Bangladesh Bound!!!

There were many things to do and see in Calcutta though after a few days I began to get itchy feet and seriously craved exercise.  I was once told that if you exercise an obscene amount for prolonged periods of time your heart grows. Unlike other muscles it does not however decrease in size when you stop exercising. Like a dog, you therefore forever feel the need to run around the park to feel normal again. I’m not sure if this is medically true or not but it sums up how I feel most of the time!  

A young Israeli lad staying at my hotel asked if I wanted to go to a festival, of which he knew nothing about. He seemed a nice lad, hippy sort with a guitar and very little money to live off, perhaps a little impressionable too. He had been invited by a kiwi guy who was coming early the next morning. It seemed a good opportunity to escape the city and so I told him I might be keen. He gave me a knock on my door early the next morning. The kiwi guy was already waiting outside in a beaten up old yellow taxi, with a chocolate brown cigarette hanging out of his mouth and a multicolored bandanna over his head. He looked fucking mental. Jet black hair down to his lower back, haggard skin and crazy psychotic piercing blue eyes that cut straight through you. You knew he had seen some serious drugs over the decades. He must have been late 40’s and was shouting aggressively to the young Israeli, “come on let’s go!” I asked the kiwi guy what exactly they were going too. He explained it was something called the Khumb Mela, a huge Religious Celebration where mass numbers of Indians – some naked – bathe in the Ganges on the early hours of the morning of January 14^th.  There plan was to sleep on the beach. The location was a place called Sagar, an island south of Calcutta at the mouth of the River Ganges. I like to be impulsive but I knew with this character it would be a drug fest and a recipe for disaster!

Fish from the Ganges - Cheap & Tasty

I declined the taxi offer but ceased the chance to do some exercise and decided to ride down there to meet them. The previous day I had tried to get into the prestigious members only Calcutta Swimming Club, built by the British Raj it had a beautiful indoor and outdoor 50 metre pool. Unfortunately on slipping past reception and on route to the changing rooms I was quickly thrown out by a very angry Indian man. It was therefore extremely refreshing to be back on the bicycle giving the lungs a proper blast. It was a nice ride and at a place called Diamond Harbour the road followed the shoreline of the Ganges as it opened out into the Ocean. 80 miles later I reached the town of Kakdwip, which was the port for the island. There were about 5 Ghats from which boats headed to the island, where literally 1000’s of Pilgrims waited in enormous cues to be stuffed onto wooden boats. Cuing for hours to sleep on a beach with naked men seemed to be a poor value investment so I headed back to Calcutta. I did however bump into the Kiwi and his young apprentice a few days later. They had been there the whole time. The Kiwi looked unchanged but his apprentice looked a proper mess! No doubt the come down from a cocktail of drugs, and to top it off he had the shits so bad he couldn’t move from his stool. Might have been a blessing there was such big cues for those boats!

Diamond Harbor

The following morning I decided to check out the mother house of Mother Theresa.  This is the main building for the Mother Theresa Charity, the place of her grave, her untouched former bedroom and one of the Orphanages. It looked like something from the film Sister Act. One of the sisters working there suggested I should volunteer and come down to register at 3pm. I’m admittedly not much of a volunteer, but with me being stuck in Calcutta awaiting my passport from the Bangladesh Embassy it seemed to make perfect sense. I’ve also adopted the approach of saying yes to everything, after hearing about a book based on a man who’s live changed dramatically after always saying “YES”. Well not quite everything...prostitutes and drugs don’t count!!

Anyway....I did turn up for the 3 pm registration, and to my amazement found myself in a room of good looking Latin women! I had to pinch myself! After being in a country which appeared to have a 90:10 ratio of men to women I was in shock!! I’m not sure where all the women are in India but there definitely not outside on the streets. It later occurred to my slow processing brain that the high number of Latin women was due to the fact that South America is a Catholic Continent (there was also the token older Irish lady there). Perhaps this was Mother Theresa’s reward for my attempt at being charitable! After an introductory speech I was asked to choose which houses I wished to work in.  Each house was detailed on laminated sheets of paper left on a table, like menus in a restaurant. My decision was in no way influenced by which house the best looking women went to. To be brutally honest...... I didn’t even look at the menu!

Tomb of Mother Theresa

The next morning I work up early and headed to the mother house for my first day of volunteering. I walked down with an older British woman from my hotel that also happened to be volunteering. After selling her property in Carlisle a few years ago, she explained how she hoped to move back to Ireland, but how disgusted she was with the property prices back at home and the greed of investors. I thought it best not to mention my rogue buy to let property and 2^nd hand Porsche and Ferrari importation business. It Might not have gone down so well. On arriving at the mother house I was again surrounded by a lot of women and a few voluntary priests. One who I chatted to was an Indian looking Canadian priest originally from Nigeria but living in Toronto – where I did a University exchange year in 2001. I talked to him about the difficulties in buying alcohol as a student in Toronto. He seemed quite a character and had suffered similar problems himself. I couldn’t help but to ask him if he watched “Father Ted”.  Surprisingly he did, and was apparently introduced to it by another priest! I told him that technically my religion was Church of England and asked if that was a “watered-down” version of Catholicism. It brought a wry smile to his face and he explained in a roundabout way that although that may be a good description he could not be seen to acknowledge that!

