Swimming with Osama

Bandar Abbas, Iran (photo:wikipedia)

Does Osama like to swim? Yes he does. If it was more wading and paddling or arms stretched to the front parting the water like morning curtains I can’t recall, but he certainly had no fear of water. There was no hesitation there: that is true, for I swam alongside him some years back, in 1997 by the settled calendar of the west, to be exact, to be precise, in the mountainous wilds of southern Iran.

The water was mineral stained, the blue at its least a mix of cobalt glass, peacock-chest and Swedish-eye. It was other-worldly, a blue that must’ve shamed the sky even in its brightest effort, such that the regular concealment of night would come as an entirely welcome cloak to its failure. The water was warm, Earth-baked and a suitable adversary for the cooling evening air, when we arrived in that furrow of a gully in those rocky and harsh mountainsides.

Marco Polo had been there, so it is said, to the place called Geno outside the Persian Gulf port of Bandar Abbas. It can’t have offered much physical comfort on Polo’s way eastward to China: there were no silkworms there to weave for him some bedding, no emperor’s court on-site to entertain and in all likelihood not a single campfire in wait for the roasting of a meal. Geno is rugged and unsettled, but at the very least it surely brought a certain measure of wonder: the traveller’s treasure. And if it was that, like Osama, in Geno he swam, I couldn’t say.

Fishing the Persian Gulf (photo courtesy Iran)

The stars were sewing their tapestry across the heavens by the time we were drying ourselves in readiness for the drive back to town. The lateness of the hour was Osama’s fault, and Osama’s mother’s: for the Osama family had all the hospitality of that country where the locals say, ‘guest is God.’ The lateness of the return was the lateness of the setting out, after a meal, quite possibly of kebab and that long, delicious flatbread the Iranians also call ‘nan’, quite probably taken while sitting in a circle on a carpet on the floor. There had been so many meals like that so the specific details of that one have become elusive.

To be sure, it wasn’t at all to be considered in Iran, the country of crystal finery and etiquette precision, to be setting out for the springs without the prior satisfaction of food.

1997 by the settled calendar of the west, to be precise, to be exact: it was the days before Bin Laden’s infamy, and this Osama was not him, to be sure, but a young Iranian guy who’d met my school friend Lachlan and I by happenstance on a Bandar Abbas street on our way travelling through Iran. It was the first time I’d heard the name, and I liked it: O-sa-ma. It’s quite pleasant really; in those days when there was no connotation to it, and even now it can hardly be said to be a name of any less fortune than ‘George’, with apologies going to Mr. Harrison, Mr. Washington, Mr. Clooney, Mr. Costanza, Mr. Jetson and the others: sadly, your name has been cooked.

Bandar Abbas has a Portuguese history, with burqa-clad women sporting red or black masks across their noses and around their eyes; a masquerade relic of Portuguese fashion from centuries gone that went native along the Persian Gulf coastline before the colonisers left in their ships. The odd thing was that with the additional facial covering uncustomary in the rest of Iran the local women’s ankles were bare, less covered than in the rest of Iran, so in a sense it evened out.

Persian Gulf fishing trawler (photo courtesy Iran)

And offshore on the island of Hormuz is the shell of a Portuguese fort, rounded and brick, in which a random Kurd from far north-western Iran cooked and shared his lunch with us; partly because his village lay near a remote and ancient Armenian church that we’d visited some moons previously.

Bandar Abbas has an African history: the locals there called Bandaris are of mixed African and Iranian heritage, the complexion darker and culture distinct. In Bangladesh, it need not be said, that the term Bhandari has created its own cartography.

Bandar Abbas is a Russian story, so it was said: such that in the days when the Soviet Union opened and the Russians first ventured beyond they would sometimes stop there on the way to or from the electronics haven of Dubai. So we’d accidentally become Russians too, Lachlan and I, for perhaps half an hour in Bandar Abbas.

For two months or more we’d been in Iran, and our Farsi lessons in Sydney had led us into a little game called ‘trying-to-convince-the-hotel-manager-we-are-locals-at-least-until-the-room-rate-is-fixed.’ It’s not that Iran was expensive; only that the game was fun.

When we’d been wearing local clothes, and with new beards in place (mine rather silly-looking), we could perhaps for a brief moment, with singular short questions and monosyllabic answers, pass as locals. And even my blue eyes were not totally inexplicable, for some Kurds share that blue. We’d try our best to arrive at a price, and then enjoy the hotel manager’s surprise as we handed over Australian passports.

