I’m in Dhaka, Bangladesh, where my underwear were made.
The people of Bangladesh are awesome. I have yet to catch one look or grimace that had any bad intent. There is indifference, disbelief, and joy, but no ill-will. No equivalent of “Go Home Gringo” exists.
Their willingness to help me, almost makes up for the complete lack of road signs. If I don’t know where I am or where I am going, I stop and ask somebody and soon a crowd forms, sometimes as many as 10 or 12 people. After a little deliberation, the crowd decides what it is exactly I’m saying and how I should proceed. If I think a taxi driver is sticking it to me, I just ask somebody on the street. If the cabbie is overcharging, he will soon be publicly berated.
I will be working with several local journalists on everything from where my underwear were made to exploring the sport of Kabbadi. I am in the process of having some interviews lined up with some Bangladeshi movie stars and, get this, a singer has asked me to be in his newest music video. I will be dressed like a Bangladeshi farmer and lip syncing all of the words. I’m sure I won’t stick out the least bit.
Tonight, I’m traveling by paddleboat to the village of Matlab where my friend Dalton grew up.