We ate, for the 2nd time, the rather good breakfast served by the hotel. Felt a little guilty tho’ – Chas also had one, on our recommendation, but his didn’t turn out nearly so well. We chatted amiably enough, + Val continued to do so while I went out to change some money in order to pay for our feast – we had quite run out. The first bank I tried directed me to another branch of theirs some miles away, but I ignored them + went to the Chartered Bank just a few yards away. Not that getting money out of them was an easy matter, for I had to sit + wait with all the patience I could muster while the gentleman across the table selected his pencil, inspected his rubber stamps, read my passport (cover to cover, like a novel), wrote out a form in longhand, had that transcribed into typed print by a clerk, + entered my name + address + other irrelevant particulars in painful longhand into a ledger, collected my signature a few times along the way (for posterity perhaps) before finally issuing me with a slip of paper authorising me to collect my taka from the cashier. This he did, tho’ he deducted 25 taka, or a whopping 5%, presumably to compensate for all their valuable time.
Paid the bill upon my return, then idled away 2 or 3 hours. I did go to the stn, but accomplished little, for they would not or could not sell me a ticket for tonight’s train. That, I was told, had to be done tonight. We also packed + moved our things out of our room… prematurely, as it happened. I have grown used to clearing out by 12, but in Bangladesh, a simple 24 hr occupancy seems to be the normal thing. Called in to see Dave + Suzanne, also on the move tonight, stopped for a chat, + decided to see if we could find Chittagong’s Seamen’s Club. Dave is a ship’s steward, so has the right cards to get us in, + we all reckoned it would be fun to get pissed in Moslem Bangladesh.
There followed an hilarious interlude down in the lobby with first one of the desk clerks, then Dave himself, on the phone to someone – he never found out who it was – trying to find out where the place was. Eventually, we got some sort of directions between us, + headed out to this place on the bus, with Dave haranguing the locals, + making heavily suggestive drinking motions. It was a long bus ride down to the docks area – I’d been fooled by our walk around town, + obviously Chittagong was much larger than I had thought. Got off at the end of the route, + walked the last couple of hundred yards, but long before we got there we could see that we were on a fool’s mission. The large + run-down building which loomed up before us was not a club at all but a Seamen’s Hostel; it said as much in peeling black paint on the side wall. We walked up to it all the same, not wishing to concede defeat until the final bell (so to speak) but really we knew that we were too far behind on points. Met the admin officer for the hostel, + he confirmed that there was no bar. Dave then pressed him to discover whether there were any likely ships in port, + whether we would be likely to get aboard, but he was distinctly evasive. Even so, we thought we might as well walk back to the docks + give them a try – we had nothing else to do with our time in any case. They were quite a way, but the walk passed easily, with light + pleasant chat, mostly Dave expounding on the free + easy life of a ship’s steward. It was, however, no go there – we weren’t able to get thro’ port security (tho’ the man there tried to sell us a bottle of whiskey.)
So back on the bus + return to the hotel. More fun than doing nothing, anyway. The 4 of us ate together, the best curry I’ve had yet, beef, I think, then grabbed our bags + set off thro’ the milling crowds to the stn. Val set her usual cracking pace, + tho’ I, being used to it, was able to keep up, we soon lost the others. I was annoyed with Val at her lack of consideration, + told her so. Bought our tickets, but the platform seemed busy + chaotic, + we had our usual worries about not being able to fight against the hordes + find ourselves some seats. D + S arrived, deciding to take this train rather than the one an hour later, but everybody was thrown into confusion by the sudden arrival of the train at the wrong platform, causing a mad scramble over the footbridge. We 4 were all together, + scrambled aboard the still-moving train at the first second-class carriage that we saw. We were in luck, for it was empty. There were 4 upper berths, plus benches below, + it was these former that we made straight for, spreading ourselves + our belongings out to deter interlopers. Dave tried manfully, + most unfairly, to deter others from coming in, (“This carriage Church of England, no muslims!”) but even tho’ in the end the pressure of needed space was too great, we maintained our sole occupancy of the berths. (Legally, I think – they are only meant for one person apiece.) And really the train was not mightily overcrowded. It was, for us, an easy + comfortable journey.
More of the sort of aimless wandering, acting on some rumour or other, that all too frequently was the life of the traveller then. Is it any different now, I wonder, in this age of information? Apologies for the lack of pictures of our fellow-travellers. It is strange that various people played an important part in our story, but that somehow we took no pictures of them.
I might have taken an hour to read your passport, too! The clerk must have found it very interesting.