But in Bandar Abbas it was assumed we were Russians, so we were, we were! The little stories, the little lies at the hotel reception: our Farsi was imperfect on account of our Russian-ness and we were engineering students studying in Tehran who needed a good rate since the Russian rouble hardly went far, did it? Why engineering? I don’t know, but we were not like their other guests, the moneyed Muscovites wanting to buy a new TV set and a video recorder in Dubai, that was the main thing.

Lady with Bandari mask (photo courtesy Iran)

We used to encourage each other in such endeavours, Lachlan and I, or lead each other astray. But it was Bandar Abbas and if the local women could mask themselves in red or black, then for just some minutes why couldn’t we do so with words?

They knew it was not so, those reception people, of course, of course; but they enjoyed the little performance, especially hearing us speak Farsi, in much the same way Bangladeshis now take muse from my inventive, original Bangla, if it’s to be described politely, which is what the Iranians would do.

‘So where are you really from?’ the reception people asked at the conclusion of the initial exchange. ‘Okay, Australia, but we really are students with no need for rich-country room rates.’

At dinner, a few hours, we got to know the hotel staff properly; for the hotel was hardly bustling and we were at least interesting guests. We relived the Iranian tour completed and re-listed the route ahead.

Persian Gulf (photo courtesy Iran)

Yes it was then: on the evening of slight Russian-ness before the Kurdish lunch in the relic of the Portuguese fort on the Island of Hormuz, on the day before the meeting with Osama and before the swimming in the pools of cobalt glass and peacock chest and Swedish eye. That’s the way, in accordance with the rules of true adventure, that calendars are written. Marco Polo would understand it: the other-worldliness and the wonder.

The Portuguese Fort on the Island of Hormuz, Iran (photo: wikipedia)

More adventure can be had searching for massive beasts or dealing with a non-English speaking travel agent or even just getting to work.

This article also published by Daily Star, here: Swimming with Osama

...meanwhile... back at the mezbankhana...

Mezban Khana sign: 'the rules of the house.'

There are things that really should not be. Statistically speaking, according to probability and surely taking account of an element of chance as well, being born in Sydney it is altogether unlikely I should be living in Dhaka. It should not be I experienced something of Bangladesh; can say things in Bangla. By any prediction I should be as my brother, innocently believing Bangladesh a Hindu country, some version or other of India. In all likelihood I should be wary of it, the poverty, the hygiene and the Islam. Such elements would make me more typically Australian.

But thankfully my life is not that. Yes, I face the Dhaka that we know is part sanely-crazy and part insanely enjoyable. Like the rest of the public I’m in the jams, making the slog home each day, which often involves no less than three rickshaws. I have bills to pay, a household to run and office work which fortunately I love.

And like many Dhakaites I have too that parallel universe called the village: mine is in Hatiya. It’s the highlight of everything: it’s such a privilege when trudging through Farmgate of an evening for example, not to be thinking of whatever tensions the day has thrown at me, but rather, ‘I wonder what’s happening back at the mezbankhana…’

Mezbankhana is the term for ‘guest house’ in the Hatiyan version of Bangla and I use it to describe my Dhaka apartment. There’s a sign I had crafted, just inside the front door, which is a list of ‘rules’ for the place, the Hatiya Mezbankhana in Dhaka. The Hatiyans in particular, also those from greater Noakhali, enjoy that sign because it’s written in Hatiyan Bangla, to the point where some others, from other parts of Bangladesh, can have a little difficulty in understanding all of it at first glance. I had a friend of mine help me write it, and fortunately the craftsman who made the sign was from Noakhali, so when we said, ‘don’t correct the Bangla,’ he understood, amused by its local linguistics.

It was clear from the beginning that the villagers would come, now and then; after all the many years of hospitality they have shown me I’d be offended if they didn’t. It gives great pleasure to reciprocate, which for the first time I can, with an address in the capital. So the Mezbankhana was born.

For the non-Bengali readers, the rules in brief are: don’t spit your betel juice; leave your shoes in front of your room; there is no provision here for food, make your own; no smoking; there are gentlemen in the vicinity, please don’t disturb them; the sick get preference; and the assets of the mezbankhana are for all to enjoy, so please keep that in mind. But it’s the local Hatiyan language that really makes it fun.

It should not be that I have a kind of gramer bari or village home. It should not be there’s a Bengali mother in addition to the original. I should not have Hatiyan brothers, uncles and aunts. And the laws of the universe certainly should have precluded that evening when, rounding the corner of my street, I altogether randomly ran into one of my village uncles. He was lost and slightly bewildered in the ‘big smoke’. Yet the universe allows such anomalies; it’s absurd and wonderful.

