SATURDAY 2/6 - MONDAY 2/8 - It's hard to imagine any travel adventure that could top my week in Clermont-Ferrand. But the debacle that began in the Lyon airport only got worse, spiraling, in some surreal Dantesque descent into Dhaka. Perhaps the high of Clermont-Ferrand just called for some contrast to put it into really good perspective. The post-ceremony dinner on Saturday night had been delicious (fois gras, escargots, filet mignon with wild mushrooms, etc.), as well as pleasant, but was filled with moments of exhausted silences (Italian TV buyer Philip called it "angels passings"), which were actually rather rare in our group. The big closing party was surreal and somewhat gothic and the transit with the rental car and confrontation in the Lyon airport would have been comic, had it been any less unpleasant.

The final solution, as it were, for the rerouting seemed within grasp, but wound up taking some twelve hours, three countries, four airlines and at least two dozen "re-approaches" to uncooperative airline reps to finally get the answer I wanted to hear. It would have been nice to stroll around London during my eight hours there, but the warm clothes were on their way back to LA and the travel logistics clearly required continuous finessing. Managed to talk my way into the KLM First Class Lounge, so the refreshments and modem connection went far to stem the free-falling travel disaster. I boarded the new flight to Dhaka and immediately fell into REM sleep.

As I awake to a soothing and friendly flight attendant in traditional British/Indian sari/uniform and chose the "Gobhi aloo and dal with Gulab jamon" for dinner (eliciting a sly and affirming smile from the stewardess), I begin to feel some excitement brimming up for the exotic adventure that lay ahead. The seven-and-a-half hour flight to Delhi is rather painless, though a bit turbulent and the exotic spices in the dinner selection did manage to linger throughout the flight.

The break in the Delhi airport was somehow troubling, though. A group of tourists were somberly chanting a Buddhist mantra at the end of the jetway, as we disembarked onto Indian "soil," and the holding area at the Delhi airport was dank, fetid and decidedly unwelcoming -- in what felt like a sinister way. I spoke with a fellow-leg-stretcher, a retired Swiss personnel director for a Lutheran relief organization, who described Bangladesh as one of the developing areas always worse in experience than in peoples' imagination.

We complete the last hop to Dhaka and after the always-lovely spraying-of-the-passengers-with-pesticide ceremony, we disembark and make it to Bangladeshi customs. I am found by a young festival volunteer named Masud, who helps with a bag (the lightest) and seems to negotiate around the officials out a side door of the airport. A van takes us to my hotel through the excruciatingly crowded slums of Dhaka. The rickshaws and scooters wind their way amidst wandering pedestrians and smoke-spewing old cars. People wash and spit and sleep in the gutters and meander around the traffic, some of which is parked in mid-street. I am offered some greasy looking fried chicken in a styrofoam container and decline.

We arrive at BIAM, the unfortunately named bunker/hostel that I am told will be my home-away-from-home. There are a cadre of shady looking men at the register, none of whom speak any English. I realize there is some confusion, as nobody can find my name on the register, but after some haggling, I'm shown upstairs to number 607. Inside, a teenage guy is sitting on a twin bed smoothing the soiled sheets. He shouts something to me, which Masud translates as, "you may enjoy the OTHER bed, here" and as he indicates another area of the room, I have a flash that this is to be my roommate.

That's not the case, thankfully, but it's no real consolation, as the room's a cell, moldy, bare, under-furnished. Outside is a view of back alleys, garbage heaps and squalor. I ask for a few moments to unpack and Masud leaves, clearing the room - save two guys who cross their arms and observe me. Masud comes back and hustles them out in a moment and I actually shudder as I take in my surroundings. I stumble back downstairs and am spirited to the festival headquarters, which is an area in front of an auditorium with signs and makeshift stands and tables around.

A chair is positioned for me in the road and I am told to sit. Some rather pleasant tea is offered and I am introduced to a succession of festival workers and "traveling dignitaries," as people mull about outside the theatre. One is seated next to me; turns out he's a "famous Indian film man," a sound-mixer from Calcutta who's worked with Satyajit Ray and Patrick Swayze.

I also meet Farouk, one of the festival directors, who I now realize wasn't answering his e-mail himself anyway (which may explain why my last four urgent requests for updates yielded no response). Farouk has wild, wavy black hair and weary, swollen eyes. He's swarthy and unfocussed, gives me a curt reception and is off to yell at some volunteers.

