After five months back in the states, I have decided that it is time for another trip. I had returned to the states with the idea of settling down and getting a full time job, but I have found that so many of the jobs that I am interested in either require, or prefer, bilingual candidates. Instead of settling for an unrelated job, I have decided to attempt to make myself more qualified by spending three months at a Spanish language school in Guatemala (much more exciting than spending three months with Spanish language cds...).
I will leave for Guatemala on March 4, 2006 and spend 14 weeks in Quetzaltenango, Guatemala. I plan to spend 10-12 weeks studying Spanish and working on local social projects at the Asociación Centro de Estudios de Español Pop Wuj
I hope to return to the states able to work with our Hispanic population and hopefully, finally, to get a job.
For those of you who are interested in my travel stories, I will try to keep up a regular series of trip reports. For those of you who do not speak Spanish, I apologize ahead of time because as I will be immersed in the language and the culture, I am going to try to avoid writing long stories in English until I return, assuming that is possible. Feel free to translate anything you do not understand.
Gracias!
If you have anything that you would like to donate to the families and communities of Guatemala, the following list is a wishlist provided by the school. I will not have extra room in my bag, but I may be able to bring a separate bag of donations.
Our wish list includes the following items because they are in high
demand, hard to come by and more expensive than in other countries.
For our projects: daycare children, scholarship recipients, and
latrine construction project
* Used/new clothing and shoes-for babies, children, adolescents, and
medium-sized adults (things XXL are less useful)
* Lice treatment-NIX, one-application type
* Adult Tylenol
* Children's Tylenol-either chewable or in liquid form
* Children’s Cough Syrup
* Nutritional supplements
* Vitamins-for either children or expecting mothers (especially needed as
vitamins and minerals are prohibitively expensive in Guatemala):
* Calcium/magnesium, Vitamin D for older women, Folic Acid, Multi-vitamins for
children, Pre-natal vitamins.
* Cortisone cream-for one of our scholarship recipients who has a chronic
dry skin rash
* Cassettes-for one of our blind scholarship recipients to use in his studies
* Toys
* Children's books in Spanish
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
Reflections
Because of the illness that followed me home and the necessity of dealing with it upon my return, I did not have much time to reflect on my trip. After leaving the hospital, I was so swept up in my desire to find a job, visit friends and family, and figure out what path the next segment of my life would take, that I easily fell back into the conveniences of daily life in the States, picking right up where I left off, so easily that I barely noticed the transition. My only recollection of any impact my six months abroad had on my immediate homecoming was the pleasure I gained from driving to the supermarket for the first time and being amazed at the cleanliness and orderliness, and the abundance of food at my fingertips, such a thing, unknown in so many parts of the world and so taken for granted by so many in industrialized countries.
I decided to take this trip abroad for various reasons, one being to see the world and to broaden my knowledge about the lives of people in other parts of the world and another, to take back the lessons that I learned, both from what I saw and what I experienced firsthand, and to incorporate them into my life at home. I wanted the trip, not simply to be a trip, but to be an experience that would help me to lead a more fulfilling and internationally conscious life. I have learned that it is easy to fall into the routine of the immediate every day and to discount things that do not directly impact this reality, but I hope that this trip will allow me to make positive changes, even if small, to be sure that my experiences truly become a part of me, and not merely a part of my past.
I hope to remember the lessons I learned about perception and how much it can affect your view of reality, not only to temper my reactions to people and situations, but to understand how others can think and feel and behave the way they do.
I want to hold on to the loneliness of being on the road for so long in a new place with no familiar faces, to remind me of the importance of family and friends.
I will remember and utilize that knowledge that any visit to a new place is immeasurably enhanced by leaving your hotel room and getting to know the people and the culture of your surroundings.
Many times, I learned the lesson of patience and optimism and the need for both in all things, because no matter how dark the night is, there is always a new day of possibility ahead.
I want to remember never to take for granted the people in my life and the freedoms and blessings that I enjoy everyday, simply for being healthy and born in a country where I do not have to worry about war and famine. I can also look now with a more critical eye, on our country and our place in the world, and our duties, not only to our own citizens, but to the citizens of the world, at the least in the sense of “do no harm,” an area in which we have a long way to go.
I want to remember that sometimes, simply being, is enough.
I am grateful for the experiences that I had and the people who supported me through it all. I want to thank those of you who kept up with my travel stories. I have always loved to write and it is great to be able to have an avenue to share my stories with friends and family, as well as sharing a big part of my life. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoy writing them.
Thanks again!
I decided to take this trip abroad for various reasons, one being to see the world and to broaden my knowledge about the lives of people in other parts of the world and another, to take back the lessons that I learned, both from what I saw and what I experienced firsthand, and to incorporate them into my life at home. I wanted the trip, not simply to be a trip, but to be an experience that would help me to lead a more fulfilling and internationally conscious life. I have learned that it is easy to fall into the routine of the immediate every day and to discount things that do not directly impact this reality, but I hope that this trip will allow me to make positive changes, even if small, to be sure that my experiences truly become a part of me, and not merely a part of my past.
I hope to remember the lessons I learned about perception and how much it can affect your view of reality, not only to temper my reactions to people and situations, but to understand how others can think and feel and behave the way they do.
I want to hold on to the loneliness of being on the road for so long in a new place with no familiar faces, to remind me of the importance of family and friends.
I will remember and utilize that knowledge that any visit to a new place is immeasurably enhanced by leaving your hotel room and getting to know the people and the culture of your surroundings.
Many times, I learned the lesson of patience and optimism and the need for both in all things, because no matter how dark the night is, there is always a new day of possibility ahead.
I want to remember never to take for granted the people in my life and the freedoms and blessings that I enjoy everyday, simply for being healthy and born in a country where I do not have to worry about war and famine. I can also look now with a more critical eye, on our country and our place in the world, and our duties, not only to our own citizens, but to the citizens of the world, at the least in the sense of “do no harm,” an area in which we have a long way to go.
I want to remember that sometimes, simply being, is enough.
I am grateful for the experiences that I had and the people who supported me through it all. I want to thank those of you who kept up with my travel stories. I have always loved to write and it is great to be able to have an avenue to share my stories with friends and family, as well as sharing a big part of my life. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoy writing them.
Thanks again!
Home Sweet Home
Steven picked me up at the airport in Atlanta and brought me home where he had the kitchen stocked with all of my favorite foods. I spent the next few days eating everything in sight, hungry or not, inundated with delicious foods that I had not tasted in six months. I even baked myself a welcome home cake. During the weeks that I was sick, I had dropped 20 pounds, going from a healthy 140 to a scary 120 and I was determined to put it all back on.
The day after I arrived back home I contacted the Travelwell Clinic at Crawford Long Hospital in Atlanta and talked to a doctor who agreed to see me that morning. After a brief examination, he suggested that I immediately check myself in to the hospital where I would receive a seven day intravenous antibiotic treatment. My mind immediately went into rebellion mode with rapid fire questions: Seven days? Days? Isn’t that going to be expensive? Can I even afford that? Did I hear you correctly? Seven days? The Gators play Tennessee tomorrow. I did not come all this way to spend game day in the hospital! Seven days. Really?
He confirmed that the treatment lasted seven days and agreed to let me check in two-days later so that I could attend a “previously scheduled event.” Because my health insurance only covered my post-travel expenditures up to $10,000, I inquired about the possibility of checking into Grady, a hospital that bases fees on a sliding scale. He agreed that that was a good option and informed me that the same immunology team that works at Crawford Long, also does rounds at Grady, so I would receive the same treatment at a lower cost. I thanked him and agreed to check myself in at the emergency room at Grady (the only way to be admitted) on Sunday morning.