He was bringing his son-in-law to Dhaka for treatment, my uncle, and as neither of them was familiar with the city they’d gone to the trouble of hiring a guide who knew Dhaka better. As my uncle is a portly fellow there was no chance of getting away with less than two rickshaws for the three of them. They’d told the drivers the name of the hospital alright. What they didn’t appreciate was that like many hospitals, that one had more than a single location; so while the son-in-law and the guide had been taken to the correct outlet, my uncle was taken to another, the one in my street.

He was scared, if the truth be told, not knowing where he was; and to complicate matters his son’s mobile was switched off from being already in the consulting room. My uncle is resourceful; by the time I met him he was chatting away to a stranger with a car who’d agreed to help him and let him stay if needed while his son-in-law was located. How that would have worked out though, who can say?

In my area a good many more people know me than I can name; it’s usual being the odd one out, the bideshi. It’s usual for them to say hello, which my uncle did; and not paying attention I just waved and kept walking. After a few steps it clicked, I did a double-take. ‘What on earth?’

I think the shock was greater for him. Dhaka is after all a big place and what are the chances of getting lost on just my street. Soon enough we were drinking tea at home, back at the mezbankhana. It was such an honour for me that he was there. And suddenly empowered by somewhere to stay, when he did get through to his son-in-law he was able to freely scold him for getting him lost. The following day his son-in-law stayed too.

My uncle’s not the only villager to drop by; normally they arrive in more routine ways: planned. And on the whole Hatiyan people are so polite and sincere, they bring with them such an atmosphere into my home, it’s an altogether better place while they stay. One in three weeks or three in one week, it’s often for medical treatment they come, one of the few reasons Hatiyans will venture to Dhaka, but they also come on crab-business or to attend a cosmetics conference or just for ghuraghuri or tour. My favourite to date was when my Bengali mother stayed over on the way to her familial home in north Bengal. She’ll tell you, in light criticism of her blood-related son my friend, how I remembered to leave a tin of betel leaves with all the trappings by her bed. She’s shown me so much kindness over the years, it’s so rewarding, even for a night or two, to be the host and not the guest.

Once I nearly got in trouble for the mezbankhana; the building secretary was standing in the doorway reading the sign over my shoulder while talking of an administrative matter. His expression went from routine to a frown as he read; he thought I was really running a hotel establishment in the rather nice building! Fortunately my landlords are far more understanding; they know it’s about the more than a decade of Hatiya in my life, of the dear friends and acquaintances with whom those years flew by, even if it was short visits to the island for much of the period.

And so they come, when there’s a little work in Dhaka or passing through… the thing that never changes and though my hospitality cannot possibly match theirs, is that at my place the gramer lok, or villagers from my village, are always, Hatiyan heartfelt, welcome.




And there's always Gilan, if you like hospitality, or staying in a cupboard, free of charge. Or spend some time making pilmeni with Mrs. Val.

This article also published by Star Magazine, here: ...meanwhile, back at the mezbankhana...

Situ and Kaka at the mezbankhana

Hatiyar lok at the mezbankhana

Mezbankhana meeting

Me, Bhabi and the Sahid

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A Little Update on Siddique the Fisherman...

The other day my friend Situ ran into Siddique the fisherman in the village, and he said to him, ‘your name is going to be in the newspaper’, thinking about my last article which hopefully will be published in print in the next week or so.

Siddique was shocked. ‘What? What for?’ he said, immediately concerned. Hatiyan people are quite shy of such things, I suppose because too often when the poor attract attention it is for a bad reason, such as a court case, often false, or a police something-or-other which also may or may not be of substance. They usually prefer to live under the radar a bit, without attention. ‘What did I do? What happened?’ asked Siddique. ‘Quick, give tea,’ he said, hoping to smooth things over with Situ, assuming there was something that needed smoothing over.

Situ was a bit bad, because he had tea with Siddique and still didn’t tell him why his name may be in the newspaper! ‘You should think it over,’ Situ told him, ‘why your name will be there, and we can talk about it another time.’ Such is the village life! The unfortunate Siddique is still wondering and will, until the thing is published, and we take him a copy. Meanwhile Situ is in Dhaka and we have no mobile number to reach him, so we can’t tell him sooner.

When they know the actual situation, all the tea shop regulars (at that shop) will laugh themselves silly shop about his needless worrying, why his name would be published; he will grin from ear to ear and be a bit proud and happy that his name is there, and all in the immediate vicinity will remember ‘Siddique’s article adventure’ for just about ever. That's how Hatiya goes… how Hatiyan community history is born.



Did you miss the start of this story?

Or perhaps you'd like to know what happens when the villager comes to the city.  Alternatively, head for similar rice paddy scenery in Thailand or the Philippines.



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