Stop: Rivertime.

The journey back from the south coast was leisurely, which was just what my brother and I needed. Two days of clinging to the back of motorbikes as we hammered across dirt-roads and shaky bridges had been exhilarating but exhausting. The ferry-launch home would take 14 hours to reach Dhaka against the majestic, broad current of the Meghna, and as far as I was concerned it could take 24. Time, I thought, for a little relaxation.

And as we chugged out of Patuakhali, the odds were good. In a couple of hours the sun would be falling through unimaginable shades of yellow, orange, red and purple, towards the magical (and equatorially brief) moment where it would kiss the horizon before falling out of sight. Out on the stunning span of the river, there would be no dirt, no smog, no Dhakan misery. I was looking forward to it.


We settled down in our cabin to read in the blessedly mosquito-free mid-river breeze, and listened to the soft sound of the Meghna as it langourously dragged Himalayas back down to the sea-floor. This was the life.

So relaxed were we that I failed to notice that dusk was gathering quickly. This far south, sunsets are almost over before they've begun, so we moved with haste to find the best place to watch the sky go to glory.

We climbed up a narrow steel ladder to reach the roof, which was an open expanse of steel plates and rivets, painted light blue. This was a win. I'd never got up on the roof before; they're usually caged-off. Four stories up from the surface of the river, we saw the sky. Oh man, we saw the sky.


And we were not alone. As we came off the top of the ladder, there was a sense of a gathering having just finished; a recent vacation of the space up here. A few people remained, all looking East, standing at the foot of small, carefully-placed mats, kneeling and rising in unison while they muttered their soft prayers.

We had missed the sunset; this was maghreb prayer, the prayer directly after the sun has left the sky, and the start of the Islamic day. And amongst the spectacular colours of the gathering dark, it was easy to pray.

Public prayer is no longer really notable for me. I hear the muezzin 5 times a day if I'm sleeping particularly lightly, and 3 if I'm not. It's normal to see people taking the time to direct themselves towards God. I try not to be too obtrusive a presence when it is going on nearby, because I have discovered that in general piety is trumped by curiosity in Bangladesh, and I am one curious-looking individual - especially in rural areas.

We loitered out of eye-line, and I made my own prayer to the creator of heaven and earth, looking at one of his more spectacular incidences.


As piety was satisfied, curiosity returned, and some people came over to talk to us. Flushed with their devotion, they asked us what religion we were.

Hence a misunderstanding.

Of which, more tomorrow.

[EDIT 27-2-12: I can't believe I made this mistake, but I did: the men at the foot of their mats were all facing WEST since, y'know, that's where Mecca is; not East, as I wrote. Elementary Geography: 3/10 See Me.]