Sunday afternoon around 1:00 p.m., after watching the Gators beat the Vols 16 – 7 from my perch on the couch beneath a wool blanket, Steven accompanied me to the Emergency room at Grady Hospital. 12 hours later at 1:00 a.m., he finally went home to get some sleep, while I wanted until 8:00 the following morning to be called. After a total of 19 hours in the waiting room, I was finally given a bed, in the hall.
The next four days passed somewhat enjoyably, spending hours talking and playing cards with my mom, who had flown up from Florida on Monday, and enjoying the friendly hospitality of the hospital staff. I continued to have mild symptoms, but by the forth day, my tests had come back negative and the doctors decided that I was well enough to go home. My long ordeal was finally over...or so I thought.
On Sunday November 6th, just before I was to get results from the final test, the Typhoid came back and I was put on a 30 day dose of antibiotics to get rid of it once and for all. As of January 2006, I was declared Typhoid free. The adventure that I had begun on March 12th, 2005 and all that came with it, was officially over.
The day after I arrived back home I contacted the Travelwell Clinic at Crawford Long Hospital in Atlanta and talked to a doctor who agreed to see me that morning. After a brief examination, he suggested that I immediately check myself in to the hospital where I would receive a seven day intravenous antibiotic treatment. My mind immediately went into rebellion mode with rapid fire questions: Seven days? Days? Isn’t that going to be expensive? Can I even afford that? Did I hear you correctly? Seven days? The Gators play Tennessee tomorrow. I did not come all this way to spend game day in the hospital! Seven days. Really?
He confirmed that the treatment lasted seven days and agreed to let me check in two-days later so that I could attend a “previously scheduled event.” Because my health insurance only covered my post-travel expenditures up to $10,000, I inquired about the possibility of checking into Grady, a hospital that bases fees on a sliding scale. He agreed that that was a good option and informed me that the same immunology team that works at Crawford Long, also does rounds at Grady, so I would receive the same treatment at a lower cost. I thanked him and agreed to check myself in at the emergency room at Grady (the only way to be admitted) on Sunday morning.
Sunday afternoon around 1:00 p.m., after watching the Gators beat the Vols 16 – 7 from my perch on the couch beneath a wool blanket, Steven accompanied me to the Emergency room at Grady Hospital. 12 hours later at 1:00 a.m., he finally went home to get some sleep, while I wanted until 8:00 the following morning to be called. After a total of 19 hours in the waiting room, I was finally given a bed, in the hall.
The next four days passed somewhat enjoyably, spending hours talking and playing cards with my mom, who had flown up from Florida on Monday, and enjoying the friendly hospitality of the hospital staff. I continued to have mild symptoms, but by the forth day, my tests had come back negative and the doctors decided that I was well enough to go home. My long ordeal was finally over...or so I thought.
On Sunday November 6th, just before I was to get results from the final test, the Typhoid came back and I was put on a 30 day dose of antibiotics to get rid of it once and for all. As of January 2006, I was declared Typhoid free. The adventure that I had begun on March 12th, 2005 and all that came with it, was officially over.
Halfway Around the World
I left Mark and Erica at the entrance of the airport and got in line to check my baggage. I felt fine until I walked up to the next counter to have my passport checked, but as I laid my passport on the counter, I felt my knees get weak and my head start to spin. Breathing deeply, I slowly regained my composure before I lost my grip and thanked the man before walking to my exit. I hoped that incident was not a sign that I should have postponed the trip after all.
My seat on the plane was at the very back in the seats that did not recline. I was disappointed that I would not be able to get comfortable, but glad that I had such easy access to the bathroom. Knowing that the dry air on airplanes could further dehydrate me, I had come prepared with a large bottle of water and it kept me running to the bathroom throughout the flight. Luckily, I was the only one in my row for the leg from Dhaka to Kuala Lumpur and I was able to lay down and sleep.
My stop over in Kuala Lumpur was over six hours and I was not looking forward to walking around the airport all that time. I had spent a good deal of time in airport on the trip over and was pretty familiar with it as it is not that big. I thought I remembered seeing a sign for a hotel, so I decided to see if there was a hotel connected to the airport where I could rent a room for the duration of my layover. I figured that any hotel connected to an airport had to be prohibitively expensive, but I was feeling so drained that I was willing to pay for the privacy and opportunity to rest that such a room would afford.
Sure enough, there was a hotel attached to the airport and they rented rooms by the hour. I thought that this was a wonderful idea and wondered why airports in the states do not have such conveniences. When I asked the woman behind the counter how much it would cost me for a six hour stay, she pointed to a list of prices on the counter, revealing that a stay of six hours would cost over $150! I was startled at the price, but had begun to consider putting the room on my credit card, when she explained that the prices were in Malaysian Ringgits, not US dollars, bringing the six hours stay down to a more reasonable 45 US dollars. Relieved, I handed over my credit card.
The room was luxurious and the bed, with its down pillows and feather soft mattress, was a treat. For the first few hours, I slept, but once I woke, I found that I could not go back to sleep and began to get restless. I put on the television and alternated between watching a program about elephants in Thailand and bordering on sleep for the next few hours. Finally at noon, I decided that I’d better try to get something to eat before catching my next flight at 1:30.
The KL airport boasts numerous dining establishments, but none that appealed to me due to my continued lack of appetite. I decided on a Chinese style restaurant where I ordered a bowl of soup.
On the next leg of my trip from Kuala Lumpur to Taipei, I was in the same un-reclining seat, but this time I had seatmates. A woman and her husband were seated in the seats next to my seat on the isle. I settled in for what I thought would be a most uncomfortable flight, when I noticed a girl a few rows in front of me get up and move to an empty seat. Even though the flight attendant came by and asked her to remain in her assigned seat until take off, the realization that I could move to another seat was a boon.
Once we were off and the seatbelt sign had been turned off, I left my seat in the back and found an unoccupied seat a few rows up on the other side of the plane. Partway through the flight, the woman who had been seated next to me disappeared and the woman who had been seated in the middle, stretched out over all of the four other seats to sleep. After a few hours, the woman, got back up and I decided to utilize the seat next to me just to change position for a few hours, but when I laid down, I immediately felt an elbow crack against my head. Knowing it was the woman next to me, but being entirely too exhausted to sit up and argue that she had no more right to the seat than I did, each of us only having paid for one seat, I decided to simply stay where I was and let my inaction speak for me.
Apparently inaction does not come across as well as action, because a few minutes later, she forcibly elbowed my head again. Incredulous, but now determined more than ever not to move, I held my ground. After one more vicious elbow to my head, she gave up and let me have the seat. Unfortunately, my victory was short lived, as soon after the elbowing stopped, I decided that the position was too uncomfortable to stay in and wound up sitting up anyway.
We landed in Taipei and deplaned for an hour for the crew shift change and then re-boarded for the final leg to Los Angeles. When we finally arrived in Los Angles, more than 36 hours after I had boarded in Dhaka, I could not believe I was finally home. I practically floated out of the terminal and into the cool September air. After waiting in line for abotu 15 mintues, I was able to get on the next flight out to Atlanta, and after another three and a half hours, I was home.
My seat on the plane was at the very back in the seats that did not recline. I was disappointed that I would not be able to get comfortable, but glad that I had such easy access to the bathroom. Knowing that the dry air on airplanes could further dehydrate me, I had come prepared with a large bottle of water and it kept me running to the bathroom throughout the flight. Luckily, I was the only one in my row for the leg from Dhaka to Kuala Lumpur and I was able to lay down and sleep.