The Bangladeshis have a custom of physical affection and I find I'm breaking handshakes much quicker than those I'm greeting. As an experiment, I decide to let the next guy break it first and I find myself holding hands with Lincoln for what is way longer than I can handle (doesn't seem to bother Lincoln, though).

I'm told we must hurry off to a reception at the Indian Consulate. We wind through more alleys in the van then sit in traffic for what seems like an hour. "Big jam, " my escorts explain. The reception is strange, it's on a rather plain rooftop with a mix of well-dressed and shabby types. The other filmmakers from abroad are there, Brian, with whom I shared coffee in LA and Cathy, with whom I've e-mailed. Brian's pleasant enough, Cathy's a bit cool; they've already explored the city and plan on taking off for an excursion up-river in two days. Other ex-patriots around, including a woman from Chicago who graduated from Brown in my class.

The buzz is that the hartal (general strike) will begin tomorrow and will last two or three days. Festival activities will cease, no cars can be driven anywhere in the city and violence is expected. I do the math and realize it's unlikely CREAMPUFF will screen before I'm set to go. Suddenly, my brief stay at the Dhaka International Short Film Festival doesn't seem brief enough.

Brian informs he's staying the night with a friend from the states. The rest of us are spirited off to the BIAM and told festival staff will check in with us sometime tomorrow to tell us "the status of everything." We file out and I ask about my hundred dollar bill I was told would be changed for me into tikkas (it wasn't and may not be until after the hartal) and about telephoning, e-mailing and faxing. I am told by Lincoln that if the violence subsides at some point tomorrow, he'll take me to the festival office to use e-mail and, maybe, the telephone.

I'm a little freaked out that, in addition to no CNN, I can't make a call and am shown the pay phone. Somehow, this phone can't connect to an operator and doesn't allow for calling cards. I am told I'll have to buy a phone card for a three minute call to the states…but I have no tikka and that's all they'll take. The other international filmmakers are distinctly unhelpful, but I do manage to score a card. I slip it in and try to dial the states but the meter indicates its value is used up before any connection is even made. I feel I'm close to tears.

I decide to call the contact I was given in Dhaka for help. The call goes through to a lovely and warmhearted parent of a friend-of-a-friend, Indira, who is very sweet and understanding; she's been expecting my call. She suggests I get out of the BIAM while I still can and offers to send her car. I suggest I transfer to the five-star Sheraton, but she confers with her husband, who is a very powerful figure in the Bangladeshi publishing industry and a very respected and successful Dhakite, and decides I will stay in her home. She suggests I call Farouk, who she's spoken with and whom she feels may object to my leaving the BIAM.

I go to share a quick bite with a friendly Indian filmmaker who I met at the reception and we eat a few forkfuls before Farouk and two buddies push in to the dining room. Farouk is not, in fact, happy that I'm leaving. He's more focussed on me than he's been, but there's something vaguely threatening about his tone. He drones on about his "position," that he's gone to great pains to invite me and have me welcomed in his country, that I've been extended special privileges by the government (including the use of the special short cut at customs), that he's taken responsibility for my safety and that the Bangladeshis are poor, struggling people.

"You just don't like your room," he poses, half question, half incredulous sneer. I am very polite and apologetic and explain that I've had a difficult few days and am concerned about the hartals and have friends in town. My soon-to-be Host Family is clearly my way out here, as Farouk clearly fears them. I run to my room to pack, as the driver has arrived and I somehow manage to tote my entire over-stuffed assortment of baggage down six flights of thin, windy spiral stairway. Once ensconced in the car (after a few snubs and troubled good-byes to the festival guys), I breathe a major sigh of relief and am soon entering the very pretty and secure family compound of my new friends.

I am greeted by the lovely Indira and her son, Olan (who is applying to Brown), and shown my room (actually the room belongs to Iri, the elder son who's the Brown grad and who is now at NYU). The room is gorgeous: nice, spacious sitting area, huge bathroom, air conditioning, big bed, very charming. I take a quick shower and join the family upstairs. They are comfortable, sympathetic, funny and gracious. I start to relax. Some food is prepared for me by the servants, it's beautiful and tasty. We speak about Bangladeshi history and politics and religion. It's an informative and stimulating discussion.

I'm given the run of the house and told to sleep or not, use anything and make myself at home. After the grand tour of their large and cushy home, Olam helps me to e-mail and make a few calls and I'm off to my room to turn in for the first time since Friday night at the Hotel de Lyon. I'm thrilled. It's so comfortable and safe. At least for now.