After a very simple free breakfast of dry bread, a banana and tea the tune soon turned to praise. I felt like a complete imposture I’m not going to lie!! The place was full of do good people, nuns and priests and here was me, an atheist obsessed with classic sports cars and property volunteering for his first time! Despite going to both a  Catholic School and a Sunday School, by the age of 12 I didn’t even know which religion I was! The extremely strict deputy head asked me one time when I was a pupil at the St Martins Catholic High School, my answer was “Catholic”. He then asked my older brother Colin the same day who correctly replied, “Church of England”. This landed him in some serious trouble as he was the one accused of not knowing his own religion!! Several hymns and prayers later the sister asked who’s last day it was, 2 people stepped forwarded and the sister and volunteer broke out into chorus, “We thank you, thank you thank you........may god....” One of the girls burst into tears. I was certainly not going to raise my hand the following day to signal my 2^nd and last day of service! The sister later told us we needed to sing more quietly so as not to attract attention (I was an expert at that). The Mother house had apparently been a terrorist target the previous year and now had men with guns outside. I’m not sure if there had been new intelligence but the following day we were told to leave quietly in smaller groups.

I had unknowingly chosen a house called Daya Dan which was the furthest distance (a bus plus tuk-tuk ride) away from the mother house. Everyone traveled there together. On arrival I realised I had chosen the most difficult house with the fewest volunteers, a disabled children’s home. My only prior experience working with kids was 15 years ago as a counselor on a day camp in Detroit, where the owner tried to fire me and accused me of being the worst counselor in the history of the camp. Surprisingly the most popular choice among volunteers was the house of the dying. Children at Daya Dan had a range of disabilities,  all with mental learning difficulties, some could see, some not, some in wheel chairs, some could run and some could get about only with the aid  of very old school Forrest Gump leg braces, most looked extemely happy though. 

My duties included hanging out washing (which I found quite ironic since my own clothes hadn’t been washed for over a month!), making beds, helping the kids to walk, feeding them, and since my first day was a Sunday, attending Mass!! I think the bible readings given by the priest were lost on most of the kids, even I struggled to understand what he was saying. Hymns though were a different ball game. I thought Phil Collins was in the room as a wicked background beat on African drums was blasted out in perfect rhythm, it even finished with a somewhat technical solo finale at the end of some of the hymns. Expecting it to be one of the volunteers I was amazed to see it was one of the disabled children. The kids singing didn’t seem to be quite of the same level as it turned into a "who could shout the loudest" competition, But a top effort either way.

 I don’t know whether it was because I was spinning a disabled child round by his arms at 90 degrees or my attempts to reach terminal velocity pushing him on the roundabout, but the Head Sister called me into her office and asked if I could make a chart of staff responsibilities on the computer. I suggested it might be easier to do it on my own computer back at the hotel rather than try and find a cybercafe. Anyway, due to my lack of computer skills, which have worsened further still since being a fireman, this homework took me about 4 hours. I returned the next morning solely to hand the chart to the sister – it wasn’t done at all the way she wanted it! On the positive side this prevented me from dropping any of the kids on their heads.

That evening I was invited to a meal by the other volunteers at a place called Raj’s Spanish Cafe. An Indian guy who was previously married to a Spanish woman and had learnt how to cook good Spanish food. It was obviously a hit since 80% of the volunteers were from Latin American countries. I turned up with a friend I had met along the way, and the first person I’ve met also traveling by bicycle, Alex, a German born in Kyrgyzstan. He had cycled the silk road from Georgia (via Pakistan, Iran etc – which has given me bigger ideas should I ever return from this trip!) We had first met in Darjeeling on New Year’s Eve, though he was so hammered he didn’t actually have any idea who I was when I bumped into him again in  Calcutta. Surprisingly we had been on the same road more or less since Nepal but slightly out time wise.  Apparently on one occasion I was just 1.5 hours behind him, though on hearing from a passing motorist this news he decided to put his foot down. Although both travelling by bicycle we could not be more opposite. I have a paper map and a 16 year old second hand British built bicycle I paid £350 quid for. He has every technological gadget and application ever invented and a 3000 Euro custom built bicycle. He laughs at me for my old hat approach and I laugh at him. At least my map will never run out of batteries I would always remark. Though I did secretly laugh when we both took our bikes in for a service and my old mechanical bike came back working like new....and his worse than when he dropped it off! He wasn’t happy! (sorry Alex if you are reading this ;-)

Picture taken outside our £2,50 per night hotel - "Modern" Lodge

I can see I’m going off on a tangent, getting back to Raj’s restaurant! With the arrival of the army of Latin women I would repetitively request that Alex sits on his own “non volunteers” table. “Money, Money, Money that’s all you care about isn’t it mate!!! Greed, Greed, Greed!! Why don’t you try doing some volunteering for a change!?” I kept remarking, dangling my volunteers Mother Theresa bracelet  in front of  him. He got his own back by remarking at the top of his voice that I was only volunteering because of the all the women there. The table of 4 Mexican girls nearby did not look impressed.

