Asia Travel - Part 33

Kerala: Swaying Palms and Floating Boats

South India

by Raj Niranjan Das

As we are transported from the world of traffic snarls, chaos, hectic work and continuous meetings to the world of lagoons and greenery, we stood awestruck. We were on one of the numerous houseboats parked on the very famous Vembanad Lake in Alappuzha. There are various types of boats: two-bedroom boats, three- bedroom boats, boats with an upper deck, boats with air conditioned rooms. Every day large numbers of such boats go on a lovely backwater ride with tourists who gape blissfully at the mesmerising scenery. Vembanad Lake, the largest wetland ecosystem in Kerala has been the tourist hub of the state for many years. Travelers from all over the world have a fascination for the renowned houseboat rides on this lake.

As we embarked on this quaint form of transportation, all we could see in the vicinity were the numerous floating rice boats (kettuvelloms), the swaying palms on the banks, and the different varieties of birds that nest around the placid lake. The boat propelled forward with no specific route over the massive body of water. Photo clicks, video shoots, passengers blowing kisses at the gorgeous firangi women on other boats, and those trying a hand at steering the boat were some of the activities that we enjoyed during the initial two hours of our sojourn.

The well crafted boat sailed tranquilly on the gleaming lake and went past the little villages, the tiny canals, the alluring toddy shops and the green paddy fields. Due to the openness of the landscape, we were treated to a wonderful cooling breeze which made us sway like the coconut trees on the banks. After a round of games that included cards and charades, it was time for some bacardi blasts and a sumptuous lunch prepared by the in-house cooks. The fragrant whiff in the air said it all. The mouth watering seafood delicacies were spread out and within a flash it was time to lick the fingers.

As the blazing sun set, our kettuvellom was anchored to the shore. Many other boats were also anchored there and it seemed the right spot to take a village walk. We trod through narrow lanes and went past the small houses besides the lake down into the paddy fields. The green blades of the paddy turned yellow as the sun set in the background bathing everything in a golden glow. The rustic charm of the country side was clearly evident. A visual treat indeed!!

A trip to the villages of Kerala must include a visit to the toddy shops. Toddy tastes best and fresh when you drink it in the morning as it turns sour as the day progresses. Nevertheless, we happily gulped it down. Nestled back inside the comforts of the kettuvellom, we watched at a few lanterns glowing in the distance from the many anchored boats and the houses besides the lake. It was a romantic sight.

A dance and a tasty dinner ended our day’s itinerary. The next day began with a typical Kerala cuisine for breakfast after which we were on our way back to the shore. It was one of the most laid back holidays with absolutely nothing to do other than to stare at the shimmering lake, the swaying palms and enjoy the fresh air amidst the lush green surroundings.

If you want a holiday that is all about immersing yourself in natural surroundings while cruising around on a rice boat and eating delicious sea food, Kerala style, a kettuvellom trip on Vembanad Lake is an ideal destination.

Private Backwater Tour – Day Cruise with Lunch on Kerala Houseboat with transfers

If You Go:

Location: Kerala, South India
Best time to visit: October to February
Nearest airport: Cochin (Kochi)
Nearest railway station and bus station: Alappuzha
Other places of Interest: Alappuzha, Cochin

About the author:
Niranjan is passionate about travel, be it long bike rides or treacherous trekking or leisure holidaying or backpacking through the countryside or an engrossing train journey, He dreams of setting foot on every single country on planet earth and meeting adorable strangers, learning new tongue twister languages, tasting mouth watering food, studying vibrant cultures and exploring exotic places. Visit www.rajniranjandas.blogspot.com.

All photographs are by Niranjan Das.

An “Iceberg” in the Pacific

Japan: The Battle for Okinawa

by Robert Hale

April 1, 1945… Easter Morning.

There would be no eggs to hunt today; no greetings of, He is Risen!”

Resurrection was not the order of the day. Not on this Easter Day, 1945

References to “Heaven” and “Resurrection” would give way to “give ‘em hell,” and “kill the bastards!” It was obvious that religious services would be held for only the dying and the dead – and then, only for those on our side!

A quarter of a million men were about to die.