TUESDAY, 2/9 - The day begins with the cock-a-doodle-doo of a rooster and the distant sounds of musical prayers. The room is very plush and the bed firm, yet cozy. The room, like all of the sprawling compound, is luxurious, but homey, and very tasteful. What a relief to be here! I've set the alarm for 10am, as I knew I could sleep all day and I want to see my hosts before noon. I meet Indira and Olam upstairs and breakfast is prepared and served for me: local puffed rice cereal with molasses, fried egg, spicy tomato & pepper omelet (delicious!) and tea. We chat about the hartal and the plans for the next few days. Whenever anything is needed at the table, Indira rings a little copper bell and one of the docile, barefooted servants comes running.

Olan has been out and there seems to be little problem, so far, if one sticks to rickshaws and walking and avoids the "hotspots." The family is very well informed. Olan's father, Gholi, who is working today, is, after all, the editor of the major newspaper, AJKER KAGOJ, and a very influential and connected presence here. He also runs half a dozen other businesses and factories throughout the country (oil, shrimp, concrete poles…). The rest of Indira's family, who live on the compound, are anxious to meet me and all want very much to screen a VHS of CREAMPUFF. With some reservations, I agree. We'll also see some traditional Indian films on video and maybe will take a stroll around the neighborhood.

I connect to AOL and upload my last report, then retire to my room to rest and read. After an hour, I'm awakened from a snooze with a call to lunch. I eat with Ghali and Olan (Indira is fasting) some fried fish and potatoes and vegetables. As we finish, we are joined by Indira's brother, Bahvah, who has lived in the states. Along with a few other family members, we retire to Indira's sister's apartment to watch CREAMPUFF (I am told Ghali will watch it later, by himself). The group watches intently and starts making comments toward the end. Afterward, they are very enthusiastic and want to chat. Generally, they seem to have liked it. Questions and comments abound about the characters and the moments that were most touching.

Indira, Olan and I go out to the upstairs balcony to take tea. Indira brings along a scrap book and shows me pictures of the many plays she acted in as a young woman. She says she misses being onstage, that she had a real talent, but that "it would not be proper for a woman of a high social stature." She describes her music, which is a cross between classical Indian songs and Islamic hymns. She plays a few exotic instruments and shows me several of her tapes and cds.

I receive a call from Brian, who has been staying with friends, Farouk (no, another one) and Catherine (my classmate at Brown). I am invited to an informal gathering at their home, but my hosts advise it's not safe to travel there. We get a report that there has, in fact, been a lot of violence (some nearby) and some fatalities and that the hartal may be extended through Thursday.

We meet again to eat a light meal of spiced lentils and eggplant in a yogurt sauce to break Indira's fast and we're joined by Ghali. The conversation is fast and interesting and covers Indian history and society, Islam and the press in the Indian subcontinent. After the meal and the lingering, I log on to AOL for the disappointing Oscar news from the Academy, then sulk off to my room for a read/nap. I'm awakened by a servant announcing dinner. It's a tomato-based soup, barbecued chicken and fresh-made soft bread and very delicious. After we're done, Indira rolls me a paan (a very strange concoction in a beadle leaf of exotic spices and pastes) and instructs me to chew on it. Very interesting taste mix of peppermint, eucalyptus, tobacco and scotch.

We retire with some jasmine tea to the TV to watch a program on Deepak Chopra. Indira's been doing some research on mind-body stuff, Buddhism, kabbalah and philosophy, so we embark on a wonderful, spirited discussion of our varied observations on the subject. Indira's into all sorts of New Age-y stuff and is reading a lot of material I'm familiar with. Ghali joins us eventually and we talk of politics, fate, freedom of speech and Islam.

Ghali is a very smart and well-read, careful and moral man. His demeanor is somewhat stern and pedagogic, but he has a sly wit and makes occasional, disarming off-color remarks, which I find quite charming. Ghali's a committed Muslim (he only wears the long, white, traditional flowing garments), but has a wonderful, sly sense of humor about it. There's a great deal of acceptance of Judaism, Christianity and Buddhism (Ghali says it'd be fine if his sons intermarried) and a lot of curiosity and willingness to talk about it.

