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.