No one scheduled a noon family Easter feast. And, for the next 82 days there would be nothing but war! A terrible war!

…The Battle of Okinawa begins!

It was called “Operation Iceberg.” The island would eventually resemble, not an iceberg, but a blazing hell-on-earth! No hymns of joyous praise were to be heard.

Instead, screams of the injured and dying, explosions of rockets and bombs; while of bullets, blasts of grenades, cries of the dying – those were the sounds of that Easter Morning.

In those 82 days of living hell 38,000 American soldiers and marines would be killed or counted as missing in action. The Japanese would lose 107,000 killed, plus more than 23,000 who sealed themselves in caves and took their own lives; 10,800 Japanese soldiers were captured. Civilian deaths are estimated at 142,000.

For the first time in World War II the Japanese were defending Japanese territory!

The Japanese hardly regarded Okinawans as “Japanese,” and certainly not as equals. For sure, the island belonged to the Japanese. It was a vital part of their empire. It was a crucial gate protecting the homeland and that empire. This day the protection was being threatened by gigantic numbers of allied forces.

The Battle of Okinawa would become the defining moment for the Empire of Japan. From here the full force of American air and sea power would be hurled against the nation that began it all on December 7, 1941. More than a half million people would die before American forces wrenched Okinawa from the grip of Japan.

It was a “grip from Hell!” It was grip that lasted nearly three months.

From April 1 until June 21, 1945 the fighting for the island went on, day and night. There was no let up; there was no “time out” for rest, or food, or medical care. There was no pause to collect the dead and re-assemble. For nearly three months it was one continuous deadly explosive battle. It was shell against shell; gun against gun; man against man! In many cases it was simply fist against fist; strangle-hold against stranglehold!

On the morning of June 21, 1945 members of the Sixth Marine Division – George Company, 22nd Regiment – raised the Stars and Stripes. It was over.

Today the Pacific Ocean lives up to its name.

Japan and the United States are at peace; they are close allies; they are good friends. They no longer hunt the hills and trails for each other. They no longer have fingers on triggers, or strongholds in gun sights. Today Japanese and American tourists walk the land marks together, frequently engaged in friendly helpful conversations.

I walked a few of those once bloody paths. I saw a collection of unused, and now ineffective, bombs, shells, and torpedoes. I walked among the graves of Americans, Canadians, British and Japanese. I wasn’t alone.

Bob Crismond was a teenager – 18, if that! – when American forces stormed the shores of Okinawa in 1945.

Now on a warm autumn day Crismond returns to Okinawa for the first time since that historic battle. It has been six and a half decades since Crismond last saw this island. Today it is peaceful here, with rain clouds forming at sea. In 1945 there was hell on this island.

The air was filled with exploding shells, grenades and bullets. There were earth-shattering explosions of artillery shells from US warships firing over the heads of our invading troops. Flamethrowers began their relentless destruction of cave emplacements, wiping out guns, munitions and men. There were hand-to-hand encounters, close-quarter grenade tossing, and even pistol shootouts!

At sea there were Japanese kamikaze planes diving and exploding into American ships. There were screams of the wounded and the dying.

Amidst all of that horror young Bob Crismond was driving a landing vehicle. From his ship off shore he brought in troops and supplies; he returned to his ship with the wounded and the dead. Bob saw those flamethrowers; he watched as Japanese pilots slammed their planes and their lives into the decks of American ships. All around that young man was death.

Was Bob Crismond scared?

“I was just doing what I had to do.”

“I wasn’t close enough to be scared. I had a job to do, and I was busy with that. But, I could see it, and I could hear it. Sometimes I just stopped my boat and watched.”

Bob Crismond never came under attack by the Japanese. He was able to get close to the action.

“When we got here, the battle was raging, and for a while I just watched. It was like watching a movie.”

Bob pointed out where his ship was located in the bay, and where his service boat came and went. He talked of kamikaze attacks, of flamethrowers, of grenades and shell explosions, and of the constant rattle of the machine guns.

Bob knew the Allied forces would prevail. We had just too many men, too much fire power, too many battle and supply ships to not win the battle for Okinawa. Yet, the battle took a lot longer and certainly far more lives than American commanders had anticipated.