I finally collected my visa for Bangladesh on the  16th January after a week long wait. Everyone waited outside the Embassy counter and names were called out one by one. I could just about see a humongous pile of Green Indian passports though the glass and no sign of my Burgundy one, which was pretty much the last to be called.  On the plus side there was a 2500 Rupee refund. It was however the worst visa I’ve ever had. A 15 day visa which had started 2 days ago!  I wanted to get going straight away though had  promised and wanted to meet my God parents who very coincidentally were due to arrive in Calcutta the following day (they had been seeing wildlife in the very remote north east regions of India). I’m very glad I decided to wait. They had splashed out and treated themselves to what was probably the most exclusive hotel in the whole of India, known locally as, “The Grand”. It was by far the nicest hotel I’ve ever been to, which being in India is really saying something. To put things into perspective price-wise, my very basic hotel costs 200 Rupees per night – about £2.50. The price of the cheapest beer at the Raj was 1100 Rupees. I ordered the Lamb Shank which fell of the bone and was cooked to perfection. Thank you Dave and Anne White.

Studying our travels on my bike map @ The Grand, Calcutta

Road to the Bangladesh Border

The next morning I was finally on the road again. I left the city via a huge suspended dual carriage way, which was definitely not meant for cyclists, and headed north east past the airport and towards the Bangladesh border 50 miles away. I must admit I did have a few reservations about cycling through Bangladesh. These were not helped by my former Italian girlfriend who wrote to me two days before my arrival, “DON'T GO TO BANGLADESH! They will cut your head! I don’t want to see you on TV!” The message wrote. The recent rise of terrorism in Bangladesh has been well publicized, with the country’s worst ever attack, a raid on an Italian owned bakery where Muslims and non-Muslims (Hindus and westerners) were separated and then assassinated, happening only six months ago. Formerly known as East Pakistan, following the British separation of Indian into Hindu and Muslims countries in 1947, its huge 160 million population is larger than Russia’s and has a 90% Muslim majority, much tension still exists between these groups. It was however a country I really wanted to visit. Perhaps purely due to its flamboyant name, perhaps because of the way it appears on the map (1000’s of meandering rivers forming the world’s largest delta emptying into the Bay of Bengal), or simply because it’s a country that nobody ever visits!

In preparation to blend in and look less like the milky bar kid, I had  bought a Muslim style head scarf from Calcutta. I explained to the shop keeper that I wanted to look like a Muslim and got him to demonstrate how to tie it around my head accordingly, to the delight of onlookers. Nearing the border zone, my early concerns were not put an ease when I passed under a large sign which read, "YOU ARE ENTERING INTO INDO-BANGLADESH BORDER AREA ALWAYS BE CAUTIOUS" complimented by a skull and cross-bones. The dramatic arrival that awaited me did not disappoint!...

After being ushered past several hundred people waiting in line, separated by large DIY Bamboo fences lashed together, I was directed to a serious looking man in an office. “How can I help you?” he asked sternly. I don’t know what else you do at a border but I certainly wasn’t there to get my haircut I thought! “I’d like to enter Bangladesh”, I replied, deciding to keep my sarcasm to myself. “On bicycle!” he replied out loud, paused briefly and bellowed out, “NOT POSSIBLE!” Here we go again! I thought. With the refusal high up at the Nepalese border still fresh in my mind I said with superior confidence, “ Yes it is possible, I have a visa from Calcutta already and I need to enter Bangladesh” Within a few minutes I was placed in a cue and issued an “Exit” stamp for India. First stage completed I made my way confidently across the road, passed a huge dictator style painted monument of the President, to the Bangladesh Immigration office.

Like something out of an Olympic fencing competition I then found myself being jabbed by the fingers of the border officer and directed randomly around the room. Eventually I was asked to complete a form and my passport was checked over and stamped. Meanwhile another officer began opening all the bags and panniers on my bicycle and poking buttons on the speedometer. The nosy officer then came over to me and placed his hand on top of mine and attempted to hold my hand, whilst giggling hysterically. Yet to come out of the closet I’m not sure I felt pretty uncomfortable to say the least!....and you can’t really tell an immigration officer to “F” Off, especially on a border like this!

