Beige.

A lazy day falls through the panes and lights my journal page. Rain outside the window, small vanishing streaks caught in an instant against dark backgrounds. Drops sound off a tin roof, a deceiving drumroll. Between the two my mind is undecided on the effects of a walk in this rain, so I sit and move to other things. The crossword in front of me. A small clay colored pot of black coffee. A mug of the same grain. A silver teaspoon, untouched by a granule of sugar or a drying drop of bitter brown, is cradled in a saucer; its silversmithed edge shines with a pool of the sterling sky. My pen cap clicks on and off, I am stumped.

While I still grapple the truth , there is no place I need to be other than here. I am in Nepal and the Himalayas send a crackle through the air.

Anger, shock.

My lips are closed with the weight of blank expression; only I know my anger. I stare deliberately across the room, cursing under my breath. (I don't want to be this way.) I drag my eyes back to the page. I count the numbers in between paragraph breaks. I read to pass the time. Now I read for completion not comprehension. To complete another minute. To finish the last thirty. I am still waiting my turn. Warmth moves through unseen channels in my hands. My fingers curl and extend, quick like the legs of a scurrying insect I flex them in attempt to retard this building aggression. Constant movement feels a necessity. A turn of the page. A scratch to my face without an itch. This is movement, expressed alone for the sake of my mind that knows better. Feelings, they wander. On these my feelings dwell: pushing crowds on narrow streets, noisy vendors, putrid rain, aggressive beggars, yellow cab horns, side mirrors inches from my middle, an ejaculation of mud onto my legs, body odor and grease. These I add and multiply, I exponentially package them. And then my turn comes. I sign the book and drop the pen onto the page away from a hand that awaits a return. Leave me alone, I think and take my seat. I don't want your kindness.

Unwritten law.

In every culture there are unwritten laws. While breaking written law can assure you trouble, breaking unwritten laws can certainly do the same. For example, at the dinner of an extravagant event with prestigious guests you could break wind and receive many questionable glances. You have just broken an unwritten law. Just like written law the penalty can increase for repeat offenders. If later in the evening, at the same dinner and social event, (all dinners are), you are standing in a small circle of celebrated individuals and you commit the crime again, with guests who will easily recognize your earlier blunder, you may lose a networking opportunity, which could mean a job opportunity, which could mean the absence of a salary, which could mean you are evicted and put out on the street. Your life changes all because of a puff of gas; an unwritten law, broken. Now this is an extreme example, but you see my point. (It would be a unique circumstance but I suppose that in the right situation this would not be impossible.) In some ways, what is not clearly stated can have a greater consequence than what is. Wouldn't you rather get speeding ticket than be on the street because you are viewed as an impolite flatulence maker?

Every culture has unwritten laws. Some cultures, while different, have many similar unwritten laws. Some bear almost no resemblance to each other and some are very complex. Some unwritten laws of the past that have been entrenched in society over a long period of time may today seem utterly ridiculous and completely impractical for the age that we are in now. But since they are unwritten, at times if the culture and period call for it these laws slowly slip away. A strange existence.

Some unwritten laws are important since they can work for the well being of society as a whole. Some are ridiculous when given much serious thought and may prove to be impractical over the passage of time. And some are imperative; an absolute necessity. Breaking the unwritten laws of this last mentioned category can hurt you. They can even get you killed. The unwritten laws of Bangladeshi traffic are of this kind.

Today on a bus back to Dhaka in the rain, I sat next to a young man who seemed about my age. Over the course of six hours our conversation meandered, eventually reaching the traffic situation. I am always interested in getting the local feeling about the situation since mine will always be that of an outsider. I have ideas, but I need validation. He then told me that in the past few days, on this same road, with the same destination, in similar conditions, he had counted 28 traffic accidents. Most of them were minor, though one truck was split in half. Nonetheless, at one point twenty-eight collisions on one road in six hours happened. (No one was drunk, beer is hard to find in Bangladesh.) Moments after he told me this I felt our bus tires slip off the road onto the gravel side in a rushed maneuver around some thing. I forget what this thing was; I was looking out the window, not in fear but with awareness of this movement. My companion turned to me and smiled, "just don't look," he said. "That's what we do. We just don't look and act like we are going to make it." Good advice if you can accept it.