This battle was ultimate moment for Japanese military leaders. This was the first invasion of their land and they knew if they did not repulse the enemy victory was not going to the rising Sun! If Okinawa could not be safely defended the Japanese homeland could well be next. Defend they did.

Invading Japan for the first time cost the Americans incredibly high causalities. Okinawa turned out to be the costliest battle in the history of the United States. It ranks as one of the deadliest battles in all recorded history. In addition, the Okinawans and the Japanese who lived on the island joined thousand of soldiers in committing suicide rather than submitting to “American barbarism,” an idea fostered by Japanese leadership as a morale boaster.

I asked Bob Crismond if, at any time, he felt the Allied troops would withdraw in the face of fanatical Japanese forces.

“Didn’t give that one thought. None of us even considered that a possibility.”

And today? Did Crismond have any special emotions about visiting his “hell on earth” war experience?

“No. Nothing special. I just want to see it like any other curious tourist would.”

Bob Crismond was not “just any other tourist.” He was there; he helped get the war closer to victory.

Was he scared? “No. Maybe I was too young to be scared. And, I had that job to do; I was busy with that. I could see it and I could hear it. That was it.”

While some American visitors talked in hushed tones, Japanese tourists were virtually silent. Someone in out groups suggested we understand the mass suicide of Japanese defenders more clearly than does the present generation of Japanese visitors.

Perhaps.

Can anyone truly understand? I asked Bob Crismond if it made sense to him.

“I think we were too busy to try to understand it all. We just wanted it to end.”

It ended, finally. The victors of Okinawa, who assumed they’d become the invaders of mainland Japan, didn’t have to go there after all.

“Two Big Bombs” fell on Japan, and it was over.

Today, the grass is green; the sea is rolling and white capped. The fragrance of salt sea fills the air; so do hushed voices. Many sentences go unfinished; many questions are not answered. Some moments become simply moments of reflection.

Those moments are called “pilgrimages.”

Okinawa Private Walking Tour

If You Go:

♦ en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Okinawa

Photo credit:
Okinawa Peace Memorial by CEphoto, Uwe Aranas

About the author:
Freelance writer, Bob Hale is a former Chicago radio and TV broadcaster.

China: In and About in Xian City

by Chris Millikan

When touring China’s legendary sights with twenty other enthusiasts, my husband Rick and I encounter unimaginable marvels in and around Xian, the early capital where Emperors ruled for over 3,000 years.

Two memorable days begin high atop the ramparts of this ancient city’s wall, one of the few remaining in China. On our way to the north gate, our energetic guide Hanson points, “That Bell Tower is from the 14th-century; its huge bell once signaled sunrise every morning. Over there to the west, that evening Drum Tower would sound day’s end.”

Along some of the nine impressive miles encircling the city, we stroll above the old moat; others ride bicycles or jog. Built over 600 years ago for both protection and food storage, formidable watchtowers solidly anchor each corner; smaller defensive towers dot the top at intervals. Fluttering crimson flags and lanterns punctuate the stark gray structure.

We next arrive at the Great Wild Goose Pagoda, a religious complex built about 652,AD on the city’s southern edge. Silver morning mists shroud its peaceful manicured gardens as Hanson regales us with this sanctuary’s legend, “During a severe famine, Buddha miraculously provided flocks of wild geese to feed starving worshipers…” Over 300 Buddhist monks were once housed in 2000 little rooms here; nowadays, forty live here.

Pausing, we light slender red candles and bundles of incense-sticks to send silent wishes and prayers to loved ones back home. Entering the soaring seven-story pagoda protecting Buddhist scriptures, our guide explains, “Renowned traveling monk Xuan Zang brought these sacred writings from India along the ancient Silk Road…and translated them into these 1335 volumes kept in these glass cabinets.”

Lively afternoon markets in the Muslim quarter and a surprising stop at the Great Mosque intrigues everyone further. Infusing us with even more history, Hanson explains, “This mosque was founded in 742 as a religious center for Arab merchants…and today it serves over 60,000 Chinese Muslims! When Kublai Khan expanded westward in the 13th century, large numbers of Muslim soldiers and artisans resettled here in China.” Except for the intricate gold Arabic lettering, the beautiful wooden building looks entirely Chinese, with a two-story pagoda replacing typical domes and minarets.