Ghali talks of the Bengali (Bangladeshi) character: devout, hardworking and loyal and his explanation of the big stress on honor and duty explain a lot about Farouk and the festival crew: I think that my leaving their lair was a statement to them of their inability to take care of me, an obligation they were committed to fulfilling. It was perceived as their failure. Ghali says they were correct in feeling that way (in the context of Bengali tradition), but that I was also right to leave. He advocates moderation, in all things, politics, religion, business, relationships. Fascinating, stimulating, challenging, enlightening. I say goodnight at 2am and head to my room, mind buzzing.

The strikes have been confirmed to be rather bad, so we'll probably stay in again for most of tomorrow - until, at least, the afternoon reports come in. It's actually turning into a fascinating trip. Unfortunate that the festival stuff seems stalled, but a great pleasure to hang, relax, eat and talk with the family.

WEDNESDAY, 2/10 -- Woke up late and joined Olan for breakfast. As we sat, Indira was playing and singing traditional Indian music with two of her teachers. A beautiful, lyrical raga about love and devotion, she explains later. I chat with Olan, but occasionally just pause to take in the lovely home, tasty food and thrilling, trance-like music. This is a very special experience.

We watch a few Indian/Bengali music videos on TV; they're so cheesy! Apparently, most Indian & Bengali films find a way to squeeze in 5-10 production numbers, including clunky group dance numbers involving a lot of undulation and shoulder-shrugging. The music video channels (of which there are several) play a mix of these scenes from recent films and actual videos, including the occasional American export. Hanging around somehow lasts until lunch: chicken soup, a tasty barbecued lamb roast and potatoes.

We are told that the violence and tensions are escalating and that today may also be an "inside day." ("Why take a risk?" asks Ghali, suggesting there will be no way any of us will be permitted to leave the compound.) Any feeling I have of frustration about wasted time is over-shadowed by how thoroughly grateful I am for the extraordinary hospitality this generous family is extending. It's very stimulating, much of the time. And when it's not, it's good Buddhist practice to sit, to hang without obsessing about what's going to happen.

I doze off for a while, then Olan fetches me and we watch a tape of SONG OF FREEDOM, Brian's friend Wahrim's film about a young group of singers who travel the area during the Bangladeshi war for independence from Pakistan, encouraging the troops and building morale. We're joined by Olan's uncle, who was a Freedom Fighter and who puts the film in historical and cultural context. Fascinating and heartbreaking story. Incredible how all of this history went down and what an arch and insidious role the U.S. played in it all. Incredible footage of the atrocities committed by the Pakistanis and the courage and valor of the Bangladeshis.

We move to the dining room for a meal with the extended family. It seems there've been a few deaths and lots of violence outside, but Ghali has called the other newspaper editors and they've proclaimed the end of the hartal on Thursday at 6pm. That will give us tomorrow evening and all day Friday to see the city -- I won't even worry about the festival. Dinner tonight is more traditional and we eat fried rice with curried chicken and lamb and a fried egg - with our hands. I'm told I can use a fork, but I resolve to get the hang of it (one must only use the right hand and keep the fingers facing down, using the thumb to push the food from the hand into the mouth). I'm a bit clumsy, but most of the food does manage to make it into my mouth. We finish with a type of rice pudding and the beadle leaf thing and Ghali, Olan and I retire to the TV room.

Ghali wants to play for me a (long) tape of a performance he hosted of local students (orphans who had been adopted by a rich local) dancing and singing in a variety of Bengali styles. Some of it is quite interesting, but I'm biting hard on my lip to stay awake after half an hour. When it's over, it is announced that we will play CREAMPUFF now, Ghali is ready to see it. I stutter and am about to object, but decide otherwise. I struggle to pay attention and think I notice Ghali dozing, but when the credits have all rolled, he pronounces his verdict: "Extraordinary."

He discusses how universal pain is and makes an analogy to an old Bengali man in a village who's walking stick one moves ("or it could be his flowerpot or his can") and the man explodes in rage as it's the thing he clings to when he has nothing else. Interesting. Ghali talks about the acting and the script and has more praise for the truth and effectiveness and the importance of the film. This makes me feel good. Ghali seems not to suffer fools, at all.

THURSDAY, 2/11 - Hopefully, the hartal will end today. It's kind of like being under house arrest. I've never not been free to go home before, which is weird. It's common occurrence, though, here and elsewhere in the world. But I'm still so comfortable here and so interested in talking with the family about this culture, the religion, life in general. The scenes of violence in the news and reports that've come through are scary but I feel like I'm really hooked in here and am still so grateful to be so well taken care of -- pampered, really!