Sometimes I look at the fronts of Bangladesh driving schools and think to myself that I would probably fail. I might just make it onto the road and never leave because I am afraid of turning back against oncoming traffic. "Just one more intersection!" I would probably say. "I will do it at the next one." This is Bangladesh traffic. It is like a competition in which everyone forgets they are on the same team. This time also has many unique participants. Taxis, goods trolleys, buses, trucks, cattle, carts, rickshaws, bicycles, and people. I like to categorize these as big, bigger, and small. (I will not clearly define which is which, big, bigger, or small, since the laws I a about to state are applied in a relative fashion depending on who you are.) To me, the first and most obvious unwritten law is: small makes way for big or bigger. This can be restated as: big wins. When a bus is rocketing down a road, all the various traffic mentioned above can come into play. People will be walking on the sides of the road and pedaling their bikes and rickshaws. From your position on the bus it may not look like they are aware of the enormous mass of metal and peeling rubber that is headed their way, but on the majority they are. They understand the unwritten law and they respect it. As the bus, being big, is coming their way, they, being small, will move onto the side of th road. If necessary they will move farther, into the grass, onto the sidewalk, or into the irrigation ditch, dragging their cows and bicycles with them. Also interesting is that many of the people do this with their backs to traffic. They use their senses, as well as habits introduced through time and experience, to follow unwritten law for the sake of their well being. This is the first.

The second I will mention is not as apparent unless you are in the middle of it: this is the law of movement with expectation. I am convinced that this rule occurs throughout Bangladesh and for the sake of the best example I can think of, (there are probably better), I will use the countryside. The roads in these areas are almost always in two lanes and two lanes only. They also seem to have a buildup of potholes, bumps, ruts, and cracks that are not repaired as often as similar problems in the cities. Now no one likes to run over a pothole, it can be harmful, and since most potholes and other forms of crumbling asphalt seem to form at the sides of the road, buses prefer the middle. Actually, buses take the middle. There is a serious issue with two buses hurtling head on down the road; your mind and heart will tell you so. But neither bus slows down. They get closer and closer. Closer and closer, until the unwritten law of movement with expectation takes effect and both buses swerve back into their actual respective lanes at the last possible second, sounding their horns the entire time. Meanwhile the people and small things on the sides of the road move; they move with expectation. The buses move at the last second in expectation that the opposing bus (so they are led to think according to the law), and the rest of traffic moves farther over to the sides, knowing that they are smaller and with the expectation that the buses will move back.

Unwritten law; breaking it can kill you. I am sure there are many more relating to traffic just as there are many relating to everything other aspect of life, but these two are important, that much is certain.

Traffic jams and a palace.

Scattered throughout Bangladesh, or at least throughout the northern Rajshahi division, are old, sometimes rundown, palaces that were built by wealthy landowners of the past. Tajhat Palace is one of these and on my second day in Rangpur, I decided to visit.

An afternoon rain began to fall as I made my way to a fleet of waiting rickshaws. Waiting for the storm's eventual end, I stood on the curb just inside the eaves of a small shop selling strange out-of-touch-with-the-world art, but was soon invited to sit inside. Two boys pulled up chairs next to me. They looked like trouble. Neither of them spoke much English but the one named 'Rabbi' (pronounced Robby) spoke enough to invite himself on my trip. I figured it couldn't be that bad, and it would also be helpful to have someone to negotiate with the rickshaw drivers.

"Come on," I told him and motioned with my hand. The rain had just died.

The first drivers we came to listened while their bicycle taxi was still rolling forward but they shook their heads with a grimace. Tajhat Palace was not so close -- about five kilometers, which I thought should be a lot in the midday heat for a man who pedals to make his living, but if he agreed who was I to argue; the truth is I couldn't really, the only Bangla I know is Bhalo achi (I'm fine). That won't get me far.

Our search did not take long, and the third driver we came to agreed to take us.

"Thirty Taka," Rabbi told me.

"Okay," I said. "Thirty Taka."

"Okay," Rabbi said again.

And we were off.

