1000 Days of Spring: Travelogue of a hitchhiker

by Tomislav Perko

  “Don’t be scared of their hospitality,” Keith advised me when talking about the people I was going to visit in Kushtia. He gave me the phone number of one of them and explained how to find him. “When you get out at the bus stop, take a rickshaw and head for the Lalon Shah temple. Once you get there, give him a call. Abohelito is the only one who speaks English, but that shouldn’t worry you.”

  “Welcome,” Abohelito, my new best friend and translator, greeted me in his bad English. “This is Boss.”

  I shook hands with a proud man with a dark moustache on his equally dark Bangladeshi face, dressed in a big brown blanket and the traditional lungi, a large colourful piece of fabric similar to the Western long skirt. He held my hand in his unusually long and, smiling shyly, said something.

  “What did he say?” I asked Abohelito.

  “He said that you have unbelievably soft hands,” he replied.

  We all laughed and went to the office.

  The office was a colourful two-floor building, full of empty rooms that would supposedly soon be transformed into the headquarters of the Boss’s company. He owned fields where he grew all sorts of fruits and vegetables, many shops with clothes, musical instruments, souvenirs; he had more than a thousand workers. They led me to a room that had some pieces of furniture and told me that it was mine. There was a large mattress on the floor covered with clean sheets and warm blanket. Their big eyes were wide open waiting for my reaction. When I smiled widely and put the backpack next to what was, given the situation, possibly the most luxurious bed ever, they shouted a couple of words as a sign of approval.

  I joined them in the other room where a bunch of people were sitting or kneeling on the mats, which covered the concrete floor, waiting to meet one of the rare strangers in their village.

  I shook hands with each and every one of them and sat between Abohelito and the Boss, feeling the curious eyes of the people gathered there on me. A few of them held strange instruments in their hands and waited patiently.

  Boss took a one-stringed instrument made of some sort of a pumpkin and two pieces of bamboo between which the string was placed, and played the first note with his index finger: that marked the beginning of the concert.

  “These are the famous Baul musicians,” Abohelito whispered, “all the songs you’ll be hearing are played in honour of one of the holiest man in this area, Lalon Shah, who is buried here, in Kushtia.”

  He translated the lyrics for me: there was a lot of mockery of nationalism, social division, hierarchy, castes and racism. Lalon sounded like a man who should be followed and even now, after few hundred years, songs should be sung in his honour.

  People who weren’t singing or playing had two functions. One group was in charge of serving food and drinks, while the second group prepared a mixture of a familiar green plant and dried tobacco and put it in chillum, which I already knew from my trip to the south of Spain, to the hippy village.

  I neglected the musician and delicious food for a while and concentrated on observing a new way of preparing chillum. They used a small wooden board and a small knife with which they chopped a small ball made of ganja and dried tobacco leaves. When the mixture was done they took dried coconut, took out a few threads out of it, burnt them and put them in the chillum which they afterwards pressed it to their forehead, dedicated it to Lalon and inhaled through a thin layer of fabric.

  Chillums were passed from one person to another, the music grew more intense and louder and the food even more delicious. People got up, raised their hands up in the air shouting the timeless verses, issuing an invitation to the celebration of life and joy.

  Boss gave me his instrument, after which the others practically fell into rapture. I awkwardly touched the string with my index finger and with every note that I got right I felt as if I had scored in a match in the Champions League. I felt special, as if I had found my long lost family, like so many times before.

  Even though we had different skin colour, and our religions, clothing style, language and way of smoking were different, we were still like brothers in every possible sense of the word. I’d hugged more people during that evening than on a regular night out in Zagreb with friends when we would get drunk. Men there weren’t afraid of another man’s touch or hug, something that was so wonderfully brotherly.

  “It’s a gift for you,” Boss gesticulated when I tried to return to him the instrument he’d lent to me.

  “Donnobad,”[19] I replied with the only word I’d learnt, bowing my head as a sign of respect.

  “Ektara,” he said pointing to the instrument and letting me know its name.

  I nodded, gave him another look to show my gratefulness and went to my comfortable room to take a rest from the impressive day that was behind me. Abohelito accompanied me to my room, checking if I needed anything else.

  “No, thank you,” I said for the zillionth time that day and shook his hand.

  “Wow,” his eyes opened widely, “Boss was right, you really do have soft hands.”

  Day 739.

  I snuck out of my small room, watching that no one would notice me, and took a left turn when I got out on the street having decided to spend at least part of the day in peace in quiet, in the company of me, myself and I.

  I hadn’t had a single moment of peace since I arrived to Kushtia. Keith was right, I was a bit scared by their hospitality. At the beginning of the each day one of my friends would enter my room with a washbowl full of water, which they used to wash my hands, and a tray full of fresh fruit, a couple of rotis[20], some kind of a soup and delicious and fat sweets, all of which he would watch me eat. After breakfast we would go for a walk through the village or on the Boss’s estate; they gave me a few lungis and a gamcha, a thick piece of fabric that could be used as a handkerchief, towel, scarf or as a headband, as gifts. Wherever we went we prepared chillum and we prepared so many of them that for the first time in my life I actually had too much. From the early morning, during the day, until the night I always had someone next to me, even when I had to go to the toilet there was always someone standing a few meters away from me, watching and taking care that everything was alright, making sure that at least I had water since there wasn’t any toilet paper.