After breakfast with Olan, we are beckoned into the music room to observe Indira playing music with her teachers. She sings and plays a sitar, while her teachers play tabla and harmonium. It's a gorgeous, exotic sound and sitting in this radiant room, with incense burning and religious icons all around one can't help but feel transported to some deep, meditative place. I retire with Olan to watch an old Satyajit Ray film called MIDDLEMAN, which is fascinating for its narrative and its filmmaking and not at all unfamiliar, but the video copy stinks.

After the film, I read a bit, then time for another meal (just continuous eating here) with Ghali and Olan. Ghali has more to say about the movie: he says he's lived the role of Robert, when Indira was incapacitated. He says the compassion one feels watching CREAMPUFF is universal and is a great lesson to those so immature they mistake lashing out for "meanness."

He's also got a lot to say about compassion, humility and intolerance. He expounds on the Nazis at length and has very intense and complex observations. He feels there should be five states of Israel around the world and that Europe can never stop apologizing for the holocaust. He relates the Pakistani genocide in Bangladesh to the Nazis, though, he says, it affected his country on a much smaller scale. The war for independence is very close to these people and I am told (several times) of the three million killed and three hundred thousand raped and the ten million refuges that fled to India.

Sheik Mujibur is revered as The Father of The Nation and his political party is the one the family supports and plays a leading role in. The opposition (BNP) is said to have links to Pakistan (which received much aid from the US) and it favors more fundamentalism, closer ties to Pakistan, an Islamic state. Ghali and family have great reverence for the "village people" (tribesmen, not the band), but also favor modernization and progress. The opposition is said to have been connected with the brutal assassination of The Father of The Nation, along with all his cabinet and his family (save his two daughters, one of whom is now Prime Minister), as well as the round-up and brutal torture of the leading Bengali artists and intellectuals. Ghali says with some authority that it was the work of "outsiders."

Ghali again describes the Bengali character, happy, loyal, hospitable, polite - he says the Bengali will offer all he has to a guest, in order to pay respect (including, in some tribes and in bygone days, his wife!). This is certainly born out by all the food and accommodations proffered, nonstop.

Despite some early violence and a few killings, it seems the hartal is winding down and Olan and I plan to take a trip around the city after 5pm. I'm really looking forward to getting out. I write for a bit, organize my stuff then we're off into the streets. Olan chooses one of the dozen or so family cars and its corresponding driver and we're off into the streets. The hartal is officially over, but people are still milling about, with a kind of "last-call" giddiness and the air seems to reek of smoke, curry and sweat. The violence was more severe than had been expected (several dead, including a police captain, and many injured).

We drive through a wide range of neighborhoods and we get out at a few spots, including some interesting sites inside Dhaka University campus. Olan shows me some famous "martyr points" and we stand outside the student canteen where many of the important Freedom Fighter events were planned. (Very cool cafe; authentic feeling of ferment, colorful portraits hanging of swarthy martyrs with fresh flower garlands draped around them, groups of hippy-ish students with intense, soulful eyes drinking tea, reading and snickering, someone strumming something - a bit heavy on the romantic revolutionary ambiance - take it down a notch, huh guys…?).

We see a rally in progress and Olan says it's safe to walk around and listen to the singing. It's peaceful and quite moving, in a patriotic kind of way. We drive around other areas, but the dusk has settled in and it's getting harder to see everything. We stop at a few of Olan's favorite haunts: the cinema, video store, shopping centers. Whenever we drive up to one of the para-military policeman directing traffic or parking, the cop invariable stamps his feet, comes to attention and salutes. I guess it's some combination of the car, Olan's look and the hirsute white guy in the back seat. Weird.

We arrive at the American Club to meet Olan's aunt and have a slice of pizza. It's a casual, light affair, chatting a bit with the ex-pat community about the strange events of the last three days. We leave shortly after pizza and make one last stop at Ghali's press, where the early edition of AJKER KAGOJ is now being printed. Very grimy and makeshift feeling, but they spew out some 30,000 copies per hour and it's the leading paper in the country.