Daily there are occurences in life which are new to me. Sometimes I see things and am shocked, like when I saw the way buses in Dhaka appear and drive as if they are in war. Other times I am shocked but wish that I took a bigger hit, such as the time when I saw a lady with exposed shriveled breasts and clinging skin dying on the walk outside bus station while flies danced on her skin and everyone else danced around. There are so many sights I have never imagined, yet they happen everyday; just like bicycle rickshaw traffic jams.

They line up from the front tire of one to the rear axle of the next. In lines sometimes two or three rickshaws wide, they push each other into almost complete paralysis until it seems that the only one who can move is at the front of the line attempting a righthand turn against oncoming traffic. Somehow they manage to resolve this mess with half-passioned cries and bell rings. Everyone has a bell. Attached to their handlebars, or more frequently on the front fork with a trigger on their left grip, these silver domed bells create a small concerto when traffic is at a lull but this music dies in the chaos of a jam. Stuck in the center of all of this, most people stared at me. Who wouldn't? I am tall, white, with unruly blonde hair and I am sitting on an elevated stage. What a sight.

"What are you doing here?" their eyes asked me.

"Just trying to be friendly," my eyes responded.

Smiling received mixed results. Some sent back only dark-eyed stares, but a few returned smiles and cocked their head to the side; a friendly gesture in Bangladesh.

After several more jams, one being a car vs. rickshaw battle on a one lane bridge, we made it to the edge of town. Here goats lied on the front steps of closed shops and cows grazed in small green fields enclosed by moss covered brick walls; crumbling remnants that the eye insists are from long ago, but so much here has this appearance of age from both weather and use.

Within 30 or 45 minutes we arrived at Tajhat Palace, and our driver made it alive. The palace was beautiful. Tucked away into a small grove of trees, this particular mansion was built by a wealthy jeweller and landowner in the mid-19th century, but now laid empty except for a few exhibits displaying archaelogical leftovers from the region. The exterior had large white-paned windows and walls made of red brick with a mix of others built of cement and plaster. In the midst of a sprawling lawn this rajbari sat, guarded by a crumbling wall and an amiable guard who asked me to take his picture at the gate.

For as long as we could in the oppressive humidity, we wandered about, Rabbi said "Okay" a lot, some people took my picture, and without getting to involved we left. I tried to get Rabbi to explain to the driver that I wanted to see a nearby Hindu temple but again he responded only with "Okay" to my patient insistence and we took off in the wrong direction.

When things began to look familiar again Rabbi stopped the driver and we stepped off onto the high sidewalk. Then there was a problem. The driver, who had at first only asked for 30 Taka, now wanted 100 more. I know its not a lot of money, I am more than willing to be gracious, but the principle of the matter is that I was getting ripped off. I was nice. When we arrived at the palace I gave him extra, but I was not going to be a pushover. With patience I relayed my message to Rabbi and handed the agreed upon amount to the driver. Rabbi said "Okay" as I expected and in a mess of Bangla sent the message to the driver who began to get angry.

Now when a white person visits Bangladesh just to travel, its something odd to many people; but when a white person is standing on the sidewalk in northern Bangladesh explaining himself in English to a boy who only says "Okay" and a moustached man who is getting fired up and speaking about it in passionate Bangla, its a show. Within a minute, a crowd had gathered around me. I was at the center with Rabbi while our driver turned back and forth to random people, ranting. Everyone had something to say and it was getting loud. Someone even asked me what my country was, which for a moment took me away from the matter at hand, and I managed a smile. Young security guards, shop owners, random passersby, beggars, everyone; they all had an opinion. Thankfully, in a country which sees few Western travelers English speakers usually find me. A helpful student rode up on his bicycle into the small mass of bellowing Bangladeshis and asked me what the problem was. I explained to him and again the message was relayed to the driver. The driver was slow to accept, but in a slow manner he began to walk back to his bicycle. My helpful assistant then told me, "lets go," and I pushed out from the center. I was very grateful to this student who then offered me a ride on his bicycle and I sat down on the back. He dropped me off, I thanked him again, and tired from the day walked through the front gate of my guesthouse.

It was a day well spent in Rangpur.

Old Dhaka.