Just when we thought it couldn’t get any more captivating we arrive at Xian’s Grand Opera House, a huge dinner theatre. Soon, white-clad servers deliver basket-after-steaming-basket of tiny, mouthwatering dumplings. Wielding our chopsticks enthusiastically and washing each luscious tidbit down with cold Chinese beer, we ooh and ahh delightedly over these intricate handmade creations, decorative tops signifying each filling: duck, broccoli, pumpkin, but the most electrifying experience was yet to come…

Heavy velvet curtains open dramatically, revealing an opulent royal court complete with Emperor, bejeweled costumes with elaborate headdresses and ancient stringed instruments. Swirling colours, haunting music and elegant dances quickly transport us into the grace and beauty of China’s Golden Age of the Tang Dynasty. And as spectacular as this day had been, we soon discover that our next day would be even more astonishing.

In the morning, our bus rolls smoothly beyond Xian’s walls, passing farms, orchards and roadside stands sun-drying persimmons. Pointing through the bus windows, Hanson remarks, “Imperial tombs surround Xian! Emperors, empresses and high-ranking officials are all buried there.” Looking out at the distant mound of first Emperor Qin Shihuang, we try to visualize his massive underground burial chamber, described in early records as jewel-filled palaces littered with gold and silver statues, pearl-encrusted ceilings and flowing mercury-rivers… and wonder whether the fabled treasures remain in his yet un-excavated tomb.

Hanson continues, “Ascending the throne at age13, Qin unified feudal kingdoms and established China’s first dynasty in 221 BC. Seven hundred thousand artisans worked on his mausoleum for decades before his death, never finishing it. His son eventually continued the work, as his father had wished.”

Stopping at a state workshop, we watch as artisans create souvenir soldier replicas in many sizes. Examining molds, tools and fire-pits reveals clay figure secrets. “Terracotta is baked clay,” the guide instructs. “Feet and legs are solid, bodies and heads hollow.” She continued, “Hairstyles distinguished ranks: topknots to the right were soldiers; topknots on the left, kneeling archers; two topknots like a butterfly indicated generals; a flattop designated officers or horsemen.”

Expecting natural terracotta earthen tones, I’m surprised to learn that hair, eyebrows, faces and hands had then been hand-painted in life-like colours: pink flesh, white eyeballs, black hair. Yellows and scarlet covered Emperor’s robes; green, soldiers’ trousers. Inspired, my hubby bargains for an entire clay regiment to guard our sun room plants back home.

Before viewing the revered Army of the Terracotta Warriors And Horses, we pass Mr. Yang, an elderly farmer signing keepsake books documenting his legendary discovery. While digging a new well in 1974, he had uncovered bronze weapons and broken warrior-bits, never expecting that this accidental discovery would result in the riveting UNESCO World Heritage Site we’re about to see.

Three earth-and-timber underground vaults have now been excavated. Over one thousand soldiers were discovered in a smaller chamber, sixty-eight warriors and war-chariots in another, the command post. The largest pit yielded an astounding terracotta army of six thousand life-sized foot soldiers, cavalry and officers…

At last, we enter into that bright air-conditioned pit over a football field and a half in size. Scarcely believing what we were seeing, we witness the twentieth century’s premier archeological discovery…

The remarkably preserved force stood in battle formation guarding Qin’s ancient imperial necropolis, exactly as he had dictated 2000 years before. Ranging from 5-feet-8inches to 6-feet in height, the armored warriors wore short chain-mail coats, belted long-sleeved gowns, leggings and laced boots. Stretching row-upon-row four abreast, they once held bows and arrows, swords or spears. Although buried for centuries, their weapons were rust-free and still sharp when unearthed!

Hanson observes, “Soldiers and horses have been carefully reassembled from collapsed rubble; the colours have mostly faded.” From each warrior’s facial expression, including wrinkles on the generals, we imagine their different personalities. Last of all, we pause thoughtfully at the humble well’s site, the place that had started worldwide notoriety.

Ah yes, Xian City’s celebrated attractions completely captivate our imaginations and resonate still, quite remarkable memories.