By this point in time everyone else who had been cuing had left the room and were on their merry way into Bangladesh, leaving me pretty freaked out alone with two very peculiar immigration officers. I kept asking if I could leave now and was repeatedly told to sit down and wait. The officers then disappeared into another room and sat down, I could see there backs facing away from me through the glass window. “Fuck This!” were the exact words which entered my mind, I ceased my chance and made a run for the exit, grabbed my bike and immediately started pedaling as fast as I could...like a M/F Panther ...into Bangladesh! Home and dry...I thought.  

I had barely cycled a mile when I heard the sound of a motorbike directly behind me, it then pulled along side me. It was the police. He looked directly at me and pointed back towards the border. To make things worse he then pulled out his radio and I heard him say the word, "British", as if planning my arrest. He continued to follow directly behind me for what seemed like an eternity. Trying to break the ice I gave him the "thumbs up", though gained no response. so decided to stop for a casual water break. No sooner had a reached for my water bottle he lifted his finger, pointed at the road ahead, and shouted "GO!" I can't deny I was shitting myself a bit and the thought of getting molester-ed in a Bangladeshi prison cell was a very vivid image on my mind! The police motorcyclist followed me for a further 6 or 7 miles or so, until, convinced I could no longer hear the engine, plucked up the courage to look back over my shoulder. I had to do a double take, he was gone!

My relief and joy lasted for about a minute when I sensed the presence of something else much bigger than a motorbike behind me....it was a military police pick-up truck full of expressionless armed officers looking straight at me. Hoping to wake up in my bed after a bad dream, they continued to follow me for miles, I was certain they were directing me to the nearest police station. I again tried the casual water stop, which again was met by the same hostile response, “Why stop..GO!”

I continued to peddle as hard as I could, I don’t really know why. I was hardly going to out run them, perhaps it was the thought that the quicker we arrived and less time wasted in getting there the more lenient the punishment! Or maybe just a natural reaction to shitting myself! Realising that this approach was complete useless and becoming pretty exhausted after 70 miles without food I decided to pull over again. “What are you doing!?” the officer in charge said, Getting bolder I put my foot down, “I NEED FOOD!”  “Ok” he agreed and the jeep followed me off the main road to a small tin shack selling Chi tea and snacks. My ice breaker attempt at offering him a biscuit was unsuccessful so I again tried communicating;

“Have I done something wrong??” No Reply.......

“Is there a problem??” No Reply..........

“YOU ARE A GUEST IN MY COUNTRY!” he finally replied! I reached out my hand, which at last bought a smile to his face.  I have no idea why it had taken 2 convoys and such drama to be told this but I was insanely relieved!! The exchange of the handshake signaled the go out for the other officers waiting on the pick-up truck to come and join us and for the hoard of spectators to come closer. The Police officer then ordered the stall owner to make us both a cup of tea and 3 packs of biscuits, for which he insisted on paying for. After posing for a few photos another officer appeared with a bouquet of flowers. Not really knowing what to do with them I began tying them to my rear luggage rack, though he had a better idea and attached them in front of my handlebars covering my map!

We set off once more, my previous concerns of danger exchanged for ones of complete safety, I had more personal security than the Queen! After several more miles and  leaving a trail of flower petals along the road  behind me, the officer beeped his horn and stopped to advise  me that they would now be leaving me, but I would be rejoined by another patrol. It was approaching 4 Pm and perhaps the end of their shift. No sooner had we shook hands and parted ways another vehicle joined me. They seemed far me jovial than the first crew and after barely a mile dramatically pulled over, “Photo! Facebook!” he exclaimed with a mischievous look on his face!

Jessore, the first major town and my intended stopover was fast approaching and night beginning to fall. With traffic intensifying my armed convoy overtook me to take pole position, turned the blue lights and sirens on and led the way! Anyone who came within touching distance of me was shouted at and the police would dramatically point and gesticulate to everyone to get out of the way! It was awesome. Occasionally on hitting more severe traffic I would overtake  and make my way in front, they seemed to enjoy this and used it as an excuse to make an even more dramatic scene, bullying their way through intense traffic.We eventually arrived at a hotel, called the Magpie, which they had advised I stay at. Thinking this was the moment we would part ways, 4 armed officers and a military looking bloke with a machine gun led me into the hotel lift and right into my room on the 4^th floor. It was a bizarre situation to say the least! 7 men in one hotel room! Unhappy with the cleanliness of my room, the officers ordered the hotel workers to change my linen and offered me a cigarette, asked my time of departure the next morning and said farewell, leaving me in the room with the remaining hotel worker. The young lad proceeded to show me all the feature of this pretty basic room in great detail. When it came to the TV he selected a music channel and started dancing around my room erratically to the music. I’m not really sure how one is supposed to react to such behavior, I definitely wasn’t going to join in!