My stop over in Kuala Lumpur was over six hours and I was not looking forward to walking around the airport all that time. I had spent a good deal of time in airport on the trip over and was pretty familiar with it as it is not that big. I thought I remembered seeing a sign for a hotel, so I decided to see if there was a hotel connected to the airport where I could rent a room for the duration of my layover. I figured that any hotel connected to an airport had to be prohibitively expensive, but I was feeling so drained that I was willing to pay for the privacy and opportunity to rest that such a room would afford.
Sure enough, there was a hotel attached to the airport and they rented rooms by the hour. I thought that this was a wonderful idea and wondered why airports in the states do not have such conveniences. When I asked the woman behind the counter how much it would cost me for a six hour stay, she pointed to a list of prices on the counter, revealing that a stay of six hours would cost over $150! I was startled at the price, but had begun to consider putting the room on my credit card, when she explained that the prices were in Malaysian Ringgits, not US dollars, bringing the six hours stay down to a more reasonable 45 US dollars. Relieved, I handed over my credit card.
The room was luxurious and the bed, with its down pillows and feather soft mattress, was a treat. For the first few hours, I slept, but once I woke, I found that I could not go back to sleep and began to get restless. I put on the television and alternated between watching a program about elephants in Thailand and bordering on sleep for the next few hours. Finally at noon, I decided that I’d better try to get something to eat before catching my next flight at 1:30.
The KL airport boasts numerous dining establishments, but none that appealed to me due to my continued lack of appetite. I decided on a Chinese style restaurant where I ordered a bowl of soup.
On the next leg of my trip from Kuala Lumpur to Taipei, I was in the same un-reclining seat, but this time I had seatmates. A woman and her husband were seated in the seats next to my seat on the isle. I settled in for what I thought would be a most uncomfortable flight, when I noticed a girl a few rows in front of me get up and move to an empty seat. Even though the flight attendant came by and asked her to remain in her assigned seat until take off, the realization that I could move to another seat was a boon.
Once we were off and the seatbelt sign had been turned off, I left my seat in the back and found an unoccupied seat a few rows up on the other side of the plane. Partway through the flight, the woman who had been seated next to me disappeared and the woman who had been seated in the middle, stretched out over all of the four other seats to sleep. After a few hours, the woman, got back up and I decided to utilize the seat next to me just to change position for a few hours, but when I laid down, I immediately felt an elbow crack against my head. Knowing it was the woman next to me, but being entirely too exhausted to sit up and argue that she had no more right to the seat than I did, each of us only having paid for one seat, I decided to simply stay where I was and let my inaction speak for me.
Apparently inaction does not come across as well as action, because a few minutes later, she forcibly elbowed my head again. Incredulous, but now determined more than ever not to move, I held my ground. After one more vicious elbow to my head, she gave up and let me have the seat. Unfortunately, my victory was short lived, as soon after the elbowing stopped, I decided that the position was too uncomfortable to stay in and wound up sitting up anyway.
We landed in Taipei and deplaned for an hour for the crew shift change and then re-boarded for the final leg to Los Angeles. When we finally arrived in Los Angles, more than 36 hours after I had boarded in Dhaka, I could not believe I was finally home. I practically floated out of the terminal and into the cool September air. After waiting in line for abotu 15 mintues, I was able to get on the next flight out to Atlanta, and after another three and a half hours, I was home.
Saturday, January 07, 2006
Difficulties Remaining Upright
Later that morning, I awoke feeling weak, but rested. I got up to get some water from the kitchen and halfway there, I began to feel faint and quickly laid down on the couch before the blackness took over. Seeing my state, Mark offered to take me to the doctor, but I politely refused, saying that I was probably just weak from not having eaten and that once I had eaten, I would be fine. When I was feeling better a few minutes later, I went into the kitchen to find something to eat, but nothing looked appealing. Knowing I had to eat something, I made myself some eggs and toast and spent the morning reading email and watching TV.
Later that afternoon, I was in the hallway between my room and the bathroom when I began to feel faint again. This time there was no easily accessible couch, and before I knew it, I went crashing down, my head hitting the tile floor with a loud crack. Mark rushed in to make sure I was okay. From my position on the floor, I reluctantly admitted that I should probably go to see a doctor. He nodded in agreement.
That afternoon, Mark drove me to Dr. Wahab, a Bangladeshi doctor, educated in Germany, who Erica had recommended through the Embassy. When we arrived, there were a few people seated in the waiting room, but the doctor saw me right away. He asked me about my symptoms and my visit to the hospital in India. I relayed my initial illness in Varanassi and the weakness, dehydration and lack of appetite that had persisted for the next few weeks, finishing with the fainting episodes of that morning. He asked if I had gotten the results from the hospital in India and I told him that I had been unable to reach them, but that I would do what I could to get them as soon as possible. He then took some blood for testing and hooked me up to an IV for some rehydration.
When we returned to the apartment, we attempted to contact the hospital in India again, but found that we were still unable to connect to India from the phone in the apartment, nor could we get the Embassy to connect us. I finally go ahold of my brother and asked him to contact the hospital and have them fax the reports to him. I had put him down as an emergency contact and hoped that he would be able to get the reports.
The next day he called me to let me know that he had contacted the hospital and, unable to understand the man on the other end, had an Indian friend at work call to have the results faxed. According to the tests that they performed in India, I was perfectly healthy.
The next few days continued to prove the Indian doctors wrong, as my lethargy and lack of appetite increased and I began to get feverish, first wracked with uncontrollable chills and soon after, burning with fever. After another visit to Dr. Wahab, we learned that I had come down with Typhoid fever. The doctor told me that the strain that I had was not responsive to most of the common anti-biotics and that my options were to receive anti-biotic shots, which were extremely painful, or to receive antibiotics via IV at the Embassy. He recommended the IV anti-biotics, but since he did not have them in stock, he suggested that we see if they would treat me at the Embassy clinic. My other option would be to go to the local hospital, but the doctor strongly recommended against it, to the point of telling me not to go at all if I could help it, because of their lack of safety standards and their poor record for patient recovery. We decided to go with the Embassy.
On the way to the Embassy, I laid down in the back seat of the car and when we arrived, I followed Mark past security, where we were met by a US doctor, who immediately remarked that I looked terrible. Thanking her, I explained my situation and was seated in the examining room before she thought to ask who I was. When I admitted that I was merely a friend of a diplomat, she responded that they were unable to treat me and that I would have to go to the hospital that Dr. Wahab had warned us against. Frustrated to the point of tears, I told her that I was not going to risk my health in a hospital with such poor safety records. I wondered what the point was of being an American citizen if the government refused to treat sick Americans in countries where there was no comparable quality health care. We decided to go back to Dr. Wahab to see what he could do.
When we returned, the doctor told me that he could put me on the oral antibiotics and monitor my progress to see if my condition improved. I agreed and the next few days were a blur of lethargic days and restless, feverish nights. At one point the doctor contacted us to let us know that I had also tested positive for Dengue, the condition I had believed I had at the onset of my symptoms, for which there was no cure. He said that I would just have to let it run its course.