One Day Private Walking Tour in the Old City Area of Xi an

If You Go:

• For Tour Advice: www.hansontravel.ca
• Fly from Beijing: www.travelchinaguide.com/china-flights/beijing-xian.htm
• Beijing Train schedules & prices from Beijing: www.beijingchina.net.cn
• Xi’an Sights: www.travelchinaguide.com/attraction/shaanxi/xian

About the author:
A much-traveled freelance writer/photographer living near Vancouver, BC Chris Millikan is a former teacher and elementary school principal now extolling the joys of travel as an inviting ‘curriculum.’ Traveling off the beaten track with writer/photographer partner and hubby Rick, these accounts reflect zany, cultural and historic adventures. A member in good standing & Vice President of the BC Association of Travel Writers, her stories regularly appear in Senior Living Magazine, Open Road Magazine, In-flight Magazines, community newspapers and occasionally the Vancouver Sun and Province. She is a 2009 Kalama Award winner, acknowledged for stories that reflect the culture and history of Maui, Molokai & Lanai. Contact her at chrsmillikan4@gmail.com

All photos are by Rick & Chris Millikan:
1. Xian’s Great Mosque Entryway
2. Xian’s Wild Goose Pagoda in the mist
3. Xian’s City Wall Gate
4. Xian’s Terracotta Soldiers
5. Xian’s City Wall Bell Tower
6. Xian’s Muslim Mosque
7. Xian’s Wild Goose Pagoda Drum Tower

About the author:
A much-traveled freelance writer/photographer living near Vancouver, BC Chris Millikan is a former teacher and elementary school principal now extolling the joys of travel as an inviting ‘curriculum.’ Traveling off the beaten track with writer/photographer partner and hubby Rick, these accounts reflect zany, cultural and historic adventures. A member in good standing & Vice President of the BC Association of Travel Writers, her stories regularly appear in Senior Living Magazine, Open Road Magazine, in-flight magazines, community newspapers and occasionally the Vancouver Sun and Province. She is a 2009 Kalama Award winner, acknowledged for stories that reflect the culture and history of Maui, Molokai & Lanai. Contact her at chrsmillikan4@gmail.com

Myanmar: Gross National Happiness

by Paola Hanna

‘The dogs are auspicious,’ our guide Tashi said, looking at the two healthy-looking strays who were leading the way up the steep mountain path. It was cool and misty in the lichen-draped forest. Here and there we saw splashes of bright red rhododendrons.

Tashi was, as always, elegantly attired in a gho, the Bhutanese male national dress, a knee-length robe hitched up and tied at the waist with a belt. Under it his hiking books and Argyle socks looked rather out of place. Apart from a few monks tripping up and down the track like mountain goats, we were alone, surrounded by birdsong.

We were on our way to Tango Goemba, a few miles north of the capital, Thimpu. Two flashes, one yellow and one scarlet, darted across the path just in front of us in close succession. Tashi stopped in his tracks. ‘Ssh.’ We followed his gaze, and saw the two small birds on a branch just off to our left. ‘Long-tailed minivets,’ he said. ‘The red one is the male. It’s auspicious to see them together.’

A lot of things are auspicious in Bhutan.

Why did we choose this particular holiday destination? Well, we live in Bangladesh, and had six days’ leave. We wanted a complete change. Dhaka is humid and hot in May (and April, and June, and July, and August, and September, with no sign of a letup until at least mid-October…), and apart from the weather, the traffic, noise and pollution get to you after a while. For much of the year half the country is under water. A cool, quiet, elevated, sparsely populated country less than an hour’s flight away is just too tempting, especially when that country’s progress is based on GNH – Gross National Happiness – rather than GDP. And if you’re looking for different – different from anywhere in the whole world – Bhutan is where you’ll find it. Until fifty years ago, this landlocked country smaller than Switzerland existed in self-imposed isolation, with no currency, no towns to speak of, and no formal education outside monasteries. Despite massive recent reforms, it remains a unique destination, steeped in religion and culture – of an especially unusual kind – as we were about to find out.