  They were really kind and friendly, they never allowed me to pay for anything, but still, after a few days of this royal treatment I wanted to be on my own. Since I knew that I wouldn’t be able to explain that to them I decided to sneak out and do all the explaining after.

  I started walking to the village Shilaidaha, which apart from Lalon’s tomb in Kushtia, was the main tourist attraction in that part of the country. There was the estate of Rabindranath Tagore, the first Asian Nobel prize winner whose literary opus was strongly influenced by Baul musicians. In fact Tagore had a big role in spreading the teaching of Lalon Shah around the world.

  Halfway there I hopped into a rickshaw and played the avoiding games. Just as my driver skilfully avoided other vehicles, I, similarly, avoided the aroma of his body, which was carried by the wind straight into my nostrils.

  I observed the greenery around me, rice fields and hardworking workers in them, banana trees and their large leaves, palm trees, small lakes where women washed their clothes, kids who were pushing bike tires with a stick on the dusty roads, cow dung drying in the morning sun and then being used as fuel.

  Those beautiful villages were the birthplace of many workers in the textile factories I’d seen a few days before when visiting the slums of Dhaka. They left their villages and moved to the larger cities, they left the lifestyle of their ancestors, everything, so they could search for a (better paid) job so they could feed their extended families.

  Anyway, life surrounded by that greenery appeared much more natural, healthier and happier than that in Dhaka. However, even those areas were affected by sadness and misery, especially when during the rainy season the rivers were swollen, the cattle was killed, the crops ruined, something that deeply impacted the lives of those people wh
o depended on a couple of gardens and heads of cattle.

  Tourism could maybe fix the situation a little, if a conscientious and sustainable approach was applied – said the student of economics speaking from within me. Judging by the experience so far and the absence of foreigners, it was no wonder one of the tourist slogans was, “Come to Bangladesh before the tourists do”.

  I walked around Tagore’s beautiful estate and went back to my hosts, who were about to alarm the whole village because of my unexpected absence.

  Just like every other day, we occupied a room in a village shack and enjoyed the evening beside the bonfire, intoxicating aromas, the sounds of the ektara, the dotara[21] and a couple of drums. Abohelito wasn’t with us so my communication with the others was based on my well-practiced body gestures.

  “Shotto bol, shupothe chol, ore amar mon – il”[22], a grey old man was whispering the words; he seemed to be the wisest, the most experienced and the most respected one.

  He pronounced the last two-letter word slightly louder than the previous verses. The room appeared to be filled with an invisible energy, everybody and everything kept quiet, even the crackling of the fire.

  As soon as he pronounced the word, he looked at me intensely as if he was trying to tell me something. Without thinking, without hesitation I repeated after him, a bit louder, “Il”.

  I discerned the smile in his eyes and the silence of the people who were waiting for the continuation with great tension.

  “IL,” the old man said once again, louder than me.

  “IIIL,” I replied a little louder, not paying attention to the others, hypnotized by the intense look in his eyes.

  “IIIIIIL!” the whole room shook, and shivers ran down my spine.

  “IIIIIIIIL!” I shouted as loud as I could, having taken a deep breath, with the every atom of my body.

  We didn't stop looking each other. He kept quiet. He touched me with his right hand, lowered his head, looked at the ground and said one of the rare words that I knew:

  “Guru.”

  A murmur ran around the room and the people gathered there made quiet comments while the old man started preparing chillum. For some reason, my whole body was trembling. I was shivering, although I was right next to the fire.

  “Guru,” the old man repeated, offering me the clay pipe with his right hand, lighting it with a match.

  I pressed it to my forehead, pronounced Lalon’s name and inhaled like never before.

  “Could you explain to me what has just happened?” I asked Abohelito, who joined us later and who listened carefully to the others telling him what had happened.

  “‘Il’ is a word that refers to a deity,” he began, obviously very excited about something. “Sometimes we use it when we speak to Lalon, or we use it in an important conversation, as a confirmation of a Holy word. It’s hard to explain, but for the old man you’ve passed some kind of an initiation, which is a part of our tradition.”

  “An initiation?”

  “Yes,” he explained happily, “the old man is convinced that Lalon himself sent you as his messenger and that the life of a Teacher lies ahead of you; he is convinced that we could all learn from you.”

  “I’m not that sure about that,” I said, blushing slightly.

  “You don’t have to be,” he smiled, “you continue with your life they way you’ve planned, everything will turn out to be just the way it’s supposed to.”

  That same evening, the old man told me another prophecy, after seeing me taking two bananas joined together as if they were Siamese twins from a bowl full of bananas.

  “You’ll return to Kushtia, many years from now,” Abohelito was translating, “in the company of your wife and twin sons.”

  I laughed out loud, just like everyone else. The old man was on a roll.