As happy as I was to be spending time with friends I rarely see, my stay in Dhaka post-India, was not exactly quality time and I was anxious to get home where I could walk into a grocery store and find a myriad of things to pique my appetite and a familiar bed surrounded by friends and family. Mark was doing everything he could, from bringing me food back from the American club, to purchasing special requests at the commissary, but I was still reduced to a diet of eggs and applesauce, and unable to force down much else. Because I was so tired, I was also not able to spend much time visiting with my friends. I had not revealed my condition to my parents, not wanting to worry them unnecessarily, but when the Dengue diagnosis came in, I broke down and rationalizing that if they were sick, I would want to know, I called my mother, sobbing and miserable, begging her to medivac me home as soon as she could.
My parents were worried and sympathetic. I eventually agreed that my situation was not dire enough to warrant a medivac, but was still determined to get home. My flight was to leave the coming Tuesday and in my current state, it was obvious that it would not be a good idea to be on that flight, but I refused to postpone it, preferring to wait until the last minute to see how I was feeling. Had I been given the IV antibiotics, postponement would have been inevitable, but because I was on the pills, as long as I was feeling up to it, I would be able to fly.
Two days before my planned departure, I was saddened to find that my condition had not improved and I began to resign myself to the fact that I would have to continue my recovery in Bangladesh. I had planned to fly home in time to watch the Florida/Tennessee College Football game in California with fellow Gators and close friends, as the start of my two week stay at the beach. Now in my current state, my plans were to get back to Atlanta and check into a hospital as soon as I could, but at least I would be home.
Finally, on the morning of my departure, I began to feel somewhat better and I decided to pack just in case. My condition continued to improve over the course of the day and I contacted the doctor who gave me his travel blessing.
That evening, my friends drove me to the airport. Although I was sad to leave them and sorry I had spent the majority of my visit in bed, I was looking forward to getting home and getting better. It had been six months since I had boarded the plane from Atlanta to Bangkok and, now with six months of adventure, memories and experiences behind me, I was ready to come home.
Later that afternoon, I was in the hallway between my room and the bathroom when I began to feel faint again. This time there was no easily accessible couch, and before I knew it, I went crashing down, my head hitting the tile floor with a loud crack. Mark rushed in to make sure I was okay. From my position on the floor, I reluctantly admitted that I should probably go to see a doctor. He nodded in agreement.
That afternoon, Mark drove me to Dr. Wahab, a Bangladeshi doctor, educated in Germany, who Erica had recommended through the Embassy. When we arrived, there were a few people seated in the waiting room, but the doctor saw me right away. He asked me about my symptoms and my visit to the hospital in India. I relayed my initial illness in Varanassi and the weakness, dehydration and lack of appetite that had persisted for the next few weeks, finishing with the fainting episodes of that morning. He asked if I had gotten the results from the hospital in India and I told him that I had been unable to reach them, but that I would do what I could to get them as soon as possible. He then took some blood for testing and hooked me up to an IV for some rehydration.
When we returned to the apartment, we attempted to contact the hospital in India again, but found that we were still unable to connect to India from the phone in the apartment, nor could we get the Embassy to connect us. I finally go ahold of my brother and asked him to contact the hospital and have them fax the reports to him. I had put him down as an emergency contact and hoped that he would be able to get the reports.
The next day he called me to let me know that he had contacted the hospital and, unable to understand the man on the other end, had an Indian friend at work call to have the results faxed. According to the tests that they performed in India, I was perfectly healthy.
The next few days continued to prove the Indian doctors wrong, as my lethargy and lack of appetite increased and I began to get feverish, first wracked with uncontrollable chills and soon after, burning with fever. After another visit to Dr. Wahab, we learned that I had come down with Typhoid fever. The doctor told me that the strain that I had was not responsive to most of the common anti-biotics and that my options were to receive anti-biotic shots, which were extremely painful, or to receive antibiotics via IV at the Embassy. He recommended the IV anti-biotics, but since he did not have them in stock, he suggested that we see if they would treat me at the Embassy clinic. My other option would be to go to the local hospital, but the doctor strongly recommended against it, to the point of telling me not to go at all if I could help it, because of their lack of safety standards and their poor record for patient recovery. We decided to go with the Embassy.
On the way to the Embassy, I laid down in the back seat of the car and when we arrived, I followed Mark past security, where we were met by a US doctor, who immediately remarked that I looked terrible. Thanking her, I explained my situation and was seated in the examining room before she thought to ask who I was. When I admitted that I was merely a friend of a diplomat, she responded that they were unable to treat me and that I would have to go to the hospital that Dr. Wahab had warned us against. Frustrated to the point of tears, I told her that I was not going to risk my health in a hospital with such poor safety records. I wondered what the point was of being an American citizen if the government refused to treat sick Americans in countries where there was no comparable quality health care. We decided to go back to Dr. Wahab to see what he could do.
When we returned, the doctor told me that he could put me on the oral antibiotics and monitor my progress to see if my condition improved. I agreed and the next few days were a blur of lethargic days and restless, feverish nights. At one point the doctor contacted us to let us know that I had also tested positive for Dengue, the condition I had believed I had at the onset of my symptoms, for which there was no cure. He said that I would just have to let it run its course.
As happy as I was to be spending time with friends I rarely see, my stay in Dhaka post-India, was not exactly quality time and I was anxious to get home where I could walk into a grocery store and find a myriad of things to pique my appetite and a familiar bed surrounded by friends and family. Mark was doing everything he could, from bringing me food back from the American club, to purchasing special requests at the commissary, but I was still reduced to a diet of eggs and applesauce, and unable to force down much else. Because I was so tired, I was also not able to spend much time visiting with my friends. I had not revealed my condition to my parents, not wanting to worry them unnecessarily, but when the Dengue diagnosis came in, I broke down and rationalizing that if they were sick, I would want to know, I called my mother, sobbing and miserable, begging her to medivac me home as soon as she could.
My parents were worried and sympathetic. I eventually agreed that my situation was not dire enough to warrant a medivac, but was still determined to get home. My flight was to leave the coming Tuesday and in my current state, it was obvious that it would not be a good idea to be on that flight, but I refused to postpone it, preferring to wait until the last minute to see how I was feeling. Had I been given the IV antibiotics, postponement would have been inevitable, but because I was on the pills, as long as I was feeling up to it, I would be able to fly.
Two days before my planned departure, I was saddened to find that my condition had not improved and I began to resign myself to the fact that I would have to continue my recovery in Bangladesh. I had planned to fly home in time to watch the Florida/Tennessee College Football game in California with fellow Gators and close friends, as the start of my two week stay at the beach. Now in my current state, my plans were to get back to Atlanta and check into a hospital as soon as I could, but at least I would be home.
Finally, on the morning of my departure, I began to feel somewhat better and I decided to pack just in case. My condition continued to improve over the course of the day and I contacted the doctor who gave me his travel blessing.
That evening, my friends drove me to the airport. Although I was sad to leave them and sorry I had spent the majority of my visit in bed, I was looking forward to getting home and getting better. It had been six months since I had boarded the plane from Atlanta to Bangkok and, now with six months of adventure, memories and experiences behind me, I was ready to come home.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
The Road to Dhaka
The next morning, I rose early and made my way down the winding streets to a jeep stand near the entrance of town. This time I was given a seat in the front of the jeep which was a big improvement over the seats in the back; I was treated to a constant view and ample head room.
When we pulled into New Jalpaguri, I bulldozed past the anxious crowd of rickshaw drivers and headed straight for the little market across the street where I hoped to inquire about the location of the bus depot.