As instructed by the police for security, I eat in the restaurant attached to the hotel. I was quite puzzled as to just how dangerous a place I was in, but obliged anyway. I chose the fish and it was sensational.  Curious and determined to explore and see the country by myself for the first time since arriving, I wrapped my Muslim head scarf around me and used the elevator to by-pass reception and sneaked out in search of more food and an ATM. I had changed my remaining Indian Rupees at the border, leaving me with about 8 quid in Taka’s. It took until the 5^th and final ATM machine in the town that finally spoke to me in a Steven Hawking accident and spat money out at me. My sweet tooth from all the cycling getting the better of me, I went out in search of cake. Not finding what I was looking for I came across a shop selling massive clay pots of yogurt which I thought would do the trick. Knowing at the time it didn’t look quite right and not learning lessons from the past I took it back to my room and demolished it anyway.

 Not surprisingly I woke up peeing out of the wrong hole yet again. I was now dreading the arrival of the Police escort.......were they going to stop every 10 minutes and watch me dive into a bush!

Knowing I had to replenish lost energy I had to eat breakfast regardless. As I went down the stairs to find some food outside I was stopped by the hotel staff. “No Security! – Room Service!” he shouted in broken English.  How was I supposed to cycle across Bangladesh if I wasn’t allowed out by myself for breakfast I thought! The reception staff ended up ordering me a breakfast take-away and brought it to the room.

Fully expecting police to be there at 8am sharp and not wanting to upset them I waited until my 8am departure time. To my surprise they did not show! I ran out the door and cycled away ignoring whatever the hotel workers said to me. In the end I had enjoyed the company of the Police, but it was definitely time to see Bangladesh alone, especially in my current medical state!

The road east towards Dhaka was fascinating. I passed a variety of rich green plants, huge fields being worked by hand, and with the exception of some enormous bridges crossings rivers it was as flat as a pancake. Later in the afternoon I encountered an enormous river apparently 5km across where, after passing through a very dirty port boarded a ferry with a load of mischievous truck drivers. On offer during the crossing was the finest quality seafood and prawns....seriously! see pic below J

Plenty of life left in this one yet!

The deadly Yougurt

A very upmarket roadside service station and some great food

Waiting for the Boat

A very friendly nation

A bit like the frozen ones from Tesco

Friendly truckers on the ferry

Arriving at port of ???

By the time the ferry arrived in another dirty port town the sun had set. With the tiniest amount of visibility still remaining and no hotels on offer, I left the main road exiting the port and carried my bike down a steep muddy embankment looking for a place to camp. The ground at the bottom was boggy, uneven and covered in trash. I was therefore left with no option but to get back on my trusty bike and rack up some miles into the night! After approximately 30 more miles and having knocked out a 150+ mile day (which is a lot harder with panniers and a touring bike than a carbon fibre road bike!) I eventually reached the town of Manikganj where I found a hotel. I went out and grabbed a bite to eat (roasted chicken wrapped in the most incredible soft “Pakistani bread” as it was described to me) and made a brief appearance at the Bangladeshi wedding the hotel owner had invited me before passing out cold.

The previous days big ride left me with an easy half day ride into Dhaka the following morning. I reached the gritty industrial outskirts of the capital around lunch time when something broke and I nearly lost control of my bicycle. However, it was not my 16 year old British built bike that had broken, but my 4 year old German Panniers! The fastening had completely sheared off and the pannier fell onto the road. Within seconds a huge group of men gathered around me, a piece of rope appeared from nowhere and they began resourcefully lashing my tent and broken pannier onto the bike. A belt I bought 2 days previously in Calcutta to stop my jeans falling down also helped to secure the bag in place.

I had unknowingly arrived in Dhaka at the time of Friday prayer, the quietest period of the week traffic wise, and although still congested the traffic was a fraction of its normal madness – there are 17 million people living there! Locals directed me to the address I had taken a screen shot of on my phone, although foolishly I had only the first line written down. Stopping for a bite to eat I bumped into a student who spoke perfect English. He told me that his Uncle had a block of flats nearby with a spare apartment where I could stay, and, describing how dodgy the part of town my intended guesthouse was in, convinced me to take a look. His Uncle was a kind well spoken retired Army Brigadier who had also been a chief in the Fire Brigade. After a nice chat I moved into my 2 bed, 2 balcony apartment on the edge of the posh diplomatic Gulshan  District.

Invited for a meal by the Brigadier! - his wife cooked the most amazing food

 Taking a look around the local area that evening. I was amazed at the amount of security, checkpoints and Police with machine guns. Even the nearby Gloria Jean’s coffee shop had a huge Guantanamo Bay style steel fence and armed security surrounding it. Unknowingly I had moved into the exact area where the recent terrorism had occurred and security had been beefed up to the max as a result. Gloria Jean’s was apparently on the shortlist for being attacked which explained the extreme measures taken. Gulshan is a an upmarket gated community and home to all the western expats living in Dhaka, most working in high paid jobs connected to Bangladesh’s huge clothing industry (you can nick a bargain in many of the cheaper shops which sell factory seconds – clothes are labelled up for everything from H & M to Sports Direct!). Few expats are visible on the streets though as most are chauffeur driven from place to place and live in highly secure luxury apartments. Tourists are non-existent. The wealth in the area stands out like a saw thumb in contrast to the rest of Bangladesh with some very exclusive high rise hotels, restaurants and international schools. I’m not sure whether being in such an area made me feel more or less safe! On the plus side there was security everywhere, though on the flip side this was the area terrorists were targeting! There was definitely still a chill in the air and sense of paranoia  among some people living there, a British-Bangladeshi living in my block had all her food delivered to her flat and traveled only by chauffeured car.

