I need a toilet and food, and I can't find either for the longest time. The center of Cox's Bazaar is a dusty, noisy traffic jam and I'm not having a good time at the moment. Frustrated with myself for always choosing these difficult travel destinations, I escape in a rickshaw.
A little later I've ordered lunch at a small beach-side restaurant. The teenager in charge barely gets off his cellphone to take my order, and gets right back on it while preparing my food.
But the meal is surprisingly good and, blood sugar rising, I take in the ocean view: blue sky, red parasols, a green sea whipped into white by the strong wind.
A boy stops on the sidewalk in front of me. He's about 8 and dirty. He looks at me while I'm eating; his little hand, palm open in front of him.
I put a big portion of chicken and rice on an extra plate, and beckon him over. He sits down and attacks the food as if he hasn't eaten properly for days. He probably hasn't.
He watches his plate. I watch him. The wind stirs up clouds of dust.
We finish at about the same time and I watch him sink into an instant food coma. He gives me a careful smile and a thumbs up. Part of his neck is covered by a nasty fungal infection, some of it an open wound, some of it healed into white patches on his dark skin.
I'm about to ask him if I can take his picture, but the waiter tells him to leave. I understand. The boy is filthy and sick, and he's not good for business.
I have coffee and look at the sea. A fishing boat struggles upwind.
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