We head back to home, where Indira orders dinner be served (!) and we chat over delicious shrimp in coconut milk curry and dal -- and I'm finger-scooping like a pro. Ghali joins us and another heavy talk ensues. Ghali's been thinking more about CREAMPUFF and asks if he can have a copy to screen for a group of "about twenty-five" of the intellectuals and artists in his community. He wants to lead a discussion with them, then do a feature piece in his paper on it. I'm really flattered and he talks more about the weighty profundity of the characters' dynamic and how it effects all of us in some way, at some point in our lives. He talks about his philosophy of tolerance and commitment and says he decided at an early age to be unstoppable. The word he uses is "obhei," "No Fear."

He suggests we watch another Satyajit Ray film together and we retire to the TV room. PATHER PANCHALI is another masterpiece, but I'm so warm and comfortable it's a struggle to stay awake. I make it through and we have a spirited and interesting discussion of it and Indian culture until about three. Then off to bed for my last evening in Dhaka. Tomorrow will be the grand tour and, God willing, the departure for Delhi at 9pm. If there's a film festival in town, I know nothing about it. But I'm psyched for the much anticipated "insider's tour" of Dhaka and then an equally inside view of Delhi with another acquaintance I'll meet there on Saturday.

FRIDAY, 2/12 - Woke up at 8:30, despite four hours of sleep, for an early breakfast with Olan and Indira and preparation for our day-long tour of Dhaka. So psyched about it I barely notice the increasing number of mosquito bites popping out all over the body (did somebody say malaria…?). We eat eggs and curried vegetables with delicious fried tortilla-like breads and Indira quizzes me on Jewish lore and ceremony. She has wanted me to write down the books of the old testament and a list of important holidays and rituals. Indira believes there's a great deal Islam and Judaism share, in terms of tradition, belief and ritual, and she feels it's important to work toward emphasizing these areas to bring people together culturally and politically. I must send a package of books and tapes on Judaism, Kaballah, Deepak, Ram Dass…

Olan steps out for a quick tabla lesson before the day's tour; I sit in and it's fascinating. The teacher talks about various techniques and counts (12/12? 16/16?) and demonstrates extraordinary facility with the drums (I didn't think fingers could move that fast) and we discuss the few Indian musicians I know, Zakir Heussain and Ali Akhbar Khan. We talk about singing a bit and I bring up Nusrat Fatah Ali Khan, who is from Pakistan, thus some mixed emotion about the guy - though his musical prowess is duly acknowledged. We finish up and are off on our tour.

Olan, Indira and I take a car and head into Dhaka - actually, "barrel into Dhaka" might be more accurate. The driving is fast and chaotic and our driver weaves between pedestrians, rickshaws and scooters at a break-neck speed, constantly riding the loud horn. I ask what happens if there's an accident and my hosts sort of shuffle. Seems there's no insurance and scant emergency response. I'm told that if someone's seriously hurt, that's about it for them. Sometimes an arrangement is worked out, but generally, it seems, the "stronger" driver wins (this refers most to economic strength, I glean). The crowd does, apparently, play a role, as it has been known to storm a perpetrator's car and inflict great violence on it and its unfortunate driver, if the mob's riled up by the accident in question.

Seems Olan has had an altercation recently, so he'll be a passenger in the family cars for the immediate future. Doesn't seem to matter much about licenses and there are no driving schools, so no wonder nobody pays any mind to the traffic signals, lane lines or traffic cops. At one intersection, a high-strung rickshaw wallah has some issue with our driver's motor-arrogance and starts ramming the car with his rickshaw.

At another, a young girl (maybe ten, size of a six year old, but with forty year old eyes) approaches the car with a naked emaciated baby, probably her brother, draped around her. She wears a dusty maroon sari and has huge, clear eyes and filthy hands and feet. She fixes on my eyes and bangs the window glass for a handout, muttering something, more to herself than me. My heart aches, but my hosts council not to give anything. They're incredibly involved in poverty and education issues (Ghali has educated and clothed entire villages and supports programs to address the issue in Dhaka), so I don't object to their advice. This is one of many such encounters I will have today.

We stop at the Freedom Museum and see photographs and relics that flesh out the saga of this young nation that's been told to me over the last few days. Tragic, excruciating, deeply depressing story. The depictions here of the inhumanity perpetrated on the Bangladeshis are graphic and unbearable. I'm sure there's another side to this story, but the facts and events seem relatively accurate. The final, unspeakably brutal massacre of the artists, journalists and intellectuals after Pakistan had been defeated, in the days before their final withdrawal, is particularly gruesome. Reminds me of the Nazis last days. A lot of material here for Hollywood, to be sure.