I had to wait until Sunday for the Myanmar embassy to open (Yes Sunday! – Friday is the day of rest and Sunday a normal day in Muslim countries – well at least this one anyway). I knew that in order to cycle into Myanmar overland I first needed to get a visa after which I could apply for the special MIT permit to cross the special territory between India and Myanmar (crossing directly between Bangladesh and Burma is a war-zone and not possible). The permit would take 15 working days minimum from time of application. I had done a far bit of research about cycling across the Myanmar border, though all the information available was from people who had cycled in the opposite direction (going west from Thailand and exiting into India). My German friend Alex (who I met in Calcutta) put me in touch with a whats-app group of around world cyclists who I wrote to to find some more information. They told me that someone had tried to cross the India-Myanmar border just a few days ago, but had been turned around by police. Apparently there had been a big  recent conflict with road blocks taking place.

After trying several agencies in Myanmar who apparently offered this special “MIT Permit” one finally replied to me. They told me that I would be able to apply for the permit at a cost of 160 US$ though there would be no refund if I was rejected entry. I decided to press him on the current situation at the border though he declined to answer my emails! I thought it best to get the information from the source and after asking the Myanmar embassy for a visa application form asked about the current border situation. I had little faith in how much they actually knew, and when telling them about my intention to cycle across the response was quite abrupt in telling me it was not allowed. In fact they told me I had to have prove of booking a flight into and out of Burma just to get a visa, never mind the MIT permit to cycle across.  I am admittedly not someone that take “No” for an answer very easily, though on weighing it all up decided it was best to make alternative plans; I had a single entry Bangladeshi visa about to expire, a 15 day working day wait if I ever was to obtain a visa from the Dhaka Embassy and the high prospect of being turned around if the permit came off and I got myself to the border. With my Bangladeshi visa expired  instead of hoping over the border flying from Bangladesh to Burma I would have to return west all the way to Calcutta and fly from there.

My new plan was to get the e-visa for Burma. This is a very simple online application which enables you to get a visa on arrival if you fly into one of Burma’s two major airports (Yangon or Mandalay) – a fraction of the hassle of my intended cycle route.  I decided to turn the negative into a positive and instead of heading north back to India I would use the time saved to cycle deeper into Bangladesh. My destination was Cox Bazaar, the longest beach in the world nestled in the far south east corner of Bangladesh against the Burma border  (which is currently a war ground – Basically Muslim’s are living on the Burmese side of the border, Burma are declaring them to be Bangladeshis and vice versa, and they are caught in the middle getting attacked and murdered. It would also give me chance to visit a sight I really wanted to see, the ship graveyards of Chittagong.

On the advice of my new landlord the Ex-Army Brigadier, I got up at the crack of dawn and was on the road by 6am the following morning to beat the horrendous morning traffic leaving Dhaka. India drivers are bad, the worst in the world I thought, until I arrived in Bangladesh.  This stretch of road, a dual carriage way connecting Bangladesh’s two major cities, is the most dangerous stretch of road I have ever cycled, period. It is not the motorbikes, cars or even lorries that are the culprit, but the bloody buses! Basically Bangladeshi coach drivers are paid for how many trips they make in one day, so they absolutely floor it pedal to the metal regardless of what’s in their way. It is honestly like a formula one race as they take corners at full speed and blindly under or overtake at break neck speeds. I cannot honestly exaggerate enough the extent of this! If you are a pedestrian, cyclist or even rickshaw and don’t pull off the road into the ditch your dead. This is made worse by the fact that many of the coach companies are owned my mp’s so if anyone is knocked down and killed the coach driver is not held responsible. On 3 or 4 occasions the  coach flew past me at perhaps 85 mph missing my shoulder by a couple of inches. One driver slapped me on the back of the head as he went passed for occupying a too central space in the road! The most scary parts of the road is where there is a concrete wall on your left hand side or edge of a bridge with nowhere to move out the way. The older more tatty buses would actually scrape past one another metal against metal or smash into the one in front like a bumper car if they would not make good progress in traffic!