As we approached Tango Goemba, we saw a printed paper sign stuck on a brightly-painted wall: (REQUEST) PLEASE COME IN NATIONAL DRESS. INFORMAL DRESSED ARE NOT ALLOWED LA. It seems that the final ‘la’ takes the edge off any instruction or statement, making it polite. I looked down at my dirty jeans and sweatshirt, but Tashi assured me that the sign only applied to locals. The dogs settled down to rest in front of the monastery entrance.

Perched at eight thousand five hundred feet above sea level, the monastery today houses the Tango University of Buddhist Studies, which is the most important centre for Buddhist learning in Bhutan. This is where many of the country’s religious leaders have followed a rigorous nine-year training programme.

Inside the main entrance we twirled a few prayer bells (clockwise, as instructed), took off our boots, and crept into the inner sanctum, where we sat down cross-legged in a corner. A group of monks were chanting. On a raised dais, a young teenager sat solemnly in his robes.

‘He is the seventh reincarnation of the fourth desi of Bhutan’, Tashi said. A desi is a spiritual leader. ‘His previous incarnation died in 1830. We are very lucky to see him.’

We sat with the monks for a while, then made a small donation which secured us a couple of blessed strings to wear around our necks – we are determined never to lose the thread again. As we headed off down the mountain, we were joined again by our friendly dogs.

Tango Goemba has been a place of huge religious significance since it was founded as a monastic school in the 12th century. The monastery that stands on the site today was built in the 15th century by Bhutan’s rather quirky and folkloric hero, Lama Drukpa Kunley, affectionately known by locals as the Divine Madman.

He was born in Tibet in the year of the wood-pig in the eighth cycle, which corresponds to our year 1455. After his father’s untimely death in a feud, he became disenchanted with the world, dedicated himself to religion, and became a monk. But that path, too, disillusioned him, so he became a mendicant, traveling extensively in Bhutan. He spread his teachings against hypocrisy and selfishness rather unconventionally, spending much of his time drinking, making music, and deflowering virgins. It is thanks to his sexual exploits that the outer walls of many houses throughout Bhutan are decorated with delicately decorated frescoes of rather splendid phalluses, which simultaneously ward off the evil eye and enhance fertility.

Many stories are told about the Divine Madman’s exploits. One day, a crowd his followers asked him to perform one of the magic feats he was famous for.

‘I will,’ said he, ‘but first you must bring me a goat and cow.’

They did as they were told. The animals were killed and roasted on a fire, and he sat down and ate them both, leaving only the bones. He then placed the goat’s skull on the cow’s bones, and said ‘Abracadabra’ (or the Bhutanese equivalent). The animal came to life, rose to its feet and headed for the pastures. And thus the Bhutanese national animal, the takin, was born. To this day this rather ugly creature has confused taxonomists, who have placed it in a category all of its own.

The day after our Tango trek, we visited Chimi Lhakhang, the Temple of Fertility, in the Punakha Valley, three hours from Thimpu. It was built in the Divine Madman’s honour, by his cousin, in 1499. He was grateful that the holy man had subdued the demoness in nearby Dochu La with his ‘magic thunderbolt of wisdom’. Infertile couples come to the temple from all over Bhutan, as do families with young babies, to receive blessings.

We were blessed by a monk who tapped our heads with two ten-inch plastic phaluses. Since we’re not too bothered about fertility at this point in our lives, we wished for health for our grandson and any grandchildren we may have in the future. Just as we left the temple, I received a text message from my daughter: ‘Your beloved grandson has just walked his first two steps!’

Definitely the Divine Madman’s work.

We strolled back to the car, grateful for the Madman and for all the holy people scattered over the world’s mountains, praying for the victory of good over evil.

Explore Highlights of Myanmar on a Budget

If You Go:

Travel to Bhutan must be arranged through one of the seventy-five licensed local tour operators, who will also provide travelers with visas. The Royal Government of Bhutan sets minimum selling prices for packages to Bhutan, which are payable in US dollars prior to arrival in Bhutan. The High Season daily tariff is US $250 per person. This includes all internal taxes and charges, accommodation, all meals, all tours with a licensed Bhutanese guide, all internal transport, and camping equipment for trekking tours.

