giant pyramid came into sight, or at least that’s what it looked like. They are the ruins of a monastery and temple that have been home to Hindus, Buddhists and Jains. There isn’t a whole lot left intact but the main temple is stacked several storeys high (like a pyramid) and there are intricate terracotta tiles adorning all the sides. Browsing said tiles, I turned my back to suddenly find myself encircled by a dozen soldiers fully armed and inspecting me just as I had been inspecting the ruins. Oh, well, hello – time for a chat then, I’m starting to get used to this although in any other country I might have caved under the pressure of military interrogation. They offered their services to me several times, if they could help in anyway – hmmm now what could I do with a team of uniformed men at my disposal?… – well I considered asking them for a lift but then decided against and left thanking them very much for their hospitality…them waving like giddy teenagers. I made plenty of new friends on the bus back to chat and drink tea with anyway – another day well spent.

Living in Kathmandu one can experience first hand the effects of climate change. Nepal’s primary electricity source is hydroelectricity: renewable, clean and carbon neutral but unfortunately renewable energy sources like this have already fallen victim to global warming, due to changing weather patterns there is less snow in the Himalaya this year and therefore less water in Nepal’s mighty rivers (despite increased melting of the glaciers), not enough to meet the energy supply of the capital and therefore power cuts have been increased from two hours a day to six hours a day. Nepal’s environmentally friendly solutions are thwarted by western greed, ignorance and apathy as people are forced to run petrol driven generators that churn filthy fumes into the air.

The Himalaya supply water to around one third of the world’s population: most of China, India and Bangladesh (as well as Nepal, Bhutan, Pakistan) and shrinking glaciers and decreases in precipitation during the dry season threaten not only the electricity supply but also the access to water for these peoples. In Bangladesh the government has banned plastic bags, the vehicles in the vast city of Dhaka are banned from running on petrol and instead are driven on the more environmentally friendly LPG (liquid petroleum gas) or other alternatives – but to what avail if the country is doomed to an underwater fate because of the west?

Nepal is home to some 30 million people, Bangladesh is the eight largest country in the world and the most densely populated with around 150 million inhabitants whose fate and that of tens of third world countries lies in our hands.

American kowtowing to vested interests and corporate greed, the blinkered Chinese worship of the consumer society and European unwillingness to accept responsibility will be the death of us all. Copenhagen was more than a failure it was probably the greatest tragedy in history – never before has a species knowingly chosen its own extinction. Nothing short of a radical shift in economic policy and an acknowledgement of global social responsibility would have been a satisfactory outcome and that was never on the cards. A social and economic revolution on a global scale is the only means of saving the planet and implementing the necessary measures required to stem climate change. Everyone must take action individually and collectively and every government must make the tough decisions that prioritise the future of the people. If they fail to do so then citizens have a duty to take to the streets and cripple the apathetic establishment.

But what signals are necessary to compel people into action, have we not seen enough evidence already? Perhaps we are suffering from a collective denial so great that we are truly blind or is there an invisible greater Darwinian force guiding us to extinction in order to preserve the rest of the planet?

The recent cold spell in Europe is nothing compared to the weather they will experience when (not if) the gulf stream is stopped in its tracks by climate change, I just hope it happens sooner rather than later in order to give the rest of the world a chance of survival.

The relaxing walk along the unending and meandering crenelations  made the trip worthwhile – although my journey there is another long story altogether. I obligingly stopped to pose for photos with a few Bangladeshis, I’m obviously as much of an attraction as one of their most historic sites and slowly made my way back to the main road through the cabbage fields and banana trees.

Arriving back into Bogra town I heard a male chorus of chants and for a second thought football until I realised it was something much more familiar – a protest. Yes, I was downstream of a couple of thousand irate men (and very definitely no women) in traditional muslim dress shouting Allah-u-akhbar from the depths of their lungs. Now, not having a clue as to what they were protesting, and not wanting to take the chance of being mistaken for an American as they frantically swept their way down the street I deftly sidestepped through a conveniently located nearby gate into the calm oasis of a park and watched as they strode by. The Bangladeshis in the park looked equally bewildered by the parade although I have to say some of the slogans were actually quite catchy. As I rounded the corner to my hostel they had come almost full circle and were now gathering outside the building next door to where I was staying. Well, at least I could watch from the balcony I thought, which is exactly what I did. Some rousing speeches were given, with what I deemed to be ample sprinkling of the words Bangladesh and Allah before the crowd dispersed in a rather merry fashion to return to whatever it is one does on Fridays, which is the sabbath here. Actually I do like a good demonstration, I should have joined in.

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.