We head from the museum to Old Dhaka, the craggy, putrid, insane crush of humanity that makes up one of those "neighborhoods that time forgot." It's mostly Hindu and, I'm told, due to a holiday, today is rather light, traffic-wise. Yeah, right. There're waves after waves of people in groups, in rickshaws, carrying impossibly heavy reams of paper and containers of fish and brass cookware and way too much God-knows-what-all spilling through streets not wide enough to be considered alleys in Los Angeles.

We stop into a few shops (feels like fox holes on a battlefield) and pick up knick-knacks and I snap a few shots of local color, of which there is plenty. I try not to be knocked over by the full-contact maneuvers of the locals.

At the end of one stretch, Indira tells me she thinks it's time for a rickshaw and I chuckle, thinking she must be kidding.

The next moment, she and I are squeezed into the backseat of a bright, colorful cart being pedaled by a guy who's age and weight must be in the upper eighties. Olan is in a rickshaw behind us and we weave at a level of intensity that makes our car travel seem like a quiet cruise down a country lane.

We're now on the delivering end of a few rams of frustration, but it's mostly the pedestrians and merchants I'm worried about clipping.

We wind up at the sea-side, which is bizarre, dirty, ancient-feeling port with boats that look like they've been long-retired from a ride at Disneyland. Somehow, our driver finds us and manages to evacuate us (Saigon-Embassy-like) from the thick of this amazing anarchy. We head back for the compound in what now feels like a leisurely pace and we make it back for a calm and tasty lunch, prior to the trip to the airport, of steamed, spiced local whitefish, minced spinach and pulao rice. We're left with less than an hour for packing, good-byes and an effusive, deferential thank you note to Ghali for the extraordinary hospitality and care he and his family have extended to me.

En route to the plane, Olan takes me for a look at one of the family "country homes," north of Dhaka (there are several). This one is spectacular. It's sandwiched between what seem to be simple, rather primitive villages, strung along a narrow riverbank. The place has the feel of a wildlife reserve, two huge ponds (they're building cabins around one of them) and a massive swimming pool, groves and gardens, a private Mosque, extensive staff quarters and a beautiful, sprawling, round main house consisting of a large rustic central sitting & dining room, surrounded by half a dozen guest bedrooms. The décor is Bangla-Rustic, with antique farming equipment, headwear, ceremonial relics and family momentos displayed throughout. We sit for a quick tea, then off to the airport, where I am dropped off, amid hurried farewells, and I check-in my baggage.

Two airport workers tell me they'll carry my bags through security and gesture an elaborate and feigned pantomime about how heavy the bags are and how they won't be allowed. The message is they can take care of me - if I take care of them. There's no problem checking-in, actually, though my helpers wink and motion furtively to their cohort behind the desk. When done, I offer to tip the boys a couple of dollars and I'm told they need ten times that. I come up a little, shrug and hurry away through security.

I work the laptop a bit at the gate and am found by a Bosnian/British filmmaker I had met briefly through the festival, before the hartal. She informs me that the group of "visiting dignitaries" was kept at (in?) BIAM throughout most of the week, though she did get out today. Seems the group screened videos of some of the films (including CREAMPUFF) and discussed these briefly among themselves. That, it seems, was the Bangladesh International Short Film Festival. It's planned to resume screenings this weekend and reschedule the events of the festival, but I can say with confidence that I've gotten my money's-worth and am not at all disappointed to board the British Air flight to Delhi. I will have 48 hours to visit with some acquaintances in Delhi, but I know that my travel experience will get much more familiar shortly and I breathe a sigh of both relief and melancholy, as my plane ascends.

I know my perspective on the world has been irreversibly broadened and I am so thankful for the incredible challenges and revelations of this extraordinary journey. And I reflect on the gifts of Clermont-Ferrand, our first public acknowledgement for all the sweat and passion and heart we sunk into our little PATAPOUF. It was a fantasy reception and I hope it is just the first of many opportunities we'll have to share the film with real audiences. And strangely and perfectly complemented by the Bangladesh leg. It's really amazing to have the feedback come so intensely from such disparate people who've been moved by the film. I'm really proud of our work and my only regret is that the celebration couldn't be shared by more of us who gave so much of ourselves collaborating and creating in such a dynamic, creative ensemble. Hope to be a bigger group next time and to share the pride and satisfaction of this piece of work that owes so much to every cast and crew member who gave a piece of themselves.