When I was planning my trip across India, I had wrestled with the decision of how to get back to Bangladesh. I could backtrack back to Calcutta and take the bus that I had arrived on in reverse, but that would entail another 12 hour train ride south and then an overnight bus ride from Calcutta to Dhaka. I had found a border crossing much closer to New Jalpaguri, a mere two hours away and although it was said to be “seldom used by tourists,” I figured that if it was an open border, I could get across. From the border, I planned to either get a bus to the nearest big city or inquire about a direct bus back to Dhaka. It was to this nondescript border crossing, I was hoping to find a bus.
I was pointed to the bus station, which was a short walk from the market. There, I asked about the bus to my destination and was told that it was not there yet, but that it would be there within the hour. I thanked the man at the ticket counter and seated myself on the floor across from his window to be sure that he would be able to find me when the bus arrived. About thirty minutes later, he motioned to me to announce the arrival of the bus and sold me a one way ticket. I was the first to board the bus and after a few moments, realized why, as a glance at my ticket revealed that the bus was not to leave for another hour. Resigned to my position and not knowing what I would do for an hour otherwise, I decided to wait it out.
An hour and a half later, when every seat on the bus filled to capacity, we were off. I was very aware of my status as the sole woman on the bus, but since no one was doing anything more harmful than staring, I decided to do what I always do on bus rides, settle in for a nap.
About two hours in to the bus ride, I began to wonder how I was going to know where to get off of the bus. The bus that I was on simply drove past my destination on its way to another destination and the border crossing was so small, I doubted that there would be much signage to announce its presence. Just as I was beginning to inquire of the man next to me, the bus slowed to a stop and a man in the front said something in Bangla leading all eyes to fall on me. Apparently, the man who sold me the ticket had informed him of my destination. As I glanced helplessly across the laps of the men sharing my seat, to the ocean of tightly packed bodies between me and the door, hands began reaching for my bag and men shuffled around to allow me enough space to squeeze to the door. Once out side, one of the men handed me my bag and the bus drove off. I was buoyed by this brief experience, reminding me once again not to let fears and preconceived notions determine my perception of a people or a situation.
Two Bangladeshi men had been on the bus with me and had disembarked at the border crossing. One of the men was a middle-aged business man in a suit and the other was a young man in his early thirties dressed in a button down shirt and jeans. Neither of them spoke more than a few words of English, but with a few exchanged words and gestures, it was determined that we were all heading to Dhaka and that I could accompany them through the border crossing.
Happy to have someone to lead the way, I followed the men to a lean-to stall where we were asked to show our travel documents. A man wrote down all of our information in a now familiar ledger and handed our passports to another man, who motioned for us to follow him. We followed the man with our passports to one and then another document station where our papers were checked and recorded and sent on their way. Used to border crossings limited to two stops – one departure point and one entry point – I was confused as to the purpose of all these stops, but knowing that I could not get my confusion across, I simply kept silent and followed along dutifully wherever I was led.
At the last stop, we were motioned to board a “rickshaw van” (a plywood board fastened to the back of a tricycle like vehicle) and were asked to wait on the street while the man went into yet another lean-to stall with our documents. A few moments later, the man came out and motioned to me, indicating that I needed to join him. I followed him into the stall where he motioned for me to sit down. The man next to me was looking anxiously at the large, stocky official on the other side of the table. The official said something to him and he appeared to offer him a few Taka bills, at which the official balked and tossed the man’s documents back to him. Immediately on alert that I may be “asked” to pay a “fee,” I regretted not separating my money into separate compartments, allowing me to offer “only what I had.”
Having dismissed the man in front of me, the official reached for my passport, looked at it once and tossed it aside, reaching for one of the other Bangladeshi passports at his disposal. After passing over my passport a few more times, he soon ran out of documents to process and came to mine with apparent resignation. He made a few notations in his ledger and then looking straight at me, said loudly, “You go!”
I looked questioningly at the man who had been leading me through this maze of Bangladeshi border bureaucracy and he smiled reassuringly and motioned for me to follow him back outside. Torn between not wanting to leave my passport with this man and my previously learned instinct to trust the situation, I reluctantly followed the man back outside where I rejoined the other two men on the rickshaw van.
After managing to convey my concern over leaving my passport and being reassured that this was just the way things were done, I agreed to join the men for lunch. I was still not hungry, but I had learned in the past few weeks that, hungry or not, I had to eat.
We pulled up to a natural wood building resembling a barn with two doors in the middle marked ‘Men’ and ‘Women,’ respectively. Remembering the segregated women’s sections in restaurants in Dhaka, I opened the door expecting to see tables and chairs and was instead met by the site of three single beds lined up in a row and a bathroom at the far end of the room.
Taken aback, I turned abruptly to the men behind me and said, “No, I do not need a room. I am leaving for Dhaka today!”
Between the three of them, they explained that the bus would not arrive until 6:00 p.m. and that the room was for me to rest in until then. Still a bit wary, I agreed, and put my things in the room before following my two fellow travelers to the open air restaurant across from the rooms.
As the dishes were laid on the table, I immediately regretted accepting the offer to join them for lunch. I knew from all of my travels and readings that it was considered an insult not to eat what was put in front of you, but with one glace at the sad little chicken wing in orange sauce and my plate full of rice, I knew there was no way I was going to stomach it, much less clean my plate. Using my hands in the customary way, I ate what little that I could before apologizing profusely, explaining that I had been ill and was still not feeling up to a large meal. I headed back to “my” room and laid down in the bed nearest the window, where I spent the next few hours awaiting the arrival of the bus, interrupted only by the relief-inducing return of my passport.
When 6:00 p.m. began to draw near, I rose in preparation to move outside to wait for the bus. At that moment, the older of my two new traveling companions entered and handed me a bus ticket that he had purchased for me. He informed me, after I paid him for the ticket, that the bus was running late and would be arriving at 6:30 p.m. in stead of 6:00 p.m. I thanked him and laid back down until I was again roused by the arrival of the bus.
The man who had purchased my ticket, had purchased adjoining seats, giving me the window seat, while he took the seat on the isle. I was a little wary of him, but I rationalized that he was probably just a nice man looking out for a woman traveling alone. Because of the language barrier, it was difficult for us to have a conversation, but throughout the first 30 minutes of the journey, he tried to keep a conversation going. He asked me what I thought of Bangladesh and why I was traveling. He then asked me if I was married, to which I unthinkingly replied that I was not. He asked me about my family and if I had any pictures of them, which I did, and produced for him to see.
After he had looked at the picture, he turned to me and asked if he could keep it. Not wanting to appear unfriendly, but also not wanting to give up the only picture I had of my family with me, nor wanting this man to have our picture, I said I was sorry, but it was the only picture I had and that I could not give it away. He made a motion to give it back and then pulling it away, asked again if he could have it. I apologized again and re-emphasized my determination to keep the picture, at which he reluctantly handed it over. At that point, I decided that the conversation was not one I wanted to pursue as we were pretty much out of words and personal questions and I did not want to be too forthcoming in what might turn out to be a precarious situation. With that decision, I dug my headphones out of my bag and proceeded to select a cd for the next few hours. Just before I pushed ‘play,’ the man asked me again for the picture and I shook my head and turned up the volume.
