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	The Railwayman?s Inn on Station Road © Andrew Miller

Mind you, Station Road in Chittagong is a sufficiently different sort of place as it is. It?s a long wide boulevard of the distinctly functional variety, with cheap and cheerful hotels lined up along one side, and even cheaper, rather less cheerful stalls and boutiques on the other.

It?s grimy and noisy, and tailored towards a transient market, with the average trip across
the road bringing to mind that old-school computer game, Frogger. As you dither through the
traffic, a constant stream of buses, lorries, carts, rickshaws and auto-rickshaws bear down
on you at every speed imaginable, first from one direction, then from another, with only a
thin brick kerb in the middle providing any sanctuary.

If you time your run right, you can even tuck into a power-up on the other side, because for some reason there seems to be an intermittent but constant stream of banana-traders marching steadfastly up the hill with their loads strung out in two pans across their shoulders. Ten taka (10p) for a bunch of four, and that?s breakfast sorted for another day.

But back to the boozer, because frankly that?s the logical place to go back to after a hard day?s hacking in the Chittagong press box. It?s a five-minute wander from my digs at the Asian SR Hotel, through a fog of exhaust fumes from the endlessly revving engines of Chittagong?s Bus Depot (from which you will be whisked on a ten-hour, 20 taka trip back to Dhaka if you drop your guard for so much as a moment), and then round the corner by the partially collapsed building on the left of the road as you approach the roundabout.

If you blink, you miss the turn-off, because immediately you?re plunged into darkness for 20 metres, as you totter down a muddy back-alley towards a green staircase behind an iron
shutter, where a burly security guard is the only clue as to the riches that lie within. But a smart salute (and occasionally a palmful of baksheesh) earns you the right to ascend to the second floor, where a cavernous and unlit restaurant marks the gold at the end of the rainbow.

It's not a lot to look at, but then Bangladeshi bars don?t really go in for frills. Strictly speaking, alcohol is frowned upon in these parts, but frankly, given the run-ins the country has had with religion in the past, no-one actually gives two hoots any more. Certainly not the landlords, when they can rake in 140 Takas (£1.40) for a coke-sized can of ?Hunters?, whose blue, red and gold emblem looks suspiciously similar to a certain well-known Aussie lager.

It may be a seedy setting, but it's a distinctly up-market clientele (and given that each beer costs more than the country's average daily income, that's not exactly surprising). A large fish tank behind the bar is the only designated source of light, although with satellite TV showing everything from Bollywood to the Premier League, the venue flickers with a cinema-like glow.

Except of course, when one of Chittagong's regular power-cuts kicks in. But as and when that
happens, the conversation carries on without so much as a beat being skipped. As if an
announcement had gone out that the 17.32 to Paddington has been delayed by approximately 40 minutes. And we apologise for the inconvenience it may cause.

Even when the cricket team loses, the festivities and celebrations do not stop in Bangladesh © Cricinfo Ltd.

As the ever-enthusiastic crowds drained into the fields behind the stands, and the press corps trooped off to conduct the post-match briefing, the sounds of nascent revelry began to float out from the village that backs onto the ground. And as dusk kicked in, the atmosphere kicked off, with all manner of excitement wafting up from an otherwise sleepy community.

The village of Malpara lies a half-hour drive from the centre of town, across two railway lines and past a rickshaw graveyard, and near an expanse of scrap-metal merchants where the spoils of Chittagong?s famous ship-breaking yards are hammered back into shape. It was a quiet fishing settlement long before the Bangladesh Cricket Board parked the Chittagong Divisional Stadium on its doorstep, but happily for the villagers, the impact of the intrusion seems, for the most part, to have been beneficial.

	A quieter life: the train journey to Chittagong was a chance to escape the madness of Dhaka © Andrew Miller

England?s cricketers must have a carbon footprint the size of the Jolly Green Giant. When they aren?t playing, practising or resting in a hotel, they can invariably be tracked down to an airport of some description ? either jetting off long-haul to some far-flung destination, or hopping domestically from one island, state or city to the next. But of all the internal routes that they?ve encountered, Dhaka to Chittagong must be one of their most ill-starred.

On the 2003 tour, that short but intense route claimed a notable casualty in Steve Harmison, whose high-kicking hostility had been too much for Bangladesh in the first Test at Dhaka, but whose back folded like a deckchair during the 50 minutes he spent squeezed into a seat that had been designed without six-foot-several Geordies in mind. (At least that was the official line ? unofficially, the management had simply lost the will to deal with his homesickness, but that?s another story.)

Six years on, and the curse has struck again, and that?s before anyone dares ask for an update on Stuart Broad?s stiff back ? suffice to say, he was walking like an old woman on his eventual arrival at the team hotel in Chittagong. The England squad had been expected in town at roughly 4pm this afternoon, but after several delays that turned into outright cancellations, they were still slogging through the traffic as the clock ticked round towards 9.

	The Shere Bangla Stadium in Mirpur is a visible symbol of the changes being rung in Bangladesh cricket © Getty Images

I have fond memories of Dhaka?s venerable Bangabandhu Stadium, the venue for England?s inaugural Test against Bangladesh back in October 2003. Like the Recreation Ground in Antigua, its ramshackle nature was an integral part of its character, and the fact that both venues were situated right in the heart of their capitals was an added advantage when it came to ushering casual spectators through the gates.

In its 50-year history, the Bangabandhu hosted 17 Tests and 58 ODIs, but in 2005, it was decommissioned and handed back to the national Football Federation, to resume hosting the sport which had long been held at the ground during the monsoon season. Instead an alternative stadium was earmarked in Mirpur, a somewhat less frantic suburb 5km to the north. During England?s last visit it was still in the throes of reconstruction, but now it is ready, and it has to be said, it does look rather impressive.

	Graeme Swann issues his own peculiar greeting to the crowd at Fatullah © Getty Images

It?s been six long years since I set foot in Bangladesh, but after 48 hours, it feels as though I?ve never been away. In my experience, which includes journeys to all parts of the cricket-playing world, as well as seven months? hitchhiking through Africa, I have never known a land with an embrace that?s so unrelenting. For better or for worse ? for reasons of hospitality on the one hand, and raw survival instinct on the other ? the Bangladeshi welcome is the most genuine and vivid imaginable.

It?s a welcome that pervades the senses to an extent that no other country can match. First there?s the heat, an oppressive and clammy blanket of humidity that sets you up for the smothering that?s to come. Then there?s the 24-hour cacophony that plays out like a looped techno track; the bass rumble of a million motors mixed with the spiky treble of as many car horns, and embellished by the intermittent wail of the Azan and the aggressive bark of the loudhailer, as another political rally springs up on a street corner, and then melts away into the crowd.

It?s a welcome that not even the most churlish of tourists could hope to avoid. The staggering stagnation of Dhaka?s choked arteries sees to that. No city on earth can be closer to gridlock, and a 5km journey can take upwards of an hour as air-conditioned coaches compete for road-space with grimy local buses, pea-green tuk-tuks, and the wonderfully ornate bicycle rickshaws that are the city?s signature mode of transport. Even if you wished to close your eyes to the destitution on display, the glacial progress means it?s not an option. There are too many faces at the windows, and too many piles of rags in the gutters, for anything other than the brutal truth to hit home.

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