About the author:
Paola Hanna was born on an island in Lake Victoria, and was brought up in Tanzania. She has lived in almost a dozen countries over three continents, speaks five and a half languages, and describes herself as an “expatriate sine patria.” Wherever she goes, she makes it her business to get involved in local activities, explore, and learn the language, thus making each new destination a real home.

All photographs are by Paola Hanna.

Discovering Jamdani Saris

Bangladesh

by Paola Fornari

‘They used to say that a Dhaka muslin sari [also spelled saree] should fit in a matchbox,’ Mithu says. ‘It could be pulled through a wedding ring. The Jamdani sari is an updated version of the muslin one. Fine, but not matchbox-fine. Anyone in South Asia who knows anything about fashion will recognise a Jamdani.’

We are weaving our way through the heavy Dhaka traffic towards the eastern suburbs. I heard about Jamdani saris a while ago when I admired a woman wearing one at a reception. I was amazed by the delicate designs woven into the floaty gossamer fabric.

So I hire Mithu to take me to visit a factory. Along the way, he fills me in.

‘They’ve been making muslin here for two thousand years,’ Mithu tells me. ‘The Jamdani weave is a later development. What distinguishes it are the fine geometric designs, often depicting flowers, or fruit, or spices.’

‘What does Jamdani mean?’

‘No-one really knows. Some people say it comes from the Persian jam, meaning flower, and dana, meaning vase. Jamdani became popular during the Mughal period. In the sixteenth century there were looms all over Dhaka. The fabric was used for saris, scarves and handkerchiefs. It was highly prized: traders came from all over Asia and Europe to buy it.’

After an hour the shop-lined tarmac avenues give way to wide dusty dirt roads. Packed buses, scores of people balancing precariously on the roofs, vie for space with heavily laden rickshaws, pulled at the front by wiry men, sweat dripping off their brows, and pushed from the back by young children. The temperature outside is a hundred degrees and rising.

We cross a modern bridge over the huge River Shittalakka, which is a tributary of the mighty Brahmaputra, and turn left into an alleyway. Soon the road is too narrow for the car, so we get out and walk along a brick-paved path skirting the river bank. There are small shops along both sides, selling everything from kapok to bananas and skeins of colourful yarn.

‘It’s cotton and silk,’ Mithu says. ‘They dye it here for the factories.’

Soon we hear a clattering noise, which becomes louder as we approach a simple corrugated iron building.

‘Sheet factory,’ Mithu tells us. We peer through the windows to the dark room inside. One man is supervising the machines. The noise is unbearable—at least for me—so we move on.

‘That man will be deaf in ten years,’ Mithu says.

We pass groups of people resting under trees, goats of various shapes, sizes and colours, and the inevitable rickshaws collapsing under the weight of their cargo. Everyone smiles and greets us along our way.

Every now and then there is a break in the line of shops to our left, to allow access to the water, and here, we get a clear view of Dhaka over on the far bank, boats navigating on the wide river, and on our side, groups of people splashing around in the water, taking a bathe and washing their clothes.

The water is murky.

‘How clean is it? I ask.
‘Not too bad. It’s much worse in January and February, when it doesn’t rain. In the dry season the water is multicoloured like a rainbow, because of all the dye from the factories upstream. People can’t bathe in it.’
A boatman calls to us. ‘Want a ride?’

We accept, and step onto his simple craft, which takes us a couple of hundred metres further upstream. We pass a very fancy huge boat, aptly named ‘The Ark’.

‘That one belongs to the owner of The Daily Star,’ Mithu says. The Daily Star is Bangladesh’s biggest English Language newspaper. ‘He also owns several other companies. He comes here sometimes at the weekends to relax.’

You can see why: the atmosphere here is positively rural compared with Dhaka.

A little further along another, a more modest boat is moored.

‘That’s our boat, the Riposhi’ Mithu tells us, pointing out the Guide Tours logo. ‘We take people on all day cruises, or sunset barbecue cruises, to show them how people live along the river.’

We disembark, and walk a short way to a low building with a corrugated iron roof and latticed wooden walls. ‘This is the Jamdani factory,’ Mithu says.