A layed mix of labyrinthine streets with connecting dark alleys set in between open front shops; a dreamland for wanderers and bibliophiles on vacation. It would be exaggerating to say that people here are untouched by a modern world, we all know ideas can travel faster than the technology and machinations they produce, but in a congenial spirit of curiosity and olden truths that shape their care for the traveler, this city creates a period of its own. While not yet spoken, there is a sanctity for the wanderer; welcoming cups of tea that I have not drank of anywhere else. These principles crash into your heart with a barrage of questions and opinions that reach your ear from fifteen directions, but the smiling faces from which these words emanate hold no threat.

"Take your time," Asia beckons. "Come, sit in my lap and watch the cusp of civilization embrace those who wait."

The reward is the process. A daily move into a past attached to the sinews of the present. Some fibers run stronger than others; some places have a history, a weight you can feel in conversation as a Bangladeshi man emboldens the mosque behind him with a spring in his words. I imagine there was a spring in his step as well, just at the moment he saw us.

I have never been such a curiosity. Kyle, a friend revisited in Bangladesh, and I have walked through streets with tiny shops and bicycle rickshaws that squeeze onto a narrow lane that has acted in spite of changing times -- holding the same relevance as it did centuries ago. The challenge is avoiding the scrapes of rickshaw bolts as our eyes flit to meet those that stare from their shopfronts. Metalworkers, sarong sellers, instrument builders, and tea makers; they all look to us.

A border crossing.

I move in and out of both mind and body while I crossed the border into Bangladesh. Heat and swaying palm trees, bicycle rickshaws pedaling by and colorful trucks of an airy blue and yellow adorned in Bangla script. Beggars mingling with waiting crowds. Large pure white clouds drifting above, juxtaposing the trash strewn on streets below. Long tiled corridors, empty and dimly lit within the shade of 3:05 p.m. A few pulsing fans in the ceiling above the waiting lines. Muslim men in caps and long white robes, and Bengali women in traditional salwar suits. Waiting room couches filthy and stained in another dim opening tucked out of late afternoon heat.

A guard shakes my hand at the iron entry gate. I make eye contact, smiling from the corner of my mouth. He cocks his head to the side and beams in return. I enter a crumbling courtyard, but caught up in a merger of past and present, fail to take everything in.

[What would my family think if they were standing beside me? What would they notice in different ways than I do? What would they point out? What colors would they see?]

The boy who has led me across the road and through the gate now leads me through an archway with 'ARRIVALS' painted in bold white yet obvious brushstrokes. We step into the foreign passport line. There are two or three people in front of me but my young red-shirted attendant takes my passport, steps to the side of the waiting line, and slides my passport beneath the dirty window. It is grabbed on the other side with a reaching right hand while the line continues to function according to order. A man waiting in front of me turns his body ever so slight and reaches back with a happy question: "What is your country?"

"America," I tell him with a returning smile.

"Oh!" he smiles with all possible teeth showing. He gives me his name. He is from Assam and he too is on his first trip into Bangladesh. The usual questions pass with the speed of expectation. His passport is stamped and handed back.

"Maybe see you there," he says. With a smile to say goodbye he walks away.

I rest my hands on the counter. In his mode, the officer behind the glass pages through my blue passport with its faded golden United States emblem on the cover. *Stamp*...*stamp*. A departure card is torn and set into place. *Flip*, my book of stamps is closed and passed back to me. I can now enter Bangladesh.

My young attendant appears at my side again. He takes my passport from me and inspects its pages as he walks a steady line to the door. Whether fulfilling his positional duties or performing his job to personal standards, I do not know, but I stay with him in each step and hold an expectant palm in front of his chest; asking without words. We walk outside and satisfied he sets it in my hand. "Thank you," I tell him. There is no response.

There is a feeling of elation and a sense of power in the moment your passport is stamped and you cross the imaginary and yet real lines that separate one country from the next. Some people do not have this privilege, not out of any fault of their own but because of politics. I have the privilege and I am honored in every stamp that is added -- every stamped press from a generic ink pad to a generic passport page contains the symbolic potential to become something much more. Bangladesh accepts my footsteps with waiting.