The Danger Road! - Dhaka to Chittagong

Thankfully as I got further away from Dhaka the roads became quieter and I managed to find a smaller road which tracked the main one heading south. Having left my pannier bags at the flat I was able to make really good progress and it felt more like I was on my road bike again flying along. Making great progress, instead of stopping at the town of Feni as  initially intended, I kept going until I reached the ports just north of Chittagong. Arriving in this port area at night was extremely eiry, port cities always are, but the sight of open fires lining the roadside and the remains of broken ships lining the roads made it more so.

The ship breakers of Chittagong are infamous. As renowned for the amazing spectacle of  enormous container ships beached on the shore being dismantled by hand as for the inhumane working condition and high death rate suffered by the low paid employees. I was made very aware that over the last couple of years they have completely restricted anyone from accessing the yards after media photographers exposed the terrible working conditions. The ship yards are therefore highly secured and very hostile to anyone who tries to enter. Intrigued by all the amazing things for sale in the small shops littering the roadsides I went into one of the shops for a chat. I thought this may also be a good tactic to gain access into one of the ship breakers yards. I am genuinely interested in old crap and can happily spend hours looking at old scrap yards, antiques and collectibles. I told the guy in the shop that I was an antiques dealer, mainly specialising in classic cars but a mass importer of antiques, my father being more the marine specialists. I requested that I was primarily into marine collectibles from British ships, though it was my father who was more the marine specialist and I would have to speak to first (that prevented him from putting too much pressure on me to buy there and then). Sensing he wasn't quite buying it, I showed him a few pictures of the classic cars I had sold (all 7!), the scale of which I multiplied by about a 100, the handful of classic cars I’ve sold from my parents driveway made about to be a Lamborghini dealership in Chelsea.

A beautiful brass search light salvaged from the ships

I'm interested in those i said pointing at the large speed controls  - not knowing what they were called.."the telegraphs?" he replied. ."YES the telegraphs!!".... I said, "but only the aluminium one not the brass"- like i was some sort of expert :-s !

Chinese lifeboat anybody?..one careful owner.

A spot of shopping in Chittagong sporting my new replica football jersey - aided by the worlds smallest trolley!

View from hotel - Chittagong

Panther Classics! Exotic used cars for sale looking rather out of place in front of our modest family house! - no doubt to the embarrassment of my father. The false illusion created in my E bay write ups of  a country mansions with dehumidified garage quickly shattered  when potential buyers arrived!

I told him that for me, just like classic cars, the shipping antiques needed providence and it was essential that I could tell the potential buyers about the shipyards from which these antiques came. To my delight, he told me the owner would be there soon and perhaps he could take me there. Again not buying it the owner tried to shake me off and told me to come back in a couple of hours as the shipyards were closed – there was no way that at 11am the ships breakers hadn’t started for work, this was Bangladesh, the country of the sweatshops!!! I wasn’t buying it. “Ok” I replied, so that's 1pm, I’ll be back at 1pm. Sensing he wasn’t getting rid of me that easily he agreed to drive me to the shipyard. He was obviously a man of serious stature and wealth. As we drove down a muddy track to the big iron gates, they were immediately opened by security on recognising his gleaming white car with blacked out windows, revealing a collection of enormous container ships right in-front of me. One looked like it at been sliced in the middle with a knife like an apple.
 Not being able to see properly through the tint of the rear window, the guard saluted me, obviously thinking I was someone important.  On stepping out the car they could see I was a scruffy westerner in ripped jeans.  I was allowed to advance forward around 10 metres and no further, under the constant supervision of a guard. Unfortunately photos were a definite “No No”and I didn’t dare reach for my camera! Since it was already well into the afternoon I thought I would knock cycling on the head for the day, rode into the city centre of Chittagong (15km south) and grabbed a hotel for the night. A pretty decent place I managed to negotiate down to 1000 Taks, a tenner. Even I could convert the currency in Bangladesh.

Here's one i downloaded earlier

The next morning I rose pretty early and headed for my final destination in Bangladesh, Cox Bazaar. I had been on my bike for 2500 miles puncture free by this point when the inevitable happened. I can’t fault the tyres though, it had to taken a huge metal pin to take away there puncture-free record. The only thing I had forgotten to bring to fix the problem was my pump! I pulled over a tuc tuc, who took me to a bike shop in the town I had past 10km ago, it could have been a lot worse.

. The crowds gathered around me keen as ever to help out.  Luckily after trying everything possible (including one of the locals trying to inflate my tyre with a football pump) they found a shop which had a high pressure pump (not common in Bangladesh!) to fit to the type of inner tubes I had. The southern part of Bangladesh was far more conservative than the north and was the only time I met any hostility. Nothing too major but a couple of extremely angry looking older men! One, as I sat down on a bridge for a banana break walked over to me, bent over and starred right through me a few inches from my face, until he was ushered away. It may have just been curiosity, but in countries like this and with people dressed like Jihad John it’s easy to be both paranoid and judgmental!