I had gotten used to long bus rides over the months, but I still dreaded over-night bus rides. After two hours of sitting, my body would begin to rebel. My lower back would begin to throb, my knees, to ache. On shorter bus rides, I learned to tolerate the pain, but on overnight trips, I had resorted to popping a regular strength Dramamine which would knock me out for a few hours, enough to feel slightly rested for the following day and to pass an otherwise painful journey a little more quickly. Because I was on my own and I had begun to doubt the altruistic intentions of my seat mate, I was hesitant to take anything that would impair awareness of my surroundings. Also, my headphones had begun only to play music out of one ear piece unless I stretched the wire taunt around the body of the cd player, so it was impossible to simply relax and listen to music. If I did not hold the wire taunt, my soothing tunes were be polluted by Indian techno-dance music obviously preferred by the driver of the bus. Resigned to the fact that I was not in for a pleasant trip, I sat back and, holding tight to the headphone wire, closed my eyes and tried to rest.
After a time, I was distracted from my reverie by the sensation of a hand against my thigh. When I looked over, my seat mate appeared to be asleep and in his relaxed state his hand had come to rest in a familiar way on my leg. I immediately removed his hand from its position and placed it back on the seat. I became aware again of the pain in my back and my legs and the continued pounding of the techno beat blaring from the speakers. Signing to myself, I was certain that I was at least halfway through the journey and reassured myself that if I had made it this long, I could make it for the rest of the trip. Wanting further affirmation, I pulled out my watch and was horrified to see that we were only a mere 45 minutes into our 12 hour journey.
The next 10 hours were some of the longest I can recall. The driver continued to blast his Indian-techno, my back continued to ache and my neighbor continued to innocently find his hand on the seat next to my thigh. I spent those hours praying for sleep and repeatedly pushing his hand off my leg. The bus stopped three or four times to let passengers off to use the restroom and get something to eat or drink. I was not feeling hungry and was consistently dehydrated, but did not want to drink because I did not want to need a bathroom when I had no access to one. I resisted getting off at the first few stops, but finally, I could resist no longer.
My seat mate was getting off as well and when he noticed that I was getting off the bus, he looked at me said, “Hotel?”
I smiled briefly to show that I understood and told him that I needed a drink and to use the restroom.
He shook his head and said to me again, “Hotel? You want to stay?”
Shocked, but not sure that I was understanding his question correctly enough to tell him where to go, I simply, said, “No. I just need a restroom and a drink. I am going to DHAKA!”
I left the bus, shaking out my cramped legs and found myself the lone female in a room filled with over 100 Bangladeshi men. I hurriedly made my way to the bathroom and upon my exit, bought bottle of water and went straight back to my seat on the bus. The next few hours passed much in the same way and after a few unexpected bouts of sleep, I woke to the familiar crush of Dhaka traffic.
When the bus stopped, we exited into a room that looked much like the DMV, complete with bland white counters and rows of plastic chairs. When I began to walk towards the street to hail a CNG, I was stopped by a man who informed me that there had been an accident and that it would be impossible to get further into Dhaka until the traffic had cleared. He motioned to the room full of plastic chairs where I was welcome to wait until that time.
Defeated and exhausted, I hauled my bag back to the room and pulled a chair up to an empty desk, where I laid my head on my arms. Finally the traffic cleared, as much as traffic is ever clear in Dhaka, and the man flagged down a CNG driver and told him where I needed to go.
Half an hour later, I was ringing to door bell of Erica and Mark’s apartment, elated to be back after my trying ordeal. When Mark opened the door, I hurriedly explained that I was not feeling well and that I wanted to catch up with them both, but what I needed most at that point was sleep. He welcomed me back and said goodnight, as I made myself back at home in their guestroom and gratefully laid my head on the pillow.
When we pulled into New Jalpaguri, I bulldozed past the anxious crowd of rickshaw drivers and headed straight for the little market across the street where I hoped to inquire about the location of the bus depot.
When I was planning my trip across India, I had wrestled with the decision of how to get back to Bangladesh. I could backtrack back to Calcutta and take the bus that I had arrived on in reverse, but that would entail another 12 hour train ride south and then an overnight bus ride from Calcutta to Dhaka. I had found a border crossing much closer to New Jalpaguri, a mere two hours away and although it was said to be “seldom used by tourists,” I figured that if it was an open border, I could get across. From the border, I planned to either get a bus to the nearest big city or inquire about a direct bus back to Dhaka. It was to this nondescript border crossing, I was hoping to find a bus.
I was pointed to the bus station, which was a short walk from the market. There, I asked about the bus to my destination and was told that it was not there yet, but that it would be there within the hour. I thanked the man at the ticket counter and seated myself on the floor across from his window to be sure that he would be able to find me when the bus arrived. About thirty minutes later, he motioned to me to announce the arrival of the bus and sold me a one way ticket. I was the first to board the bus and after a few moments, realized why, as a glance at my ticket revealed that the bus was not to leave for another hour. Resigned to my position and not knowing what I would do for an hour otherwise, I decided to wait it out.
An hour and a half later, when every seat on the bus filled to capacity, we were off. I was very aware of my status as the sole woman on the bus, but since no one was doing anything more harmful than staring, I decided to do what I always do on bus rides, settle in for a nap.
About two hours in to the bus ride, I began to wonder how I was going to know where to get off of the bus. The bus that I was on simply drove past my destination on its way to another destination and the border crossing was so small, I doubted that there would be much signage to announce its presence. Just as I was beginning to inquire of the man next to me, the bus slowed to a stop and a man in the front said something in Bangla leading all eyes to fall on me. Apparently, the man who sold me the ticket had informed him of my destination. As I glanced helplessly across the laps of the men sharing my seat, to the ocean of tightly packed bodies between me and the door, hands began reaching for my bag and men shuffled around to allow me enough space to squeeze to the door. Once out side, one of the men handed me my bag and the bus drove off. I was buoyed by this brief experience, reminding me once again not to let fears and preconceived notions determine my perception of a people or a situation.
Two Bangladeshi men had been on the bus with me and had disembarked at the border crossing. One of the men was a middle-aged business man in a suit and the other was a young man in his early thirties dressed in a button down shirt and jeans. Neither of them spoke more than a few words of English, but with a few exchanged words and gestures, it was determined that we were all heading to Dhaka and that I could accompany them through the border crossing.
Happy to have someone to lead the way, I followed the men to a lean-to stall where we were asked to show our travel documents. A man wrote down all of our information in a now familiar ledger and handed our passports to another man, who motioned for us to follow him. We followed the man with our passports to one and then another document station where our papers were checked and recorded and sent on their way. Used to border crossings limited to two stops – one departure point and one entry point – I was confused as to the purpose of all these stops, but knowing that I could not get my confusion across, I simply kept silent and followed along dutifully wherever I was led.
At the last stop, we were motioned to board a “rickshaw van” (a plywood board fastened to the back of a tricycle like vehicle) and were asked to wait on the street while the man went into yet another lean-to stall with our documents. A few moments later, the man came out and motioned to me, indicating that I needed to join him. I followed him into the stall where he motioned for me to sit down. The man next to me was looking anxiously at the large, stocky official on the other side of the table. The official said something to him and he appeared to offer him a few Taka bills, at which the official balked and tossed the man’s documents back to him. Immediately on alert that I may be “asked” to pay a “fee,” I regretted not separating my money into separate compartments, allowing me to offer “only what I had.”
Having dismissed the man in front of me, the official reached for my passport, looked at it once and tossed it aside, reaching for one of the other Bangladeshi passports at his disposal. After passing over my passport a few more times, he soon ran out of documents to process and came to mine with apparent resignation. He made a few notations in his ledger and then looking straight at me, said loudly, “You go!”
I looked questioningly at the man who had been leading me through this maze of Bangladeshi border bureaucracy and he smiled reassuringly and motioned for me to follow him back outside. Torn between not wanting to leave my passport with this man and my previously learned instinct to trust the situation, I reluctantly followed the man back outside where I rejoined the other two men on the rickshaw van.
