In retrospect, perhaps it was folly for four Australians to buy Bangladeshi national jerseys, drape themselves in flags and adorn their cheeks with red and green face paint. In a country where a white face alone is sufficient to attract incessant staring, this simple gesture of 'supporting the underdog' can elevate you to instant celebrity status, or more accurately put, absolute mob-fodder.
Given the context of the game, this boundless excitement comes as no surprise. India vs Bangladesh. The country that borders Bangladesh on three sides, the great powerhouse of the subcontinent – out for revenge against a cricket-tragic nation basking in the spotlight of the international sporting media for the very first time. Sports reporters the world over regularly earn their keep with hackneyed proclamations of great 'atmospheres' or amazing 'vibes' surrounding a fixture, but to walk the streets of Dhaka right now is to witness a city and a people truly in thrall of the spectacle.
In the 300m walk from the CNG (three-wheeled deathtrap/transportation vehicle) set-down point to the stadium, I was greeted over a thousand times, shook hands with nearly 200 people and posed for at least fifty photographs (countless more unwillingly). I was even interviewed by a Bangladeshi television crew, who were perhaps understandably miffed by the response given as to why I was going for Bangladesh – 'because Australia are rubbish right now'. The remainder of the interview consisted of an impassioned defence by the Bangladeshi journalist of 'the greatest cricketing nation on earth' – it's nice to know that at least here Ricky Ponting is held in high regard.
Belly of the beast
For every one person inside the stadium there were five outside – young children, rickshaw-wallahs and day-labourers in traditional lunghis (skirt-pants) taking full advantage of the many cricket-related public holidays, teenagers in their best dress, resplendent in flags, costumes and face-paint eager to share in the enthusiasm, chanting 'Bangladesh' and blasting home-made (and thankfully less-effective) 'vuvuzela-style' instruments. They didn't have tickets, and there were no giant television screens outside the ground, just a palpable and electric sense of people wanting to be near the action.
Inside, the Sher-e-Bangla National Stadium is as modern a cricketing ground as you'd find anywhere. My nostalgic vision of 'cricket on the subcontinent' – people pressing shoulder-to-shoulder in a cauldron of din and dust, a writhing sea of passion – was quickly dispelled as a mild-mannered gentleman and his well-dressed family rose to usher me to my allocated seat. In reality, that misplaced image probably dates from a bygone era in which moustache-wielding batsmen could arrive at the crease overweight and hungover and still hit a hundred. Ahh, the cricket of yore.
Whilst the fans inside the stadium were decidedly more affluent, there was no drop in passion levels. Grown men wielded home-made signs resembling kindergarten craft projects – pictures of tigers cut out of old National Geographic's and liberal applications of glitter – accompanied by Bollywood-style gyrations and ululations at every boundary. Now I've been known to clap politely, and utter phrases such as 'good show', but to leap up and dance irrespective of age or girth? Hats off to you, Bangladesh.
Sheer passion
So it took only 20-odd overs to realise that the fairytale wouldn't eventuate, but to witness the faces in the crowd you'd miss the fact that their side was losing. Virender Sehwag received a standing ovation upon reaching his ton (I can't remember too many Australian crowds giving an Englishman such treatment), and even as India amassed a whopping total of 370, the consensus of the crowd around me was that the Tigers would 'do a South Africa.' Loud and unrelentingly cheerful – imagine if they'd won.
Outside, nationalistic fervour had been simmering for hours. It wasn't clear whether the crowds pressing the surrounding streets knew the score – if they did it certainly didn't dampen their spirits. As I emerged with my green and red-clad compatriots a mini-ruckus broke out. First children and then adults ran to surround the 'Bideshi' (foreign) Bangladeshis. Within seconds we'd attracted a coterie a few-hundred strong including drummers and makeshift musicians – unintentional Pied Pipers leading their followers into an even-larger pressing throng. As some of the children were trampled and the females amongst our number began receiving closer-than-desired attention, a phalanx of policemen came to the rescue, dispersing the well-wishers and escorting us through the gauntlet.
Yes, the Cricket World Cup has arrived in Dhaka, but let's just hope no actual celebrities try to 'press-the-flesh' through these cricket-mad streets.
Key Observations:
Apparently stadium food doesn't have to be overpriced and tasteless – 200 taka, or just under AUD $3, buys you a 'Kashi Biryani' (a spicy dish of goat meat and rice) and a soft drink.
A tannoy system emitting loud bursts of cheesy Bangla-pop between overs will refresh you much more than alcohol. At least I tried to convince myself of this in the absence of the latter.
Harbhajan Singh is as ill-regarded in Bangladesh as he is in Australia.
A former SBS television sports journalist for 'World News Australia', Richard Parkin currently resides in Dhaka. He bears a passing resemblance to Daniel Vettori, a fact he hopes to exploit to maximum gain during the Cricket World Cup.
