108 - Dhaka to Munshigonj (Southwest Bangladesh)
THE JOURNEY IS THE JOURNEY. No, wait, the journey is the destination. The destination is the goal. The destination is the journey, the journey is the goal, and the obstacle is the way. I thought I went to Munshigonj to find a tiger. Nuh-uh. What did Lennon (as in John) say about lifeshit happening and other plans?
Dhaka-Jessore-Satkhira-Munshigonj. I bought a ticket from an upscale bus company for the Jessore-Dhaka segment and was pleasantly surprised by the comfort. The clerk said it was a four-hour trip. It lasted about seven, well within the margin of error in these parts and par for the course with a ferry crossing in the mix. I inadvertently discovered an effective way of capturing Dhaka’s street chaos—sit in the front of a first-class bus. Seats are elevated above the driver and the windshield is enormous, providing a unique vantage point.
There’s a downside. Had we stopped abruptly or, god forbid, collided with another vehicle, I would’ve done a Superman impression through the windshield. No seatbelts assured this outcome. Just watching events unfold up close was stress-inducing. Much safer (psychologically) to let your mind wander through a window in the rear. It might have been the most exhilarating bus ride I’ve ever had. Previous study of horrendous accident statistics in Bangladesh helped fuel the adrenaline-soaked adventure.
I arrived in Jessore in late afternoon and found a room best described as an upmarket prison cell. As it was clean and there was no chance of being sodomized, I was more than satisfied. (What can you expect for $2?) Jessore’s streets are a carnival without clowns (unless you count me). Not so many motorized vehicles, but a glut of bell-ringing rickshaws. (It reminded me of walking through the slot machine section of a casino.) If I’m not mistaken, the bells are attached to the front brake, so every time they’re engaged, an angel gets its wings. After a few minutes, it blends into urban white noise, making a casual amble more, not less, dangerous. The circus intensifies at night. Situational awareness is a must. Stay alert, stay alive.
My capacity to blend was compromised by my existence. As one man passed on the street, he shook my hand without warning, said “Thank you,” and continued on his way. I assumed “thank” and “you” were the only words in his English vocabulary. Perhaps “hello” was his intended greeting. Or he was thanking me for being there, for visiting his country. Who knows? Not I.
Later, as I stood on the corner wearing my signature “Where the hell am I” expression, I heard “Hello, handsome” from my left flank. I turned to see a gentleman working behind a street-side pharmacy counter with a beaming grin. I reciprocated (minus the “handsome”) and moved along. I’m going with more language barrier on that one. Overt manifestations of homosexuality are frowned upon in Muslim countries. I assume he was merely being hospitable. Then again, I am pretty fucking irresistible.
Over dinner, I had a “WTF” moment. I made it to Jessore. Yay for me. I had no clue where to catch the bus south, where I would stay in Munshigonj, or whether I could hire a boat into the Sundarbans. I also knew onward buses would be of the “local” variety. Did I really want to put myself through hours, if not days, of discomfort for a venture with no guaranteed result? Yes, yes I did. Still, I considered hopping a night bus back to Dhaka. I went so far as to inquire about the schedule. In the end, I relented and forged on. What a fucking mistake that would’ve been… doofus.
The next morning I ate breakfast, then ventured out to investigate transportation options. The walk was fruitful, the investigation was not. The streets were Bangladesh’s version of deserted. Fewer people and lighter traffic on Fridays—Islam’s holy day. The few men I did encounter were a friendly bunch. I had a conversation whose gist I never quite grasped. I believe one gentleman said he owned a shop across the street and wanted me to visit. Or he wanted copies of the pictures I snapped of him and the other onlookers. Folks loved having their picture taken even when the only payoff was a view of the photo on my small LCD screen. This tickled them pink.
I returned to my breakfast restaurant and inquired within about catching a bus. A staff member was most helpful, hailing a rickshaw and directing the driver/cyclist to the correct terminal. (There are several.) At the station, it was more of the same—people falling over themselves to assist me. I mentioned Satkhira and an entourage of touts, employees, and fellow passengers were at my service. I was led to the ticket counter, then shown my seat by the tout (an attendant who collects money and announces destinations). The seats were designed by the same folks who showed Dorothy the yellow brick road. I couldn’t sit without putting my legs in the aisle. That would’ve been fine if not for the apparent attempt at setting a capacity record. Out of necessity, my bag was in front next to the driver, far out of my control… gulp.
The cramp conditions did nothing to cramp the friendliness. More smiles. More pictures. The station in Satkhira picked up the friendliness baton with staff and patrons alike dying to help and pleading for photographs. The man who sold my ticket bought me a snack and shook my hand no less than three times. At one point, I had twenty or so individuals hanging on my every move. Though a tad overwhelming, I never felt threatened. Quite the opposite. I even left my backpack on the bus while a kind gentleman showed me the way to the toilet. If I’d asked, he probably would’ve carried me.
The final push to Munshigonj was likewise a clown car scenario. People, chickens, and whatever else you can imagine packed on the roof, sardines packed in the papier-mâché and Bondo jalopy. Local buses have no set drop-off or pickup points. Need a ride? Raise a hand. Want to get off? Scream your desire. Stop. Start. Crawl. Rumble. Go. The driver honked his horn with reckless abandon while the tout slapped the roof to indicate stopping, starting, and an endless barrage of other indecipherable signals. Even from my contortionist’s perch, I was as mesmerized by it all as riders were mesmerized by me. One man, amazed by my ability to fill a window seat while holding my bag, grabbed my knee to showcase my accomplishment to his friend. (I’m very talented.) Another invited me to his home, and though I wanted to say yes, declined in light of expediency. The kindness of strangers got me on the right bus. I didn’t want to push my luck. Hindsight is a cruel fickle bitch. I should’ve accepted the invitation. I would’ve made the man’s day… and mine. Only the things we do not do… putz.