After managing to convey my concern over leaving my passport and being reassured that this was just the way things were done, I agreed to join the men for lunch. I was still not hungry, but I had learned in the past few weeks that, hungry or not, I had to eat.
We pulled up to a natural wood building resembling a barn with two doors in the middle marked ‘Men’ and ‘Women,’ respectively. Remembering the segregated women’s sections in restaurants in Dhaka, I opened the door expecting to see tables and chairs and was instead met by the site of three single beds lined up in a row and a bathroom at the far end of the room.
Taken aback, I turned abruptly to the men behind me and said, “No, I do not need a room. I am leaving for Dhaka today!”
Between the three of them, they explained that the bus would not arrive until 6:00 p.m. and that the room was for me to rest in until then. Still a bit wary, I agreed, and put my things in the room before following my two fellow travelers to the open air restaurant across from the rooms.
As the dishes were laid on the table, I immediately regretted accepting the offer to join them for lunch. I knew from all of my travels and readings that it was considered an insult not to eat what was put in front of you, but with one glace at the sad little chicken wing in orange sauce and my plate full of rice, I knew there was no way I was going to stomach it, much less clean my plate. Using my hands in the customary way, I ate what little that I could before apologizing profusely, explaining that I had been ill and was still not feeling up to a large meal. I headed back to “my” room and laid down in the bed nearest the window, where I spent the next few hours awaiting the arrival of the bus, interrupted only by the relief-inducing return of my passport.
When 6:00 p.m. began to draw near, I rose in preparation to move outside to wait for the bus. At that moment, the older of my two new traveling companions entered and handed me a bus ticket that he had purchased for me. He informed me, after I paid him for the ticket, that the bus was running late and would be arriving at 6:30 p.m. in stead of 6:00 p.m. I thanked him and laid back down until I was again roused by the arrival of the bus.
The man who had purchased my ticket, had purchased adjoining seats, giving me the window seat, while he took the seat on the isle. I was a little wary of him, but I rationalized that he was probably just a nice man looking out for a woman traveling alone. Because of the language barrier, it was difficult for us to have a conversation, but throughout the first 30 minutes of the journey, he tried to keep a conversation going. He asked me what I thought of Bangladesh and why I was traveling. He then asked me if I was married, to which I unthinkingly replied that I was not. He asked me about my family and if I had any pictures of them, which I did, and produced for him to see.
After he had looked at the picture, he turned to me and asked if he could keep it. Not wanting to appear unfriendly, but also not wanting to give up the only picture I had of my family with me, nor wanting this man to have our picture, I said I was sorry, but it was the only picture I had and that I could not give it away. He made a motion to give it back and then pulling it away, asked again if he could have it. I apologized again and re-emphasized my determination to keep the picture, at which he reluctantly handed it over. At that point, I decided that the conversation was not one I wanted to pursue as we were pretty much out of words and personal questions and I did not want to be too forthcoming in what might turn out to be a precarious situation. With that decision, I dug my headphones out of my bag and proceeded to select a cd for the next few hours. Just before I pushed ‘play,’ the man asked me again for the picture and I shook my head and turned up the volume.
I had gotten used to long bus rides over the months, but I still dreaded over-night bus rides. After two hours of sitting, my body would begin to rebel. My lower back would begin to throb, my knees, to ache. On shorter bus rides, I learned to tolerate the pain, but on overnight trips, I had resorted to popping a regular strength Dramamine which would knock me out for a few hours, enough to feel slightly rested for the following day and to pass an otherwise painful journey a little more quickly. Because I was on my own and I had begun to doubt the altruistic intentions of my seat mate, I was hesitant to take anything that would impair awareness of my surroundings. Also, my headphones had begun only to play music out of one ear piece unless I stretched the wire taunt around the body of the cd player, so it was impossible to simply relax and listen to music. If I did not hold the wire taunt, my soothing tunes were be polluted by Indian techno-dance music obviously preferred by the driver of the bus. Resigned to the fact that I was not in for a pleasant trip, I sat back and, holding tight to the headphone wire, closed my eyes and tried to rest.
After a time, I was distracted from my reverie by the sensation of a hand against my thigh. When I looked over, my seat mate appeared to be asleep and in his relaxed state his hand had come to rest in a familiar way on my leg. I immediately removed his hand from its position and placed it back on the seat. I became aware again of the pain in my back and my legs and the continued pounding of the techno beat blaring from the speakers. Signing to myself, I was certain that I was at least halfway through the journey and reassured myself that if I had made it this long, I could make it for the rest of the trip. Wanting further affirmation, I pulled out my watch and was horrified to see that we were only a mere 45 minutes into our 12 hour journey.
The next 10 hours were some of the longest I can recall. The driver continued to blast his Indian-techno, my back continued to ache and my neighbor continued to innocently find his hand on the seat next to my thigh. I spent those hours praying for sleep and repeatedly pushing his hand off my leg. The bus stopped three or four times to let passengers off to use the restroom and get something to eat or drink. I was not feeling hungry and was consistently dehydrated, but did not want to drink because I did not want to need a bathroom when I had no access to one. I resisted getting off at the first few stops, but finally, I could resist no longer.
My seat mate was getting off as well and when he noticed that I was getting off the bus, he looked at me said, “Hotel?”
I smiled briefly to show that I understood and told him that I needed a drink and to use the restroom.
He shook his head and said to me again, “Hotel? You want to stay?”
Shocked, but not sure that I was understanding his question correctly enough to tell him where to go, I simply, said, “No. I just need a restroom and a drink. I am going to DHAKA!”
I left the bus, shaking out my cramped legs and found myself the lone female in a room filled with over 100 Bangladeshi men. I hurriedly made my way to the bathroom and upon my exit, bought bottle of water and went straight back to my seat on the bus. The next few hours passed much in the same way and after a few unexpected bouts of sleep, I woke to the familiar crush of Dhaka traffic.
When the bus stopped, we exited into a room that looked much like the DMV, complete with bland white counters and rows of plastic chairs. When I began to walk towards the street to hail a CNG, I was stopped by a man who informed me that there had been an accident and that it would be impossible to get further into Dhaka until the traffic had cleared. He motioned to the room full of plastic chairs where I was welcome to wait until that time.
Defeated and exhausted, I hauled my bag back to the room and pulled a chair up to an empty desk, where I laid my head on my arms. Finally the traffic cleared, as much as traffic is ever clear in Dhaka, and the man flagged down a CNG driver and told him where I needed to go.
Half an hour later, I was ringing to door bell of Erica and Mark’s apartment, elated to be back after my trying ordeal. When Mark opened the door, I hurriedly explained that I was not feeling well and that I wanted to catch up with them both, but what I needed most at that point was sleep. He welcomed me back and said goodnight, as I made myself back at home in their guestroom and gratefully laid my head on the pillow.
Under the Weather in Darjeeling
If you read anything about Darjeeling, you will read about the toy train from New Jalpaguri. I had hoped to ride the train, but when I heard that the ride was an eight hour journey compared to three hours by jeep, I decided to take the jeep up and opt for the more scenic trip on the way back down.