Riding over the crest of a small hill at around 4pm, for the first time on this trip I could see the Ocean. After so many miles on some very dusty and polluted roads in India, Nepal and Bangladesh, the sight of the ocean disappearing into the setting sun was something else. I checked into the first not too expensive hotel I could find, (using my charitable unpaid around the world bicycle tales to get a hefty discount on a ground floor room) threw my bags inside and ran immediately into the ocean for a swim. The beach is 120km long and apparently the longest in the world, it may not be as picture perfect as something you might find in Thailand, but still felt like paradise to me! The hotel service was extremely attentive to say the least. There must have been 5 knocks on my door that evening alone, one to give me an apple, one to fumigate my room with mosquito spray, and one on the glass window later in the evening where one of the hotel staff was trying to get me to join him for coffee.

Epic tug of war on the beach of Cox's Bazaar

Bangladeshi people having a blast at the beach! - glad i'm not a women having to swim in that costume!

The next morning I managed to find a surf club, yes a surf club in Bangladesh! Prior to my trip If you would have said there was a beach resort in Bangladesh it would have sounded unlikely, never mind a surf club! But sure enough I found the upmarket building which was the Cox Bazaar surf club, hired a board and hit the waves. They were small but clean and decent, and are apparently much bigger in the spring time.  I was amazed to see a fully clothed female Bangladeshi surfer riding the waves too! On returning my surfboard the manager, an older cross eyed chap in a smart looking suit tried to persuade me into an arranged marriage with his waitress. It was a good ending to an amazing and very eventful journey through Bangladesh. All that remained was to grab an overnight bus back to Dhaka and fly over the border into Burma the following day.

It took me about 2 hours to finally find a coach company willing to take my bicycle. When I finally did my bike was strapped to the roof and the 10pm bus driven by Nigel Mansell  headed into the night. I soon fell asleep in my reclining chair. Dribbling outrageously I was awoken as the bus screeched to a holt. We had been pulled over by the police. 3 very intimidating and angry looking officers boarded the bus and started performing the most in-depth clothed search of a man I have ever seen in my life. The poor bloke stood there in the isle with his arms out as the officer aggressively 
rammed his

hands down the guys pants and everywhere else, presumably looking for drugs. At first I thought he was a known police target, thought the officers proceeded down the bus with there flashlights picking people out at random. They finally reached the bag of the bus, turned around and just as I thought they were about to leave, chose me. I stood up, arms like a scarecrow at the front of the bus as the officer shoved his hands down my pants and  performed a testicular examination so in-depth it would have made a doctor proud. The grand finale being the finger up the bum, though thankfully from the outside of my pants.

I reached Dhaka at 9am on the morning of the 27^th January 2017, my flight to Yangon, Burma was at 1:30pm the next day, making the most of my 15 day visa which expired on the 29^th.  I managed to get an enormous cardboard box for my bicycle and started packing away my things in readiness for my departure. I had a feeling leaving Bangladesh was not going to be plain sailing, nothing about this incredible crazy country had been! My bike box was so big it would not fit into a taxi. My journey to the airport therefore started off with a Rickshaw to the Tuc Tuc stand, before transferring the box to the roof of a tuc tuc. It did not fit inside. The driver was extremely resourceful and found some old cable on a scrap pile by the side of the road. He attached 2 pieces together using what appeared to be a double sheep bend (see, I did learn something after 10 years as a fireman!) and tied the box to the roof.

I was half expecting what was going to happen, after several years of flying bicycles in and out of  weird and wonderful countries on my crazy adventures. “This bicycle cannot go on the plane, its too big, it won’t fit on the conveyor belt” the check-in man said. In a country where people sit on top of trains, police cars have no working lights and buses none at all – they are often painted on! I struggled to see why my bicycle could simply not be carried onto the aircraft! He offered to call his senior manager to see what he could do, a ridiculous looking man who for some reason chose to dye both his hair and beard the same colour as mine. Perhaps because he was jealous of my naturally coloured ginger beard, he didn’t seem very willing to help. I tried not to let the conversation get too heated, but his only solution being to take a cargo plane another day it was hard not to! The argument lasted for quite a while until he finally agreed to let me carry my bicycles onto the plane if it was shrink wrapped! It looked ridiculous and still didn’t get on the conveyor belt! But my persistence had paid off and I was able to finally board the Bangladeshi Airlines flight for Burma!!! A fitting farewell to Brilliant Bangladesh.

My route through Bangladesh

***One final thing! It was never my initial intention to do this trip for charity, but after using it as an excuse so many times to get hotel discounts etc  I feel rude not to! If you’ve read this far it can’t be a too bad blog!.....so, by the time I’ve finished this trip and cycled through many more interesting countries I will have covered around 10,000+ miles. Hopefully I will by that point have chosen a charity. If every reader could then donate 10 quid, 10 euros...(well not 10 Rupees as that would be pointless) it would be one pound for  every 1000 miles traveled by bicycle and hopefully I maybe able to raise a bit of money. Please save me the embarrassment of not making it to a hundred quid!***