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.