The owner, a jolly man dressed only in a lungi—a loincloth—stands in front of a low building with a corrugated iron roof and latticed timber walls. He greets us warmly and shows us in.

I am immediately surprised by the silence. Seven wooden hand-looms are neatly lined up along the bright room: the only sound is the whir of overhead fans. Fourteen people sit working in pairs, their fingers dancing across the yarn. The colours are delicate, the patterns intricate, and the fabric as light as a butterfly’s wings.

‘Ask any questions you like; I’ll interpret,’ Mithu says.
‘What are their working hours?’
Mithu talks to the owner and reports back.
‘Seven a.m. to nine p.m. They break for three hours each day.’
‘And how much do they earn?’
‘Depends. The worker on the right is more skilled than the one on the left. He’ll make between one thousand five hundred and two thousand taka a week.’ That’s eighteen to twenty-four US dollars. ‘The person on the left gets half. Often, it’s a brother-sister team.
Or husband-wife. Or father-son.’
It’s mostly men who are on the right, and women and youngsters on the left.
I admire a young boy’s work. ‘How old is he?’
‘Fifteen, he says. But he doesn’t really know.’ He looks twelve.
A 2006 law in Bangladesh prohibits employment of children under fourteen, though from twelve they ‘may be engaged in “light work” that does not pose a risk to their mental and physical development and does not interfere with their education’.
This is impossible to enforce. And without the added wage of a working child, many families would not survive.
‘How long does it take to make a sari?’
‘Two weeks to four months, depending on the intricacy.’
‘What do they cost?’
‘From two thousand taka to two hundred thousand.’ (Twenty-four to two thousand four hundred dollars.)

Once we’ve seen the factory, the owner invites us into his home, where I am invited to sit down in his living-room. A couple of assistants start bringing saris out of a wardrobe. They aren’t matchbox-sized, but they are certainly are folded into very tiny bundles.

One or two are opened out for me to see, and as I begin to ooh and aah, more are unfolded. The colours range from gaudy leaf green and scarlet to delicate off white, and black.

‘They make them for Aarong and Aranya. But you’d pay a lot more if you bought them there,’ Mithu tells me. Aarong is Bangladesh’s most successful handicrafts and textiles store, with several branches across the country, and Aranya is a beautiful clothes shop that uses only fabrics with natural dyes.

After some deliberation and much negotiation, I select a black and a dusty pink.

The owner’s wife brings us some beautifully sculpted cookies, which are both oily and crispy, oven-hot, and absolutely delicious.

We take our leave, wave at the workers through the latticed walls of the factory, and wander towards the river, where Mithu has invited me to take a break on the Riposhi.

As we rest, sipping sickly sweet tea and munching a cookie, I wonder about the ethics of it all. Two people have spent weeks slogging over my saris. They have sat at their looms from dawn till dusk, with few breaks. Children are there, working. How long will their eyesight survive the close, detailed work they do? Should I be buying from them?

On the other hand, they are working in a congenial environment—much better than the plastics factories in Old Dhaka where I have seen very young children working. It’s quiet, clean, and cool. These weavers are highly skilled. They take pride in their work. They live near the factory, and don’t have to face Dhaka traffic. And if people like me didn’t buy their saris, they wouldn’t have a wage at all.

Private Day Tour: Dhaka Photography

If You Go:

♦ For information about Guide tours in Bangladesh, see www.guidetours.com
♦ For information about Aranya and Aarong stores, see www.aarong.com/
♦ For information about travel in Baglasdesh, see travel-in-bangladesh.blogspot.com

About the author:
Paola Fornari was born on an island on Lake Victoria, and was brought up in Tanzania. She has lived in a dozen countries over four continents, speaks five and a half languages, and describes herself as an expatriate sine patria. At present she is living in Bangladesh. An abridged version of this article was published in The Oldie magazine, March 2012

Photo Credits:
All photographs are by Paula Fornari.

Fingers dance across the fabric
Families bathe and wash their clothes in the river
A boatman gives us a ride down the river
View over the river
Guide Tours boat, the Riposhi, where we have a cup of tea
Pair teams, with the more experienced worker on the left
A sari unfolded
Trying out my pink Jamdani sari
The deal is done: cookies to celebrate