I woke that morning and made my way out into the street in search of some bananas for the ride. After walking along the road for about half a block, I spotted a stand selling bananas on the other side of the road. New Jalpaguri is quite a motorized city and the streets are bustling with cars, trucks, jeeps, and buses along with bicycle rickshaws and other two wheeled vehicles, making any sort of pedestrian road crossing a precarious act. I waited for a break in the steady stream of traffic and rushed to the median to wait out the traffic coming from the other direction. Just as I saw my chance to make a run for it, a jeep pulled up, blocking my way, and a man in the front seat, hung his head out of the window and yelled, “Darjeeling!?” For a brief moment, I glanced longingly at the bananas just beyond the traffic, but knowing how priceless a share taxi with one space left can be, I nodded affirmatively and jumped in the back as the jeep took off down the road.
The jeep was packed with two passengers next to the driver in the front, four passengers on the bench behind the driver and four of us crammed into the back seats along the sides. I barely fit in the small space that was left, but I settled in as well as I could with my head tilted to the side to accommodate the low ceiling. The other passengers were all Indians and none seemed to keen on conversation.
As we reached the mountains, I began to see the train track that ran along side of the road. Each time we went around a curve, the track crossed the road so that the train was not riding along the edge of the cliff. Watching the track, I realized that 1) I would get a very similar view from the jeep as I would from the train and 2) that if there were traffic coming up or down the mountain as the train made it countless switches across the road, it would be very slow going indeed.
As we climbed, I saw that the view from the jeep was a pretty one, but I could only catch it in glimpses, as each time we went around a curve my perspective would alternate between rock face and scenic mountain view. My neck was beginning to ache from its awkward position and I was beginning to regret passing up those bananas, so I was anxious to get to Darjeeling.
I had painted a picture of Darjeeling in my mind’s eye of winding, hilly streets, quaint old storefronts and awe inspiring Himalayan views, so when we pulled into town on a dirty street, lined by rows of identical, two-story storefronts, I was a little disappointed. Fortunately, my need for food outweighed my need for awe-inspiring views at that moment, so I happily left the jeep and headed for the nearest fruit stand.
After a few bananas, I decided to make my way to the guesthouse I had chosen out of the guide book. The map of Darjeeling from my book was lined with thick black lines representing roads and vertical stacks of dashes of which I was unable to understand the significance until I began my ascent.
Darjeeling was build on the side of a mountain, so in order to get around, you must either follow the winding roads that lead, in switchback fashion, up to the top, or take the more direct route up steep staircases that lead between the levels of road. In my weakened state, neither option was appealing, so I decided to first find somewhere for lunch.
The roads in Darjeeling are lined with numerous shops and restaurants. The higher you ascend, the more the restaurants and shops seem to cater to the tourist crowd, so I stopped about halfway up, in a little Chinese restaurant off to the side. I was lured less by its cuisine and more by its location, knowing that I ate there, I wouldn’t have to make it all the way up the hill.
After a lunch of some kind of spicy soup, I was ready to tackle the rest of the hill. While I was eating it had begun to rain lining the streets with rivulets of muddy water. On the way up, I caught a glimpse of another Western tourist from underneath my umbrella, and asked her if she knew the whereabouts of the guesthouse I was looking for. She said that she had not heard of it, but that she was staying in a great guesthouse just up the hill and she offered to show me where it was. I thanked her and followed her up a steep hillside to a cozy little guesthouse where I booked into a room and settled in for a nap to wait out the rain showers.
Although I planned to get out and see the countryside, my next few days in Darjeeling were divided between reading a book I’d borrowed from the kitchen in my room as the rain beat against the window and the clouds obscured any view of the Himalayas or sitting in the guesthouse kitchen eating garlic mash potatoes and trying to figure out my latest sudoku, a Japanese number game that had been introduced to me by an Irish guest at the hotel. The combination of a lack of energy and the dreary weather, sapped me of all motivation to explore and I decided to head back to Bangladesh a day earlier than I had planned.
I woke that morning and made my way out into the street in search of some bananas for the ride. After walking along the road for about half a block, I spotted a stand selling bananas on the other side of the road. New Jalpaguri is quite a motorized city and the streets are bustling with cars, trucks, jeeps, and buses along with bicycle rickshaws and other two wheeled vehicles, making any sort of pedestrian road crossing a precarious act. I waited for a break in the steady stream of traffic and rushed to the median to wait out the traffic coming from the other direction. Just as I saw my chance to make a run for it, a jeep pulled up, blocking my way, and a man in the front seat, hung his head out of the window and yelled, “Darjeeling!?” For a brief moment, I glanced longingly at the bananas just beyond the traffic, but knowing how priceless a share taxi with one space left can be, I nodded affirmatively and jumped in the back as the jeep took off down the road.
The jeep was packed with two passengers next to the driver in the front, four passengers on the bench behind the driver and four of us crammed into the back seats along the sides. I barely fit in the small space that was left, but I settled in as well as I could with my head tilted to the side to accommodate the low ceiling. The other passengers were all Indians and none seemed to keen on conversation.
As we reached the mountains, I began to see the train track that ran along side of the road. Each time we went around a curve, the track crossed the road so that the train was not riding along the edge of the cliff. Watching the track, I realized that 1) I would get a very similar view from the jeep as I would from the train and 2) that if there were traffic coming up or down the mountain as the train made it countless switches across the road, it would be very slow going indeed.
As we climbed, I saw that the view from the jeep was a pretty one, but I could only catch it in glimpses, as each time we went around a curve my perspective would alternate between rock face and scenic mountain view. My neck was beginning to ache from its awkward position and I was beginning to regret passing up those bananas, so I was anxious to get to Darjeeling.
I had painted a picture of Darjeeling in my mind’s eye of winding, hilly streets, quaint old storefronts and awe inspiring Himalayan views, so when we pulled into town on a dirty street, lined by rows of identical, two-story storefronts, I was a little disappointed. Fortunately, my need for food outweighed my need for awe-inspiring views at that moment, so I happily left the jeep and headed for the nearest fruit stand.
After a few bananas, I decided to make my way to the guesthouse I had chosen out of the guide book. The map of Darjeeling from my book was lined with thick black lines representing roads and vertical stacks of dashes of which I was unable to understand the significance until I began my ascent.
Darjeeling was build on the side of a mountain, so in order to get around, you must either follow the winding roads that lead, in switchback fashion, up to the top, or take the more direct route up steep staircases that lead between the levels of road. In my weakened state, neither option was appealing, so I decided to first find somewhere for lunch.
The roads in Darjeeling are lined with numerous shops and restaurants. The higher you ascend, the more the restaurants and shops seem to cater to the tourist crowd, so I stopped about halfway up, in a little Chinese restaurant off to the side. I was lured less by its cuisine and more by its location, knowing that I ate there, I wouldn’t have to make it all the way up the hill.
After a lunch of some kind of spicy soup, I was ready to tackle the rest of the hill. While I was eating it had begun to rain lining the streets with rivulets of muddy water. On the way up, I caught a glimpse of another Western tourist from underneath my umbrella, and asked her if she knew the whereabouts of the guesthouse I was looking for. She said that she had not heard of it, but that she was staying in a great guesthouse just up the hill and she offered to show me where it was. I thanked her and followed her up a steep hillside to a cozy little guesthouse where I booked into a room and settled in for a nap to wait out the rain showers.
Although I planned to get out and see the countryside, my next few days in Darjeeling were divided between reading a book I’d borrowed from the kitchen in my room as the rain beat against the window and the clouds obscured any view of the Himalayas or sitting in the guesthouse kitchen eating garlic mash potatoes and trying to figure out my latest sudoku, a Japanese number game that had been introduced to me by an Irish guest at the hotel. The combination of a lack of energy and the dreary weather, sapped me of all motivation to explore and I decided to head back to Bangladesh a day earlier than I had planned.
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