Bangladeshi countryside is flat lush luscious green, muddy mud mud, life is slow, not easy. Electrocuting myself every couple days, with my electric water boiling prong and tin camping cup, a morning jolt with my cigarette and tea, I scream, “oh ya hahahyah”, then shake it off. Throughout the countryside, they steal electricity, in the city there are too many other ways to die to mention, but life is cheap when so meagre. I sprint for the border. India. And, after dark there is no power in this town, this town with no name, somewhere north of Rangpur, spooky out there, with the walking dead, I kill cockroaches in the bathroom for something to do, marching in with my Coleman oil lamp, stomping two or three before they flee into the squat toilet. Tomorrow, I abandon this. Walk back into neoteric India. Ironic, how distances in a flat and airless country, seems so insurmountable.