  “Tell him that I’ll be back even before,” I said to Abohelito, sensing a strong connection with those people from a small village in Bangladesh.

  The following day, after the breakfast, they took me by the hand and led me to a nearby river: the legend said that Lalon Shah had been found in it floating in a basket. They dressed me in a lungi after which I had a ritual bath.

  Half of the village gathered around to witness the whole event, approving loudly.

  Day 741.

  “Hi,” a skinny guy approached me when I came back from my piss-break, at a station on another horror ride from Kushtia to Dhaka (I was going back for my friend Samai’s wedding), “what’s your name?”

  That was how every conversation in Bangladesh started, no exceptions. After a while I came to the conclusion that the people of Bangladesh had made a secret pact a long time before about the rules of communicating with the rare strangers they might bump into. They have all the questions they want to ask prepared in advance.

  “My name is Tomislam, I come from Croatia, I’m a student of economics and I really like Bangladesh,” I said at once, knowing that I’d already answered the following three questions. I observed his face wondering whether he had any other question or if he’d be confused by my answers.

  “I would be very pleased if you come with me and my friends for tea when we arrive in Dhaka,” he finally said hopefully, “and if you don’t have a place to stay, you can sleep at my place.”

  Since I had a few days until the wedding, and my American hosts were out of town, I accepted the offer, moved to my new friend Jewel’s seat and continued my return to Dhaka.

  His friends were waiting for us in front of a street stand where they spent most of their time. They, just like me, were students and were fluent in English. They were dressed in jeans and T-shirts, which meant that their financial situation was a bit better than most other citizens; however, they did have one thing in common with the rest of the country – they observed me with admiration. I still had some difficulties absorbing the fact that the only reason for that was the colour of my skin.

  When a couple of people gathered in a street nearby and started playing badminton I joined them readily. It was the first time for me to be participating in an activity where I was equal to the others. We played without them letting me win, without any stupid awe towards me: they treated me as one of them. I felt great in those moments. Each point, no matter if I was winning or losing, was dear to me. I finally fitted in.

  “If you want to, I can call a lady friend to keep you company tonight,” one of Jewel’s friend winked at me as we were going home.

  “No, thank you,” I said.

  “Why not?” he was surprised, “you won’t spend much money by your standard, and in that way you’d help her to maintain her family.”

  It’s such a sad thing that, in the modern era, some people are still forced to do those kinds of things in order to survive. By that I don’t mean only women selling their bodies to men, but also spending twelve hours behind a sewing machine, in inhumane conditions, breathing in different chemicals that were slowly killing them; all of this for just enough money to make it through the month.

  Is there a possibility for everyone in the world to have enough money to buy food, sleep in warm beds, go to school and have the right to medical help? Through travelling, I realized that those things were quite enough to have a happy life. Still, in today’s society, or at least in great part, there is one thing that moves everything – money. Whether you’re hungry or not, healthy or sick, educated or not, it all depends on how much money you have.

  However much you work hard or get by, that’s how much of a good life you’ll have – that is one of popular sayings of modern times. Has anyone wondered how much truth there is to that? If you’re born in one of the slums of Bangladesh and as a nine-year-old you’re forced to leave school to feed your family? If you’re born into a family with many members because the more members you have, the more people who would need to work and bring money to the family.

  Instead of the company of a prostitute, I accepted an invitation for a beer.

  Even though alcohol was prohibited
in Bangladesh, the rule wasn’t applied to foreigners. Also, it wasn’t applied to locals accompanied by foreigners. That was the reason why at least ten people joined us, even though there were supposed to be only four of us.

  We found a restaurant in a side alley with a guard at the entrance that was illuminated only by candles on the inside in order not to attract too much attention; we ordered a drink for everyone. When I checked out the price list, which was identical to the one back home, and assumed that the bill would find its way to me, I informed them that I could only afford one round.

  They didn’t say a word, but started drinking foreign beers and some local spirits.

  Not even fifteen minutes later they were all drunk.

  I was sipping my beer slowly and observing the gathered crowd enjoying the forbidden fruit. I liked the fact that I could enable them to have a little fun, especially since they’d accepted me so readily in their group and offered me a place to stay. However, when the bill arrived, something changed within me.

  The price of one round wasn’t that expensive, but when I took into consideration the country I found myself in, well, then it definitely was. For a worker in a textile factory to be able to afford a night out like this one, they would have to work for at least ten days. For a prostitute in Bangladesh to be able to afford something like this, she would have to serve her clients for a whole week. The amount of money spent on those drinks would, most likely, suffice for many of the families I’d met in Kushtia for an entire month.

  Those thoughts made me uncomfortable.

  It wasn’t okay, it wasn’t fair, there was no need for a luxury of that kind, for showing off like that.

  I missed Europe. I missed hitchhiking and sleeping on other people’s couches, with a few Euros in my pocket. I would only spend the money on necessities and I didn’t have to observe misery everywhere around me. The inhabitants of the countries I’d been in had perceived me as a poor person. And here, in Bangladesh, I was the sheriff.