There
is a downside. Were we to stop abruptly or, God forbid, collide with
another vehicle, I would have been doing my Superman impression
through the front windshield (And no there weren't any safety belts).
Just watching events unfold up close like that can be a tad
distressing. Having read about the horrendous accident statistics in
Bangladesh does little to quell one’s anxiety. Best to just close
your eyes and find a happy place.
I
arrived in Jessore
in the late afternoon/early evening and found a room that can best be
described as an upmarket prison cell. As it was clean and there
was no chance of being sodomized I was more than satisfied. Besides,
what can you expect for $2?
 |
| The red one initiates the self-destruct sequence |
The
streets of Jessore are like a carnival without clowns (unless you
count me). Not so many motorized vehicles but a glut of rickshaws all
ringing their bells incessantly (it is a little like walking through
the slot machine section of a casino). The bells are actually
attached to the front wheel somehow (to the front brake I think) so
every time they engage the brake an angel gets its wings. At night it
is even more of a circus. Situational awareness is a must. My
ability to blend was compromised by my very existence. As one man
passed me on the street he shook my hand without warning, said ‘Thank
you’, and continued on his way. I believe that ‘thank’ and
‘you’ are probably the only words in his English vocabulary.
Perhaps, ‘hello’ was his intended greeting. Or he was
thanking me for simply being there, for visiting his country. Who
knows?
Later,
as I stood on the corner wearing my signature ‘Where the hell am I’
expression I heard the words “Hello handsome” from my left flank.
I turned to see a gentleman working behind a street side pharmacy
counter with a rather large smile on his face. I returned the
greeting (minus the ‘handsome’) and moved along. I am fairly
certain that more language barrier issues were at play.
Overt
manifestations of homosexual innuendo are frowned upon on the streets
of predominantly Muslim countries. I assume he was merely being
hospitable. Then again, I am pretty f***ing irresistible.
It
was at dinner that I had one of those ‘WTF are you doing?’
moments. At that point in my journey I was not sure where to
catch the bus south, where I was going to stay when I arrived in
Munshigonj, or even whether or not I would definitely be able to hire
a boat to visit the Sundarbans. I also knew that the buses from this
point would be of the ‘local’ variety. Did I really want to put
myself through hours, if not days, of discomfort and possible agony
for a venture that had no guaranteed result? I considered getting on
a night bus and heading right back to Dhaka. I was even at the
counter inquiring as to schedule. In the end I relented and forged
on. Had I balked I believe I would have kicked my own ass for being a
pussy. And I would have deserved it.
The
next morning I decided I would eat breakfast and investigate bus
options. The streets were fairly deserted as it was Friday (that
being the day of rest in Islam). However, I did meet a few locals
that took a quite an interest in the lanky fellow. A conversation
ensued whose gist still remains a mystery to me. I believe a
gentleman was telling me he owns a shop across the street and wanted
me to visit. Or he wanted copies of the pictures I was requested to
snap of all the onlookers (including him).
Folks
love having their picture taken and showing them the results on the
camera LCD tickles them pink. In the restaurant where I had
breakfast a member of the staff was most helpful and was kind enough
to hail a rickshaw driver and direct me to the correct bus station
(every town has several). At the station people were falling all over
themselves attempting to assist me. I mentioned the town ‘Satkhira’
and an entourage of touts, station workers, and fellow passengers
were at my service. I was lead to the correct ticket counter and even
shown my seat by the tout (a bus attendant that collects money and
announces the buses destination along the way). The seats on
this bus were designed by the same folks that showed Dorothy the
yellow brick road. Gulliver would certainly emphasize. It was
impossible for me to sit without putting my legs in the aisle. That
would have been fine if not for the apparent attempt at setting a new
capacity record. Out of necessity my bag was at the front of the bus
next to the driver. I think even sardines may have taken issue with
the space limitations.
More
friendliness. More pictures. I arrived at the bus station in Satkhira
to a similar scenario. More people dying to help and pleading for a
photograph. The man who sold me my ticket bought me a snack and shook
my hand no less than three times. At one point I had an
entourage of twenty or so individuals hanging on my every move (this
was to repeat itself at regular intervals).
I
had little to fear from these folks. I even left my bag on the bus
while a kind gentleman showed me the way to the toilet. If I’d
asked he probably would have carried me. The bus to Munshigonj was
much the same, a packed clown car scheme. People, chickens, and
whatever else you can imagine placed on the roof. Frequent stops with
a never ending salvo of horn honking, side-banging (telling the
driver to stop, move on, or some other seemingly endless barrage of
indecipherable signals), and folks shifting in and out of our
papier-mâché bondo jalopy.
On this leg of my sojourn I was invited to someone’s home. He was
most intrigued by me. I was tempted but figured I should probably
keep moving. I'm an idiot. At one point a guy grabbed my knee to show
his friend how much of an accomplished contortionist I was by not
only shoving myself into the window seat but also simultaneously
holding onto my bag. I’m very talented.
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'Love me or hate me, but spare me your indifference.' -- Libbie Fudim